tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27701089746606339892024-03-17T20:02:49.749-07:00Napalm And NovocainA.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.comBlogger318125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770108974660633989.post-9725118266747382072016-12-01T10:05:00.001-08:002016-12-01T10:05:21.811-08:00<br />
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<b><i>Due to personal issues this project and all others associated with Kind of a Hurricane Press are closed indefinitely. All work that has already been published will remain live on the site. All work that was accepted but has not been published is now released back to the author. All print copies and issues will remain available through their current sales channels.</i></b></div>
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A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com52tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770108974660633989.post-59925459244655810762016-07-29T12:39:00.001-07:002016-07-29T12:39:57.753-07:00A Poem by Alan Walowitz<br />
<b><i>Endings Set Us Free</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
Call All County Vacuum<br />
and they bring the big green truck<br />
to clean up most everything--<br />
fire, flood, petroleum spills--<br />
but not this botched goodbye,<br />
messy enough to qualify for special rates,<br />
and oddly without the usual junk and detritus<br />
that by rights we ought to be able to call on<br />
to salve each I've-been-wronged,<br />
or to look back on fondly one day<br />
with a heartfelt but quizzical, why did I care?<br />
as it's swept out with the old year's dust.<br />
<br />
Let's take this drift into full estrangement<br />
and make it work for us.<br />
You could live a long time,<br />
the Flying Dutchman of the cyber oceans,<br />
everybody's BFF;<br />
or here I am, patiently awaiting<br />
the next Transit of Venus--<br />
true, not due till next century,<br />
but if I insist on seeing it, I'll have to hang on--<br />
so what if I'll feel bad all the while,<br />
crane my turkey neck to the sun<br />
then go completely blind.<br />
<br />
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Alan Walowitz has been published various places on the web and off. He's proud to be a Contributing Editor at Verse-Virtual, an Online Community Journal of Poetry, and is also happily employed as a teacher at Manhattanville College in Purchase, NY and St. John's University in his native borough of Queens. Alan's chapbook, <i>Exactly Like Love, </i>will be published by Osedax Press in June.</div>
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<br />A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com47tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770108974660633989.post-77831182527877914092016-07-27T07:30:00.000-07:002016-07-27T07:30:14.965-07:00Three Poems by Andrew M. Bowen<br />
<b><i>Exorcism</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
The world wears white tonight, the white of ghosts:<br />
by snow, shivers, and sleet, I conjure you,<br />
O Shannon Red, a drunken poem to toast<br />
the fairest and the cruelest of my ghosts.<br />
<br />
How strange to call your shade in winter's chill<br />
when summer's dying heat caused hearts to stew<br />
and summer sired your tawny hair, your will<br />
of velvet iron, and eyes like sleepy rills.<br />
<br />
But winter saw our passion's courses run.<br />
At first I lit your eyes like sudden rays<br />
gladden a sodden day; at last you shunned;<br />
saw me a thug accused of murder one.<br />
<br />
As winter's death signals the spring's first beat,<br />
this conjure tolls the end of icebound days<br />
for I will live, will not allow defeat<br />
to deaden joy and sap my soul of heat.<br />
<br />
Farewell, sweet spook: if I had loved a host,<br />
each one as lovely as a virgin coast<br />
and richer than computer moguls' boasts,<br />
still, Shannon, you would be my favorite ghost<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>Sonnet for Shannon 6</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
A naughty boy once taught a river to dive<br />
and wed the night to birth an egg of gold;<br />
whether he's good or bad, he is alive<br />
and never stood a regiment so bold.<br />
He launched a gleaming shaft straight through my heart<br />
thus fanning endless desire for your caress<br />
and should relentless fate dictate we part<br />
his bow will plunge my soul in endless darkness.<br />
I'm just a puppet on a golden string,<br />
a flesh automaton without a hope,<br />
enthralled by dreams of bliss and golden rings,<br />
but I fear I'll hang from a dirty rope.<br />
In wondrous beauty dawns the birth of love;<br />
its death more dark than endless night above.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>Finis (Or How Could You Treat Me This Way, Sweet Princess?)</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
Bounce up, plummet down,<br />
my heart's ridden a bungee<br />
cord, rejoicing we<br />
might join, dreading the cold of<br />
your outer void. It failed to<br />
shock that you chose him,<br />
but silence wounds: to learn it<br />
from the Net, to know<br />
you threw my heart away like<br />
an unwanted basketball.<br />
<br />
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Andrew M. Bowen works as an insurance salesman in Bloomington, IN. He has published 74 poems and recently submitted his first two novels for publication. He is also an actor who has appeared in eight independent films, seven stage productions, and two radio teleplays.</div>
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<br />A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770108974660633989.post-54914428032242168702016-07-23T05:23:00.000-07:002016-07-23T05:23:35.234-07:00A Poem by Phil Wood<br />
<b><i>After He Leaves for Walk</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
She closes the blinds. Her mind's in grass<br />
that's ankle deep, in need of sleep--<br />
a goodbye wave unwraps the quiet,<br />
replays those easy times beyond<br />
<br />
the knotted ground where standing on<br />
the creaking bridge they'd play with sticks<br />
their childhood game. His twisted twig<br />
spinning towards a sandy bank<br />
<br />
and comes to rest; hers skips<br />
a crop of rock--its slender wood,<br />
so sleek and dark, gliding the stream<br />
to deeper pools as spiders thread<br />
<br />
silence beneath the shade of pine.<br />
All happiness is hoarded in webs.<br />
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Phil Wood works in a statistics office. He enjoys working with numbers and words. His writing can be found in various publications: Sein und Werden, The Centrifugal Eye, Message in a Bottle, Streetcake Magazine, London Grip, The Open Mouse, Ink Sweat and Tears, The Angry Manifesto, Poet and Geek, The Stare's Nest, The Lampeter Review, The Screech Owl, The Recusant, DM du Jour, Three Drops from a Cauldron, Clear Poetry, The Fat Damsel, Dactylzine, Autumn Sky Poetry, Jellyfish Whispers, Noon Journal of the Short Poem.</div>
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<br />A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com147tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770108974660633989.post-84334819590708673672016-07-21T06:31:00.001-07:002016-07-21T06:31:28.586-07:00Three Poems by Angelica Fuse<br />
