Tuesday, March 3, 2015

A Poem by Marianne Szlyk

Wendy used to think that November was the safest month.
The evenings came early.  Mornings came late.
She rose in the dark, worked, and returned home.
The holidays lay ahead with their foods and feuds,
a banquet of mixed emotions, acid greens
staining the blue and white tinsel d├ęcor.
But in Novembers past, she could not imagine extreme weather:
neither summer’s hands around her throat, knees on her chest
nor winter’s treachery tripping her up at every turn.

She imagined a calm life with the one she loved.
They stayed in together.  Apart,
they were planets, their orbits rarely meeting.

Yet everything ends when it ends. 
Love is not the lease on an apartment.
A heart will stop alone.
This November, Wendy stands at her attic window,
looking out at the newly leafless trees, the empty street,
the cold sun, the full clouds, the short day.
Watching for what will come, willing her feelings to go,
she stands, a sharpened face in the muted month
that nonetheless, for her, promises sorrow.

Marianne Szlyk  recently published her first chapbook, Listening to Electric Cambodia, Looking Up at Trees of Heaven, at Kind of a Hurricane Press:  http://barometricpressures.blogspot.com/2014/10/listening-to-electric-cambodia-looking.html. Her poem "Walking Past Mt. Calvary Cemetery in Winter" has been nominated for the 2014 Best of the Net.  She also edits a poetry blog-zine at http://thesongis.blogspot.com/  and hopes that you will consider submitting a poem there.

Sunday, March 1, 2015

Two Poems by A.J. Huffman

Welcomed.  But Scarcely Belonging.

Not even the day-stars
can understand
my insecurity.
They are still burning.
But still alive.
I am nowhere.
In light
and dark.
I am undefined.
And you are unconcerned.
As long as your fingers
can still reach

through me.

No Room for Shattered Mouths

Even your silence commands
my attention.
Actually focuses it.
Like a bow.
Pulled too tight.
Too quickly.
I cannot breathe.
But that is not a trick.
Not your trick, at least.
You are too complete
                                  ly full
of this not quite death.
I touch you.
Your eyes are cold.
But sharp.
They cut me.
To teach me.

My screams
have fallen.
To me.

A.J. Huffman has published eleven solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses.  Her new poetry collection, Another Blood Jet, is not available from Eldritch Press.  She has two more poetry collections forthcoming:  A Few Bullets Short of Home, from mgv2>publishing and Degeneration, from Pink. Girl. Ink.  She is a Multiple Pushcart Prize nominee, and has published over 2100 poems in various national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, Bone Orchard, EgoPHobia, and Kritya.  She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press.  www.kindofahurricanepress.com

Saturday, February 28, 2015

The Results for the 2014 Editor's Choice Contest are in!!!

And the Winner is . . .

Scavenger Hunt by Donna Barkman

2nd place goes to . . .

Visitation Tuesday by Denise Weuve

3rd place goes to . . .

Mathematics by Christopher Hivner

This year we had three Honorable Mentions.  They are . . .

The Traffic in Old Ladies by Mary Newell
this small rain by Alexis Rhone Fancher
Signs of the Apolcalypse by Terri Simon

To read the winning poems and to see the complete list of finalists go to Kind of a Hurricane's Editor's Choice Contest Site:  http://editorschoiceaward.blogspot.com/ 

Friday, February 27, 2015

A Poem by Sy Roth

Lost is a Curve Beyond

Orange strips of cirrus,
Wispy thinning hair scrims
A hazy background shroud on their stage.

A no-exit street
Dead end of morning ablutions
Where late summer winds are stilled
And ground heat dissipates
Cooled by their snail-like terpsichorean sashaying,
Butterfly shutters in their world.

She holds his Member's Only jacket
Slung over her arm.
His pant legs curled four times
To reveal whitish-yellow skin
On hairless legs.
And she watches him, two steps behind
In the hush of the morning
An oranged halo of her white hair,
Runes above her.

Her passage, whistling soft,
A fleeting tranquility of a morn
In a dead end Ending.

A lamppost offers him a plie greeting
And he bends interminably to her comic opera
Until buttocks want to rest on his heels
But refuse the invitation.
And as interminably, he rises
Genuflects to the morn
And motions her to move on with him.

Beyond the gate
On the other side,
He achingly dawdles in a decades march
To save his day, and
She follows behind
Member's Only jacket
Swings awkwardly in their silence.

The cirrus clouds
Are blown into cumulus marshmallows
And the hushed street
Loses them in curve beyond.

