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.

Two Poems by William Doreski

Love Poem Too Late

In the dream creaks a dungeon. I'm there
with a hole in my pants.
Martyr? Saint?

Enough to be a sinner.
Crabgrass pries the flagstones apart.
Sweet William Flycatcher's at the window.

Time to learn to dance.
I dance awake and there you are,
back turned,

wearing brave new panties,
silk too fine to violate.
No longer lovers, but we share a bed,

so I'll tell you my dream.
What of those menstrual flowers?
What of the dim lacings

of death between us,
thin and final as your underwear?
Old jailbirds mated,

we'll wake in dungeons every day
and cry "There's been a mistake!"
You're still asleep, even as this poem

crosses the border into print
and I step out free among
the dewy vegetables;

and you, drowsy as August maples,
linger like a toothache
I've learned to love to ignore.


Glen Cove Day School

A siege of daisies wilted
in the fog. Glen Cove's lone buoy
winked to lure us onto the rocks,

but we were hard on each other,
we bled on the polished floors,
lonely without a mess of children.

Your two weren't enough; they lobbed
spitballs into the damp rooms
but failed to rouse their elders.

Fog grayed the space between us,
our voices whetted through cotton.

Outside, I picked one daisy while
you roped your kids into the car.
White petals, heart of fool's gold.
I shredded it for a single lie.

Love couldn't penetrate that fog,
no more than an air hammer
would suffice to murder a ghost.


His work has appeared in various e and print journals and in several collections, most recently City of Palms (AA Press, 2012).

Two Poems by James Sanchez

I guess the dream went a little off course
Alone in your panties lying on the floor pretending to be alive
The tears soothing your sense of guilt
Shower water like pebbles falling on glass
The breathing of the air conditioner drowning out his foolish humming
Happiness joy
The conquest
Why do you lay on the ground praying for a change of mind?
His heart alone in your thoughts
He washes his penis with hard hands
He cleanses what has sullied you
Loneliness all for loneliness
It should have felt better
You should be perfect
The water races towards the drain as your dreams collect near the bottom

It is the sun that scares me

It is so consistent

I can’t be that way

I waver my resolve grows weaker

I want to smell your love like children smell their father’s shirts

Shirts littered with the memories of 9 to 5’s on factory lines

Memories of loose women loving inadequacy away

I wish I could be consistent like the pain of your memory

It holds me hostage at thought point

I shiver in covers soaked in the sweat of lustful romps through visceral bliss

I am the doubt of all who love

Question the primacy of these feelings

The battle waged at night while children dream of trips to beaches lined with crystal sand

They dream of baseball games where pitchers hurl spheres of pure truth

The catchers brace themselves knowing that the fate of the world rests on one strike

I am alone tonight with my thoughts

My arms are too short to reach for the gun

I am scared that love is a ruse

A trick played by god in order to keep me alive and wondering

It is the sun that scares me at night when the world whispers its gentle lullaby

James Sanchez holds a B.A. in English from Florida International University. He teacher English and Creative writing at Ronald W. Reagan/Doral Senior High school. He resides in Miami, Fl. His work has been published in The Acentos Review, Apeiron Review and Poui: The Cave Hill Literary Annual.

A Poem by Michael H. Brownstein

THIS WAS ONCE A LOVE POEM

 

Go on; enjoy yourself. I'm not returning
home this winter. I don't want to make the mistake
of another year, Missouri a long way off,
full of superstition, omens, and witch's meat.
I'll miss the ripeness of soil, the grazing river,
wild turkeys, possums in the abandoned car,

the red fox living beneath the house, voles

camped in the hills. Some things need endings

more than others, superstition a heavy master.

Splitting poles, spitting on the broom, Sankofa birds,

pockets hanging inside out near running water,

the fourth floor, a sneeze without a bless you,

how the new year begins at midnight.

 

 

 

A Poem by Jeanpaul Ferro

79 Degree Probability of Loss

What beautiful death there is in Madonna de Campiglio,

the peasant people frozen in ice in dance,

the slopes of Austria , and now they call it Italy ,

another place you must come, one more dream to put your trust in,

and you can’t believe you’ll ever do it again,

swimming in the light and shadows where you’ve drowned,

the gum arabic and green volatilize of valle Verzasca—

the river where you saw the diver from Lucerne go down three times,

the way you held his girl friend, the river from the glacier,

minion and nonpareil, crystalline, his body preserved,

Russian experiment in the stone houses of Sonogno,

the ache in my body as you ease yourself against me,

the way your legs cower out, the ecstasy in your pain,

in the white under your flesh in your bones,

the risk, the knife of your spine,

and I take it, twist and turn and bludgeon it,

and the body moves, consumes all of me, and you give in,

and you die in a way too, so cold here in the Dolomites,

always writing by candlelight, the bathroom out in the hallway,

and dance without music—

the sound of your hands against the piano back in the states.

