James W. Reynolds is a writer who lives in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. The Honor Men |
Joe Albanese is a writer from South Jersey. His fiction, nonfiction, and poetry can be found in publications across the U.S. and in ten other countries. Joe is the author of Benevolent King, Smash and Grab, Caina, For the Blood is the Life, Candy Apple Red, and a poetry collection, Cocktails with a Dead Man. |
but in the jagged edges of a dying
star. (The reciprocal use of what
I’ve amassed has gone
unnoticed.) It is in that humble
giant that I daydream, turned
inside out for all to see. Bare and
blind I call out to strangers for
guidance, yet all I find are empty
handshakes and forgotten
promises. Forgive me while I
weep; it is not in you I seek
assistance but in the calling
itself—the never-answer be
answer enough.
On the Beach
orange sin
Bless my
tongue, believe in
luck
Give your hand,
we’ll walk on glass
Tell your notes
across those sands
Place a love
beneath the sun
Capture warmth and
breathe you in Water
wait, taste my ledge
It’s overcome and
irreplaced
If Not For Today
subtle silence, careening over
the edge? Lap up that
happenstance and drown
those misconceptions. Trap
misdirection and reverse the
impossibility. Force and forge,
then gallantly accept. What is
tomorrow if not for today?
Second Chance Somedays
glows—how did I dine in the
dark? When did I escape
that cerement?
Did something push me in
this right direction—from
when I only held
peripherals—maybe I fell
here myself.
Time-lapse from night to day.
Scattered in the wind there,
lost and found, reestablished
in the hope of second
chance somedays.
Truth in Being
until they’ve been sifted and
sifted again. Trapped in mock
missionary, lost under the
brazen cloud of yesteryear. I’ve
been tight-roped...then I walked
it off. Keep me in the now,
relaxed in the warmth
of wandering could-bes—free
from the debt of false hopes;
remade in the verve of
questioning—replaced by
the truth in being.
Left to chance
when you give me too much;
I can grow quiet
when I get an excuse.
I don’t hear it
in droning
and I silence it
in chants.
It’s useless, there,
in dead intervals
and the times that call
for my hands-
already inaccurate,
thanks to its demands.
But it will keep on calling;
sometimes I will help it
and call it, myself.
The murmur remains
in silence,
vibrating in bone.
Its voice is left to chance.
Parting
that will go in the circuit.
This part will work
slit-eyed
to see the small things
it works with
and it will smile,
happy to do its part.
And the other-
part in slumber-
will always keep an eye open,
peep at the circuit,
laugh at it
and maybe tweak a few wires
here and there
where it displeases its eye,
just for its eye.
It will know
when its watch weakens
and see there is a part of it
that goes in its own circuit
and keeps it at work-
this circuit,
right here,
behind my eye.
.
towards that point.
- the point, drained,
is there,
missed.
- a whole row of limp hands
is there
- and all thoughts of imprudent heads.
- you are there,
although you weren’t for the fall.
or because you weren’t.
And then,
there’s a second
when all of you crash together
and get the air all out of me.
I swear it’s out, sharp
and blowing
towards that point.
- this, here,
was there, too
and saw it all
and wanted its finality.
It is its end. There.
Moulting
with harsh scratches of cuticuled cutlery;
crumbs that left no trail;
crusted shells beneath my palm
to make it itch;
shedded blisters,
pouches of entrails-
all empty.
They moved with the linen
as it sloped on my side
or yours;
they rolled over the shifting folds of your belly.
And as you folded your hands
and stretched them to the crumbling itch
- I hoped they wouldn't reach for the bald patch
in the middle of your head-,
the rashes of your elbows pointed at me,
spewing dusted skin.
They didn't bleed,
parched as they were,
as parched as we are.
And you go on chewing words...
Until next time
I know you are waiting
and your smile says
that you know there is something to say,
but I keep looking at the waiters
circling the tables.
They press their lips, waiting
with a pen in their hand
and I think of how silence
runs farther than a few untruths.
I remember what you said;
so I grab words
and try to gather them in time.
No, I haven't looked over the menu yet.
And it's been so long
since you sat down at the table...!
Look, if I could, I would take you
to the place where I stay in the afternoon.
If you had time,
we would sit at the table-
with a few misplaced glasses-
not of lemonade, I'm afraid-
and with their lenses slightly smudged,
but I'd clean them quickly,
in a breath.
