Boggled.
Paper stacked beneath a box of pencils,
paint hardened in tubes,
images not rendered fill mental
picture frames like engorged
intestines.
A perimeter of nails, now rusty,
encapsulates the unreliable frames.
A pummeled palmetto bug drags itself
out of the dust only to
halt in the dead
center where
apples tumble
back onto
the tree.
###
Mark Kerstetter steals time away from restoring an old house in Florida to write and make art out of wood salvaged from demolition sites. His poems and stories have appeared or are forthcoming in Jerry Jazz Musician, Unlikely 2.0, Evergreen Review and other journals. He is the former poetry editor of Escape into Life and blogs as The Bricoleur
The clump birches
beside the lakeshore
are slowly peeling off
their papery attire
like well-practised
lovers intent
on sustaining that
delicate tension
between fantasy
and reality.
###
Glen Sorestad is a much published poet with over 20 books of poems. His poems have been translated into a half-dozen languages and have appeared in scores of literary magazines, over 50 anthologies and textbooks, and on numerous literary websites. Sorestad lives in Saskatoon on the Canadian prairies. His latest book of poems, A Thief of Impeccable Taste, is a bilingual, English/Spanish volume published by Sand Crab Books(2011).
The lines of your body
The metered beats of your breath
The strum, the very hum of your being
###
Keith T. Hoerner, BS, MFA lives, writes, and teaches in Saint Louis, Missouri. His work can be found in literary journals from the Midwest to the East Coast. This particular poem is dedicated to his wife of twenty years: Anne.
I remember who I am; southern
bales of hay, blond strands of
cornfields growing long past
shoulders of sun. a long run
on a salty road, a handful of
overgrown raspberries in the
pocket of high-water jeans.
a mean storm that beats the
side of the house so loud my
mouth bleeds, leaves debris in
the yards of my memories. but
keep that part out, let me write
about bruised fruit, unripe.
Wings open, wind-carried, an angel’s book.
Talons ready to change music to that of funeral dirge.
Fixer, finder, life-adopter, sailing through cool ether.
Mouse, you are not your hallowed body.
Spectacular, the pale glory of flight, sublimely alone.
One sharp cry above the May iris, or by winter,
over branching pipes of naked wood.
Your shape caught, sympathetic, by the hawk’s seeking claw.
Posthumous:
metamorphosis complete,
after the awe of the yellow-black beak.
###
Andrew Demcak is an award-winning poet and novelist whose work has been widely published and anthologized both in print and on-line, and whose books have been featured at Verse Daily, The Lambda Literary Foundation, The Best American Poetry blog, and Oranges & Sardines. His fourth book of poetry, Night Chant, was published by Lethe Press, 2011 and nominated by the publisher for both the 2012 Lambda Literary Award and the Thom Gunn Poetry Award. His other poetry books are: A Single Hurt Color, GOSS 183::Casa Menendez Press, 2010, Zero Summer, BlazeVOX [Books], NY, 2009 and his first poetry book, Catching Tigers in Red Weather, three candles press, 2007, that was selected by Joan Larkin to win the Three Candles Press Open Book Award. His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Lambda Award, Thom Gunn Poetry Award, both the California and Northern California Book Awards, Best of the Web, and others. He has an M. F. A. in English/Creative Writing from St. Mary’s College in Moraga, CA , where he studied with Robert Hass, Brenda Hillman, Michael Palmer, Carol Snow, Frank Bidart, Gary Snyder, Charles Wright, and Sharon Olds. Andrew is also a member of the Squaw Valley Community of Writers, where he studied with Galway Kinnell, Richard Howard, and Lucille Clifton. His poems, including Young Man With iPod (Poetry Midwest, #13), are taught at Ohio State University as part of both its English 110.02 class, “The Genius and the Madman,” and in its “American Poetry Since 1945” class. At the age of 23, Andrew published his first chapbook, The Psalms (Big 23 Press), which was favorably reviewed by Dr. Clifton Snider in the Small Press Review (issue 226, vol. 23, no. 11.) When he is not hard at work as a Children’s Librarian for Oakland Public Library, he can be found eating okonomiyaki at Japantown in San Francisco. Viva Wallace Stevens! Visit Andrew at: AndrewDemcak.com
Washed out neon in the morning sun like a fish out of water
A swift silence follows the odd vehicle travelling through town
there are no people on the sidewalks as the crows fly up
from the main intersection when the light changes to green
they know they have enough time to get out of the way
They flutter back on the pavement behind the back window
