Two Poems by Joanna M. Weston

Contradictions

when I slept
with you the nights
filled with sunlight

now I sleep alone
my dreams chase
a jeering voice



The Farewell

when rain stopped
when wind ceased
then came grief
deep below hurt

the leaving and goodbye
at the open door
before the closing
before the car-start

motion down driveway
vanish along road
to emptiness
of sky  earth  self

Joanna M. Weston is married, has two cats, multiple spiders, a herd of deer, and two derelict hen houses.  Her middle reader, Those Blue Shoes, is published by Clarity House Press.  Her poetry collection, A Summer Father, is published by Frontenac house of Calgary.  Her eBooks can be found at http://www.1960willowtree.wordpress.com/

Three Poems by Linda M. Crate

eventually

you reduce me to
harpy cries
shrieking fury and revenge
for you know
nothing of love which
you claimed you had for me,
and i hope you
remember
the fire of my eyes as you
lay with her;
hope you
remember the way i smiled,
and the fragrance of my
hair--
once a cheat
always a cheat because
you're not sincere
enough to make a change
you only want
what
comes easily
and one day you'll see
you were wrong
about me;
i know you think you had
the best of me,
but that's yet to come
don't think like caroline because
your crap does smell;
and your body
is not the ancient adonis
beautiful and maintained
you're just a fallen
star
whose forgotten his warmth
simply to manufacture
a carbon copy of the
word into being--
you are a
pharisee
holding yourself erect so
proudly and you
claim your love for God,
but it is false
as evidenced by the
way you treat people and
the way you treated
me;
tell me little, liar,
was i ever beautiful to you
or would any girl
have done?
ah--
but what does it matter now
all these winters
later?
in the end you will
get yours and that
shallow love you gave me
will fuck you over
until
nothing is left
but a broken heart, a shard of a soul.



no little red

one day
i'm the dish, the doll you
claim
you want and a week later you
stop returning my
texts;
i was fine before you walked into
my life
why did you have to play with
my heart and toy with my
emotions?
i don't have time for little boys
and their games
i have places to go and dreams to
follow, and if i have to walk
without you that's
perfectly
fine by me just don't act like you
love me or you care when
you don't;
because i'm beyond furious
with you--
told me you weren't fake but i should have known
better if you weren't then why would you
have to tell me?
won't waste another thought on you
because i have a life to live
so go play,
wolf,
because i'm no little red riding hood.



burn

they told me one day you'd
regret
severing my heart into a thousand
painful galaxies
of flames
that took forever to reunite again
as one,
but i don't know if i believe them
for you to regret anything
you'd have to care
which
you obviously didn't;
not when you lost me so easily--
wish i could just drop
these memories of you in the trash
like i did all the things you
gave me,
but my mind is a pandora's box
pricking me on pins and
needles and all the thorns that
sing your name;
i don't know how men like you live with
yourselves so false and fake and
insincere--
gave you my first flowers
and that's not something i can get back,
but you didn't even care
so i hope one day the flames which you used
to tear my pretty little red heart
apart burn you instead
until nothing
remains not even a memory.

Linda M. Crate is a Pennsylvania native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Cnneautville.  She currently resides in Meadville.  Her poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print.  Recently her two chapbooks, A Mermaid Crashing Into Dawn (Fowlpox Press - June 2013) and Less Than A Man (The Camel Saloon -- January 2014), were published.

A Poem by James Mirarchi

Connections

Laptop in the dark
A digital ogre
Breathing out snow white data
Freezing everything
With its soulless intellect

Chalky and nude
In computer's moonlight
Two men on futon
Writhe like thick pythons
Knotted erotically - and adversarially

They are randy pinball machines
(A plunger-spring here - a flashing target there)
Empty readouts flicker
Across their drunken faces

These lovers devour
Into each other's numb circuits
TRYING to find an emotional buzz within flesh
But to no avail

They eventually "shut down"
(sigh like steam-emitting engines)
And make each other a wee hour breakfast
Some espresso
Gives them the high
They were previously searching for

Farewell comes
When these two men
Go their separate ways
Folding each other up
Just like their handy laptops
But, they are, alas, HUMAN

James Mirarchi grew up in Queens, New York.  In addition to his poetry collections, Venison and Dervish, he has written and directed short films which have played festivals.  His poems have appeared in several independent literary journals.  Links to his work can be found at www.thehydratedpoet.blogspot.com/

A Poem by Michael Lee Johnson

Sandy

I have seen your eyes roam
over me so many times,
I don't even bother to feel
them anymore.
One can speak with the eyes,
you know--
and you've been silent
for so long
it doesn't even hurt anymore
to see you staring at me--
and not uttering a word.

MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era:  now known as the Illinois poet, from Itasca, IL.  Today he is a poet, freelance writer, photographer who experiments with poetography (blending poetry with photography), and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois, who has been published in more than 750 small press magazines in 27 countries, he edits 8 poetry sites.  Michael is the author of The Lost American:  From Exile to Freedom (136 pages book), several chapbooks of poetry, including From Which Place the Morning Rises and Challenge of Night and Day, and Chicago Poems.  He also has over 70 poetry videos on YouTube.

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A Poem by Paul Bernstein

Phototrope

Daybreak.  Turning
in bed I reach out
to emptiness.  Every day
begins in darkness.
Every night in dreams
I open up to you
too late and wilt
and wake up twisted,
a broken flower
searching in vain
for the morning sun.

Paul Bernstein, in previous lives, was a graduate student in medieval history, library worker/antiwar activist/weekend hippie/aspiring poet, radical journalist, medical editor, and managing editor of a medical journal.  He resumed writing poetry some fifteen years ago.  Recent work has appeared in Big River Poetry Journal, River Poets Review, Poetry Quarterly, Front Porch Review, U.S. 1 Worksheets, Magic Lantern and elsewhere.  He currently lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan, where he participates regularly in open mic readings.