And I'd show you the passage in the book
and my collection of words
and you'd understand, surely,
that they come as easy as a smile,
they come running,
in a breath.
If I could, I'd show you
and you wouldn't need to ask;
but as it is, I have to go
hunting for meaning.
I haven't looked over the menu enough,
but everyone serves lemonade.
So we order two.
I hope you still have time
to sit with me...
Waiters pass with empty plates
and my mouth is sour.
Do you keep smiling to hide
the prickles on your tongue?
Maybe an acerbic mouth
shouldn't be allowed
to speak.
-forget what I say,
I only play with the straw
and mix around in my glass.
It's too good a distraction
and every time I send a breath
vapours form and I wipe them
with my hand.
After a few words,
we should forget our glasses.
So tell me, how did you even
find it?
Do you, too, go hunting around
with a pen in your hand?
At any rate,
don't press your lips just yet.
I could invent one
-is that what you did?-
hoping it will not bloom into more
or perish in the fringes of delusion.
Then I'd set it next to others,
the way they do in books.
I'd even put a price next to it,
if people still bother to look in menus.
-don't laugh! I might get enough
and order them in a list.
I think I already had too much,
I need to set my glass aside.
Perhaps you have to leave as well,
it's been so long...
Until next time,
you might remember what I said
and conclude what you gathered.
There might be your meaning,
under the appearance of mine
or there could be a smile
waiting for an answer.
The waiter rushes with our glasses
balanced in a corner on his plate.
I hope to see you soon enough
on a warm afternoon
and I'd have mine ready,
in a breath
I won't lose in the vapours of a cold glass.
Good to see you, it's been so long,
until next time ...!
Kenny A. Chaffin writes poetry, fiction and nonfiction and has published work in Mobius: The Journal of Social Change, Scarlet Leaf Review, Microfiction Monday Magazine, 365 Tomorrows, Star*Line, Speculative 66, James Gunn’s Ad Astra, 101 Word Stories, and others. He grew up in southern Oklahoma and now lives in Denver where he works hard to support two cats, numerous wild birds and a bevy of squirrels. His poetry collections and other works are available at http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B007S3SMY8. |
Allusions of Birds
hanging at an odd angle
from a rusted chain.
It’s visited now and then
by sparrows and has an
abandoned finch nest inside.
The old woman delighted
in her birds and roses
that was many, many years ago.
Water at the Moon’s Poles
Perhaps use solar panels
to split the molecules
into hydrogen and oxygen
providing both fuel and air,
two essentials for survival.
More likely though
Pepsi or Coke will
bottle the water,
sell it for $1000
a pop and claim it
cures cancer.
What is Gravity*
warming the back
of your neck as
you hear the click
releasing the blade
of the guillotine.
*Written in response to someone asking "What is Gravity?" on a forum post from Quantum Physicist Sean Carroll discussing the emergence of Gravity and Spacetime from Entangled Quantum Information. http://www.preposterousuniverse.com/blog/2015/05/05/does-spacetime-emerge-from-quantum-information/
The Shame
in one hundred days?
Walk a thousand miles.
Guilt heaped upon your shoulders.
Dragging your penis
along grinding sandstone.
Wishing it were less.
Wishing it were more.
When the Lava Bomb Hits
and people die before your very eyes.
We all want the power,
to see the power, to get
close to the power.
In our tourist boats.
Still, you must stop and ask yourself,
Where were the squirrels?
