Articles on this Page
- 05/17/16--11:22: _Heather McCroskey -...
- 05/18/16--07:30: _Sophia Nicole Felic...
- 05/19/16--07:00: _Josef Krebs - One P...
- 05/23/16--08:58: _Fraser Sutherland -...
- 05/24/16--07:30: _Ally Malinenko - On...
- 05/25/16--07:00: _Donna M. Davis - Th...
- 05/26/16--08:00: _Sudeep Adhikari - T...
- 05/27/16--08:00: _Carl Boon - Two Poems
- 06/05/16--23:52: _Francis Annagu - On...
- 06/09/16--09:06: _Cara Losier Chanoin...
- 06/19/16--07:33: _Glen Armstrong - On...
- 06/20/16--09:08: _J. Lewis - One Poem
- 06/21/16--10:21: _John Mingay - One Poem
- 06/27/16--09:00: _Ivan Jenson - Two P...
- 07/05/16--09:43: _John Grochalski - O...
- 07/15/16--10:58: _Michael Lee Johnson...
- 09/01/16--10:04: _Greg Moglia - Two P...
- 09/02/16--09:56: _Richard Schnap - Tw...
- 09/03/16--07:30: _Liz Glodek - One Poem
- 09/06/16--10:30: _Mark Niehus - Two P...
- 05/17/16--11:22: Heather McCroskey - One Poem
- 05/18/16--07:30: Sophia Nicole Feliciano - One Poem
- 05/19/16--07:00: Josef Krebs - One Poem
- 05/23/16--08:58: Fraser Sutherland - Two Poems
- 05/24/16--07:30: Ally Malinenko - One Poem
- 05/25/16--07:00: Donna M. Davis - Three Poems
- 05/26/16--08:00: Sudeep Adhikari - Two Poems
- 05/27/16--08:00: Carl Boon - Two Poems
- 06/05/16--23:52: Francis Annagu - One Poem
- 06/09/16--09:06: Cara Losier Chanoine - Three Poems
- 06/19/16--07:33: Glen Armstrong - One Poem
- 06/20/16--09:08: J. Lewis - One Poem
- 06/21/16--10:21: John Mingay - One Poem
- 06/27/16--09:00: Ivan Jenson - Two Poems
- 07/05/16--09:43: John Grochalski - One Poem
- 07/15/16--10:58: Michael Lee Johnson - One Poem
- 09/01/16--10:04: Greg Moglia - Two Poems
- 09/02/16--09:56: Richard Schnap - Two Poems
- 09/03/16--07:30: Liz Glodek - One Poem
- 09/06/16--10:30: Mark Niehus - Two Poems
Learning to Drown
I remember the “dead man” sink, the way
legs drag my body down.
Tangled arms block my swimmer stroke
too tired to flail.
My matted scalp bobs underneath
A bloated chest leaks bubbles to my throat
parting screams between ripples,
I breathe salt instead of clean air.
They taste like tears.
I forgot how to float.
and time between tides.
Would sinking suffice?
I roll with the current
hoping I would erode with time,
that impulses would fade
(step into the busy street,
feel the heat of the fire)
desires would climb
(see how long exposed veins flow,
swing as the weight of the rope)
urges would die.
The wave tumbles me over, surfaced
flat-backed against the world below.
Heather McCroskey, Jane of all trades, applies social learning as insight into our moral capacities and reactions to conflict in her writings. With a BA in Writing and currently completing 2D Animation, she combines verbal and visual elements in her creativity. Heather also enjoys long walks in the woods, comic books, and some cats are okay.
Glancing homeward through the ages
I last longer than I last lasted
Entranced by the possibilities that didn't seem possible
At that time of doubt and external deliberations
Stopping the singing
In the darkened room
Under the covers
Of the night
When dreams naturally flow forth
Before colliding with the walls
Ceilings inserted in the I-don't mind
As if nothing would ever change
And the prisoners would never be released
But eliminated before liberation
Saved from slaughter
Instilled by the conquerors
The masterful race that ran the hotel
Where you didn’t belong
But collaboration was the only option during daily exercises in purposelessness and
Until night landed and resistance became possible
Josef Krebs has a chapbook of his poems published by Etched Press and his poetry also appears in Agenda, Bicycle Review,Calliope, Mouse Tales Press, The Corner Club Press, The FictionWeek Literary Review, Burningword Literary Journal,Crack the Spine, and The Cats Meow. A short story has been published by blazeVOX. He’s written three novels and five screenplays. His film was successfully screened at Santa Cruz and Short Film Corner of Cannes film festivals.
Letter To Jim Jones
Some reduction is achievable
Tree is a Fractalscape
A shape of silence stands green
on the skeletal wood-bones
and the other day, it wept
the entire sky, criss-crossed clouds
and her thunderous
A tree is the shortest distance
between two infinities,
she is not a straight line.
