Saturday, May 28, 2016

Wanda Morrow Clevenger- Three Poems


Wanda Morrow Clevenger is a Carlinville, IL native.  Over 356 pieces of her work appear in 129 print and electronic journals and anthologies.  Yes, she does the math.
 
 
3 am cause
 
those months dragging on
to spare you further anguish
I wept into your pillow
the atrocities – preview
of more to come
 
the furnace cycled on
and off
the sun still afraid
to show its
yellowbelly face
 
your pillow was soft
and smooth, cool
on my cheek
more than sympathetic
to the 3 am cause
 
 
Breakfast in Boonville
 
We take I-70 west to visit our kids.  The adult store
and gentlemen's club strip from Missouri to Kansas
where notorious billboards elbow dine-n-dash and
antique alleys: Artichoke Annie's, Enchanted Frog,
Good JuJu . . . and W.D. Pickers Antique Mall where
pickier pickers pick.
 
And we did make an antique shop this trip –
Ridge in Shawnee;
right arm for jadeite but they kindly cut us a deal
on an orphaned iron porch chair.
 
Seated along the window wall under a Triple “AAA
Rootbeer sign in Cracker Barrel this side of Kansas,
I watched a woman place a paper napkin on the table
then salt it like a corncob coaster for her iced tea. 
I said to Monte, “There's something you don't see.” 
 
Traveling east home, in Boonville at marker 106
we landed on a great breakfast spot easy to spot,
same exit as an adult store
near enough the interstate to sans signage;
 
the XXX painted on the roof
stuck out big as braille.
 
 
please show interest
 
sales manager
Mr. John Fan represented
a business vivid
in China for years
 
a new product of
quality and best price
–– cardboard coffin
boxes by the net––
raw materials friendly
to the misspelled envirement
best corrugated composite panels
competitive in my
American market
 
size 210x71x42cm
bearing at least 200 kg
color: cherry, oak, black
and interior decorative material
all custom
as requested
 
the product replaced
expensive wooden coffins
suitable for burial
and cremation
 
a gifted pitchman,
how Mr. Fan knew
of my recent trysts
with death
was uncanny
 
he solicited if I might please
show interest of attachments
as he also provided caskets
              for pets

Stefanie Bennett- A Poem


Stefanie Bennett has published several volumes of poetry, a libretto, and a novel – and
her poems appear with The Provo Canyon Review, High Coupe, Illya’s Honey, Snow
Monkey, Shot Glass Journal, Mad Swirl, Carcinogenic Poetry, and others. Of mixed
ancestry [Irish/Italian/Paugussett-Shawnee] she was born in Queensland, Australia.
Stefanie’s latest poetry title is “The Vanishing” published by Walleah Press 2015
 
 
 
NADEZHDA MANDELSTAM: REMEMBERING OSIP 
 
Wild fruits fall once again
And time passes its orcharding.
Leaves, their shapes like hieroglyphs,
Make little of the future.
 
Where is the Golden Child; the one
Who inherited my uppermost branches?
Who swayed and sang
As only innocence can?
 
Perhaps he’s grown past recall.
Past the old vibrancy
Of a lover’s gaze. Stepped out; over
Grief’s cleft and into another...
 
Utterances from a distant star.
They’re shooting hearts
Into the frost of space!
It’s no more than a rumour:
 
Something to
                     Taunt emotion...
Lead it away
         From the self without self...
 
A horizontal shriek and gash
Streak across
This horizon!
It is not my kin... it is
 
Not my valuable. He lies
Beneath the pressed foliage.
The brown earth.
The departing seasons.
 
 

J.J. Campbell- Two Poems


coming up on one year since my father died
 
off to the cemetery
to make sure you're
actually in the ground
 
i've had a few drinks
 
just in case the last
year has all been
a dream

two against the world
 
whisper your
fears as i hold
you close
 
even if we
can only have
moments of
perfection
together
 
i'll never trade
these tender
moments for
any neon lights
or a better life
 
those dark
beautiful eyes
of yours will
make any
tragedy
bearable
 
self-inflicted
or not
 
my blood is
now yours
 
your fears
are now
mine
 
two against
the world
 
may we both
die laughing
one day
 
 
 

Ananya S. Guha- A Poem


Terrorist

He died with this loneliness
He was a poet
He was a graphic artist
He was a technocrat
computer scientist
He died with this loneliness
of being all of them
none of them 
He was a bomb blaster 
He was a spy
He was a terrorist
He died with this loneliness 
of being none of them 
He zeroed on in circles
He was fascinated by circles
He drew them, painted them 
and blew them up
He was a terrorist
He died with this loneliness
of being one. 

 

Angelica Fuse- Two Poems


Midnight Clock

now is the time
for fading
allowing myself
to join vines
running up the wall
out onto the yard

I make
my mad dash
for the darkened
tree line

never to be caught
in snares again.

 
What I Am Like

he tells me
I am like a flower
in a field
a precious blooming daisy

what he doesn’t
know
is how this
flower feels
about
the fertilizer
he heaps on.
 
 

Friday, May 27, 2016

Jennifer Lagier- A Photo


                                     "Carmel fence post sign"


Ananya S. Guha- A Poem


Wilderness

I trespass those roads
no one goes there
they say around it's corner
is a living giant
hydra headed 
who can take on 
nuclear powers, let alone 
gun toting men and embattled soldiers
and so, leave the trees
the sun, moon and 
the hills to their rampant 
wilderness. 

