Friday, November 21, 2014

A Poem by James A. Wilkinson


I can't escape the echoes.
The lingering trace of a stolen kiss
That once melted me away to nothing.
Memories of bodies pressed together tightly till fully melded.
I see her black beetle eyes, deeper than forever,
Hypnotically drawing me back into her orbit.
Things are surely destined to crash and burn once more.
But the choice isn't mine to make,
For my mind is no longer my own.
The emerald wasp has pricked me deep.
And I surrender gladly.

James A. Wilkinson hails from the North East of England.  His focus is on acting as a kind of librarian to his past.  Trying to rationalize the chaos.

Saturday, November 15, 2014

A Poem by henry 7. reneau, jr.


the quantum physics of
attraction solely dependent
upon a singular view

still life two enigmatic
now lickety-split

his &
her (lipstick smeared)
cigarettes flattened on the pavement

two impossible
(smashed & torn)
to read the remnants

cleaved two heartbeats
torn asunder
two break apart

or two holding on
across some distance
as cleaving athwart
the distance grown fonder

henry 7. reneau, jr. writes words in fire to wake the world ablaze:  free verse illuminated by courage that empathizes with all the awful moments, launching a freight train warning that blazes from the heart, like a chambered bullet exploding inadvertently.   

Thursday, November 13, 2014

Two Poems by John Grey

Bye Bye Johnny

his touch
has less hands
than a clock

his kisses
fall off her face
like swatted house flies

all those things
the moon tricked her
into believing--
laughs, if she's honest
lies, if she's sincere

hearts retreat from beating
to Morse code

nerves calm,
got their stories right at last

on a sheet's clammy
wet spot
is sweat alone

I Have My Own Importance to Attend to

I break the plane of your surface,
as my lips on your lips,
holy upon holy,
moon, light, couch, zipper--
this will have ramifications
like world war three starting.

Look at that guy in the photograph.
Your father is it?
He most certainly would not . . .
He would not try to . . .
He would not say or do anything.

But I'm tired of living like
I'm the only one that matters,
the only one loving
at any given time.

Responsibility . . . how about a rain check?

I should drown myself,
leave it to a morgue attendant
to identify this man--
not your fingers,
not your yearning.
Lots of water in the lungs
and let's let see if I take
all feelings down with me.

Yes, sex is what the stars
would be doing if they weren't stars.
And I do twinkle and shine a lot.

Outside, there's traffic,
people watering their gardens--
bad choices on their part.

They leave it all up to me.

Well, of course, you have a say,
a role, in this.
What I mean is,
who's writing this poem?
me or you?

John Grey is an Australian born poet.  Recently published in Paterson Literary Review, Southern California Review and Natural Bridge with work upcoming in New Plains Review, Leading Edge and Louisiana Literature.

Sunday, November 9, 2014

Three Poems by April Salzano

He Loved Me Like a Whore

like he was running out
of time.  His hands were
everywhere his tongue
would not go.  He loved me
like an ocean that threatened
to drown us both, carry our wasted
bodies to shore, enough salt
to cleanse any wound.  He loved me
like I was no longer
breathing.  The air he exhaled
was a breeze from that moment
he was just passing through.

Five Years Later

His ghost is still driving
every silver truck, is still
crouching with a flashlight
in front of every breaker box
in every basement.  His skin
still finds its way under my hands
at the worst moments,
thick with what I have learned
to call regret, a practice
in the dark art of denial.

Forget Me Not

Here is the image I have burned
into your head, leftover
from brief visits to my bed,
one of what would be three times
you fucked me,
both senseless and over,
both literally and metaphorically.  I am on top
of you, sweat soaking skin and sheets.
The taste on my lips is your flavor combined with mine.
You do not resist as my tongue invades territory
of your mouth, landscape of your chest, hard,
beyond male-model perfect, sufficiently supplemented.
Almost flawless, scarless, supine, yours is a body that begs
to be mounted, but never dominated.  More for effect
than pleasure, you reverse our positions without separation.
Animals locked in rhythm without regret, we crash
and climb in unison, my nails in your back,
intentionally tearing the skin with marks you cannot hide.

