Friday, September 19, 2014
A drop, a drizzle, a driving rain,
a stellar jay mocking mockingbirds
out on a wire in the monsoon, jeering
at the catcalls, the coos from the cover,
sings tough-guy talk, schoolyard bully-brag,
bold enough to ignore wet wings, cold, death.
On this day the stellar jay is the only shiny
and winged thing--it struts,
a stain the rain cannot wash away.
It shoots through wind, grabs the highest line
of the staff of telephone wires,
heckles the throng of sparrows that flicker
in the shrubs, jangles a grating key
as it stands king of concrete on the walk
trilling, drop-speckled, spackled
by the downspout foam.
He heard the mountains ring hammered by the sky,
the driving head of thunder with forked claws of rain,
was not afraid to travel the road.
It was when he faced the interrogating glare
of headlights that he learned to fear
the whining saws of tires unimpeded by a sudden turn,
the certain aiming of lights which reduce the world
to muffled cries in murky shadows.
For this he came to value the knowledge of pipes,
fissures, gulleys, the first quick step
into foliage and culvert the lights
will not, cannot, investigate.
Jeff Burt has published works in Dandelion Farm Review, Nature Writing, and many others. He enjoys plum blossoms, eating plums from the branch, and listening to them plop on the soil.
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
you beckoned to me beyond the first set of waves
raven hair trailing your back
I felt my heart crash open in the roiling deep
surprised by the liquid alarm in your grey eyes
I could see the sea
its bottomless possibilities
she and sad, like the goddess Atargatis,
you disappeared into the billowing brine
I followed you wave after wave until the twilight held you
Kit Zak and her husband retired to Rehoboth Beach, DE after a lifetime of teaching and raising a family. She is pulled between writing poetry and working on environmental issues; consequently, many of her poems deal with mankind's destruction of the environment. She has been selected three times to work with the poet laureate of her state, and has poems published or forthcoming in an NPR Anthology, California Quarterly, The Broadkill Review, Newviewnews, The Blue Collar Review, A Time of Singing, and Avocet Quarterly.
Monday, September 15, 2014
oceans hanging in the sky
caught in a vice
on a sunday afternoon
philip glass offering no relief
while the mind wanders through decades
settling on the worst times
nothing but pain filling my vulnerable eyes
remembering all those that i have loved
remembering all those that i have lost:
and all that got lost with them.
Brenton Booth lives in Sydney, Australia. Poetry and fiction of his has been printed in a variety of publications including Modern Drunkard, Poetic Pinup Revue, Nerve Cowboy, Tree Killer Ink, Lummox, Regardless of Authority, 3:AM, Van Gogh's Ear and Lit Up Magazine.
Friday, September 12, 2014
Driving through Utah
Cracks and wrinkles in blue skin
sliver across the desert sky
like streaks of clouds.
The left and right horizons
are fractured jaw lines and coffee stained teeth.
The desert seems flat
but beyond the asphalt
lumps of sand spotted with tufts of grass
rise and fall: the moles and pores
of Utah's skin. Then a butte
and ridges, a wall
like shards of dark glass slicing into a brown back
bent forward at the waist from hard labor.
The acrid air abrades even human skin.
Funnels of wind
rise and dissipate
in the distance: rust red,
burnt orange sand and gravel. The turn
to Moab and the National Park
promises fossilized dunes, like layers of stretch marks
and cellulite across the belly,
and geologic fractures,
beauty framing the blue,
leaking sky and tears of sunlight
between round windows and arches
of granite and sandstone,
formations like ogres, like trolls,
like abstract sculptures and sand paintings
defying the world's evil spirits,
to balance the spirits
of breathing creatures.
Tourists' car radios, cameras,
caravans of RV's and plastic water bottles
leak the world into this space,
a hot wind billowing out of the horizon,
a haze that distorts the landscape
into photos and family vacations.
We are all guilty of anthropomorphism.
The arches continue to stretch and lean
despite the humans hiking and posing around them.
Snakes, lizards and scorpions, ravens
rabbits, yucca, pinion pines, prickly pear cactus,
live despite us. The sands burn and cool, shift
and erode, despite us.