Butterflies
a poem that is beautiful
a poem like the wings
of butterflies when the light
falls through the tall trees
and sets afire their fine hairs
and the membranes beneath
I will write a poem
like a constellation of monarchs
darkening the sky with a
single purpose, crowding the
trunks in orange splendour
I will write a poem, translucent,
hidden, like a butterfly in a
tropical forest, brown, unnoticed
until the moment it unfurls
enormous blue wings
one day I shall write a poem
that flits soundlessly, joyfully,
perfectly from its cocoon
into the waiting, hopeful air
Glimpses of Red
since the first sun rose unsteadily
over the first horizon
since they first saw him crossing the miles
of ice and snow and knew they could
do it too he is
royal red reigning over blinding white
among the dark leaves of the forest
they would catch glimpses of him
hunkered down with their buffalo
skins and deadly spears
in stories they seek him in
songs they still mock him in
every corner of the country they
acknowledge his brilliant furred promise
the crown of the meadow
the fox
Rose
dreaming fitfully in the breeze
of colder barren lands
of your fingertips
caressing her thorny stem
a single petal falls
into the wide Pacific
to sink or swim
on its own merits
a speck of sunset encased in endless blue
In Remembrance of You
of the way you would
cross and uncross your legs in agitation
cross, uncross, cross
of the way you could start a conversion
with anyone, that easy gleam in your eye
how you saw things in colours
that were just slightly different
I wish I could speak of your pain
the one you hid so well
beneath a collage of tangled hair and laughter
I wish I could have shouted into the world
that I was lucky to know you
I wish I could tell you that
everyone I met after you seemed like
a pale imitation and you the
real sun
A writer, poet, and educator, Sterling Warner’s poetry and fiction have appeared in dozens of international literary magazines, journals, and anthologies, including In the Grove, the Flatbush Review, Street Lit: Representing the Urban Landscape, American Mustard, Chaffey Review, Leaf by Leaf, The Atherton Review, Metamorphoses, and The Scarlet Leaf Review. Warner also has published four collections of poetry: Without Wheels, ShadowCat, Edges, and Rags and Feathers—as well as a chapbook: Memento Mori Redux. Warner currently lives and writes in Union, WA and is working on a collection of fiction. |
Notre Dame 2019
—Remembering the Notre Dame Fire
Frame intricate stain glass patterns,
People, pageants and passion plays;
Webbed, multiple compartments border,
Link, reinforce elegant arched ribs, as
Flying buttresses support the main vault.
8,000 organ pipes silently scream an alarm;
Fiercely, flickering flames engulf the Medieval
Catholic Cathedral, vulnerable sanctuary,
Spire, oak frame, and lead roof collapse while
Solemn Gargoyle rainspouts glare through smoke,
Powerless to squelch the architectural inferno.
Victor Hugo acclaimed Notre Dame’s a “symphony in stone;”
The regal, resilient, religious fortress defiantly endured when
French Revolutionaries desecrated, defaced and destroyed
Holy icons, replacing idolatry with “Liberty’s Altar,”
The Cult of Reason’s depraved, licentious aesthetic,
Doomed to devote Christian imagery rising from history’s ashes.
The Gothic inspired, spiritual domicile—a popular
Poor people’s book—depicted vivid sculptures illustrating
Biblical tales for illiterate parishioners—witnessed
Joan of Arc canonized, saw Napoleon crowned Emperor. Notre Dame’s
scorched glass windows subsist, its 13th century charred façade stands,
Quasimodo’s bell towers remain intact, the Crown of Thornes sits safely.
Vanguard Reverse
—Boulder Creek Recollection
Stiff, twisting branches tearing, torturing
Blisters shaped like Scandinavian ruins,
My back, bloody and bleached by the sun
As I slither into a shaded solace, greeted by
Grove upon grove of grand redwood trees
Traversing the hillside, bypassing burls, moving
Down the forest’s face, leading to a road where
Row after row of iridescent ear abalone
Their convex armor housing inner layers of
Mother-of pearl reflecting and refracting tinted sunrays,
Dull exterior shells rounded with three spirals
Clutch the silicate sandstone grade where lonely winds
Whisper, ghostly voices emerge, and the soothing sound of
Crashing waves along with drifting tides seem to surge
Back and forth, softly then loudly, dusk through dawn.
Breakwater: Santa Cruz
Mother Nature
Silently sits before
Opening languid lungs,
Confessing an
Empty heart to
All who will listen,
Fulfilling her unbridled
Appetite for life and love--
Tinged with penitent remorse
Words passing through
Thick, pouty lips even
Angelina Jolie would envy
Sing “on and on, on and on,”
Under brilliant celestial bodies
That appear as if they’d been
Drawn and quartered
Every half hour, each
Twinkle turning into itself, fast
Becoming pressed crystal, then
Simply cosmic dust that
Falls between moonlit,
Granite crags where
Hermit crabs scramble over
Summer’s barnacle blankets.
