J. K. Durick is a writing teacher at the Community College of Vermont and an online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Social Justice Poetry, Tuck Magazine, Yellow Chair Review, Synchronized Chaos, and Haikuniverse. Jerry D. Birth Day Birthdays changed the year my mother Sent a card, then called A month too soon. She sounded betrayed, somehow, When I finally said, But mom, it's in August. After a pause she said, What are you saying? I, if anyone, should know When my children were born. A fear, new to her, a fear We'd all get to know so well, Had settled to the bottom of her voice. The Burren (Co. Galway) Out here they wait for Godot, Pass time as best they can, Blend to this background of gray The full array of gray -- Weather off the North Atlantic, Limestone melting down into itself. A limestone so porous even Rain passes through, Stays slippery underfoot But never holds long enough To puddle or encourage growth. A few wildflowers cling to life In the crevices, out of this wind. Their purple and yellows fail To soften the moment. This is the twilit surface Of the moon, the wasteland, The aftermath, Purgatory, What we escaped from, what We know we are coming to. Folks around here like to tell How Cromwell's armies mourned This absence of trees, trees to hang The nearest papists from, nor water To drown them in, no ground For graves, nor dirt for the living To cover up their dead. Weather Weather weighs too much around here affects more than just mood and travel plans. It clings to us like someone else’s clothes we took by accident from a dryer at a laundromat we no longer can find. Why, today is too small, a very tight fit, restrictive, ready to rip open anytime; this tear in the seam seems to get wider each time I stand or walk around a bit. Of course, you know I’d never wear this color, and these boyish stripes make me look older than I really am and fatter. No need to mention fatter for that matter; the day puts pounds on everyone here – it weighs, it stays, like uninvited guests, like unfinished business, like the flu, like bad politics, bad plums, and, of course, bad verse.
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Gerard Sarnat is the author of four critically-acclaimed collections: HOMELESS CHRONICLES from Abraham to Burning Man (2010), Disputes (2012), 17s (2014) and Melting The Ice King (2016). Work from Ice King was accepted by over seventy magazines, including Gargoyle and Lowestoft Chronicle, and featured in Songs of Eretz Poetry Review, Avocet: A Journal of Nature Poems, LEVELER, tNY, StepAway, Bywords and Floor Plan. For Huffington Post and other reviews, reading dates, publications, interviews and more, visit GerardSarnat.com. Go to Amazon to find Gerry’s books plus Editorial and Customer Reviews. Harvard and Stanford educated, Gerry’s spent time in jails as a physician and protestor, built and staffed clinics for the marginalized, been a CEO of healthcare organizations and Stanford Medical School professor. Sarnat's spent decades working for Middle East peace, including being a member of the US’s longest-running Jewish-Palestinian dialogue group and serving on the New Israel Fund international board. Married since 1969, he has three children and four grandkids. Men’s Group Prison Process We weave primary gang colors into a quilt of intimacy. Taboos Haiku Being gay is passé. TG spectrum’s trendy. Let's be on our way. Tangletown Cis genderflux Androgyne demiboy OCD dysthymia Post Hoosegow Haiku Surfing the Pacific after 60 years --a kid’s zest again – plop. Bijay Kumar Show from Durgapur, India has been teaching in National Institute of Technology, Durgapur for about 08 years. He obtained his Ph.D. degree in Engineering in 2014. He enjoys teaching and research and likes to spend quality time with family. To him, poetry is the painting of one’s inner self with colours of eclectic feelings. Poetry is also a source of contentment and peace for him. His poetry has recently been published in Tuck Magazine, Dissident Voice and Ashvamegh Journal (where he was selected as Featured Poet in its August 2016 issue). Website https://bkspoetry.wordpress.com Only Love I asked the rising sun in despair, Why don’t you freeze? On the wake of global warming; I asked the glorious full moon in disgrace, Why don’t you hide and become ‘no moon’? Having witnessed the violence on femininity; I asked the stars in anguish, Why don’t you stop twinkling? While seeing terror attacks on humanity; I asked the vast blue sky in