Wednesday, October 31, 2012

Two Poems by Diane Webster


The cat lies on the countertop
between two perking coffee pots
warm with an exhaling purr
before sleep wraps around the trio
like the cat’s tail around its toes
while stuffing steams
from the turkey cavity,
and Thanksgiving guests
stare at napkins
lying on their laps
like a cat insisting attention.


The mannequin stands guard
in the store’s nightlight shadows --
at first a startling thief
slinking in the corner of eyesight
frozen now under watchful stare
smiling that in a blink
it plays statue, a harmless fright
from the other side of the glass.

Diane Webster's goal is to remain open to poetry ideas from everyday life and nature and to write with a different perspective or different images. Her work has appeared in "Illya's Honey," "Old Red Kimono" and other literary magazines both in print and online.

Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Two Poems by Stephen Jarrell Williams

Flash Poetess

in and out
before the white coats
encircled her

their circus tent
making spectacles
of her kind
in the center ring

she didn't want that
keeping most of her secrets
from the glare of the spotlights

but she told enough
to make us believe in her dreams.

Last Night

I caught her
weeping in the shower

liquid pearls
clinging to her skin

she had made her decision
never to drown

in the deep dark drain of fame
still sucking at her feet

holding out her hand
I took her wet to our bed

wind from the open window
fanning us into the morning sanctity.

Stephen Jarrell Williams loves to stay up all night and write with lightning bolts until they fizzle down behind the dark horizon. He is the editor of Dead Snakes at

Monday, October 29, 2012

A Poem by Taylor Graham


Thunder transfers to
static in fur, each single hair
reaching out for
a signal
transmission -
her eyes caught
between brown rhapsody
of hand-touch &
lightning -
impending possibilities
untying every
knot, unloosing leashes.
Outside the
window, Thor's hammer-bolts
in revue,
crush of pressure/boom/
(the house held by its
lightning rod)
our room airlocked
between worlds,
my pup electric ever-ready.

Taylor Graham is a volunteer search-and-rescue dog handler in the Sierra Nevada. She’s included in the anthologies Villanelles (Everyman’s Library, 2012) and California Poetry: From the Gold Rush to the Present (Santa Clara University, 2004). Her book The Downstairs Dance Floor was awarded the Robert Philips Poetry Chapbook Prize. Her newest book – Walking with Elihu: poems on Elihu Burritt, the Learned Blacksmith – is available on Amazon.

Sunday, October 28, 2012

Two Poems by Sy Roth

Righteous Forfeiture

He brushes the sidewalks

Corn-husked whisk broom

Swishing mechanically back and forth

Vestiges tattooed to the earth.

Twinkling in the distance

A starred greeting

From some niche in a snow-capped mountain

Indelicately greets stony flesh.

Noxious air rises there in the morning light

Virtue tumbles indelicately with the man.

The sweeper toils around him

Pausing only to spit at the ground

And to peer at the dew-hazed sun’s

Failure to warm the ground

Except in the steaming pond

Pooling at his feet.

Neighbors tupping neighbors

In their revulsion song.

She bent indecorously over a table

Liquid eye watching drifting flakes of ash,

He hair-steering her toward limbo.

From a corner comes a Babel of rutting heaves.

Sara melts

And a mewling cry

Seeks her ululating lips.

The cleaner bends to his task

Cursing the ground

Deaf to the wails and staccato chatter of

The apes swinging rampant among the ruins.

Sara, she whispers sadly.

Yevo, he silently shrieks back.
Spirits Dwell

Where silence exists,

They perch and conduct their monkish vigilance

Responding to every electrical discharge--


Flash of light.

Anguished cry of a childhood taken

Undulating in colossal waves

Brain flapped by lapping waters.

Dark-winged freeloaders

In miniscule hidey-holes, fusty garrets

Rest impatiently on high wires,

Ogle all newcomers,

Scrutinize their behaviors,

Memorize faces, and then

Signal that intruders encroach.

