Articles on this Page
- 12/27/14--05:24: _Stephanie Smith - T...
- 12/28/14--05:31: _Nathan Blan - One Poem
- 12/30/14--00:18: _Donal Mahoney - One...
- 12/30/14--14:30: _Richard D. Houff - ...
- 12/31/14--04:00: _Thomas Zimmerman -...
- 12/31/14--16:30: _Jonathan Simkins - ...
- 01/02/15--15:24: _R.J. Stanford - One...
- 01/03/15--09:30: _Paul R. Davis - Thr...
- 01/06/15--11:26: _Marianne Szlyk - On...
- 01/11/15--07:21: _Herb Kauderer & Ala...
- 01/12/15--15:54: _Trish Saunders - On...
- 01/19/15--09:32: _Michael H. Brownste...
- 01/22/15--08:30: _M.R. Briceño - Two ...
- 01/23/15--07:00: _Mitchell Krockmalni...
- 01/24/15--08:00: _Hannah Newcomer - O...
- 01/27/15--10:42: _Scott Vanya - One P...
- 01/28/15--07:00: _Linda M. Crate - On...
- 01/30/15--08:00: _Stephen Jarrell Wil...
- 01/31/15--08:00: _Jacqueline Jules - ...
- 02/01/15--07:00: _Sudha Srivatsan - O...
- 12/27/14--05:24: Stephanie Smith - Two Poems
- 12/28/14--05:31: Nathan Blan - One Poem
- 12/30/14--00:18: Donal Mahoney - One Poem
- 12/30/14--14:30: Richard D. Houff - One Poem
- 12/31/14--04:00: Thomas Zimmerman - Three Poems
- 12/31/14--16:30: Jonathan Simkins - One Poem
- 01/02/15--15:24: R.J. Stanford - One Poem
- 01/03/15--09:30: Paul R. Davis - Three Poems
- 01/06/15--11:26: Marianne Szlyk - One Poem
- 01/11/15--07:21: Herb Kauderer & Alan Katerinsky - One Poem
- 01/12/15--15:54: Trish Saunders - One Poem
- 01/19/15--09:32: Michael H. Brownstein - Two Poems
- 01/22/15--08:30: M.R. Briceño - Two Poems
- 01/23/15--07:00: Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois - Two Poems
- 01/24/15--08:00: Hannah Newcomer - One Poem
- 01/27/15--10:42: Scott Vanya - One Poem
- 01/28/15--07:00: Linda M. Crate - One Poem
- 01/30/15--08:00: Stephen Jarrell Williams - Two Poems
- 01/31/15--08:00: Jacqueline Jules - Two Poems
- 02/01/15--07:00: Sudha Srivatsan - One Poem
smells of sandalwood
of winter’s corpse
your lips of mint
and silk kisses
like slippery rooftops
skeletons dance upon
like my morning coffee
of life without you
the cold embrace
of this poem
Breath and Shadow
the breath of feathers
in an empty galaxy
in a child’s nightmare
you are oxygen—
artificial and alone
Stephanie Smith is a poet and writer from Scranton, Pennsylvania. Her work has appeared in such publications as Strong Verse, Pif Magazine, The Literary Hatchet, Bete Noire and The Horror Zine. Her first poetry chapbook, DREAMS OF DALI, is available from Flutter Press.
What were those sentences
I wrote for her and polished
Nathan Blan is 39 years old and lives in Kentucky. He shares a house with his sister, two nieces, four cats, and a dog. His hobbies include horology and reading Thomas Bernhard.
Miniatures) Uncle Jean
Jean had a 3rd grade education, and never really
said a whole lot. He was my mother’s uncle, so that’s
how we’d address him.
When he did speak, it was always in the past tense;
his stories were generally plain and very simple—
almost nonchalant, and yet, some of them were damn
serious in content.
All of his tales were centered on railroad lines
like the Arkansas Western, Kansas City Southern, L&N,
Southern Pacific and even the most obscure of them
being the Maine Central.
For those of us who listened, they seemed
so surreal and unapproachable.
And then he interweaved that one particular and unforgettable
story, about how he went on the bum with his father;
sometime after the 1929 stock market crash.
He talked about riding the Illinois Central,
and how his father took sick.
He then proceeded to tell us about how he died
in his arms coughing up blood, and two days later,
how he buried him under a pile of rocks near a trestle.
Jean said, it was real peaceful, a place the dead could call
their own, and then he stopped talking.
