A Poem by Denny E. Marshall

Later Tonight
She is not the first woman
That has told me good-bye
She is the first one
I still dream of
And pretend she is mine


Denny E. Marshall has had poetry recently published and rejected.

A Poem by James Owens

Lost

But how could I have

returned to you?

How? When

the memory

of fingertips

still burned my face

like bars of sunlight

falling heavily

through autumn shadows,

and behind ordinary

things the colors

of the world

were memories

of the angels’ touch?

I am trying to speak.

I couldn't return ---

not with this desire

shivering in me like a drenched

child. This longing

for a breath

to tear me open.

This lust that will

slice me into color.

I didn't speak. I turned

from you. I drifted

into the trees. I saw

the lovers kiss, and they

fell into each other

and blew away, sand

on the ancient wind,

turning deeper

into the blue wind

and the sky

and the sky

and the sky

 

 

 

James Owens divides his time between Wabash, Ind., and Northern Ontario. Two books of his poems have been published: An Hour is the Doorway (Black Lawrence Press) and Frost Lights a Thin Flame (Mayapple Press). His poems, reviews, translations, and photographs have appeared widely in literary journals, including recent or upcoming publications in The Cortland Review, The Cresset, Poetry Ireland, and The Chaffey Review. He blogs at http://circumstanceandmagic.blogspot.com

A Poem by Nicole Yurcaba

Objectified

the dynamics shifted in your favor

so that you could spill your thick ink onto my unlined pages,

exposing half-truthed confidences between my spread-open covers.

you creased me, broke me at my well-stitched, leather-bound spine.

eventually you tore, ripped, shredded my corners.

how could i--the diary whose pages you gently fingered--ever have fallen into abused disarray?

Reach into the Darkness and Feel

stretch your blood-licked hand to grasp the glass

shards littering the rain-kissed asphalt--

remnants of a wreck formerly known as "Love".

and as I lie motionless, glassy-eyed, concussed,

I'll forgive myself for inadvertently jerking the steady wheel

from your guiding, all-knowing hand;

headlong-sending us into a guardrail disguised as "Reality".

Nicole Yurcaba is a backwoods feminist hailing from West Virginia. Her childhood icons were Daniel Boone, Bettie Page and Rosie the Riveter. An adjunct instructor, farm hand, and substitute teacher, her work has been published in a multitude of places including Referential Magazine, VoxPoetica, Rolling Thunder Quarterly, The Literary Burlesque, Floyd County  Moonshine, and many others.

Two Poems by Sarah Flint

Your Eyes

You believe your eyes shine light

And that no one can be blind to you

You believe your head touches the stars

And millions are left behind you in the clouds

Where they ought to be

No one can touch your heights of aloofness.

You believe your words are the choicest

And rarest of jewels

Only you can have the last one

And it will always be the best and most precise.

You are ablaze with your self-belief

It sits in you like a fat toad

Or a yapping dog

It is undeniably persistent.

I look for my reflection in your eye

Finding none my soul shrinks

Away from your bright bluster

And moves towards a gentler and softer light.

Look into my eye and tell me

what you see in your blindness.

Speak your truth

Your words were like a singing

Stream in the cwm.

Bubbling ,swirling, ceaseless.

They tickled me. They were fresh.

Your words were like a

Sell-by date passed.

Stale, sour, wasteful.

They bored me. They annoyed.

Your words are a sickness

Ready to infect.

Foul. Obnoxious. Toxic.

They poison me. They make me speechless.

My words were like a freshly

Formed butterfly.

Carefree. Colourful. Simple.

They empowered me. They danced with yours.

My words were like a cornered rat

Down a hole.

Aggressive. Uneasy. Ready to run.

They screamed. Then they hid.

My words are like gold dust

Cupped in the palm of my hand.

Precious. Pure. Honest.

I show you a fist.

Sarah Flint has been trying to put words into good order for a while. Originally writing about all things green and horticultural she now has had success in the world of poetry and flash fiction. She has been runner up in the Scottish Mountaineering Council poetry competition for 2 years running and is a regular contributor to The Pygmy Giant.