Swarming battle of crows

Dwelling in murky nooks and crannies,

Muddled phantasms, ghosts and Dybbuks

Sooted phalanxes,

Squawking congress of ebon islets

Black army arrayed on dying trees

Willful, gelatinous forms

Tangled uniluminated crawl spaces

Rolled in miles of remembrances.

The world scampers about blithely

While silent words and screams

Emerge from synaptic cataclysm.

Disrupt equilibrium

Like unwanted relatives,

Persnickety guests,

Taking up residence in the creases.

Night will emerge

With its unglad tidings.
Sy Roth is a retired school administrator and has finally found the sounds of silence and the time to think whole thoughts. This has led him to find words and the ability to shape them. He has published in Visceral Uterus, Amulet, BlogNostics, Every Day Poets, Barefoot Review, Haggard and Halloo, Misfits Miscellany, Mad Swirl, Larks Fiction Magazine, Danse Macabre, Bitchin’Kitch, Bong is Bard, Humber Pie, Poetry Super Highway, Penwood Review, Masque Publications, Foliate Oak, Miller’s Pond Poetry and The Eloquent Atheist.



Saturday, October 27, 2012

A Poem by Andrew Kreider

and all the trees are dying
sheered off at the roots
arms slung wide as if
running from a gunman
and down south a whole town is
hiding in attics from their
pride and furniture determined
that the past will not repeat itself
and I keep score as I scrub the floor
fighting battles over ground
flooded and drained a hundred times
watching my arms rise and fall
and the back of my mind is
flashing blue and white, pleading
shut up shut up shut up sometimes
a grenade is just ripe fruit ready to share
Born and raised in London, England, Andrew Kreider has lived for over twenty years in northern Indiana.
He has published two chapbooks, and has an active poetry blog under the title Penguin Poems.

Friday, October 26, 2012

Three Poems by Janet Rice Carnahan

Before a strike,
A flickering flash,
Not yet blazing,
Yet contained,
Hesitantly brilliant,
Awaiting the rush of flame,
Inching towards ignition,
As if some undetermined time,
Sits on its ultimate demise,
Until ash,
Falls away,
A state of inspiration,
Needed to fuel,
Imagination . . .
Into a true reality!
Like leaves,
Air currents gaining strength,
Twisting in fate’s arms,
Trusting without question,
Letting go, an art,
Birds follow suit,
Allowing breezes,
Up and through,
Guiding them,
Along some predetermined,
Perhaps unknown,
Not understood,
By simple navigation,
How freeing,
Their complete . . .

Gathering feathers,
Brings blessings,
A sense of freedom,
Joyful opening,
Extending our selves,
Inviting in,
Seeking only a wider,
Life’s never ending,
Given a chance,
Considering expanded . . .
Janet Rice Carnahan lives in Laguna Beach, California, among artists, photographers and writers. Born on the northern California coast, she’s inspired by the sea, a joy shared with her husband, adult children, family and friends. Janet’s published work includes a cover photo, caption and poems in an anthology, “Prompted: An International Collection of Poems”, December 2011. Recent poems were published in, “Pyrokinection”, “Jellyfish Whispers”, “The Camel Saloon”, “The Mind[less] Muse” and “Three Line Poetry”.

Thursday, October 25, 2012

Two Poems from Bill Jansen

regular bride

Medieval butterflies, or flies on medieval butter
block entrance to temple dedicated to Dedication
or the subsidy thereof,
then start a wave with stained glass wings.

Hellfire launched by a surviving Intelligence Officer
from our bunker in Desert Springs, California,
not far from the Tennis Tournament,
an interesting bagel or bugle on his desk.

The target back-dated, left to sparkle,
like gold earrings on a contrite mummy.

Then just kidding around with the right people,
s'blood, was that you Bernardo?
Now for the game, this time in...

The bride looking like a regular bride,
there amid the tractor parts.

invisible tyranny

later I am an earlier rocking motion
I got from a certain detachment
which had gone missing since arrived in Madrid.

the teleprompter snaps off the dream
and I clear my throat
to deliver the revised message.

