Wednesday, March 4, 2015

Nancy May- Three Poem

blue skies
white clouds
exchange of vows

broken clouds
rain puddles
memories of you

fallen snow
broken branches
lost conversations

Haiku can found at Haiku Journal, Three Line Poetry, Poetry Quarterly, Inclement Poetry, Twisted Dreams Magazine, Vox Poetica, Eskimo Pie, Icebox, Dark Pens, Daily Love, Leaves of Ink, The Blue Hour Magazine, Kernels, Mused – The BellaOnline Literary Review, , Danse Macabre – An online literary Magazine, High Coupe, A Handful of Stones, Lyrical Passion Poetry E-Zine, UFO Gigolo, 50 Haikus, The Germ, Boston Literary Review, Be happy Zone, Every Day Poets, Cattails, Ppigpenn, Creatrix Journal and M58.

She is a monthly contributor at Poems and Poetry and The Camel Saloon. She has reached The Heron’s Nest consideration stage twice and the Chrysanthemum consideration stage once. She is working on her first haiku collection.

Gene McCormick- Three Poems & Art

Career Move

She wins the secretarial job,
the successful applicant
at 50 wpm, no dictation, but
catches the eye of the employer.
They celebrate with martinis
over lunch, a hotel key, and a
synchronization of
social calendars to avoid
spousal encroachment.
That was the ‘60’s.
And ‘70’s.
‘80’s, too.

 Girl Watcher

Sitting at a table to the rear of the restaurant,
a dessert plate of baked walnuts before him
--a treat laced with ginger, sugar, cinnamon—
wondering why, he being so much older,
why do young, unformed girls
too young to grasp consequences
look at him with side glances as they pass?
What is their point?
Why do they taunt?
What the hell are they trying to do?

Red Square

For no reason, none,
a twelve inch by ten inch remnant
of vermillion red silk lays
across an ironing board,
across a scorch-proof metallic cover.
Flat, not a wrinkle,
cool and smooth and
red, red, red silk, silky red
abandoned while the telephone
is answered, a robot calling.
The dimensions are not exactly
12”x10”, but nearly so
and the silk moves not an iota
during the interruption
though a spring wind wafts
through the window screen,
slides over the vermillion and
bumps against the far wall,
its grey flat latex paint
smooth as red silk,
as cool as patina
on a vintage brass doorknob
feels to the touch of
a lady’s fingertips.

Melanie Browne- A Poem

Light as a Feather

'want to play light
as a feather, stiff as
a board?'
Judy asks,
We are at
Judy's house,
her mother and
my mother
are friends
and four of us
gather around
a girl who is
giggling and
having a hard time
lying still,
we lift her
into the
air with just
the tips of
our fingers,
I can't remember
if I help to lift
or am merely
a witness,
this angel with
fiery wings
who soars into
I think about this
childhood memory
and try and rationalize
you had an active
I tell myself,
it was only
the suggestion,
but I know
what I saw,
of course, she was
probably only
90 pounds,
why do little girls
play occult games
in the first place?
where was the nail polish,
the teeny bopper magazines,
the popcorn,
an occult
version of
I can't remember
her ever
coming down,
I worry that
levitation girl
is still floating around
waiting for
the right word,
just the right
to fall back to
forever doomed
to the romance of
the stratosphere

Tuesday, March 3, 2015

Jennifer Lagier- Three Poems & Photos

Love Among Ruin
"The more stubbornly it persisted, the more fiercely we believed." Louise Gluck
Among quiet mausoleums, still lovers
are caught leaning forward to kiss.
The man's stone hands lovingly cup
the graceful oval of his wife's marble face.
He caresses her cheekbones, enthralled
despite the closed door of death.
She stares adoringly into his blind eyes,
a monument of frozen constancy.
I am a curious tourist, pausing to
wistfully ponder their eternal embrace.


