PoehemiansPoetry Anthology

Issue I

Edited by Eva Xanthopoulos

Copyright © 2012 – Poehemian Press

Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the publisher.

All rights reserved.

Publisher E-mail: theartisticmuse22@yahoo.com

Website: www.theartisticmuse.com

Currently Accepting Poetry and Art Submissions for Issue II (2013)

Submit Here: www.theartisticmuse.com/submissions.html

Poe·he·mi·an: a poet who does not adhere to the norm; a

bohemian of poetry; a poet who is quite possibly

inspired by the great Edgar Allan Poe.

CONTENTS

Luke Aditsan Minnow 1

Anthony Arnott An Open Wound 3

Michael Bernstein Three Haiku 4

Edward Brown Out of Silence 5

Kanchan Chatterjee On The Beach 6

William G. Davies Jr. A Layover and November 22 7

Holly Day Of the Child 8

Moinak Dutta Transcendentalist of Seventy Seven 9

Tim Elliott Giving It My All 10

Neil Ellman Lebanon 11

Ryan Feltner Liks Glabs Under Privilege 12

Jason Constantine Ford A Glimpse That Troubled Me 13

Zachary Frisch Rain Bucket 14

Allison Grayhurst A Way To Survive 16

Samantha Guss The Almost-Dark 17

Dain Hurley Styrofoam Blues 18

Chuck Joy Country Girl 19

Arvey Kane I Own The Streets 20

John Kowite Bill Hicks 21

Phillip Larrea TriCube Poems 22

Paula Lietz My Wild Hunger 23

Marc Mannheimer Red Giants 24

Bruce McRae Showing The House 25

G.R. Melvin Long Bare Trees Swing Around and Stop 27

Afzal Moola West eats Meat 28

Mark Murphy Towards the Visible and Indivisible 30

Alyssa Neptune Let the Buzz Be Love 32

JoyAnne O'Donnell Morning Solace 33

Manasi Pabrekar When We Work Together 34

Michael Pendragon Summer Lovedreams of My Youth 35

Siddartha Beth Pierce Two Haiku 36

Kaitlyn Pijanowski From: Tree, To: Leaf 37

Rogerio Prado Nightmare 38

Reem Rashash-ShaaBan Molten Lead in a Spoon 39

Matthias Regan Small Comforts 41

Seymour Roth The Luthiers Weep 42

Alexander Russo Revelation 43

Paul Andrew Ryan A Sonnet to the Master of Sonnets 44

Tom Sagramola August Rain 45

Maxwell Shell A Po M For N E One 46

Emily Strauss White Heat, White Cold 48

Brandon Stroud Big Blue Ball 49

David Thornbrough Only the Ugly Endures 50

Amanda Townsend Marilyn 51

Christine Tsen Spring Tide 52

Jeremiah Walton Don't Disturb the Dead Bird 53

Gail Wolper Moment Capture XXXX 54

T. Zanahary Dusk Cloaked Inscriptions 55

Issue I – 2012

MinnowBy Luke Aditsan

darting within a puny puddleoh mighty minnow lost at seawith memoriesof yonder pondpulled apart by the heat of the day.

why, silvery onedid you lingerat the edge of your universewhere shallow temptationswhisper?

fear of the deepI supposewhere large-jawed demonslurkbeyond waving fronds.

but now alonein a cringing pocketof fiery waterstrandedas an abandoned child.

are bitty minnows heardwhen they cry to the skieshopingfearingas they lap with pulsing gills?

heavy cloudsarray for battlesteaming across the heavensas if the tiniest prayersummoned.

-1-

across the earthrainfall spatters here and therelike the dancing shadowof a butterflyfree.

rivulets linkas worlds growand the cool oceans full of demonsseem not so ominous.

-2-

Issue I – 2012

An Open WoundAnthony Arnott

No value and genuine skulduggery, one’s dirty littlesecret is made tolook older thanit is. Still causingtrouble, this sorcery on the

naked eye, with original second to forgery, appreciatedfor the arrogancebehind it. Craft and art, twisted, hisversion props him

up for his last laugh.

-3-

Three HaikuBy Michael Bernstein

1.yr regretful eyesmirror dusk's geometriessquadrons of nightbirds

2.night's hair-trigger windsmagnolias electricstars repeating stars

3.my hands in yr hairbeneath blinking satellitesdrunk as the fat moon

-4-

Issue I – 2012

Out of SilenceEdward Brown

Vibration of wood. Rapture of the spirit. Coldness of brass. Warmth of a tear. Striking of a hammer. Evocation of time long gone.

