Two Poems by Dawnell Harrison

Thrashing

I was thrashing
my bones against
your heart in the icy
chill of December as
the white bursts
of snow numbed your
soul solid.
I did not reach out
to your broken hands
that could no longer
hold a thread of my
endangered longing.



Train Wreck

A squall of birds
bent down to see
the wildfire bellowing
near the train wreck
waiting to happen.
Above a blackened sky
I slept with empty dreams
as my mind crashed
against something
not called love.

Dawnell Harrison has been published in over 100 magazines and journals including The Endicott Review, The Journal, Fowl Feathered Review, Jellyfish Whispers, The Bitchin' Kitsch, Vox Poetica, The Tower Journal, Queen's Quarterly, and many others.  Also, she has had 4 books of poetry published through reputable publishers titled Voyager, The maverick posse, The love death, and The fire behind my eyes.  Furthermore, she possess a BA from The University of Washington.

A Poem by Dawnell Harrison

Fallen Away

What was soft inside me
has fallen away -
broken off like an icicle
from back doorstep eaves.
My heart lies within
but bleeds without.
The whispering of the stars
love the sky while the silky moon
bled white bursts of light.

Dawnell Harrison has been published in over 100 magazines and journals including The Endicott Review, The Journal, Fowl Feathered Review, Jellyfish Whispers, The Bitchin' Kitsch, Vox Poetica, The Tower Journal, Queen's Quarterly, and many others.  Also, she has had 4 books of poetry published through reputable publishers titled Voyager, The maverick posse, The love death, and The fire behind my eyes.  Furthermore, she possess a BA from The University of Washington.

Two Poems by Sarah Thursday

Lies To Tell My Body

 

My bones are steel-heavy

as I walk the days with it

Pores on my skin ache

weighted by an iron-core earth

pulling me towards her

Down, she says, lay with me

 

My eyes can't see clear

turn skull-bound, sinking

pregnant with memory

The fibers in my muscles

weep at their loss of it

motion, forward, direction

 

The nuclei in my cells

pull and push against-toward

refusing to agree with you

Everyday, they keep forgetting

why I can't just dial the number

or drive 23 miles northwest

 

My arms know the exit-curves

(like the length of your limbs)

my feet know how many steps

(like the edge of your sheets)

I don't need my eyes to guide me

my hands, they know where

 

But my heart knows to stay

in my honey-thick atmosphere

Lock the windows and doors

breath it in, long breaths

circulating it, the new oxygen

Lie to my body, if need be until

I don't need to remember why

 

 

 

Present Affirmations

 

I am almost ready

to be over this

I am almost ready

to see you clear

that you were never really

good enough for me

I am almost ready

to pick up the pieces

I set aside

connect those dots

to pull the curtains open

to rip off the bed sheets

flip all the light switches

call you on your bullshit

see you small

and entirely pathetic

this lost puppy

is finding a new home

so you can keep that

old bitch who returned

I will not be laying

outside your door

I am almost ready

to tell you I'm too busy

I don't have time for

this fucked up game

and I'm tossing out

all the possible scenarios

of your apology

of your seduction

of your returning

I'm done with it

I'm almost ready

I am.

 

 

 

Sarah Thursday was mostly raised in Long Beach, California.  She teaches 4th and 5th grade, is obsessed with music, and has only recently dove into poetry again. She has forthcoming or has been published in Stylus Magazine, The Long Beach Union (CSULB), The Atticus Review, Eunoia Review, East Jasmine Review, Yonic South, poeticdiversity, and a project called Please Judge: Short Stories Based on the Songs of Roky Erickson. She has also made five chapbooks over the years. Recently, she has become the editor of Cadence Collective: Long Beach Poets, almost by accident, but completely on purpose.

Announcing Kind of a Hurricane Press's First Annual Poetry Contest!

SUBMISSIONS FOR THE 2013 KIND OF A HURRICANE PRESS EDITOR'S CHOICE POETRY AWARD ARE NOW OPEN!

First Place Winner gets $200 (US)  Payable via PayPal

for more details check out the Kind of a Hurricane Press Editor's Choice Poetry Award Site:

http://editorschoiceaward.blogspot.com/

A Poem by Les Merton

Yesterday, Today and Last Summer

 

Their argument came out of shadows

so heated it left scorch marks,

notes of pain so well scored, yesterday’s

finale was their swan song.

 

Today, back in out-grown bedrooms,

childhood memorabilia is no consolation.

Once shared music plucks at heart-strings

their song played over and over…

 

last summer, shaded words filtered

the ultraviolet air as they sunbathed.

Long love-ins, tender words enhanced

by their song, in tune, marking time

 

letting their love bring them together.

 

 

 

 

At the age of seventeen, Les Merton was a film extra in Michael Winner’s film The System (USA The Girl Getters), the director advise him that if he wanted to write successfully, he should write about things he knew about and had experienced. Since that time Les Merton has had a lifetime of experiences, many of which provided inspiration for his writing.

