Monday, December 22, 2014

Two Poems by Erren Geraud Kelly


The Death of Saturday Morning Cartoons

"For the first time in 50 years, there was no Saturday morning cartoons of any kind on any of the major networks. . ."
                                            -- from a yahoo article

No more mystery machine or mighty mouse
No more while e. coyote chasing the road runner
on Saturday Mornings
Though I never took him seriously
If the coyote always had the money to
Go to acme to buy materials to make
The trap and travel to chase the road runner
He couldn't saved himself the trouble
And bought himself a pizza
Johnny quest always looked mod
In a turtleneck sweater
daphne was the eye-candy, but
velma was the prototype for the
Feminist, the opinionated woman
Though she was a plain jane
But she had tig o bitties
velma was smart when being smart
Wasn't cool for girls

Saturday mornings, I ate big bowls of
Cereal, sometimes at mom's house
Sometimes, at dads
I thought my dad was smarter than
The average dad

Bugs bunny made being an anti-authority
Figure cool; he taught me all about life
With a queen's accent
The schoolhouse rocked when blossom dearie
The jazz diva, with the little girl voice
Explained how adjectives were used
In a sentence
Some Saturday morning, mom cooked breakfast
As a lowly bill explained his sisphyean quest
To become law; and succeeded against all odds

Godzilla was a tortured soul
But he always came out victorious

The villian would've gotten away with it, too
If it hadn't been for those meddling kids
And that dog
But shaggy was my favorite
Casey Kasem was his voice
When he wasn't counting down
Top 40 hits on pop radio
Or making long distance dedications

go go gadget, and a watch could
stop a bomb from smashing into earth
just a few weeks ago, apple introduced a watch
inspector gadget would love

c-bear was the teddy bear with soul
but I always preferred peanuts,
snoopy was the rock star beagle
but Charlie brown was my spiritual twin

I've always had a soft spot for underdogs. . .



Snowbird

When she moves, she lets the music
Tell her where to go
She's wearing a thrift store shroud
And playing with a dog
She's embarrassed about walking
Around in public in pajamas,

She moves like a feather
Around the coffeehouse
She's a tango dancer
And she always dances with
A different partner
She learns much about
People that way
I mistake her blue paisley shawl
For a countess'
She tells me about the mountains
In Canada
I tell her I'm headed that way

There are no accidents in life

I look at her as she's talking
She makes her own daylight
She deserves only good things
Real pearl earrings
Not the fake ones she's wearing
She deserves people who will
Make her life golden
I listen to her talk
As she covers her breasts
With her elegant shroud
Her breasts I would touch
As we danced
Everything about her
Is to be treasured




Erren Geraud Kelly's work has been featured in over 150 publications in print and online.  Kelly is the author of the chapbook "disturbing the peace," from night ballet press.  Kelly received his B.A. in English Creative Writing from Louisiana in Baton Rouge, Louisiana.  Kelly lives in Portland, Oregon.




Saturday, December 20, 2014

A Poem by David R. Mellor



Dating in a State

 

I’m hanging around on a dating
In a state
Keyboards covered in tobacco, crisps, sticky with beer
Telling someone I like to climb mountains,
I’m calm and sensitive and in control
But I’m typing.. words …I can’t ….see
 
And I’m starting to spill truths
 
“Divorced” “Kids”
 
“Oh “
 
I like betting, drinking, smoking ,doing most things to stop me thinking or feeling
 
“Mmm”
 
Kids miles away, and I’m up in the air
 
………..
 
Are you still there?
 
 
 
David R. Mellor was born in Liverpool England in 1964.  He left school with nothing, rummaging around dead end jobs, he then went to college and university.  In his 20's he first discovered poetry, and started writing and performing and has done so ever since.  He has live on the Wirral for the past 8 years.  His second book "Some Body" is officially launched and available on Kindle now.
 
 

Wednesday, December 17, 2014

A Poem by Brihintha Burggee


If The World Crumbles Down
 
You are not the wails of
despaired orphaned wombs
that have been shredded prematurely.
 
You are not the arms,
opened to nowhere in despair
that yearn the fieriness of their beloved.
 
You are not the torn flesh
of pristine fledglings –
the pregnant dove,
now splashed with bloody stains.
 
You are not the rubble
that opens its cracks after every blast,
to welcome death's darkness,
 
And yet!
 
You are the clamour
that can rouse the heedless;
 
You are the beam
that can lift a prayer to the heavens;
 
You are the united mass
that can lower heads,
out of lofty crowns and pride
and overthrow the canker,
out of hearts.




Aged 20, Brihintha Burggee is enjoying the experience of writing her first poems. She lives in a small paradise island called Mauritius in the middle of the Indian Ocean. Her works have been previously published by The Rainbow Rose, The Camel Saloon, Mad Swirl and Leaves of Ink.

Monday, December 15, 2014

A Poem by Karla Linn Merrifield



Ménage à Trois
 
      for David Richter 
 
Once upon Rimbaud’s 1870s time
in a Left Bank gay quartier, as a man
fragmented, saturated, he first wrote,
first recited in public the 100-line poem
of a drunken boat, boat like himself,
drifting, sinking at sea, lost
in the shadowed arrondissement of loss.
 
