Thursday, January 29, 2015

Gene McCormick- Paris Art














Gene McCormick is a writer who paints without preference for either discipline.  His art is in private and commercial collections and he has illustrated a number of books.  He is the illustrator for Misfitmagazine.net.

Painting #1     Metra Serenade, Gare St.-Lazare, Paris
Painting #2     Hydrant I
Painting #3     Main Street 

Stefanie Bennett- Two Poems


LEAVING HAVASU, ARIZONA   

If the sky had a voice
I envisage
We’d buckle under
The bent over
Exit wounds
Just as
The willow
Does
In bright water.


Published in Boston Poetry Magazine 2/12/14



RITES, THE Mojave: (In Memory of Flight MH17)

When all else failed
The great heart
Of the Joshua Tree
Became
A Tipi ‘fire-build’
In the desert’s
Empty
Arena –.
It was a signal.
It is the signal.


Published in Boston Poetry Magazine 2/12/14


Stefanie Bennett has published several books of poetry, a novel and a libretto. Her poetry
has been published by The Camel Saloon, The Mindless Muse, Aleola Journal, The Provo
Canyon Review, Communion, IS&T, Record-Magazine and others. Of mixed ancestry
[Italian/Irish/Paugussett-Shawnee] she was born in Queensland, Australia, in 1945.

Tuesday, January 27, 2015

Deirdre Hines- A Poem


The Wind Tree

headlights replace red votive flames
around the wind tree's branches
startling awake a sleeper below-

a bone white wind whittles away
billboard papers proclaiming lies
masquerading as the only answer-

scatters the smog in all directions
then catches in a stinking pool
a star cluster and one half moon-

a runaway off his ritalin
tugs on his only wheels
two teases stole to throw away

the branch that knocks them down
is pyrographed with the tree of life
drop falls into his shaking hands-

lightning spells zeds in pylons
until the hush of no electric
throws all five into relief-

two wasters running for their life
from a stick dancing boy
in step

with an awakened sleeper
in harmony with
the Tao of  psithurism.



Deirdre Hines is an award winning poet. Her first collection of poems, "The Language of
Coats" was published by New Island Press in 2012. She has won the Listowel Poetry
Collection Prize (2011) and been shortlisted for The Patrick Kavanagh Award and the
Gregory O'Donohue International Poetry Prize. You can hear her read some of these poems
by visitng her website www.deirdrehines.com
 
 

Adreyo Sen- A Poem


Late to Chocolate
 
His first taste of chocolate at 31 -
an event to him not vivant.

It did not convey, in over-sweet bliss
the joys of a childhood missed.

Growing up had been hard, but happy,
or something very much like it.
 
 

Rose Mary Boehm- Three Poems

After the Floods

Relentless programming of blood sacrifices consumes
the halcyon days of summer. Autumn gold hides
behind blind transom windows and hoary doors.

Transient bitterness settles in the dark, squishy roots
of inducement. Turning lazily in the river waters,
swollen wooden shapes hint at their former integrity.

Colliding fronts squash floating stars, giving
no inducement to those who would stay.


Early Dawn

At this hour the world is dark and empty.
Her toes don’t have to touch the cold stone floor
to understand the value of a warm bed.
She doesn’t have to lift the curtain to confirm
the green mix of pale-yellow street lamps
and the first blue morning glow. She turns
over, reaches across for his body and her
hand finds no purchase. She buries her face
in his pillow, takes a deep breath and remembers
his bent back, coat collar up against the wind.


Red

once seen can never be forgotten,
nor the deaf percussionist.
Zbigniew’s reincarnation in the
e-minor concierto by van den Budenmayer.
Ghost stored in tin cans and
spilled all over the old tapes.
Les Marionettes transformed
into music between gardens.


