Forty years older than I,
Charles, in his tweed cap, stands starched
in gray chino and blue chambray.
For more than a year his broad tie
has let the same iridescent duck
fly against a vermillion sky.
Like a Vatican Guard
he oversees the parking lot
I cut through each morning
far corner to far corner
as I cleave two triangles of cars
parked in my wake.
I ask him one morning,
Charles, do you mind
when I cut through your lot
Not at all, sir, says Charles
as he stares straight ahead
and starts the windmill
of his good arm to lead
the pearl Hummer
now pulling in.
###
Donal Mahoney has worked as an editor for The Chicago Sun-Times, Loyola University Press and Washington University in St. Louis. He has had poems published in The Wisconsin Review, The Kansas Quarterly, The South Carolina Review, Commonweal, The Christian Science Monitor and other publications.
So shall I rain down kisses
Upon you tracing the sweet cascading
Line of your throat’s curving
Water flowing towards all the
Yet to be discovered places
My mind travels looking at you
Eyes sliding away from imagining
Through the half shadows
From which you are emerging
The old fear shoots
To the surface
My face barely covers it
I cast down my eyes
Folding them tight
Over vibrating vulnerabilities
That threaten to shatter the bland fa’ade
My pulse races, my heart thunders
As I shift into passionate explorations
Raising the stakes
Always the gambler.
###
Cassandra Langer, is a poet and artist living in Jackson Height, New York.
a lovely girl brings home her puppet
boyfriend
and plays with him
the tall convex space appears turquoise
draws a sinuous line
sensual on the perimeter
steeped in the events of others
is the profile of a sea wave
villain of the most beautiful seawater
ensures the persistence of blue
the opposite of darkness is spreading
slowly
the wave breaks regular
long
smooth
has a changing effect
hands out colours
the night owns the future
forgives the guilt
multiplies the fixed and reflected light
surrounds the vaporous game
unties a curtain
after dark
you look and measure the content
of mirrors
the anxiety of angels goes on stage
they have memory
remind all
the vibrations are perpendicular
penetrate the skin
a mass of water rises and falls
is female
able to overwhelm the spectator
with the honesty of her sins
under a dim light
so as not to be seen
so you do not see the others
there is a glare
vision is complex
a comely light
double
the volume of the music is consumed
a ruby-throated hummingbird flies free
growing soft folds follow the trend
the long radius
the imagination to reach
the underside of the tables
steel and water
deposit the gray and blue
in the depths of the deepest eyes
wooden puppet head is sitting
on himself
his face is opalescent
flattered
inspired by a happy melodrama
built on the water
###
Alessandro Cusimano was born in Palermo, Italy, on July 2, 1967. He lives in Rome, where he is writer, poet, playwright. Anarchist and visionary, painful and surreal, his works reflect on anxiety, crush conventions and illusions, proclaiming, with a barrage of words, that life is, by its nature, a scandal. Appeared recently on the international literary stage, some of his writings have been published by The Cynic Online Magazine, Decanto Magazine, The Recusant, FOLLY Magazine, Exercise Bowler, Streetcake Magazine, Bewildering Stories, Numinous Magazine, Deadman’s Tome, RED OCHRE Lit, Orion’s Child Magazine and Black Cat Poems.
Bare necks blushed and sweat soaked my bra,
Matt smoothed is hair, again,
Wanda Morrow Clevenger
Complimentary Cocktails
by Wanda Morrow Clevenger
Bare necks blushed and sweat soaked my bra,
Matt smoothed his hair, again,
Linda was upset the courthouse flag was tattered,
Charity concerned we hadn’t flags to hold; I half-expected
she might pluck a 25 one lining the street.
We came outside too early, squinting and fidgeting,
as ten minutes dragged into twenty before traffic ebbed
unnoticed, then noticed, and all heads swung north
like a row of tipped dominoes.
Our two-block straggly string sprang to attention, toed the curb,
the low rumble of motorcycles rounded the four-way
and rolled past slow enough to feel each angel’s fall; I bit my lip.
A silver-gray hearse snailed forward and my mind exited
wondering when gray became the new black ride to eternity, and
I knew at my time I wanted to snail the streets of Carlinville
in a kid-glove-gray wagon, serve mini crab cakes and tempura sushi after,
provide complimentary cocktails.
Two police cruisers followed red blue red blue in that way they do
and I was back on the curb, teary family cars bringing up the rear;
fresh from the same sermon suffered every time a soldier dies.
###
Wanda Morrow Clevenger lives in Hettick, IL. One hundred thirty-five pieces of her work appear or are forthcoming in online and print publications (yes, she keeps count). Her debut book This Same Small Town in Each of Us, a collection of this and that and some poetry, released on October 30, 2011. Links to published work as well as new stuff hang out on her blog It’s All Just Telling Tales Out of School: http://wlc-wlcblog.blogspot.com/
The wind bent the trees and turned the rain into a water wall.
The hail fell as if God had just emptied his ice tray.
The thunder roared like a grizzly in the sky.
The lightning flashed sharp shards of knife-like light.
It seems that summer saved the best one for last.
###
Brian Lawson lives in Windsor, Virginia. He is a 2010 graduate of Old Dominion University with a Bachelor’s degree in English. He has self-published 2 books of poetry entitled: Contemplations of Essence: Poems and Haikus and The Turning year. Both collections appeared in 2010. Lawson also writes blogs on Hubpages.com mostly about WWE wrestling. He is working on 2 novels and various short stories.
