A Poem by John Casquarelli

I used to write wishes on paper airplanes

 

each hurricane is a car thief

riding by moonlight

to open space measured by

illusory waves that leave

random debris for us

to throw at one another

to stone ourselves with pet rocks

because it’s easier to believe a story

the less true it sounds

 

my hand on your thigh

you smile as if nothing happened

but when our conversation shifts

to music theater last night’s rain

you pretend to look out the window

surprised that I didn’t see the fish

in the ship’s wake

 

and you want to know why

the same questions return now and then

like those little facts that tug on the end

of a line

so that the whole world

pirouettes rolls shatters

near girders to one thousand

miles of asphalt highway

impaired by excessive anxiety

 

scream about how it all

was just a misunderstanding

to avoid what remains

of your bite marks

on both my neck

and imagination

 



John Casquarelli is an English professor at Boricua College in New York. He received his M.F.A. in the Creative Writing program at Long Island University. He was awarded the 2010 Esther Hyneman Award for poetry. His work has appeared in several publications including Pyrokinection, Downtown Brooklyn, Kinship of Rivers, By The Overpass, The Mind[less] Muse, Brooklyn Paramount, Pulp, The International Rebecca West Society, The Poetry Project Blog, and Sun’s Skeleton. His first full-length book, On Equilibrium of Song, was published by Overpass Books (2011).

A Poem by Marilyn "Misky" Braendeholm

Doors

She paused, her thumb caressing

that familiar dent on the brass door knob.

A brief glance, a feathered blink was all that she

took with her, a few memories were

enough.  Dare she hope that this house might fill

with more than opaque hues of rainbows

shining through her tears.  She wanted to know

how this happened, who’d gilded the past

twenty-years so she’d think she was content. 

Please.  Stay.  Don’t go.

His voice so slight that she wondered if he

heard himself speak.  She was a fool in love,

living a fool’s life, and not knowing

her own mind.  She turned toward him.  A pause.

A tear.  A smile.  I’ll stay, she said, knowing

that she’d use a different door next time.

Marilyn“Misky” Braendeholmlives in the United Kingdom. Her interests include religious (gothic) architecture, gardening, recipe testing, baking yeasted and sourdough bread, photography, and writing. She has participated in four NaPoWriMo challenges, and has poems and fiction published with Mouse Tales Press, Sprouts Magazine, Poetry Quarterly, and Pyrokinection. She has two grown sons and two grandchildren. You can find more of her poetry at http://miskmask.wordpress.com

Three Poems by Jack T. Marlowe

indigestion

tears drip

into the mix

like hot

bacon

grease

an essential

ingredient

for the dirty

gravy that

you greedily

sop up

with

your dry

biscuit

heart

but i've lost

my appetite

anyway

it's been too

long since

i've been

served love

for breakfast

knives in waiting

when love-

making

devolves

into mere

fucking

a shape-

shifter is

exposed

your

lover's

new de-

meanor

more

feline

than

female

a feral

passion

sinking

into

shoulder

blades

with the

caress

of sharp

nails

ten little

harbingers

of the

inevitable

back-

stabbing

to come

will work for love

i wasn't looking

for a handout

when i said

that i needed

change

in my life

but she handed

me those three

little words

anyway

like some dirty

coins that had

already been

spent on some-

one else and

returned for

a refund

even so

i accepted

the offering

considered it

a gift

and gave her

a gift

of my own

and it's

true that

money

doesn't

buy love

but it's also

true that love

doesn't buy

respect

consideration

compassion

or even a hot

lunch on Sunday

and meanwhile

that silver

is still jingling

in my pocket

rattling

like the chains

that shackled

my heart

back when i

actually cared

and i'm still

working

for some kind

of change

in my life

because

the change

that i got

wasn't

the change

that i needed

it's hard to say

just who's to

blame, but

either way

i'm stuck

with a handful

of cold reckoning--

more legal

than tender--

hanging around

a pay phone

with nobody

to call

Jack T. Marlowe is a disillusioned, formerly romantic rogue from Dallas,

TX. A writer of poetry and fiction and a veteran of the open mic, his work

has appeared in Carcinogenic Poetry, Montucky Review, Black-Listed

Magazine, Visceral Uterus, Handful of Dust and elsewhere. Jack is also

the editor of Gutter Eloquence Magazine (www.guttereloquence.com).

A Poem by Ali Znaidi

Morning Serenade

A red rose wakes up,

lazy in its bed/bud,

washed by dew drops—

constellations

of crystal white bubbles.

Sun’s lights gradually perforate

its soft skin.

The white bubbles

evaporate in the air

to the rhythm of the red singing

kettle

in the kitchen.

Warm breath of coffee

mingles

with the sweet scents of the rose

on the red saucer.

Darling, are you here?

I want to serve you this morning.

Ali Znaidi lives in Redeyef, Tunisia. He graduated with a BA in Anglo-American Studies in 2002. He teaches English at Tunisian public secondary schools. He writes poetry and has an interest in literature, languages, and literary translations. His work has appeared in The Bamboo Forest, The Camel Saloon, phantom kangaroo, BoySlut, fortunates.org, Otoliths, Dead Snakes, Speech Therapy Poetry Zine, streetcake magazine, The Rusty Nail, Yes,Poetry, The South Townsville micro poetry journal, Shot Glass Journal, the fib review, Ink Sweat and Tears, and Mad Swirl, and is upcoming in other ezines. He also writes flash fiction for the Six Sentence Social Network—http://sixsentences.ning.com/profile/AliZnaidi.

A Poem by Jack Horne

30^th February

 

She came home to me today!

Time stood still

But those five years are erased.

It’s like she never left:

No awkward silences, just kisses.

Our love’s as strong as ever.

 

We won’t argue again;

This time it will work.

I knew she still loved me all along.

Angry words were empty words.

All that matters is she’s here: home.

 

 

 

Jack lives in Plymouth, England. Many of Jack’s poems, stories and articles have been published.

Two Poems by De Jackson

Friction

 

She
sees
the words
‘I love you’
as if they were not
penned in a hand far from her own.
Holds them up to the light and feels
their heat scorch her skin
throws them in
and lets
them
burn.

 

 

Fiction

 

He
says
the words
‘I love you’
as if they are true
but her healing heart hears secrets.
She closes her eyes, says nothing
because after all,
she can lie
as well
as
he.

 

 

 

De Jackson is a poet, a parent and a stubborn survivor of multiple past heart massacres. She writes ad copy for money, and poems for love. She has now been ridiculously happily married for almost 14 years, but when it comes to poeming her past life, she pens much, and Fibs often. She clacks the good, the bad and the ugly daily at www.whimsygizmo.wordpress.com.

 

A Poem by Douglas Polk

A Victim

dark places are where I reside,

the memory of unwanted touches,

bring the demons alive,

clawing and grabbing,

addicts desperate to meet their needs,

cynical and abused,

the self unloved,

trust,

a concept forgot along the way,

dark places are where I reside.

 

 

 

Douglas Polk is a poet living in the wilds of central Nebraska with his wife and two boys. He has had over 150 poems, three books of poems, and two children's books published. Poetry books are: In My Defense, The Defense Rests, On Appeal. The children's books are: The Legend of Garle Pond, and Marie's Home.