A gasp of air. A glimpse of paradise. The ring of a bell. Calls me home. The world of form. Melds into the formless.

The angels do not speak. They know not how. But, if we are silent enough, If we bow down low enough, We may hear them softly sing.

-5-

On The BeachBy Kanchan Chatterjee

I'm on the beachtheold fisherman isfrying some fish on a stove

have orderedfor some prawns and crabsand sipping some local broth

there's a butterflyhovering around

Sun is setting fast...

the drunk oldfisherman looks at me:“it's a full moon nightthe waves would rise almost ten feet, you know”

I sip my drinkslowly...

-6-

Issue I – 2012

Two PoemsBy William G. Davies Jr.

A LayoverThe first snow arrives like so much baggage piled on the grass waiting for the next flight only more has landed but in the sun of the next day it slowly departs.

November 22Frost on the grapevines is whiskery tracing tangled laugh lines, creating a sort of dementia, tendrils and shoots white with anxiety.

-7-

Transcendentalist of Seventy SevenBy Moinak Dutta

Now the knowledge has dawned on him evenHe had been a transcendentalist of seventy seven...the year of flood and artificial faminewas his year of birth and will always remain...otherwise why this confusion? this unrest?why this ritual of afternoon embrace?why this tumult so unnerving?why this search rising within?

He thought and closed his eyesStanding still amidst blood and liesand the city by him impalpably passedLousy generic codes filled fibre optics just...A flash here...there a lightning struckA halogen yellow went sudden dark...A red Ducatti double exhaust dreamLike a supernova burnt his outer melaninAnd he became so colorless whiteA statue of God that fell just in sightStanding amidst confusion so so quiet...

Madness in shape of blaring hornsblack glassed kisses in cabs covered- unblown...Vendors selling cheap spaghetti topsCarts with apples freshened by rain drops...Police guards hanging bellied pressing palms...Quotes so godly straight from psalms...All by him fleetingly passedbut him the transcendentalist they never touched...He just chose to stand uprighteyes clasped closed...unopened tight...

-8-

Issue I – 2012

Of the ChildBy Holly Day

the materialof imagination is washed cleanresembles a boat half-submergedin the dark.

the white stone walk down the street-fist your dark, drop it in the depthsanchor it in my world.

I love the shadowy of your eyesas we fight this slow surrender. I wait, sad,tousled, watch you lick your lips in hope for just(shiver)

It had been a Sunday type of summerflocks of geese flew overhead we stood inawe of wild things you are as I remember.

-9-

Giving It My AllBy Tim Elliott

I need to putall my hallowed yesterdaysinto my hollow tomorrow.

Maybe then Cupid's arrowwill hit its markdirectly, and everydaywill begin with helloand not goodbye.

-10-

Issue I – 2012

Lebanon By Neil Ellman(named after the painting by John Hoyland.)

I am the God Particlemy essence and my dreamdistilled to a perfect tinctureof my universenothing more fragrantnor lessnothing more sonorousnor lessnothing more visiblemore tangiblenor lessI am that which createsand propagatesthe particularitiesof myselfand then the universenow yoursas much as minemore particularmore omnipotentmore alivethan I have ever beenI stand aside.

-11-

Liks Glabs Under PrivilegeBy Ryan Feltner

Consider what you areUnnatural giver or a takerYou can swim but you cannot drownYou can hold your breath but you need to breath

So you're bleeding and treating it like fine wineSo delusional yet you know your constructs can failThat is what keeps you from madnessThat is when you will grow gills

You're a programmed saviorAnd you are programmed to be rightAnd when you are wrong you lose yourselfExistential reality creeps in

Nothing mystical behind that veilWhen the shaman is dead there is just an animalAnd it's always waitingRecalling what you put in a cage

When it is free what will it let you bePiecesDribbled over madnessOr a fantasy

But that is realityWhat is in you and me

-12-

Issue I – 2012

A Glimpse That Troubled MeBy Jason Constantine Ford

That split second in which I sawA hand firmly holding what it toreInside a bag filled with several leaks.

The way that hand swiftly separatedItself from virtues only now abated,Gave it the strength of one who speaks.

Whenever things look to be vague or dull,The hand reaches out to begin its cullOf fauna who appear not able to adapt.