Solitude arrived today
on the color white.
It blew in
at a diagonal
with swirls of wind
and achieved its blanket result
before early night covered the gray.
###
Lori Lipsky lives in Waunakee, WI with her husband and their daughter. She blogs at Visits and Verse: http://visitsandverse.com/ and Twitters @LoriSLipsky. Her poetry has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Penwood Review, Pegasus Review, Red Poppy Review, Bolts of Silk and a Handful of Stones.
You do not know her, not really
Nor do I, neither did the men
Who took her and did whatever
Bestial strangers do to fleshy things
One sneaker found at the edge
Of the small, once-safe town
Two pitiless killers guzzling a beer
Somewhere in western North Dakota
Local authorities will do the Christian things
Permitted underneath the Big Sky
And many of the private militia guys
Will wonder why she went out unarmed
###
Tim Dyson is a retired corp HR pro, living in SE Pa. with beautiful spouse of thirty years, many poems published over last few months including two nominated for 2011 Pushcart.
how did it taste
that apple in the garden
imagine two lovers
sitting gently together
enjoying their blasphemous fruits
gazing fondly at each-other
mouths full
eyes leering lustful
waiting for who to arrive
###
My name is Richard Mendelson, I’m 23 years old and currently reside in West Hartford, CT.
“Lone Doorway” by R Edwards, Click to buy this piece, support our site.
HAI!
by: Susan Elliott
Evenings here, Konichiwa!
The gajin came to town.
Itadakimasu opens.
Serving ocha all around.
Itame holds in his hand
suribachi, surikogi.
While geta waits till orders up,
Una-don, norimaki, ebi.
Omakase for best friends
tazuna rolls, sashimi.
Futomaki won’t be enough
the gajin still are hungry.
Yum, Yum, so good hai
Okonomi, ocha more
Domo arigato,domo.
Gochiso-sama, sure!
###
Susan Elliott is a poet and fiction writer. Her works have been published in Visions, Poesia, and Christian Woman Magazine. She operates Susan’s Poetic Blogosphere and recently published her first two collections of poetry, “Wandering Through a Barely Functional Mind,” and “Inkblots on Paper.” Susan enjoys participating in poetry lectures and giving public readings.
Around the lame-lit fogginess
Dark figures are swimming
They have the heads
Eyes too
Lips and nose intact as well
But faces from their beings are missing.
Their bodies are jumbling into each other
Changing identities perversely
As if floating in oblivion;
So close
As dead fishes in an rotten equarium
Piles of piles, pliant , lumpish
And their identities
Like the nasty bubbles that
on the surfaces
Get completely lost.
###
Born at Moradabad (UP)and educated at Banaras Hindu University ,Varanasi in disciplines of Politics and Management; obtained Doctorate on Globalisation and its Impact on sovereignty of India. Writes in English and Hindi.Poems and articles published in various Magazines and Periodicals.
A Patriarchally Deteriorating Company Versus “Don’t Go Policy”
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.
Today the ghost of me attended
My own exhibition at the Tate Modern.
All those paintings on display,
The ones that I laboured over for so long.
The sickening part was the merchandise.
Coffee mugs, calendars, prints, clocks
all with either me or one of my paintings thereupon.
Somebody’s making a pretty packet
and during my lifetime, I was as poor as a church mouse,
living hand to mouth.
At least I have achieved a form of immortality.
I hang on many walls.
Nobody ever seems to bear in mind,
the price I paid during my lifetime;
my nerves of steel
my shattered spine.
###
Laura Solomon has an honours degree in English Literature (Victoria University, 1997) and a Masters degree in Computer Science ( University of London , 2003). Her books include Black Light, Nothing Lasting, Alternative Medicine, An Imitation of Life, Instant Messages, The Theory of Networks, Operating Systems, Hilary and David, In Vitro and The Shingle Bar Taniwha and Other Stories. She has won prizes in Bridport, Edwin Morgan, Ware Poets, Willesden Herald, Mere Literary Festival, Proverse Hong Kong and Essex Poetry Festival competitions and was short-listed for the Virginia Prize. She has had work accepted in the Edinburgh Review and Wasafiri (UK), Takahe and Landfall (NZ).
Roll the metal sculptures out;
Shake out their gnarled limbs;
Loosen their terrible torsos;
Let the air be filled with horrible clankings;
Let it grow rank with sulphur smells
And be splattered with blue bruises and yellow flames.
True they scare the children,
But the tortured faces are necessary I’m afraid
And digestible if spied from the laced shadows
Under the trees of a bright afternoon.
Unfold your hand dear one
And you will find in it the curled nature of all beginnings,
Pink and shy,
Longing, perhaps, for the absence of light.
The boy’s copper hair is like a mist covered sun,
Such a bold red to be exhibited before these consuming engines.
Keep him back here, behind us,
Where his eyes, round as moons,
Can examine the grass and bits of stick, his playthings.
Ours are gone now,
But this boy, see how grave he is, see his pale, shining skin.
No human heart can resist him,
None can avoid becoming victims of his loveliness, his beauty.
###
I live in Winnipeg, Manitoba in the same house I have been living in for thirty years. I am married with grown children. I paint and write short stories as well as write poetry.
