Ryan Warren lives with his family in the Pacific Northwest. He is a 2016 Best of the Net and Pushcart nominee, and his poetry has previously appeared in numerous journals including California Quarterly, Poetry Daily, Amaryllis, The Scarlet Leaf Review, Wilderness House Literary Review and Firefly Magazine. Check out more facebook.com/RyanWarrenPoetry. In The Land of Medicine Buddha —where the dog and I sometimes walk among the prayer flags flapping through exhaling redwood groves, past the stupa rising from thirsty grass, around tiny stone cairns laden with coin and acorn, perhaps to turn the prayer wheels that wait to float merit and wishes for the peace and enlightenment of all sentient beings up through the salted light of the Santa Cruz Mountains, out to the entire universe-- we are asked to please avoid killing any living being, including mosquitos, while we are here. ••• What an unexpected relief it is to be freed of the need to swat at every fly, and instead be able to simply sit, watch them circling above the meadow, aglow in the low evening sun, from atop a rough stone bench under the shadowy spread of the black oaks, in receipt of the warm and mild wind blowing through me the tattered prayers of red and green and yellow and blue and white. --------- Great Breakfasts of My Childhood My grandfather liked to fry potatoes on Sundays, peppery and thick with soft onions, though he knew I did not care for onions, people didn't seem to ask much then children's opinion on food preparation. My grandfather, who lived to pull crisp waffles from the electric iron, though always soggy by the time you ate them. Who loved a big stack of Krusteze pancakes, cooked a little too black, adorned by cold chunks of margarine and Log Cabin Syrup. On weekdays, though, it was oatmeal, thick from the pot, clumps of hardening raisins softening as they were stirred in with milk, with little rocks of brown sugar. Occasionally, Cream of Wheat instead. My mother rose later, with my brothers, and breakfast from her was always a surprise-- though she loved toast the best. Cheese toast, melted cheddar sprinkled with sugar, cinnamon toast, toast with peanut butter, with honey, with butter and jam, with a soft boiled egg quivering atop, sprinkled with salt and pepper. Eggs, eggs so many ways. Scrambled with hot dogs, with cheese. Poached. Fried, yolk unbroken, toast to sop up that sunny puddle of delight. We were a breakfast family, no "Just a cup of coffee for me." Breakfast—to fortify your day, arm you for school, work, occasionally, and for feverish stretches at a time, for church. Different churches, different times. We moved in strange cycles of devotion. But from breakfast we never wavered. I've never understood those for whom food is merely fuel. And I'm sure they've never understood me. How even a bowl of sugar cereal, dug deep into a cartooned Saturday morning, Lucky Charms or Captain Crunch or Frosted Flakes or whatever had been on sale that week, could be a kind of devotion, a ritual, richer than any of the churches we wove in and out of. Or sometimes we just had it for dessert. Don't even get me started on dessert. --------- Earth Touching Buddha If I were a Buddhist it would be sacred, that scene of seeking Gautama, seated under the bodhi tree, right hand draped down over knee, fingers grazing the awaiting Earth. But I am not, I merely love that, the Buddha's answer to the challenge of Mara, crafty old demon of distraction, discord, doubt: "Who gives you the right to seek peace, to be free of suffering?" And his answer is in the fingers, in the union of skin and Earth. We are turf, he seemed to say, we are dust and because of it, our rights rise from the rooted soil. The stillness of the earth can be ours, the Buddha's fingers said. Or not, there is always a choice. Which is also why I'm not a Buddhist because the mind's voice of madness, every artist's passion play, gives greatness, too, to the world. Suffering ain't all bad. Stillness, madness, each can crack the Earth equally open, can swallow our doubts, or us, whole. Or maybe I am a Buddhist. Maybe I am a Buddha. I could be so long as I could keep to the creed of those believers that I admire most: Don't worry too much about magic, about the sacred, about zero-sum games. Love stillness or madness equally. Take which you need, what makes you better, what rings true at the time of each test. And then press the rest, like small black seeds, into the uncertain soil. And then give everything else, too, back to the permissioning Earth. --------- Rock, Unfolding There is a small island rock thrusting up like an angry brown tooth from the licking Pacific shadowing the little highway through which we wind our daily course. The rock, ever-folding, angled striations of limestone and basalt jagged and whitecapped in magnificent guano obliquely collapsing, by degree back to the rock-eating