featured in the poetry forum August 31, 2015  :: 0 comments

Don’t move piles of pebbles.
—Sappho, Fragment 143

A mountain escaped leaving
one pure tear—
a small lake just
to tease the city.

We dream of water here
and wake up
with dust tears
coating our pure lips.

So we take turns
kissing that lake.
We may taste it but —
teased — we can’t swallow.

Someday we’ll escape dust
like the mountain and we’ll drop
real tears in to the heart
of a dry, impure city.

– Mark J. Mitchell

editors note:

With words as water, we would quench parched minds. – mh clay

Untitled I

featured in the poetry forum August 25, 2015  :: 0 comments

I’m milking venom from my memories
through the intricate process
of puncturing silence with conversation
because the antidote rests
in the release of anguish, of artificial apathy
I made the mistake of bottling anger
instead of antitoxin
I made the mistake of following their footprints
instead of making my own
but now I am headed North
on the mend
from the emotional science
of extracting remedy from rage

– Bekah Steimel

editors note:

A perfecter of personal pathology. Physician, heal thyself! – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum August 19, 2015  :: 0 comments

Welcome to life
When words flow between the clouds
When the past is showing you the roads
Welcome to love
When you lose your touch
When you close your eyes
Welcome to homelessness
To the dark and the light
Take a seat
Let the play start
And see between the lives
The drunken light
When the waves touch the sea
And the shades in the mirror
And say goodbye

– Serpil Karisli

editors note:

Yes, just so. Glad you could make it. Now, there’s the door… – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum August 13, 2015  :: 0 comments

i was born on hind legs
brushed fulvous tail against coarse grain
dropped tonight’s prey at my own paws
i will take this from you
can wear its flowing
like crushed glass in fists
smear it on my whiskers
as war paint
call myself a hunter
is what hunger feels like
to feel the bird writhe
in my mouth
to crush that flight
with steamroller jaws
you will see me
a mess of teeth
and groan
mess of gnash
and bitter
i am gleaming under a blood moon
is a blood moon
and i
am no pack animal
i will pray
to no god
whose claws are not thick with mud
like mine
with predatory lust
this trickery of light
does not a god make
let me wrap myself around this nighttime
start a forest fire
this burning
is not whiskey
but goes down just as jagged
like glass
in fists
you will not feel
a thing
but this howl
screams stars to the ground
they will fall at my paws
like you will
i will take this from you
and i will know
how to be sated

– Sara Trattner

editors note:

Carnivorous logic corners god, become prey. Crunch! – mh clay

National Day, 1 March 2015, The Republic of Abstinence.

featured in the poetry forum July 30, 2015  :: 0 comments

In March, Sex is another route through your defences, as it hits from a point beneath your firewall
Capricorn, 2015

I am robed, heavy towelling, belt double knotted.
The gown stops just short of my Achilles.
Sex is already strafing on its belly on the balcony.
The radar fails to pick up the ground-to-air assault.
Sex can see all the way up to my presidential guts.
Sex sprays a whiff of Sex past my ankles.
The scanner fails to detect it.
Sex tickles the hairs on my quads.
Sex evanesces clean through my skin.
Balaclavad Sex Threads shoot spasms through my abdomen.
The stunned crowds below have started to laugh.
I must be pulling strange faces.
Perhaps my peaked cap is atilt.
I remembered to mute the microphone.
My skin is covered in unexploded goose-pimples.
Sex drones lower chains along my arms.
They have flown through my wall of fire, it is a massacre.
Sex raises me above the crowds to heaven’s sanctuaries.
Security is nowhere to be seen.

– Daniel Roy Connelly

editors note:

Here is proof; hallucinations come from lack of this. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum July 26, 2015  :: 1 comment

Today I had a meeting.
I opened my closet door and shouted in,
“What should I wear today?”
My closet replied, in its low baritone voice,
“What sort of meeting is it?”
This was a good question – it was for my adoption.
“It is for the position of son.”
After a few moments of thinking my closet said,
“That’s very odd. Are you not too old to be a son?”
Infuriated I screamed,
“Who are you to tell me what I am too old to be?”
My closet sighed and gave me a collared cotton shirt, overalls, sneakers with velcro
and a pasta stain.
“Begone potential son.”

– John McGinley

editors note:

If clothes make the man, can a closet make a son? Potentially, yes! – mh clay

The last heartbeat

featured in the poetry forum July 23, 2015  :: 2 comments

It was a day like any other day
an early Monday afternoon in May –
and she was already dancing with the Angels
as her mother read that farewell letter.

She fell limply from the white cliffs
to the ocean whose waves gently bathed her feet,
their susurration a farewell prayer,
then taking flight she rose,
soaring skyward –
riding the winds with wide spread wings
like a white seagull.

The last heartbeat whispered
“Forgive me, Mom
Now I’m happy”

© Bozena Helena Mazur-Nowak

editors note:

Why choose early departure? Poets imagine. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum July 22, 2015  :: 0 comments

There was no sunlight before today
We saw only shadows kept at bay
It was stark; it was bleak in a way
That used to be Tunisia of yesterday

Freedom came with the sacrifices they made
Thanks to our martyrs fear will fade
Our heroes were gone out of shape,
But their names will remain on the tape

Tunisians revolted against those in power
Obliging them to run and leave their tower
By repeating slogans: Out! Game is over!
People woke up and finally became sober

Ministers stayed hours then left!
That was the quickest shift
Some took the revolution as a bull!
They were ready to ride to the full!

I warn off those having selfish demands!
My Tunisia is the most sacred of lands
Nationalism is not a kind of brand!
I will kneel and kiss her pure sand

As a citizen I will change my birth date
And each 14th of January I will celebrate
Let’s leave selfishness and greed
Love and Unity are all we need

Democracy cannot exist all of a sudden!
Let’s first work to get rid of that burden
Stop complaining about political rights
We need patience to carry on the fights

Let’s work! Let’s save our lands!
And fight for dignity, not personal demands!
Tunisia today is no longer the same
Her betterment should be our single aim

– Fathia Jellad

editors note:

Poetic visionary fervor and ideals. Can we remember? Can we renew? – mh clay

yellow puke suit

featured in the poetry forum July 21, 2015  :: 0 comments

waster paper. into the bin.
clumsy hands. clumsy words.
inconsistent machine. blabbering
human. on the fault line of
true feeling. bankrupt emotion.
purged from readings of Kurt
Vonnegut. another’s words.
in my mouth. mixed up sputtering.
false emotional vomit. dressed
for the parade. yellow puke suit.
21st century literature. dressed
in yellow. proud of the purge.

Bukowski would buy me
a beer.
Here’s to you, Hank.
Kurt, too.

you are what you eat.

– Chase Spruiell

editors note:

Ah, yes! The false starts, the iconic influences. I could use a new suit; think I’ll eat some kale… – mh clay

drifting away

featured in the poetry forum July 19, 2015  :: 1 comment

seeds of truth
naked beneath your tongue
refuse to be uttered,
and i shy away
because mother taught me not to
make waves;
i waxed and wanned and disappeared
like a new moon—
yesterday i opened my eyes and
decided that life is too short
for me to wait on you
to step onboard my ship and do anything more
than to drill holes in my dreams,
and so i will throw you
like tea;
you will be forgotten as all history is
someone will make the mistake of repeating you
but i cannot warn them
there is too much distance i must yet
i will be long gone before you realize
and you will try to call me back
to find that i was not the
same person as yesterday and i will no longer
obey you or your ridiculous

– Linda M. Crate

editors note:

A tea party rebellion of personal proportions. Nice! – mh clay