The asphalt road circles back to the entrance of the park.
The desert and mountains
stretch and streak and wind and drop and rise
Patricia Hanahoe-Dosch has been published in The Atticus Review, War, Art and Literature, Confrontation, The Red River Review, San Pedro River Review, Marco Polo Arts Magazine, Red Ochre Lit, Nervous Breakdown, Quantum Poetry Magazine, The Paterson Literary Review, Abalone Moon, Apt, Switched-On Gutenberg, Paterson: The Poets' City (an anthology edited by Marie Mazziotti Gillan), and MALALA: Poems for Malala Yousafzai (a Good Works anthology by FutureCycle Press to raise money for teh Malala Fund), among others. Articles of hers have appeared in Travel Belles, On a Junket, and Wholistic Living News. Her story, "Sighting Bia," was selected as a finalist for A Room of Her Own Foundation's 2012 Orlando Prize for Flash Fiction. My story, "Serendip," was published in In Posse Review.
Wednesday, September 10, 2014
White wrapped 'round white
into winds wild
to curvet and blow
Drumming deep-song snow
Threats in throats
Primitive call to
Soul of winds
A bloodless force
From skies a'tremble
Tentacles of snow
They seize and thrust
to twist in mist
Winds scream a god's revenge
burying earth's bones
Thick to mount
a night, black
Drift to deep
a sepulcher sleep
Hold autumn close
When the sun strikes broadside
Reach into its heart of gold
One last moment
On the path of summer's glory
Plunder her golden orb
A whispered lullaby
To rock cradle of sleep long
November--above the crest of summer dream
Drink deep the poem of autumn
Susan Dale's poems and fiction are on Kind of a Hurricane Press, Ken*Again, Penman Review, Inner Art Journal, Feathered Flounder, Garbanzo, and Linden Avenue. In 2007, she won the grand prize for poetry from Oneswan. She has two published chapbooks on the internet: Spaces Among Spaces by languageandculture.org, and Bending the Spaces of Time by Barometric Pressures Authors' Series.
Monday, September 8, 2014
Spring is still sliding on the strings of a guitar
waiting on side-roads
the world in
every kind of
Envious ivy -- chains
Cities of glass moss
Yawning grass after a lengthy nap
The lawn-mower is resting in the shed
Jaded rings of melting puddles
Jade drinks of rain-wet maples
Willow, oak, poplar: sleeping giants
but their frosty lips are already
greening with spring
Fanni Sütő is a 24-year-old writer, poet, dreamer who believes in fairy tales even if they are dark, disenchanted and deconstructed. She writes about everything which comes her way or goes bump in the night. She has been published in Hungary, the US, the UK, and Australia.
Saturday, September 6, 2014
Spider webs like harp strings strummed by the breeze
A moth like mildew at odd angles spasmodically wings
Heat wave mirages shimmer and ebb
The summertime heat creeps with thirst
Until all is brown and dead
Winter is lost and can't find its way home
And it cries out for its birthright and the time that it is owed
Into the Welcoming Arms Of
The crimson silky birds
Are spontaneous phantoms
In the brazier of swirling mists
That turns the sunset into
An Aladdin's treasure
That glows in frosty nectar
Like a snow covered hibiscus
Blossomed and Thrived
Once when my blue winged sorrow
Took a ferry ride to flip-flops clomping
On clam shells beneath an autumn sunset sky
While blue jays whispered in the fall sunset
Nearby a beachside pumpkin patch
Gathered in a lingering flock
Like some centuries old sacred dance
While under the boardwalk there
The metallic gold of ocean sounds
Turned the seashore all to peppermint
Till night became frozen
And poured all of this wonderment
Into the most tasty of Popsicle molds
For the past thirty-five years Ken L. Jones has been a professionally published author who has done everything from writing Donald Duck Comic books to creating things for Freddy Krueger to say in some of his movies. In the last six years he has concentrated on his lifelong ambition of becoming a published poet and he has published widely in all genres of that discipline in books, online, in chapbooks and in several solo collections of poetry.