Richard D. Houff was the editor of Heeltap Magazine and Pariah Press, from 1986 to
2010. He has had over twenty books published in both poetry and prose. His work has
appeared in numerous magazines and periodicals, both nationally, and throughout
The milkweed floats like jellyfish in air,
Thomas Zimmerman teaches English, directs the Writing Center, and edits two literary magazines at Washtenaw Community College, in Ann Arbor, Michigan. His chapbook In Stereo: Thirteen Sonnets and Some Fire Musicappeared from The Camel Saloon Books on Blog in 2012. Tom's website: http://thomaszimmerman.wordpre
Determinations of June
Somewhere it’s winter, somewhere the flesh closes,
Too, in another womb; inside that womb
The luminous seed wakes; and we assume
It barren, drum the season, thumb our noses
At the bald lack that finds the lack of roses
Announcing nothing- where nothing can bloom
Until the deed is writ, and then it closes.
It’s June now. Far off from this place it’s winter:
You tell me that it stays, you never grieve
It, and what you can’t outrun, you enter.
In entering the barren what I leave
Is this womb, heart entrenched, a bloody splinter.
You told me that in Germany a child
Torn limb from limb awoke: before the sweat
Soaked the sheets he turned and looked at you-
Him dreaming of his death, dreaming of you,
A beautiful woman and your warm, wet
Places. But was your dreaming it that wild?
Another child in India had eight limbs.
But that one was the dream! You couldn’t shake it.
Mutant or human, it will never wake,
You told yourself; it’s not a her or him,
It’s not a demon given legs by dream,
And should it turn to me and scream, I’ll wake,
Turn towards the one I love, and only him.
What shall I do about this spinning top
But spin it? Lesser lovesick phantoms set
My feet on this path; but these are my feet,
The hair I’ve lost my hair that cannot crop
The younger’s head or warm it with the heat
This spinning may endow. Or will it? Drop
Anchor on the bonfire, let the blood I let.
The plug, like a light stick, becomes a flaming
Brand: in the You and Not You unliving fires
Devour the top, that Out of what it came
The labyrinth gives back the living fire
To us- of a ghost- a ghost’s right, still flaming.
The five and seven fix the weight to me
At fifty seven; the bell tolls in the bleachers
And I stand afraid, the ground beyond my reach;
And shuffling beneath me I cannot see
The thing laments its origins or touch
The superhuman- me, it says. Agree
The empty frame is empty- and part of me.
I found it in the jagged diction of
Your teeth. I knew the years of grinding softened
It back to form. I knew the body, yours, left
The blueprint: blood encrusted keys above
The island towers, where we saw the wave
Breaking the body . . . O phantom of the soft
Corpse, all renewing, teeth bared as if for love . . .
Winter Island, it’s always, never not, June.
The thing existing and the thing denied
Have commerce. Sealed, absolutely denied,
The third that lives through two speaks through the rain.
We crane the ears: nothing. The winter rain
And nether heat, unrelenting, defied
What it demanded: this unliving June.
Sometimes a rainbow greets us on the shore.
Cloth hung on the rainbow, cloth of birth or death,
Stands us up naked, interrogator:
Had we not wanted something more from earth,
Had nothing that we done demanded more?
The tides will fall and rise eternally
The Milky Way Poem
took the first prize for Latin composition
in verse. The story said he finished in
an hour and he did not consult his
Birds perched there sing harshly, if at all.
The air tastes like car exhaust.
something, any thing to break this spell.
march up and down the street with their children.
Couples bike. The neighbors drag in their trashcans.
The roofers walk back to work. You stay in.
You stop the dryer, fearing its heat’s
popping the pocket of cool around you.
you hang your clothes over tables and chairs to dry.
the long, slow notes and rolling drum remind you of thunder,
when you lived up north and only ice storms kept you in.
in the age of talk media
hate and ignorance
with no responsibility
and no awareness
glossy brown hair.
like the sudden change in leaf one night, late autumn
when their lives bleed into yellows, bright reds,
sometimes the frail lint of nightfall,
stars tickling the sky, sunlight
hiding everything alive in the dark.
Let my love die.
Sink it in all of the
and full ashtrays
of the world.
Let it sink,
and then let it die.
Let my ambition die.
Let me out of every
and every law degree
and every law book
and every law man
Let me sink further
and let me rot
for years, decades.
Let me look at the sky
alone smoking a cheap,
while I think of
all of the things
that I didn’t do,
or I’m not doing,
if I look at the sky
some day I will see
and it will be fire,
and it will light everything
for a second
brighter than it ever
My dearest woman,
I know now
the wild cries
of the animals
late at night,
the cow, the chicken,
but I always
feel my fingers burn
and my spine twitch
when I hear
the roar of a
locked on a piece
M. R. Briceño is a young writer from León, México. A slacker and a procrastinator, he wastes his time writing instead of studying.