sea. Not far from there along that same winding of road and cloudlocked late-summer sky overlooking the wavewashed shore a man hung himself this morning. I did not see him, who returned to fill his eyes with seawater, at the last beside the high, roadside gate. I saw only the police, lingering to take a statement from the witnessing sea. It's not always simple to be a lyric poet on days like this to trade in two-by-fours of wonder the rock-eating sea to be the carbon in your bones the quality of light, your air when your mood is blackened by senseless death cities of suffering people careening toward high gates of despair. You have to find your own path through or perhaps you cannot see its ending your own path, no path. Perhaps that's OK. Or maybe you just drop to your knees thank the skies, make an offering or maybe, at least, there's something for you in a rock, taken apart by waves molecule by molecule, ever changing ever folding into the universe. Each day we all return, a bit more, to the sea. ------- A Short List of Ten Things I Am Currently Wrong About (Based on Historical Precedent) How I should part my hair The trustworthiness of my body How much technology I require What I require it for The death penalty How much sleep I need How much quiet Music Sex The length of this list New York City My importance to the world How much is enough That I am now out of ideas About poems
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Gary Beck spent most of his life as a theater director. He has 12 published chapbooks and 3 accepted, 11published poetry collections, 5 accepted for publication. He has 3 novels and 2 accepted for publication. 1 short story collection and 1 accepted for publication. He lives in NYC. Inevitable Decline When the mind begins to go fear of forgetting, loss of function, possesses our thoughts, fogs our reason, apprehensions breed blankness, the inevitable hulk the aging body becomes without a guidance system. Forecast There was little transition from summer to fall. One day we were wearing shorts and t-shirts and it never really got hot. Then we brought out the down jackets and left them open to show that we were tough, but chills and shivers forced the rush to zippers and though winter was still far away, we already knew the cold was coming. Give and Take Holiday season, volunteers serve food for the needy, then rush to get on line for the two day wait to buy the latest smart phone. Disillusion More and more children are beaten, stabbed, shot, killed, by fathers, brothers, uncles, dysfunctional mothers, Mom’s latest boyfriend, surgically removing childhood belief in Santa Claus, the tooth fairy. Revels Will Be Ended Holiday season in New York City. Tourists, locals course Manhattan streets, spending, spending, while the pillars of the hegamon are crumbling, unnoticed by the shoppers who cannot see signs of decay. Jim Zola has worked in a warehouse, as a security guard, in a bookstore, as a teacher for Deaf children, as a toy designer for Fisher Price, and currently as a children's librarian. Published in many journals through the years, his publications include a chapbook -- The One Hundred Bones of Weather (Blue Pitcher Press) -- and a full length poetry collection -- What Glorious Possibilities (Aldrich Press). He currently lives in Greensboro, NC Mungo Park Finds a Tuft of Green Moss in the African Desert I should have been a farmer, instead I plant bribes for passage – an umbrella furled and unfurled, my prize blue coat with silver buttons. I marvel at the curiosity of Moorish women, their corpulent beauty, feet and fingertips stained dark saffron. They explore my shining whiteness, offer bowls of milk and water. I should have been a farmer, instead I harvest the hate of arrows in Bussa where they call us Tanakast, wild beasts, and say the river starts at the world's end, then show us the way. Wedding Day In the back of her uncle’s black continental, they listen as Ozzie steals home. Goldfish at the Botanical Gardens muddy the pond. She moves her hand over the water. They feed on what isn’t there. Losing his hearing, he watches mouths as if words might come out like smoke signals. He nods and picks an expression. Later he hears the ocean. One day she forgets the names of her children. One morning he walks into the empty hall and finds them standing there in shadows. That’s when Ozzie breaks for home. Before the Old Craig Hotel Sank Into the Mohawk On River Road just before the bridge crossing water we were afraid to touch because of General Electric, because of the factories that made god knows what, because of the stories we heard. It was never a functional hotel in my lifetime. Ruin resurrected, if a dingy bar is considered restored. The attraction was they seldom carded. Legal, we went there just because. Foosball and quarter beer nights were our hosannas, faces morphed beautiful in dim