David Hanlon is age 29, from Cardiff in Wales. He began writing poetry two years ago as a result of exploring his own personal history and life experiences. He began regularly reading at open mic nights in Cardiff and has recently moved to Bristol, England - aiming to immerse himself in its thriving arts scene and explore this further. He finds the writing process both fascinating and cathartic. He has poems published at Fourth & Sycamore, and forthcoming on Ink, Sweat & Tears and Amaryllis, online. The Heart If you could be inside all your veins at the same time, flow through cylindrical tapestries, the rhythmic beating motion circulating you towards your vital organ, what would you find there? An organ donor? A thief? A life-support machine? A car? A Portrait of Love as a Forest First, love was born-- the orange hues of a sunrise, the two of us entwined in the transparency of water. Later, love grew-- from a stream to a river, rich with life; we stood tall as trees, side by side, producing oxygen. Then, love abandoned us-- like those fleeing from wildfire; bodies left as wastelands, minds toxic. Now, love is lost-- a bird with no wings, song-less; a dried-up river, and our heads hang, endure the drought. A Space for Us Living in hope for so long, that we’ll get better, see each other again like we used to, that it will be like it used to be. There were moments, but it never got better-- shut out from one another; the frustrations, the pain, took their toll, and now we are no more. All that feeling, all that getting through on optimistic attitude, has vanished-- there is nothing left to get through, to try to get back to. Lamenting ‘Us’, I am overcome with anger, bitter and bloated with lost hope. I carry with me a stubborn sadness, knowing there was no space left for us. Weathered Memories Our memories are clothes hung out to dry, on a washing line-- not a ray of sunlight shines on any of them, instead, they are battered by barricading winds, unpegged by pelleting rain, ripped and torn away: every one-- resurfacing as rags. Now there’s nothing but an empty rope, fraying, thick bristles scratching; the pain is thicker. I grab it anyway, hold on, dangle from our lifeline, my body thrashed by the hurricane, the rope unravelling. A lonely rag hurtles towards me, I reach out-- catch it, clutch it tightly, cover my chest. Hold on, hold out for, sunlight.
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Angel Edwards from Vancouver BC is a member of SOCAN, BMI and VMA and she owns a small music publishing company.She currently performs as a solo acoustic electric singer songwriter guitarist. Her poems are included in two international poetry anthologies "Mind Paintings" and "Between Earth and Sky" from Silver Bow Publishing and her poetry and stories have been published in dozens of literary magazines in several countries. Her poem "Morning Flight" was published in The Long Islander Newspaper in "Walt's Corner" April 23 2015. http://www.reverbnation.com/AngelEdwards https://itunes.apple.com/ca/artist/angel-edwards/id282564414 https://thegalwayreview.com/2016/05/02/angel-edwards-at-the-edge-of-paradise/ Angel is preparing her first poetry, short stories book. Cool Fire Liquid Rays of sunlight pour into the ocean Streams and pools cool fire liquid Stain the gold shoreline Scarlet crimson red Gary Duehr has taught poetry and writing for institutions including Boston University, Lesley University, and Tufts University. His MFA is from the University of Iowa Writers Workshop. In 2001 he received an NEA Poetry Fellowship, and he has also received grants and fellowships from the Massachusetts Cultural Council, the LEF Foundation, and the Rockefeller Foundation. Journals in which his poems have appeared include Agni, American Literary Review, Chiron Review, Cottonwood, Hawaii Review, Hotel Amerika, Iowa Review, North American Review, and Southern Poetry Review. His books of poetry include In Passing (Grisaille Press, 2011), THE BIG BOOK OF WHY (Cobble Hill Books, 2008), Winter Light (Four Way Books, 1999) and Where Everyone Is Going To (St. Andrews College Press, 1999). A Modest Proposal For all the ones who line up on the dais Looking very serious Behind their glinting microphones, who speak In echoey tones with