<b><i>Sign of Parting</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
let this be our<br />
sign of parting<br />
black bird<br />
I have long thought<br />
about the words<br />
I would say<br />
but a slamming door<br />
seems to suffice.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>Interlocked</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
take your arm<br />
off my socket<br />
take your leg<br />
off my thigh<br />
take your tongue<br />
pluck it back<br />
into your mouth<br />
do not come here<br />
for solace<br />
do not look here<br />
for release.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>Furious</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
a breeze blows<br />
by<br />
that becomes<br />
a hurricane<br />
<br />
a hurricane<br />
goes to the root<br />
tears up the tooth<br />
throws over<br />
the whole<br />
damn mess.<br />
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Angelica Fuse is an unquiet voice, who has suddenly decided to write instead of just read the works of others.</div>
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<br />A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770108974660633989.post-64628783049949936262016-07-19T13:52:00.000-07:002016-07-19T13:52:18.198-07:00Two Poems by anggo genorga<br />
<b><i>ex-profile</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
i call her from time to time<br />
after a day's work usually<br />
but it's not every day; she<br />
doesn't know it's me on the<br />
other line and all i tell her<br />
is to transfer me to their IT<br />
department adapting different<br />
tone and even doing an accent<br />
at some point. she used to<br />
recognize my voice right away<br />
but time had already changed<br />
that. it's the best that i could do--<br />
me calling her and her not knowing<br />
it was me, keeping that peace of mind<br />
she had sought for so long always<br />
in check and unbothered.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>the final chapter</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
being on the same page<br />
is not<br />
<br />
being on the same page<br />
at all.<br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
anggo genorga was born and raised in the Philippines and currently resides in Dubai moonlighting as a manager of a band called Wonder Woman's Electric Bra. Recent writings can be found in Dead Snakes, Paper and Ink Zine, The Odd Magazine, Midnight Lane Boutique and Guide to Kulchur. Also in Boston Poetry Magazine, Empty Mirror, Mad Swirl, Screech Owl and Silver Birch Press' Bukowski: An Anthology of Poetry & Prose about Charles Bukowski and the book for benefit Verses Typhoon Yolanda: A Storm of Filipino Poets by Meritage Press. More writings at deviationcummeditation,wordpress.com</div>
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<br />A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com404tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770108974660633989.post-27886121309463627462016-07-09T10:25:00.000-07:002016-07-09T10:25:34.964-07:00Three Poems by Natalie Crick<br />
<b><i>For You</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
This month her depression began.<br />
He obsessed her.<br />
She tied her heart with ribbon like a present,<br />
Licking his fingers and kissing his feet.<br />
<br />
Words failed her.<br />
She breathed him in like a terrible secret,<br />
A childless woman beneath the ivory moon.<br />
But what about his eyes, his eyes, his eyes.<br />
<br />
Walking in the Winter trees<br />
Were his shadows in the fog.<br />
He was innocent as a lamb.<br />
Sleep, my Angel,<br />
<br />
Deaf and dumb<br />
As the drugged summer sun.<br />
My Love,<br />
I want you.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>Sleepwalkers in Love</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
I keep thinking of you,<br />
Making love to you.<br />
She still had those dreams,<br />
Stricken with night tremors<br />
Like a child shaking in nightmare.<br />
<br />
He did not come home last night.<br />
Where were you?<br />
He would go off into the woods,<br />
Melting away into the black dark.<br />
But, promise me, you cannot tell anyone else.<br />
<br />
A friend of her died only yesterday.<br />
She was so emotional with every breath.<br />
Her thoughts lurched around inside her skull.<br />
Oh Christ! It is her again,<br />
Drowning in the fields outside her window.<br />
<br />
She was chalk white as a ghost girl.<br />
A pale moth stared down from the roof<br />
like an enormous bird<br />
Risen from the dead.<br />
Where did you go last night?<br />
<br />
Insomniac. The moth had the face of her husband.<br />
They woke in a forest of black pine,<br />
Naked as beautiful animals,<br />
Waking in a daze as if it were years later,<br />
All of the villagers old and grey and gone.<br />
<br />
She was blank-brained as a doll or some birthday gift.<br />
He would guard her like his heart.<br />
They were in love.<br />
But, you know what lies can do.<br />
She turned to him in his sleep.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>Fever Floats</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
Throw it away,<br />
Syrup to somersaults.<br />
Nothing has changed. Night hangs<br />
So low my eyes sing:<br />
Tell me what you see in it.<br />
<br />
I am a gift<br />
Of teeth and blood and hair.<br />
And now, crawling<br />
Through shit,<br />
I am begging you.<br />
<br />
We could trick the tightrope,<br />
And be swallowed whole,<br />
Letting the stars mold and peel,<br />
Or lick the cylinders, tears fall white.<br />
The final act.<br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
Natalie Crick has found delight in writing all of her life and first began writing when she was a very young girl. Her poetry is influenced by melancholic confessional Women's poetry. Her poetry has been published in a range of journals and magazines including <i>Cannons Mouth, Cyphers, Ariadne's Thread, Carillon </i>and <i>National Poetry Anthology 2013.</i></div>
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<br />A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com41tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770108974660633989.post-85011696789270241252016-07-08T10:55:00.000-07:002016-07-08T10:55:14.813-07:00Three Poems from Bryan Damien Nichols<br />
<b><i>Night Piece</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<i><b> </b>-- for Michelle</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Our appetites like waxwings at a feast<br />
Of mulberry trees--fraught with thirst and fruit:<br />
Exertion's sweat was waterfall for tongue<br />
And lip, and could be seen to grace the teeth.<br />
What salty water made, our contrast crowned:<br />
My marble-colored flesh paired with your bands<br />
Of silky brown--a pivot here and there<br />
On pastel sheets turned, by moisture, like hair,<br />
A darker hue--and with a painter's hands.<br />
What can you say when shadows now abound<br />
When light should reign--and when time is so brief?<br />
What can you say when love seems now unsung<br />
Because it can't be called great? Is it moot<br />
To think of this? Is there truly no feast?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>For Michelle</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
I dreamt you as a rainbow amidst white,<br />
Though I was in white, but awaiting you;<br />
