Dash Crowley: Frugivore; Artist; Son of Man; Other Superfluous Labels
A. D. D
: ATTENTION ! I have a deficit – Mine, stolen by : MEDIOCRITY ! Mine, attention! VVVV Centering mine, Affection; The entirety of the species Self-included-- : ATTENTION ! : : : Association Complete DISENGAGE –
: : ::: COMPLETE ___
They say: Misery loves company ((Misery loves companies))
But here I sit stoically, In a state of Solitaire –
Confined to remind Me of my shame; ain’t that just a cryin’ shame So easy to regret; So much harder to repent; And even more so to ascend.
They say: Misery and me, We should play checkers in the park – Or take long walks in the dark – Or clip coupons for the Wal-mart –
I am the great, and powerful, OFFENDER! Donning a badge of guilt and shame. Which includes my height, And name. Though they’ve gotten the height wrong. I Never bothered to tell…HAHA!
For I? I am a grand and terrible OFFENDER! Shudder helplessly before My splendor! A true monster! Right from Hell, itself.
-----Please do not feed the animals ----
When the chemicals kick in: There is no self-doubt – There is no question of Purpose – There is no voice to tell How time is to Be spent or where-- (all in one place, thank you) When the chemicals kick in: I Am God ----
Pretending Someone Knows
– Discovering truth amidst the mountains Of damnation; eternally bound by fire. – – In youth springs forth the fountains ( apparently bottomless ) of motivation. – – Only deviation screamed out in choirs; Problem solving skills, avoidant – -- Less than anything to count on -- -- Recovering lost cities; of souls and sinful Tendency; of betrayal and of hate – – Buried deep somewhere inside of the whole Undeniable grace flows so much like wine – – Hidden by an over-abundance of His name Relayed by no one so devoutly inclined – -- That being a far-off topic at any rate – – The matter of fact is the fact of the game We play, pretending someone knows the rules – – Return_ Return_ Return to Elohim; To the source___ ____before everything falls apart.
Renee B. Drummond is a renown poetria and artist from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She is the author of: The Power of the Pen, SOLD TO THE HIGHEST BIDDER, Renee’s Poems with Wings are Words in Flight-I’ll Write Our Wrongs, and Renee’s Poems with Wings are Words in Flight. Her work is viewed on a global scale and solidifies her as a force to be reckoned with in the literary world of poetry. Renee’ is inspired by non-other than Dr. Maya Angelou, because of her, Renee’ posits “Still I write, I write, and I’ll write!”
Does your river run deep? Like the bloodline through the grave. Or does Satan own that soul? Can you be moved by ‘dawgz’ ‘anna’ water-hose of the 60’s movement? Lord knows. He knows.
Does your river run deep? Like the bloodline through the grave. Or can you be loyal down to the bone? Lord knows. He knows, I SHALL NOT BE MOVED; my river runs~~~~~ way ‘TOO’ deep.
Dedicated to: Faithfulness
WAR. What Is It Good For? ‘EVERYTHANG’!
I declare war on my oppressors. I declare war on the lesser of two evils. I declare war on my persecutors. I declare war on child molesters. I declare war on hate crimes. I declare war on hard times. I declare war on enemy lines. I declare war on un-just bias. I declare war on drug dealers pimps prostitutes and liars. I declare war on Satan’s hire.
God ain’t ‘comin’ back to ‘brang’ no peace; He’s ‘comin’ back with a vengeance to finally ‘FREE’ his peeps. WAR. What Is It Good For? ‘EVERYTHANG’ WRONG as you can‘SEE’.
A B.A.D. Poem (Won’t He do it?)
Dedicated to: “ And Joshua said unto them, Fear not, nor be dismayed, be strong and of good courage: for thus shall the Lord do to all your enemies against whom ye fight” Joshua 10:25 (KJV).
“ And he said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me. Therefore I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in necessities, in persecutions, in distresses for Christ's sake: for when I am weak, then am I strong” 2 Corinthians 12:9-10 (King James Version -KJV).
They don’t like you if you’re on the dope. They don’t like you if you don’t smoke. They don’t like you if you’re way too loud. They don’t like you if you don’t entertain their crowd. They don’t like you if you live quiet, meek an’ proud. They don’t like you if you have a house. They don’t like you if you don’t own a couch. And they certainly don’t like you if you’re a Father fearing church mouse. They don’t like you if you stay to yourself. They don’t like you if you’re with someone else. They don’t like you if you mind your business. They don’t like you if you’re always ‘inna’ mess. They don’t like you Anyhow… SO, DARE TO BE DIFFRERENT AND LEAVE ALONE THE LIKES OF THEIR ILLITERATE KIND(s)!!! Dedicated to: Stupid is as stupid does and yes, that glove fits you; down to the thumb.