Lion & Dragon Dancers
Chinese
New Year,
Traditional
celebration,
Lion dancers blink eyes
As large as beach balls
Expose furry jaws,
Accept Red Envelopes and
Various other gifts,
Make way for the Dragon
Dancers—a dozen plus
Legs shaking
Lung’s yellow
Bold back arching
Acrobatic arms raising
Majestically
Lifting a torso on poles;
Dragon head
Animated cranium nodding,
Mouth opening,
Speaking in cryptic voices
While skilled acrobats
Twist and turn its long
Segmented, serpentine body,
Adorned in spark throwing fireworks,
Tail keeping time to strong,
Steady drum beats,
Encircling the pillar with
Angular, rhythmic movements,
Cavorting, Gamboling, Capering
Mixing Cloud Cave, Whirlpool, and
Threading the Money dance patterns,
Projecting dignity, fertility, and power,
Leaving me a spectator rather than a
Participant as my sweetheart teases
The dragon seeking wisdom by
Chasing a pearl—symbolic
Ball on a stick--
Zig-zagging
Out of emotion,
Out of reach,
Out of love,
Out of luck.
Channeling Culverts
Liberated from a baroque maze of
Plumbing traps, elbow joints, cleanout tees,
Cross fittings, isolation valves, and wye fittings;
Curly locks blend with auburn tresses, silver fox sideburns,
Blonde shocks, crimson whiskers, chestnut pubic hairs
Indiscriminate drains caress protein follicles one and all,
Oblivious to texture, length, color, creed, or DNA;
They cluster, cling, and covet furry wet clots like
Scaly Scandinavian dragons clutch treasure hordes
Until plunged into an ebon abyss of tap water and sludge--
Reclamation waterways where even sable hairs lose distinction.
Can you imagine if cures did exist for illnesses?
There is a possible cure for an illness,
Then nothing develops,
But a new drug,
Folks, there may never be any cures,
The last cure of an illness was by Jonas Salk,
That was for polio,
We need doctors and other health professionals,
Yet, cures would be nice,
Billions of dollars are put into such events,
Yet, only a new drug is developed,
The pharmaceutical companies need to make money,
But, also, we as humans die,
Human life is not eternal,
As the Bible says it is, when it isn't,
We have to accept that cures will never take fruition,
Think about what I have said,
We all die someday,
There will never be any major changes,
The government has control over these things,
Cures would be fantastic,
But people need money from some place,
Doctors are great,
But in the end we all bite the dust,
Take care for now and be good,
And again, carpe diem.
People love fantasies
War and destruction are not,
The military and law enforcement are realities,
Not pleasant ones, but realities nonetheless,
People like to feel good,
Why they believe in God and Jesus?
Who knows?
Who cares?
Fantasies are not real,
Like Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny,
Feeling good is great,
But religion has no reality to it,
None at all,
Not all of us are fans of the military and law enforcement,
But they are needed greatly,
God is never there to take care of us,
Neither is Jesus, the second stringer,
Believe all you want here,
Take this all in,
Be good to yourself and others,
This is all you can do,
And again, carpe diem.
Religion is nothing to fall back on, we all die anyway
Which is the vast majority,
Yet, they feel we have an eternal life,
In reality, we don't,
You and I are living organisms,
We did not ask to be born,
Religion of any kind is mental control,
Nothing about it changes the world,
Humans change themselves through self discipline,
That all evolves in the mind,
Nothing more or nothing less,
You can believe all you want here,
It is a free world,
To me, there is no God and never was,
Take this all in,
Try to be good,
And may tomorrow be great to you any which way possible.
Reincarnation is not a reality
Great for fiction and fantasy,
Yet, not real,
When I die, I will not come back to life,
Our lifespan is limited,
God is not there for us,
There is no God,
Tragedy continues on our planet,
Every single day for that matter,
From human tragedy to natural disasters,
The dead are exactly that, dead,
You can be spiritual,
Or anything related to it, we all die,
Humans like to believe in reincarnation,
Especially the church,
Yet, again, nothing happens,
There are so many bad things that happen in the church,
From false promises, to pedophilia, to exaggerated claims,
Skies the limit in depressing and terrible things in the church,
Yet, people still worship and pray for something they can't see or feel,
Again, this is a free world,
You can do what you want,
I choose atheism,
It works for me,
Take care for now,
And may the next venture in your life be positive any way shape or form.
NGOZI OLIVIA OSUOHA is a Nigerian poet/writer/thinker. A graduate of Estate Management with experience in Banking and Broadcasting. She has published over one hundred poems/articles in over ten countries. Her first two longest poems of 355 and 560 verses titled THE TRANSFORMATION TRAIN and LETTER TO MY UNBORN published in Kenya and Canada respectively are available on Amazon. She has also featured in over ten international anthologies/books/blogs. She is a passionate African ink. |
SPIRIT OF NATURE
It guides from the spirit.
Spirit is nature
It beautifies the physical.
