Wednesday, July 31, 2013

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
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.

Tuesday, July 23, 2013

A Poem by Jon Bennet

The Things
Between the two of us
you'd think
we'd leave less behind
but there are baskets
in the hallway
full of  phrases left in their wrapping
suppressed advice
compliments of course.
There was the time
I didn't tell you
that I loved you
and the time you didn't say
“I wish you’d die”
along with the fern and goldfish.
It doesn't matter now
in that hallway
with its
opposing doors
we each took one
and simply
walked away.
Jon Bennet has  also been published in Red Fez, Zygote in My Coffee, and others.

Sunday, July 21, 2013

Two Poems by A.g. Synclair

I Was Just Thinking
it's better to write alone
in a dark room
with a full bottle
and a heavy chest
even when it’s all too much
the rain
the dark
the solitary thump of the heart
all of that
is better than suffering
because, clearly
she wanted me
sitting all day
in a chair
banging out fragments of myself
the ones lodged in the bones
of a bird

failing victorious
A.g. Synclair is an unapologetic pessimist, rule breaker, and rebel without a clue. When he isn't editing The Montucky Review and serving on the editorial staff of The Bookends Review, he is drinking from glasses that are perpetually half empty and hiding from the sun, which is clearly trying to kill him. Despite being extensively published around the globe, he flies under the radar. Deftly.


Friday, July 19, 2013

Three Poems by M.J. Iuppa

Feeding a Fire
Wedged beneath a pile of papers
waiting to be burned, I
find rumpled sheet music
Words pressed against notes,
a tune like the sudden sweep
of snow in late March air . . .
A perfection of our labor that’s
difficult to give up, like this song’s
devotion as if anyone pays attention
Still nothing is the same and this
song’s refrain, wistful at best, not
love or blues, half-truths said
in low light, waiting for embers
to shift in the stove . . . 
I close my eyes, knowing
I will sing this without you
Where can a blind man live
who is pursued by bees?
Uncomfortable skin, incessant
itch to jump, to twitch, to hum
constant noise that gives him
hives–makes madness come
alive– a thousand wings fanning
figure eights until cells ignite
into fiery flight that burns
his eyes–tearless cries be-
come disguise, dodging
all that occupies his mind.
Temptation in Standard Time
A fish hook moon skims
a dark city sky, promising
to return morning
without being caught
in a corridor between lives,
tempting those who love
the stolen split-second kiss
to linger in the doorway
that’s damp with fallen leaves–
hard to forget, but
can’t be remembered
Who were you, really?
And I, in spite of
purity, claimed your
unexpected embrace
long enough
to let it go
M. J. Iuppa lives on a small farm near the shores of Lake Ontario.  Her most recent poems have appeared in Poetry East, The Chariton Review, Tar River Poetry, Blueline, The Prose Poem Project, and The Centrifugal Eye, among other publications.  Her most recent poetry chapbook is As the Crow Flies (Foothills Publishing, 2008), and her second full-length collection is Within Reach (Cherry Grove Collections, 2010).  Between Worlds, a prose chapbook, was published by Foothills Publishing in May 2013.  She is Writer-in-Residence and Director of the Visual and Performing Arts Minor program at St. John Fisher College in Rochester, New York.

Saturday, July 6, 2013

A Poem by J.K. Durick


I’m not talking about the dog -- he stays,
Fetch was never my game anyway, but
I’m talking about the few dishes I brought,
Those things my grandmother left and
I brought along to play house, to play home,
There are the bookcases that fit the shape
Of rooms so well but are empty without me,
And there are a few other details I left:
My hours, my efforts, the things I thought,
And the things I assumed. I want my ghosts
To come along, to pack up all they can and
Follow me out to the car, down the road,
Follow me like the children we never had,
Children who now choose to live with me.
J. K. Durick is a writing teacher at the Community College of Vermont and an online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Decades Review, Jellyfish Whispers, Third Wednesday, and Up the River.

Monday, July 1, 2013

A Poem by Kelley White

Too late
you call
you remember a body
twenty-two years old
no visible scars
and I’d give you my heart
but in lives in a sausage
stuffed with anger and sewn
with despair
like a pit bull pup
it nuzzles and wheezes
for a hand on the muzzle
a pat on the back
you see
its hope-ugly visage
suspect the danger:
this one

might bite back
Pediatrician Kelley White worked in inner-city Philadelphia and now works in rural New Hampshire. Her poems have appeared in journals including Exquisite Corpse, Rattle and JAMA.  Her most recent books are TOXIC ENVIRONMENT (Boston Poet Press) and TWO BIRDS IN FLAME (Beech River Books.) She received a 2008 PCA grant.