‘YOU’ Don’t Know Her Story
She lays awake at night. She writes. She hurts. She pains. She thinks inside. She’s wise beyond measure. She sees ‘ALL’ and knows; ‘YOU’ don’t know her story.
Dedicated to: She
Weaved Collaboration Poem By: Authors/Sisters Nancy Ndeke (Kenya Nairobi) and Renee Drummond-Brown (Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania) DREAM(s) Dare to Come true Not if…but When pursued Not With vigor Not Relentlessly But Forcefully Like a thief in the night; even Upon a morn, but 12:00 noon is the best time for dreams to shed our poetic vision(s) ever so bright.
Dedicated to: ‘WE’ have a poetic dream; like a King.
Kendall A. Bell's poetry has been most recently published in Edison Literary Review and Yellow Chair Review. He was nominated for Sundress Publications' Best of the Net collection in 2007, 2009, 2011, 2012, 2013 and 2015. He is the author of twenty one chapbooks. His current chapbook is "We Are All Ghosts". He is the founder and co-editor of the online journal Chantarelle's Notebook, publisher/editor of Maverick Duck Press and a music and book reviewer with Five2One Magazine. His chapbooks are available through Maverick Duck Press. He lives in Southern New Jersey.
Us, as verse
Does the poem disintegrate slowly, as we do, in the ways our breathing changes, as our hearts beat in a new rhythm? Does the poem get rewritten so many times that it loses strength, that it is as profound as greeting card verse, that floors begin to buckle from growing weight? Does the poem keep us in freeze frame, or does it write us out of existence? Does it send us to the same moment repeatedly, and do we find solace in familiarity? Is the poem the beginning or the end?
It's shocking like your tongue
like the primal need that stays barely hidden—the way you taste like electricity, like copper and saccharine. How two bodies act like a conduit, like match sticks. How we become embers, become house fire, inferno. The way fingers singe on metal. It is the pulse and the gasp.
My fingers were matches
that would ignite when I ran them in circles along your hips. Now, they barely spark, are left only with a flash and the smell of sulphur. We leave on bathroom lights to find a path, rely on instinct, stay perfectly still. Your body is an eroded cliff, a steep drop off away from plunging into shallow water where necks crack and nothing survives.
Other kids told us that if we wanted the swing to go higher, we needed to tuck our legs back, then push them back out while we swing. It was the only way to get the kind of height we wanted. Rich would furiously pump his legs, pushing himself nearly parallel with the top bar, the entire structure shaking. I would slow down, drag my heels along the dirt below and rest, but he would leap from the seat and hurl himself into the night air, come crashing down into dandelion dotted grass. He never broke a bone, rolled over on his back and laughed hysterically. I have been dragging my feet every day since then.
You are the empty bottles on the floor on a Sunday night, the disregard for what it will bring in the morning. You are the heaving after the guilt after the dinner, the dessert, the lack of attention from a husband who would rather play video games. You are the thin slice of sharpened steel, the acid reflux that has you bent over in agony. You are untouched, in a purgatory that leaves you seeking distraction, needing the brush and thrust of flesh. You are the forgotten flower between the pages of a long ignored book—unquenched and obscured.
Sanjeev Sethi is the author of three well-received books of poetry. His most recent collection is This Summer and That Summer (Bloomsbury, 2015). His poems are in venues around the world: Mad Swirl,Peacock Journal, Olentangy Review, Faith Hope & Fiction,Yellow Mama,Serving House Journal, The PenwoodReview,Soul-Lit, Poetry Pacific,London Grip, 3:AM Magazine, With Painted Words, and elsewhere. He lives in Mumbai, India.
Clarity of monochord brings alive me cozing with myself. I don’t know what it is? I’m expressing it, I’ve uttered it earlier. Your touch, that bloody touch coruscates my interiority. Is this dividend for investing in your scrip? Have I seduced myself to drench in your doings?
