Void

by Preethu P

Soon to collapse, the dirtied wall,
In every crack, cobwebs and all,
Oh! To clean, I shall need the key,
With which the last tenant did flee.

‘Twas a bright day, clouds away,
Fangs in his shadow pierced
my soul,had its hues sucked,
Till I, in some trance, lay.
He left at dusk, scared,
The pale remains, he had said,
Knew not how to love!

Remember when, over the new hearth,
You warm your palms, how
In the void between my fingers,
Its frozen pale shadows clutch,
Like death.

###

Preethu P lives in the capital city of Kerala, the most literate state in India. She did her masters in English Literature and also did a Postgraduate Diploma course in Journalism. She is working as ad hoc faculty in All Saints College, Trivandrum, Kerala. Her interests include creative writing and reading.

The Buoy at St. Margaret’s Hope

by J.R. West

All Gone! All Gone!
In the tide of what’s coming
The past wears its barnacled mess
Boats of solid purpose and condition
Sink here with dispassionate chorus.
All Gone! All Gone!
What memory the ocean must have
So few to escape, to walk upon it
Us amongst the savage of the tide
Never ending, or so we thought.
All Gone! All Gone!
What good is this bell buoy
When its words take hold?
Our ocean licking its lips
In the tide of what’s coming.

###

J.R. West is 30 years old, born and raised in rural Maine. Since graduating with an English degree and running the University of Utah’s undergraduate literary journal Enormous Rooms, he’s been employed as a technical writer for an infamous electronics company. His literary influences range from Naturalism to surrealism, existentialists, beat poets—especially Gary Snyder, and for good measure Yeats and Rumi. They’re all fighting it out upstairs.

Living in Austin, TX for the last 6 years, he’s learned that extreme summer heat is a writer’s best friend, and air conditioning the muse of this modern age and place. When he’s not traveling for outdoor pursuits, he’s writing poetry, technobabble, or chewing over the next great fantasy novel. He also loves to collaborate with other writers on comedy skits, screenplays, and writes the odd commissioned article on Austin’s music scene.

Autumn Window

by William Marr

Now that she is middle-aged, my wife
likes to stand before the window
and comb her hair

Her only makeup a trace of cloud
the landscape of a graceful
poised maturity

###

William Marr (Chinese pen name Fei Ma 非馬) has published 21 volumes of poetry ( Autumn Window and Between Heaven and Earth are in English and can be acquired on Amazon, the rest are in his native Chinese language), 2 books of essays and several books of translations. He is considered one of the world’s leading contemporary poets writing in Chinese. Hailed as one of the collectable Chicago poets in history, his English poems are also highly regarded. His poems are included in over one hundred anthologies, ranging from high school and college literary textbooks, to special collections, including 300 Best New Poems 1917-1995, published in Taiwan, and 300 Best Chinese New Poems, published in China. His poetry has been translated into more than ten languages. In addition to writing poetry, he has also engaged in translating Western modern poetry into Chinese and has edited several anthologies of Chinese and Taiwanese modern poetry. He is a former president of the Illinois State Poetry Society and has received numerous awards, including three from Taiwan for his poetry and translations.
A PhD recipient and a scientific researcher by profession, he has been in recent years pursuing other artistic interests including painting and sculpting and has held several solo as well as group exhibits in the U.S. and China. His Website, The Art World of William Marr (http://feima.yidian.org/) displays some of his literary and artistic works.

The Dog Whistle

by Grant Tarbard

There is no sound
beyond that smoke wafting through
the crutches of an old man,

for tears that are smoke
run easy, a stones throw from the artificial aortas
of a far off few, of melancholic ghosts

that shun the light for want of a far off place
under the stone grotto, conspiring under
the dominion of a witches tongue,

breathing dragon clinker cigarette plumes,
blue ether smoke that glides in under the door,
breaks in the cupboards singing sea shanties

contaminating the cheese and the coffee jar alike.
There is no sound beyond the present, beyond the charging
pulse, there is no sound beyond the dog whistle heart.
###

Grant Tarbard has worked as a journalist, a contributor to magazines, an editor, a reviewer and an interviewer. He is now the editor of The Screech Owl.
His work can be seen in such magazines as The Rialto, Ink, Sweat & Tears, Bone Orchard Poetry, BLAZE, The Journal, Southlight, Sarasvati, Earth Love, Mood Swing, Puff Puff Prose Poetry & Prose, Postcards Poetry and Prose, Playerist 2, Lake City Lights, The Open Mouse, Weyfarers, Miracle, Poetry Cornwall, I-70, South Florida Review, Stare’s Nest, Zymbol, Synchronized Chaos and Decanto.

Wet Leaves

by A. A. Manzoni

Wet leaves
glistening
on the pavement
in a late Autumn rain.
Shining shadows in the streetlight.
Bike tires rolling,
car tires speeding.
The road,
it seems
to be flooding.

The wind,
it is whipping,
howling and whispering.
It stings
the eyes
and blinds
those on the move.
An acute ocular stunning;
casting you ever
so close
to the wet leaves gathered
at the far side of the road.
Take heed
and don’t listen
too closely
to the wind.

