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

Two Poems by Ken L. Jones

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.