Three Poems by James Owens

a thousand encounters in the sky

i used 

to wonder 

why i never 

meet people 

like me

lying alone 

on the hot roof,

watching clouds

merge and part

i understood --

it’s because 

they are like me

there were 

clouds 

the next day

too

and the next

 

 

 

abandoned house, manitoulin island, ontario

she was a doorframe

she was the window in his blood

she breathed slowly by the sink

and thought of a tree in bloom

a warmth in her thighs

against the snow of the day

sunlight quavered in a bowl of water

he held the phrase matrimonial privacy

a mouthful of nails to hammer a stair toward the bedroom

winters later

he curls no larger than a loaf of bread

under strips of wallpaper

mewling for home

 

 

 

late in the year

shelterless bird song

floats through rain,

darkens clouds

still, you can find me

the dandelions I dedicated to you

shine in wet grass

*

like young girls, one after another,

trembling --

each skittish tree

lights and rustles 

under the sky’s

reckless caress

*

still in the mind of the beloved

the leaf is trembling

green on the black branch

even after

this sky swallowed

the winter wind

 

 

 

James Owens divides his time between Wabash, Ind., and Northern Ontario. Two books of his poems have been published: An Hour is the Doorway (Black Lawrence Press) and Frost Lights a Thin Flame (Mayapple Press). His poems, reviews, translations, and photographs have appeared widely in literary journals, including recent or upcoming publications in The Cortland Review, The Cresset, Poetry Ireland, and The Chaffey Review.  He blogs athttp://circumstanceandmagic.blogspot.com

Two Poems by Maurice Devitt

Vanishing Point

In the faint shake of evening
you pick a thread
from my new blue suit
fidget silently
with the syllables
of a name or a face
whisper nothing
that will matter
in the retold history
of our lives --
when you step away
I see for the first time
that the suit is too tight.

 

 

Leaving

 

Her zipped bag

is on the bed

and she is trying

with words

to reach out

one last time.

He is studying

a luggage tag

and thinking

how sticky the handle will be

when she tears it off.

 

 

 

Maurice Devitt is a graduate of the Poetry Studies MA at Mater Dei, he has just been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and was runner-up in the Cork Literary Review Manuscript Competition. Earlier in 2012 he was short-listed for the Listowel Writers’ Week Poetry Collection Competition, placed third in The Joy of Sex competition and long-listed for the Doire Press Chapbook Competition. During 2011 he was short-listed for both the Fish Poetry prize and the Cork Literary Review Manuscript Competition, and was also runner-up in the Phizzfest poetry competition. Over the past twelve months he has had poems accepted by Orbis, Abridged, Moloch, Revival, Boyneberries, Paraxis, Weary Blues, thefirstcut, Spinoza Blue, The Galway Review, Other Words: Merida, Stony Thursday, Ofi Press, Bluepepper, The Weekenders and Smiths Knoll and is looking to publish a first collection.

Three Poems by Miki Byrne

Trophy Wife.

When the jagged edges of your life cut me to slivers

and the depths of your pre-occupation drowned me

in their chill. I feebly staunched the wounds.

Till all I was lay splattered and you dipped your fingers

into what I was. You daubed yourself in war-paint

from the palette of my love. Drew the warriors mask

upon you. Then left me torn and bleeding as you carried

my heart away. A trophy on your belt. I bumped against

your thigh as you strode like an invader through my life.

I meant no more in captivity than I had in the chase.

When we Argued in Public. 

 

That night, the air shattered,

when you hurled your words through it.

I bloodied my feet trying to walk away.

With the shards of your lies

stuck like thorns in my skin.

Other people put their days in glasses

and settled into the armchair hours.

Conversation shoaled about us.

Yet I could not speak because your comments

filled my mouth. You thought that I

was adorned in embarrassment

and would not take my clothes off in public.

Anger was my evening meal that night

and I ate till I was sated.

Let its nourishment form a new skin

over the places you had touched.

Made it pad out my feeble arms with muscle

and give strength to my trembling thighs.

I became a colossus. Stepped over you.

and left you as desert for the hungry crowd.

Dining Gaffe.

Conversation ebbs and flows.

Equal emphasis from each person.

Cornered around a laden table.

Words are swapped. Vocal tennis.

Mixed doubles cheered on by a good dinner.

Then one becomes competitive.

Sees her happy with another.

Breaks the unsaid rule of table talk.

Hits a verbal volley, painful in its speed.

His opposite is taken down.

Precariously rocked by the unexpected swipe.

Hurt by the probe of questions too deep for etiquette.

Dislikes the hard thump of intrusion. She sits.

Held uncomfortably in place.

Unable to disrupt the social balance.

As she becomes the butt her partner sits mystified.

A subtle shift has trembled through the room.

They rise to leave. Give cool thanks.

Yet burn with the building warmth of anger.