grief, Why don’t you cover yourself with cloud’s blanket? On the crisis of global intolerance; Then reply came from……… The Sun and the Moon, The blue sky and the little Stars; That………… Why don’t you wake up and turn inwards? To witness all the chaos inside; Outer world is just a reflection, Of everybody’s inner hate and violence; Thus the only solution for all these is, LOVE and ONLY LOVE. Longing The brook emanated from The fountain of my heart, In your search, has now Become turbulent and intolerant; The ray of light radiated from The heart’s fire of longing, In your hunt, has now Converted into gigantic volcano; The cold breeze escaped from My restless and swaying heart, In your quest, has now Transformed into ruthless storm; The tiny cloud of hope formed In my heart’s empty sky, For seeking your company, has now Consumed my heart’s whole sky; The tree of optimism sprouted From my heart’s bare land, In your search, has now been Standing with fallen leaves; Seeking you, in sheer madness; Rebellious thus became, my Five elements of existence; But I know……. One day………. Brook will merge into sea; Suppressed fire will erupt; Storm will calm down; Clouds disappear on raining; Spring will come again; I will find you one day, thus. Ignore Not Ignore not, please! Run away, instead, If, want not my company; Ignore not, please! React strongly, instead, If, want not listen to me; Ignore not, please! Express aggression, instead, If, want not eye-contact; Ignore not, please! Reject me, instead, If, want not to like me; Your mere rejection Is as good as your love; Stronger the disapproval Deeper will be your love; As waves emerge, From deep serene sea; So, rejection surfaces, From deep attraction; Born in Italy some decades ago, Gabriella Garofalo fell in love with the English language at six, started writing poems (in Italian) at six and is the author of “Lo sguardo di Orfeo”; “L’inverno di vetro”; “Di altre stelle polari”; “Blue branches”. Dunno why she never learnt To gracefully ease through cobalt rules And whirling whispers in the sky: How to cope they didn’t know, So they handed her over to nights Too busy with meeting friends, errands to run, They couldn’t foster my soul, maybe that’s why - Schtum now and let in skews of light, No more captives of grim quasars My comets skip, jump, leap, Survivors from spent days - Him, you mean? Oh, drop his bloody bragging, There, I’ve turned the sun off, Yet I can see you, Father, you are drawing Clouds, all of them a jerky fad, a delusion, Yet I can hear the light’s voice, Your silent yes to first creation, To boundless art, you are my mother - It all capsized. Enough enough then With fresh pomegranate juice, We’ve been drinking death for ages - Have a look, c’mon, Blue blankets in the back yard Dancing on the washing line, And you, time, go, go I say, run like hell, Forget blue girls or breeding mums: Fed up with diving your sirens lust for sky - Listen, keep it sharp keep it short Lest women smear our sight at the art den - Just spot three, the dazed lady Holding hands with a sturdy guy, The artsy girlie clad in blue lace trousers, I kid you not, all curls à la Dionysus, The cougar glowing with name-dropping, silicone, Man o man, aren’t naked verbs, clothed limbs, Hidden love affairs a tricky scrape ‘Get out into summer’ they belt out And wink cheeky from afar - Dead air outside, love, I’m afraid: Not my fault, of course, but oh so sorry - Yeah right. *** Please meet him and his endless names - Green everywhere - Tradition says Eve’s daughters Smell strange, is that right? Well, just now there is this subtle Or not so subtle scent: Spike heels, miniskirts, Tattooed legs, skin-tight tees, Then God’s creativity shows up: Demise, cold stones meddling If women shunt or trees move on, Soul where seed disperses When candles raise exhausted glow When angels shred rooms, Of course with light - Drop dead twice, noise, she’s going Back to the stars that fix what went awry, You know how first creation fouls it up: Foliage, vault of the sky, ditching white - No myth hold you safe, no prophet House you desert - Questions maybe, scant words of light As candles hiss your name she can’t feel mother - Yet you inside. *** ‘T was the best part of our childhood, We played, free and flowing like clouds - We were clouds - But the angels fired off without warning, Wild shot discharge, we both jammed up with light - Listen now, there’s a good girl: I’ve just run short of questions and time, Workshops, book fairs, the fairy