A Poem A Day
The old people,
the beautiful people —
by Ray Stiefvater
–for G.G.
The old people,
the beautiful people —
they are our babies in reverse,
our treasures,
our gifts.
They are crystal flowers,
rare stamps,
precious coins
glistening in bright yellow light
brought to the surface
from Spanish galleons.
A cartoonish stop,
your magpie eye caught
by Marianne MacRae
A cartoonish stop,
your magpie eye caught
as though snapped in a snare.
You bend, scoop and turn,
your face split open into a shoreline,
an oceanic grin fit to drown me.
“A jewel! A jewel!” you cry.
Bending for a closer look I see your prize sat,
solid and slimy as a fried mushroom.
That’s a slug,” I say. “They live out here.”
“Is it real?” you ask.
About as real as you and me.?
You turn your hand over and it falls to the ground,
easy and uninteresting as a breath.
I look down at the shiny orange-grey pebble
slowly mewling back towards the secret doorways of the grass,
where you and me do not exist;
where time crackles like a radio signal.
Rohan Chhetri lives in Delhi. His poetry has been published in Eclectica, Rattle, 34th Parallel, Weyfarers, andThe Antigonish Review, among others. He works as an editor MORE…
by Rohan Chhetri
Grandfather is dying.
Mother wants to say it out loud.
A slow rigor mortis setting
like a fugue on a frail respiring body.
It is choking him in the throat.
It is fastening its blue tentacles
around his urinary tract.
His bladders writhing with stale urine.
He wakes up baffled in the night
calling out to the living, shouting until
someone says yes.
He blinks at my mother barely seeing
lifts a trembling hand and tries to read her face
like a blind man.
He smiles.
Perhaps he sees his young wife.
Perhaps forty long years after her death
he finally understands
why she seemed so
cheerful the afternoon she died legless
in that bright hospital room.
On the table beside her
the empty plate she had eaten from.
Him holding the plate in his hands
long after she was taken to the mortuary,
reading the traces of her fingertips on the leftovers.
###
Rohan Chhetri lives in Delhi. His poetry has been published in Eclectica, Rattle, 34th Parallel, Weyfarers, andThe Antigonish Review, among others. He works as an editor at Hachette India.
When the plane crashes
I land
by Vicki Iorio
When the plane crashes
I land
in my mother’s kitchen
Ma, at the sink
shifts flour for a yellow cake
to match our yellow curtains
Dinner is in the oven
She is not surprised to see me
or the nose of the plane
cartooning our ceiling
Sitting at the warped
fomica table I do
long division
Perpetual transistor radio
plays Paul Anka
Connie Francis
time-lines to the the Kennedy Assassination
Freedom Marches
The first blackout
The second blackout
911
and the shootings
the shootings
the shootings
Ma faces the sink
I watch her back and know
which apron she wears
by the apron strings:
consciousness-raising apron
burning bra on her chest
Scrabble apron
bib stitched with a board winning bingo
There is the crackle of roast beef cooking
Gastric temptation of searing fat
The old boil of vegetables
I find home
###
Vicki Iorio, a native Long Islander is a graduate of Hofstra University. Vicki’s poetry has been published in the San Pedro Review, hell strung and crooked, Uphook Press, Great Weather for Media, Tattoosday, Long Island Quarterly, Toward Forgiveness Anthology, Whispers and Shouts, Boone Dock Review, Performance Poets Literary Review, Bards Annual and Spillway
This past spring, Vicki published her first full length poetry collection, Poems from the Dirty Couch.
by Anderson Dovilas
Your son is a liar
He says to someone
You have the longest
Wave in your smile
That’s a lie
That’s also a sweet lie
To describe a sweet love
Mama
Your son is a hustler
He goes in the street
Stole someone’s heart
And said
Every kiss
Has a Mother’s Day
Mama
Your son is ugly
But his beauty
Honors your strength
And your dignity
He says each star is a
Birth mark
That makes you
A life creator
Mama
Your son is homeless
He says since your death
He has no place to go
Where can he finds
The warmth of your arms
Where can he buys
Some mama’s love
Mama
Your son has a son
Your love will not perish.
###
Anderson Dovilas, in memory of my Lovely Mother and a great Mom.