Know your spirit
Walk with it,
Love your spirit
Work with it.
Believe you, love you
Save you, guide you
Focus, fight hard
Nothing is impossible.
Allow your spirit to live
Let it fly you around
Let it show you mysteries,
And bring you peace.
SPRING
We boom,
Spring is here
We glow.
Green lands
Vegetations aglow
Blue seas
Aquatic inflow.
Blossoms, teeming
Greenness, greatness
Spring is here.
Fairness, calmness, mildness
Calmness, richness, softness
Dear spring is here.
We live to refresh
We refresh to live
Spring brings life anew.
SENSATION
As the spirit leads,
The wonder of nature is real
As the spirit shows.
The mystery of harvest is natural
See, the land is green
The glory of barns is spiritual
See, the cloud is heavy.
The sensation is real
Hear the sound
The news is great
Dance, dance, celebrate
Rejoice, rejoice, dance
Feast and clap
Watch and pray
For the spirit is nature.
STORMS
And the waters we drink,
None is the food we eat
Rather, the flood that did defeat.
Of the earthquakes that destroy
And the landslides that toy,
None can our joy deploy
Because there is no peace to employ.
Of the winds that blow
And the storms that grow,
None can our love flow
For they bring us so low.
Storms so strange
Local and foreign, at range
Storms that change
Stories, histories, eternal.
LINGERING EFFECT
It comes like worm,
If we paint the picture
It dribbles our nature,
If we make a collage
We study it at college,
A perfect lingering effect.
We do not want to die
Hence, the knot we tie
We love to live
So we cherish what we give,
We defeat the battle
Even without our cattle,
For we must move on.
The path of tide
And the length of time
The part so wide
And the strength against crime
There, we pitch our tent
For life is so bent
Even as we pay rent.
FLAMES
Thundering and thunderous sea,
Noisy wind and restless breeze
Troubled land and besieged souls,
Only God understands.
Weeping voices and wailing victims
Floating houses and sinking homes,
Hopeless people and dying nation
Only God knows.
Animals and beasts that raze
Humans and beings at gaze
Souls and spirits ablaze,
A world in flames
Losing her games
Evil gaining names.
NOT WITHSTANDING
Mingling down the Nile,
The European gears
Going extra mile
The African fears
Haunting the file
The Asian wears
Flowing the tile,
The American years
Curing pile,
The Australian bears
Not looking fragile.
A lingering effect
Disasters, natural and devastating
Yet never frightening her
As she hopes life never ends
Loving life to wait for hope
Living it lively to the fullest,
The Caribbean hope
Across that tiny rope
Reaching heights and highs
Nervous with sighs,
The hurricanes not withstanding.
DEAD AND GONE
I weep to see calm
I pray for tranquillity
Yet, no hope seems near.
The world is no longer one
Helter skelter, we run
From pillar to post, we speed
Rowing in time and tide
Tossing in deep blue sea
And nothing gives hope.
Look, peace is dead
Look, unity is gone
Wars, terrors, hate, violence
Racism, religion, rebellion
Greed, envy, we all at war.
Give peace a chance
Listen, peace is calling
Hear, she beckons and pleads
Heed, she mourns and laments
Hearken, her tears build fountains.
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AAMIR ABDULLAH
AHMAD AL-KHATAT
AJAY KUMAR
ALAN BERGER
ALEX DERAMO
BOBBY Z
CAMERON MORSE
CHARLES TALKOFF
CLARA BURGHELEA
DORIAN J. SINNOTT
DR SANTOSH BAKAYA
DUANE ANDERSON
EDWARD LEE
GENN BARRETT
GORDON DISLEY
JACK D. HARVEY
JAMES W. REYNOLDS
JAN BALL
JOE ALBANESE
KEITH BURKHOLDER
KENNY A. CHAFFIN
KEN W. SIMPSON
K SHESHU BABU
KUSHAL PODDAR
LAURA-BIANCA PASCA
LINDA RHINEHART
MANDY BROWN
MARC CARVER
NDABA SIBANDA
NGOZI OLIVIA OSUOHA
PATRICK DOUGLAS LEGAY
PENNY WILSON
PHILLIP KNIGHT SCOTT
PHOEBE HOUSER
RENEE DRUMMOND-BROWN
REX CHILCOTE
ROBIN WYATT DUNN
RON HAGGIN
SAHAJ SABHARWAL
SANDRA HENRY
STERLING WARNER
THE POET DARKLING