Friday, October 24, 2014

Four Poems by Alexis Child


Die for Me

Death comes to a man like a dream
But there are no real goodbyes
Only a hint of something mysterious inside
Dying a little death each and every time
Whisper my name and I will
know I am still alive
Exhale, inhale me in beyond just a memory
Promise me no more futures
No farewells, no painful goodbyes
Now die for me, my darling
The veil is worn thin
The night calls to us
under this anguished moon
Embrace heaven and hell
Where we both belong
Remember us as we were
Let us begin again
Toll the bell


Stay

The candle is my moonlight
Where hope has a key
The light shines in your smile
But fear is far-reaching
Drawing blank looks
vague as fog
Without love we are lost
Were you drawn across
the sky to save me
When loneliness is my lot?
I crawl to the past
that has battered me
Shadow enemies have
stolen the years
I do not have time
for the 12th of never
as you speak in many tongues
worshipping my silence


Symphony of Shadows

You are in every song
Long after the music is over
You've vanished like a melody
Now just a memory
Feels like years since
you've been here
and I can't move on
You've gone like the trailing
garments of a ghost
There are echoes and
whispers of you
The walls are closing in
here in the darkness:
The dying flame of existence
You'll be the only light I see
There is a symphony of
destruction
Are there no shadows
where you are?


The Blood Inside Me

The universe was in your eyes
where there was a world unborn
Your face was in every flower
You were an angel here on earth
where the sky opened up
whispering love's goodbye
I worship you with your ashes
There are man ways to heaven
I long to see my Father's face
again in your gaze
You are crowned as the sun
And the full moon will light my way
as you kiss the earth
and I am found





Alexis Child hails from Toronto, Canada; horror in its purest form:  a calculated crime both against the aspirations of the soul and affections of the heart.  She worked at a Call Crisis Center befriending demons of the mind that roam freely amongst her writings.  She lived with a Calico-cat child sleuthing all that went bump in the night & is haunted by the memory of her cat.  She is currently signed to Nostilevo Records.  Her fiction has been featured in The House of Pain, Lost Souls, Screams of Terror, SpecFicWorld.com, The Official Nephilim Site, and U.K.'s Dark of Night Magazine.  Her poetry has been featured in numerous online and print publications, including Black Petals, Blood Moon Rising, Estronomicon eZine, Death Head Grin, Midnight Lullabies Anthology, Sein und Werden, The Horror Zine, and elsewhere.  Her first collection of poetry, "Devil in the Clock" will be released in print in the future by Witchfinder Press.




Wednesday, October 22, 2014

A Poem by Stacy Lynn Mar


Hitchhiking to Maine

Sometimes the words
"goodbye"
Can drop, semi-syllables
Like small explosions
In an empty room.
A relationship can become
Mere arithmetic,
Subtracted then divided
Into a series of vocabulary,
Whispery-lyric in a dim-lit room,
Sunday crossword puzzle
Left undone,
Each empty square a sad eye,
Abandoned as the old backpack
He used to stuff
For three-day holidays
Meant only for me,
Then abandon in my laundry room
Like an unused dresser drawer.
I imagine him with it now,
Hitchhiker on a back country road
Throwing the withered army tote
Onto the back of classic Harley's
And vintage muscle cars,
Into the beds of hay-littered
Country pick-up trucks,
It's pull-strings clutched
Like a lifeline between
His nicotine-stained fingers,
Yellow as the palest stars,
Pale the way his eye-whites
Have darkened, his liver sick.
Sometimes lost love just leaves,
Walks into the cemetery fog of night,
Sad and poetic, smelling of
Cheap alcohol and bar grease,
A stranger in old sneakers
And bell-bottom blue jeans.