Anderson Dovilas was born in Port-au-Prince, Haiti, July 02, 1985. This young author has published in France, In the US, and in Canada. He has attended the State University of Haiti where he studied Linguistic and a minor in Ethnology. He is a Poet-activist, a cultural Journalist, a playwright, and an actor. Dovilas, has participated, collaborated, and organized several cultural events; and often organized street performances to rein-act the history of his battered country, to create social activities, to educate and entertain. He is one of the Directors of the Haitian American Art Network, Inc., he is one of the founding members of the student association (CEM). Co-Founder and advisor of Parole En Archipel a daily online magazine publish in three languages. He is a member of the Aterlier Creation Marcel Gilbert of the Library Justin L Herisson, and Founder of the Societe des Poetes Creolophones. He is currently the host of “Focus” on Tele Anacaona. He has published seven books, three in Haitian Creole, three in French and one in English. His texts appeared in several newspapers and magazines in the Caribbean, specifically in Haiti and in Europe.
Frequencies compete
Bouncing in and out
Speaking over each other
by Michael Vander Does
Frequencies compete
Bouncing in and out
Speaking over each other.
From one direction comes a preacher
Exhorting
Telling me prayers are not answered overnight
You have to wait
And I wonder
What good is religion
If it only helps you wait
For the fullness of time.
And competing for air
Duke and Johnny Hodges
Are saying to me
Now
Listen to this sweetness now
And if this is what you want
You can have this sweetness now
And I pray for the preacher’s voice to fade.
###
Michael Vander Does writes for and performs with The Jazz Poetry Ensemble in Columbus, OH, where he lives with three cats and a garden. He has been published off and on for more than 30 years in places like The Croton Review, Negative Capability, Caf Noir, The Istanbul Literary Review, Connotations Press, and Tryst ( who nominated him for a Pushcart Prize). He has occasionally been recognized for his work, most recently as the Honored Community Artist by the Columbus Community Festival. For more information about Michael and The Jazz Poetry Ensemble, visit www.makejazznotwar.org.
think of warm baked bread
melting butter with crunchy crust
think of casseroles one after the other
by Jean Varda
think of warm baked bread
melting butter with crunchy crust
think of casseroles one after the other
coming out of the oven
deserts baking steamy with
berries peaches custard whipped cream
think of ice cream summer
how it cools down your mouth
coffee flavored chocolate chips
think of salad
chopping radishes cucumber carrots
crunch of romaine lettuce
adding chunks of cheese
smell of vinegar and oil
think of breakfast
scrambled eggs toast
hot tea jam home fries
morning sun warming the table cloth
breakfast served in cafes
think of romantic evenings
pasta and crunchy garlic bread
wine Parmesan cheese
###
Jean Varda’s poetry has appeared in: The California Quarterly, The Berkeley Poetry Review, Illya’s Honey, Daybreak, The Lucid Stone, Poetry Motel, The Santa Fe Sun, Rive Guache, Manzanita, Poetry & Prose of the Mother Lode & Sierra, Avocet A Journal of Nature Poetry and Nurturing Paws by Whispering Angel Books. She has published 5 chapbooks of poetry, most recently, Carved from Light and Shadow, by Sacred Feather Press. She teaches a poetry writing class. MC.d three open mics and hosted a poetry radio show on KVMR Nevada City,CA.
January afternoon after school
Grandmother sick at heart
by Amit Parmessur
January afternoon after school
Grandmother sick at heart
Rain splashing and ringing like
blood-stained bullets on ground
Grandmother’s blinking eye seeing doom
Her words to me
grass to a hungry lion
Grandfather, lately, just a
snowflake in her haggard hands!
To grow three oak trees in farthest desert
He once promised her
Countless grogs swinging in stomach
he slips
He yells
He flies
Down ravine
Neck gets broken in a drumstick tree
Now, whenever the rain falls, it hits the
sill like the coin he gave me
when I was about ten and quite dumb
###
Amit Parmessur lives with his black cat and two cute dogs nowadays. Since 2010, his poems have appeared in over a hundred literary magazines, like Ann Arbor Review, Salt, Hobo Camp Review and Red Fez. His book on blog Lord Shiva and other poems has also been published by The Camel Saloon. Born in 1983, he was nominated for the 2011 Pushcart Award and lives in Quatre-Bornes, Mauritius.
No taller than my knee
when you challenge
your first ocean.
by Carrie-Ann Tkaczyk
No taller than my knee
when you challenge
your first ocean.
Ankle deep, you strain your body
against my tight grip
throw head to sky
capture the ocean’s roar
into the cave of your mouth
Even when the waves spill into you
fill you with your first taste of salt
you do not bend from the task
of challenging your first ocean.
Today you turn your back to the same
tide, stretch and yawn, open wide
that same cave that had taken
in some primal catch
to tell me you haven’t eaten yet.
Watching you, I question
do you remember your first ocean?