When that time comes with malcontent,The hand is encompassing in full extentOver those eyes it desires to be wrapped.

-13-

Rain BucketBy Zachary Frisch

The child shirked the clothed claws, chin up. Her eyes blown up, broken eggs,her hands high kites - and they soar,swaying and crashing into power-lines.Her smile broad, her Mother thunder-scared.

The world is melting into wire frames,changing seasons in color photo moments,but Mother fears for that shaking sickness;tells the girl to drop her gaze, fly her feet,and make her way inside.

Tiny steps turn melodies and wet windows write glass harmony,the monster halo flipped it's wire - called the wind within it's arms,broke out her finger prison and flew miles and milesand miles; to the lightning tip, to sky teeth, to that open mouthto a white, waxing eye.

Now she shakes like mountain ash; like aged, arthritic boneawaiting storm-worn gardenias on coffin tops, nearly breaking blood bondsevery time the sky cries out in seizing, pulse-work rhythmand births chaotic, cerulean webs and ruptured cloud arachnidsthat break through emptiness and bleed torrents into veins.

The girl stuck like a summer thorn; keeping her heavy heels above ground,her Mother tenting weathered fingers and whispering soliloquies in a corner.

-14-

Issue I – 2012

In time, she bettered in thick blanket hives and paled in painted sunset rooms;doctors drawing down shades and letting real seasons discretely disappearbehind an ugly curtain; until she could shuffle her feet on corkwoodand survive being brought back home.

(A week later)She found that monster devouring dead grass, metal-bent,an electric, woeful grin carved upon it's face.It had lost it's arms - been burned half to hell and from it's mangled jaw, taught the girl a lesson.Not to fly too high, too fast, too far -and to listen to worried voices from the window.

-15-

A Way To SurviveBy Allison Grayhurst

A butcher's knifewielding at living flesh to accommodatesomeone's feast, is likea quarrel behind a condemned man’s eyesand the ingratitude of those born beautiful.Rise from the stone,out of the slumber of guiltand inadequacy, rise asthe lilies between the weedsand know that nothing mattersbut the flame. The debris and mud andlabour of our hours spent motionless,defeated in the dream, is just an exilefrom the necessary drink, is part of the seathat takes us in under its wavesof chaotic waters.Often I have stood naked andhave seen nothing more than my shadow. OftenI return to the window, bearing my memories like armour.The sky is my witness. Let me fall in love all over again, let my head be turned, and let the world outside be my saved translucent spider.

-16-

Issue I – 2012

The Almost-DarkEmily Guss

It is twilight and below on the street multitudes of to-and-fro-ers muddle and muck aboutIn the thick of a tremendous and precarious priorAn upside-down moon smiles from its perch in the sun-spent almost-darkLolling in its concavityHolding its secrets like a bowl resting atop the nightfallA cradle for the heavensAnd a paradox for the down-belowIndulging in an awarity that it won’t even divulge to the stars

-17-

Styrofoam BluesBy Dain Hurley

Jealously is like teethGnashed against a plateFoam teeth cutouts pepperThe ground of the kitchen

Jealousy is like porous cupsOf styrofoam, littered with holesStraining out the life, that isCoffee, good to the last drop

Jealousy is never like,Fine china of delicate printsflowered with beauty

-18-

Issue I – 2012

Country GirlBy Chuck Joy

country girlwallowing in mountainsthe valley, family life, simple pleasuresthe music of the river

far from any stagetelevision, the bright lights, the West Villageexcept the stage in the front yardriverside, a gazebo

country girlher back to the windowher dad inside, what a characterurging her forwardlike he would the dog

she liked imagining herselfa special agent, slender intemperate cleveran international operatorturning corners in Istanbul, Mother Ireland

we watch her cavort like a coltcloud shadows on the valley wall across the rivera football there on the green lawnWanna play catch? I ask her dad

country girl, plucking at her clothingblack turtleneck, long sleevesbusy framing a solution to the problempresented by the cake-white sternwheeler riverboatcoming around the bendcalliope music

-19-

I Own The StreetsBy Arvey Kane

When I awoke, my legs trembledlike earth moving. My bench, no longer coveredwith newspapers, groaned as I stood, andmy last blanket blew away. Yesterday'sfunnies and my horoscope promising better days.It said nothing about the nights, filled with lootersand street washing machines flinging mud and filth.The streets were cleaner than me,but I could walk and they were still.I was their master. I owned the street, andit gave up its treasures to me. Coins, ribbons,little cardboard boxes smellingof noodles and soy. Hundredsstacked and nestled in my shopping cart,waiting for the right purpose,waiting for an answer. Playingthe waiting game.My eyes are wide open, squintinginto the bright sunlight, making tearsthat feather my cheeks, but no-onethat passes by can see. They haveno pupils, not that I can tell. Of courseI could well be invisible, yet I cast shadowso how could that be?I am torn and tattered against brick, against marble,against glass that mirrors someone else.Pennies in my pocket, jingletheir copper tones like the wind chimesabove the doors of the Chinese bistro.I have money. I have power. I own the streets.

