Thursday, August 27, 2015

A Poem by Wayne Russell


Cold Machine

This cold machine
slinking along the
bleak ghettos
of heartache
in sleazy attire
a prostitute vagabond
caught up in societies
blood lust undertow
slimy underbelly red light district
victims of a murderous rat race
chances of survival
at an all time low
spikes in veins
riding venomous highway's to hell
drunken pimps sway
like palm tree shadows
on cocaine beaches
I see the green fading in her eyes
where once there dwelt the innocence
of the child
before heroin and whiskey
reigned supreme
and before her god became
the crumpled bust of dead presidents



Wayne Russell was born and raised in the Sunshine State of Florida in the US.  His work often centers on themes such as loneliness, rejection, loss, and the social justices and injustices that shape the world around us.  In the past, Wayne's poetry has been published in The Graveyard Cowboy, Far Off Places, and Poetry Quarterly.




Tuesday, August 25, 2015

Two Poems by Susan Sweetland Garay


The First Time We Hear the Coyotes After a Long Winter

I leave the window open,
no matter how cold,
so we can hear them
as she falls asleep,
high pitched and sweet.

Later as the rest of the house sleeps
I think about each choice I have made,
what I did and what else I could have done.

Maybe if I had made another choice
things would be better, perfect even.

Or maybe we would still be here in this,
or some very similar, uncomfortable place.

So I try to listen to a friend who tells me,
You are one hell of a mother,

and this time I am glad
to be alone and awake at this hour.

I have missed this song.



Reflection

After falling head first
into her, into what she made me
with no thought of what would happen
if I drown,

I sink slowly
enjoying the fall.

For days and weeks and months
I swim happily underwater
not realizing how much
I miss the air.

But then
I begin
to rise.

I find some essence which was hibernating,
resting quietly, waiting for me to
morph into some altogether
different animal-

one who has already learned how to be both.



Born and raised in Portland Oregon, Susan Sweetland Garay currently lives in the Willamette Valley with her husband and daughter where she works in the vineyard industry.  She has had poetry and photography published in a variety of journals, online and in print.  Her first full-length poetry collection, Approximate Tuesday, was published in 2013 and she was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2014.  More of her work can be found at susansweetlandgaray.wordpress.com




Sunday, August 23, 2015

A Poem by Steve Klepetar


In the Great Cold

What you want is information, finding patterns
in the flight of birds or the way frosty clouds
streak winter sky.  Down, down you must endure,

along the frozen river's path, crawling through
caves tunneling toward Everdark, that space
of gloom and mist.  Once there you must leave

your only gift, a clammy, breathing soul.
The rest is waiting.  You might hum to pass
the time, or find, in your memory's trembling

thread, a song you thought you had forgotten,
one that shivers along your spine and makes
you think of hands familiar to lips and eyes.

Nostalgia will not make you smile down here.
When he rises up, your phantom father, try
three times to embrace him, through strong arms

won't be enough to hold the fog he has become.
Maybe he'll whisper your secret name.  As warmth
floods back, his mournful longing burns the earth.



Steve Klepetar's work has appeared in nine countries, in such journals as Boston Literary Magazine, Deep Water, Antiphon, Red River Review, Snakeskin, Ygdrasil, and many others.  Several of his poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.  Recent collections include Speaking to the Field Mice (Sweatshoppe Publications, 2013), My Son Writes a Report on the Warsaw Ghetto (Flutter Press, 2013) and Return of the Bride of Frankenstein (Kind of a Hurricane Press).




Friday, August 21, 2015

A Poem by Barbara Tate


Child to the Angels Borne

I am shadow, made of mist,
second block, third house down.  I wait
for the Dipper to pour out it's stars
on the edge of questionable, where scavengers find
my scattered bones.

The fatted mooncalf creeps closer, slinking in,
grounding himself, talking foolish madness,
whispering to a vacant mind.

Sucked into the vortex of earthbound vapors
of yesterdays tomorrow, places and faces disappear
in a lightless shadow where tentacles fling venomous spit
in the name of righteousness.  Your manifesto turns
to ashes and smolders as you stomp away
muttering incantations and threats to return next winter.

I attempt to hide and melt in a haze, a faraway yesterday
where the roses grew, second block, third house on the right.
I was shadow made of mist.
You were future's past.



Barbara Tate is an award winning artist and writer of Native American descent.  In 2015, she was awarded 2nd place in United Haiku & Tanka Society's Samurai Haibun Competition; a finalist in United Poet Laureate International Alexender Fui Sak Chang Award for short free verse in Chinese or English; 1st place in Gulf Coast Writers Assoc. Competition (Poetry Category) and had 2 poems chosen as finalists in Poetry Society of Tennessee NE; and won Best Poem Award in January Poet's Digest.  Her work has appeared in Modern Haiku, Contemporary Haiku Online, Frogpond, Cattails, Bear Creek Haiku, The Heron's Nest, Santa Fe Literary Review, Storyteller Magazine, Iconoclast and Switch (The Difference) Anthology.  She is a member of Gulf Coast Writers Assoc., Haiku Society of America, and the United Haiku & Tanka Society.  She currently resides in Winchester, TN.