light. Stepping outside into the gravel parking lot, we were aware of the river creeping beyond our drunkenness. Some winter nights, zaftig flakes coated cars with a crystalline skin. I can still smell that air now a million years later after the river has forgotten it all. A Somewhat Inexact History of Flowers I could write how I’m amazed at the yellow of spring’s first daffodil. But that would be too exact, untrue. In fact, it’s just the first I notice, looking up. It catches my eye, the bud not yet fully open, poking through a layer of dead leaves. And I’m not amazed by it, but more by the consistency of things, the plodding renewals of crabgrass. Of a yellow flower. Younger, I might have stomped it, angry at everything then. But it would take sixteen steps to reach the garden’s edge, and sixteen back again. My anger’s burrowed deeper than a seed. Besides, a neighbor now is out walking his overweight dog as he does every day, and will continue to do until one of them gives up. We wave without speaking. Muscles and brain, as if saying - I see you, I don’t see you. Mulligrubs, March Nothing disturbs the berm as it aspires towards a grassy knoll, the path to your misgivings. I pocket them, touch my freckled hollow, my whiffet. Here, take a digit, an ounce. I practice the reverse of no, of knowing. My cock points towards the moon. Things fall off. I pick up stones from wet morning grass, wash them in my cheeks. I speak of love and poetry, rigmarole and poppycock. Who is the you of this? Not the wife I left, caught embracing the wide windows of another man¹s life. I know you are out there too. I save my broken teeth for when we meet, your dress, bone-buttoned, scrunched about your hips. There¹s not much left. I sit in the grass and count the birds. I could name them if it mattered. Sulky whiff, cat bait, breath of my dark. I wait. Nothing creeps closer. 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. Word-Association Bicycle bell. Rubber tubing for pretend worms. Warning: don’t put anything smaller than a fist in one’s ears. Medical school. First stethoscope altered the significance of these words. winter in a glass
Looking at a rectangular table with donated items to purchase, I lifted a snow-globe. Tumbling it, a strange sensation moved through my fingers as if a visitation from my deceased parents was happening. They’d given me one with the very same scene. It had been offered to charity. I searched the base expecting my childhood markings to actually be etched on the wood. Hongri Yuan, born in China in 1962, is a poet and philosopher interested particularly in creation. Representative works include Platinum City, Gold City, Golden Paradise , Gold Sun and Golden Giant. His poetry has been published in the UK, USA ,India ,New Zealand, Canada and Nigeria. Returned From The Heaven When the stone spouted the flames Divine sword of remote antiquity flew to the vault of heaven That castle surrounded by dark clouds Beelzebub of thousand years Heard the call of death The dawn is sprouting in the earth Vengeful gods of justice Wearing the golden armor Returned from the heaven riding the dragon float Future People Future people will no longer romance Future people body will shine wearing the halo on their head Future people will come and go by spaceship in space They will speak a magical language Creating completely a new world like God The Era of Diamonds I am not willing to describe this times The words will be dyed black Those who died demons revived again in the earth Just put on a new mask Maybe I'm the only one who knows the truth So I shall not be angry about it Patiently waiting for the golden horn of gods Wake the giants of earth up again I know that the millions of golden sword will write a new epopee, the Era of diamonds 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 Alice Bent Over A gathering of elders from the local rest home is out for a walk after dusk on canes and walkers admiring roses and lilies and a pond of rainbow koi except for Alice trailing without cane or walker whose head is bent over at the neck so she sees nothing but ants scurrying around her. Alice is the letter “L” upside down forever. She will never see the sun light up the sky or the stars glow in the night or the halo of moonlight falling around her. A Widow a Year Now She’s been a widow a year now and at times she still misses him when she drives past the steak house where he would take her to eat and the theatre where he would take her to see plays on opening night and the jewelry store where he would buy her diamond necklaces, bracelets and earrings she recently had to sell. Sam was broke when he died, nothing in the will except the house he had mortgaged again but now after her frozen TV dinner she can turn up the volume on her big-screen TV loud as she wants without wearing the hearing aids she always had to put in when Sam