 

 

 

 

Miki is the author of two poetry collections. She has had work included in over 120 poetry magazines and anthologies. She has won prizes for her poetry and has read on both Radio and TV and judged poetry competitions. She has a BA (Hons.) in 3D Design and a PGCE. Her new collection ‘Flying Through Houses’ will be available from Indigo Dreams Press in 2013. Miki is disabled and lives in Gloucestershire, England

Three Poems by Anthony Ward

Gem Stone

If only I could give donation to her heart,

Then maybe I’d be more charitable towards her.

It pains me for her to be this close,

While I remain so distant,

So far inside myself,

Afraid to speak,

In case my words reverberate against me in waves of mortification

And send me further into the mine of my mind,

Chipping away at the rock in search of something

That will enrich me from the darkness.

 

Lying

She lies for me.

She tells me how handsome I am,

How beautiful I make her feel.

She tells me how intelligent I am,

How I make her life more interesting.

She tells me I’m a joy to be with,

How she’s never been happier.

She tells me how much she loves me,

How great I make love to her.

She lies for me.

 

 

Misunderstanding

I’ve always chased the girls

That were running from me,

Not noticing those

That stood behind me,

Rendered claustrophobic

By their proximity,

Causing me to run,

With them chasing after-

Not understanding the way I felt.

 

 

 

Anthony tends to fidget with his thoughts in the hope of laying them to rest. He has managed to lay them in a number of literary magazines including The Faircloth Review, Drunk Monkeys, Jellyfish Whispers, Turbulence, Underground, The Autumn Sound, Torrid Literature Journal and The Rusty Nail, amongst others.

Three Poems by Susan Dale

Spellbound

Under an arch___ and pausing

to feel the air thick in evocations

Desires, dreams, delusions

What?

And so____ a journey deep

into archives of wonder

I hear all around___ and behind a corner

and feel ripples across my shoulders

But time has devoured the script

Spellbound, I wait

And listen to whispers

‘You were here once’

Was it a bridge I crossed?

A door I opened

Who was with me then?

When?

A phrase of broken words

A note or two levitating me

to the music of spires and spheres

And in the broken space of time

Someone in a passing car

gazes out at me with eyes

reaching out of time to breach

the now with the then

But is gone on wheels

rolling down a lonely road

Leaving behind a wonder

returned to the unknown

It breaths

I try to catch it

But my heart rushes ahead of my feet

Both come to crossroads

quiet as sleep

And leave shadows and memories

To grapple with time

  

　

The Healing Hours
 

When we set about to sever us

My symbols of shock

Met your trampled cries

Together, our poison words

Spit raw bone furies

I flew off with broken wing

And sacrificed pride

To hide in woodland nest

And nurse my wounds

You covered your stone heart

With the eyelids of night

We shivered in the driving rain

To feel the claws of fate

Held in cold-fisted time

Our memories fell into

The avalanches that covered us

with memories

Down a avenue of broken time

We limped

From the cloistered dark

You, into circles of light

I, through labyrinths and mazes

Through tangled brambles

Into a night of blazing meteors

My cinder heart

Smoking in gray ashes

Back into the tattered fabric of time, we came

Time sewn with threads of tears

Back to the scars

Running the full length of our days

Ah, the scents and tastes

The harmonies and textures

Of remembering

Ah, the smoky atmosphere of tomorrow

The silver waves and breaking tides

The healing hours of time

　

　

 

 

Yesterday’s Empty Space
 

The wild wings in some spring

Some yesterday

singing spring

Singing April’s restless winds

I, in pink felt coat

hair caught in wind-wings

Afternoon winds blowing about

the decayed leaves

left from winter’s

white romance

when we were us

A winter of

snow dreams on my windowpanes

I, west on the walk

of steps climbing to the moon

You, east

of thirst to a stream

But when winds screeched rain squalls

and shouted shadows

I remembered your stone heart

stone words

You dwelling on my fickle heart

roaming ways

Came a fugitive moment of grace

half visions in wide scopes

One image leading to another

The gauntlet laid

Could we meet in the middle?

of a chasm of armored stars

Or climb tendrils wrapping

around tomorrow?

But only our eyes met

to see spaces filled with duplicitous lights

Tomorrows on winged flights
So many miles apart

 

Susan’s poems and fiction are on Eastown Fiction, Tryst 3, Word Salad, Pens On Fire, Ken *Again, Hackwriters, Feathered Flounder, and Penwood Review. In 2007, she won the grand prize for poetry from Oneswan.

