Three Poems by Ken L. Jones

She Imagines Comic Books

Signal Hill is now all blooming lilacs
Last night's infectious neon arias
Have all fluttered and alighted
Somewhere else as the day slows down
Like Darth Vader's heavy breathing above
The nearby pencil thin sea
In this era carved from reclaimed timber
While I feast well on the Maltese Falcon
On a dumpster dived for TV
Little realizing at that time
All that I once had back in that Sad Sack version
Of Omar Khayyam's Bagdad
By Terminal Island and the bay
Till decades later when I was miles and miles
From that place that I can never
Physically arrive at again
But can only re-cook in my brain pan's gravy
Like some chicken that Donna
In our kitchen now long bakes
And yet still I often go back there
In fading memory looking to see
What can still be retraced.



When the Circus Came to Town

I cannot forget the sound of her voice
Which takes me back once more again
to the shores of decades long ago
That still are mind stretching even yet
To where fiddlers and sad clowns
Provided my lyrics on those roof-less afternoons
When that white hot farmer's daughter
Who stood out even in that sea of super girls
That could shame a rainbow
Infected me with needs that set my very eyes ablaze
Until a fragment of a white dwarf star
Brought me back to earth again
And now when all the gas stations
Have started to blend together
In my licorice blue forever
Where Iowa will always shiver
Even when splintered by the other "Me"
Into a world that no longer exists
Except in the memory of her kiss
As by the last three chapters of my clock
I sculpt with words anything I wish.



A Book that Wrote Itself

There was a glow from afar about how everything
Swam in fold rock during that misjudged summer
That is now decades long ago
And yet its marinated poetry
Still brings upon me a grief as sharp as diamonds
As I reflect on way back when the salt breeze
Was her long and lingering hair
And my heart throbbed madly like wild swans upon the wing
While we ate Gummi Bears that were like a feast
As I played my funhouse of a guitar on those monolithic cliffs
That seemed to like it when I would sing.




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.  

A Poem by Bradford Middleton

Memories of You*

All I see when I look around is you
You're everywhere and nowhere all at once
But as I sit here alone all I can see is memories
You and our brief little time together
That I wish I remember better
But whatever happened with you it was one hell of a ride

A ride that took us through infatuation
Desire, lust and the inevitable
The break-up came at a real bad time
I was up to my head in trouble

That was years ago now but still
You are here and I wish you'd never gone
But all you are now is a memory
A moment in time that is a bit hazy
Due to all the drink and drugs we took
But to move on I got to get you out of my head

I moved from the city to escape the places
I changed my life to be a better boy
No more Billy or Charlie for me I said
Just the plain old drink and pot of yore

Bradford Middleton lives on England's south-coast in Brighton.  He was born in London in 1971 but didn't start writing poetry until he was in his mid-30s and slowly, over time, began to uncover a flourishing underground scene.  Three months before his fortieth birthday he had his first poem accepted at The Mad Swirl.  Since then he has become a Contributing Poet there and also had notable work published at Empty Mirror, Zygote in My Coffee, PPIGPENN, Rolling Thunder Quarterly, Fuck Art Lets Dance, Word Riot, Electric Windmill, Dead Snakes, The Camel Saloon and The Weekenders.

*This poem was previously published on Dead Snakes.

A Poem by John Pursch

Memories of Lola

Somehow
her sensibilities
of forged time led to
muttering down crumbled
fencepost lanes in summer rain.

John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona.  His work has been nominated for Best of the Net and has appeared in many literary journals.  A collection of his poetry, Intunesia, is available in paperback at http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/whiteskybooks.  His experimental lit-rap video is at htt:s://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l33aUs7obVc.  He's @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook.

A Poem by Cherise Wyneken

Washed Up

Magenta colored ripples
coat the lake at sunset
with a heavy film.
I take a breath
deep into the scent of pine
and feel the weight
of your good-bye.

Cherise Wyneken is a freelance writer.  Her articles, stories, and poems--adult and juvenile--have appeared in over two hundred publications, two collections of poetry, two poetry chapbooks, a memoir, a novel, a children's book, a children's audiocassette, and a collection of stories from her life.  She has written a poetry column at:  www.examiner.com/poetry-in-oakland/cherise-wyneken and was nominated for the 2013 Pushcart Prize in poetry.  See also:  http://www.authorsden.com/cherisewyneken

Three Poems by David Subacchi

Treated Like Water

Sorting old photographs your dark eyes
Looked up accusingly from the table
Still moving me after so long
I rescued you from a pile of family
Christmas snaps, party scenes,
Drunken nights in pubs and friends
Pulling stupid expressions
Holding you gently for a moment
Between finger and thumb
Then putting you to one side

I don't know why I did that
I had no plans for you
No folder in which to save
Your high cheek bones
And tight curls
No album or frame
For your portrait
But it wasn't easy
Just to throw you back
Into a jumbled box

Still that's what I did
All other options
Being unavailable
Or simply inappropriate
And the fault entirely mine
I dropped you once again
Into chaos and confusion
Trying hopelessly to shut out
The memory of your parting words

"I won't be treated like water."



