Wednesday, April 16, 2014

Three Poems by Patricia L. Goodman

Poem to Myself

Don't lament this old photograph --
you, ten years old,
in your homemade polka-dot
swimsuit. It’s your first time at the beach.
You’re trying

to please your mother
as you over-react to waves. Take a lesson
from the flock of goldfinches
playing musical perches
on your feeders—
unconcerned their winter gold is dull.
And look,

despite a swollen ankle, that deer
seems serene
as she searches for acorns beneath the snow.
And in that gaggle of geese up there,
the one missing tail feathers
still honks its way home.

When Winter Stayed

The geese look
like decoys, asleep
on the ice, not praying,
yet all facing west. You say
it is because
they are heading the wind.
I have other questions,
but I watch a hawk
land in a bare maple,
and when I turn
you are gone.

All That Remains

In startling desiccation,
           he lies
       beneath a pink peony
in my garden,
           no smell of death,
       no weight in my hands,
           only bones
and feathers,
black starling wings
           extended stiffly,
       dark feet
clasping emptiness,
       beak crookedly agape
from the impact
           that broke his neck.

Above him,
           the window
        to my studio,
cruel cause
           of a simple error,
real reason
           to question
        why we create
such fatal illusions,
           how man fits
        in this world.

Patricia L. Goodman is a widowed mother and grandmother, a graduate of Wells College with a degree in Biology and is a member of Phi Beta Kappa. Her career involved breeding and training horses with her orthodontist husband on their farm in Chadds Ford, PA. She has had poems published in the likes of Aries, The Broadkill Review, Sugar Mule, Requiem Magazine, Jellyfish Whispers, Fox Chase Review; Mistletoe Madness , Storm Cycle, Poised in Flight(all from Kind of a Hurricane Press)On Our Own (Silver Boomer Books) and The Widow’s Handbook. Her first book, Closer to the Ground was a finalist in the 2014 Dogfish Head Poetry Competition and she has twice won the Delaware Press Association Communications Award in poetry. She lives on the banks of the Red Clay Creek in Delaware, where she is surrounded by the natural world she loves.

Sunday, April 13, 2014

Two Poems by John Grey

Regarding the Hawk
The hawk plunges
into the crowd at the bird feeder,
grabs a mourning dove
in a wild flurry of feather and blood.
It had been waiting for just this moment:
the convergence of
my generosity with seed,
the hunger of the small birds,
the even greater hunger of the raptor.
I watch the hawk lift off,
the flapping gray bird in its talons,
shifting to another gear for uplift,
then settling on a wind draft
to calm its racing blood,
before alighting on the top
of a telephone pole,
to devour its catch
in full view of the neighborhood.
How can this sight not stay with me,
aiding and abetting death as I do.
The hawk will return to its aerie in the high oaks,
sparrows, finches, retreat to their nests in the thick brush.
mourning doves batten down in their loose bed
of leaves and twigs in forks of maples.
And I will fill the empty feeders, pick up the feathers,
hose away the stains.
That’s as close to nature as I get.
Crow Life
The crow sits on a throne of green
on the highest oak tree branch,
its heft, dark feathers,
lauding it over the surrounding landscape.
Not even we intruders,
superior as we think we are,
can match the black-robed beast
for haughtiness.
It offers a desultory caw
to announce our presence,
nothing more.
It has no fear of hikers
but sinks into its black satin robes,
beak on chest,
talons gripping limb.
But there's that whole issue of carrion
to be dealt with.
It can't eat until something dies.
We're so alive
we're more annoyance than anything.
And, unlike the raccoon, the skunk,
when we die
our fellows do something about it.
They don't leave us
to the pecking order of the crows.
The crow looks out across its empire.
And then down at humankind below.
The worst of us are on the trails.
The best of us are six feet under.
John Grey is an Australian born poet. Recently published in The Lyric, Vallum and the science fiction anthology, “The Kennedy Curse” with work upcoming in Bryant Literary Magazine, Natural Bridge, Southern California Review and the Oyez Review.

Friday, April 11, 2014

Three Poems by Ken L. Jones

Something Better Than Forever

Night like awkwardly scrawled
Handwriting withers in the wisps
Snake whips of storm clouds crackling
With lightning’s hiss
Like Zen koan
That show how
One hand would clap
The slow sad music
Of a life dried up
With the juicelessness
Of that which I once savored
Hard and fast and gulped down
Because I knew it
Would not last.

From Then On She Enjoyed Her Contact With The Aliens
My life like a melting wax statue’s
Dripping pigeon feathers to Icarus’ fall
Pounding of the surf in my mind like
The echo in a child’s ear from a seashell
Sea breezes eat through the pores
Of my clothes raising huge goose bumps
Which feel invigorating
To my long dead senses
So long ago I started to die
A slow death lost in dimensions
Of unfeeling alienation
And had a nauseating hunch
That something was missing
Voices fuzz out from the top of the cliffs
And I realize I am not alone on the beach either
A broken sea scarred doll
Floats in the tidal pool at my feet
Her hair tangled with seaweed
It is a kind of witchcraft
To be here now dead to wonder
Hanging on the end of
The North American continent
Quivering on the verge of
The final westward trail which
I am in no hurry to travel down.

