Sunday, August 17, 2014

A Poem by Theresa A. Cancro

Glower Scrapings

Your malcontent mixes
with ennui in the morning, just
watch it cast mortal slices among
minced words until we fall
into the basin under the sink,
bits of shaved lead, sexy-less
yet still druzy, sparks beneath
flannel, loose and shifty.

Shall we break the edges
of that wilted rose, never notice
where its soft petals land,
slink away while walls crumble
around us as a moth slips
off chipped piano keys, those
dirty teeth grinning at
our final demise?

Theresa A. Cancro (Wilmington, Delaware) writes poetry and fiction.  Many of her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in print and online publications, including Jellyfish Whispers, Pyrokinection, Kind of a Hurricane Press anthologies, Dead Snakes, Kumquat Poetry, Leaves of Ink, The Artistic Muse, A Hundred Gourds, Cattails, Shamrock Haiku Journal, Chrysanthemum, and tinywords, among others.

Friday, August 15, 2014

Aire for Cathy Mc

She was the loveliest shamrock in all of March
And will be as long as the pot is on the boil
China blue was her beauty
And her wonder graceful like a fiddle that
Had no name but the sugar of candy
And only three daylight wishes were her ransom
As she took from me all that she desired
Then left me like a ransacked beehive
A Spanish gallon shipwrecked on the coast of Ireland

All That Has Been Left Unsaid

I wait for sleep to cloud my sight
I seek oblivion in the night
Oh but then the morning comes
And when the wind warms cross my neck
I think in leaping hearted joy
That it is your perfumed breath
But then the realization comes upon me
Like a fishbone caught up in my throat
That I am alone in this ocean of men
A floating bottle without a note
Inside of it to explain myself
Or give a reason why
The city should not devour me whole
Why I should live when thousands die
And in the suicide of wind chimes
I remember looking into your eyes
Like flowing neon reflecting off of a
Brand new sports car's highly waxed hide
And all of this is monstrous to me now
A torn photograph whose negative long ago died
And so is our history chipping apart
One tiny piece at a time
Until all that I can recall
Is your smooth belly
Covered in sandy wine
Your hand clutching a giant
Chunk of sea ravaged coral
And you wore nothing more than that
And god have mercy were you adorable
My face has been ripped off from my head
But still I shamble through my unnatural routes
Refusing to go away like a bad disco tune
Or spent radioactive rods
In the debris of a shadowed moon
Once we obtained a passport of light
From a distant star
But unlike God who finger-paints
With volcanoes deserts and veldts
We only used it to fade out into gossamer threads
Heavy with the aroma of a single kiss
We were too busy tapping into
The primal instincts of a puppet show
That collapsed like a paper lantern
Infected with anthrax when touched by us
Not so very long ago

Ken L. Jones has written everything from Donald Duck comic books to dialogue for the Freddy Krueger movies for the past thirty plus years.  In the last three years he has gained great notice for his vast publication of horro poetry which has appeared in many anthology books, blogs, magazines and websites and especially in his first solo book of poetry Bad Harvest and Other Poems.  He is also publishing recently in the many fine anthology poetry books that Kind of a Hurricane Press is putting out.

Wednesday, July 16, 2014

A Poem by Tejan Green Waszak

Distant Dreamers

This bridge crumbles behind me
as I race swiftly to the other side
No time to look back
though in my haste
I dare
to look down at the water
and imagine
a more
honorable battle
ending in the belly of a mammal
whose respect I’ve gained
for my tireless effort
though tragically
this will
in the body
of one with more might
may have a different
I am no match for you
In this complicated game
there is no end
and you are receding
Further and further
some force pushes you out
into the dark
night on night skin
the air
salty suffocation
Mouth agape
requesting answers
there are none
You never dare ask
rejection is looming
You are slipping away
In the silence
your face shines brilliantly
for a moment
there is pleasure
a chance
to study you
In another city we could be strangers
we are innocent
Your noble face
could go quite far
in another place
Tejan Green Waszak is a New York based writer, educator and doctoral student. She received an MFA in Creative  Writing from Long Island University and a BA in Journalism from Hunter College. She can often be found consulting with writers about their work in the writing center of Columbia University.