Earlier on when silence ambushed us nifties accelerated calando of awkwardness: gigs aren’t enough to glue the cordate. Unpampered hearts require otic regaling. When our anthem rings whiffle of wind burnishes its birthmark. We’re in mood to forgive. We’re willing to forgo emotional ableism. Shadows and saurian outlines harm no-one. Let phonic courtesies settle our purchase.
Winding its way his feelings hum berceuses in unknown languages, she an able translator fixes these to suit their setting. The aphonic are blessed. They don’t require the arrogance of words to express themselves. Niceties of nuance are at their bidding.
From your cookie cutter, coddled by you, I’m chaste as you’re in the churn of my consciousness. Excursus of such kind intercept and enervate my sessions. I breathe: extricated from these sandboxes, ensorcelled by enchainements panned out from my post. Sense of shame is a sheath. It caches myriad curses. In my prime I picked this: like yearnings, the emptiness of interludes.
Past master at emotional pornography: it took a coon’s age to switch on and darken you with description. A rookie knows no route. We hurt others with hurts that hurt us, need to be watchful of hate in hypocorism. Insult cached in utterance like blood in brogue not the cartoon of quarrel. Cacophony of kerfuffle causes nary a knock to the subconscious.
Maghen Roberson is an accountant and poet from Oklahoma. She recently had one poem accepted for the upcoming anthology Rewrite Sunlight and one poem set to be published in the first online issue of Your Only Sister. She spends most of her time at work, in school for a Master’s degree, working on her first book of poetry, and trying to keep up with her two red-headed daughters.
How can the sun that ran a light finger Along my child-sized bones be the same Which cowered behind stratus when I screamed for it to burn me? How
Do you outrun water when your feet Sink in the mire? Sticky like memories. When you sweep possibilities under the rug For years, they crawl out one day
When you think you’re past it all and The honey has turned to clumped crystals. But sugar sneers with sweetness at the edges Of too well-remembered happiness.
Because one day you’re mixing batter For a hot waffle iron, and the next you wake to find That your children don’t want them anymore. The sun feels boiled and stagnant, and
Your own couch grows silently wider Around your hips and sucks you in When you sit still too long, waiting For honey to reliquify without heat.
Spill the sun And mix it with the tide As I shift underneath your feet.
Days come and drift away. Tourists rest their leaden legs. A year passes, another, Ten more, then twenty.
Do you know All that I’ve seen? I am the sand which Covers everything. I am tiny granules Soaking up secrets And melting them away.
The ocean has depths Unfathomable; everyone knows. But so do I, And you often forget That I am the sand Which covers a secret And melts it away On top of another, Mixed into the earth.
Your toes sink in, And you still don’t hear The past.
It’s like riding on a train At 200 miles an hour And your words Tearing a hole in your throat Sweet as a bullet. You have a window seat To peek at the bodies Of the mother loving And the old man dying. I want off I want off, And all you have to do Is say it. But the word you need Is wrapped around a knife, Slicing the dry corners Of your mouth. Stop stop stop Rattles around your lungs, But all you find Is blood on your tongue When you part your lips. Let me off Let me off, (I think I’ll jump Through this window).
Rebel Hearts Love
Mother said Sing so pretty, Caress a few keys On the piano (Classical of course) Squeeze your way into An orchestral Place of promise.
Be patient. Calm. Love the idea Of becoming as normal As a three-bedroom house On a silky suburb street. Join the masses (If only as a speck).
But rebel hearts Love defiantly: Jazzy sways around Black and white keys, Slouchy shirts sinking In all the wrong places.
Curious though, How the Odyssey Of your childhood Is tattooed on your arms (A reminiscence),
Matching the soft Lines of your lips When you speak Of your mother
And the times her hands Couldn’t wrap themselves Around your edges.
Matthew J. Lawler is a poet and Chicago native. He has been published in numerous online journals, including, Caravel, Unlost, Dissident Voice, Sick Lit Mag, The Miscreant, Visual Verse, Eunoia Review, The People's Tribune, and The Best Emerging Poets of Illinois, a book anthology of 150 Illinois writers, put out by Z Publishing. He can be found on Facebook at www.Facebook.com/matthewjlawlerpoet
A Mirror’s Imperfect Reflection
(For Andy “even” Alvarado) Seeing you in that casket was like seeing myself. You were worn out at thirty years of age torn apart by a world of humiliation. Every day you dealt with a black hole steep, deeper than roots, the heartbeat of your youth.