A Poem by Martin Cohen

Lovely Limerick

(A response to a poem titled "Never Rhyme with Love", which listed the five words that rhyme with "love" and insisted that they should never be used because the result was bound to be sappy and sentimental. I hope you’ll agree that this is neither sappy nor sentimental.)

There's a problem with being in love
When you’re dumped you turn vulture from dove
     Rage makes you think of
     Ways to shove from above
But be sure that you’re wearing a glove



Martin Cohen is a retired computer programmer who loves dancing (favorites are West Coast Swing, Waltz, Tango, and Foxtrot), writing (but not revising) poems, and solving math problems.

Two Poems by John Kross

A Frigid Woman

Beware the frigid woman
who can lean upon the stars
but never gather light
or comprehend heat.

She hides what to reveal
would turn her lover’s eyes away,
the scars her daddy left,
the guilt thrown at the pews,
the touch of too many,
the touch of too few.

For strangers she
will fly the moon, for you
she comes home tired
to sleep on nails.

A master of conditional love
she heaps her baggage on the ones
who love her most,
entitlement
the only truth she breathes.

She never goes to where
you'd take her

she only commits to
deception

and stacks of Bibles do nothing
to bring forth truth

I tell you this much

the light across the dawn is more
than just the sun
and everything you give her
will rust.

Warp

20 years felt more like 40...as if
she slowed the Earth’s rotation with
the magnetic malfunction of her moral compass.

 

 

 

 

John Kross is an aspiring poet living and working in Dallas,Texas.  He has been published here several times at "Napalm and Novocaine" August 2012 and at "The Mind(less) Muse" August 2012.
You can read most of John's work and interact with him as himself at www.hellopoetry.com.

A Poem by Doug Draime

 

Alive Again

One night

I thought I saw Beth

sitting next to a pond

feeding swans.

Her red hair

as long as ever

flowing down her back

like burning wildfire.

In the moonlight

she turned;

a half smile crossing

her face,

the rest of her

disappeared in shadows,

like the swans

swimming out

under the midnight moon

 

 

 

Doug Draime has a full-length collection due out from Interior Noise Press in 2012. A presence in the underground literary movement for nearly five decades. Most recent books in print include: Los Angeles Terminal: Poems 1971-1980 (Covert Press) and Rock 'n Roll Jizz (Propaganda Press ). Awarded small PEN grants in 1987, 1991, and 1992. Nominated for several Pushcart Prizes in last few years. He lives in the foothills of Oregon.

Two Poems by Chad W. Lutz

Breeze That Bears Your Name

A slow wind blows like saccharine

bearing your name against the hillside

where we used to sit and talk about Love. I gaze out upon

a million dancing daffodils, alive like

fire in the golden sun. A bird cries fowl

at a fellow flock sending fish hooks off course through

the valley below. I, too, cringe at its piercing shriek

and wish the bird to go away so that I may be

peacefully surrounded by something that

still wears your name. I wish for it to keep blowing,

even though I know I am in vain.

 

 

 

 

Foresight in the Rear-View Mirror

 

The moment I realized I didn’t love you anymore,

I was staring in my rear-view mirror.

There was an overweight ode to plastic surgery and Botox

Haphazardly bombing a pudgy face with McDonald’s and Mary Kay

At a stop light just outside of town.

 

She was wearing a pair of those giant, bug-like sunglasses that devour half of your face.

In her one hand was a smartphone, and in the other anything but the wheel.

Diamonds sparkled around her neck with the same abandoned glisten as the interior

Of her over-priced Cadillac.

 

I looked to the West, to the sun, shining bright in the afternoon sky.

Still dripping from my 10-mile run and sporting a windswept hairdo,

I got that familiar feeling.

 

The same feeling found in a dry, desert wind,

Or in early-morning sunlight cresting on an unbridled beach.

 

An American flag blew gently in the breeze above my car attached

To a weather-worn electric pole.

A dozen motors must’ve been buzzing around me at that crossroads,

But all I could hear was my heart.

 

I called you that night, and put an end to it; to a dream never meant to be.

Just in the nick of time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chad W. Lutz was born in Akron, Ohio, in 1986 and lives in the neighboring suburb of Stow.An avid athlete, activist, writer and musician, Chad holds a BA in English with a Minor in Writing from Kent State University, Class of 2008. His work has been featured in Diverse Voices Quarterly Journal, The Drunken Odyssey, The Dying Goose, Haunted Waters Press and AltOhio.com. He currently works as head content writer for an online job applications website in North Canton, Ohio, and aspires to run the marathon in the 2016 Olympic Games.