--dear Senoritas, Providence clings to the gekko
in the room with two ceilings.

this puts the people loitering on the plaza
in the mood to kick each other in the shins.

then I'm appointed the Supreme Judge of Madrid.
but they forget to tell me
and I continue to hide the shadow of a fly
from the post card police.

Bill Jansen lives in Forest Grove, Oregon and has work published in
The Centrifugal Eye, Cirque and other ezines.

Wednesday, October 24, 2012

A Poem by Dr. Yoosaph Kandy

Tug of war

On either side
Conscience at war
On the edge of sword.
The eyes hooked
And stoned.
The blanket
a garland
a jungle of bush.
Traffic heavy
Speeding fast
Eyelashes blinking
Read as dead.
Newspaper leaves
Of thunder
On thorns spread
Faces fill in.
At the fall
Of the tug brawny
A heavy clash
of applause.
Dr. Yoosaph is Assistant professor in the department of english, Calicut university, Kerala, India. He has published several poems and translations in Malayalam language as well as english. He also has many English articles to his credit, in both national and international journals. His book on Asif Currimbhoy's plays has been published from Germany, UK and US in the name Yoosaph Aayalakkandy. 

Tuesday, October 23, 2012

Two Poems by Ian C. Smith

Lives reflect like a film by Resnais,
children, divorces, loving well,
some storm, some calm, loving no longer.
Days drain into the gulf of middle age.
He remembers curls on her nape,
her head turned to blow smoke away.
Tracking her, logic gets ambushed,
foolish assumptions, a wrong address.
A postal worker, an obvious TV fan
with an old-time attitude to service,
places a newspaper ad., proving
the Dead Letter Office still has a pulse.
Her answering machine a reprieve
but as he backslides into relief
his phone, shrill, throbbing, stabs him.
No time to organize his thoughts,
he clears his throat, slowly reaches out.
A lot can change over twenty-five years.
The rush hour trains shaking their floor,
blood stirring under his scars.
He presses fingers to temples,
ponders a decision about a haircut
willing himself to match her bravery
as questions needing details line up.
Balancing Acts
In the chill of her parents’ spare room
where she once joined twin beds
back when they disapproved of him
she shrinks, balancing at the bed’s hard edge,
hugging the secrets of her blowzy body.
First, he tries common sense, then foolery.
She believes he aches with lust, not love,
knows her mind doesn’t impress him,
counts days remaining until her 40th.
Earlier, their L-plate daughter driving fast,
him talking charming nonsense, impressing her
while she’s with their luggage she always packs,
kangaroos had bounced across the road
so close to silencing them all.
She hates his façade of recklessness
in the face of prospective disaster.
Yet more self-indulgence she thinks,
wanting him to just shut the fuck up.
Before she yelled Slow down damn you,
Worry a fluttering pennant,
they had overtaken a unicyclist,
his jacket puffed up by slipstreams.
She felt concern for him juggling fatigue,
flying dust, debris, rain like nails,
maintaining his composure, brave
mile after wind-buffeting mile
while an uncaring world hurtled by.
The next day she jogs around the country town,
winter morning light brilliant, cleansing.
She had turned to him, gruffly at first,
when he reached across, his hand hot.
Submissive, quickened, she felt in control,
her pliancy his Braille, his weakness.
He seemed not to notice her plumper flesh.
When they got up he had pinched her arse.
She breathes hard, a watching crow cries out. 
Ian C Smith’s work has appeared in Axon:Creative Explorations,The Best Australian Poetry,Chiron Review, Island, Southerly,& Westerly His fifth book is Contains Language,Ginninderra Press (Adelaide). He lives in the Gippsland Lakes area of Victoria, Australia. 

Sunday, October 21, 2012

A Poem by D.M. Aderibigbe


Inside the world we created with love and honesty,
Beside the root of a civilization of nests we rest.

