featured in the poetry forum August 13, 2015  :: 0 comments

i was born on hind legs
brushed fulvous tail against coarse grain
dropped tonight’s prey at my own paws
i will take this from you
can wear its flowing
like crushed glass in fists
smear it on my whiskers
as war paint
call myself a hunter
is what hunger feels like
to feel the bird writhe
in my mouth
to crush that flight
with steamroller jaws
you will see me
a mess of teeth
and groan
mess of gnash
and bitter
i am gleaming under a blood moon
is a blood moon
and i
am no pack animal
i will pray
to no god
whose claws are not thick with mud
like mine
with predatory lust
this trickery of light
does not a god make
let me wrap myself around this nighttime
start a forest fire
this burning
is not whiskey
but goes down just as jagged
like glass
in fists
you will not feel
a thing
but this howl
screams stars to the ground
they will fall at my paws
like you will
i will take this from you
and i will know
how to be sated

– Sara Trattner

editors note:

Carnivorous logic corners god, become prey. Crunch! – mh clay

National Day, 1 March 2015, The Republic of Abstinence.

featured in the poetry forum July 30, 2015  :: 0 comments

In March, Sex is another route through your defences, as it hits from a point beneath your firewall
Capricorn, 2015

I am robed, heavy towelling, belt double knotted.
The gown stops just short of my Achilles.
Sex is already strafing on its belly on the balcony.
The radar fails to pick up the ground-to-air assault.
Sex can see all the way up to my presidential guts.
Sex sprays a whiff of Sex past my ankles.
The scanner fails to detect it.
Sex tickles the hairs on my quads.
Sex evanesces clean through my skin.
Balaclavad Sex Threads shoot spasms through my abdomen.
The stunned crowds below have started to laugh.
I must be pulling strange faces.
Perhaps my peaked cap is atilt.
I remembered to mute the microphone.
My skin is covered in unexploded goose-pimples.
Sex drones lower chains along my arms.
They have flown through my wall of fire, it is a massacre.
Sex raises me above the crowds to heaven’s sanctuaries.
Security is nowhere to be seen.

– Daniel Roy Connelly

editors note:

Here is proof; hallucinations come from lack of this. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum 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

The last heartbeat

featured in the poetry forum 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


featured in the poetry forum July 22, 2015  :: 0 comments

There was no sunlight before today
We saw only shadows kept at bay
It was stark; it was bleak in a way
That used to be Tunisia of yesterday

Freedom came with the sacrifices they made
Thanks to our martyrs fear will fade
Our heroes were gone out of shape,
But their names will remain on the tape

Tunisians revolted against those in power
Obliging them to run and leave their tower
By repeating slogans: Out! Game is over!
People woke up and finally became sober

Ministers stayed hours then left!
That was the quickest shift
Some took the revolution as a bull!
They were ready to ride to the full!

I warn off those having selfish demands!
My Tunisia is the most sacred of lands
Nationalism is not a kind of brand!
I will kneel and kiss her pure sand

As a citizen I will change my birth date
And each 14th of January I will celebrate
Let’s leave selfishness and greed
Love and Unity are all we need

Democracy cannot exist all of a sudden!
Let’s first work to get rid of that burden
Stop complaining about political rights
We need patience to carry on the fights

Let’s work! Let’s save our lands!
And fight for dignity, not personal demands!
Tunisia today is no longer the same
Her betterment should be our single aim

– Fathia Jellad

editors note:

Poetic visionary fervor and ideals. Can we remember? Can we renew? – mh clay

yellow puke suit

featured in the poetry forum July 21, 2015  :: 0 comments

waster paper. into the bin.
clumsy hands. clumsy words.
inconsistent machine. blabbering
human. on the fault line of
true feeling. bankrupt emotion.
purged from readings of Kurt
Vonnegut. another’s words.
in my mouth. mixed up sputtering.
false emotional vomit. dressed
for the parade. yellow puke suit.
21st century literature. dressed
in yellow. proud of the purge.

Bukowski would buy me
a beer.
Here’s to you, Hank.
Kurt, too.

you are what you eat.

