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Mona Follis
Anthosactis pearseae
Ancient flower of the sea, stunted by lack of light,
warmth, and nutrients, who lives among
the detritus in a whale fall on white bones
of the deep's most elegant of creatures, how is it
that you are but a pale, dwarfed ancestor
of the colorful anemone, whose pink hair
floats so gracefully and freely--your white,
stubby, tooth-like body, an abyssal recluse--
the shy grandmother of them all.
Copyright Mona Follis ©2008
This poem may not be reproduced in whole or in part
without express permission from the author.
Kate LaDew
the ghost walks
some people are magic, disappear in puffs of smoke
it’s almost habit to want to peer under the cloak
find the joke, save the rabbit, touch the fear
that chokes when the show’s too near tragic,
when the glow of the stage is too low to gauge between
empty and a cage
some people are magic, leave and don’t came back,
every door a trap with nothing soft to catch who
you’re waiting for,
sometimes it’s too late, following the war from backstage,
await the death score and you don’t see them anymore
sim sala bim, sim sala bim, won’t see him again
trace the hat production with your hand,
watch the destruction of far away sand,
halfway planned, high command, military band,
make a stand, do something grand
forget this land abduction, sleight of hand
seduction,
your man, he’s one man, a tax deduction
sim sala bim, sim sala bim, won’t see him again
sim sala bim, forget you loved him
abracadabra, hocus pocus, make the ghosts walk,
presto chango stop the clock, bring back the flock,
devil's walking sticks, they lurk by cribs, make wishbones
out of ribs
you’re next, you and you, join our magic show and
you’ll never know
what it was like to live when magic was true and
didn’t want you
Copyright Kate LaDew ©2008
This poem may not be reproduced in whole or in part
without express permission from the author.
Jeannine Hall Gailey
Pretty, Popular
She smiled so much her jaw ached.
Beneath tight jeans and Benetton sweater
her body woke, hopeful, every night.
She read books no one thought she
could understand--Anna Karenina, Victor Hugo.
During the day, she spun, kicking
out of her cocoon with tasteful, pointed flats;
you never guessed.
In this photo, her hair is almost silver.
Her irises ringed in silver, too, their blue
mirror-like, and everyone sees themselves
inside, that's what they liked.
Her fingers moved like feathers, and you
wanted her to whisper your name alone.
Her cheeks seem hungrier now.
Here, in real life, her steps are brisker,
she moves everyone around her like game pieces,
here the children, there the husband and friends. Forget nostalgia.
Now is the time for her to become what she intended,
someone who does things, not just
ankle and thigh and neckline,
the soft, lovely tilt of her head.
You saw her at the bank,
gripping her checkbook like a knife,
holding a pen in teeth worn down,
all those years of smiling,
bone against bone.
from Becoming the Villainess, 2006.
Copyright Jeannine Hall Gailey ©2006
This poem may not be reproduced in whole or in part
without express permission from the author.
C. E. Chaffin
Melancholy
Dressed in perpetual blue,
her smile a wound too wise
for ordinary martyrdom,
with the stealth of a blue-bottle fly
she comes, black-veined wings
pressed on an azure gown.
Though her kiss is bitter
as the almond pit, her name
flows over the tongue
like maple syrup.
“All happens for a reason”
she reassures us
in a smoky cocktail voice,
rendering pain beyond endurance
something reason cannot solace.
She will choke you
with a noose of accusations
woven from strictest honesty.
Beware her lying bed.
Great minds have lain there
and dined upon themselves.
Copyright C. E. Chaffin ©2007
This poem may not be reproduced in whole or in part
without express permission from the author.
Carolyn Tourney Florek
Having Sex with Jack
was always a conceptual event;
cameras whirring at all angles, on timers;
flaring little glass eyes espied
every bump and grind of their jigging thighs
enmeshed with background music—
one night Talking Heads, another, Charles Ives.
They were dissonant lovers documenting “love.”
There were the tender times banished
to morning coffee, rites performed over
toast piled high with organic butter and jams.
Jack, with his cliché AM baby-blues,
his maniac midnight-blue eyes,
his skewering tongue and smooth bribes.
He played Gershwin on her pale scrim,
veined with violet-blues beneath her iridescent skin,
for she never saw the light of day.