For so long we had shared the disembodiment that comes with youth, for so long we were young running around the city lunging into the leisure of weed smoke, wavering from the monotony of adult life. Our struggle was the bond that brought us together, sealing us as brothers, pealing the layers of pretension like the sun lit skin people bathe in.
We met in the 7th grade and then I was hospitalized. I was alone in a room with doctors and nurses pricking my skin. You were alone in a dungeon you called home. Two weeks later when I was released and ready to go back to school, you greeted me on the playground with your John Lennon black mop head hairstyle and crinkled coke bottle glasses. I never felt judgment only acceptance from you. We were different and we knew it, the pigskin we threw it in the play lot of a new season. The abruptness of dead things coming to life swallowed in an exchange for youthful exuberance. A time for forgetting and turning the page.
You and I had this ethereal bond that formed in our adolescence, drawn to each other by some sort of light like fluorescence, connected through an outside force to form a friendship. We were equals. We were brothers. I remember your emotions spilling when you talked about your father and how he abandoned you and your mother at the hospital the day you were born. Looking into your eyes I could see even at the tender age of fifteen the strain and shame you felt. It wasn’t your fault.
Seeing you in that casket was like seeing myself. A mirror’s imperfect reflection. I touched your face… The face that lit your mother’s face with smiles, I touched your hands, hands that braced for the teenage joy of hopping turnstiles, I touched your heart, the soul of you, the sacred place of which the door was opened only for a chosen few, and I was one.
Skipping rocks by the Wilson riverbank drinking St Ides malt liquor, talking about the courage it takes to survive with gaping holes inside. The holes of abandonment, mine, the holes of lost health, yours, abandonment of a father, so we were both tied down to the ground of dealing with the same monster. Two voyagers searching for paradise, two aimless teens trapped in fear filled nights of lost identities and imaginary plights. You talked about the future and how you lacked ambition, I felt the same qualms about facing my anxiety, so we were together in sedating our feelings of marginalization from society.
Seeing you in that casket was like seeing myself, the day you took your life a part of me was taken with you, and a part of you was left with me. When we were young we both dreamed of the “Tree of Life,” finding paradise. So in our youth we searched and searched, and searched, unwitting of the paradise we had in each other.
I sit here at the dining table front door ajar while perching light is peeking, birds bringing songs to porch, my children falling asleep on the couch. Glass of ice water beside me, I’m drained, dry to the bone, I can’t help but think how fickle this life is, the unpredictable outcome, the subtle reminders of the entropy in our universe, the ice cubes melting in my glass. Yet I see the sunshine and birds whistling by the window, and in that I feel a grain of relief, fleeing momentarily from the burdens of life into a moment of foresight, an interval of nonlinear form stretching my mind into the realization of paradox, the dichotomy of existence, my two children dreaming. ice cubes dissolving.
How I miss you
I wandered through your yard today, pretending you were still alive, I knelt down to your basement window, knocking, as to awaken you from slumber. I knocked again, but no one answered, so I stood there….. leaning back to brick, my body caught between a ghost and a gangway. I stood frozen, broken, by memories of us late night stumbling down Wilson. How I wish you were here to see what I created, the joy of heaven on earth, my children would have called you uncle, a sage of the Krylon can, a mystic of the mural, how I miss you, the language, the candid conversations, the dreams we shared, the death we spurned at every turn around the corner, the bicycle peddles that burned down Cullom and raced to Eastwood, where nights felt like days and my heart was full. How I miss you.
You’ll meet her the way they do in movies, in a glance across crowded streets and suddenly the sun breaks through the clouds, and suddenly the ballroom scene and suddenly you’re playing catch with your children in the yard, still just as in love as that first tender day. Or, suddenly with a quiet smirk and downcast eyes, she disappears into the crowd. You’ll think of her for days.
Your first date, you’ll almost miss each other. Mist beating both your faces, you’ll wait on opposite sides of the same statue, night revels carrying on around you until one of you gets the bright idea to check the other side. The first time you kiss her, her heart beats so loud the whole room starts dancing. Later, you’ll make love like a kite string unravelling from your center.
It isn’t love unless you want it to be. Unless you believe in auras and soulmates and the gentle crushing touch of a dismantled heart.
Of course, she’ll put the ocean between you. They always do, girls like this. Some kind of comment on the transience of life. Still, she’ll send you postcards. Put you at the top of her playlist. You’ll think you see her in the streets, a glance just missed as she melts into the faces in the crowd. On the nights when nightmares wake you both, somewhere rain will fall. It always does.