Thursday, August 20, 2015

Two Poems by James Sanchez


A branch floating in the ether
Dead, barren
A cry filters through melancholy
Ripples like ribbons of flesh
The descent steeper near the end
Smiles wane
Waxy memories
Specks of ash
Evil raises fingerprints
A song hangs on to memory
Laundry across thought lines
Standing across from your mirror
Face chiseled by hard fought answers
Morals, proverbs fail
Babies bounced off gravel roads
Insight honed on deception
Perception clouded by intent




The vines crisscross his face
Lattice work of lust
Pollen drips down a throat scuffed by lies
Love handled delicately
Saffron fingerprints dust her clever mouth
Witty words mean nothing to you
Fallow shallow hollow
Autumn brings second guessing
Car rides along once newly paved roads
Passages towards away
Chances sought
Recovery along the tar black roads of the new America
A garden grows in my chest
Cultivated with serpentine caresses longing for the last drop of moisture




James Sanchez is a poet and teacher from Hieleah, Florida.  He holds a B.A. in English from Florida International University.  He teaches English and Creative Writing at Ronald W. Reagan Senior High School in Doral, Florida.  He resides in Miami, Florida with his wife and son.  His work has been published in The Acentos Review, the Apeiron Review, Mother is a Verb:  a Red Paint Hill Anthology, Blue Heron Review and Lost Coast Review.





Monday, August 17, 2015

A Poem by Margaret Gish Miller


Blood Moon Weather
    
Tomorrow an eclipse is
forecast so I eat fiber bars--
it’s Indian Summer & I’m sixty-
 
seven-years-old:
no period in sight.
I feel great grief
 
for Cooper who lost
his Grandma Joan
Rivers. In last night’s
 
dream I embraced him,
the gift of grandsons
tumbling into adolescence.
 
Know his loss his loss his loss
 
Now I’m falling
asleep. . .sighing into
the comfort of my body, grateful
 
to be free of cramps-bloat
endometriosis--that malady
mimicking labor pains--
 
the uterus shredding itself--
shedding a month of Sundays
44 years worth with nothing
 
to show for it, except your friend,
the curse. No more!
Just a blood-red sky & great relief
 
in long baths dreaming
of whirlpools
available at Lowe’s,
 
a therapeutic necessity, these brittle bones
cracking down my spine, one disc at a time,
each time I bend down into the fallen leaf.
 
 
 
Margaret Gish Miller, born in 1946 in Palo Alto, California, lived, worked,and taught in the San Joaquin Valley, California for over 30 years.  Retired, she and her husband Ron live in Gig Harbor, Washington where she continues to write poetry.  Her work has been widely published, including The Paterson Literary Review; Verseweavers; Poets & Writers; and To Topos, an International Journal.  Most recently, 12 of her haiku are included in the anthology The Knotted Bond: Oregon Poets Speak of their Sisters.
 

Wednesday, July 1, 2015

Three Poems by April Salzano


My Grandmother and a Baked Potato

At the deli, she wants to know
if they will wrap it up.  I point to the foil,
trying not to make a face that mocks
the Great Depression mentality, the need
to know that half can be saved for later.
We have stood in the long line counting
our coins and time.  We know rotisserie
chicken is nothing without two fresh sides
of our choice, that $8.99 is a cup of coffee
and a scone.  Dinner for the whole family
suddenly seems so meaningful, a marketing
epiphany, a subliminal promise of eternal fullness.




Celebrating the Sun

The sun is an opiate, giant
poppy seed burning, breaking
down into liquid heat, lava pulled
through syringe.  Shot
into ropey vein writhing under skin
that begs to be punctured.  Sealed
without memory of pinhole prick.

The sun is a carousel horse, painted
gaudy colors, baring teeth, acid-trip
mane/tail a blur of distortion, surreal.
Misplaced animals predict irrelevant radius,
deafened/defeated by broken records warbling
across antiquated speakers.  Chipped-iris
stare into endless revolution.

The sun is a lazy eye, refracted,
overcompensation of fire, crooked gaze,
monocled miracle of light.  Proximal distance,
displaced.  Warmth disbanded across tundra in failure.
Mystery of darkness revealed.  One slow rotation,
overexposing whole continents.
A shift in perception that moves mountains.



My Middle Name is Broken

cliched, an on the floor disjointed
misrepresentation of who I am:  variations
of light through fractured clouds, marbled sky,
threadbare thoughts and worn-in familiarity.
A kink in the chain of events that interrupts
domino effect.  Each cause is equal to its reaction:
speeding car, deflated tire, roadside passivity
that looks a lot like feigned helplessness.  Friendly
assistance always requires reciprocation.





April Salzano teaches college writing in Pennsylvania where she lives with her husband and two sons.  She is currently working on a memoir on raising a child with autism and several collections of poetry.  Her work has been twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in journals such as Convergence, Ascent Aspirations, The Camel Saloon, Centrifugal Eye, DeadSnakes, Visceral Uterus, Salome, Poetry Quarterly, Writing Tomorrow and Rattle.  Her first chapbook, The Girl of My Dreams, is forthcoming in spring, 2015 from Dancing Girl Press.  The author serves as co-editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press (www.kindofahurricanepress.com).