Two Poems by Joseph DeMarco

Going to a Funeral in Another World

The scene is all too familiar
(Except for the purple sky),
Has this happened before?
Deja vu on the edge of a waking dream?
In another life,
Or maybe all funerals are the same?

The same ceremony.
The same casket
(Well this casket is made of Phantom-wood).
The same sadness, fear and joyousness,
from everybody that it is not
THEIR funeral.

We are all lined up
(Along the blue grass)
These familiar strangers.
They look like neighbors from past lives,

The lady next to me looks like
my 1st grade teacher
(Except she has five noses).
She doesn't seem to know me,
Why would she?

Didn't I used to deliver newspapers to that man?
(Except without the eyes in the back of his head)
Not in this life
Maybe that was lifetimes ago

On the way in
I brushed past the doorman
(who looks like this kid I used to play hockey with,
except he is thirty years older).
But we say not a word to each other
As if we don't know each other
(or never did).

The funeral is sad and I cry,
even though I never knew the boy in the coffin
I cry because things have to end.
Why can't they be endless?
I cry cause death is heart-breaking
I cry for his family's pain.

And I am glad to go back to my world,
Where we never die and love is endless.

St. Valentine's Day Massacre

I climbed to the top of the clock tower,
With the wind lightly at my back.
I positioned myself ever so slightly,
And got ready to attack.
I brought back the bow,
And let the arrow fly.
I aimed straight for the spot in the center of the Bull's eye.
My only intent was to make him die.
I wanted to see how he would like it,
When I shot him through the heart.
I wondered if he could pull it together,
After it all fell apart.
I wanted to prove to him,
How he would react,
When the pain came on so strong,
It felt like a heart attack.
Would he wallow in misery
Longing for her scent
Getting drunken and stupid
With his mind half bent
I bet he would.
I don't think he could handle the pain,
And all the confusion
When it all goes down the drain.
Relationships are tough,
Believe me I know.
I wanted to see if he could handle it though,
I let the slings of outrageous fortune go,
And shot Cupid in the heart
With my arrow and bow.

 

 

 

 

 

Joseph DeMarco was born in New York City; he grew up in Buffalo, NY. He has taught seventh grade on the island of Oahu, Hawaii for the last ten years. He is the author of the novels Plague of the Invigilare, The 4 Hundred and 20 Assassins of Emir Abdullah-Harazins, At Play in the Killing Fields, Blind Savior, False Prophet, and Vegans Are Tastier. He worked on the restoration of Pu'ukohola Heiau.

Two Poems by Nels Hanson

The Hole

In the ‘30s my dad forked hay and mended
fence one spring and summer with a thin hired
hand who hours on end told a thousand stories
of strange adventures, one story with a single plot.

Gregor Spadel was Bohemian and spoke his tale
in broken, perfect slang. Trapped in World
War I between Austrian and Russian lines
he had no food. To keep from starving he ate

grass and leaves, then tree bark until he learned
what wood his stomach could tolerate. One day
a German patrol came toward him and he ran
and jumped into the river, found a log and floated

to the Baltic Sea, where Danish sailors on a sealing
ship fished him out. His body was a skeleton
and they hid him in the hold, wrapped in a raw
seal skin and brought food, at first just soup, canned

milk. He never stopped and awake he waited
in the dark for more. The crew made bets
but couldn’t satisfy him and when the boat
docked in New York they rolled him tight

and carried him ashore. Years he bummed
cross-country, wandering, before he landed
at the ranch, a steady worker, good man
with cows and horses, friendly, didn’t drink

or swear, but meals he’d eat a whole pot roast
or swallow two chickens, then dig and chew
potatoes raw, pick green plums off the tree,
before a dozen eggs for breakfast, slabs

of bacon, 20 biscuits. Gregor never gained
an ounce, was strong and never sick, or missed
a Sunday’s chores, but couldn’t staunch the pain.
My father said his craving was too deep, the pangs

too keen, that he’d been too hungry to forget
and spent all his time trying to fill the hole
that wouldn’t fill. He stayed six months, until
my grandfather had to send him on. “That’s

all right, sure, no problem,” Gregor kept saying,
things had gone this way before. At the bus he
smiled and waved goodbye, holding up the sack
of pippins my father bought him for a dime.