-20-

Issue I – 2012

Bill HicksBy John Kowite

What is the sound of one hand clapping?A favorite comedian once said "fuck that"And aptly began clapping, fingers to palm

To the response of hysterical laughterThe same man who always recommendedA healthy dose of psilocybin toSqueegee the third eye clean

So, the single hand clapsAs belly laughs fill the auditorium

Comedic tirade continuesBellowing arbitrary sounds, whileSalivary mist drizzles the mic

As he softly croons a familiar tune...

Merely rowing down the streamTime escapes without us ever knowingThe value of the present momentThat sound of one hand clapping.

-21-

TriCube PoemsBy Phillip Larrea

1. Come winter,we come home.Where it's warm.

Or gone cold.As a hearthsmoldering.

Blood thickerthan water.Dried hard- stone.

2. My hat says,"Marry me!"Serious.

Commitment.With this bandI am wed

To hat hair.Worse for wear.Still- I do.

3. I confess.Without hope.We need faith.

No such thingas forgive.Pshaw! Whose God?

Charity-a mirage.Faith. Blind sight.

-22-

Issue I – 2012

My Wild HungerBy Paula Lietz

I hungered for a white horsethe same way some coveted a house with a white picket fencevery young, I knew paint peeledliked scabs refusing to heal I would not be confined I could not be constricted I ran with the white stallion outside the boundaries placed by society perpetual forward motiondirection did not matter horseshoes striking the groundlife lived with passion, setting cold flint and hearts on firethe dream - a solitary dreamthe life - a solitary life on the very edge of the marginsof which you tried to rein me in I ran with a stallion white

-23-

Red GiantsBy Marc Mannheimer

thought it would be a cool ideato draw herasleepin her bedafter the stroke

this soon turned into --an unflattering portrait of my mother

I finished itbefore throwing it out,the wispy, white and charcoal gray hairthe narrow nosewith the long nostrilsdrawn in red ink,the only kind of pen the nurse had

and what I found herewere memories --of the things we had donethe ways she cared for mehow we played our gametogether

the whole timenever realizingwe were actually stars, red giantsfrom a Universe nested in this onesolar best friends, asleepdreaming ourselves mother and son

-24-

Issue I – 2012

Showing The HouseBy Bruce McRae

Under a mat is the key to the Earth.Behind a picture frame is God’s money.Beside the kettle, tired steam,having just returned from the Old Country.

Three blind cockroaches battle a jarin what once promised to be the conservatory,the man who built this house nothing more,and nothing less, than a child sleeping,his wife a bee in a buttercup,his children her honey.

The camera is a houseflystitching the air, going room to room,a flitting symbol for a dark quintessence.The eye is a fishbowl,the last angelfish in the worlddreaming of higher ground, dreamingof a door between what’s secular and sacred.

There’s always an empty cup. Isn’t there?An indiscriminate newspaper.A pen straight out of the last good war.There’s always evening and a coat hung in the hall.There’s always a sense of the impending.

A quiet house on a proud hill . . . It’s what’s in the letterbox we don’t talk about.It’s the thing in the cellar that refuses a mention.Nobody hears the rain knocking on the back door. Something is coming, and there’s no one to let it in.There’s no one to speak of.Just a ghost-cat and mouse’s whisker.The dust of planets.

-25-

A moonbeam reading in a rocking-chair.Like that voice on the lawn,the source of indeterminate whispers.A voice that’s singing in the high church of reason.

-26-

Issue I – 2012

Loud Bare Trees Swing Around and StopBy G.R. Melvin

I must discussA dark circus is in townA boy in a spin, and trees swing aroundHe drops, and the swing stopsNew dewfrost falls, he’s lostIn all the bare trees

.