 

He has 20 books to his credit and he has won numerous writing awards. His poetry has been published in magazines in the following countries: Algeria, Australia, Belgium, Canada, Cornwall, Cyprus, Eire, England, Finland, Germany, India, Italy, Nepal, Netherlands, New Zealand, Scotland, South Africa, USA. He also has had many poems published online and in anthologies.

During his writing career Les has also appear on: ITV’s That Sunday Night Show, BBC TV Spotlight News, and the following Radio Stations: BBC Radio Bristol, Duchy Hospital Radio, BBC Radio Cornwall, BBC Radio 4, Pirate FM, BBC Radio Five Live, Penwith Radio, St Austell Bay Radio, Redruth Community Radio and ABC Radio Canberra, Australia. He enjoys performing and has given readings all over the UK and in Ndola Zambia.

 

 

A Poem by Lance Sheridan

the visibility of the dance

she peeled back layers of his life and put them
in green jars with tarnished lids

sat them on faded, warped boards with rusted
nails and carpenter ants

left them forgotten on a porch where a broken
kitchen window awaits

a repair, where he once carved her initials in
a dying oak, birds no longer

nest for fear of falling; the corner of wood on
a swing brushes her footprints

in sand and a memory, her laughter painted
flowers and bees in flight

to hives in secret corners of forests; there,
they heard as they made love

warm breeze glided over nakedness and
lust, sun rays pushed aside

leaves to create shadows on moist soil,
her screams echoed

just like her passion for dance, more than
her passion for him

in ballet, in a pirouette, he tried to embrace
was jilted, dragged

himself into a bar and drank her away on
shots and dirty whiskey glasses

half stoned, sat in the back of a bus and
old seats; got off by a river

walked a bulkhead in acid rain and an
unshaven face; one foot

then one foot, into garbage and debris
hanging onto stagnant water

one less breath
one less breath…

Lance Sheridan—

Published writer—Bits and Pieces to Ponder/Self-Help/2002 

Published poet—Poet Interview on November 8, 2012 by a Salisbury University Journalism Major/Salisbury, MD; poem 'Night into Day/Goodnight Till the Morning Sun'/11-12/napalmandnovocain.blogspot; poem 'Night into Day/Goodnight Till the Morning Sun' has been accepted for inclusion in the 2012 Best of Anthology, Storm Cycle

blog—deadheadingpoet.wordpress.com; has received over 75,000 views since June 2012.

Three Poems by Christopher Hivner

One Morning, After it was Over

 

Stop asking me questions,

the lies will float

until dusk,

other worlds in other words.

The sun is shining

but it's still gloomy here,

the sun is shining

through the plastic over the windows

on the hand outstretched

touching the third finger

illuminating the ring.

Stop asking me questions, please,

I'm tired.        

 

 

 

Early Morning Gray

 

Twenty different trips

enclosed in a metal box,

close enough

to smell the soap

in your hair

and to steal a kiss

or a private touch.

Rolling down the highway

through tunnels

of early morning gray,

getting slapped open-handed

by the wind

to keep us awake.

Songs from the radio

play as backdrop

to our silly prattle

of a week alone

amidst 100,000 others

and love

in the time of youth

and revelations.

 

Easing into

the ocean city

with the sun's eyes

just opening,

each time

became rote,

until it

wasn't quite the same.

We talked the talk

and walked

hand in hand

not noticing

the sand shifting

beneath our feet.

 

At first,

it was swimming

in water that felt like a cocoon,

greeting each day

like Centurions,

making love

when the spirit moved

and floating

with the rhythm

of the time and place.

From the start

we suckled

to one another

feeding from

the same breast.

 

The fade began

as we tread

in water that

bit but never

drew blood.

We wouldn't

open our mouths

to talk about it

for fear

of swallowing

ourselves.

So we stayed out

drying up

in the sun,

letting our shades behind

to wander

the boardwalk.

 

Twenty trips

down the coast,

each one

meaning less

than the one before

and we're too lost

to figure out why.

In the end

there were no kisses

stolen or given,

the smell

of your hair

only left me longing

and the songs

on the radio played

to eat up

the empty space

between us.

  

 

 

Another Last Night

  

Drink down

the wine of the day

and let the thickness

coat your tongue,

a jacket for

a better night.

Now the moon

kisses your cheek,

a flirtation,

before dancing commences

along sidewalks

dirty for their art,

around buildings

that try to cut in,

and cross-town traffic

laughing into dangerous curves.

You're drunk

and lost

in a city

of drunks and losers,

trying to stop the sun

from rising

and the day

from calling you home.

Where are my friends

and that last bottle of wine

you wonder into sleep

as the taxi driver

starts your fare.

 

 

 

 

Christopher Hivner lives in Pennsylvania, usually writes while listening to music and enjoys an occasional cigar outside on a star-filled night. He has recently been published in Eye on Life Magazine, Dead Snakes and Illumen. A book of horror short stories, "The Spaces between Your Screams" was published by eTreasures Publishing. You can connect with him here: website, facebook, twitter: @your_screams, Goodreads.