Sy Roth comes riding in and then canters out.  Oftentimes, head is bowed by reality; other times, he proud to have said something noteworthy.  Retired after forty-two years as teacher/school administrator, he now resides in Mount Sinai, far from Moses and the tablets.  This has led him to find words for solace.  He spends his time writing and playing his guitar.  He has published in Visceral Uterus, Amulet, BlogNostics, Every Day Poets, Barefoot Review, Haggard and Halloo, Misfits Miscellany, Larks Fiction Magazine, Danse Macabre, Bitchin' Kitsch, Bong is Bard, Humber Pie, Poetry Super Highway, Penwood Review, Masque Publications, Foliate Oak, Miller's Pond Poetry, The Artistic Muse, Word Riot, Samizdat Literary Journal, Right Hand Pointing, The Screech Owl, Epiphany, Red Poppy Review, Big River, Poehemians, Nostrovia Poetry's Milk and Honey, Siren, Palimpset, Dead Snakes, Euphemism, Humanimalz Literary Journal, Ascent Aspirations, Fowl Feathered Review, Vayavya, Wilderness House Journal, Aberration Labyrinth, Mind[less] Muse, Em Dash and Kerouac's Dog.

Wednesday, February 25, 2015

Two Poems by Ken L. Jones

A Road Map Made of Fish Hooks

A litany of black-eyed Susan's
Bound in Moroccan began to bloom
Odd little summer had begun at last
After a winter that was a start stop feast
Until my cerebral cortex became a bass fiddle
Which as someone bowed it gave me very little peace
And all that ever saved me were her lips
Which were like an old Ernest Hemingway novel
As they opened like a flower
And drained me of my pride and power.

Canned Orange Slices and Yellow Eight-Track Leaves

Her voice is now nothing but a bit of trivia to me
As I listen to the ocean waves forget their words
While I wait for the melodies of approaching sleep
As darkness falls with all the poetry of Buddy Holly
And I go gentle into the cornfields once again
Where seeds and quartz grin like a painting of the reefs
Of my hotel room where after all these decades
I forgive the darkness of her angelic face.

For the past thirty-five years Ken L. Jones has been a professionally published author who has done everything from writing Donald Duck Comic books to creating things for Freddy Krueger to say in some of his movies.  In the last six years he has concentrated on his lifelong ambition of becoming a published poet and he has published widely in all genres of that discipline in books, online, in chapbooks and in several solo collections of poetry.  

Monday, February 23, 2015

A Poem by Scott Thomas Outlar

Some Aren’t Poisonous
This was the station where she left us,
orbiting now somewhere in the parallel,
gone adrift in search of nothing
in that pretty little head of hers.
But we all knew it wouldn’t last forever
so cancel your charges down to the last consumer.
Not open on Sundays in this dried out husk of a town.
A bounty has been placed on the head of three men;
five cents, ten cents, maybe a quarter-
If you drag them home alive
If you don’t damage all that’s left
Before and After pictures shake the leaves
during a Dirty Autumn Amber Breeze,
casting dust away in smog-filled proportions.
Hasn’t been cleared up just yet.
Hasn’t been made right by now
so it probably never will be.
Basking in tomorrows that never come-
just another today, one by one.
Repetitiously chasing home your rhythm
as the drum beats faster in my tick tock visions.
Hearts explode in critical mass, organs produce a festering plague;
it doesn’t have to be that way;
it never was supposed to cave.
Stalactite cavernous regions of death,
buried deep in her sacred sarcophagus,
are still praying to the sun or Sol;
still prompting the players to join in the ancient festivities;
still moving the pawns with the piper;
still confusing the snake with the viper.
Scott Thomas Outlar lives as simply as possible, spending his days sleeping, eating, reading, researching, taking meditative walks, gazing at stars, pondering existential quandaries, listening to music, drinking copious amounts of wine, and writing prose-fusion poetry dedicated to the Phoenix Generation.  His work has appeared in various venues via magazines, journals and websites, including Dissident Voice, Dead Snakes, Jellyfish Whispers, The Kitchen Poet, Aphelion, Strike-the-Root, and Ascent Aspirations.  Scott can be reached at 17Numa@gmail.com.

Wednesday, February 18, 2015

Two Poems by Stefanie Bennett


     "Everybody knows that the dice are loaded,
     Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed"

                                   -- L. Cohen & S. Robinson

He said, 'I lend you love'
Which meant - "Lease," -
The aftertaste
Of lips
On spent tourmaline.

The attache of indifference
Doesn't come
To terms
With chancery -
Doesn't see
The meteor fall

Or how she aggregates
The delicate
Architecture of a leaf . . .

The Numbers

It wasn't perfect, we did not
Go down
In flames
Or fly
The cerebral kite
On shores
Less foreign.

Drifting, interfused
With twists
Of fallibility,
And Gitanes
Tasting like
Corn syrup - we

Read Ferlinghetti's
City Lights,
The last bus
To 'specifics'
That didn't add up

And an end that
Never was.

Stefanie Bennett has published eighteen books of poetry and poems online; Boston Poetry, The New Verse News, Poetry24, and others.  Of mixed ancestry (Italian/Irish/Paugussett-Shawnee) she was born in Townsville, Qld, Australia in 1945.  Stafanie's new poetry title "The Vanishing" is due at year's end from Walleah Press.