Underneath Kayla’s shirt you’ll find two quarters
There’s a guillotine where her heart should be
the cantaloupe was unripe when she sliced it open
In no moment is she winning
The grass on her mother’s grave is withering in the drought
The rabbits in
whose stitching is unraveling
Mother Rabbit holds
a jug of poison moonshine
She wears a necklace of skull-and-crossbones
and a perpetual sneer
because she remembers the days
when rabbits were symbols of innocence
Now all the innocence is gone
It might have been a myth
but it was a good myth
She enjoyed it
Now there is nothing left
smokes a joint
and talks about moving to Colorado
where they can smoke dope legally
day and night
all the things that have gone wrong in their lives
He remembers when his wife could
reliably pop out a litter of twelve
and coat their nest box with
fine warm fur
But that was a long time ago
and she has used up all her eggs
The pitchfork he holds is rusted
and the idea of American Gothic
no longer thrills him
The sun in the sky is prickly
like a porcupine
and gives little light
and no heat
It is lucky they are furred
but their fur is
bare in places
and smells of barns
and feral cats
once held allure
the mystique of the outlaw
but it’s no longer where they want to be
However they have no choice
Broken Toyland is all they know
They have no transportation
and public busses
have stopped running
so far in the country
A Slowly Dying Star
as i lay here and listen
to the soft jazz playing
over the simple quiet
of my house,
what i know is that
i must write,
that if i didn't write
the tumbling words,
the words that come
pouring out of me like
water from the tap,
i would quietly combust and
explode, much like a
i feel my words are
merely water from the tap.
transparent, a little dirty, sometimes
gritty, sometimes makes you
wonder if the government is really
slipping fluoride into it.
it always leaves a
metallic taste in your mouth.
i wonder at those
dying stars, the way
their light can shine
for light years.
i can only hope
Hannah Newcomer was born in Texas and raised in Austin. She eats, sleeps, and breathes poetry. It is her life. She has been published twice. Once in Eber & Wein's "Passport"anthology, and again in the America Library of Poetry's "Accolades"anthology. She hopes to one day touch the hearts and souls of the world with her words.
When you stop
being a poet
being a poem
as if to say
Speed limits look like
a good idea:
"Enjoy this moment
as well as
across your hands
and dogs barking
Just drifting off
And "to write"
And all around
And it no longer
you seek nor understand.
Just existing is enough.
And it no longer matters
whose hands write
will soon reside.
it is all
by the words
of what you
once thought you were.
To sit to be
and smile with Grace
That is what it is
once the poet goes
and all that is left
All that is left
is a poem.
Scott Vanya is an Austin, TX area poet. He has been writing for a long time and favors sharing his work at open mics where he performs extemporaneously and plays guitar. His work has appeared in Walt’s Corner, Manna, Perigee, Chicago Literary Review, Mobius, Cosmic Trend, Pitchfork, Romantics Quarterly, Artisan, Pegasus, The Neovictorian, and The Blind Man's Rainbow. He is author of poetry collections, Free for an Unlimited Time, Conduit's of the Sublime, and CarryAway Seeds. He operates Open Mics Austin, a blogsite that archives various Austin area open mics and performances.
The Art of the Stoic Face
Wearing a hat to match her dress,
Queen Elizabeth waved a gloved hand
from balcony, carriage, and cathedral
for four long Jubilee days.
like dentures hiding
the absence of teeth,
over pouring rain
and the health of her husband,
hospitalized before the celebration.
and a lifetime in front of cameras,
she is the stooped master of the stoic face.
I wonder if she uses needles, injecting
something akin to Novocain or Botox,
to paralyze thoughts that wrinkle.
And if, when the cameras quit clicking,
she is left, like I am,
with phantom swelling in her cheeks
and two dry sockets,
no longer capable of tears.
The White Flags of Spring
They have sprouted
on bare branches
like fluffy white popcorn
scarves and hats
have been tossed in the closet
to hibernate for the summer.
And now, clutching each other
in a brisk wind,
frail petals cling courageously,
stems joined in solidarity
after yet another season
of plunging Dow, pink slips,
and Congressional gridlock.
My steps quicken
running towards them
as if they were white flags
on Red Cross trucks
bringing bandages and bottled water
and I was an embattled child
with a dirt-streaked face.
Author of the poetry chapbooks, Field Trip to the Museum, published by Finishing Line Press and Stronger Than Cleopatra, published by ELJ Publications. Online at www.jacquelinejules.com.
A feeling so numb
Like lost my little finger,
Befriending the tail
Gone missing for long
A fragment of soul neatly exsected
Long warped my mind with denial
Content traded smartly
For the organic melancholy
Seeded in the soil of willing fault
Like meaningful the whole life
A residue so charming
A sensation so blissful
In the fullness of unwillingness
To let go and forgive.
Work due to appear in the Commonline Journal January 2015, Indiana Voice Journal April 2015 issue, winner of poetry contests and shortlisted for the Mary Charman Smith November 2014 Poetry Competition.