– Chase Spruiell

editors note:

Ah, yes! The false starts, the iconic influences. I could use a new suit; think I’ll eat some kale… – mh clay

drifting away

featured in the poetry forum July 19, 2015  :: 1 comment

seeds of truth
naked beneath your tongue
refuse to be uttered,
and i shy away
because mother taught me not to
make waves;
i waxed and wanned and disappeared
like a new moon—
yesterday i opened my eyes and
decided that life is too short
for me to wait on you
to step onboard my ship and do anything more
than to drill holes in my dreams,
and so i will throw you
like tea;
you will be forgotten as all history is
someone will make the mistake of repeating you
but i cannot warn them
there is too much distance i must yet
i will be long gone before you realize
and you will try to call me back
to find that i was not the
same person as yesterday and i will no longer
obey you or your ridiculous

– Linda M. Crate

editors note:

A tea party rebellion of personal proportions. Nice! – mh clay

t​he too deep rose is infinite.

featured in the poetry forum July 16, 2015  :: 1 comment

​t​he rose is pushing inland.

i have long pondered the quiet rim of unbearable madness.
a coffee bean falls to the floor,
to be crushed but never used.

the delicate balancing act of twin unhappinesses,
lost love and hard life,
while making it all look like it glows, effortlessly.

one hole in the sock, where the toe pokes through,
trying to pull it back in your sleep.

the storm on paper, on viridescent screens,
that no one really knows, until the power goes out,
and all we can hear are thunder and sirens.

the faint cry to the earth of “mercy,”
after you realize you’re in a poor man’s deja vu.

the rose is etching itself upon our hands.
i have long pondered the stark truth of unbearable madness.
the revolving door of paychecks come and gone,
and the bills that take them.

the silence in the house of the lonely spinster,
and the cries that pierce the night like a gunshot in the distance.

that one spot in the middle of your back,
that you can never quite reach,
like a secret key to contentment.

a cart full of new groceries,
but the card says denied,
just as your stomach rumbles like a ghost.

lying on your back looking up at the night sky,
asking the universe if we are alone,
and the universe suddenly answers back “no,”
and suddenly you count the stars,
estimate the planets,
and begin to worry,
just barely able to sanely cope with one world,
so you reply back with, “well, why not?”

the rose folds itself into a star.

– James Barrett Rodehaver

editors note:
A rose is a rose is a reason to question everything. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum July 15, 2015  :: 1 comment

What is the purpose
of a polar bear?


And that is my purpose
as well.

– Beate Sigriddaughter

editors note:

Yes, exactly! – mh clay

Fish on Friday

featured in the poetry forum July 10, 2015  :: 0 comments

Fish on Fridays is ok, I suppose:
for most of us it’s no more than a relic
from a time long before;
like cold cuts on a Monday
from the family joint
that used to be
the week’s big event:
a nice piece of topside
or a leg of spring lamb –
there being far too much
fat on the breast –
served up with mint sauce
made from mint fresh
from the garden,
chopped up with vinegar
and sugar to taste.

Not roast pork, of course:
though some of us do like it,
many see the pig as unclean;
a scavenging creature –
as, indeed, are shellfish –
and injurious to our
spirit and our health;
and some say no beef,
because the cow is sacred;
some, no alcohol,
and some no tea or coffee;
caffeine, being highly addictive,
tends to undermine,
apparently, our physical
and spiritual health.

All religions considered,
it’s a bit of a mine field,
especially having people to dinner:
after all, you can’t always tell these days
what a person’s beliefs might be.
It’s a good thing, though,
that they have sorted one thing out;
as a wife, it puts my mind
at rest to know it.
It’s the kind of thing that can
make you anxious
and keep you from your sleep.
Now I don’t have to worry
that my husband will go hungry
because, if he’s ever
facing starvation,
now there’s a fatwa
that says it’s ok
to go right ahead
and make a meal
of me.

Except that now they say
this is a ‘only a joke’;
or, worse, that it is
‘only propaganda’;
so that now I am attacked
for mocking those
who sharpen their knives
and polish their forks
ready to plunge them into me;
but, whichever way you cut it,
the unpalatable truth is this:
that the gods don’t seem
to care much for us women.

So, guys, if you –
and your gods –
want to win my respect
stop raping and stoning my sisters;
stop paying me less
and then making me pay
a dozen different ways every day.
Stop selling my daughters,
stop calling me names
and making me ashamed
of my bright body;
and stop spinning those lies
about ‘wickedness’ and ‘sin’
and how it all originates
with me.

– Abigail Wyatt

editors note:

Nothing fishy here! An appeal for equality on all fronts. Listening, Gents? – mh clay