And you dreamt me as strands of onyx,<br />
Scarlet, and sapphire twisting round you,<br />
Like licorice round a marble statue.<br />
And I understood<br />
Your Love, waving by your grace.<br />
And you understood me twisting round you.<br />
<br />
We both live and Love, my Michelle.<br />
So when you weep, I think of this<br />
Doubly layered dream and wonder<br />
Why you, so full and frank and alive,<br />
Should dread what dreams may come,<br />
Though they arrive through me,<br />
Or through you.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>The Meeting</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<i> -- for Michelle</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I culled you from the background:<br />
From foamy forest green and lethargic yellow<br />
You arose in bright blue and bright red,<br />
Your eyes like lanterns of strange fire<br />
Thrusting onyx into the air.<br />
<br />
You culled me from the background:<br />
I was one--one among many--<br />
Staring at you.<br />
<br />
Our first encounter was but appetite.<br />
Our words like stupid symbols.<br />
The handshake was a masquerade,<br />
Seconds long. And more masquerading<br />
For many minutes.<br />
<br />
Then something else happened.<br />
<br />
Does life erupt this way?<br />
Does fate reign this way?<br />
<br />
It's as if a thousand arrows<br />
Were shot by some drunk<br />
And only one found its mark.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Bryan Damien Nichols was born in Houma, Louisiana, on August 30, 1978. He earned a B.A., <i>summa cum laude, </i>in Philosophy from Baylor University, and a J.D. from the University of Texas School of Law. He has practiced law both in Houston and in Texas' Rio Grande Valley. Bryan currently lives in Los Fresnos, Texas, with his loving wife, Michelle. Bryan is best known for the poetry he writes through his two heteronyms: (1) Kjell Nykvist; and (2) Alexander Shacklebury. These two heteronyms were featured in Bryan's debut poetry collection, <i>Whispers From Within</i> (Sarah Book Publishing). In his new collection, by contrast, Bryan writes in his own name, and explores numerous themes and issues that are important to him personally. Through his heteronyms, and in his own name, Bryan has been published in dozens of literary journals, ezines, magazines, and anthologies.</div>
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<br />A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770108974660633989.post-61794832111618745832016-06-15T12:06:00.000-07:002016-06-15T12:06:47.755-07:00Three Poems by Linda M. Crate<br />
<b><i>a raven called karma</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
cut down to the bone<br />
my feathers<br />
stuck out of my shoulders<br />
at weird angles as you<br />
struck out<br />
with your parallelograms<br />
of rage and insincerity<br />
seeking to destroy every fabric<br />
of my being into the<br />
same void that sings your name,<br />
but you forgot that i am<br />
like persephone<br />
preferring peace but also knowing war;<br />
i will burn you in the ashes of<br />
your chaos--<br />
once you witnessed my descent,<br />
but now watch my<br />
rise<br />
burning through memories like bones<br />
ripping out your fur the same way you did my feathers<br />
without touching you at all<br />
because my best revenge<br />
is success.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>you are your own noose</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
i offered you<br />
my naked heart and soul<br />
you saw neither<br />
all you ever did was satisfy<br />
your need,<br />
but nothing was ever enough;<br />
you were gone<br />
far before you left me<br />
i kept holding on<br />
knowing that patience is a virtue<br />
you killed me with all that<br />
distance--<br />
but when you came back to me<br />
it was only to tell me that it was over<br />
maybe it was something i knew<br />
before you said it,<br />
but i kept clinging to hope with all of my<br />
talons insisting that we could<br />
one day be one;<br />
i think the more you didn't need me the more<br />
my heart decided to love you--<br />
it wasn't fair, it wasn't right<br />
what you did;<br />
but life is seldom fair or right yet i know one day<br />
i will see you stumble and fall and i will be<br />
on the ladder of success--<br />
you will call my name,<br />
and i will pause but for a moment before<br />
leaving you to drown beneath<br />
the waves of your own lust.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>you never let me be me</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
i come alive<br />
when i feel the memories<br />
of you and i slip away<br />
because i know<br />
my heart is<br />
healing,<br />
and there are no harpy claws<br />
needed on my part<br />
to rip you to pieces<br />
because karma<br />
will hit you harder than i ever could;<br />
let her have your liver<br />
i never could<br />
stand the taste--<br />
your gilded cage doesn't taste<br />
so sweet to me anymore<br />
because my song<br />
is for<br />
everyone,<br />
and i don't have to succumb to your<br />
rage or whims anymore;<br />
i can just fly wherever i want--<br />
you tried to tame me,<br />
but i am wild<br />
don't need your instruction to be me<br />
i've done it all my life.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
Linda M. Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. Her poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. Recently her two chapbooks, <i>A Mermaid Crashing into Dawn </i>(Fowlpox Press, June 2013) and <i>Less Than a Man</i> (The Camel Saloon, January 2014) were published. Her fantasy novel, <i>Blood & Magic</i>, was published in March 2015. The second novel of this series, <i>Dragons & Magic</i>, was published in October 2015. Her poetry collection, <i>Sing Your Own Song</i>, is forthcoming through Barometric Pressures Authors' Series.</div>
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<br />A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770108974660633989.post-14853661444255845372016-06-13T05:20:00.002-07:002016-06-13T05:20:43.035-07:00Three Poems from JD DeHart<br />
<b><i>D. Spare</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
He thought he was<br />
the perfect man, just<br />
wanted to help, a fine<br />
being, strapping (and<br />
that's not even a term<br />
he ever used), but then<br />
<br />
all the best plans<br />
he could fit together<br />
formed a blasting cap<br />
and all he could watch<br />
was the splintering.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>Human Shaped Human</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
They mused about<br />
their mismatch, how their<br />
words often tried<br />
to replace the other's,<br />
<br />
How they could not<br />
escape their own essential<br />
ingredients anymore,<br />
<br />
They were cartoon characters<br />
with endless bubbles<br />
of dialogue trying to overstep,<br />
overshadow the other<br />
<br />
So they had their cafe<br />
ending, letting the sun set<br />
on an empty park bench.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>What a Hero He Was</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
Yes, he made promises<br />
and pictured a mailbox<br />
with their names on it,<br />
<br />
yes, he made observations<br />
and corrections, thought<br />
himself a good father,<br />
<br />
