Featured Poems

Sometimes Miracles Happen

by on November 18, 2019 :: 0 comments

For years, it was the same.
The headphones rode your head
As you rode the swivel of your chair.
Manning the controls of your computer,
You were a pilot in space somewhere.

Or you whirled in a trance
Around our kitchen,
Creating a feast out of a mess.

Or you lounged with the lizards
On our backyard deck,
Dreamily surveying your gardens
And your inner landscape.
You were in the zone.

I boomed “TONYYY!!”

Or I sent out a tender “Tonyla.”

Even nudged my lips to your earlobe, “Sweetheart.”

Sometimes you answered. Sometimes not.

And then.
Something new happened.
I didn’t notice it at first.
I don’t know how or why or when or where,
It just happened.

A pattern emerged to my awestruck wonderment.
A trick. A charm.
A name that embraced both endearment & annoyance.

All I have to do is slip its two syllables into my mouth
And blow their magic straight to your ears,
“JACKASS!”

And you say, “WHAAAT?!” Or you say, “Yes, my darling, yes.”
And then we talk. And it is good.

– Sigrid Bergie Feliciano

editors note:

With a tickle or a two-by-four; once gotten, it IS good. – mh clay

YOU CAN’T SEE THE SKY FOR CONCRETE

by on November 17, 2019 :: 0 comments

… At times like these, I wish
The great slab
Of blue and
Horses’ manes
In the wind to
Descend
Their science
To landscape
And sculpture out
A space for living:

The pigeon cowers
By monuments
At times like these.

I pack my luggage
For something to do
At times like these.

Drink un-afforded white-horse spirits:
Imagining Mayans in all Levis
Swishing by…

At times
Like
These times.

editors note:

Our mental Mayans with nowhere to hide. Levis ain’t living space. – mh clay

Cotton Breathes

by on November 16, 2019 :: 0 comments

It must be alive. I grab my shirt by the collar and
read the label. Polyester. I knew it felt like I was wearing
someone else’s dead skin around town. No wonder people
kept looking at me. I just assumed they had confused my glowing
personality with the sun. Turns out it was the whole dead skin
thing which is a mild disappointment. I look through my closet
and find one cotton shirt. I promise never to wash it again
now that I know it breathes. Simulated drowning is not cool,
especially if you are the one being water boarded. I am not
some riches to rags fascist on the government dime. Cotton
breathes like I breathe. I think we will be good friends.
When I stick you in my ears, it is a harmless prank. A wet Willie
by other means, but never out of malice. I bet if I hooked
a cotton swab up to an EKG I could get a heartbeat. I realize
you are not much of a talker, but it would be nice to be able
to hear you once in a while, my friend.

editors note:

A whole new take on friendly fashion. Talkin’ to cotton is all the rage. – mh clay

garden

by on November 15, 2019 :: 0 comments

lost & alone in the garden
of “give a fuck” i watch first rays
of light drift into a morning sky as my
barren feet crunch across grass frozen
in a thin frost, a lingering reminder
of a rampaging night –

leaves glitter & toss as a sullen wind weeps
through tall branches, rabbits alight from
hiding, eager to sup on morning gifts of
sustenance & life, w/cock in hand i piss
on dirt & rock, dreams still rattle in my skull –

he is gone, he is gone, he is gone –

i stretch & yawn, regain my cup & drink deeply,
steaming coffee burns my lips & tongue yet i
take it all in a single gulp; my head aches & moans,
but daylight inches up my skin, retrieving my
sanity as the warmth of life embraces me again –

yellow & orange & blue flowers bloom, their stamens
erect & eager; petals unfold to receive the gift of
a now risen sun; bees hover & dart before setting down
gentle, rubbing & inhaling the flowers’ scent, its taste sweet
sticky, trickle down your throat; remembrance of your
sorrow as you take me in again –

he is gone, he is gone, he is gone –

– Jack Henry

editors note:

Sweet, sad reminders in a garden of gone. – mh clay

Zuw Myon

by on November 14, 2019 :: 1 comment

You gifted me a sorrow and forgot your gift
I remain so obliged, it weighs me down
– Faiz Ahmed Faiz
(Tr. Keki N. Daruwalla)

For A.S.Y.

I bottled that sorrow in a pretty glass jar,
see?
Sealed the golden lid shut with mellow
paraffin.
Labeled it ‘Zuw Myon’, and hid it under my
skin.
I carried its dull ache around for many a year,
until
one day its throbbing refused to give in.

So I retrieved it from under my
epidermis,
fed it wood smoke, bathed it in full-
moon magick,
carried it around like sun-kissed
bliss.

And this time, it accompanied
me like

a glowing talisman, a warm patronus,
so I
broke open the lid one night. Through
the sharp-
edged light I saw letters blossoming
like
fireflies, nouns clenching and declench-
ing inside
Mexican daisies, sharp yellow and
white.

And I knew just what needed to be
done.
I swallowed it whole, and a new
tongue
glided over the ghost of my last
one.

*Zuw Myon is a Kashmiri phrase of adoration.

– Nikita Parik

editors note:

Sorrow, simmered and suffered until something to talk about. – mh clay

But Never Again

by on November 13, 2019 :: 0 comments

I loved you once.
I craved your laugh,
Your love,
Your touch, once.
I saved up for engagement rings.
I thought you were brilliant, once.
I thought you could light up any room.
I thought I was so lucky, once,
To have the honor of doing your
Laundry,
Dishes,
Floors,
Once.
I felt safe, once.
I felt chosen.
I felt seen.
I believed you were everything, once.
I believed you would never hurt me.
I believed we could be forever.
And, once we were done,
I even fell for your lies again.
I thought I was the bad guy.
I thought I owed you more.
I felt sick,
I felt dirty.
I believed that I’d ruined your life.
I believed that I was ugly,
A burden,
A traitor.
Once upon a time
I still loved you.
Once,
But never again.

editors note:

When once is too many (do for yourselves, dudes). – mh clay

Red

by on November 12, 2019 :: 0 comments

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The color of life
The shade of all wounds
It blackens into sorrow
As the sad moon fades away

The ripeness of an apple
The grounding of the reefs
The thread that ties me
To the very first woman

Ancestral blood
The sign of the times
The culmination; the harvest
Drops of ruby
All flushed down the toilet
The flushing of my face

There’s a moon inside me
A fate knitting machine
I wax and I wane
In the ebb and flow of time

A story teller, an Oracle;
A second heart
The bottomless pit
Of a deep dark well
Primordial waters
Stir within

editors note:

A self, colored by the first self, the life in all selves. (We welcome Dana to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of her madness on her new page – check it out.)- mh clay