Featured Poems

Unnerving

by on September 2, 2015 :: 0 comments

eyes on no one,
he rants and raves,
head back,
looking at the upper corner of the waiting room,
told to shut up,
he quietly grins,
as if the joke is on others,
the ones missing out,
too sane to argue with,
the specters,
in the upper corners of the room.

editors note:

He plays straight man for the ghosts of the joke; makes us the punch line. – mh clay

Hands

by on September 1, 2015 :: 0 comments

(After Glen Sorestad’s When Hands sleep, what do they dream?)

His hands dream the calisthenics of metals of an automobile,
while hers dream of cooking her thoughts, her passion;

his hands dream juggling numbers, a jumbled telephone,
while her hands dream of imprisoned letters finally freed;

his hands dream a marriage of spoon and fork
as he moves brown rice to his innocent mouth,

while hers dream the bipolar bond of nude fingers
in the canvas plate painting her hunger, her hunger;

his hands dream how the soldier fingers camp the softness
of her breast, her nipple, a caged nightingale,

her hands dream the aggressive texture of his buttocks
as he enters, her finger’s surrender to his hips.

Sometimes his hands and her hands stop dreaming
but lie restless like defeated warriors lost

in the subconscious of hand against hand in combat.
Sometimes hands sleep in the awakening of desire.

– April Mae M. Berza

editors note:

Two for the task at hand… – mh clay

FUGUE: DROUGHT

by on 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

Crusader (i)

by on August 30, 2015 :: 0 comments

On the last Tuesday of November, anno domini 1095, Pope Urban ii, speaking outside the French city of Clermont, called for “a holy war to rid the holy land of the vengeful forces of Islam”. He offered “a cleansing of all sin for those purified in the fire of battle” and so began the first Crusade.
The first of many.

On the march to Antioch
heat killed the horses
quicker than any lance,

chevaliers rapidly reduced
to fearsome, armoured infantry.

Our progress marked
by a steady circling
of carrion birds,
massive wings
bleak,
dark,
angelic.

Beneath their darkling promise we marched, always onward, to Jerusalem.

Eighteen months before;

on the dockside at Brindisi,
we stood for hours
in an unfriendly sun,
as captains, nobles,
horses, dogs,
bags, baggage
and provisions
boarded first,

their comfort
a priority.

Finally us,
the great unwashed,
God’s grim parade
in homespun and motley,
a many mouthed mob
all bad breath
and broken teeth,
checked for weight
then passed aboard.

“A light ship for a heavy sea”
the stewards shouted
heaving our possessions
overboard,
“no point in complaining”
they smilingly declared,

“it’s policy”.

At Antioch;
Thatcher John,
killed his first Saracen,
with a handaxe to her head,
four more he killed within the hour
daughters all of the cloven headed woman,
skilled, he was, in the red work of slaughter.

“God’s will, God’s will” his raw throated roar.

editors note:

Here’s an old story of the West trying to cleanse the East. We never learn… (Two more in this series by Mick on his page – check’em out!) – mh clay

The Gordian Knot

by on August 29, 2015 :: 0 comments

The snow melted upon her skin
hot drifting desert sand blown
smooth hungry and beautiful

The two wars inside each person
go on forever, love and hate
the sky always a gun barrel blue gray

After she left all was loneliness and
one can on a table the label read
DEATH, eat it before it eats you.

editors note:

I gots me a eternal appetite. Where’s my can opener? (We welcome Catfish to our creative conspiracy of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of his madness on his page – check it out.) – mh clay

A Rural Love Story

by on August 28, 2015 :: 0 comments

Sunrise in the tune of morning prayer
and a lazy flow of whispering breeze
carrying the scent of love
bloomed somewhere in a muddy meadow
and an enchanting melody
of her passionate calling
for her man of love,
just a good beginning of a rural love story
projecting a hilarious hustle
among the ensnared lover
and a pair of bullocks on the land
and in the sky
among the clouds
rich in sea and ocean
until the lover reaches his land of love
with sharp weapons and gifts
for his lying beloved
and the hustle is turned
into a disciplined, artful and satiable
touching and scratching
of  the lover on the soft body of his beloved
staying behind a pair of bullocks
and beneath a black raining umbrella.

editors note:

From sun to sun (from plow to plow), the farmer’s work… – mh clay

A Singular Repast

by on August 27, 2015 :: 1 comment

We are to each other now
many decades later
what we were the day

we got married, a couple
at the kitchen table on
a summer night—she

a slice of watermelon,
corners touching the ceiling,
covering my face in juice

and I the corn she butters
before she devours it.
We eat as fast as we can.

editors note:

Oh my! Can’t wait for dessert… – mh clay