A heavy disguiseCould be of use hereSo cover your eyes, pleaseYour lover’s indecentAnd trying on liesHis heart’s denying hard hereIt’s a fact; Abstract lies

.

Squeezebox hymns seemTo squish by inbetweenAligned treebarkLighted & Loudened by a fullmooncloudLions let free/ DarkCircus tonight and if I mightMix in that crowdA heavy disguise couldBe of some use

-27-

West eats MeatBy Afzal Moola(Inspired by Pandit Ravi Shankar's composition "West eats Meat")

Silently, slicing the sky,a Predator on the prowl.

Searching,through human eyes,miles away at HQ.

Picking up the signsfresh meat on the ground,

scanning heat signatures,confirmation reaches the bird,

sixteen high-value targets,on the move,in the cool desert night.

An order is given,the Predator banks left,steadies itself,while sharpening its claws.

With a whoosh,the Predator belches,its payload strikes the HVT's.

"Target destroyed",a cheer goes up,miles away at HQ.

-28-

Issue I – 2012

The smoke clears,silence returning,

while,

5 men,4 women,7 children,

stir no more,late for the feast,as the bride lies cold,and dead,on the dunes.

"mission accomplished"

-29-

Towards the Visible and IndivisibleBy Mark Murphy

I write late into the night, the early morning.My woman is drifting endlesslytowards a deathly sleep.

An owl hoots noisily in the rhododendrons,the sky is sightless, no stars to keep vigil with me.

My woman is drifting into oblivion,she is sure I am writing her but she is falling into a maelstrom of shadows.

I pray for the recently bereaved,for my woman who is losing herself on beer and hypnotics.

The dead are waking in their graves,my woman is exhausted, they are near her now,demanding she join herself unto them,

imploring her to take the barrel of the gun into her delicate mouth.I hear the sound of owl's wings.

It swoops outside my window for the kill,a timorous beastie cries.My woman is drifting into oblivion.

She wears a black veil and funeral dresslike a timid assassin bent on self-annihilation.Now a heavy rain begins to fall

-30-

Issue I – 2012

bending back the leaves of the rhododendrons,the rain drops quench the owls thirst.My woman is drifting, craving oblivion –

a retreat from too much knowledge, seeing too much sadness, the crack whores,the black amputees, the war veterans,

the Godless, the deceased.I write late into the night, the early morning.The poet in me wants to imbue the rain

sodden streets with some sense, but the pain and neglect of senseless centuries resides in the brain

like an embolism eating at the soul of man. Now the old ghosts bray at my doorin the dark sepulchered night,

crying the names of their long departed malevolent lovers,as if I could assuage their woes.

I write late into the night, the early morning.My woman is finally drifting into sleep.She is safe now.

I whisper across the Atlantic into her girlish ear –‘rest thee always, my darling, in your dreams on the tough backs of my poems.’

-31-

Let the Buzz Be LoveBy Alyssa Neptune

so quick with your sharp-tongue quips. high-strung stinger stung down too deep.busy bees droning in the hiveswasting their lives burning the honey madeso sweet. pretty little bees bred with blindfolds for eyes.

drone on, little bees, drown outyour thoughts and fears and flowwith the masses under your masks.

the hive thrives on a one-tracktrain, no room for strays but I will fight‘til they strip my wings so let the war rage,let the wind knock down the honeycombs in wavesand let the bravefly away.

-32-

Issue I – 2012

Morning SolaceBy JoAnne O'Donnell

I was out walkingenjoying the coolmist of solitudelifting in the breezewatching rosesdo dainty posesI raised my eyesthe clouds looked abovelike white princessesdressed in satin dresseswith angels praying.I saw the sun rise abovethe green hill across the wayblowing together wishes timeof silk gardens armMother natures ancient charmthe boss of all that growswith florists time.A botanical saunalife's new channelof gold with silvereverlasting embrace.

-33-

When We Work TogetherManasi Pabrekar

Grinding your teeth,You flip the pages of my articles,Sipping that unapologetic coffee your cook made,I look at your eyes,Which are buried in pages,Of my exhibition of words,You fall in love with my work,And I start falling like a dew drop,In a feeling called 'love'And start muddling it with reverence,Cater to this,Or else let me die admiring you.