Jack held her overtime like blue snow in a closet,
mirrored six-fold into a myriad of tiny tattooed
stars lifted into the limelight of sequences;
silken skeins unraveling to netted scrawls
on windowpanes and toilet walls.
And then the click of the lights,
and Jack fiddling at the peephole,
adjusting the next shot through the dark.
He mooned the credits of seemingly no
consequence—She vanished—Poof!—
into the worm-worn Persian rug
with the five legged horse’s ass.
Copyright Carolyn Tourney Florek ©2007
This poem may not be reproduced in whole or in part
without express permission from the author.
Gary Charles Wilkens
That's Why I Got to Murder You Baby
Only thing I ever understood about the Gospel
was the shotgun. They tell me there weren't no shotgun
but I see it black as night. Jesus and them walked
around looking for sinners and demons,
delivering flash and smoke justice.
They came and got him when he ran out of shells.
I ain't never gonna run out of shells.
Got buckets of blood and a belly full of fire.
When I get there my crown gon' be made of triggers.
A goddamn throne of bone.
That's why I sit in this penitentiary, woman.
Vision.
Copyright Gary Charles Wilkens ©2007
This poem may not be reproduced in whole or in part
without express permission from the author.
Enzo Marra
Not exactly lovely
I thought love
would just happen,
no puffs of smoke
but still magical--
the careening highs and lows,
ferris-wheel elations.
Love would appear
like a performing dog,
all flips and barks,
jumping through hoops
for wow effect,
pouting for the camera,
before jumping
Into my arms:
that sense of belonging
of fitting snugly,
like puzzle pieces,
all glued together,
held tight
into this, weird structure--
those Ikea desks
I always fail with.
Enzo Marra ©2007
This poem may not be reproduced in whole or in part
without express permission from the author.
Maryam Chahine
But Aren't You Hot in That Thing?
And here we go again:
"but aren't you hot in that thing?" - (meaning my scarf) - this time I
concede:
"darling I am burning in hell over here
especially at 4 in the afternoon. I can
fight demons, ice cream, even terrorists
gunning them down with this thing on my
head; exterminating mice, roaches, termites
in the odor of my perspiration. I'm so hot I spawn
juggernauts from the decay of musty armpits
killing murderers, rapists, pedophiles
lifting from the earth all the corruption and
miscreants in the flood of my sweat. You can bet
nothing can withstand my fiery heat, not even
ovens, they are obsolete in my burning
perdition,
quashing credit cards, TVs, billboards,
reducing all distractions into a liquefied
soup. While with my blazing toes, I
torch lies, cellphones, cigarettes,
unveiling the molten lava from that thing on my head. The
volcanic eruption destroys imperialism, genocide, disease, even
war is annihilated in my all consuming incinerator
xing pesticides, pimples, news, and then with one sweaty
yawn, I free all animals from
zoos."
Copyright Maryam Chahine ©2007
This poem may not be reproduced in whole or in part
without express permission from the author.
John Milkereit
Pluto
I read your mystery in the newspaper,
distant, tiny, elliptical, orbiting
the star from where we are every 248 years.
You excelled past theory, drove
February nights, images over northern Arizona;
generations memorized solar system charts.
Your weightiness, spherical good nature
never did you in--you would not slingshot
past the neighborhood. Your lock
with your companion, Charon, revoked
planetary status as facts known
many calendars before my existence--
black and white--they change
with discovery, icy evidence
beyond the belt of what is known unfolds...
weaponry from spider webs, blind deer hunters... how twisted
the bodies of reason and moderation,
the matters that spun Aristotle's mind are elongated
to this plane. Years ago, I met a woman who skewed
my atmosphere upside down, freezing
space I knew as unexplainable. The launch
to horizons unknown was the furthest journey we took
until separation. Those fractures broke boundaries
after meeting only hours before, and as far away
as three city blocks--traveling the same direction until
our paths collided in a traffic accident.
We saw contrasts of light and dark
pressed into cracks of glass.
Copyright John Milkereit ©2007
This poem may not be reproduced in whole or in part
without express permission from the author.