just a squeak Of feedback, we make this demand: Lock them up. Take a stand Against the ones who testify, who swear Under oath, one at a time, that they weren’t there; We demand: lock them up. For those who in the dead of night switch up Their cars like Jason Bourne To rendezvous in an undisclosed location, then warn The press of grave concerns, we’re demanding: Lock them up. For those who use a stand-in To plot with foreign aides In hotel rooms and on an Indian Ocean island, Lock them up is our demand. For the billionaires whose natural state is Secrecy, intrigue, keeping one spray-tanned Hand behind their back, our demand Is simple: lock them up. What we Don’t want: a sincere apology. We don’t want them to extend their hand Like at a joint press conference. No, this is our demand: Keep quiet, and put your wrists out So we can cuff them. We don’t want doubt About the outcome, smoke and mirrors, Distractions of us vs. them. Theirs Is the fate they brought Down on themselves. We want to make sure they’ve got What’s coming. We want to wipe off the smirk On their perp walk Down the courthouse steps to the squawk Of a cop’s radio. We want every jerk To do hard time. That’s what we demand. What we don’t want: to talk them up. Stand up, solemnly raise your right hand, And repeat after me. Lock them up! Lock them up! Lock them up! Vacation Getaway Say you want to get away From all things Trump? Look at the map. His titular hotels and golf courses take up Half the planet, from Turkey to Toronto to Hawaii. Try a Voroni diagram, which plots How far things are Mathematically from each other. So how far Do you have to go to completely escape the spots Marked Trump? Northern Siberia? The far reaches of Australia? (Not counting Antarctica, Pretty unlivable.) The answer is a tiny island, Baia dos Tigres—complete with an abandoned Church and hospital, plus empty housing and factories-- Off the coast of Angola. Ameneties? None. But if staying by yourself on a sandy spit Is your dream vacation, this is it. (Fun fact: Baia dos Tigres was formed In the ‘60s when a heavy storm Washed away the mainland link. There’s no package tour That takes visitors to Angola, since civil war Broke out in the ‘70s. The State Department’s blunt: You may not want To be a casual tourist here. No electricity, cellphones, internet, or even water.) Of course there may be an occasional attack By armed rebels, who carjack, Mug and rob any vistors with impunity. But there’s an airstrip, so you can flee the country On short notice, if you happen to have a plane. If not, you’ll need a canoe To come and go. It’s nothing if not isolated. Then again, There’s no Trump-brand anywhere for thousands of miles. Yea you! A Troll Speaks I don’t own a car. Much less a satellite truck Or video suite. So what? Like I give a fuck. It’s just me at the local bar Or sitting at the kitchen table With my laptop. Is my news any less quotable, Less real? By whose definition? I could wander with you into the Aristotelian Funhouse if you like, but one could call Everyone just walking around Their own media brand, like found Art—right, y’all? Think Facebook Live, Tahir Square, Huffington Post, anyone on Periscope, Twitter. Me, I’m a former lawyer And divorced self-help author. But my anonymous source In the White House, or very close, will call me As a matter of course To tell me things that honestly appall me. Stuff that would give anyone PTSD, That’s how big. Who’s he or she? I don’t know, and I don’t want to know. I tell them, just give me enough info To prove that it’s legit. Period. That’s it. That’s how I got the scoop on the unmasking Of Trump associates Through incidental collection, just for asking. Does that make me a putz? What about Kellyanne, who linked to my feed. Or Donald Jr., who tweeted His congrats for breaking the story. Does what people say about me make me worry? No effing way. Sure, Sean Penn Is a basic bitch, but he’s the one, not CNN, Who got El Chapo. I may be A ranting maniac, but the truth about me Is more complex. I love to drive The hoaxing media apeshit—that’s why I’m alive. Get Me Roger Stone Look for the grinning-Nixon tattoo Between his shoulder blades, the chalk-striped suit, the silver tie (He owns 100) and starched cuffs. But who Is Roger