Wednesday, October 22, 2014

A Poem by John W. Sexton


World Without Bees Amen

On the sills the bees are dying.  Bumbles
fuzzing in their humming.  Their furred knitwear
losing lustre; their breathing visible,
their wings crisply stopped.  The dustpan will share
them to the hedged garden.  I fling them out
against the wind, and they fly one last time,
but just the flight of falling.  Who will shout
to stop the dying?
                                   There just isn't time,
so watch them die in their furry troubles,
fuzzed in their humming, the dying bumbles.




John W. Sexton lives in the Republic of Ireland and is the author of five poetry collections, the most recent being The Offspring of the Moon, (Salmon Poetry, 2013).  He also created and wrote The Ivory Tower for RTI radio, which ran to over one hundred half-hour episodes from 1999 to 2002.  Two novels based on the characters from this series have been published by the O'Brien Press:  The Johnny Coffin Diaries and Johnny Coffin School-Dazed, which have been translated into both Italian and Serbian.  He is a past nominee for The Hennessy Literary Award and his poem "The Green Owl" won the Listowel Poetry Prize 2007.  Also in 2007 he was awarded a Patrick and Katherine Kavanagh Fellowship in Poetry.




Monday, October 20, 2014

A Poem by Bill Jansen


An Element of Blank

In the fictive state of Oregon
in the Louisiana parish of my body
in the transparent Jaguar
in green frost on a bottle of Belgian beer
my soul in a German subway
I induce an Amherst cop
to sleep with me in solitary confinement,
hoping she would test the citizenship of my breath
which I already knew might not be heaven,
but my memory may have been stupendous
because she let me go,
her pretty frown of bewilderment,
and I said:  I am at the front,
advising her to watch out for magnetized owls
they can hear me under the leaves,
smoking my radials out of town
Stuttgart flew by,
Frank Zappa & Emily Dickinson
in a coffee shop
his elegant hand touching her knee,
Adak, Alaska flew by,
San Francisco & northern Nigeria flew by
like U-pick gooseberry signs,
then, as I hoped it would,
chapters of Nebraska are falling on Paris
(40% words)
I swerved, grayed out,
yellow light big as Colorado,
put a dent in first responder,
apologized to a Coca-Cola machine,
but still no sign of the bejeezus
they say I scared out of a bobcat
in the Los Angeles river.
Not just any bobcat,
the bobcat I now worship.




Bill Jansen lives in Forest Grove, Oregon.




Friday, October 10, 2014

Three Poems by A.J. Huffman


Dawn Breaks

through remnants of midnight’s rain,
illuminates the residual gray
clinging to nature’s morning.  Eyes
search for disruptive streak of lingering
silver, refusing to relinquish
the slick elegance of moonlight’s glow.
Failure:  the abysmal haze holds,
complete.  I shrivel
deeper into my own
skin, an automatic escape
attempt, focus on following a
now less discernible path home.


Winter’s Tree

Stripped and left
unbreathing.  Green life
of sun cannot stand
weight of white robe,
brushed on then brushed off
by the wind.  Fickle
coat of wilting, of remaining,
cover’s coma holding.  Pattern
waiting for first crack,
a spring shoot.


Alone Among the Pines

a tiny sprig fights for light.
Its monstrous mothers stand vigil,
but unacquiescing.  They will not part
their branches in empathy of survival’s fight.
Instead they wait in silent observation,
understanding the toughest barks are built
on fleeting rays, those warming moments
when wind shifts, when shade and shadows part.



A.J. Huffman has published nine solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses.  She also has two new full-length poetry collections forthcoming: Another Blood Jet (Eldritch Press) and A Few Bullets Short of Home (mgv2>publishing).  She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and her poetry, fiction, haiku and photography have appeared in hundreds of national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, Bone Orchard, EgoPHobia, and Kritya.  She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press.  www.kindofahurricanepress.com 



Thursday, October 2, 2014

A Poem by Kushal Poddar


Autumn

The crows are murder
this autumn, the finches
nowhere to be seen.
Just when we gave up
on the wind fallen
in the well of rot,
it rescues itself
and knocks on the door.
We brace silence
even harder.
The shadows of the crows
devour the crows.