 Baldasare Forestiere

The several architects were amazed
by the open skylights—the many
wide arches converged at impossible
angles to let the single citrus trees

grafted to lime, lemon, tangerine and
orange take the sun. The hermit Baldasare
Forestiere (“The Human Mole” the highway
billboard later named him) abandoned

the daylight world to sculpt with dynamite
and pick “The Underground Gardens.”
In Sicily his fiancée chose another. Sick
with despair he sailed to Fresno, dug

deep into the stone earth, the red hardpan,
fashioning a vast secret restaurant
with carved tables, booths and benches,
a subterranean banquet hall for men

and women to eat, dance, drink wine, talk
leisurely and undisturbed, avoiding the day’s
heat. But the labyrinth of dark galleries
and passageways was too complex, long

and twisting, the food would have grown
cold, the waiters lost their way before
hungry guests were served in the cool
earthen alcoves the color of Chianti.

Baldasare was kind to children but screamed
and fired his Winchester at adults
trespassing overhead. Maybe he’d meant
to build a great tomb where his faithless

love and he would always be together, alone
they would have a truce, another chance
and endless time as her laughter echoed
down the turning halls, here, there, just

ahead and patiently he hurried past
the winter light that fell like miner’s dust
never changing with the traitorous sun
and flashing seasons of the other world.


Nels Hanson has worked as a farmer, teacher, and contract writer/
editor. He graduated from UC Santa Cruz and the U of Montana and 
his fiction received the San Francisco Foundation’s James D. Phelan 
Award. His stories have appeared in Antioch Review, Texas Review, 
Black Warrior Review, Southeast Review, Montreal Review, and other 
journals. "Now the River's in You," a 2010 story which appeared in 
Ruminate Magazine, was nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and "No One 
Can Find Us," which was published in Ray's Road Review, has been 
nominated for the 2012 Pushcart Prizes.

Two Poems by Dr. Smita Anand Sriwastav

Wings of Hermes...

with wings like

gossamer flappers,

of singed moths

in raven nights

wet in the

lingering sweat

of the long lost

daylight.

my muse sulks

in dark corners

of grey matter

convolutions.

as the rancid moonlight

tastes like stale curd

on tongue of imagination-

in hibernation,

and stars are like

peering geriatric eyes

of a grumpy guard

glaring

at rustling trees

impinging--

on his stolen

hours of slumber.

with sleep refusing to be

lured while insomnia haunts,

as an unwanted house-guest-

reclining shamelessly

on my couch--

etched in wrinkles.

the books arranged

covetingly over now

dusty shelves,

seem insipid, lack-luster-

and thoughts churn within

as the soul's tornado,

yearning gushing

like frenzied wind-

banging on rusty hinged

doors and windows,

and the heart craves

for wings of Hermes,

to soar the skies

of un-scaled contemplation,

spin mystique,

and unravel mysteries within,

erasing footprints of vacuous

nothingness,

threatening to engulf life's alleys...

Unspoken Dialect…

Words are caught within

sentiment clogged throats refusing

to find expression in voiced lucidity and

are heard as mere moan or murmur—

ambiguous expressions left un-deciphered,

translated in shimmering fluidity of gazes

or escaping as multifaceted sighs.

They are never writ in any language--

a dialect alien to habit of script

that finds expression in the racing of pulse,

dilation of pupils and

butterfly wing flutters in the breast--

a pause in time’s momentum

in abeyance on the threshold of

silence and the spoken.

The parlance of gestures,

wherein the tremor of mute hands find

a meaning and an expression,

twitching lips and a quiet blink

garner interpretation,

within silhouettes of the obscure

that unsaid is heard,

like the whisper of a falling feather

gathers meaning from singing breeze.

This language is a tapestry of unspoken words

lingering on the horizon of surrealism,

the mendicancy of voice resulting in

failed interpretation by veteran linguists

their diaphanous realms invisible beneath

the eagle gaze of microscopic vision,

like the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze

and echo of departing footsteps

lost in the catacombs of lost memory,

that half-forgotten symphony

that itches to burst forth

from lips of amnesia—it is a parable

that is like shades of crepuscule

muted yet vocal, obscure yet lucid…

 

 

 

 

Dr. Smita Anand Sriwastav is an M.B.B.S. doctor with a passion for poetry and literature, has always expressed my innermost thoughts and sentiments through the medium of poetry, uses nature as the most inspiring force in molding writings, has published two books and several poems in journals like the Rusty Nail and Contemporary Literary Review India and one of poem was published in a book called ‘Inspired by Tagore’published by Sampad and British Council.