was alive. Every night she is happy the old bastard is dead. That son of bitch didn’t leave her a cent. Damn him. A Relocation Problem We’ve moved my wife and I from home to the last place we’ll ever live and she wants to know why I’m sitting around not helping to unpack. So I tell her the problem which is her problem too but she keeps unpacking. I’m not at home, I tell her, but I’m not here either. Not to worry, I say. I’ll let both of us in when we arrive. Advice from His Cardiologist His cardiologist says Fred's doing well for a man of 80. It won't be his heart that kills him. But he needs to exercise more. Fred goes home and tells his wife he needs to exercise more. She reminds Fred he can't get out of bed without her help. And her back she says is a wolf howling. So Fred sits down and wiggles his toes n his old recliner and waits for the day the hearse pulls up and takes him away. Sibling Reunion They're getting older, five brothers and sisters, all with degrees, jobs, families, nice homes, good lives, happier than most except when they must fly to the home of their childhood and settle their mother's estate. They gather in the old stucco none of them is willing to sell. They drink bourbon and scotch and tell each other everything again that happened when they were young, what made them take planes anywhere trying to escape and forget. A few more drinks and they see the bees swarming the day Mom knocked the hive out of the willow with her clothesline pole. They were young, not yet in school, happy and laughing, clapping but not understanding why Father was gone, why he would call but never come home. All summer they rode tricycles into each other, yelling and screaming, ringing the bells on the handlebars, trying to figure out what had happened. Another few drinks and they agree it's time to go out in the yard and look up in the tree where the hive used to be. Once again they hear children yelling and screaming, riding into each other, ringing bells, looking everywhere for answers, not knowing the questions. In minutes they realize the reunion's over and there may never be another. It's time to pack, get on planes, escape before someone puts a match to the stucco. The hive's on the ground bouncing and they're all bees, swarming again. Keith Burkholder has been published in Creative Juices, Sol Magazine, Trellis Magazine, Foliate Oak Literary Journal, New Delta Review, Poetry Quarterly and Scarlet Leaf Review. He has a bachelor's degree in statistics with a minor in mathematics from SUNY at Buffalo (UB). Images In A Dream The thought of his nose bleeding profusely, Being on the flame over a stove, These thoughts linger in his mind as he sleeps, Where do they come from? He is still asleep, His mind can't stand these thoughts anymore, He awakens from the deep sleep, His forehead is covered in sweat, He decides to go to the bathroom, To get a cup for cold water, He needs to clear his mind, He gets up and does this task, The water comes out of the faucet into his cup, He then drinks the water, His mind gets cleared now, The dream he had really wore him out, He decides to sit at the kitchen table to clear his mind further, He will try to analyze this dream he had, He is seated at the kitchen table now, He goes over the dream in his mind, They are just a figment of his creative mind, He finishes drinking the water, He will go back to bed to rest, He feels energized after drinking the water, Will he even experience such a dream again? Only time will tell, The mind is a unique mechanism, This is how it is for him, Only the future holds an answer about dreams, In this case, it was unique and only time will tell if any more should happen again, That is the mystique in life and of the mind as we know it. Society Obsesses too much about children Think about this a little, Children exist too much in society, Half of all couples are divorced, Bullying exists in schools, Suicides have increased due to bullying, Yet people keep being ignorant about such happenings, We have too many people in the world, Natural resources being wasted as well, Why should people keep reproducing at alarming rates? Think of the many people being saved, Having no children at all, Lack of reproducing for the next one hundred years, Overpopulation is scary, Think before having a family, In the long run you will be saving money and abuse to natural resources, Take care and be good to others around you, For goodness is rare and its benefits are everlasting. If God exists, what does he look like? Think about this title, The title of this poem, that is, What does God look like? Does he care about us on planet Earth? I have never seen or spoken to God, How about you? We as humans live on planet Earth, Not an imaginary kingdom in the sky, Why do we have war and destruction? Or poverty and crime, Where is God to rid us of these problems? Believe what you want, It