but the emblem on his chest<br />
turned pale, too much washing,<br />
I suppose,<br />
<br />
his beacon in the sky<br />
became cloudy, his efforts<br />
muddy, and his cape<br />
<br />
became another bunched<br />
mess on the bedroom floor.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. His chapbook, <i>The Truth About Snails</i>, is available on Amazon.<br />
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<br />A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770108974660633989.post-52650445672688883072016-06-11T08:10:00.001-07:002016-06-11T08:10:21.985-07:00Three Poems by Rose Mary Boehm<br />
<b><i>Going Over Old Ground</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
It all happened so fast. Before we knew<br />
each other we'd said "yes" and many more<br />
things we regretted. Still, we meant them<br />
at the time. You were into peace and love,<br />
<br />
and I earned the cash, desperately<br />
trying to be hip with the young<br />
crowd you pulled in. I suppose the kids<br />
<br />
didn't help. You felt guilty, I washed<br />
the nappies by hand.<br />
<br />
Then, one day, you found the golden stone<br />
and there were parties, designer clothes<br />
and private schools. You drunkenly buzzed<br />
from flower to flower.<br />
I got lost in your excesses.<br />
<br />
Once the kids had left home, I was ready.<br />
You took me to the harbor. When my ship<br />
pulled anchor and I saw you getting smaller<br />
on that pier and in my heart, I wondered<br />
where do good intentions go?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>Spite</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
I pulled up my collar.<br />
Discreet dark-blue scarf<br />
wrapped around my mouth.<br />
Dark glasses.<br />
<br />
Right at the front.<br />
Conspicuous<br />
but for the camera.<br />
Just another groupie.<br />
<br />
Hundreds of years<br />
after leaving this town<br />
I had nothing better<br />
to do than freeze<br />
on this winter day in London,<br />
outside my famous<br />
ex's town house.<br />
And there he was.<br />
A common sound rose,<br />
a sonorous sigh.<br />
<br />
His new blonde trophy<br />
tried to make herself visible.<br />
He remained firm.<br />
There could only be one<br />
point of interest.<br />
<br />
For a moment I thought<br />
he had seen through my disguise.<br />
For a moment I wanted<br />
my camera to be a gun.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>The Girl Without a Head Scarf</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
Amira left home.<br />
Dumped her headscarf<br />
somewhere between Tangiers and Marseille.<br />
<br />
Marcel strutted.<br />
Frigid Arab bitch,<br />
he hissed to her denial.<br />
Whispered secrets into her skin.<br />
<br />
Amira had become voiceless,<br />
adrift at a great distance from herself.<br />
<br />
When he buried his need<br />
deep insider her<br />
in that room-by-the-hour,<br />
no salvation was offered,<br />
and none taken.<br />
He stared at her with malice.<br />
Amira exhaled<br />
and was empty.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="text-align: justify;">A German-born UK national, Rose Mary Boehm lives and works in Lima, Peru. Author of </span><i style="text-align: justify;">Tangents</i><span style="text-align: justify;">, a poetry collection published in the UK in 2010/2011, her work has been widely published in US poetry journals (online and print). She was twice winner of the Goodreads monthly competition, and a new poetry collection is earmarked for publication in May/June in the US.</span><br />
<span style="text-align: justify;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-align: justify;"><br /></span>A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770108974660633989.post-78634704860389042772016-06-09T06:36:00.000-07:002016-06-09T06:36:14.946-07:00Three Poems by Ken L. Jones<br />
<b><i>The Poet's Revenge</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
The red cupid silhouette thumb tacked to our wall<br />
Like the one I once had a child has a torn heart<br />
Which will soon detach from its hand<br />
But the roller disco break dancing gangsta'<br />
In Michael Jackson's Bad is the greatest thing I ever saw<br />
On my TV since Topo Gigigo first kissed Ed Sullivan<br />
And the long hungered after onion rings<br />
Being cooked in our black skillet in forbidden oil<br />
Will complement the almost raw steak with which it will be served<br />
Yet I am still overcome with emotions painted by hand<br />
That are as evolved as any amphibian<br />
As I become lost once again<br />
In her eyes that were wider than the blossoms of orange trees<br />
And were bluer than the bluest willow china<br />
That ever appeared upon this earth<br />
As I walked with her down a prim avenue<br />
Teeming with miniature dolls where her message of love<br />
Was my afternoon rum and I need none other besides it<br />
On the island's north shore that like sugar dissolved<br />
But soon after she abandoned me to a shelf in the local discount store<br />
Someone who thought I was something else<br />
Soon took charge of me for a well intentioned makeover<br />
But no matter how hard I tried to fake being what this wonderful woman wanted<br />
It was a festering mistake and when I finally burst free after many a spring<br />
She was repulsed by my talents and said that they were trivial things<br />
And so now as I listen to the night's musicianship<br />
And I long beyond longing to cross o're to it<br />
But lack the surrender which would accomplish this<br />
Still I want to say that I am unshaken<br />
In my belief in true love even after this Valentine's Day<br />
That screamed with bared teeth<br />
From inside of the mouth which once gave me such peace<br />
But then I can't give what I don't have and neither can she<br />
But oh how I wish she would stop shrieking like some banshee<br />
About things that never were and can never be<br />
Perhaps in this reality or any other<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>I Reveal</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
When I needed something to begin to thaw<br />
She had empathy for my yen to experience the rosy tint of dreamland<br />
And then as she smiled like Gone With The Wind<br />
She wasn't afraid to flash forward in that November<br />
That was like ghost peppers growing<br />
In the intense sunlight of the waterfalls of Jupiter<br />
And all was still and fine until we met Loki on the Yellow Brick Road<br />
On that midnight that was as hazy as a painting by Basquiat<br />
As our love once so constant became like swirling wine<br />
Pregnant with the first born of nothing happened<br />
Back during those skyscraping years in flux<br />
Just before my journey into all that mutates<br />
Cast me adrift upon this mummified sea<br />
That ends in one blind alleyway after another<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>And Shrink</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
I want to live in the past there is no future<br />
The present reeks like a war zone<br />
That can no longer breathe<br />
And our long lost love is a frozen goddess<br />
Tucked in a wicker basket full of dead sunsets<br />
Where once we were star crossed lovers<br />
Who went to see The Stones<br />
But these days we know<br />
Only the questionable delight of being rusty machines<br />
