Featured Poems

Mon Dieu

by on July 29, 2015 :: 0 comments

Monsieur if it didn’t sell it went into bins
This is a business, we can’t give food away
Nobody would buy from us again
They’d just hang around outside
Waiting for stores to close
And for the hand outs
We are a country of revolutions
But that would be
Taking things too far

Madame we had to make sure
So we put bleach into the bins
To poison the unsold food
If we didn’t do this
These desperate people
Would steal from us
They would climb
Into the containers
To salvage the contents

Mon Dieu now the stupid government
Has made laws to prohibit all this
How easily they shame us
With their political rhetoric
Caring little for our profits
Worrying only about the votes
Of the weak and sentimental
Whose hunger we must now feed
Breeding our own destruction.

editors note:

A voice from the foundation upon which others build the welfare state (We welcome David to our crazy confab of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of his madness on his new page – check it out.) – mh clay

32 Poems

by on July 27, 2015 :: 0 comments

After two and a half years
mentored by a famous Beat poet
from the 50s and 60s
he finally produces a booklet of 32 clean
lean poems.

“The title poem – Bouncy House –
was inspired by your daughters”
he tells his son
and his son’s wife
as he hands them the booklet.

They say “Thanks, how nice”
as they put down their iPhones and leaf
through the pages for a minute
before picking up their iPhones again.
“That’s great” they added and that was that.

editors note:

Isn’t there an app for this? – mh clay

Meeting

by on 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

Switch Your Groove

by on July 25, 2015 :: 1 comment

Scattergun out all of those poisonous bullets
whilst sucker-punching that dark cloud
from around your slowly clearing head.
Germinate new energy and adrenalin
way down at the heart and soul’s core,
it’s the middle that matters, always.
Purge and vent the anger and frustration,
then count your blessings and lucky stars,
you made it through and out the other side.
Deconstruct depression, slap apathy away
from your face, put your best fighting foot
forward and brave the brand new day.
Take that bolthole you cleverly kept hidden,
drop the past baggage away from your back.
Time to start over again stronger and wiser,
switch your groove and get onto the right track.

© 2015

editors note:

Anytime you need to give yourself a good talking to, these words would do. Thanks, Paul! – mh clay

Dire Prediction

by on July 24, 2015 :: 1 comment

Service men and women,
firefighters,
police officers,
military,
other functionaries
vital to society
insufficiently appreciated
by bloated consumers
frequently sheltered
from traumas of life.
Now that we are removing
the capable blue-collar class,
outsourcing jobs abroad
complementing the flight of capital,
the growth of servitude jobs
does not inspire confidence
that we will retain
men and women
who will walk through fire, bullets, blood,
to protect us.

editors note:

Prediction or prophecy? – mh clay

The last heartbeat

by on 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