is a free world, Goodness is what counts, We need more good people, No religious ones, Think about it, Anyone can be religious, Yet, goodness in our world is lacking greatly, Tomorrow is a new day, Think of a better tomorrow, Stress goodness in our lives, It is great and it can make the world a better place, Let the journey for your life continue and try your hand at goodness, It feels great and it can make someone better, Take care and carpe diem. The Sounds around him at night while he sleeps He is fast asleep, The voices are around him, He sleeps and can hear them, Where are they coming from? There is no one around him in his bedroom, He is sleeping alone now, It is dark outside with a full moon present, He feels anxious inside, Will he wake up? Within in minutes he does, Sweat pours off of his forehead, He is up and awake, There is no one in his bedroom, Where could the voices have come from? He takes a few deep breaths, Then he goes to the kitchen sink, To get a drink of water, He needs to clear his mind, He is now at the kitchen sink, He gets a glass of water, He goes to the cabinet to get a glass, He turns on the faucet, The water comes out, He fills his glass with water, He will then sit down at the kitchen table, He thinks to himself, He should be able to sleep again, This was quite the experience, He had quite the dream, He drinks his water, He will then go back to bed, Rest is what he needs, He feels confident again, What will his future be like? There is no clear answer to this question, For the mind is unique, There is nothing more to think about, Dreams are dreams and this man will get over it and let his future continue with an open mind, There is nothing else to add, Take care, my good man for the mind you have is unique and powerful, A creative mind is what you have and tomorrow is a new day, A new day to think and a period of time that will bring a new sense of life as the days come and go, too. Daginne Aignend is a pseudonym for the Dutch poetess Inge Wesdijk. She likes hard rock music, photography and fantasy books. She is a vegetarian and spends a lot of time with her animals. Daginne started to write English poetry five years ago and posted some of her poems on her Facebook page and on her fun project website www.daginne.com She has been published in some online Poetry Review Magazines with a pending publication at the Contemporary Poet's Group anthology 'Dandelion in a Vase of Roses'. Just like that So young and so depressed Apparently without a reason A loving family, a kind, good looking boyfriend Good grades at school Beauty and brains And there is where the problem lies Some think you can grasp beauty, without asking Just like that When something intimate forcibly is stolen, the brain can't comprehend and starts to fool around into the dark depths of depression Just like that Ann's eyes Ann, let me drown in your eyes Let me drown in these dark mysterious pools These eyes, a journey through legends, breathtaking mystical Your eyes, Ann reflects all the beauty that Ireland is Awareness You adorned your soul with beautiful lies A sugar coated venom etching a caustic tattoo in my wounded heart Your disdainful derisive smile, while observing my lacerated agony, opened my clouded eyes My scarlet tears blackened Inking the colors of your tainted aura Nancy May has haiku published on Haiku Journal, Three Line Poetry, Poetry Quarterly, Inclement Poetry, Twisted Dreams Magazine, Vox Poetica, Eskimo Pie, Icebox, Dark Pens, Daily Love, Leaves of Ink, The Blue Hour Magazine, Kernels, Mused – The BellaOnline Literary Review, Danse Macabre – An online literary Magazine, High Coupe, A Handful of Stones, Lyrical Passion Poetry E-Zine, UFO Gigolo, 50 Haikus, The Germ, Boston Literary Review, Be Happy Zone, Every Day Poets, Cattails, Ppigpenn, Creatrix Journal, Dead Snakes, M58, The Camel Saloon, SevenbyTwenty, Poems and Poetry, Poet Community, the Plum Tree Tavern, Failed Haiku and VerseWrights. She has reached The Heron’s Nest consideration stage twice and the Chrysanthemum consideration stage once. snowdrops at the chapel of rest of old stories * your ghost waits for the train of blossoms * our secrets on the epitaph of a tsunami * wasps on the hospital ward for soft kisses * storm clouds at the shopping mall for lullabies I am lucky enough to be able to write and in a way that I truly enjoy and hope that other people get something from it. After all a writer has to write. ONE DAY I want to build something not anything you can own or have nothing you can eat your dinner off nothing you can wear and say How fancy that is. No I want to build something else something you can feel even a blind man will be able to touch it. So I sit down and I search I still don't know what it is or even what it will be but still I look and one day I really hope to find it. |
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