A German-born UK national, Rose Mary Boehm lives and works in Lima, Peru. Author of two novels and a poetry collection published in 2011 in the UK, ‘TANGENTS’, her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in a good two dozen US poetry reviews as well as some print anthologies, and Diane Lockward’s The Crafty Poet. She won third price in in the 2009 Margaret Reid Poetry Contest for Traditional Verse (US), was semi-finalist in the Naugatuck poetry contest 2012/13 and has been a finalist in several GR contests, winning it in October 2014.
 

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal- 3 Poems


THE TORTOISE
 
I can’t stand for losing.
I can’t let the tortoise beat me.
The sun shines expertly.
The fly won’t leave me alone.
It comes at me like an arrow
It’s cruel just like the sun.
 
I have been shackled to a
tree.  My flesh is burning up.
I have had enough of the sun
and the fly.  I don’t feel well.
I can’t let the tortoise beat me.
I want to call the race off.
 
 
 
SONGS OF DESPAIR
 
Songs of despair
worm throughout my soft skull.
The dark songs hum
loud at night and whisper
 
in the morning.  Like full-
blown lullabies the songs
are calm and sweet,
then turn melancholy.
 
The songs go on
in perpetuity.
They will not end.
They follow me around.
They’re the shovel and the
dirt, preparing me for the grave.
 
 
  
COLD BEER
 
Drinking cold beer
with a tooth ache.
It does not feel
too good at all.
 
Drinking cold beer
with an old flame,
it does not feel
too good at all,
 
especially
when the past is
brought back and all
the reasons why
 
we are apart.
Drinking cold beer
does not help when
the tooth and heart
 
are hurting just
as much.  At least
I could have the
tooth extracted. 
 
The old flame burns,
but in time I
could douse that
flame with cold beer.
 
 

S. Black- Three Poems


both sides of the street

she phones
out of hours
from the new runaround
parked
on the other side of the street
a class act
she needs some release
from the twenty-four seven
and has no desire
for conservation
he knows his place
she presses the button
he leaves the door open


end of all worlds

a man hates the world
so he retreats to a corner
and creates another
but soon enough
he despises it just as much
so he perseveres
until he runs out of worlds
to conquer
runs out of corners
to back into


what you get used to

it comes and it comes
straight from hell
it hunts us down
teeth bared
snapping at our heels
and has done for as long
as we dare to remember
but it's amazing
what you get used to
we just don't look around
 
 
S. Black- Other work may be found at the likes of Ink, Sweat and Tears, Message in a Bottle, the Screech Owl, Snakeskin and Dog-Ear. Now residing in the Thames Valley (UK).
 

Monday, January 26, 2015

Robert Lavett Smith- Three Poems


HENRY, WALT, AND BRAM

Bram Stoker, whose suppressed homosexuality
is implicit in the horror with which women
are regarded in Dracula, wrote long, gushing
letters to Walt Whitman as a young man, praising
the poet’s understanding of “men like ourselves.”

The older writer responded with bewildered
kindness, flattered perhaps by the adulation,
but rightly suspicious of its callow sincerity.
The two never actually met; shortly thereafter,
Stoker fell under the spell of the flamboyant

Shakespearian actor Sir Henry Irving, who
sported a deep black velvet cape, and strode
through gaslight with preternatural assurance,
while the stage manager fluttered around him
like a moth drawn to an incinerating flame.

The rest is buried between the lines, interred
in the “decrepit earth” of the nineteenth century.
No consummation ever occurred that we know.
Twelve novels and three short story collections
were disregarded, unmentioned in any obituary.


 
THROUGH THE WINDOW

Raindrops on cold glass
trace the memory of light
momentarily.



THE CHORD IN HIS BRAIN

Dad’s condition grows steadily worse,
the situation somehow unforeseen despite
months of deathbed vigils followed by apparent
rallying—although these miraculous recoveries
are always temporary. Tonight, on the phone,
Mom says the hospice nurse anticipates
no further improvement, a steep decline
is not unusual when the end finally nears.

What’s different this time, she tells me,
is that his body, after long illness,
is at last fairly healthy, but his mind
emptying rapidly, all recognition gone:
the chord in his brain reduced to white noise,
wind whistling through a broken window,
or the radiant wail of solar flares
in the spaces between stars.