April Salzano teaches college writing in Pennsylvania where she lives with her husband and two sons.  She is currently working on a memoir on raising a child with autism and several collections of poetry.  Her work has been twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in journals such as Convergence, Ascent Aspirations, The Camel Saloon, Centrifugal Eye, Deadsnakes, Visceral Uterus, Salome, Poetry Quarterly, Writing Tomorrow and Rattle.  Her first chapbook, The Girl of My Dreams, is forthcoming in spring, 2015, from Dancing Girl Press.  The author serves as co-editor at Kind of a Hurricane Press (

Friday, November 7, 2014

A Poem by Ken L. Jones

A Garden Full Of Serpents

I remember how you grew into a stranger
In the lonely midnight that turned to morning
Where you gathered flowers more numerous
Than the babies you would never have by me
While the rolling endless clouds danced at your command
Until nothing but my dreams remained
On that day born from a guitar
Made of butterflies that only Orpheus could play
By a singing seashore that we once rode like a seesaw
Where I tarry not now that all those painted summers are gone
And disappeared into an ungentle bay of cruel waves
Near the sweet milk of a forest where acorns
Crown the snow of days now grown so short
Recalling how the rusty roles
We once played became broken mirrors during the saddest hours
Which any human has ever chosen to report.

For the past thirty-five years Ken L. Jones has been a professionally published author who has done everything from writing Donald Duck Comic books to creating things for Freddy Krueger to say in some of his movies.  In the last six years he has concentrated on his lifelong ambition of becoming a published poet and he has published widely in all genres of that discipline in books, online, in chapbooks and in several solo collections of poetry.  

Monday, November 3, 2014

Two Poems by Rehan Qayoom

I Should Have Known

We met
When the snows were melting from the mountain-tops
When the cherry-tree's first buds were in bloom
The entire park heralded the coming of spring with its sweet fragrance
The nightingale had just begun to sing
We strolled
Arm in arm
In cherry blossom-strewn streets
Catching at butterflies and glow-worms until
The rain came to join us
Like a dear friend

The day the first leaf fell from the trees
I bent down to pick it up
Turned around
Saw you were gone!
Now I collect my tears in broken leaf-images
I should have known our time together
Was to last
As long as spring did.

In a Way We Are All Dr. Faustus

In a way
We are all Dr. Faustus
Some barter their souls
For pleasure's sake
And some under blackmail or duress
Some pawn their eyes
To begin trading in dreams
Others are led to mortgage their entire mind-set
It has only to be seen
What currency is in circulation
So according to an estimate of the Wall Street of life
Among those who can afford to buy, sell or invest
Self respect is a popular commodity!

Rehan Qayoom is a poet, editor and translator from London.  Qayoom writes poetry in both English and Urdu and has appeared in numerous literary publications and anthologies.

Saturday, November 1, 2014

A Poem by Quin Nootebos

I will wash myself of you,
your inequity stains me.
My balance is precarious--
you should have known better,
when push came to shove,
that I'd fall for you,
rather than take you down with me.

I'll never forget the fights,
the words in anger,
and the silent screaming.
I will never forget,
the look in your eyes,
or the tears streaming down your face.
I will also never forget
your laugh,
your smile,
the way you made me feel--
I never wanted to leave your side.
You were my hearts guide,
you took me to places,
to places I'd been
and places I'd always wanted to go.
I will always remember
the love in my heart,
the love in my eyes,
the look of surprise when I realized
that you loved me too.

Quin Nootebos, 22 years of age, has been writing poetry since 15.  Has traveled throughout Australia, Canada, the United States and Hong Kong.  Realizing that his life is a brief collection of the hopes, heart-aches, trials and tribulations, he plans on publishing his works and setting his life out for others to help others go through similar experiences or to enlighten others to expand the way they experience their own lives.