Once upon his time, a century later, Richter lived
just around the corner, one steep flight up
at #4 Rue de Canivet, window shutters open
to Saint Sulpice at his back (in case of guilt),
Steinway facing south so he could play nocturnes
for the bronzed, muscled pagan statuary
in Luxumbourg’s lush garden of easy liaisons.
 
Once upon a time this summer in Paris,
just down the street, I stared at gaunt twin ghosts
haunting the worn cobblestone ways of doubt,
the narrow, shadowy paths from pain.
From nearby belfry rings the hour of need,
from apartment window sounds a coda-echo of desire
from marble wall etched with“Le Bâteau Ivre
I read in full— at long last write my Chanson d’ Amour
in reply—
 
 
                
An eight-time Pushcart-Prize nominee and National Park Artist-in-Residence, Karla Linn Merrifield has had some 400 poems appear in dozens of journals and anthologies. She has ten books to her credit, the newest of which are Lithic Scatter and Other Poems (Mercury Heartlink) and Attaining Canopy: Amazon Poems (FootHills Publishing). Forthcoming from Salmon Poetry is Athabaskan Fractal and Other Poems of the Far North. She is assistant editor and poetry book reviewer for The Centrifugal Eye (www.centrifugaleye.com), a member of the board of directors of TallGrass Writers Guild and of Just Poets (Rochester, NY), and a member of the New Mexico State Poetry Society. Visit her blog, Vagabond Poet, at http://karlalinn.blogspot.com.                    

Saturday, December 13, 2014

A Poem by Olivier B




Rock 'n' Roll

a grey sedan cruises
                    besides us
       on the freeway

on its side a sticker reads
                    women rock

as we glimpse
                  two
                  incredibly large
      women
      in the backseat
our driver notes:
      "they can barely roll"



Born and raised in the small village of Gilly-sur-Isere in the French Alps, Olivier B recently migrated to Long Beach, CA, in order to join the local community of poets.  He has a B.A. and an M.A. in Literature in English from Stendhal University, France, and was granted the EAP Scholarship in order to spend his last year of undergraduate studies at UC San Diego.  He is currently part of the M.F.A. in Poetry at CSU Long Beach, blending lyricism and landscape poetry, his verses attempt to bridge the caustic gap between romanticism and imagism.  His poetry can be found in Cadence Collective, RipRap, Synesthesia Literary Journal, Remedial Art Class and Electric Windmill Press, and his critical works in DUMAS and The William Carlos Williams Review.




Thursday, December 11, 2014

A Poem by Kushal Poddar


Schrodinger's Shadow

One gray cat, alive and dead,
shoves the door with her soft head
to meet her shadow.

One leaf slips in.  Two leaves.  Three.
It seems both autumn and end
of summer outdoor.

We live all lives together.
They huddle and merge, and storms
part them again and more.



A native of Kolkata, India, Kushal Poddar writes poetry, scripts and prose and is published world wide.  He authored "All Our Fictional Dreams," published in several anthologies in the Continent and in America.  The forthcoming book is "A Place for Your Ghost Animals." Find more at http://www.facebook.com/pages/Kushal-The-Poet/166552613396144



Sunday, December 7, 2014

Four Poems by Simon Perchik


You are pulled and the same darkness
lifts your arm around these stars
spreads out door to door
 
knocks so your fist can smell
from blood become your heart again
dragged ahead as if you belong
 
near distances, end to end
                        though this cemetery
has forgotten its dead
 
holds only the invisible hillsides
                        soaking in stone and narrow alleyways
passed along till they close
 
and what will be your tears
waits as lips, as the sky brought back
crumbling with not a light left on.
 
 
 
 
 
*
Even these laces, breathless
falling to the floor without you
and the wait for calm –they cope
 
by helping you undress
used to shoes that weigh too much
are lowered forever, caressed
 
and still you talk non-stop
dangle your bare feet
half overboard, half
 
the way these enormous clothes
lose hold, break apart, then nothing
to heap one on top the other.
 
 
 
 
 
*
Branching out and this hillside
bit by bit unraveling
the way your shadow keeps to itself
 
just by darkening, fed the dirt
you once could see through
as if nothing was there to hum
 
then swallow some old love song
that came into the world
facing the ground still trying
 
to leave you and night after night
you listen for these smaller
then smaller stones eating alone
 
as the cry forever struggling
from its harsh stranglehold
to keep up, side by side and stay.
 
 
 
 
 
*
At the end this sand coming by
covers you with soft flowers
that long ago dried as footsteps
 
still treading inside some shallow grave
smothered  as afterward and dust
–you loved her the way the Earth
 
keeps warm and between two suns
place to place what’s left
you walk without looking down
 
though your arms are closing
have grown together a single fingertip
touching these shells and pebbles.
 
 
 
Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, Poetry, The New Yorker, and elsewhere. His most recent collection is Almost Rain, published by River Otter Press (2013).  For more information, free e-books and his essay titled “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities” please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com