-34-

Issue I – 2012

Summer Lovedreams of My YouthBy Michael Pendragon

Accept my hand and let me take you backTo seaswept sands and sprigs of ocean foamWhere seagulls shriek and roaring breakers crackLike liquid thunder 'round my island home

Let's walk along the sun-baked pinewood boardsWhere salt air seasons pizza oven smellsPast carnies hawking plastic pirate swordsOr hordes of hermit crabs in painted shells

Lost in an Oceanic Wonderland --High in the Sky Tower, watching from aboveTwo summer lovers strolling hand in handTo swan boats headed for the land of love

Too young for romance, filled with amber dreamsOf smiling postcard girls and sunset skiesCoppertone models clad in oils or creamsWith starry sunbursts tattooed on their eyes

More boardwalk ambling late into the night When moonbeams stir the waves with streaks of chrome Two silhouettes embrace love's ancient rite And count the stars lost in the rolling foamToy gods atop a lifeguard's borrowed throne

I made a secret wish someday to stealThat thrill my fellow culprits called their ownTo feel what mysteries the seas revealIn ebbing whispers from starry brineBut boyhood dreams in adult veins congealAnd it's no longer 1969

-35-

Two HaikuBy Siddartha Beth Pierce

1. The Abyss

The smoky air fillsmy lungs and leaves me with thoughtsof you swallowed whole.

2. Drenched in Yellow

The goldfinch cries outa tune while the sun dancesconniptions off breasts.

-36-

Issue I – 2012

From: Tree, To: LeafBy Kaitlyn Pijanowski

From: Tree, To: Leaf

When the leaf falls off the tree, Do you think the tree remembers the betrayal?Reliving the moment the stem snappedAnd it fluttered to the ground, gloating in its freedom.Does the tree believe leaf’s promise that another will take his place next year?Or do you think winter becomes tree’s only friend,A punishment for believing it could prolong the spring?Do you think the tree replays in its mind theThings it should have done to hold leaf’s interest – Ways it could have leaned to share more sunlightOr compliments it should have given to leaf’s rosy hue?Do you think the tree remembers the betrayal?I’d compare you to the leaf if you were worthy,The tree and I now lovers left to grieve.

From: Leaf, To: Tree

Cliché as it sounds, Tree, it’s not you - it’s me. Fall came to remind us that a love like ours was never meant to last.Weep not at our parting, but remember How we were in months of spring.I clung to you and aged upon your limbs,And whispered you my secrets in the summer. We laughed in rain and shivered in the chill,And together welcomed birds that came to call.But as the sun began to shorten day,Our silences grew long and a warning wind began to red my cheek.I won’t resent September for the change it brought - I’d gladly take the blame for our goodbye.But know that while I may have flown to freedom,From you, I never had the dream to fly.

-37-

NightmareBy Rogerio Prado

She smiled and passed by him, beautiful and distant,like a photo of an iceberg in the National GeographicHe shivered and woke up scared.

He felt oldand wanted to be young againWanted to be loved again by girls of twentysomethingwho pass and smile.

He sighed,his wife in bed beside him, as old as he is old, purred in sleepMoving away the sheet, he admired her body,so beautifully familiar with the passage of time.

He remembered how the promises of the girls in their twenties are fragileand tightly hugging his wife, fell asleep again.

-38-

Issue I – 2012

Molten Lead in a SpoonBy Reem Rashash-ShaaBan

The molten leadIn the spoonSpits and hissesOver the fireBubbling And changing colorThe spoon does not moveThe hand waits patientlyTill every drop of Lead sizzles itsPresence andTurns into a silver lake.The hand raises theSpoon above the Bowl that has beenPlaced over hisHead.The contents are emptied.A small blast whenHeat meets waterAnd turns it solidThe piece of lead Takes shape.It’s still tooCompact. We needTo do it again.Either three, five orSeven times untilThe piece shatters.If you look closelyYou can see theFaceOf the personHis evil eye will crownHis head.

-39-

The melted lead takesFour more times to Explode. Each time theHand whispers the name ofGod andDips the contents into theWater.The hand smiles.It’s done.It’s been smashed,Scattered, dispersed.Now take this lead she saysAnd tie a piece ofCloth around it.Have your son wearIt around his Neck.Take the water and walkUntil you seeThe joining of threeRoads. Whisper the Prayer and throwThe water so it tooMay diffuse-Three ways, threeRoads-never toJoin again.The power dilutedThe power overcomeSight dispersed,Evil gone.