Part Sicilian

She said she was part Sicilian
But the flashing eyes
Sharp as stilettos
Had already told me
And the short lived
Crimson blush
Meant I needed
No further convincing

When I spoke
Softly in Italian
Her lips opened slightly
As if to smile
Then curled gently
"I don't understand"
She breathed
Tugging roughly
At a strand of hair
Oh yes she was
Part Sicilian

Turning to leave
She moved
Leopard like
Confident
Of both power
And attraction
I heard neither purr
Nor warning growl
But felt the warm
Wake of her passing
Like summer breezes
Caressing a distant
Island shore.



Ormskirk Market

You drove me to Ormskirk
In your Austin Mini
Because I had no license
And wanted to look
For old records
In the weekly market

With my bag of dusty
Second hand discs
We wandered around
Until you gave me your
"Is that it?" look

I was eager to return
To Liverpool, to the cramped
Rented room we shared
Where the stylus waited
For new grooves to ride
But you were unimpressed

So we sat in a pub
Nursing half pints
Saying little
Then you looked away
With damp eyes
Saying you were also
In a hurry to return

Only when we
Reached the city lights
Did I realize that this
Was so you could
Spin me out of your life
As soon as possible.



David Subacchi was born in Wales (UK) of Italian roots and has published two collections of poems.  First Cut (2012) and Hiding in Shadows (2014).  He studied at the University of Liverpool and is a full time writer and poet.  He is increasingly well published internationally.  Blog:  http://www.writeoutloud.net/profiles/davidsubacchi  You can find more of David's work online, including performance videos simply by searching David Subacchi + Poet

Three Poems by Laura LeHew

Chaff v. Catalyst

lust creates its own demands          abrasive silences
move thru time          destined for more points of view
he's her hard drive         starting with yes ending always with no

she barely registers his existence          loves him uninterrupted or not at all
the wildness of his hair          a cheap Merlot lacking intensity
she is the space between his palm and her skin        re-making history

figuring it out          love comes with nothing
shadows of reality            you cannot know yourself
the cost of bullets          when we were broken



I Hate Your Maybe More

I would rototiller your cubic zirconia ass
slide rule your pancake until it was in tangles
barricade my tachometer from your strap-on armada
to poof past boulevard after boulevard of broken dreams
go ahead & warble away you egalitarian forgery
you slicked up, shellacked Sir Lancelot
natter natter obfuscate all that is the matter
I see a nice heavy Skee ball headed
directly at your snout



Like an RFID tattoo

etched into me
microcurating
the rhythm of our discourse
buried memories
he changes my password--
Embrace Change
(names and places are fictional)
& weighted down by cats, sister
the house in the city he said he wanted too
but never really did
live in an enigma
rounding the angularities
of my oft-used change is good--
things happen for a reason mantra
as he lies in bed alone
in the middle of the night
& the rest is secret
what he is was disloyal
a ruthless quarantine
viewer discretion is advised
I have a cache of AK-47
selective fire rifles, intermediate cartridges
& detachable magazine clips

I ache to be the open bridge

Laura LeHew collections include Willingly Would I Burn, It's Always Night, It Always Rains and Beauty.  Laura edits her small press, Uttered Chaos www.utteredchaos.org, knows nothing of gardens or gardening but is well versed in the cultivation of cats.  lauralehew.com

A Poem by Anna Habryn

No Melodrama

you said we'd have so many nights

don't count the nights
because for me time disappears with sunset
I count days
absences concealments
looks and thoughts I can only guess

I had to go as you were teaching me
the rules of melodrama

shame

as a bear in a snare I've bitten off my paw
it hurts
the silent phone
the hungry letter-box
yet I am free
the reason holds my heart in its tight fist

no hard look will ever reach me
no unwanted word
no prospective blow
I did not give you time to create a hell
my own design for it is perfect

apart from this improper tear
I cannot help

Anna Habryn lives in Huntingdale, WA.  She has her poetry and short stories published locally and in Europe as she writes in two languages, Polish being her native tongue.  Apart from the five collections of poetry published so far, Anna writes for theater and had three of her plays successfully staged by various theater groups.