tales of raped souls, Resentful lines simmering with grudge or grinding - Sorry? Oh, you don’t need names or queries, do you? Sure as hell, as you smite all names, all queries, Even the mad thinker says you rose higher much higher Than names queries daft words, Well, so he says - When and only when stillness was the stuff of another life, Maybe the stuff fairy tales are made of, Meantime health and sleep go awol and my sister’s words are beating like traffic lights, Green red green red - Or is it a heart’s lights just a sec before riots strike? Poet FETHI SASSI was born on the 1st of June 1962 in Nabeul Tunisia . A writer of prose poetry and short poems. He participated in several national literary meetings. A member in the Tunisian Writers' Union. And member in the Literature Club at the cultural center of Sousse. His first book of poetry entitled "A Seed of Love" was published in the year 2010. The second entitled “ I dream …. And “I sign on birds the last words " in 2013. The third book of poetry " a sky for a strange bird “ in Egypt. And a short poem book entitled “All the universe is only the face of my beloved”. I do not remember well ... It was something resembling her face Poem in arabic fethi sassi TRASLATED BY MONIA ZGUIDI She was drinking the rainbow … Hiding behind the bottle of absence I do not remember well ... It was something resembling her face I was with her drinking my retreat Upon the arm of an apologizing flute ... But the night revealed to her its fragrance And invited her to sleep on the note of love ... Her face blazed with poetry ; she melted as a poem She is still , as usual , looking from the window of time Like a butterfly bearing in the fingertips a sob that engraves Memory ... Thus names dangled for her like desperate bunches on the ramparts of a poem .... That's why... I do not leave her dream early until choose to the wind the stones of oblivion I sleep with her and on the hand of the evening a kiss hangs like dreams of a kitten ... A lip that sheds clouds on the groves of amazement Me ... I will steal a star and hide in the mist of words So, alone ,the night ascends the ladder of time , chatting with a butterfly of amazement. At the window of my heart I weave climates to the forthcoming seasons So, spread to me a wish in the emptiness ... Kiss me! your spittle is enough for me to drown …. You , a face absent from my poems Open to me the sun gate to drink my storm , for I see behind the absence a raining cloud upon her obstinate cup of coffee Like the sore sunset smile Like the evening tale So be lenient waves !! My fingertips care about her absence. Her kiss is a hole poem ..... Let's enter together the dungeons of her body There we shall knead the clay of the story ; and venture in the folds of its charm We never care about the alchemy of kisses ... But I do not remember well...It was something resembling her face... Colin Dodds is the author of Another Broken Wizard, WINDFALL and The Last Bad Job, which Norman Mailer touted as showing “something that very few writers have; a species of inner talent that owes very little to other people.” His writing has appeared in more than two hundred publications, and been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and the Best of the Net Anthology. Poet and songwriter David Berman (Silver Jews, Actual Air) said of Dodds’ work: “These are very good poems. For moments I could even feel the old feelings when I read them.” Colin’s book-length poem That Happy Captive was a finalist for the Trio House Press Louise Bogan Award as well as the 42 Miles Press Poetry Award in 2015. And his screenplay, Refreshment, was named a semi-finalist in the 2010 American Zoetrope Contest. Colin lives in Brooklyn, New York, with his wife and daughter. See more of his work at thecolindodds.com. Reprieves Just breathing is a hanging offense But reprieves are all around Bad baptisms glow and shift from digital jukebox coin changer scratch-off-ticket vending machine trivia screen devices to keep the people out of the people The dead forgive your desires Cheaply The ones wise enough not to love you will answer your questions Cheaply Every man a justifiable homicide though we’ve been advised not to think on that Every man a justifiable homicide and that includes you So pause, if you must, only to rinse in songs and cheap light Deception’s how the heart beats and the eyes see My Bother’s Keeper Water with perverse and gorgeous bother gives itself to itself Fountains gasp and babble in