-40-

Issue I – 2012

Small ComfortsBy Matthias Regan

You're stuck in the house& you've partied all night;now, the next day

all is drab & gray.It's like a lake – attentionlapping lightly

along the stony shore,gray clouds & just the two of them –

making it througha self-imposedhazy post-party moment

by watching birds& walking lock-stepfaking it

down the roadfaster & fasteruntil its time

to dance again & how incredibleis that!

-41-

The Luthiers WeepBy Seymour Roth

He stole the violins.

A hair-greased-back Chanticleer struts in his barnyard without fret his seconds upon the stage the violins stacked in the coop.Worthy hens clucking lustily to play.

Venom spilled from lips dipped in Goethewhile Sonderstab Musik minions looted. The Cornish hens played tunes to a smiling Chanticleer, plucked Johann Straus waltzes for the wounded squeaking out tender blessings to all.Mahler, Mendelssohn and Martinu silenced,as they stroked the slender necks and bulbous hipskeeping State secrets in their dancing bows.

The Others shambled to cattle carsrelegated to the ash heap,unworthy chickens musicking on only their anguish intact,long-playing sadness pecked out on discarded millet.

Sounds devolved, disappeared into the thickness of hate.

The luthiers weep.

-42-

Issue I – 2012

RevelationBy Alexander Russo

I’m walking on the beachon a sunny afternoon in June, looking at gulls gliding gusts of wind,some propped on the jetty like soldierswaiting for nature’s orders,a few beauties in bikinis,a sailboat on the horizon,and a few surfers past the breakers,waiting for the right wave,as I am waitingfor a revelation — I’ve been meditatingon the fleeting nature of life inhibitingother thoughts like a red light stopping traffic.

But how does a revelation happen?Does it suddenly burst forth from a mere thought,a big question mark,an impenetrable void?Suddenly,as I look at sky, jetty, gulls—the entire panorama— I realize in a blazing visioneverything I see is a reflectionin the mirror of my self, a multiple portrait of who I am.

-43-

A Sonnet to the Master of SonnetsBy Paul Andrew Ryan

Oh my teacher how you've taught me great lessons,Although thou time hast come and passed,Your writings provide in depth sessions,To unlock a profound wisdom vanquished all too fast,

And although some may thinketh me a fool,Thou hast inspired me to climb new heights,To utilize and embrace new and old tools,Despite some insecure frights,

Thou art the greatness that hast fueled me from within,The magnets that piece word by word together,The ink that caresses the blank pages as they're pinned,One can only hope your teachings are sought after forever,

Any such fame, fortune, or success,Will hereby be delivered directly to your rest.

-44-

Issue I – 2012

August RainBy Tom Sagramola

Imagine taking a long, forlorn Sunday walk in the forest on a gloomy afternoon as pouring rain catches you by surprise.

Imagine seeking shelter under the nearest birch tree as the sky darkens and you cannot help but savour the odour of wet soil and the orchestra of raindrops, falling on the leaves.

Imagine nostalgia washing over you, taking you back to the time when you were young, when life was easy, innocent and without consequences.

This is when you'd realize, that beauty is ever-present even in the most inconspicuous things in life.

-45-

A PO M For N E OneMaxwell Shell

AmericaEsotericaInCumParableOperaEraOfUndisputedUnconditional

Love is the only good music that i listen toLove is the only free willI'd be willing to Survive for Die for Cut my umbilicalUnder the umbrellaOf loveThe sun shines A vintage view

Sip the wine Straight from waterWhat is offered is A miracle

Indivisible individualEnvision new Dimensions to Dip into

Skinniest dipping ofInfinite perfect fitting love

Lion lamb living proof ImagineNation'sCentral Truth

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Issue I – 2012

The heart of the forest The brain of A brilliant coolThe soul of A vegetableSpirit of an Animal

God Bless Every Mineral Pour US Another chance To dance with our gifted shoes

All thee Attention in the WorldWorked for & played with CrimsonRhythm & StarLitBluesInnerPeace/\OuterSpaces

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White Heat, White ColdBy Emily Strauss

at noon in a hot summerthe gold-dry grass hillsburn ashen under a bluewhite sky glare, withoutshadows blue white hot

at night the cloudlesssky shines with bluepoints, white glowwashes the groundpale, visible withoutlight, blue white cold

between them the oceanand pelicans fly just offshore in line skimming the waves–when the surf crashesthey rise a moment, floatingon their own up-swellnow following the backside silently scanning—open to all possibilities.