Now that we live together alone<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="text-align: justify;">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. </span><br />
<span style="text-align: justify;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-align: justify;"><br /></span>A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770108974660633989.post-43617936719804657412016-06-07T07:14:00.001-07:002016-06-07T07:14:45.203-07:00Two Poems by Renata Connors<br />
<b><i>I Wish You Loved Me</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
Pitch dark, icy, indifferent sunrays<br />
spread on my back<br />
and through the window<br />
your hand lay on the floor,<br />
warm, firm, loving.<br />
<br />
Don't hurry cloud,<br />
wait a little,<br />
give me a chance<br />
to step on it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>I Can't Think of a More Attractive River</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
You've walked through me<br />
like a ghost of pain<br />
leaving heavy grey sludge<br />
in your wake<br />
and awake I am, all night,<br />
until the narrow hour<br />
between the dog and the wolf,<br />
the weakest hour of the night,<br />
darkness gone,<br />
light yet to come<br />
<br />
I'm desperately trying to suck the balm out of one word<br />
but receive the strings of a hundred treadmill thoughts.<br />
Pinned to the center of the flutter wheel<br />
I'm holding anger like a crucifix<br />
and I wish the stream<br />
that makes it all go round and round<br />
was called Lethe.<br />
I'd drop everything, I'd let go,<br />
the water would have it,<br />
the water would swallow me,<br />
I'd sleep.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Renata Connors is a poet and songwriter based in Tynemouth, Tyne & Wear. Her poems were published in an online poetry magazine The Fat Damsel. She has performed her poetry and songs at many different venues around the North East.</div>
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<br />A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770108974660633989.post-13495020782599947422016-06-05T05:37:00.001-07:002016-06-05T05:37:09.757-07:00Three Poems by Ken L. Jones<br />
<b><i>No Admittance</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
My mission in life was her rosy cheeks<br />
As she looked into her freckled mirror<br />
In the motel that was in her stomach<br />
Where I once stared at the ceiling of a racy novel<br />
During that lost time that was her last child<br />
Back when she was still the queen bee<br />
Of the diamond brilliance of each breath that she took<br />
Until I gravitated towards the eerie green tomatoes<br />
That were the same color as her eyes<br />
And lost forever her cinnamon laughter<br />
So neurological and repeating<br />
And yet still all of that is a thing with wings<br />
Even now in the donation bins and the garage rafters<br />
That are my late night sleeplessness<br />
And oh how I long for any kind of freeing sensation<br />
But my thoughts are like a needle getting picked up off of a record player<br />
Near a motion sensitive river that is in an early freeze<br />
Where I wish oh how I wish that I would have had it in me<br />
To bow down low and surrender to her bliss<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>Remove the Paint</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
In years back whose flesh was bright red<br />
There was something freeing about our untrapped appetites<br />
That put fresh batteries in my brain<br />
Every time we suddenly she our clothes<br />
But now I am frostier than ever<br />
As I groan for you in this bed made of lumps of coal<br />
Remembering how we went back and forth from one body to another<br />
Until whatever else there was to learn<br />
Became the boundary that separates so many rivers<br />
Even as it freezes them to their very cores<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>It Doesn't Take Long for the Gold to Come Off</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
Long ago when I first got lost in the crimson brokenness of the Beatles<br />
I met a woman whose room was lit with sweat and her perfume<br />
Her blue eyes were a mismatched tea set<br />
Her old children's books were her pet cats<br />
Purchased after she explored Mary Shelly's lumbering old antique shop<br />
One day because of a rainstorm on an island of molasses<br />
Like boundless beauty that I sing of now<br />
Like a Roswell guitarist in a faraday cage without ears<br />
Since I am no longer a farmer of revelations<br />
But what does it really matter now that all of that chips and rusts away<br />
And my Mona Lisa has become a Sapphic dreamer<br />
But still I can't forget our first time together<br />
But like the most effective of narcotics<br />
That is something that I long for<br />
But that will never again to me get prescribed<br />
In the Martian opera that is my old age that I can barely hear<br />
In the sad, sad hours of midnight<br />
That holds me like a spider's web above these aborted fetal tides<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="text-align: justify;">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. </span>A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770108974660633989.post-83977492627398828402016-06-03T11:18:00.001-07:002016-06-03T11:18:34.632-07:00Three Poems by J.J. Campbell<br />
<b><i>certain scars</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
lost loves finding<br />
each other after<br />
many years<br />
<br />
many, many nights<br />
of he said she said<br />
<br />
and other bundles<br />
of bullshit<br />
<br />
yet a smile<br />
<br />
a hug<br />
<br />
a gentle kiss on the<br />
cheek erases so much<br />
<br />
except for the burning<br />
pit in my stomach that<br />
will always remember<br />
you as that bitch there<br />
<br />
certain scars never<br />
heal<br />
<br />
no matter what<br />
medicine or god<br />
you believe in<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>the bitter pills of life</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
i close my eyes each<br />
night knowing there's<br />
a likely chance i will<br />
never get to fall in<br />
love again<br />
<br />
and the more that<br />
sinks in the easier<br />
it is to swallow the<br />
bitter pills of life<br />
<br />
i keep hoping to be<br />
wrong but i stopped<br />
believing in miracles<br />
when i was a child<br />
<br />
one day i'll close my<br />
eyes and be granted<br />
the wish of never<br />
opening them again<br />
<br />
now there's something<br />
to look forward to<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>smothered with what could have been</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
your soft<br />
lips and<br />
my cynical<br />
eyes<br />
<br />
i suppose i<br />
can look at<br />
the past and<br />
be happy i<br />
got to<br />
experience<br />
those<br />
women<br />
at all<br />
<br />
or i could<br />
think back<br />
and be<br />
smothered<br />
with what<br />
could have<br />
been<br />
<br />
as i fumble<br />
through old<br />
letters and<br />
articles of<br />
clothing<br />
<br />
while<br />
finishing<br />
off another<br />
bottle of<br />
wine<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