dead-end streets and open-ended piazzas A family pulls creatures from the deep interrogates and torments them The fountain freezes the creatures in their agony as they confess what, to them, is everything To me, it’s water Insignias on garbage trucks and manhole covers display infants suckling a she-wolf Such a calamity of maternity to found a city upon! But why the wolf and the infants? Why a fountain at all? Why reality at all? Why the bother? Why bother? Am I my bother’s keeper? The bother, above all, persists It separates earth from dark water in a haphazard outburst then flees responsibility, only to turn up late waking me from a good sleep to help rehearse its alibi Angels of Philadelphia Skyscrapers secreted from a mechanical heaven where the army committed miracles prophesied commemorated or both by the twenty-foot train-station angel hauling a corpse the demolished stadium the marble placards in gutted banks and William Penn’s benediction to where his treaty partners roam no more Bounded by established spirits its angels cost more to rip out than the square footage is worth Amtrak beers cut sleeplack from an early wakeup for menial labor and from the outcome of a sporting event on TV Don’t laugh, shortfalls in perspective are all that distinguish us Hurtling past lots of chewed-up cars across from a man who’s so late he’s nearly nothing else though it’s only 45 minutes Up the line the somewhat woods of truck docks and radio towers house angels too I guess poor relations with incomprehensible traditions rumored in worm tracks under tree bark angels who’d chew your ear off about the morning’s cloud banks The buildings beside the river abandoned not by people but by every custom of ownership Old friends sit on shores half-shored with broken aluminum quietly enraged as water and time pass without regard chuckling that every dignity left is outsized and doomed Old Graverty Who was the one who memorized the pavement? Who explained the buildings railroads canals? Who crusted over of the fountain of reality? Who dries the radiating deserts and waters the hanging gardens of cascading consequence? Patron of money sickness boredom Humility’s inventor, imagination’s comeuppance Landlord’s friend, flatfooted lucklack, hammerhead demiurge Letter-of-the-unloved-law sonofabitch You may not recognize him But he recognizes you He takes your complaints in stride knowing better than any how what passes for freedom changes Who divulges the curbs lanterns doorjambs drones the don’ts and incants the can’ts? and mumbles the caveats of graveyards and liquor stores? Who says horizon horizon horizon and what does he say it to ward off? A Thousand-Year Lullaby Above the asphalt and trash wrought-iron flowers snarl at their benefactors The city: Perturbation of nations and the spinning heavens alike is a mere toy by which an idiosyncratic Infinite Infant soothes Himself His wails wrest us from our greatest loves and hardest-bought triumphs so desperate they make us for sleep Between tides of reunion and decay amid siren chant and diesel dirge a slovenly man murmurs a lullaby to keep The Kid asleep The conscientious dress in prayers: That He may grow up That He will not outgrow us The world, for Him, may be a toy But it is almost all we have Frank Diamond’s poem, “Labor Day,” has recently been nominated for a Pushcart Prize Award. His short stories have appeared in Innisfree, Kola: A Black Literary Magazine, Dialogual, the Madras Mag, Reverential Magazine, Empty Sink Publishing, the Zodiac Review and the Fredericksburg Literary and Arts Review. He has had poetry published in Philadelphia Stories, Fox Chase Review, Deltona Howl, Artifact Nouveau, Black Bottom Review, and Feile-Festa. He lives in Langhorne, Pa. One Night in Harpoon Henry’s When my first wife died I withered and withdrew And lonely did I scale the couloir of grief Curling about myself like that indolent snake Confronting that first wife with cancer’s last claim Just an overgrown garden snake parked upon our drive A brown arm’s-spread length of languid reptilian still A critter I’d never seen before or since that meeting Curled into a taunt that he hurled at my own girl Coiling tighter in delight: “The hour’s come for you!” She died soon after when the siege broke through And I never really heard the music until its absence Of delight in all creation—that’s how her voice fulfilled So what torched despair’s fingers until the grip gave out? One night in Harpoon Henry’s I kissed a pretty woman A