Stacy Lynn Mar is a 30-something American poet.  Inspired by the works of Sharon Olds and Anne Sexton, her work is primarily confessional.  She holds three graduate degrees in psychology and attended Lindsey Wilson College of Human Sciences as well as Ellis College of NYIT for a BA in English.  Shacy divides her time between her young daughter, her forays into writing, a genuine love of books, film, coffee, vintage things, and her life partner.  She is founder and masthead of a new literary ezine for women, Pink. Girl. Ink, and also has a book review blog.  She invites you to visit her personal blog  www.warningthestars.blogspot.com  



Monday, October 20, 2014

A Poem by Karen Berry


Disassembly Required

It was an unbuilding,
more deliberate than a demolition
a deconstruction accomplished over time
a plank-by-plank denuding
of our most basic structure
as patient, planned, and organized
as the original architecture.

Remember, this was a decision,
this prizing-out of driven nails,
this breaking away of all supports,
these careful taps to dislodge mortar
from every dusted brick.  Lifting the planks,
pulling down the ceiling, unhangin the doors,
the windows not shattered, but closed, latched,
then unshimmed, unsashed, uninstalled.
You did it all on purpose.

The house is down.  I hardly remember
what it looked like, standing.
It's been counted, divided, shared-out.
But now you stand between the stacks
with a list, gesturing here and there,
along among the beams and braces,
the shingles, fittings, screws and steps,
smiling your encouragement,
speaking words of salvage.




Karen Berry lives and works in Portland, Oregon.  Her poetry has been published in Goblin Fruit, Fireweed, Seek It, Prairie Poetry, and many more journals and anthologies.  Her poem "Ceres" was nominated for the Dwarf Star Poetry Prize, and her piece "Caught" was a runner-up in The Binnacle's ultra-short fiction competition.  Her first novel, Love and Mahem at Francie June Memorial Trailer Park, was published in June of 2014.



Saturday, October 18, 2014

Three Poems by A.J. Huffman



Hollows That Bleed

I draw a heart
across the page.
But it stays empty.
Nameless.
My love, it seems, is hollow.
Unfulfilled.
I try to force in letters
to make sense.
But they always come up:
DAMNED.
That’s me.
Past.
Present.
And future?
Probably.
Wipe the stage.
Try again.
This time I will go deeper.
Set this latest stain.
In blood.



Kamikaze

Shots fired over lines I never knew you set,
and me on a stool in their center.
I know this war.
I have lost it again and again.
If I breathe, if I move,
it is over.
I would prefer to just swallow
the shells.



Daily Mail

I am an addict, lying
naked in the gravel.  I am dying
for your words, for a word,
for a sign that I am
still in your thoughts
as I watch you lick
the stamp that will level me
faster than four tires.  I wait,
in a bag of unnecessity,
for the final page
to turn my breath
cold.




A.J. Huffman has published nine solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses.  She also has two new full-length poetry collections forthcoming: Another Blood Jet (Eldritch Press) and A Few Bullets Short of Home (mgv2>publishing).  She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and her poetry, fiction, haiku and photography have appeared in hundreds of 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 




Thursday, October 16, 2014

Two Poems by Margery Hauser


Silence

We lay together
I twined around you like ivy on oak.
Warm and dark
a soft blanket of silence
comforted and carried us
together into a single dream.

          Morning came
          dreams dissolved.
          Light shone in the space
          between you and my idea of you.

We faced each other
you a wall against which
I flung myself.
Silence cold and gray
froze and shattered
strewing the ground with
fractured passion.

          no I wish no I can't
          no I meant no I should
          no but you no you wouldn't
          no you didn't no you never

          Shards of us pierced my soul
          desire catalyzed memory
          memory blurred and grew
          soft at the edges.

I sit alone in silence.
Our last words hang
in the empty air.
I breathe them in
like toxic fog
and my heart
implodes.



You said you were an open book

but you were written in a language
I could not decipher.

I did not know the grammar to translate your soul
parse the syntax of your heart.

Lost in a maze of modifiers
and descriptives,
confused by indecipherable
diacritical marks,
cryptic conjugations and declensions,

we spoke at
not with each other
ashamed to admit
we'd failed to understand --
each believing the failure
was ours alone.