Raised in New Jersey, Robert Lavett Smith has lived since 1987 in San Francisco, where for the past sixteen years he has worked as a Special Education Paraprofessional. He has studied with Charles Simic and the late Galway Kinnell. He is the author of several chapbooks and three full-length poetry collections, the most recent of which is The Widower Considers Candles (Full Court Press, 2014).Two poems from this newest book have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize.

Stefanie Bennett- Two Poems


FREEZE: The Coalition of the Un-willing, Mariupol   
 
Around the bend they came,
Past the broken ground.
The know-it-alls
Who cannot recognize
Goose-flesh from
(Pardon me)
A horse’s arse
Viewed
            From
One step “back
To the future’s”
Sure footed
Titanium heart.
 
 
TIPSTER      
 
On nights of the full moon
I batten
Down the hatch
For who knows what city-slickers,
Layabouts and deceivers
Will tally up to.
 
All and sundry’s fumigated,
Especially
The wicker chair
Belching
              Collywobbles
And covered
In hoar frost
 
- The lair where an
Enthused
Meteor squats and
Resumes
His Promethean shock-
Jock tale
 
... Of devil’s dust
Gone loco.
 
Beware the pith
And marrow,
- He intones.
                    It’s 
Sucking eggs
That makes
Men wise...
 
 
 
Stefanie Bennett has published several books of poetry, a novel and a libretto. Her poetry
has been published by The Camel Saloon, The Mindless Muse, Aleola Journal, The Provo
Canyon Review, Communion, IS&T, Record-Magazine and others. Of mixed ancestry
[Italian/Irish/Paugussett-Shawnee] she was born in Queensland, Australia, in 1945.
 

Paul Tristram- Three Poems



…As She Lifted The Curtain Hem Of Her Circus Dress Of Promiscuity
And Relaxed…Unfaithfully…Once Again.
(God Upturned The Table With The Cards
Which He Had Just Been Playing Patience Upon And Lost!)

…and as she set off once again, smiling
down that familiar road
of learnt behaviour/destruction.
Carefree and stupidly
heading straight towards the wreckage
that we kept pulling her free from.
We shook our heads,
surrendering to the inevitable
and turned and walked away.
After eighteen months
of destitute complaining and self-pity
she hasn’t quite learnt her lesson
but I hear that she’s at least
on her way, hooray!

© Paul Tristram 2015 



 To Imprison The Moment

I have kept that special moment here
all of this time and no one suspected.
The little miracle sent to help me
wrapped and cloaked in ancient magic.
A wonderful secret, a knowledge
that no one else (Alive!) is privy too.
The thing that keeps me protected so.
Sometimes in the very beginning
I would fear that its whispering would
alert the wrong ears in our direction
but cleverness is part of the bundle.
It gleams like a knife but only for me
and it still smells exactly like it used to.
I would share it with the lost and lonely
but it really does not fraction or multiply.


© Paul Tristram 2014



A Scab Upon The Face Of Love

He swaggered into the ballroom
dressed as a swashbuckling pirate,
bowed thrice and smiled as nearly
everyone applauded or squirmed.
She burst out of the audience
screaming like a banshee,
in the clobber of Marie Antoinette.
“You are wearing the wrong costume,
my dear heartbreaker. Yours is still
hanging by the dressing room window
upon a bloody butchers hook.
I spent days sewing it together myself,
it’s made entirely of rotting raw meat
and stinking offal, mostly pigs hearts
mixed in with the occasional arsehole.
It has your filthy name branded
with vindictiveness into the right breast,
Mr. Scab Upon The Face Of Love!”
She snarled, gnashed, kicked and clawed
whilst being dragged away backwards
down the long entrance hall of shame,
to be cast out mercilessly into the cold
Winter of snow and approaching lunacy.
Far away from the warmth of the party,
future love, respect, her class, dignity
and every sane thing she’d ever known.


© Paul Tristram 2014


Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.
 

You can read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/