We study for a degree in comparative studies, in the jungle.
The male bird and his wife,
You are
Who's happier?

This is an examination question,
Your response, a total failure like
A shoo-in that crashes out in the preliminary stage of
A competition.

The birds can't be as happy as we are. Their
Union will wither before she lays the sweet liquid he banks in her,

What is genuine about a lonely widow's smile?

D.M Aderibigbe is a 23-year old writer from Lagos, Nigeria, an undergraduate student of History and Strategic Studies of the University of Lagos. He writes poetry, fiction, non-fiction, plays and lyrics. His work has been published or forthcoming in the UK, Canada, Australia, Nepal and the United States by, Vox Poetica, Pressboard press, UP Literature, HUSMW Press, The New Black Magazine, Misfits' Miscellany, Thickjam, Ditch Poetry, Bluepepper,The Applicant, Rusty Nail, Jellyfish Whispers and Wordriot. His debut novel Sisyphean, will be published in America, soon. He lives and schools in Lagos.

Saturday, October 20, 2012

Two Poems by Anthony Ward

Bridge at Giverny

Monet’s bridge
In flagrant with colour,

Melting into the mind
A disarray of reality,

Licks of chromatic flames
Incinerating convention,

Enraged with passion,
Consummated by consumption,

The combustion of fragility
Ever fervent.

My world’s been flattened
With the sun shining below the surface

Leaving me perplexed in darkness

The moon spotlighting my evasiveness
As I hide myself away.
Anthony tends to fidget with his thoughts in the hope of laying them to rest. He has managed to lay them in a number of literary magazines including Enhance, Drunk Monkeys, Speech Therapy, Turbulence, Underground, Jellyfish Whispers, Ginger Piglet, Torrid Literature Journal and The Rusty Nail, amongst others.

Friday, October 19, 2012

Two Poems by Alan Britt


The poet says,
Look inside that black lilac,
inside that fist of roses
shivering above your head!

Circling crows squeal like brakes
on a UPS truck hauling boxes
addressed in melancholy handwriting
to no one in particular.

The wind invites the poet
to shift his waist
against the cool, white vinyl straps
of a white patio chair.

I know, says the poet.
Each time I'm here I dream of impossibilities
far outnumbering wrinkled avocados
mummifying wooden bins at the local market!

The wind shakes her head. She already
knows that those narrow coffins
of avocados are disorganized,
like a delicious chimera of impossibilities



The poet loses his hearing

and his memory.

That's not fair!  Even
Beethoven had memory!

So one night the poet enters a tavern,
taps a saffron beer bottle
against the sentimental beat
of Country Western music
and notices every detail
of every pea green tattoo spread
across every pale cleavage
hunched across the dimly lit bar.

Chameleons leaking from the smoky eyes
of every patron makes him feel like a fist!


Alan Britt read poems at the World Trade Center/Tribute WTC Visitor Center ( in Manhattan/NYC, April 2012, at the We Are You Project (WeAreYouProject.Org) Wilmer Jennings Gallery, East Village/NYC, April 2012, and at New Jersey City University's Ten Year 9/11 Commemoration in Jersey City, NJ, September 2011. His poem, "September 11, 2001," appeared in International Gallerie: Poetry in Art/Art in Poetry Issue, v13 No.2 (India): 2011. His recent books are Alone with the Terrible Universe (2011), Greatest Hits (2010), Hurricane (2010), Vegetable Love (2009), Vermilion (2006), Infinite Days (2003), Amnesia Tango (1998) and Bodies of Lightning (1995). The Poetry Library ( providing a free access digital library of 20th & 21st century English poetry magazines with the aim of preserving them for the future has included Britt’s work published in Fire (UK) in their project. Britt’s work also appears in the new anthologies, The Robin Hood Book: Poets in Support of the Robin Hood Tax, by Caparison, United Kingdom, 2012, American Poets Against the War, Metropolitan Arts Press, Chicago/Athens/Dublin, 2009 and Vapor transatlántico (Transatlantic Steamer), a bi-lingual anthology of Latin American and North American poets, Hofstra University Press/Fondo de Cultura Económica de Mexico/Universidad Nacional Mayor de San Marcos de Peru, 2008. Readings & Presentations: Panel Chair for Poetry Studies & Creative Poetry for the PCA/ACA Conference 2008 in Boston, Ramapo College in Mahwah, NJ (2009 & 2012), the WPA Gallery/Ward-Pound Ridge Reservation in Cross River, NY (2008), Ultra Violet Studio, Chelsea/NYC (2008 & 2009), White Marsh Library, Baltimore (2011 & 2012), Enoch Pratt Free Library (Canton Branch) Baltimore (2011), Pedestal Magazine Reading at the Writers Center, Bethesda, MD (2012). Alan currently teaches English/Creative Writing at Towson University and lives in Reisterstown, Maryland with his wife, daughter, two Bouviers des Flandres, one Bichon Frise and two formerly feral cats. Links:;;;