Stone? A Miami-tanned wiseguy Known as the dark prince of Republican sleaze? Just ask Roy Cohn who he is. Cohn, McCarthy’s pitbull, who taught him his first Stone’s Rule: The only thing worse Than being wrong in politics is being boring. Boring, Stone is not. He issues his maxims from the bottom of a shot Glass, or the rim of a Stolichnaya martini: with the zing Of a vermouth-soaked olive, a trick He stole from Nixon, via Winston Churchill. Stone’s Rule: Never defend; attack, attack, attack. (Like Tricky Dick And his pal Donald.) Say what you will, Stone has followed his own advice to the letter. Here’s his CV: in the ‘60s, a rumor That LBJ killed JFK (fast forward to Cruz’ dad As accomplice). The Willie Horton ad. Plus hiring a spy as Hubert Humphrey’s driver, Dropping a suitcase of cash To bribe New York for Reagan, and trying to bash Eliot Spitzer by leaving obscenity-laced threats for his elderly father. The list goes on and on For the misadventures of Roger Stone. Like a Zelig, he’s everywhere that something went wrong. Stone’s Rule: Deny everything; admit nothing. There’s a long List of politicos who want Stone’s skin. Who call him a “little rat” Leaving “havoc in his wake.” It may be that Stone believes his own fabrications. Was he really in A hit-and-run accident last week? Was he actually poisoned by polonium? Is Roger Stone an unwitting victim Or circus freak Who takes on roles the way an actor might: Amateur bodybuilder, Las Vegas swinger, Zorro of the Far Right. Prayer for the Hill May the single mother Who for her kids demands an answer On where to turn for prescription money, be heard. May the retiree, who’s going through a hard Stretch, who has to pause to take a breath Before he finds the right words to express the breadth Of his anger, be listened to. May the Iraq vet, deployed three times, who Can’t stop seeing what he saw, begin to cohere His rambling diatribe into a single clear Plea: Help me. May an inmate, who admits that he Sold smack to all those people, receive A second try. May his wife and family believe He’s not a lost cause; he still has dreams. For all the aides and interns, hear everyone who seems Out of luck: a mechanic who can’t find Work. A teacher who lost her job. A migrant whose mind Fills with worry. Without papers, he’s afraid To go to the cops for help—will there be a raid? A father sends his medical bill. A mother asks if her daughter will Be ok, her Jewish daycare was evacuated after A bomb threat. Every phone call, tweet, and letter Piles in, hour by hour, 1.5 million a day. What do they want? A human answer, a way To stay connected, a live voice. Anything, in these uncertain times, but Hobson’s choice: Take it or leave it. But how could you leave An unemployed land surveyor Who clasps his rough hands in thanks at supper Every night, seeking relief? Ngozi Olivia Osuoha is a young Nigerian poet/ writer and a graduate of Estate Management. She has some experience in banking and broadcasting. She has published some works abroad in some foreign magazines in Ghana, Liberia, India and Canada, among others. She enjoys writing. AGONIES OF A RIVERINER Born beside water Thrown into it to float, Grew up, a fish Survival, inside it. Born in the shanty Bred in the slum, Suffering in the ghetto Drowning in the island. No boat, no ship No bridge, no border Toxic waste, gaseous water Muddy water, moody life. Rains wash the farms Floods sweep the shelters, Rivers overflow their banks Tragedy booming the doom, Aquatic land, dead people. Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. He is a Canadian and USA citizen. Today he is a poet, editor, publisher, freelance writer, amateur photographer, small business owner in Itasca, Illinois. He has been published in more than 930 small press magazines in 33 different countries or republics, and he edits 10 poetry sites. Author's website http://poetryman.mysite.com/. Michael is the author of The Lost American: From Exile to Freedom (136 page book) ISBN: 978-0-595-46091-5, several chapbooks of poetry, including From Which Place the Morning Rises and Challenge of Night and Day, and Chicago Poems. He also has over 134 poetry videos on YouTube as of 2015: https://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos Michael Lee