J.J. Campbell is old enough to know better. He's currently trapped in suburbia, watching his mental health erode. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Pyrokinection, Horror Sleaze Trash, Mad Swirl, BoySlut and Dead Snakes. You can find him each day on his highly entertaining blog, evil delights. http://evildelights.blogspot.com</div>
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<br />A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770108974660633989.post-57684713676156353732016-06-01T05:38:00.001-07:002016-06-01T05:38:35.251-07:00Three Poems by H. Edgar Hix<br />
<b><i>Hebetic Reunion</i></b><br />
<i>(for Ellen)</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
when i heard you'd gotten married<br />
someone inside me died 20 years ago<br />
<br />
it seems the 18 year old is in the 38 years old<br />
like a layer of gravel in the ground<br />
<br />
or a ring in a tree that records the winter was mild<br />
but the spring was plagued by hard frosts<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>My Bed</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
Soft fortress<br />
offering protection from<br />
dragons of thought<br />
black knights of fear,<br />
wizards of summoning<br />
things bright and dangerous.<br />
<br />
Focus of my night light:<br />
mini spotlight on<br />
a sheet too clean<br />
for too long; X-rated stage<br />
for G-rated plays.<br />
<br />
The place marked "You Are Here"<br />
on the map on the wall of my life;<br />
just off shore from my water bottle.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>Now We Have</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
I knew her when those eyes were fourteen<br />
(and mine sixteen).<br />
<br />
Our faces have been sculpted by the chisels of adolescence<br />
and painted darker by the white sable brushes of marriage.<br />
<br />
I knew her when those lips were red with cherry ice cream<br />
I bought her when my date canceled one Saturday night.<br />
<br />
Now we have blue veins in our wrists<br />
shaped like lightning bolts.<br />
<br />
I knew her when our hands were sticky with stolen sweets,<br />
when our feet were bright, clicking on hardwood floors;<br />
<br />
before our faces found their lines,<br />
before we heard the slow thunder.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
H.Edgar Hix lives with his wife, seven cats, one dog, and numerous collections in a little white house in south Minneapolis. He hopes his writing will live many places with many people. Recent poetry has appeared in Time of Singing, Mutuality, Pyrokinection, One Sentence Poems, and Right Hand Pointing.</div>
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<br />A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770108974660633989.post-35603337494448949352016-05-29T06:53:00.001-07:002016-05-29T06:54:28.038-07:00Three Poems by A.J. Huffman<br />
<b><i>I Dreamed I Was a Seal</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
and you were a shark,<br />
predatory and prepared<br />
to attack. I knowingly dove<br />
into your ocean, baiting your teeth.<br />
Neither of us was surprised<br />
when our subsequent contact<br />
turned both our worlds red.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>Because There Were Things Missing</i></b><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Seven sleeping capsules.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His keys.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My heart. Failure</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
is what happens outside</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>
</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the dark.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i>Pieces of Heat<o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In this growing, moving softness,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
you are a valium. I
swallow</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
without thought. You
handle like liquid,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
coating my mouth in repressed desire.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like a prism of memory, you tickle,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and I choke on my own</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
desperation. Together
we have become </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
a prison of blindness.
No bed remains</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
unstained by our regret.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16px; text-align: justify;">A.J. Huffman has published twelve solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses. Her new poetry collections, </span><i style="font-size: 16px; text-align: justify;">Another Blood Jet </i><span style="font-size: 16px; text-align: justify;">(Eldritch Press), </span><i style="font-size: 16px; text-align: justify;">A Few Bullets Short of Home </i><span style="font-size: 16px; text-align: justify;">(mgv2>publishing), </span><i style="font-size: 16px; text-align: justify;">Butchery of the Innocent </i><span style="font-size: 16px; text-align: justify;">(Scars Publications), </span><i style="font-size: 16px; text-align: justify;">Degeneration</i><span style="font-size: 16px; text-align: justify;"> (Pink Girl Ink) and </span><i style="font-size: 16px; text-align: justify;">A Bizarre Burning of Bees</i><span style="font-size: 16px; text-align: justify;"> (Transcendent Zero Press) are now available from their respective publishers and amazon.com. She is a four-time Pushcart Prize nominee, a two-time Best of Net nominee, and has published over 2400 poems in various national and international journals, including </span><i style="font-size: 16px; text-align: justify;">Labletter, The James Dickey Review, Bone Orchard, EgoPHobia,</i><span style="font-size: 16px; text-align: justify;"> and </span><i style="font-size: 16px; text-align: justify;">Kritya</i><span style="font-size: 16px; text-align: justify;">. She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press. www.kindofahurricanepress.com.</span></div>
A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770108974660633989.post-12835813565665538432016-05-08T07:22:00.002-07:002016-05-08T07:22:17.510-07:00Three Poems by Joanna M. Weston<br />
<b><i>Expectant</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
chained to my chair<br />
I wait for words<br />
to rise from the table<br />
adjectives I can eat<br />
to digest separation<br />
<br />
I fly action outward<br />
pile nouns before me<br />
while verbs circle<br />
pulling the ache<br />
of your absence<br />
into my mouth<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>That Dancing Time</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
you and I shared<br />
so many silences<br />
<br />
those of dawn before<br />
birds broke darkness<br />
<br />
mid-morning as we<br />
headed into work<br />
<br />
hours dreaming<br />
of where we'd been<br />
<br />
where we might be going<br />
before love spoke again<br />
<br />
we lulled the evening<br />
into long farewells<br />
<br />
and forgot the months<br />
of dancing hearts<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>Heard by Night</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<i>1st line from Thomas James' </i>Going Back<br />
<br />
yes, I have known something of the dark you speak of<br />
sentences vibrating through a distant night<br />
<br />
an impenetrable conversation of verbs<br />
the last cocktail party before we left<br />