Monday, July 14, 2014

A Poem by Catherine Weiss

I used to love the tides,
The taste of chilled salt air,
And the granite boulders scattered along the shoreline
Like dice cast in a glacial game of craps.
But there came a morning when
I looked for the ocean and I saw nothing but
Miles of seaweed shining in the sun,
I picked my way down the slope past the low tide mark
Where I swam the week before,
Now stepping carefully rock to rock.
A mackerel flapped at my feet,
The smacking sound too loud.
I stood with the fish
Until it was still.
“You disgust me,”
He said on the last night we spent together.
I sat on the floor and did not cry.
Later, the apology swooped in like a vaudeville hook,
But true things linger.
Tectonic plates drag apart
So slowly.
Solid rock splits unnoticed until
Continents are separated by an ocean
So vast the far coast is
The sun was hot and
The fish was dead.
Pebbles and silt underfoot
Warm and sharp,
Black grit between my toes.
I could hear the armored legs of a crab
Tottering towards the trench ahead.
It disappeared over the edge
And I followed.
Climbing down the cliffside,
Hand over hand,
The wall slick,
Damp algae underneath my fingernails.
The abyss was drained of sea-water and
The fall, when it came, was infinite.
Catherine Weiss is a poet and author living in Northampton, MA.  In her spare time she enjoys ping pong, monopoly, and audiobooks.  Her website with more info can be found at

Saturday, June 28, 2014

A Poem by JD DeHart

the danger of elevating others,
the angel now painfully
visible and laden with error,
the high place creating only
the possibility of fall,
shatter, damage,
now a porcelain figure
lies on the floor, cracked
and suffering, and I am no doctor
nor priest, uncertain of what to do.
JD DeHart is a writer and teacher.  His writing has appeared in Eye On Life Magazine and The Commonline Journal, among other publications.

Monday, June 23, 2014

Two Poems by Ken L. Jones

The Minotaur In The Dime Store

My thoughts they are a puppet show
Where sour apple paper dolls
Act out candlestick lit bedtime stories
As ashen as Emily Dickenson’s
Purple shadow songs
And in the sweet, sweet lilac
Of my afternoon nap
Where tumbleweeds like spinning wheels
Perform a rusted symphony
As I dream of the silver dust of your kiss
Now an apparition in the mist
A warm whisper of indigo
Because though we still live together
You left me long ago.

A Still Life

On this prize overcast almost raining morning in May
My papier-mâché heart breaks with sympathy
For the steam driven merry-go-round
Of our landscaped courtyard of nights and hours
Where in a vineyard that we planted long ago
But have lately let grow fallow
We bicker like beasts in a menagerie
About topics whose dim corridors appear endless
And when we are done for the day
And unspeaking and in separate rooms
All seems like hallucinations I cannot remember
In this my garden of quiet sadness 
Where I attempt somehow to live through all of this
While I paint what well maybe my last canvas

Ken L. Jones has written everything from Donald Duck comic books to dialogue for the Freddy Krueger movies for the past thirty plus years.  In the last three years he has gained great notice for his vast publication of horror poetry which has appeared in many anthology books, blogs, magazines and websites and especially in his first solo book of poetry Bad Harvest and Other Poems.  He is also publishing recently in the many fine anthology poetry books that Kind of A Hurricane Press is putting out.

Wednesday, June 18, 2014

A Poem by Amy Barry

Tomorrow Maybe Love
With long, powerful movements,
she covers one yard after another,
swimming the breaststroke,
raises her head above the
surface, draws air, then
lowers it back down.
Weightless, timeless in the water,
alone in the swimming pool,
thoughts of him haunt,
murmur and whisper.
Uncertainty plagues,
like a toothache.
Amy Barry writes poems and short stories. Her poems have been published in anthologies, journals, and e-zines, in Ireland and abroad. Her poems have been read and shared over the radio in Australia, Canada and Ireland. She loves traveling. Trips to India, Nepal, China, Bali, Paris, Berlin have all inspired her work. When not inspired she plays Table Tennis.