A Poem by Elysabeth Faslund

Merry Guests Of This Season

Crystaline laughter, greetings, and snowflakes.
Tinselled trees draped with ribbons, laces, and
bows. Tiny, sparkling glasses of sherry.
Ladies in delicate chiffon. Red berry

woven wreaths of holly, juniper, wound
with silvered streamers, curling round the door
open to all, this season of Good Will.
Winter not allowed, yet the outside chill

accompanies merry, homeward bound guests.
Blazing fireplaces wait patiently to
warm and cheer those opening the door. Frost
breaths soon disappear. Parties are hosted

each night of this Season. Friends not alone,
family gathered again all at home.

 

----------------------------------------------

Born on top of an Indian Burial Mound, part of the Mound Builder Culture, I

watched my aunt wring chickens' necks and they fluttered down the burial hill.

Not a good memory, but we cannot hope for all good memories.

The things I did in childhood and beyond, has become the stuff of my poetry and

a varied bunch of stuff it is.

Being born on the Mound near the oak-laden bayou's waters became the Louisiana Writers Society's

Grand Prize winner of 1968...."The Mound Builders of Chacahoula"...and a pretty good slice of

Indian daily life it was...spanning four generations.

My mother and grandmother figure prominently in my writing. Maternal guidance figures they

certainly were not, so love is not spent where not given.

How's that for intimate truth?

Married twice, my first husband quipped one day, "You'll never make any money with poetry!"

The next day I quipped, "Divorce."

Goes around comes around.

The second marriage was a complete disaster, so I find myself living with two cats, Henry and

Tat, in a camper at a marina. Alone.

Who, on this Earth, would put up with a poet who has been internationally published since seventeen,

has major writing friends around the world...Jayanta Mahapatra for one...and holds the Epic of Gesar

a major work of literature, out-distancing the Bible by centuries?

No one, so here I am.

Two Poems by Neil Ellman

Rope and People

(after the painting by Joan Miró)

Born at the end

of an umbilical rope

connecting life to life

then bound to life

tied in bundles and knots

questions unanswered

puzzles unresolved

finally hanged from rope

taut at last

legs reaching for the truth

life unraveled

at the end

of a hangman’s noose.

Convergence

(after the painting by Jackson Pollock)

Before we disappear

through windowless walls

trap doors, crags and crevices

in the warp and wrap of time

blind-spinning, drifting

motion with neither direction

nor intent

neither argument nor ascent

we converge like thirsty souls

around a waterhole

at the confluence of now and then

waiting, waiting for a sign

never to come, we gather,

grow old and disappear.

Twice nominated for Best of the Net, Neil Ellman lives and writes in New Jersey.  More than 600 of his poems, many of which are ekphrastic and based on works of modern and contemporary art, appear in numerous print and online journals, anthologies, broadsides and chapbooks throughout the world.

A Poem by K.J. Hannah Greenberg

Munchkins in Braids: A High School Perspective

 

Munchkins in braids, also Kotex,

Fight over comic books, boys, nail lacquer,

Complain that squared cereal, garbage duty,

Bus fare prices rot, spin their fair heads.

Usually, while asking for money, such girls,

Forego studies of ancient ossuaries,

Compete for places in track and field,

Get crowned Homecoming Queen.

After all, adolescent excrescences, those emotional

Outgrowths of peer pressure, iffy grades, acne,

Coruscate alongside lockers, by cafeteria trays,

As well as in the midst of biology labs.

Kamuros nearly to a one, such frenetic sorts,

Who skite on algebra, succeed, nonetheless, in acquiring

Sports heroes, student body presidents, transfer students;

All become their minions. Some gals’ métier is popularity.

 

 

 

 

 

KJ Hannah Greenberg, a two time Pushcart Prize Nominee, one time Best of the Net Nominee, and an actual National Endowment for the Humanities Scholar, gave up all manners of academic hoopla to raise children.  Currently, she flies the galaxy in search of gelatinous monsters and assistant bank managers.

 

Two Poems from Frederick Pollack

 

To The Lighthouse

 

I have had my vision.

              -- Virginia Woolf

 

When you go to meet your secular guru

you will face a trendy problem: whether he

in fact inhabits a lighthouse in the skerries

or a squalid room ashore.