<br />
spectral discussions even as midnight chimes<br />
opening the door to a blank looking-glass<br />
<br />
or a confusion of absolutes on the phone<br />
texting foreign languages by candlelight<br />
<br />
moments of romance at the winter solstice<br />
words tossed like stars to cover embarrassment<br />
<br />
hold darkness as the perfection of love<br />
nothing can be said when all is done<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Joanna M. Weston is married, has two cats, multiple spiders, a herd of deer, and two derelict hen houses. Her middle reader, <i>Frame and The McGuire,</i> was published by Tradewind Books, and her poetry book, <i>A Summer Father, </i>was published by Frontenac House of Calgary. Her eBooks can be found at her blog: http://www.1960willowtree.wordpress.com/</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<br />
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<br />A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770108974660633989.post-76240015942526508302016-05-06T06:07:00.002-07:002016-05-06T06:07:48.756-07:00A Poem by Margaret Holbrook<br />
<b><i>We Had Nothing</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
We had nothing, so much<br />
of it that we could<br />
hold it in our hands,<br />
let it slip through our fingers<br />
fine as gold,<br />
weightless, abundant.<br />
We had so much<br />
saving everything we had<br />
for a rainy day, hoping<br />
it wouldn't come,<br />
it didn't.<br />
<br />
We got through,<br />
found ourselves in a<br />
better situation, less<br />
nothing, more of something<br />
tangible.<br />
We saved and saved and saved.<br />
Anything we wanted<br />
was ours, yours and mine.<br />
We set some aside for a rainy day,<br />
hoping it wouldn't come,<br />
it didn't.<br />
<br />
We got through, we were<br />
<i>on our feet</i>,<br />
everything we wanted<br />
more than we needed.<br />
Too much to hold in our<br />
hands, too heavy to slip<br />
through our fingers.<br />
We knew the rainy day<br />
must come,<br />
it did.<br />
<br />
A deluge swept all of it<br />
from under our feet, took<br />
the whole lot from us,<br />
left us with nothing, except<br />
each other, shop-soiled<br />
goods left on the shelf<br />
after all else has<br />
been taken.<br />
<br />
Do you remember when<br />
<i>we had nothing?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Margaret Holbrook is a writer of plays, poetry and fiction. She lives in Cheshire, UK and has had her work published in several anthologies, most recently Schooldays published by Paper Swan Press, and in the following magazines, Orbis, SLO, The Dawntreader, The Journal, The SHOp, Reflections, Areopagus, the caterpillar, and online in, The Poetry Shed, Jellyfish Whispers and Napalm and Novocain. Her first poetry collection, Hobby Horses Will Dance, was published in 2014. Margaret leads the Creative Writing Workshop for Chapel Arts in Chapel en le Frith, Derbyshire.</div>
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<br />A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770108974660633989.post-20138872894241172752016-05-04T10:23:00.000-07:002016-05-04T10:23:04.478-07:00A Poem by Joseph K. Wells<br />
<b><i>My Time With You</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
Your presence<br />
is like a gentle perfume<br />
<br />
nestled in the grooves<br />
of the crooked fate lines<br />
on my palms<br />
<br />
that evaporates<br />
into thin air<br />
as I struggle to stop it<br />
in my clamped fists<br />
<br />
and am left with<br />
two tired, sweaty<br />
hands.<br />
<br />
Empty . . .<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Joseph K. Wells earns his livelihood as a businessman, occupational therapist and adjunct professor. He was also paid for being a special police officer for a week. He has been published but has not been paid for his poetry yet.</div>
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<br />A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770108974660633989.post-37215951257268622792016-05-02T05:20:00.000-07:002016-05-02T05:20:15.816-07:00A Poem by Wayne Russell<br />
<b><i>The Loss</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
As beauty lies weeping, somewhere<br />
out there, up in the frozen tundra of<br />
northern snowy winters dream.<br />
<br />
Sins of my heart, beating longing for<br />
you and this infused raven abyss, bring<br />
thee back to my longing arms.<br />
<br />
Forest of clay melt beneath ashen Gothic<br />
feet, your absence an eternal torment,<br />
kiss me quick; bury my memory with the<br />
ages gone before.<br />
<br />
Intrusive the silent frost of your black eyes<br />
lye, lament thrust and gathered upon lonely<br />
window pane, strewn empty inner child,<br />
lost; forlorn.<br />
<br />
The ensuing years pass and reap regrets.<br />
<br />
Here I am with you, concussed in a strange<br />
dream, out in the bitter chill of formlessness,<br />
vagrancy of night, running rampant with the<br />
golden wolfs of Dionysus, a bastard child;<br />
reaping what he has sewn.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Wayne Russell is a creative writer that hails from Tampa, Florida. He has been published in Nomadic Voices Magazine, Zaira Journal, Danse Macabre, The Bitchin' Kitschs', and Rolling Thunder Press.</div>
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<br />A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770108974660633989.post-66642902665739976182016-04-30T06:26:00.000-07:002016-04-30T06:26:03.499-07:00A Poem by Paul Tristram<br />
<b><i>Over Blue Cheese Dressing</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
He broke her down to ghostlike<br />
within a matter of premeditated merciless minutes.<br />
Words poisoned with an unfair, exaggerated truth<br />
when not completely false and cruel<br />
with no other purpose than being hurtful.<br />
She sat shocked and temporarily defenseless,<br />
letting this new reality slowly suffocate<br />
and smother her funny bone battered senses.<br />
Unable to comprehend the Changeling<br />
now sitting smirking wickedly before her.<br />
When that narcissistic actor's mask slips<br />
and you first see that disgusting beast<br />
squirming naked within its seething ugliness<br />
heaven dies somewhere deep inside of your.<br />
They think they've tricked you and they have<br />
but they've also unwittingly tricked themselves.<br />
You will recover, slowly and in time<br />
but they will never again find a heart and love<br />
as pure and true as yours to soothe their troubled soul.<br />
In the end karma always settles its debts<br />
and they have damned themselves to all but falseness.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. But his books "Scribblings of a Madman" (Lit Fest Press) http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1943170096 "Poetry from the Nearest Barstool" at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326241036 and a split poetry book "The Raven and the Vagabond Heart" with Bethany W Pope at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326415204 You can also read his poems and stories here: http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/</div>
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<br />A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770108974660633989.post-60930003051515574722016-04-29T15:34:00.002-07:002016-04-29T15:34:51.319-07:00A Poem by Pearse Murray<br />