Margery Hauser is a New York City poet whose work has appeared in Point Mass, Poetica Magazine, Umbrella, The Jewish Women's Literary Annual, Mobius, and other journals, both print and online.  She is the author of Fairyland Mail (NoNet Press, 2013) and a member of the Parkside Poets Collective.



Wednesday, October 15, 2014

Three Poems by Cristine A. Gruber


Within an Empty Email

Reading the ill-timed
message yet again,
I brush my thumb
across the screen,
feeling
the derision
in your words
through the pores
of my skin.
My written
response
is logical
and sound,
meticulously
worded
to further
bury the pain.
In the final
moments
before sleep claims
the remains of the day,
I swear
I can hear God laughing
at the futility of the human spirit.



Omission

This moment as I think of the declaration
from that safe place we both harbor,
I know where the importance lies.

From the scaffolding of a bridge
built over a constantly changing landscape,
I weigh the consequences of such a pronouncement,
such an all-encompassing oversight of being.

I'm caught in the wake of the changing tide,
the weight of the decision pressing down on my chest,
with mere moments to respire before surfacing
to a made-to-scale model of life.

Re-attaching as with pre-cut puzzle pieces,
essentials are fitted back together,
precisely, and yet so precariously.



Split

The headboard
has a crack in it, five inches
from the top, nine inches across.

I've no idea
how it happened, nor
any clue how long it's been there.

When the movers
arrive to pack up the house,
one of them notices the fissure

in the marital bed,
asking how long it's
been damaged in that way.

Presumptuous,
I'd say, though I'm
sure he means no harm.

I shrug
and say I've no idea
when the split first occurred,

but it's
clearly grown
to unbearable dimensions.

I pack the rest
of my things, then call
the Salvation Army to pick up the bed.



Cristine A. Gruber has had worked featured in numerous magazines, including:  North American Review, Writer's Digest, Writers' Journal, Ascent Aspirations, California Quarterly, Dead Snakes Online Journal, The Endicott Review, Garbanzo Literary Journal, The Homestead Review, Iodine Poetry Journal, Kind of a Hurricane Press:  Something's Brewing Anthology, Miller's Pond Poetry Magazine, The Penwood Review, Poem, Thema, The Tule Review, and Westward Quarterly.  Her first full-length collection of poetry, Lifeline, was released by Infinity Publishing and is available from Amazon.com

Monday, October 13, 2014

Three Poems by J.J. Campbell


dripping from your lips

whispering sweet
nothings to sleeping
angels on a lonely
saturday night

it must be years now
that i have chased
after this ghost
called love

a myth

a story told by
the elders

yet i can close my
eyes and see it
dripping from
your lips

and how i long for
those to be placed
right in the middle
of my soul

longing isn't the
right word anymore

this kind of desperation
usually ends up with
terms used by the police



the same lucky stars

wish upon the
same lucky stars
you saw the first
time you looked
in her eyes

somewhere
a wise man is
laughing about
the most beautiful
dream and the
nightmares that
followed

i haven't been
in love in so
long that i truly
don't know
what to do

in a sense, i
am freed from
those restrictions

although, it's
rather hard to
convince a cynic
that his next step
won't be into a
fresh pile of shit



dance in the glory

press your voodoo
lips upon my bloody
tears underneath the
last full moon either
one of us will ever
get to see

may we close our
eyes and dance in
the glory of the
drugs that brought
us here

acid rain dripping
off of the leaves
that refuse to change colors

my nightmares
are the only things
that ever have a
chance of coming
true

i catch the sparkle
of fading stars in
the corner of your
eye

this must be the
hell my mother
warned me about



J.J. Campbell (1976-?) lives and writes on a farm in Ohio.  He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Dead Snakes, The Camel Saloon, Pink Litter, Jellyfish Whispers, and Fuck Art, Let's Dance. His most recent book, Sofisticated White Trash (Interior Noise Press) is available wherever you happen to buy books these days.  You can find him most days on his highly entertaining blog, evil delights (evildelights.blogspot.com)