Johnson, Itasca, IL nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards for poetry 2015 & Best of the Net 2016. Visit his Facebook Poetry Group and join https://www.facebook.com/groups/807679459328998/ He is also the editor/publisher of anthology, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze: http://www.amazon.com/dp/1530456762 A second poetry anthology, Dandelion in a Vase of Roses, Editor Michael Lee Johnson, is now available here: http://www.amazon.com/dp/1545352089 Reincarnation (V2) Next life I will be a little higher on the pecking order. No longer a dishwasher at the House of Pancakes, or Ricky's All Day Grill, or Sunday night small dog thief. I will evolve into the Prince of Bullfrogs, crickets don't bother, swamp flies don't bother me-I eat them. Alligators I avoid. I urinate on lily pads mate across borders, continents at will. Someone else from India can wash my dishes locally for me. Forward all complaints to that religious office of Indian affairs. Detective Poetic Johnson Here December 1st 2016, detective Johnson here. I see my shrink for the 1st time, I’m low maintenance, one every 3 months, Dr. Pennypecker. He is tight ass conservative type with a raisin dry personality who tries to keep sober and focused so he can focus on me. I’m a grade 3 drop out with a degree in elementary school bullshit. I ask him how his children are. “I only have one, let’s focus on YOU!" Nice haircut, Dr. Pennypecker, have you ever noticed how the poor people who usually come here, are Mexicans, and they all can afford a $60 a month cell phone? “Let’s stay focused!” I tell Dr. Pennypecker I love Jesus, I love the Holy Ghost, I love the Father; most of these Mexicans do too. With all these rain clouds up above outside this window here, I believe we are all together until I pass. “Now that is interesting, let’s focus on that!” I tell Dr. Pennypecker when I get upset about something I know is my fault and I do have problems sleeping but I don’t dwell on that too much. “Let’s focus on that!" Is 20 milligrams of Citalopram, antidepressants, generic, enough or should we cut it back? Oh no, don’t do that Dr. Pennypecker. By the way, Dr. Pennypecker, how do you cut your hair in the back when you have your own Wal-Mart Pro Clipper Haircutting Kit set on # 2? "I put a paper back there and I put a mirror back there and I sort of do, no, no, let's not focus on that!" I walk out the door ready for my next appointment 3 months down the road. I open the door for a stranger ready for his appointment; I say, "have a good day." He is so self-centered, that his long hair and the way he moves back and forth sways, swings, doesn't say anything he is so damn self-absorbed in his own gray cloud. This was my day with Dr. Pennypecker. I Edit My Life (V2) I edit my life. Clothesline pins & clips hang to dry dirty laundry. I turn poetic hedonistic in my early 70's, reviewing the joys and the sorrows of my journey. I find myself wanting a new review, a new product, a new time machine, a new internet space, a new planet where we small, wee creative creatures can grow. Day Time Bitch & Nighttime Whore (2) Fern Dickson life untrue to her marital vows, peachy, what did you expect from the Indiana Rockville whore? Daddy was welder man, sweat, bleeder bending over hot steel rolls all day, he was a verb man, Oliver farmer, noun, welder machine man. Fern Dickson was a sneak out the door whore, peachy, 2:30 pm. daily was her homemaker check out time. Waddling penguin style down to Kubiak’s bar to write her own mystery novel. Demolition of their marriage, started with table hopping at the bar, peachy, free drinks and a celebration of wholesale sex. Narrative, family circles and circuses run in the gypsies of whores, daddy dog, dancing sin, with the Rockville whore. Daddy comes home from work, angered at the burned potato fries, cold Sauerkraut, Bush's fresh out of the can, maple cured baked beans, cold Cole Slaw, A&P grocery store. Narrative, old prostitute whore habits die-hard. Coon hunting, fox hunting daddy, I’m the storyteller of this Rockville, Indiana whore. Her brass tits suck then stuck in the mouths of strangers at the local bar, peachy. Fern has no regular job, bar hopping, table jumping, became her unemployment check, salary, entertainment