Featured Poems


by on October 18, 2019 :: 0 comments

Shadows at first, blurred voices saying my name,
calling 911, an ambulance, I have fallen,
fallen out of the day, out of the familiar

into the world of blur and shadows, voices expecting
answers, I have none or few, my name, birth date,
the ambulance wants to know the day, the year,

the E.R. asks the same and what I was doing when
I fell; things try to sort themselves out, hook me up,
fluids in, out, blood pressure over and over, an electronic

this or that, my heart, the odd sounds it makes, they make
discussing me and what I have become, one of the fallen
who needs to be explained – it went on for hours, vague hours,

days in the hospital, in rehab, I became strange, living a gap,
a bad dream, a story someone else has written, telling of
fallen angels to this fallen beast, the broken machine
I became.

editors note:

Machinery malfunctions. So hard when you’re the machine – Oh, my! – mh clay

Bitter Cold Can Burn

by on October 17, 2019 :: 1 comment

Perhaps the fires of hell
are meant to describe
a wintry mix rather than that of flames.
Greetings and affection met with chilly, cutting
aloofness can break hearts and stretch the nerves raw.
Such deep and keen, sharp pain within the breast,
the sting of rejection felt in sinews,
like a pitchfork,
such will freeze the blood
of all but the most heartless, soulless beast.

editors note:

True hell; what we do to each other. – mh clay

Factory Girl

by on October 16, 2019 :: 0 comments

When the fiery orb descends beyond the mountains,
The chug chug of the industrial machine ceases.
And figures, like ants scampering out of its colony,
Spurt from the behemothic gate. Footsteps direct their way to the grocery.
How much is the steak? Tomorrow is Sunday.
I’ll feast upon steak and cheap wine.
I haven’t visited my mother for weeks.
Hope she’s topnotch.
I need to check my brother’s progress in rehab.
Johns’ coming over tonight.
Shall I wear thongs and high slit skirt?
My new bodycon dress will surely erupt volcanic tremors swallowing the purlieus into a hazy sphere.
Tring tring… Tring tring…
Hello!… Yeah, John… oh, that’s ok… really, it’s ok… bye…
I will have to watch TV alone.
I will have to jog alone.
I will have lunch alone.
I might one day dress up like an uptown punk and barge into a bar.
Or put on a bodice and a tutu made of turkey feathers to dance at a powwow.
I will finagle my way to a chair in some corporate office.
Or maybe, become an untrammeled tourist guide.
At parties, I will meet young men wearing musk colon.
I can hear us laughing together over a silly young lady
Dressed funny in sequins sitting on a couch in a corner.
Tomorrow I shall be a punk. Tomorrow I will barge into a bar.
Tomorrow I shall search for turkey feathers.

– Silba R Marak

editors note:

Another day in the life of aspirations for tomorrow. – mh clay

Thoughts on a New Spring

by on October 15, 2019 :: 0 comments

Over the soft edges
Of curiosity
Into the uncertain woods
Of movement
Spontaneity and light
In an atmospheric shimmer
No actual sky
To be seen
In the wasteland of the real
Delicate and ephemeral
We walk on tenderly
Samplers of experience
Voyeurs of modernity
Grasping new from nothing
Where optimism
Is not naive
In the awe of fresh sunsets
And the power
Of a relentless longing
To be free

– John P. Drudge

editors note:

No! Never naïve to push for “Yes!” – mh clay

Time Management

by on October 14, 2019 :: 0 comments

The wait is long
to get your blood
taken out of
you, an hour or
so without an
appointment. I
never learn my
lesson. I wait
every time. I
do not take the
time to pick up
the phone or go
online to make
the appointment.
I pass the time
writing poems
on my phone like
I am today.

editors note:

Wait not, want not. – mh clay

Raining in a heart

by on October 13, 2019 :: 0 comments

I believe it is always raining inside a heart
water brimming up,
and the night
waits for the world to be flooded.

All is an inevitable quotient
between emptiness and memory-flash

Think of a house wending back
and webbed in grey
Think of how time written in a bold font
on the backside of a garden-patio
Endless soil soaked in a water-coloured ink
You can best sense all as you hear the
dying sound of a horn kissed by a horizon
As you open an old basket,
fossils of the vacuum turn into
the continuum of pages and flowers.

I believe it is fascinating
to be lost in the talent like meadows.
Your eyes are the biggest metaphor
The reality is only a secret lane. A bottle of
perfume is lately broken in your name
Anesthetic fogs come out as I tell you, yes,
come, tell me it’s that, that,
nothing can change the sound of
downpour in my heart, but you can at least
know that one sitting deep in me with a
hard acquiescence has nothing to do with love

– Jayanta Bhaumik

editors note:

A dubious drenching… – mh clay


by on October 12, 2019 :: 0 comments

The nurses
Come and go
Talking of pulmonary flow

The living breathe
And the dead exhale
Every minute
Now a lifetime
As this world ends
For us
With a rattle
A pulse
A beep

To bridge the
Sanctity of the living
Rebuild the shattered coil
Proclaim the victory
Over death again
We have
Refined the horrifying
In situ Frankensteinian
Resurrection of the body
Long since past
the freshness date
Stamped on it
By the hand of the Almighty
Or the coding of the double-helix

editors note:

This is why some choose D N R. (We welcome Tony to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of his madness on his new page – check it out.) – mh clay