And since the point has been raised, he must

(in some sense other than that of “fact”) do both,

and the questions you must answer –

we can assume they “are” the voyage – are compounded:

whether you will find him.

Whether he wants to be found.

Whether the effort will bring joy or more sorrow.

 

In another paradigm

it is you who live in that freezing flat,

merely gazing toward the lighthouse

or, lacking a view, not even that:

merely cringing at a foghorn

you alone, on the far side of television or traffic noise,

hear – marking the intervals

of a disease that is its own cure,

like drinking solo.

Drugging, banqueting solo.

Time.

 

But let’s assume everything’s OK

and that you’re you and that he (the hero)

is he, and that he

is on his island.  How bright the gulls in the morning!

How fresh the breeze over the boat

as you set out – with, in your backpack,

an entire oeuvre to be signed, and free,

briefly, of status issues:

does he work the light or own it?

Whoever seeks me out?

Why should they?

 

And when you arrive and are met

he is everything you hoped – bluff, Hemingwegian,

but totally original and unaffected.  And you

are everything he hoped …

He holds nothing back,

and it is as if – under that sky, with the surrounding waves

applauding – the final mystery of culture

is revealed to you and your era:

sublime failure.

Radical occultism.

Regret.

 

He talks on and on, brilliantly, till you feel

(as he might) that the quotidian

disaster you represent has been slighted

in favor of the ideal.

Or the reverse.  You walk round and round

the lighthouse and its cottage, never quite

getting inside, and envy him

the woman you glimpse:

an archaic beauty.

Warm biscuits.  Cleanliness.  Order.

A look of steel.

 

Till the gilded fortresses of dialectic dissolve

in a desert of bromides.  We must keep

the earth.  (A gesture

at the gulls).  We must retain faith

in man.  But where you –

where you you you I I I I or even he

fit into “man” remains, as always, unclear, and

a dark cloud (as of loneliness or astringency) informs you

it’s time to leave.

You thank the guru.

You rise from his comfortable chair with new resolve.

 

What you want to hear you must write.

What you want to see you must paint.

At least your friends will value it,

who are as numerous as the stars, though as hard to reach.

What secret plea you make for vindication

or solace sends a wave into curved space;

it will return at the end of time

as vindication or solace.

This knowledge is earned by the truly hopeless.

A part of it would get you through a lifetime.

The whole of it cannot last them a night.

 

 

 

 

 

Departure of a Princess from Chaos

 

Only a peasant-girl

danced and drugged

to pre-genital peace

after dry hours of status-sex

or the rote halitosis of “higher goals”

discharged by the kind of authority-figure

bestowed on those without authority

could be so bored, but I am no peasant,

she thinks, and decides to leave.

Swift and alone

she has soared in awareness

from illusion to intimacy, unicorns

to horses, horses to rock-stars, intimacy to power,

the divine to the human and thence to science,

and is guardedly ready to live.

 

On a tour of the provinces, she

learned how dragons

temper demands

for produce and virgins

to the curve of inflation, till

the dragon gradually becomes a hill

on which new dragons settle, whom some knight

must bravely, deniably, uselessly fight.

She describes the process to her handmaids

when, moved by whim, she orders

take-out and, moved

by their pronounced anorexia, tries

to share dim sum or spring-rolls,

which the maids (who will starve without reaching her size)

leave giggling to rot.

 

The Queen, informed of the girl’s resolve

by ranks of equerries who

then gallop for exile, fills

the halls of the palace with howls

of regret?  Envy?  Rage?  Do such terms

apply between mother and daughter,

is a question put to the royal soothsayer

and prisoners on the rack.

The Princess meanwhile

on a battlement wonders

how the purging fires of globalization

allow the gap-toothed, lousy yeomen

below to waggle withered 

carrots at her on their way to market,

and even more obscenely coming back.

 

And her father, less histrionic because

the role of a King is endlessly, almost

impersonally to mourn

the vast unintended consequence

of history, mentions

the risk she runs: barbarians,

who all her life have been crossing

a notional border.

She expands, briefly, warming his heart

with half her mind, on roads and forts,

missiles and trade; the other half

has entered a familiar, savage bower

where she awaits an unfamiliar power

in which to swoon, and the profile (not

too keen, she hopes) of order.

 

 

 

Frederick Pollack is the author of two book-length narrative poems, THE ADVENTURE and HAPPINESS, both published by Story Line Press.  Other poems in print and online journals.  Adjunct professor creative writing George Washington University.