Featured Poems


by on October 3, 2015 :: 0 comments

Tiny space . . . now clockwise . . . or left
to left, excuse me, I meant right; I don’t
appreciate interruptions, normally, but
reminds me of the time that I, hosting
a General Manager from Massachusetts,
& he entered a posh restaurant, Crystal City,
via the freight elevator.

Everyone cheered when from their kitchen
elevator filled with crates of cabbages,
corn husks & carrots, two sheepish suits

Though well attended to, as I recall, water
glasses brimming, plates disappearing like
Houdini’s & desserts piling up like the usual
quid pro quo.

editors note:

The magic of diversion; cabbages, suits and Houdini’s plates. I’ll take this for that. Yes! – mh clay


by on October 2, 2015 :: 0 comments

A ripple of air passes over a
curtain in an open window.

Papers tumble gently, trapped
at the base of a picket fence.

A weather vane signals
direction, twisting quickly.

A furious language descends.
Shutters slap senselessly
without rhythm.

Tree tops swirl like ocean
bottom seaweed.

Leaves and branches are
swallowed by wind’s appetite.

Clouds swell. The sky ignites
with jagged bristling tails.

Rain releases the beginning
of healing.

The storm finds reason to move.
Sounds fade to welcome release.

editors note:

There’s a bite in the air this morning; I feel the season turning far above. – mh clay

In This Dream

by on October 1, 2015 :: 0 comments

after Metallic Dreams, artist Osnat Tzadok

I am silver. Gold and bronze,
my brothers in armor (yet to be
forged), crawl from midnight’s fire.
We will join
battle against blasphemous sun.
The enemy of creation
is a molten eye. Clarity
holds a magnifying presence,
scars our skin. We prefer to pick
the scabs, let them run
like rivers amongst the fogged
echo of nocturne’s voice.

editors note:

Which awakened sense preceded; eye or ear? The battle for ascendancy endures,  elicits art. (This is exemplary ekphrasis; google the artist and work to see A.J.’s inspiration – excellent.) – mh clay

Do the Moon

by on September 30, 2015 :: 0 comments

Youth’s pre-love peace
Exited at light speed
Leaving a gutty paradise
Sizzling my heart as summer sand on bare feet
love emerged as my life emperor
and drove the me I became

– Gregg Dotoli

editors note:

Love’s challenge, capricious queen; to be gutty while not being gutted. – mh clay


by on September 29, 2015 :: 0 comments

Camouflaged as spicy mangotini
that passed between their lips
it melted into a pool of thirst
on his warm tongue
her laughter was rousing
and he had an addictive personality

editors note:

He’s jonesing for this, his delighful addiction; shaken AND stirred. – mh clay


by on September 28, 2015 :: 0 comments

Hushed words shared
of the ancient rivers
of blood that
scar the earth
like the ones that riddled
her arms
like tributaries

His story
has penetrated the soil
snapped the trees
and stabbed down

deep dark under
the soil
where gnarled roots wind
sedimentary thoughts

– Andrea Bonaccorsi

editors note:

Getting to the root of the matter; wet words for parched earth. – mh clay

Still Up In The Attic

by on September 27, 2015 :: 0 comments

The trains didn’t stop at my hometown anymore,
but on firefly nights with windows wide open,
I could hear them rolling all the way down along
the Hudson, south to Grand Central or north to Albany,
then west to places I had never been. It was my world
then, the tract house neighborhood full of kids, the A&P
and Western Auto, the Tastee-Freeze, and our elementary school.
We played softball all summer long, games of ghost runners
and poison fields, bought icy, little green bottles of Coke
at the Sunoco station on the bike ride home. Our dads were back
from the war and the G.I. Bill to computer jobs at IBM
and highballs before dinner, tomato gardens in the backyard.
Moms kept house on coffee and cigarettes, served meals
like clockwork with church every Sunday.

But the summer games became summer jobs scooping ice cream
or painting houses, then the kids all scattered for college, or jobs
in Houston, Charlotte, or Atlanta. I heard the A&P got torn down
and the school closed, came to realize my parents were forgetting
any news I gave them on the phone, ran out of good excuses
for not getting home more often. They had our house air-conditioned
a few years before they sold it and moved down to Tampa for good
and died soon after. I came home the last time to get my yearbooks
and baseball glove still up in the attic, and I’m sure that down by the river
the trains were still running like always, but I couldn’t hear them anymore,
my bedroom windows now closed up tight.

– David J. Thompson

editors note:

Ghosts of the past in an attic now. (David is also a Contributing Artist to our Gallery – check it out.) – mh clay