Featured Poems

Dignity in Loving [comma]

by on January 21, 2019 :: 0 comments

catching a glimpse
a train window smear
catching a glimpse
that certain face
her golden hair, prism’s light
divided against itself

magazine posters or dreams of avarice
the watched watching briefly,
girls and men stumble
pushing prams and talking,
casting poses for attention
pausing for the world to take note,

have i seen the face before?
been caught looking,
uneager to return the stare
doubt and uncertainty,
make my heart beat faster,
struggling to be free

she wore a cocked hat, that
certain parting of her hair;
copied in posters, hairdressers,
the train leaving the station,
she does, she turns to look up at me,
i am nothing more

gossiping mothers, children skipping
awaken world! the dull green
and useless lives, the
cemented over aerodrome,
future’s promise in childhood so
sweet, ages sour in this the year

into an introspection of a printed
circuit, appearance is being;
the stars as curtain decorations
on the permanently falling stage,
drift away from me; for i am not moving
wave to me? leaving, leaving.

editors note:

Oh, to be more; to be exclamation point, noticed and taken away for more than the day. (We welcome David to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of his madness on his new page – check it out.) – mh clay

Beatin’ The Bishop (into submission)

by on January 20, 2019 :: 0 comments

Every
once in a while
in life
you gotta
put away all the
sharp objects
the guns and knives
lock the door
turn off the lights
light the candles
get the snacks
smoke the bong hits
kick back
and
watch retro T.V.
To remember
where and
how
you were (and her)
and enjoy some
really good shows.

editors note:

A good show. If you can’t be one, then might’s well see one. – mh clay

Haiku

by on January 19, 2019 :: 0 comments

busy grey squirrel hears
fall acorns pit pat bounce
dashes out of nest

sun sets on pine run
shadows sprint for tilting sun
branch and bark flashes

bored black calico
studies scuttling beetles
planning an attack

quiet sunrise mirror
orange purple clouds and moon
off wet bullfrog eye

bright red cutthroat trout
sense dancing beetles
plash wakes desert fox

hissing fall raindrops
tapping rich soil and roses
night scents meander

red grey woodpecker
scuttles and hopscotches
listening for ants

editors note:

Read between the syllables, stare through the season’s snow; a sweet spring in view. – mh clay

The Bob Dylan Traveling the Lincoln Highway Blues

by on January 18, 2019 :: 0 comments

I bet you Ruthie
gives no fucks
about her honky-tonk lagoon

Ligonier Beach
closed, no more
Panamanian
or Laurel Summit
moons, no more
debutantes kissing
in the dark

I guess it doesn’t matter
I’m pretty sure
this is the end
we’re doomed
to instant
mashed potatoes
again and again

– Jason Baldinger

editors note:

People! For better post-catastrophe cuisine, plan ahead! – mh clay

SOMEONE’S MINOR APOCALYPSE

by on January 17, 2019 :: 0 comments

Parched to a silence like giggling gibberish
…craving ice cold liquids
…sorry cigarettes that forget all dreams
…I was the last in line
for a mayhem which never graced my bones.
They rattle now and squeeze dry blood
…ignoring the fact outside!…the flood!

editors note:

Apocalypses pale in comparison to individual addictions. Get in line! – mh clay

the final breath

by on January 16, 2019 :: 0 comments

remember
not born
what ground
founded
i listen
in goodness now
we all change
i miss you
all
and your paper airplane
suicide notes
wish
you were by the fire
here
with
me
in glorious
form
even
in
time
away
from here
there
with
a
wish
i
we
had typewriter
bodies
playing
hushed
to the point around that door
memories
reborn
again

– James D. Casey IV

editors note:

It’s all a matter of how long we can hold it, right? (Or, how much we can type before we run out of paper?) – mh clay

Sugarcoating a Burnt Loaf Doesn’t Work

by on January 15, 2019 :: 0 comments

Dark Circles

I wish saying that
We got these wounds
Because the dark night
Likes to leave its mark
On those who fight its dear friend sleep
Makes them glorious
But it doesn’t

Smoking

I wish saying that
We blew pixie dust
From moist, little rolls of ivory
Dusted with burnt gold
Makes it magical
But it doesn’t

Drinking

I wish saying that
We sipped on the souls
Of the gems that adorn a vine
From sand frozen from heat
Makes it fantastical
But it doesn’t

– Swagi Desai

editors note:

Glorious, magical, fantastical fails; sweet in the trying, blameless in the lying. – mh clay