Thursday, October 18, 2012

A Poem by Emma Ambos

Here, the stark mark
of human ossification
lets blood-less and breathing
like new mares
smacked of diseases
like water, it dries
it drips
it becomes
the skin
nerves snip-snapping
Nene geese on the breath of sky
mother mumbles of
and rubs her ruddy
toothless mouth
jaw-to jaw
the tale told of
‘the world is yours’
and in conquering you
bougainvillea branches
from key to key
and the ventricles
of your heart
curl up like snails
100 degrees at noon

Emma Ambos is a writer with itchy fingers and a healthy admiration for life is all it's wild ways.

Wednesday, October 17, 2012

A Poem by Tamara Simpson

The Bar

On aerial planes
I turn,
silver heels slashing the wrist
of land before the ocean
and the sand.

My dear, your eyes are moons
as they watch me
dance and pivot.
Such an external change!
You must think me possessed.
But it's not my demons
who make me dance.

I offer you my hand, smiles
dripping from my fingers.
They close on air;
you step away,
shaking your head.

I stumble, but raise
my hands valiantly
to the stars, refusing to fall,
to fall.

I dress my pain
in the swelling gowns
of euphoria. All I want now
Is to escape you

All I want
is to be free.

The wind murmurs brilliantly,
sadly. I turn from it,
salt-water flecks my cheek.
not mine.

The tide changes;
nothing I can say
will prevent it. Perhaps
if you had danced with me!

The moon recedes;
my bare feet
sink coldly
into the quickening sand.
Tamara Simpson is a current student University of Western Australia who spends most of her time writing poetry and fiction when she should be studying. She has had previous work published in the Road Not Taken Journal of Formal Poetry, Every Day Poets Magazine, and Open Minds Quarterly.

Tuesday, October 16, 2012

A Poem by Duane Locke


What exists, the alterity, and even one’s self
Can be converted into off-white colored ashes with dark edges
That are crumbling into oblivion after a burning at a steel stake
By an auto-da-fe of the human mind that believes in the absolutism
Of either common sense, reason, logic, mathematics, or the occult. All this
Is unknown to a giraffe stretching his neck to reach a large
Leaf in shape of a parabola, or a giraffe that is painted as
Dancing on piano keys and playing Chopin. We lived
In a world of chaos and order, either not understood, and talk
About things we have never seen: Greek Temples, Italian olive trees, Utopias
And Dantean paradisos—that even if looked at or journied through
As a tourist we are were not seen. We assume from scientific hearsay
There are flurries of particles and their hurricanes or siestas keeps
Us alive. Some believe, some blaspheme, both only antics for the sake
Of being picked by the thorns when kissed by the petals of die
Nemandsrose (Paul Celan).

Duane Locke lives in Tampa, Florida near anhinga,
gallinules, raccoons, alligators, etc.
He has published 6,680 poems, includes 29 books of poems. His latest
book publication, April 2012,