as if to claim the emptiness that will soon by filled by traffic
going to work or moving down the highway to the next place
taking the black spaces with them from under the motel beds
There is no reason to leave them behind without a reason
Water from their morning showers trickles into the ground
A smoking cigarette butt left behind in an asphalt parking lot
last memory like a gob of spit left on a motel bathroom mirror
Don’t ask me why certain people want to be remembered
or why those intelligent birds want to play in that intersection
Soon enough it’s all a minor memory of washed out colour
that ruled the night in magic illustrations of neon splendour
Even the bristling prairie stars were put in the background
by the pulse of electronic graffiti owning complete darkness
Life in meaning only partially told before it answers back
laughing bravely at the stranger elements of blind faith
Who’ll be there tomorrow or the next day waiting for me
the low sun turns puddles
into sheets of sky indigo
where the moon gathers its white
and the custard and blood leaves
of a cherry tree dying
remember light
a pheasant puts its sore throat
to a trumpet a white-tipped propeller
whirls into the trees
cachinnating like a magpie
the wood fills up with roosting
a path polka-ed
with gold leaf
and blackened pennies
leads me to a mother with two kids
why do we have to go into the woods
the boy says I don’t hear the reply
because someone
is following me
the moon hardens into a netsuke
my dog races between the trees
trapped in a zoetrope
I forgot my notebook
and have to write on my skin
We are looking for the best poetry out there! Send us your work, and we have a BIG CHANGE to our submissions policy. It is no longer required to submit your photo. If you would like your photo published with your work, you may submit one, but it is no longer required.
Please send 3 to 5 poems, a bio, and links to your sites to be published with your work. We have a very quick turn around time on poetry right now. Please send your best work. We want to publish a poem everyday, but we will only publish the best work!
When the day ends, she goes for a walk.
She breathes in the autumn:
How the Juniper leaves feel nothing.
She remembers walking hand in hand
With her father a long time ago,
Her little hands cupped within his,
Squeezing his fingers so tightly,
No space between and safe.
They call this area Bull Run,
Just one of many fields in Virginia,
Still lined with cross-wooded fences
Where soldiers would lay upon, and
Aim at their brothers in battle.
Her father’s grandfather and his brothers
Spilled blood here, under an Indian blue sky,
Upon this same green grass where she lays
With her eyes closed, whispering to ghosts.
###
Brian Drury was born in Arlington, Virginia and graduated from James Madison University with degrees in English, French and Political Science. He writes poetry, short fiction and editorials and many of his themes deal with love and death and the complex dynamics of family.
He was a previous member of the Online Film Critics Society for six years writing film reviews and now much of his diverse, creative work can be found on various social media sites including Twitter, Facebook, Tumblr and on his personal blog at bdgarp.com. He has been listed among the top 50 Humorist and Insightful writers on Twitter/Favstar for the past two years.
His self-published Dreams of Perfection, was his first short collection of poetry (2000). He works a conventional job but maintains his passion for writing, freelance and for himself.
Morning. She gets up.
The shutters paint
Her face a zebra.
The curtains whisper:
It’s a grey day, not a bad day,
So she sips her tea with a sigh,
A smile and a cigarette
###
Tim Heron is 24 and was born in Belfast, in Ireland, but he grew up in France. He just started teaching English literature in a high school in a seaside town called Boulogne sur Mer.
Soon Autumn
will be here
with it’s dusty
and driving breeze
across fields
from the back of your house
where poppies would
previously dance with you
now spit in your face.
Autumn will hold your hand
when you run
to the train station
every morning
jagged with purpose
like it was
famous for 15 seconds.
Soon Autumn will be here
and on the road again
with leaves dangling
in the middle
of your garden
like a radiogram
of a old film.
Summer will be
dangling from a distance
just slightly out of reach
almost like a party
you had not been invited to
before the cold weather comes,
leaving,
leaving,
you wondering had it gone
before it had really started
returning to the small ads.
###
Andy N is a 39 year old writer, writer, performer and sometimes experimental musician from the Manchester area of England.