###
I am a poet, novelist, and songwriter who sticks my finger in the vast world while keeping my little toe in sand. My writing has won Best Short Story at Third Goal, and is in ECS Nepal, The Bicycle Review, ABC-Clio, and Peace Corps’ Digital Library. My last project is based on my novel, Only Ghosts https://sites.google.com/site/seeonlyghosts/, and it has been performed in several venues around Portland. I am a founding member of the writers’ group, The Guttery (www.theguttery.com) and of the Eclectic Music Society. Some of my readings are featured at the Pacific Northwest College of Art’s Whitman Project, The Oregon Literary Review, Show and Tell Gallery, KBOO Radio’s Stage and Studio, and Love Outlives Us. Though I’ve lived in many places, these days I live with my ten-year-old daughter in Portland, Oregon where I teach high school students from around the world when I am not writing and performing.
by Cynthia Lewis-Jones
My genes are customized denim:
unique, a one-off design. The
Left leg is forty shades of green,
tough, durable, for roaming
in wild, damp places.
The right is practical, calm
as red-white-&-blue, sailing
the seas of maritime history
Yet black as ebony, vibrating
secrets of imperial angst
in shrouded sails of mystery.
Their victory,
Is the me I like to wear.
###
Born in Dublin, Ireland, in 1958, dragged up, as opposed to brought up, on two sides of the Irish sea, I then lived on the High Seas, and Waterways of Life, and am only now coming into berth, on the far western shores.
by John Steffen
Because of the moon
Wife and I got in a fight when
I dragged her outside to see the light tonight
Because of the moon
The light of night is not her interest, she said
And I am just a fool, by her insistence and spite
Because of the moon
The neighbor’s dog barked at me
I meander like a sheep lost in my own back yard
Because of the moon
Because of the moon
A brilliant light, a bitter wife
A barking dog, a sparkling night
Words written born out of light
Because of the moon
It’s her fault
###
John Steffen is a retired fundraiser and of late a student of fiction and poetry at the University of Mississippi in Oxford, Mississippi. Although unpublished save an article or two some decades ago, and a recent story on http://www.everywritersresource.com/shortstories/ he is now in the process of recreating himself for the 60th time with the dream of publishing a book of memoirs. Website Links: http://ofdogsandotherobservations.blogspot.com/\
by Morgan Rae Glazier
During a Sunday drive,
our mother stopped our white Dodge Spirit
at the base of the Harrisville hills.
She snatched a chisel and hammer,
from the Spirit’s storage,
and said, wait here girls.
For thirty minutes,
my sister and I
stared out the car window,
our mother carving her and her boyfriend’s
initials into a heart-shaped stump
on the side
of US-23 South.
This was the closest my mother
would come to prayer
###
Morgan Rae Glazier has a Bachelor of Science from Central Michigan University, and is currently pursuing an M.A. in Student Affairs. She writes poetry and non-fiction, and is quite fond of laughing out loud as often as possible.
by Eric Dittmar
How are you ever
Going to get out from under this?
It hunts with its nose
It is brave from lack of sleep
Onions, cantaloupe, red cabbage, moss
Don’t shop hungry
Don’t go to sleep mad
Now strut for the camera
Twitch if you please
Come around back now
Meowing, rambling, blasting a request
For mercy with an air horn
Pointing to an unspecified time and place
A leaflet addresses your problems
Your teeth retract and dissolve
You lose your ability to use language
There is nothing to be afraid of
by Sarah Gamutan
Superiors stuck in corridors, half blind to us
wee subservient women – true, weird. So, they
suck fries in their mouths and put some locks
on the door, as if they are hard to reach? Some
documents signed and all I see is crevice. Gag.
I always say no. Floors which are of the same
color are only cleaned by company’s old vacuum.
We are like slugs crawling on the floor of red carpet
which turns from puce to bloody red when we jester
like baby dinosaurs knocking on their doors and
grabbing their shirts named after our superhero.
We hope our boss doesn’t lose his normative
characteristics so he can still sign autographs
to us fanatics of his piggy swagger and smirk.
Fine. I want to include my daughter to our street
protest. At times, we need some man in the house.
###
Sarah Gamutan’s poems have been published in many online literary journals including Carty’s Poetry Journal, Western Australia Poets Inc., The Beat, Haggard and Halloo, The Camel Saloon, Rainbow Rose and The Sound of Poetry Review. She lives in Philippines where she works as a Customer Support Associate by night and a poet at heart by day.She aims to earn a degree in creative writing soon.
by Dawn Cunningham Luebke
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.