Above and beneath, ether and soil
a songster tree, sweetly conjures
the ancient alchemy
of "coniunctio Oppositorium".
a deathless God, resides in a finite flesh
Grunge and Conscience
Once I saw Stone Temple Pilots in Cleveland,
there I lied to an army friend, straight to her face
that she was fighting
in Middle-East for democracy and peace .
we preserved our individual illusions
and continued enjoying
the coked-out antics of Scott Wieland
may his deceased soul rest in peace;
Born in California, died in a tour bus 12/03/2015
Grunge is dead; as dead as the conscience of Kathmandu,
Washington and other self-delusional Atlantes.
Sudeep Adhikari, from Kathmandu Nepal, is professionally a PhD in Structural-Engineering. He lives in Kathmandu with his wife and family and works as an Engineering-Consultant. His poetry has found place in many online literary journals/magazines, the recent being Kyoto (Japan), Scarlet Leaf Review (Canada) and Red Fez (USA).
The News From Aleppo
Walking the mosque wall
where her father fell
to shrapnel, Malek,
the girl they call Angel,
imagines the Mediterranean.
Green expanses, dolphins,
islands free of screaming.
She would like to have her baby
there, to soothe its belly
and shoulders, to feed it
as seven clouds move east.
Sadri the Bookseller
on the mosque steps bristles.
Malek comes close to smell
the ink on his fingers,
which reminds her
of her father, and to smell
the cherry tobacco in his pipe.
What’s left of her home
is a moonstruck wall
and piles of debris.
The Russian bombs
fall when they are sleeping,
she and the baby inside her.
Mother sleeps late,
thinking of orange groves,
her brother’s bicycle
propped against the gate.
The mornings were sunnier
then, with her mother’s kitchen
calling her for lunch
and the men crossing
the road to pray.
See My Heart
Gone save the shadow
of her hair between the hills,
she left me with a fragment
of a song, something she heard
in a Kadıköy bar one night
late with ferries and peddlers:
“See my heart
decorated like a grave.”
I’ve forgotten the wording,
but not her, who stood always
with her face to the sea-
wind, her denim ambition,
her legs stretched
on the boulders, a flower
in her hand. The lover says
to the lover: you will glimpse
a remnant of me in memory;
you will writhe and sink
into the stone-heart
of being, but never die.
The heart only, painted,
crushed into bunting, black
ribbon, and a broken song.
The blue Carutu river
Flows, flowing into
Black canvasses of the garage.
The day is full spring in
The scabrous sky of birds,
Egrets winging off up upon hills,
Peaked pointed hill's gaze,
Gazing to clouds of coloured
Rainbow portraiting the orchard;
Rainbow. Painted orchard.
Francis Annagu is published or forthcoming on Galway Review, Potomac Review, Tuck Magazine, Ayiba Magazine, Lunaris Review and others. He lives in Kaduna, Nigeria where he is working on his debut poetry book.
Pretty Lies Show Their Teeth
The smashed orchid on the sidewalk
has been doctored: beribboned, and dyed.
Its petals are wilting, rimmed with dirt.
This prom night roadkill
kindles memories of itchy zippers and silver eyeshadow.
I used to count the bobby pins in my hair
as I pulled them free at the end of the night.
Every evening gown felt like a costume,
and the cruelty of these rituals lies in their deception,
as they stir the desire to be pretty and in love
in ways that have never been real,
will never be real.
We are taught to believe these fantasies
lies that leave us unprepared
to be so disillusioned by their aftermath.
I remember the cut of the dress
that I wore to my first formal dance,
and the creases it left in my skin
when I woke up in it the next morning.
I felt hollow, like my body was nothing more
than a papier-mâché crust,
just as vulnerable as an orchid corsage
crushed against the ground.
When I was eighteen,
and my roommate wanted to kill herself,
she left a note where she knew I would find it.
It was covered in a mosaic of pills,
far ranging in opacity and hue.
When I returned to the room with help,
the note was gone.
The pills had been dumped into a plastic bowl
printed with cartoon characters.
Not all cries for help are in languages I can understand.
Later, when she was expelled from school,
I felt the requisite regret for being unable
to translate her disturbances
in a way that might have mattered.
When I think of her now,
I wonder if she’s alive,
and whether she still stacks pills in cereal bowls,
like breakfast rations
for the last day she’ll ever have,
like last resorts
in case she lasts too long.
Tires for Tombstones
on a painting at the Artists’ Hand Gallery
These woods are where
trucks go to die,
a graveyard of rusted chassis in place of monuments,
collected wheels adorned with clots of mud.
There’s a sacredness to the juxtaposition
of industrial steel and rampant weeds,
to the hulking, metal machines,
driven through the trees and left to their slow rot.
No one carts them away.
The roots grow through their open spaces.
It’s almost like they belong here.