He has published one book of poetry through N Press ‘Return to Kemptown’ in 2010 and his second book, a split book with Jeff Dawson (aka Jeffarama) ‘A Means to an End’ has also just been printed. He has been published in numerous books and magazines and has been performing since 2006 and regularly since 2008. More details of his experience can be seen here – http://andyncreativecv.blogspot.com/
A cluster of dark trees
blurring into a green knoll,
emerald sheen on velveteen moss,
sprays of daisies across the grass
bees greedily drinking from succulent centers,
quick-stepping deer flitting by,
fallen feathers of magpies.
Naked feet dangle in a silvery brook
that licks our soles with its babbling tongue,
and we children lapse into repose.
Spider-leafed shadows
of late afternoon
as light drains from the sky
inhabit me.
Lush blueberries brim
over the rims of my basket.
Our laughter leaves me breathless,
I close my eyes.
My life is strongly scented with the happiness of childhood.
###
A writer from youth, German-born Ute Carson’s first story was published in 1977. Her story The Fall won the Grand Prize for Prose and was published in the short story and poetry anthology, A Walk Through My Garden, Outrider Press, Chicago 2007. Her novel Colt Tailing was published in September 2004 and was a Finalist for the Peter Taylor Book Award Prize for the Novel. Her second novel In Transit was published in 2008. Her poems have appeared in Arts & Letters Magazine, The Barricade, The Texas Observer, TheWriterWithin, The Jimson Journal, Secret Attic, The Inkpot Press, The Blind Press, Timbuktu (UK), Decanto (UK), EarthLove Magazine (UK), AWEN, Atlantean Publishing (UK), Lyricalpassion Poetry, Literary Magic, FreeXpression, (AU), Shots (UK), and Dreamcatcher. Carson’s poetry was featured on the televised Spoken Word Showcase 2009, 2010 and 2011, ChannelAustin, TX. Carson’s first volume of poetry Just A Few Feathers was published by PlainView Press in April 2011.
An Advanced Certified Clinical Hypnotist, Ute Carson resides in Austin, Texas with her husband. They have three daughters, five grandchildren, a horse and a number of cats.
Salamonie Reservoir :hundreds of yards
of shimmering leaves bubble
trails in my eye. Dead trees
thumb a ride, left behind
after man flooded the land. I slow down
for the red light. There’s a ripple
in the drowning: a boat moves
like an upside-down swing; fishes. The old
church steeple just peeks
it has been a hot summer and I
wonder if the boat will catch
fish with answers.
Limbs do not wave
in the hot breeze, so stiff,
reaching to breathe. A blue heron flies,
rubbing in her freedom. Here,
water came to Monument City for flood
control. The boat pulls and tugs,
caught on a pane; the boat burdened
by another good jig lost
to an unmanned home. The rippled-reflection
is perfect teeth flossed by fishermen’s
snagged lines.
I say Thank You. My brother
fished here nearly a quarter
of a century ago. Today,
are only memories, stopping at the top
of the bridge, flashing emergency
lights. The ripples break the glass
wedged in my eye: each hill and dip
a vision of him casting,
reeling. The water,
sand deep this year.
A child runs, skips a rock, splashes
and waves; his blue short sleeve
shirt and rolled up jeans blend
into Dennis doing jumping jacks.
Frantic arms signal . . . seeing you
(no stanza break)
again in the Salamonie. Forgive me
when I forget. Don’t die
Salamonie remember
for us all. Be as you are;
you can preserve;
never apologize for your existence.
I bow, drop water,
and leave the rail to start my car.
###
Dawn Cunningham Luebke currently instructs composition at Indiana U. Purdue U. Fort Wayne (IPFW) in Fort Wayne, Indiana. She has four beautiful children and five beautiful grandchildren. Her work has appeared in Confluence and Diagram. She hopes to continue her studies in Native American literature and science fiction literature, not excluding her creative writing in all genres.
Its been so long since I saw you, so alone I’ve been
I wish I could go back, before it all begins
it was simple, my heart full of joy
nothing would I worry, except a broken toy.
###
Hannah Dayton is a young mother, wife and student in California. She has been writing poetry the past ten years on love, thoughts and experiences from everyday life. She is currently concentrating on the publication of her first book. She can be contacted at hdayton88@yahoo.com.
As we roar over and by
the oaks are as still
as the pond they surround
Only the swans
on the pond
are moving
Then from an oak
a buckshot of crow
cawing and leaving
###
Donal Mahoney, a native of Chicago, lives in St. Louis, Missouri. His poems have appeared in print and online in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa.