A Scarcrow From Odds

I opened up the door this morning
Expecting everything to be in Technicolor
But evidently last night’s
Storm did not spirit
Our house away
Because I’m still in Anaheim
And the fog is but
The messenger of the gray
Choking sky
Of the noon day yet to come
Later on in the early evening
Riding up over the crest of
Signal Hill past the graves of
Thousands of dearly departeds
Our truck rolls forward
And father’s foot is hard on the brake
And I notice that Long Beach is dying
Its aged buildings smothering
Beneath spigots of invisible Zyklon B laced showers
The chimneys of the electric company
Puff out globules of smoke
Into the night time
Like a lunger smoking against doctor’s orders
Ejaculating a sour stench
Into the womb eternal
That is our atmosphere
And probably only rehabilated asthmatics like myself
Can truly savor the fine syrupy taste
Of a techno haiku like this
Coming as it does at this late date
In what we laughingly refer to as the age of progress

Ken L. Jones has written everything from Donald Duck comic books to dialogue for the Freddy Krueger movies for the past thirty plus years.  In the last three years he has gained great notice for his vast publication of horror poetry which has appeared in many anthology books, blogs, magazines and websites and especially in his first solo book of poetry, Bad Harvest and Other Poems.  He is also publishing recently in the many fine anthology poetry books that Kind of a Hurricane Press is putting out.

Wednesday, April 9, 2014

A Poem by ayaz daryl nielsen

Already Ours

Words lost in the forest
invisible behind closed eyes         
Green inspiration of mature 
blackberry and raspberry thickets, 
of wild marshes ripe with 
cranberries and blueberries,
unlit by mind-light’s crimson rays 
Above thicket and marsh, grey 
squirrel-forum and good, loose 
magpie’s black-and-white 
directions:  ‘the green inspiration 
of an out-breath as they’re spoken, 
words as they must be when 
they’re written - embrace them!   
They are already yours’

ayaz daryl nielsen, husband, father, veteran, x-roughneck (as on oil rigs) and hospice nurse, editor of bear creek haiku (24+ years/118+ issues), poetry’s homes include Lilliput Review, The Stray Branch, Verse Wisconsin, Shamrock, Kind of a Hurricane, Shemom, has earned cherished awards and participated in worthy anthologies - poetry ensembles include Concentric Penumbra’s of the Heart and Tumbleweeds Still Tumbling, and, in 2013, released an anthology The Poet’s of Bear Creek - beloved wife/poet Judith Partin-Nielsen, and! (translates as joie de vivre)

Monday, April 7, 2014

A Poem by Jonel Abellanosa

While the Crickets are Mating
The moon thinks the crow is firewood
So it splits the bird’s shadow from its sneaking. 
The bird thinks the moon is the fruit
Of contention that splintered the flock
So it tries to return its fullness
In the thickest crown it found. 
In the right tree, the owl might be laughing
If it hasn’t swallowed the wrong snake. 
The frogs have stopped complaining. 
The boy scribbling under omniscient stars,
Tending his mind’s earliest fire, Albert,
Who decades later will confound skeptics
With three letters and a number: e, m, c and 2.
Jonel Abellanosa resides in Cebu City, the Philippines.  His poetry is forthcoming in Anglican Theological Review, The Lyric, Ancient Paths, and has appeared in Windhover, PEN Peace Mindanao anthology, Star*Line, Liquid Imagination, Mobius Journal of Social Change, Inwood Indiana Press, Golden Lantern, Poetry Quarterly, New Verse News, Qarrtsiluni, Anak Sastra: Stories for Southeast Asia, Fox Chase Review, Burning Word, Barefoot Review, Red River Review, Philippines Free Press, Philippine Graphic.  He is working on his first poetry collection, Multiverse.

Sunday, March 23, 2014

Three Poems by Ken L. Jones

Cream of Remembrance

Lush gardens caught in the rhythm
Of enraptured ballerinas with bird wings
I crave something very much like fog
In the still shady redwood grove
Remembering horse pastures
That now largely do not exist
But still there is heavy rain to look
Forward to if the clouds chose to cooperate
And later the sun fading on the ocean
As it performs magic tricks that only I will notice.

A Cantata of Forgotten Orbits

Late August is worn away
Mist on the lilies trembles on the wind
As the night comes on like Mardi Gras
And I feel like I'm gardening in an episode
Of the Twilight Zone that I don't quite recall
As I stand here dumb struck trying to take all of this in
Even as the crescendos of the Milky Way's cello like panoply
Causes me to dream of winter nights soon to be
And of which no human hand will be able to write of adequately

Gilt Enhanced by Light

The barebones sound of a hot buttered trumpet
Huddles in the jealous shadows
Where toads blinded by the distance
It takes to reach a dead tree
Throb like some kind of harlequins
Sculpted from the ripest of wild blackberries
And from what kind of seed comes such cherubs
In the cathedral of my dreams
Where all paintings are hallucinations
That dance like seahorses across
A classical guitar's finger plucked strings?

Ken L. Jones has written everything from Donald Duck comic books to dialogue for the Freddy Krueger movies for the past thirty plus years.  In the last three years he has gained great notice for his vast publication of horror poetry which has appeared in many anthology books, blogs, magazines and websites and especially in his first solo book of poetry Bad Harvest and Other Poems.  He is also publishing recently in the many fine anthology poetry books that Kind of a Hurricane Press is putting out.


Friday, March 21, 2014

A Poem by Anne Richmond Wakefield

This is how it starts:
A misplaced promise.
Old light tearing heaven.
Where the pieces land,
You're born.

Each wide, a mountain
Because of the others.
All motherless,
One way or another.
All mothers.

Marking time in the sky,
Bearing histories through
The drag.  The skip.  The mystery.

Go on, seven sisters.
Burn, muting Orion.
You ancient test of vision,
Love's beautiful ambush,
Where darkness dies to light.

Anne Richmond Wakefield lives and writes in Austin, Texas.  When not painstakingly composing her first novel, she's enjoying the outdoors with her husband, two sons, and decrepit Lab-mix.