<b><i>You Pulled Me</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
And you said that I was your sunglow.<br />
But you also said, "Not too close," reminding me<br />
That the sun's function is to warm the earth<br />
not to burn it.<br />
You hopped on a freight train which rolled<br />
On steel-silk lines across the Prairie<br />
And dipped into the horizon<br />
Vibrating my heart's yearnings.<br />
For the distance and nearness of you<br />
My body asks where did you go?<br />
The scream in the heart<br />
Cannot fully hold, cannot fully let go.<br />
You tug at me but you are not there.<br />
Will distance become our way of life?<br />
And as the cooling of the heart reaches its frazzle,<br />
I cannot add more silence to the silence of longing.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Pearse Murray has published poems and short fiction in a wide variety of print and online media. He was born in Ireland and lives in upstate New York.</div>
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<br />A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770108974660633989.post-61556626160961849812016-04-27T07:11:00.000-07:002016-04-27T07:11:13.090-07:00A Poem by Norma Ketzis Bernstock<br />
<b><i>Cleaning House</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
He's in her pantry,<br />
in the jars of sauce,<br />
the Old Bay tin,<br />
the mushroom cans.<br />
He's in the fridge,<br />
the second shelf,<br />
the olive tapenade.<br />
On the left,<br />
the produce drawer,<br />
blueberries and red.<br />
<br />
She's cleaning house,<br />
sweeping out,<br />
removing signs of him:<br />
the books he left,<br />
the socks and shorts,<br />
slippers by the door,<br />
the sateen sheets he loved so much,<br />
he loved her on those sheets.<br />
She'll wash and scrub and bleach them clean,<br />
the sheets belong to her.<br />
She'll sleep on sheets he never touched,<br />
she'll sleep alone,<br />
alone.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Norma Ketzis Bernstock lives in Milford, Pennsylvania. Her poetry has appeared online and in many print journals and anthologies including <i>Connecticut River Review, Paterson Literary Review, Lips </i>and <i>Stillwater Review. </i>Her most recent chapbook, <i>Don't Write a Poem About Me After I'm Dead</i>, was published in 2011 by Big Table Publishing. Her previous achievements include a Geraldine R. Dodge Foundation Scholarship to the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, Massachusetts and recognition by the Allen Ginsberg Poetry Awards.</div>
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<br />A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770108974660633989.post-18589445763851781812016-03-10T06:54:00.001-08:002016-03-10T06:54:41.736-08:00Three Poems by A.J. Huffman<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i>Swimming in Yellow<o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yellow swimsuit + ocean = sharkbite.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The strange man with an obvious death wish</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
on television could not have explained it</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
any better, and I thought, how unfortunate</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
that one of the most popular beach songs inspired</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
myself, and doubtlessly millions of other females</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
to buy yellow polka-dotted bikinis. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I rush to my summer drawer immediately, yank</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the suicidal fabric from its home, toss it </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
in the garage with the other bleached out suits</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
set aside for chlorinated water only. I make a note</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
to pick up a new black suit or two, a color </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the great white predators all but ignore. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then I make another note to pick </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
up a pair of camouflage swim trunks </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
to send to my ex for his birthday. Underwater</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
predators confuse them for sea turtles, often</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
like to take a tiny bite</div>
or two.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i>Color Fills the Universe<o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He flickers, a thick viscous light—</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
life-generating. She
is </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
kaleidoscopic cavern—</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
endless, formless, all-</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
consuming. Their
touch is</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
simple, studded with fierceness—</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
desire set ablaze.
The world burns</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
around them like a rainbow </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
whose sole purpose is to dissolve </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
their skin.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i>Tossed Salad<o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hate you like a tossed salad.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A bowl full of healthy</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
diet-perpetuating rabbit food.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I pick at tasteless </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
leaves slathered in oil and vinegar. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fork over fork, I consume.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My inner carnivore growls</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
in protest. Remains</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>
</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
unsatisfied.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">A.J. Huffman has published twelve full-length poetry collections,
thirteen solo poetry chapbooks and one joint poetry chapbook through various
small presses. Her most recent releases, <i>Degeneration</i> (Pink Girl Ink), <i>A
Bizarre Burning of Bees</i> (Transcendent Zero Press), and <i>Familiar Illusions</i> (Flutter Press) are now available from their
respective publishers. She is a five-time Pushcart Prize nominee, a
two-time Best of Net nominee, and has published over 2500 poems in various
national and international journals, including <i>Labletter, The James
Dickey Review, The Bookends Review, Bone Orchard, Corvus Review, EgoPHobia,</i> and <i>Kritya</i>.
She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press.
www.kindofahurricanepress.com.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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A.J. Huffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07410033585195378946noreply@blogger.com0