The birds,
seagulls and ducks
and scavengers
are in flight adrift,
spinning 360s
in a desperate bid
for their tenuous control
of the air.
Trying not
to meet
the same ends as their friends
on the ground,
splattered roadkill
rotting in a final state
of obscure decay.
The birds might be better off
keeping to the air
for as long as they can.

Wet leaves
laying,
completely unfit
for praying
or any other
theological past-times.
They will be staying
until someone gets around
to raking the whole mess up.
The road,
it seems
to be clearing.

###
A. A. Manzoni is a 28 year old writer of poetry, horror and sci fi from Newfield, NJ. In Dec 2013 he finished his first book, an untitled short story collection entitled, “From NJ to Hell” and is working on a new novel as well as a book of poetry.

Not Ok Cupid

by Ivan Jenson

Let me be frank
though it might not
make much sense
but if Frankenstein
had his bride
and Dracula
scored with
bad teeth
and the Wolfman
was considered
a sexy beast
and you know
what they say
about Big Foot
then why do I have
to pay the Vincent Price
and slink around
ignored
like
a hyper Igor
on a Monster drink?
Please explain,
does a guy have to
get a hunchback
to get a dame?

Ivan Jenson is a fine artist, novelist and contemporary poet. His artwork was featured in Art in America, Art News, and Interview Magazine and has sold at auction at Christie’s. Ivan was commissioned by Absolut Vodka to make a painting titled “Absolut Jenson” for the brand’s national ad campaign. His Absolut paintings are in the collection of the Spiritmusuem, the museum of spirits in Stockholm, Sweden.  Jenson’s painting of the “Marlboro Man” was collected by the Philip Morris corporation. Ivan was commissioned to paint the final portrait of the late Malcolm Forbes.  Ivan has written two novels, Dead Artist and Seeing Soriah, both of which illustrate the creative and often dramatic lives of artists.  Jenson’s poetry is widely published (with over 450 poems published in the US, UK and Europe) in a variety of literary media. A book of Ivan Jenson’s poetry was recently published by Hen House Press titled Media Child and Other Poems, which can be acquired on Amazon. Two new novels by Ivan Jenson will be published hardcover and will be available for purchase at bookstores worldwide.  Ivan Jenson’s website is: www.IvanJenson.com

Dilemma

by Amitabh Vikram Dwivedi

I tread on a thin line
Like Adam’s choice

Between:
Passion and purity,
Gratification and deprival

And you like Eve’s
Ruminates on the desperate need:

Of sabotaging your chastity
And becoming a traitor
Of your virginity

We both are biologically conditioned
And tread on a thin line
Our actions predetermined and destined

To be one and we are lost each other
Is this the only way
To find oneself?

###

Amitabh Vikram Dwivedi is an assistant professor of linguistics in the School of Languages and Literature at Shri Mata Vaishno Devi University, India. His research interests include language documentation, writing descriptive grammars, and the preservation of rare and endangered languages in South Asia. He has contributed articles to many English journals.

His most recent books are A Grammar of Hadoti (Lincom Europa Academic Publications, 2012) and A Grammar of Bhadarwahi (Lincom Europa Academic Publications, 2013), and A Grammar of Dogri is forthcoming.

As a poet, he has published around fifty poems in different anthologies worldwide. Until recently, his poem “Mother” has included as a prologue to Motherhood and War: International
Perspectives (Eds.), Palgrave Macmillan Press. 2014.

In the beginning

by Jim Lawry

In the beginning G said let there be mathematics
And there was.
My gift to the universe and to you She said
But there are many secrets;
You will lift the curtain slowly and with great effort
Only over many eons
Will you discover them all.
But your rewards will be plentiful.
She created Pi and e and the square root of minus one.
And after her great labor she rested.

###

Jim Lawry was born in 1940, raised in San Francisco and educated at Stanford University in biology and at UCSF in medicine. After a full life of research, university teaching and caring for patients and helping folks learn how exciting doing science can be, he is now retired in Inverness California, where he continues his lifelong interests in playing cello, painting and writing plays and poetry. His first book of Poems Beyond the Breakwater, reflects Jim’s diverse interests. Jim learns daily how to endure life as it is and how he must let it shape herself according to her own laws.

Incognito

by Marjorie Sadin

It’s freezing here. After I do the wash,
I want to smoke a cigarette. But I don’t
smoke anymore.

I check books out of the library.
And don’t read them. I subscribe to Time magazine
and use the articles to light the fire.

I lost 40 pounds, date online.

I am shopping
for your profile.

When you find me,
I will make you cry.

###

Marjorie Sadin was born May 9, 1954, Mother’s Day. She has published many poems nationally including in The Barefoot Review, Emerge Literary Journal, The Little Magazine, Microw, Hamby Stern Publishing, Intima, and the Jewish Women’s Literary Annual. She has four books of poetry in print. Marjorie currently lives in the Washington DC area and she reads her poems locally. She works for the Library of Congress.