nice, friendly girl I’d been working with for years Mouth-to-soul resuscitation seasoning bloodless sleep That kiss—alone, apart, about. A prelude to nothing Except the entirety of life. A kiss. That’s it. Interceding like prayer to caulk my brokenness Did I ever tell that girl what that kiss delivered? I now forget (surprise!) how she wriggled off the hook Can’t even recall the name, just drops of smiling eyes I am deaf, now. Blind. Can’t bend to tie my shoe A salty wind-whipped spray gentles this old wheeze Lets me taste that kiss once more and that is what I’ll ride You may release your servant, Lord. It is time for me to die. Daginne Aignend is a pseudonym for the Dutch poetess Inge Wesdijk. She started to write English poetry four years ago and posted some of her poems on her Facebook page and on her website . She likes hardrock music, photography and fantasy books. Daginne is a vegetarian and spends a lot of time with her animals. Poisoned mind Your mind is an ardent poison Blazing your thoughts into black ashes Your mental state is a delusion When pureness and insanity crashes Do you believe in your guileful lies A spirits desolation where no one wins Look into my compassionate eyes I shall be the redemption of your sins Boundaries A lost well of golden wishes A tendril from the wood of forgotten trees A sparkle of healed broken promises That's how you broke my boundaries Unwritten I've read your book It's closed now The beginning excited me But I lost that feeling somehow Just needed to be free Spread my wings again Travelling through my mind Fighting against my rage And I know that I will find My own unwritten page © Daginne Aignend Olatunde Temitayo is a Nigerian poet, playwright, short story writer and a critic. He is currently the Vice president of Association Of Nigerian Authors, Osun State University branch, Nigeria. He won the award of best writer in 2016 and also in the same year, he was honoured with another award of Writer of the year. His works have been published in different publications. LET'S DEPART The truth I have known Freed me from shackle of love I've once been a traitor Who betrayed my reasoning The time to depart is here Time to unite might be there The days are now mocking me Weeks are whining me Let I love you be a tale As I said to you under Odan tree When the darkness around us whispered And smiles powdered your face Eyes; deceived by darkness Blindfolded to see the ugliness in your beauty Ants are my witness I thought Sarah you were Or a reincarnation of Mary The ants on that tree witnessed the scene Though in room we met Magnetting two hot bodies Discovering the ugliness in your beauty Trying to open the doors With my key that has two holders Your men I gave yams in buried months Cum kolanut that was assassinated by their mouths With gallons of palm oil in one side Gazing a tied hopeless goat My kinsmen' bodies that hugged the ground All were meant to fufill righteousness And a betrayal of reasoning Let's depart now and might unite there Deliver my lines to papa Whose greediness is of Jacob Tell him; my yams I need And the kolas I want For your doors keys have opened And many passerbies have passed there Since I can now see the ugliness in your beauty Let us depart now and might unite in another world I hoped to see your doors stained with blood As my key opened it with harshness But your door was too wide That no key could fill Let's depart now and unite there In my left hand I have pure handkerchief And the right one houses an empty matches All are embryos of the ugliness in your beauty Then; I wondered why the trees withered As we traded words under Odan's tree The green on that tree became yellowish But since love has curtained my reasoning I did not know; your ugliness withered the tree Let's depart now and might unite in another world. ABIJAH IS IN LOVE You are the love of my life The eyeballs I can't live without I love you like ant loves sugar You spring happiness in my life The whole world I think I have As my eyes eye your eyes Tell me you love me Tell me I am the alveolar in your mouth For alveolar, you will do without Look unto my eyes and say I love you Don't make me the nails in your fingers Nail me In your heart Like the nailing of Messiah in buried centuries Let your heart be the cross and I, Jesus Because Abijah is in love Honey tries to be sweeter than you Salt sees you as its rival in my life Joy sees you as the road to get to my life Even the happiness in my life, without you it can't