Misti Rainwater-Lites
Hologram Hell
here i am again stuck in hologram hell
look!
pretty! pretty!
goddess of muchness
munching on lucky clover
my mirror is hissing lies
the sibilance soothes me into
dreams where love is a contagion
all the pleading sappy songs are about me
it is always spring here
in la la land
butterflies!
rainbows!
waters gurgling like newborn babies
clouds plump and pink like cherubim
everything blossoms
all of eden reflected
across my face
and beautiful carnivorous men
eat fever from my hands
and drown without complaint
inside my liquid eyes
Misti Rainwater-Lites ©2007
This poem may not be reproduced in whole or in part
without express permission from the author.
Jake Syersak
Portrait of a Passing Crowd
The flora of persona
washes like tsunami over the
interurban thing,
sprouting from the grooves
in public one-ways,
making spring
the fantasy
of low-lit streets.
I see the eyes, vases of eyes
The failing eyes. The wanting eyes.
The eyes that are hands, for a moment,
arthritic, stunted hands,
stubs of wish,
reaching--
the shattered magnetry of the optic vessel,
vase-like and ruined--
the eyes of purgatorio.
Jake Syersak ©2007
This poem may not be reproduced in whole or in part
without express permission from the author.
Erica Lehrer
Wheels
You are what you drive: that sleek Porsche you own,
shiny, desirable, fully-loaded, intoxicating as cologne.
Running my hands over your luxe smooth leather,
I realize there's nowhere I'd rather be tonight than together,
traveling faster than the speed of light on a moon-lit night.
But you toy with me, hiding emotions, shunning intimacy.
You're like a car where somebody's locked the key inside
with motor running, privacy-glass windows shut tight,
anti-theft security system on and dinner from Uncle Tai's
– Savory Happy Family, Sweet & Sour Triple Delight – *
resting on the seat, tempting but out of reach.
I'm famished, hungrier than I've ever been before.
I can't wait: flash the lights; beep the horn; unlock the door.
Erica Lehrer ©2007
This poem may not be reproduced in whole or in part
without express permission from the author.
Adamarie Fuller
When It’s Over
An orange sits on my counter
Begging me
To partake of its pulpy flesh.
Fragrant white flowers
Formed this dimpled orb
That sits there,
Waiting for me,
Watching me.
I look at it
And think how delicious
An apple would be.
Adamarie Fuller ©2007
This poem may not be reproduced in whole or in part
without express permission from the author.
Kate Falvey
The Evening Wolves
The bells ring in a neighboring town.
There is no sound
but the logic of my nerve ends.
My bones drift out,
The rest of me recedes.
I do no more than dab at dinner
crease the hurried sections
of the final paper,
then fondly fold myself away.
Tired, I grow thinner.
My teeth shred from lack of use.
There is prowling at my window.
The light prowls.
The voices of children prowl.
The grizzled, sunken leaves prowl.
And the bells. They prowl
in the sound of all things prowling.
The darkness hurls
and shapes itself to spaces.
The solids intervene.
I am one myself.
I can’t be blotted out.
The darkness bares its teeth to me.
The heart constructs sure barriers
then barrels through the palings.
Darkness circles and advances.
The pacing in my mind grows dim.
The bells lift their bony wings
and cry.
Kate Falvey ©2007
This poem may not be reproduced in whole or in part
without express permission from the author.
Diana Manister
How We Are Taken In
Approaching the event horizon,
dumb, un-
suspecting,
we enter and never
know,
drawn, strongly,
cliff
or whitewater,
hole so
attracted
there is no
going back:
strongly drawn,
too wide to be visible
drawn,
falling,
motions very small.
Copyright Diana Manister ©2007
This poem may not be reproduced in whole or in part
without express permission from the author.
Laura G. Brooks
Talk When You Listen To Me
Nothing quite like your eyes
When you lie on your back in the bed
Looking at the ceiling
Or the dresser
The window
Rain outside
Lashing drops trying to get in.
Don't you see me
Trying to get in
Only a sheet between us —
A sheet and some space and
A thousand "I'm sorries" and
"I meant to say..."
We take off our clothes to be closer
But you pull the sheet over your head
I thought the kinky game was "doctor"
Not "coroner."
Well I can't touch an inch of your skin.
My love
Let me in.
Copyright Laura G. Brooks ©2007
This poem may not be reproduced in whole or in part
without express permission from the author.
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