Cara Losier Chanoine is a poet, fiction writer, and teacher from New England. She is a four-time competitor in the National Poetry Slam, and her first collection of poems was released by Scars Publications in 2013. She loves books, rats, bad horror movies, and David Bowie.
of a champagne
that would stir rebellion
throughout the vineyard.
of a fur that might rejoin
and resurrect the animal
from which it was ripped.
They held hands with conviction.
There was something they needed
to set straight
but no one left would listen
to their dream-words,
those raspy, whispering yelps
from which language
Glen Armstrong holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and teaches writing at Oakland University in Rochester, Michigan. He edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters and has three recent chapbooks: Set List (Bitchin Kitsch,) In Stone and The Most Awkward Silence of All (both Cruel Garters Press.) His work has appeared in Poetry Northwest, Conduit and Cloudbank.
You have shared
very profound insights
into the human condition
and shown yourself
to be an intellect of
the highest order
to some bigger
effect the well being
of generations to come
however, I confess
I have been
unable to fully
a spinach chive
on your front
May I give you
to your current
state of unease
and do you mind
if I point you
your newfound fame
in the blame game
where your parents
are at fault
for the sink-hole
you are in
and may I
with my tough
to your knees
so that you get down
the floors of
until everything is
spic and span
and your attitude
changes to “Yes, I can!”
Ivan Jenson is a fine artist, novelist and contemporary poet. His artwork was featured in Art in America, Art News, and Interview Magazine and has sold at auction at Christie’s. Ivan has written two novels, Dead Artist and Seeing Soriah, both of which illustrate the creative and often dramatic lives of artists. Jenson's poetry is widely published (with over 500 poems published in the US, UK and Europe) in a variety of literary media. Ivan Jenson's website is: www.IvanJenson.com
comes the time when
the eagle flies-
without aid of wind,
like a kite detached without string,
the eagle in flight leaves no traces,
no trails, no roadways-
never a feather drops
out of the sky.
The Silk Nightie
As The Light Turned Grey
When the blue haired nurse
With the skeleton gloves
Asked what concerned you most
You replied “pain” and “fear”
And I secretly thought
That it is true that we
Become wise when the shadow
Of death waits at the foot of our bed
For you had arranged your life
To be empty of dark concerns
Like an amusement park designed
By a cartoon deity with laughing eyes
But now as the end approached
You relearned the lessons of those
Not as fortunate to blissfully forget
The knives of the world never grow dull
Loss For Words
He was a natural salesman
With the innate ability
To persuade even a sinner
To return home to God
Knowing that to do it
He must adopt the manner
And speech of the prospect
As seamlessly as a chameleon
But when tragedy befell him
And he had to find a way
To convince himself to forget
The shadow darkening his heart
He found he could never
Truly imitate himself
For he was now a stranger
Speaking a language of its own
Richard Schnap is a poet, songwriter and collagist living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. A two-time Best of the Net nominee, his poems have most recently appeared locally, nationally and overseas. His first chapbook, "A Wind From Nowhere", is available from Flutter Press.
It Is Nighttime
The stars wonder too, looking down at us,
where the dinosaurs have gone.
This lonely planet they see, a speck. But what
delight they get from all of our tumblings.
A scraped knee, the ant in the grass.
How the North Star lingers over these
moments. Quiet. To us, he is brilliantly alive
in gas and dust, through the vacuum
of darkness which is the solitude of space.
Come closer, we will tell them. More than
reason built this bridge, made this cathedral.
More than science loved this child. What they know
of us is less than what we know of them.
We shock them with our dreams.
Liz Glodek lives and works in the Midwest. Her work has appeared in several journals including The Greensboro Review, Lumina, North American Review (finalist for the James Hearst Poetry Prize), The North, and Janus Head. She received her MFA from Sarah Lawrence College where she also founded the SLC Poetry Festival. She works in management consulting and is an instructor at Simpson College.
You measure yourself
against the world
during trips to the Laundromat.
You organise your words while
removing the stains on your shirt
and try to keep
the one thing you have in line.
the beauty at parties
you see that there is something
every social grace.
What a great power it must be
to suppress a spirit
that was once necessary
and what do you do
when you sense
a flash of admiration
for its genius?
You refine your pleasure
for the drink.
You enjoy the movement it brings,
and the chance.
And now somehow home
in pursuit of the poem
and in possession
of something good and rare,
something cracks open
that allocates meaning
so you can sleep again balancing
and the cage.
The numbers turn
and the infinite mechanism
and groans truths
Such a beautiful machine
entrusting its success
to fulfil its design
on the emotional
spirit of man.
And on us
the great weight rests.
It is that uneasy feeling
that comes some nights,
when left with our lives.
We are all working
and to make up
the bony parts
of this mad living.
toward an outcome
unknown to us,
or this life machine.