do For you are a sea that happiness sails to my life Let my heart magnet yours Like iron that magnet magnet Let me be the iron and you, magnet Because Abijah is in love If mountain I should climb And Valley should I visit Even if I have no legs, I shall crawl Only to declare my love at the peak If roaring sea should I swim in Only to declare my love at the bottom I am ready to take the risk of the roars Because Abijah is in love My love! The day I met you My heart became frozen without refrigerator Was it because of your beauty? Or your smiles that can defeat Jericho I mean your smiles is hallelujah that demolish my wall of sadness You are the hallelujah and my sadness, Jericho I am dying everyday hoping you have me in your heart I do not want you in my life But I need you in my life Though you are already an estate in my life But tell me you are happy to be in my heart You are the estate in my life constructed by love My love, Abijah is in love Tell me how I can sneak into your life Tell me how you can love me Tell me how I can be the beat at the back of your heartbeat I am ready to wait for thousand years Even if I have withered before thousand years I will still be in heaven waiting for an answer Because Abijah is in love Donal Mahoney, a native of Chicago, lives in St. Louis, Missouri. He has worked as an editor for The Chicago Sun-Times, Loyola University Press and Washington University in St. Louis. His fiction and poetry have appeared in various publications, including The Wisconsin Review, The Kansas Quarterly, The South Carolina Review, The Christian Science Monitor, Commonweal, Guwahatian Magazine (India), The Galway Review (Ireland), Public Republic (Bulgaria), The Osprey Review (Wales), The Istanbul Literary Review (Turkey) and other magazines. Some of his work can be found at http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html#sthash.OSYzpgmQ.dpbs (Photo: Carol Bales) Cold Water Raining between Them Annie has a nice washing machine now but she remembers the one her mother had with the wringer, the old-fashioned kind. Her mother took in washing and when the washing machine would break Annie would become half the wringer. Mother would hold the waist of wet pants and Annie would grip the cuffs and they’d twist in opposite directions, the cold water raining between them. Each pair of farmer’s pants put food on the table. With six kids food was important. To this day Annie smiles when she remembers her Mother never had to use a pants stretcher in winter to make her ironing a little bit easier. She’d hang the pants out in the yard and they’d freeze straight on the line. An Act of the Will If love’s real, not the puppy kind, it’s not just a feeling but an act of the will a constant giving whether one feels like it or not. After many years you don’t know why you’re doing it or why It must be done. Two begin as grapes purple with passion unaware you'll be raisins wrinkling at the end. A Husband Falters Better take his wife to lunch after what he said yesterday. A slip of the tongue. But where to take her? The Chinese buffet? The Indian buffet? Maybe the Japanese place. She likes sushi and tempura. But when he asks about lunch she says not a chance. She has to clean the house. Cleaning lady comes today. At Midnight in New York It’s midnight in New York and in this tall building Herb and Molly are in bed making love. Molly is a virgin and it hurts. Olga’s upstairs in bed with cancer terminal and it hurts. Melvin’s downstairs in bed snoring. Nothing hurts because he doesn’t know yet he has multiple sclerosis. In the hallway a thief goes floor to floor trying door knobs hoping one will open. All the doors are locked, chained and bolted. Everyone is safe. No one can get in. A Sisyphus Moment There’s a force that makes a boulder hard to push up a hill. And there’s always a boulder and always a hill when it comes to helping the poor find something to eat, somewhere to live, a job they can go to every day. Sometimes the boulder slips and rolls back downhill and Sisyphus jumps aside. Accidents happen. But sometimes the one who owns that hill says no and blows his trumpet and gives the boulder a mighty shove and Sisyphus gets run over. Then the poor must wait a century longer for another Sisyphus to volunteer and get behind the boulder. No wonder the poor are getting together and grumbling louder. They know Sisyphus isn't the answer to the problem. They must push the boulder. |
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