You asked me, do you think travelling is odd, in a way? Actually you asked the sky and I was staring at the stars
so we saved it for another time, another night, another moon.
Is it odd, in a way, how we share the same moon?
Tonight I’d tell you, yes, it’s odd, my circumnavigator, Atlas of the sky-- Atlas because traveller, Atlas because marble globe, Atlas because star-strewn palms.
Atlas because shoulders.
I’d tell you, in a dream, how you still hold up the world.
With heartbreaking slowness we practice the art of becoming expatriates to one another. We learn to exist as two mutually exclusive selves, strangers to the streets we used to walk. I stop sending postcards to the crook of your elbow. You stop returning my calls. Like defusing a bomb I unravel you from my sheets, slowly—tentatively—and you, darling boy, pretend to sleep straight through. It should be easy, this art of leaving home. Should be something I know too well. Should be second nature to emigrate to someone else’s eyes the way I’m always adding pages to my passport, never unpacking, never unlacing. Never quite looking back. But somewhere lost inside a pocket I still have the maps to the center of you. Still know the backstreets of your conscious. Still know the shortcuts to your fear. Somewhere buried in your chest you still can find my hidden cities, the atlantis of my secrets and all my toppling ruins. Somewhere in the city where you loved me and you told me so, the streets split up the seams. Somewhere, dust is suffocating skies. Somewhere I watch your plane take off. Somewhere, you don’t look back.
Some soft, sacred call and you feel fearful animal your bodies interlocking together completely. the reflection, the depth-- you carve the wax of her stir the ash, lifelines warmed at silver flames-- bless this burning. Bless this fearful touch. She’ll keep your love, yet.
The discovery of a love nurtured in secret, like seedlings in dark closets warping stems to find the sun-- translucent in the light and delicate to touch-- playground love sinking roots beneath unlikelihood. The orange summer days. The tree frog summer nights. The gentleness of sugar flowers perched on lover’s tongue, melting into streaks of pinks and blues. And she still thinks to blossom, nurse this quiet love of someone she would never confess once was a dream. Fleeting-- flickering-- disappearing, the heat now long past yet beautiful still.
Ann Christine Tabaka was born and lives in Delaware. She is a published poet, an artist, a chemist, and a personal trainer. She loves gardening, cooking, and the ocean. Chris lives with her husband and two cats. Her poems have been published in numerous national and international poetry journals, reviews, and anthologies. Chris has been selected as the resident Haiku poet for Stanzaic Stylings.
The dawn wakes to memories of barefoot summers on cool green grass.
Swirling patterns in the coffee, premonitions of days to come. Visions rising from the fragrant steam, filling the room with warm contentment.
Outside my window, the soft amber light of morning filtered through trees imparts a dreamy feeling, bestowing the day with hope.
A soft breeze stirs over the gardens as the wildflowers raise their smiling faces to be kissed by pollinators busy making morning rounds.
Shadows grow short as the day grows long. I am drawn back to my coffee as I contemplate peaceful moments, deep seated with the wish of eternal summer.
Evening Sings a Soft Song
Wind playing in the willow trees, rustling the leaves like sheer lace curtains.
Fiery orange glow of the sun sinks slowly, swallowed up by the hungry horizon.
Last faint traces of the soft evening light, sparkling off of the tall damp marsh grass.
Flocks of song birds on the wing, silhouetted against a marbled purple sky.
Sound of a sleepy owl awakening as he stretches and prepares for his night hunt
Sitting serenely while taking it all in, observing the grand symphony of nature playing, as evening sings a soft song.
A summer rain pierces my heart with sewing needles sharp hot tears from the sky washing away burning memories of what could have been gushing downstream into swirling puddles of illusion reflecting only sad eyes
a glass tips milk spills a liquid curtain of white falling in slow motion splashing to the floor I cry like so many dreams escaping my grasp flowing through my fingers and out of my reach I stare at the puddle and I cry like wasted time spread out across the floor of the universe it is no longer mine all that is left to do is cry
I am darkness and light I encompass all the raging storm and the cool summer breeze are my brother and my sister
The moon is my warrior he safeguards my honor nature kissed my forehead with a star the songs of the forest birds escort the morning in
At my feet lay tranquil pastures green ferns wave their sentiments as the evening sun walks by and we stroll hand-in-hand into the night