Green Tea Bedroom

featured in the poetry forum April 23, 2017  :: 0 comments

Lost in the moment
the sight of C’s saucer shaped eyes
void dark
anything but desolation
millions of galaxies
splendid illumination
entwined nudes like a cosmic serpent
staring at cherry blossoms
on a blue canvas background

– Mike Zone

editors note:

Firecracker space love blossoms in the blue. – mh clay

No Baby

featured in the poetry forum April 20, 2017  :: 0 comments

My grandfather would keep us kids quiet by saying,
“You’re gonna wake the baby”—even when we all
knew there wasn’t a baby in the house. I was young
and even though he was my grandfather, I couldn’t
get a good read on him — I didn’t know whether or
not he knew that there wasn’t a baby in the house.

– Scott Silsbe

editors note:

Always keep’em guessin’, Gramps! – mh clay

The Calendar

featured in the poetry forum April 17, 2017  :: 0 comments

It was all there:
I explored and climbed
through gravel and roots in embedded cars, earth cars,
stratified nowhere buildings
which hum inside of
nowhere bricks, red out there in
piles of autumn sticks
that house potato bug
tape worm ancestry shoe rocks metal

Everything his, into the smoke of my father’s machine shop.
I shuffled past with fistfuls of hot venison,
with fur clumps by the wood stove.

Inside, this: rubber mallets hooked into walls, grease hands
with black faces like coal movies. There was more meat in tin foil,
more meat than tin foil. It came from the woods on a day
like today when black face and rubber mallet went to hunt, in boots
up to my eyeballs––

and a calendar of naked girls, the first ones I’d seen,
hiding like me in the back of the building. I who like
the day was short, flipped through the months, for months.

The thighs of June, the confederate blossom of May,
And April — affective breasts, who sees me from behind the
wheel of a Camaro. Both of us grinning,
both of us hiding from our fathers.

– Alex Johnston

editors note:

Forbidden fruit; sweetest in secret. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum April 16, 2017  :: 0 comments

My dad would say
we were from a
small town up North, so
close to New York City
that we didn’t
live in

Beaches of fake tans,
boardwalks of fake people —

Like the homeless man
stumbling through town
in work boots,
pushing his house in a
ShopRite cart.

didn’t belong.

Herds of mothers in
painted on spandex who
drove to Starbucks in
Range Rover Audi Lexus
top down Prius in sunglasses,
Jersey girl’s don’t pump gas
bumper stickers
and gossiped about
someone else’s

They only had my name and
their twisted version of what

did in the woods.
(which was
partly true)

pitying my mother,
scratch out our insides.

I sat back in the corner and listened —

The witch cackled,
twirling hag hair around her
manicured finger
like it was someone’s
husband —

Until the high school boys
showed up,

threw cash
in my face,

and chased me

– Samantha Hotz

editors note:

Rumors, reality; summertime suffering for both. – mh clay

Vacant Vagrant

featured in the poetry forum April 12, 2017  :: 0 comments

Waking today to blue skies
I glimpse the pattern
scratched deep
within strong arms
that hold me
a finger nail
traces an outline
around my lips
I chance a smile
remembering the tumble
through stones
crevasses now worn smooth
by salted tears
rough edges rounded
corners collapsed by truth
as my legs unfold
touch the floor
they feel the vibrations
your voice left behind
forever awake
I smile once more

– Lizbeth George

editors note:

The sweet marks of memory inscribed on skin. Good morning! – mh clay

That Last Horse Ride

featured in the poetry forum April 7, 2017  :: 0 comments

Craving the color white,
The lust for grains of paradise,
The once welcome guests
You chose to entertain,
Become as intruders,
As violators who leave a stain,
On your health, on your soul,
On your sensibilities, they take their toll,
Drying up your emotions,
A desiccation of what you were,
A cracking apart,
Like cement without being cured,
Splitting, shifting
All the pretty colors you enjoyed,
Now all merged
Into achromatic totality,
The bright white envoy
Paired with red,
Into blackness has led,
The craving has ceased
Be at peace.

– Linda Imbler

editors note:

Rest through removal; of color, of breath, of… – mh clay

The Central Divide

featured in the poetry forum April 6, 2017  :: 0 comments

I am the most single bachelor.
The women who will escape my embrace
are incalculable.

If I was Augustus, I couldn’t count them
with an imperial census.
But I try, nonetheless, in a bar.

No man is truly tortured or crippled
if he’s part of a larger symmetry, if there’s someone
like him on the other side of the central divide.

There’s the halo/turd above the woman.
There’s the halo with teeth,
like an unsprung trap for dreamy animals.

Such a symmetry
would explain all this
mean-spirited strangeness.

And I fear that no such mirror
shines on me
and I am only running farther into the darkness.

I see the symmetry
to my mad zigzag
in a woman’s eyes.

Maybe I’m just horny,
maybe I’m just wrong.
Hunger makes everything unclear.

– Colin Dodds

editors note:

Or, maybe the hunger ensures natural selection? Evolution is a bitch! – mh clay

Windfall Field Day

featured in the poetry forum April 4, 2017  :: 0 comments

gray papoose strolls
in flash bulb light
while a well-armed
leaf blower blows hot
on the bricks,
and the pigeons on
Andy Jackson’s head,
shoulders & horse’s ass
pose a threat to moral decency
there are chestnuts on
the ground
abandoned by squirrels
but looking good
enuff to roast—
Why not?

Start a fire here
at Jackson’s feet,
& in a little tin can
place the testicular nuts
freed from their spiky sac
& glistening;
into the fire
they go,
& glow,
and steam & sizzle —

Andy’s nostrils
flare like when a pigeon
opens its beak to coo —
as the nuts roll out hot
on a fresh copy of Examiner;

Dolley takes one
delicately in two fingers
forming a quaint O,
blows on it with
lips pursed like
a harlot —
and winks!
before taking a
delicate bite
with a kissing sound;
then I turn
& she’s gone;

the gray papoose
pats the grass
with his paws like he wants
to smooth out the world,
but the world
passes in a
of tobacco smoke
& the beeping
of a bus’s

what’s to do
but take a hot
nut as big
as his head
& start to gnaw
the world (this world)
to bits
to bits
to bits

– Jeff Bagato

editors note:

When presented with a chance for reconstruction; gnaw, baby, gnaw! – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum April 2, 2017  :: 0 comments

chase a goat away
– blood – red ribbon on its neck
you will heal on the third day

– József Bíró

editors note:

For what ails you. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum March 30, 2017  :: 0 comments

It was not until she walked
away so purposefully that
I noticed my ruin had
been lounging in her shadow
the whole damned all along,

it flicking through a celebrity
magazine, casual and causal,
taking all the time and all
the time and all the time
in the world.

– Lindsay McLeod

editors note:

Risk for reward makes blind to ruin. – mh clay