 
 

Gareth Culshaw- A Poem


bio - Gareth lives in N Wales, he is an aspiring writer who hopes one day to achieve something with the pen. 



 WINTER SOLITUDE

The lonely field has at last come alive
emerging spring starts to dance.
I see their bodies like graders over
a head, shaving away the winter growth.

The lonely field that had sat in the dark
now starts to burst with every sinew.
Dash and flight, figure skating curves,
their arc shaped wings, ride the high sun.

My hands were tame, but have now woken up.
The deep sullen that had stitched up my tilth,
finally unzipped by their wings of spring.
I am not alone anymore, anymore. 
 
 

Jonathan Beale- Three Poems



A pregnant state of mind

After David Bowie

What is your current
state of mind?
He constantly asks
Pregnant.  Pregnant.  Pregnant.

The consciousness of the conscience 
Books - papers - music
Squeezed… cramped in
Here and there
Time and pressure
‘A song in itself perhaps?’

A diary entry?
From little hell
To Beckenham Palace
And an open mind. 

What is your current
state of mind?
He constantly asks
Pregnant. Pregnant.  Pregnant

And how Nietzsche talks
to the fertile mind
then his words pour…
then gush…
as the words spit
into rifts and chords
and old Greeks with
Apollos lyre. Create in stone.

What is your current
state of mind?
He constantly asks
Pregnant. Pregnant.  Pregnant.



The late night train times

The night blocks the doorway to sleep,
The mystic moth takes me over.  Aware of:
Vacant pavements – vacant streets
Forlorn street lamps bereft of life &light.

I found myself in the accident of dressing
That cats and dogs never quite understood. 
I found myself taking the train
From the diaconal Paddington Station
Finding a hollow space – invisible pressure
On my head - all ideas extricated
Face up: face out against the window –
That chill air, that glass holds so well.

The sun has set over London, east
The strangely scintillant night, among
Florescent tower blocks marbled to heaven
Deadbeat rhyme 

The once vague night being drowned
Out in heavier thicker darkness - caught
From the grey savage fangs of a youthful
Night.  The youthful night.  This youthful night

A few people cast around the night 
Just waiting – each secretly fearing something
Is this train the wrong train?
Consciences & doubt s dance teasing

Taking the wrong train and why – where to go
Where to end up with my back to my home, my bed
Where would I end up somewhere with a sunrise
Or just over the edge of the world.    



There is no reason

The garden gate always swings open
Breaking the infinite circle
Still the long white picket fences
Barricade and covers the ancient Ha - Ha

Those lines upon lines of suburban
Façades, mask the belief as
The advertisers’ mantra creates, 
And somehow.  “There must be a reason!”

The foil and epees slide and screen
Keep the mind and body sharp –
as they move along to another leaving
as another door defies ‘The Selfish Gene’  

Every new cosmos, of every another day
Hesitates before the next “On guard”
Behind every new close quarters behind
Every new door  there is no reason’.


Jonathan Beale has 450 plus poems published in such journals as: Decanto,  Penwood Review,  The Screech Owl, Danse Macabre, Danse Macabre du Jour, Poetic Diversity, Voices of Israel in English, Miracle-E-zine,  Voices of Hellenism Literary Journal, The Journal, Ink Sweat & Tears, Down in the Dirt, The English Chicago Review, Mad Swirl, Poetry Cornwall, Leaves of Ink, Ariadne’s Thread, Bijou Poetry Review, Calvary Cross, Deadsnakes Review, The Bitchin Kitsch, Poetry by Birkbeck alumnus, The Dawntreader, I am not a Silent Poet, Pyrokinection, Festival of Language, Festivalwriter, ‘Don’t Be Afraid: An Anthology to Seamus Heaney’, Ygdrasil, The Four Seasons Anthology, The Seventh Quarry, Van Gogh’s Ear Anthology, The Curly Mind, The Beatnik Cowboy, Dali’s LoveChild, Storm Cycle Anthology (Best of Hurricane Press 2015) and The Jawline Review.
He was commended in Decanto’s and Café writers Poetry Competitions 2012. His work has appeared in such books as ‘Drowning’ (Scar publications) and ‘The Poet as Sociopath’ (Scar publications). He is currently working on his second volume.
He studied philosophy at Birkbeck College London and lives in Surrey England

Theresa Griffin Kennedy- A Poem


Desires Solitary Dialogue

My name is Want,
I am the misleading shimmer of glamor
The glamor of sin.

Seducing the weak to look--
Looking transforms into the fruit of my want
Gathers up into a fragile tissue of verse to be mastered.

Want will ride the roller coaster ending up,
Firmly seated in justifications lonely en-silvered throne
Of transparent rationale.

Always standing on the outside looking in,
Want materializes into the slick poison
Of covetousness and the ooze of a sweet flavor
Is readily explored in the fullness of my geographies
Stark lines and whorls, never ending.

The television screen performs the trick,
You appear oblivious; eye movements slow
To the number that displays the trance
Has been achieved.

And Now!
The brain washing has begun!
It’s all over there, go and get it!
You deserve it! Take it! Take it!
Get it before someone else does!

Dialogue finished!



* I am a freelance writer of creative nonfiction, a poet and contributing columnist for The online Portland Alliance Newspaper and for the news website GoLocalPDX. I am an activist fighting for social change through writing as a social act. I paint abstract with mixed media and am a writing instructor and writing coach.