 Jéanpaul Ferro is a novelist, short fiction author, and poet from Providence, Rhode Island. An 8-time Pushcart Prize nominee, Jéanpaul’s work has appeared on NPR, Contemporary American Voices, Columbia Review, Emerson Review, Connecticut Review, Portland Monthly, and others. He is the author of Essendo Morti – Being Dead (Goldfish Press, 2009), nominated for the 2010 Griffin Prize in Poetry; and Jazz (Honest Publishing, 2011) nominated for both the 2012 Griffin Prize in Poetry and the 2012 Kingsley Tufts Prize in Poetry. He is represented by the Jennifer Lyons Literary Agency. He currently lives along the south coast of southern Rhode Island . Website: www.jeanpaulferro.com * E-mail: jeanpaulferro@netzero.net

A Poem by Andrew Rhodes

Line Written on Forgotten Passion


My wide eyes closed tight before they could weep
and I became baffled at the tempted sight
of all the fragments my heart laid 'fore me
when I was no more man than a child.

My lips they trembled red and somewhat flushed
at sounds of the tempest in the nightfall
that came to me amidst the strangest dreams
when I was a boy in a woman's eye.

A Poem by Madhuchhanda Karmaker

Platonic Love......

Lazing at the spoils of life

Tugged between regrets of

Lost yesterdays and

Sky scraped tomorrows

Few drops of coffee

Drifts from cup to lips

Covering the blanket with fear

Lest the weakness of human flesh

Is revealed

The morning fog runs in the street

Selling stolen dreams to Plato

Alluring him to repent

For not getting drenched

In the rains

When heaven cried

As sheets turn wet

Taunts memory

Forgetting to remind season

The reason that made

The flowers go dry

Silently Plato prays

As the poisoned republic sigh…

Madhuchhanda Karmakar , completed her masters in business management from university of Calcutta, India. She was working as a research associate at National Institute Of Management, Calcutta(NIMC),India . Currently she is working as a lecturer in human resource management and organizational behavior at Army Institute Of Management, Kolkata, India. She has the necessary corporate exposure, which helps her to apply her academic skills in real time business solutions.

Her current research are includes human resource management, knowledge management,application of chaos and complextity concepts in management.

She didn't move on to specialize in English literature though; she loves to play with words. She is influenced by surrealistic style of unstructured writings. Her writings come from a personal trajectory, rather than following any prescribed canonical structure. They have a range of viewpoints, mainly from a point of view of a female protagonist, within the realm of fantasy genre.

One of her poem CLEOPATRA has been accepted for publication in the MUSE FOR WOMEN ANTHOLOGY (Maiden edition), which will be released June 30, 2012, and ten of her poems have been selected for publication in Indian Literature , Sahitya Academy , New Delhi , September 2012.

A Poem by Sherry Steiner

It may rain,

It may rain.

Hook, line and sinker…

Within a stone's throw

he said he would go.

O, late in the day

yes, it is tough going -

O, half-way

every quarter hour on the

quarter hour -

it is you move…

Is service included?

Without batting an eye

to play it close to the vest

he just missed falling.

To gather oneself together

to put one's cards

on the table…

I should like

to have at one's fingertips

eighty francs.

Yes.

It is noon that the heat is the strongest…

Do you know me by name?

Sherry Steiner lives in Housatonic MA. For more info: www.sherrysteiner.com

A Poem by David S. Pointer

My Middle Ages History

My love is persona
Non grata. My dog-eared
Valentines from first
Grade have been ex-
Communicated by Cupid’s
Official court. The broad-
Barbed head of my arrows
Whistle and whirl multiple
Mach speed into new tactical
Theories through Robin Hood’s
Hollywood Forest. At the heart’s
Intermission, I go door to door
Selling sixteenth century war
Hammers at discount prices.
Cheerleaders have been known
To launder the school principal’s
Mistress money in order to
Purchase them for self-protection.
Early examples of my affection
Were spanned by hand. The
Eternal smile, I once wore was
Rack and pinioned into place
So that I could have promises
Accurate at over 400 yards. The
Precursor to my initial despair
Over an unforeseen breakup
Was inlaid with sheets of emerald
And gold, and equipped with a
Double string for propelling dog
Bones, driveway stones, or
Whatever I had on hand. Best
Of all, if I am lying streyght,
Heavy, strong with a good long
Grained slightly tapered love it
Means neither sharp strynge nor
Absence of a shooting glove
Will pull me back from loving
                     you!



David S. Pointer was the son of a piano playing bank robber who died when David was three years old. David has somehow managed to contribute more than his fair share to a lifetime of failed relationships.