Heloise’s Epistle

Beloved, heal the wounds
you have inflicted. Remember,
I was the one who refused to lie,
rejected wedlock for freedom.
Destroyed myself at your command,
changed open doors for sealed convent
simply to prove you the sole possessor
of my heart, soul, and will.
You who lavish time
on proud disbelievers,
consider your growing debt
to the neglected faithful.
My broken spirit is a weak plantation
sown with tender, ailing plants
that require nourishing sun,
your careful attention.
Treachery robbed me of myself
in robbing me of you.
I fear nothing more than barren silence,
this claustrophobic sentence I am now serving.
Only letters provide a lingering hint
of your long-absent presence,
vague words that still caress,
despite the malice of others.

Notre Dame Symphony
Inside a husk of stone, voices
of the martyred  rattle like seeds.
Gargoyles snatch passing souls.
Gothic spires erupt from colorless slate.
Medieval clerics shattered intricate
stained glass, always hungry for light.
In the courtyard, a man raises one arm,
blesses tourists, conducts his own mass.
A symphony of tiny sparrows lift,
flutter skyward bearing sinners’ requests.

Stefanie Bennett- Two Poems

MIDNIGHT TULIPS                   

The Dream Maker stepped out of the haze
Of the ‘sleep empire’. Fathoms below that
Of the Sky Walker; light years above
The Green Giant from
                                   The underground.
The Midnight Tulips he carried gleamed
Like many unheard-of suns. A hand-woven
Rainbow sashed itself about his shoulders
To trail across the frosty land.
All the while his descendants tossed
                                            To his calling.
The children wanted knowledge. Of pirate kings.
Ghouls and goblins, and toad manors, and  
                                                      Missing things.
The ‘elders’? A mixed bag, that lot. They sought
Everything from misplaced Troy, turbo-charged
4-wheel drives – and jewelled superannuation
He’d been one of them: was ‘at one’ with them.
That had been spelt out and chronicled
                                        Long ago. He’d known
Flood. Famine. The conqueror and
                                          The conquered:
Crystal ships and voyaging angels.
                                               He’d touched
The bold and beautiful Bethlehem Star...
Now, as a life-force only, a projector of myth
And fable, he could do no more than visualize
On how to cure the sick. Help the dead rest. Or,
Create laughter as light, as soft as the sound
Of raindrops on a leaf. However
                                He could have told them:
                                ‘With each dream you die
                                And live a little’.
                                He could have told them:
                                ‘Choice is always
                                A two-way street’.
He could have told them. He could have...
But  The Dream Maker stepped out of the haze
Of the ‘sleep empire’ content to
                                                Just let be.
The Midnight Tulips he carried shone
                                               And sighed.
For some, the ship had
                                    - Come in.

[from Midnight Tulips, ‘The Performance’]


I can still hear my grandfather’s violin.
He played as if he’d brought the whole
Of Italy with him –.
He’d been a barrow-boy. He’d sold fruit and
Flowers outside the great concert halls
Of Naples. He’d seen and known Caruso’s
Last performance from the back row.
That concert cost him forty barrow-loads
And nine days of hard selling.
“I’d do it again,” he’d say. “There are
Many apples but too few phenomena.”
I can still hear my grandfather’s violin...
Hauntingly beautiful. Drifting upwards
Like a prayer. Like water trickling
About the flagstones in the back garden.
I see the old photographs hung near
                                            The stairwell.
The pin-stripe suit. The classic spats and hat
That lent ‘a touch of class’. But – more
                                                Than that –,
His kind of tenacity leant on through.
He went as he’d lived. Glib and humorous.
His policy; things are what you make them.
He died, comfortably off. It started
With a barrow full of flowers.
The violin? It... held it all together.

[from the ‘libretto’, Midnight Tulips]

Stefanie Bennett has published several books of poetry, a novel, and a libretto. Her
poems have also appeared in Carcinogenic Poetry, VerseWrights, Provo Canyon
Review, Record-Magazine, The Galway Review, Illya’s Honey, Shot Glass Journal,
IS&T, The Mind[less] Muse and others. Of mixed ancestry [Italian/Irish/Paugussett-
Shawnee], she was born in Townsville, Queensland, Australia in 1945

Kelley Jean White- Owl Photo

                                                                 "Hard Winter"

Adreyo Sen- A Poem


When I was young, I searched for angels.
I looked everywhere.