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Issue I – 2012

Big Blue BallBy Brandon Stroud

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Only the Ugly Endures By David Thornbrough

Now that everything is ugly,beauty sighs.A relief to no longer be on display,no longer be the standard.Beauty made ugly possibleand now ugly proves beautynever existed.Helen never launched a single rowboat,Susanna never seduced a single elder. Beersheba’s bath water never poisoned David,and the sea never decanted Venusfrom its foaming forehead likechampagne shaken from the bottleof an entire demented planet.So long as the possibility of beauty existed,no one could ever know peace,especially the beautiful.What is beautiful passes, decays,fades like fresco colors proclaiming the promiseof redemption, as even the truth of Judas(the most beautiful disciple)flakes and falls from the monastery wall.Only what is ugly endures,proliferates, educates the youngthat only matter matters,that transcendence is a fluke not worth pursuing.Ugly is entropy,the heat death of the universecome round at last.

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Issue I – 2012

MarilynBy Amanda Townsend

Keep it to yourself.Little child, small hands,Your secrets can't be held in palms. And you will never see magic or dust,The world sparkling, reflections off of silver wings,That flutter like heartbeats.Keep quiet, like you are still--Still here and there;Whether hiding behind curtains orBeneath kitchen chairs and holding your breathAt the clicking of her footsteps.She will never find you.She is not in your world, where things only growAnd are never destroyed,Over-watered or planted.She can't find the door behind the vines,That place where your sisters wait to hearThat all is well, that all is easy.Little child, small hands.She burned you alive--hate in a reflective face,Flickering red and yellow in the flames.Your fingers, your twirling feet,Busy run, your color-filled dreams.But I think she would have wanted in,Would have banged palms on the door ifShe thought you'd ever answer.If she ever stopped burning enough to notice.

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Spring TideBy Christine Tsen

It’s Spring and she has planted fantasiavariegated aromas of peppermintstrawberry sage parsley essentialsgrowing in summer night balmblooming amidst crisp green wafts of lilacslavender chive with belvedere of mauve --

Sweet rambling gardens nourished on the richness of primeval beds of ashelucidated by dangling stars in night airchild's play of dreams buoyant in the skyblissfully unconcerned that autumn even exists --

And yet a wintering breeze lurks as she kneels in irreverent dirtrefusing to acknowledge its enervating voice that small muddy gnome in her own vernal caféor an anonymous bespectacled star looking down

suspended between time zoneswatching antiquity’s produceand the future’s looming autumnal beautywhich may compensate for spring’s murderthe flash and boom as love burst.

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Issue I – 2012

Don't Disturb the Dead BirdBy Jeremiah Walton

Don't disturb the dead birdIts dry cry goes unheardPoked at by sticks broken off a nearby rotted treeNear its body underneath the marqueeWith young knuckles wrapped around its imagined hiltIts body tossed like a rag doll embossedWith cheap black tattered imitation leatherThe slick tick of time on rain pattered feathersA charred cheap treasureWith cracked wings amongst other small thingsPulled joints, and ligaments, tied with bodily stringsIt will never be buried, only spat atSmall children squeak "look at that!"And run off giggling with their swordsPretending to be ladies and lords

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Moment Capture XXXXGail Wolper

today cleaning glassesi notice new visualsfive shiny red cars all in a rowon the other side silvers and graysthe sun slivers through the cloudssparkles on a distant car.replacing glasses, it is the black onewith broken windows.

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Issue I – 2012

Dust Cloaked InscriptionsBy T. Zanahary

Once we were lost.We were gone to musicwe couldn't hear,dancing in tribal tonesdust encircling us,draping us in secrecythese whispers keepfeet grounded in time,hoping to hear tomorrowon a dying breath.When was nothing beforeand after an illusionbut the secret's been sold.Found out,we must run, sweet baby,run in the darknessfor it's the everyday trapwe're about to fall into,wearing away this worldthe surface too weakfor us to both continue on.I can't lose you to sinour earthly expression deemed demonic,concept without credenceour revival's television goldfor commercial advertising,but I can't lose you to a baptism.Being birthed from tainted waterwill strip that clay keepingyou connected to me,water down these bondsuntil the weightturns them to shackles.

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I can't lose you to the pyre,firing will strip youof your raw truthand transform usto tangibility,transform us from being to thing,a point where smiling showsnaught but cracks in your faceand breezes blowing through,stealing away that cloak of us.In their eyes, dust clinging to sweat,our yelps primal and joining primitive,we are filthy.In ours,emblazoned.

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