A native of Kolkata, India, Kushal Poddar writes poetry, scripts and prose and is published world-wide.  He authored "All Our Fictional Dreams" published in several anthologies in the Continent and in America.  The forthcoming book is "A Place For Your Ghost Animals."  Find more at https://www.facebook.com/pages/Kushal-The-Poet/166552613396144



Wednesday, October 1, 2014

A Poem by Cristine A. Gruber


Echo

Distant
coyote on
the mountain answers their
soulful cries, calling into the
night air.



Cristine A. Gruber has had work featured in numerous magazines, including:  North American Review, Writer's Digest, Writers' Journal, Ascent Aspirations, California Quarterly, Dead Snakes Online Journal, The Endicott Review, Garbanzo Literary Journal, The Homestead Review, Iodine Poetry Journal, Kind of a Hurricane Press's:  Something's Brewing Anthology, Miller's Pond Poetry Magazine, The Penwood Review, Poem, Thema, The Tule Review, and Westward Quarterly.  Her first full-length collection of poetry, Lifeline, was released by Infinity Publishing and is available from amazon.com.




Friday, September 26, 2014

Three Poems by Susan Dale


San Francisco to Seattle

Cathedrals of Redwoods
Whispers of mist
Circles of clouds
Sighing across the skies

Fog moving in -- fog moving out
The cold thunder of the Pacific
Pine-arms uplifted to the heavens

Waltzing with the Pacific off to the side
A dance of tides
Weather-beaten shanties huddled together
Shivering in the rainy gloom

Green, green; gleaming green

Skies through the branches
Pools of sunlight
Meadows weaving garlands
Of foxgloves and roses
Winks of poppies
Golden flashes of broom
Ribbons of daisies
Mosses rushing to cover all

Mountains rising through the mist
Rock beds dotting rivers
Carpets of moss smothering forest floors
Fern fronds
Buttercups hop-scotching down hillsides
Indian drumbeats echoing across streams

Streams rushing to rivers
Rivers flowing into lakes
Lakes flowing to the ocean
The Pacific waving greetings to the Atlantic
Watery arms joining to embrace the earth


Slices of Spring

Wave willow fronds
Your tender green arms
         To spring

          *****

A thin coat of color
On the cold stare
         Of Winter
         
           *****

Overlapping of colors
        White to shy
To green-eyed spring

          *****

Ink sketches of branches
             To
Wide-shouldered trees

          *****

The moon full
with sacred rite
The sacred rite
      of spring

          *****

Spring wings
    a' chirping
through the clouds

         *****

With rainy eyes
And pink-slipper feet
Spring dances
      over the hill


The Song is Gone

A 60's waltz
the song
     slipped into quietus
The dancers gone too
Their footprints washed away
by the heartbeat of a lake, persistent,
          ever flowing onwards

We danced our days across the Lake's currents
Rainbow seashells, driftwood sculptures
Broken glass scrubbed gentle

Behind this rock, that
water chants
answered with a chorus of remembering
Walking across thin sands of seaweed and bloated fish
to grimace our way into rocky waters
And further
swimming
     past a broken pier
          into a sunset horizon
               falling into twilight rising

Slivers of shadows creeping thin
The soul of remembering
Wrapped tight in the tides of yesteryear




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.



Wednesday, September 24, 2014

A Triptych by William G. Davies, Jr.


The Sunflower Chronicles


Straphangers

Sunflowers cram into the morning bus,
they unfold yellow newspapers
and droop their heads reading over
each other's shoulder.


Sunflowers

They crowd about me
as I open to the Gospel,
their yellow heads
wait for that moment
when Jesus speaks
and only as they can,
bow their heads
in prolonged adoration.


The Countenance of a Sunflower

She leans towards the Virgin Mary
her yellow Stole swept back,
two Queens in an earthly garden,
one hastening to the other
in a peaceful acquiescence to radiance.





William G. Davies, Jr. is the 2013 Poet Laureate of Perry County, Pennsylvania.