At twenty, I'd given up searching.
How could I know then, one winter night,
the gurney ice under my dreams,
that the hand rough on my forehead
was an angel's noiseless wings,
the smile in his sleepless eyes, 
his otherworldly beauty?

"Rest," he said, and his gentle courage
was the silence of my sleep.

And now I know -
and perhaps it isn't late at all,
that if I'd known where to look,
I'd never have had to look at all.

Dear Mother, I called to you
and you were here before I woke up,
the laughter in your tears telling me
it was no use trying to grow up.

For wisdom comes as we learn,
and learning is but the will to trust.
And trusting now, I know to look,
and to see angels all around.

Their beauty is the quiet serenity
of their love.

Denny E. Marshall- Art

1)  Face in The Corner
2)  Guitar Player
3)  Breaking Thru

Kelley Jean White- Three Poems

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White Mountain Boogie & Blues
--Fetal horses
  May gallop
  In the womb
Oliver Sacks
I might call you Sunday morning
Catch you in someone else’s bed
If I call you Sunday morning
She’ll be wishing she was dead
And it won’t be cause I’m calling
No baby, you’ll be the aching
            In her head
I used to be so pretty
Bees would buzz around my head
Seventeen, and I was pretty
Bees buzzing round my head
Now I dance with fleas and spiders
Black flies and mosquitoes instead
You bought me a fistful of thorns
It was your own palms that bled
I wanted to kiss the torn up places
You didn’t want me to kiss your blood
You claimed your name meant healing
But it really meant causing pain
If there is a balm in Gilead
It definitely doesn’t know your name
You sat in the best parlor chair
The one with carvings on the arms
I wanted to sit on your lap
Knock us down to the floor
Honey, if you want to be my lobster
Then you better not eat my tail
When I said I was your baby
They named me Cora Lee
My mother went to prison
My father crossed the sea
Left my maiden aunt to raise me
Left my maiden self to flee
You signed your letters Respectfully
Never used Love or Dear or True
You signed your words Sincerely but
There wasn’t anything I knew
Just a lot of careful writing
There wasn’t anything that was you
I told my daughter not to marry
Said kiss the boy and run
Or watch out what you’ll carry
When he’s having all that fun
And the next day he’ll be talking
With his nasty little tongue
My daddy took me fishing
Caught a little rainbow trout
Threw it right back in the river
Said he wanted something else
Then he took out a nightcrawler
That was the only thing he hooked
My mother used to tell me
You can’t put a tomcat on a leash
She used to tell me
He’ll just keep running past your reach
But I bought you a little collar
With dog tags and a bell
So the birds would hear you coming
And tell you to go right down to hell
Why I Won’t Marry You
I want to be a lioness but
I don’t want to eat your meat
I might tear things from a bone or two
But my teeth feel kinda weak
And when you were a lion
I forgot to hear your roar
I could never share your pride
Don’t want to be just one more
I used to a be spider but
My web kept blowing away
I didn’t choose my twigs too well
They were stuck in the breeze-way
And a spider eats her husband
I better take care of these teeth
Make some silken strands to bind you
Honey, only one of us can eat

Robert Lavett Smith- A Poem


i.m: Leonard Nimoy, died February 27, 2015

He passed at 83, leaving no doubt,
True to his famous tag line, he’d lived long;
Forty two million net or thereabout
Suggest he also prospered—am I wrong?
His lungs were ruined, but his spirit, strong:
He played a character without emotion
So passionately we were swept along,
Offering him our unreserved devotion.
His death evokes Newton’s first law of motion:
He’s left us, but continues on his way;
The loss unsettles us like an explosion;
Perhaps we’ll meet him in the stars someday.
For now this vanished icon of our youth
Still speaks with vision, clarity, and truth.

Son of the noted ichthyologist C. Lavett Smith, 1927-2015, Robert Lavett Smith was raised in New Jersey, and 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.