and career, peachy. This cemetery now is Archangel Lucifer, secretary, note taker for the Rockville whore. Children in the Sky (V2) There is a full moon, distant in this sky tonight, Gray planets planted on an aging white, face. Children, living and dead, love the moon with small hearts. Those in heaven already take gold thread, drop the moon down for us all to see. Those alive with us, look out their bedroom windows tonight, we smile, then prayers, then sleep. Lilly, Lonely Trailer Prostitute (V2) Paint your face with cosmetic smiles. Toss your breast around with synthetic plastic. Don’t leak single secrets to strangers- locked in your trailer 8 foot wide by 50 foot long with twisted carrots, cucumbers, weak batteries, and colorful dildos-you’ve even given them names: Adams’s pleasure skin, big Ben on the raise, Rasputin: the Mad Monk-oh no, no, no. Your legs hang with the signed signatures of playboys and drifters ink. The lot rent went up again this year. Paint your face, walk the streets again with cosmetic smiles. Michael Marrotti is an author from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. His chapbook, F.D.A. Approved Poetry, is available on Amazon. On his free time, he volunteers at the Light Of Life Rescue Mission. He is also the editor of Excavation, a poetry blog. Submissions are open: https://excavatingtheunderground.wordpress.com/You can purchase his chapbook here: https://www.amazon.com/F-D-Approved-Poetry-Michael-Marrotti/dp/153907577X and if you need to reach him: michaelmarrotti@gmail.com The Western Wall He rose to the podium like he was destined for greatness Calling out the establishment like Martin Luther in 1517 We knew they were fake news but he was the first to point it out He had us at no amnesty confirmed his status by promising a wall Months later it's all rhetoric he's the same establishment he denounced And we now know who is pulling the strings of this president with an active Twitter account When the only wall in sight is the Western Wall We've been suckered into voting when No other president has touched it and it's the only wall that counts In Loving Memory Of I remember you before the epilogue the obituary people dressed in black your final appearance I recall a time when promises were made to be kept living was ordinary There was no in loving memory of in fact to be frank I never knew then the precise date of your birthday You had a great sense of humor but strayed away from ingenuity We all thought that after the death of your brother you would have walked the other way I miss you but you died just like him living life in a stamp bag and for that you've become just another cliché Boycott This Poem! Boycott this poem for its candid display of words that infiltrate your much needed safe space Boycott this poem for its recognition of only two genders I'm talking about Adam and Eve you assholes Halloween is a once a year occasion Boycott this poem for verification of the decline in poetry the only people reading this shit are insomniacs in need of a sleep aid Boycott this poem it's a product of a white male who doesn't subscribe to what you say most poets are left leaning hypocrites who combat misperceived fascism with fascism ANTIFA is a terrorist organization Boycott this poem for pointing out the obvious there's plenty of parallels when it comes to the Alt-right and Nation of Islam but you won't see any stupid ass white people attacking Louis Farrakhan Lois Greene Stone, writer and poet, has been syndicated worldwide. Poetry and personal essays have been included in hard & softcover book anthologies. Collections of her personal items/ photos/ memorabilia are in major museums including twelve different divisions of The Smithsonian. murmur softly Hey, Siri, have you met Cortana? Not many names like that issued at birth. Maybe a film star could call a child Google as many have given identities of fruit, virtues, and such. Now saying Alexander the Great when learning about that era, or mentioning an old movie star Alexis, or geography’s Alexandria, will turn a home cylinder on. Sensitive to just the first syllable, the device is always listening. Sh! Whisper in your own home as ‘she’s’ always alert. |
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