A Poem by ayaz daryl nielsen

Poems, escaping

Dodging my pencil and skipping from
the study, whispery gossamer chortles
seep into daytimes and night dreams
from somewhere just-so-slightly beyond
any possibility of remembrance.



ayaz daryl nielsen, husband, father, veteran, x-roughneck (as on oil rigs), hospice nurse, editor of bear creek haiku (25+ years/120+ issues), homes included Lilliput Review, Jellyfish Whispers, Writing the Whirlwind, Shamrock, and bearcreekhaiku.blogspot.com (translates as joie de vivre).

A Poem by Anna McCluskey

Found

As the needle compresses
her bones melt and
she oozes out between the slats of her parents' picket
fence
Her gelatinous form
slinks along the curbs of
dozens of streets
through dozens of
months
Each time she tries to
form an arm from
the liquid she has become
and reach the hovering glow
of satiation just above her
shape diminishes that much more
Until one day someone
stepping in her puddle
leaves a piece behind

Life blooms within her and
she finds herself solidifying
once again
She reaches up and finds
that fullness in another
way and she is
emptied out again and
holds her daughter in
her new-found arms




Anna McCluskey is a fresh new voice in the poetry world.  She studied creative writing at Saint Louis University, and currently lives in Portland, OR.

Three Poems by Ivan Jenson

Mass-Market Man

my potential
has just now
been tapped
on its shoulder
by the manicured
fingertips
of opportunity
and so far
lousy luck
has not tripped me
before
I step up
to the podium
and give my
sappy speech
where I thank
the lucky breaks
which stopped
my advance
toward the doom
and the greasy grind
of slinging burgers
under the yellow
arches of mediocrity
brain frozen
from sipping
iced compromise
and all this
bliss is happening
because
I reached inside
to my source
shared it
and discovered
that the interpersonal
hush of
secrets
once revealed
are always universal



Ambulance Chaser

bypass the heart attack
and don't go out
in that broad stroke
of genius
known as
sleeping through
your own death
instead go out
surrounded by
jugglers who go
for your jugular
or go out
on a limb
limber as a gymnast
until the branch
breaks then
fall with the
autumn leaves
and land with a thud
on the auburn crud
or better yet
lose a game
of strip poker
slash
Russian roulette
and die in a
naked
bloody
Pechinpah
pirouette
then writhe
on the floor
only to extinguish
your existential
anguish
with one
silver
bullet more



The Ecstasy of Agony

I am tired of going
the extra smile
and giving two
hundred percent
while the next
guy gets where
I'm trying to go
by the skin
of his generic
genetic attributes
just for once
I would like to have
the asymmetrical
advantage at that
cocktail competition
otherwise known
as happy hour
where the
natural selection
is made
and those
who have inherited
that look of wind
in their hair
go home
flanked by
the checkmate
of femininity
while the rest
of us guys know
too well
you can go home
alone again

Ivan Jenson is a pop artist painter and contemporary poet whose artwork was featured in Art in America, Art News, and Interview Magazine while selling at auction at Christie's.  Jenson was commissioned by Absolut Vodka to make a painting titled "Absolut Jenson" for the brand's national ad campaign, and his "Marlboro Man" was collected by the Philip Morris corporate collection.  Jenson wrote two novels, Dead Artist and Seeing Soriah, both of which illustrate the creative and often dramatic lives of artists.  Jenson turned to poetry as an outlet for artistic expression, and he is now a prolific writer who is widely published (with over 450 poems published in the US, UK and Europe) in a variety of literary media.  Jenson's poems were recently published by Hen House Press in a book titled Media Child and Other Poems, which can be acquired on Amazon.

A Poem by Helen Losse

Come, See the Moon and Their Special Effects

In an up-coming movie,
whose trailer looks like a rum commercial,

the Atlantic boasts of sunken ships--
in a secluded cove along the rock-lined shore--

that hold box after box of full, brown bottles,
stashed by pirates--mustached and tattooed like

Johnny Depp--and water-choked with
golden coin, visible only in torrid moonlight.

Helen Losse is the author of six collections of poetry, including Facing a Lonely West, Seriously Dangerous, Mansion of Memory, and Better With Friends.  Her poems have been included in various anthologies, such as Literary Trails of the North Carolina Piedmont, an are forthcoming in The Southern Poetry Anthology, Volume VII:  North Carolina, and Kakalak 2014.  She is an Associate Editor for Kentucky Review.  

A Poem by Sylva Portoian

Application of Dedicated Poetry

Application of any theory
Invented for serving humanity
To-be carved on rocks
Like Hammurabi's Code of Laws

Thus, to apply
Like treating
Vivifying a dying flesh
Like saving senses
Of falling apart

Like catching a falling child
Before reaching on a hard ground.

Applying our minds
Applying our hearts
Trying to treat every sick soul
Senses forcefully suppressed!

Who lost their smile
Who lost their voice
Who lost their grace!

A Poem by Wanda Morrow Clevenger

Nightmare

I like the night
better now
the mad scientists &
maddening hypodermics
are dismissed
& the
monkey see
monkey do
nightmare
is done

the night is gentle
now
I sleep better
now
in my own bed
only knowing dread
of insulin days
the east window
can't keep out



Wanda Morrow Clevenger lives in Hettick, IL -- population 200, give or take.  Over 270 pieces of her work appear in 106 print and electronic publications.  Her debut collection This Same Small Town in Each of Us:  http://edgarallenpoet.com/This_Same_Small_Town.html

A Poem by Andrew M. Bowen

Chattlebury Park

A rising wind flicks ripples
from the sun-flecked river.
Kites float in the air
and clouds laze far away.
Grass fresh mown sends you off in time and space.
The day beholds everything,
wine and beads and smoke,
love waits just around the corner,
and happiness is just to live
in Chattlebury Park.

A lady waits there;
Mystery is her name.
Straw hair flows down Venus' back
she smiles with turquoise cat's eyes
and her body flows like a river.
Wine-sweet kisses make you drunk
and lying within her arms
you come to know eternity.
You take her where the blossoms fall like rain
in Chattlebury Park.

Tomorrow beams a million years away.
Life says:  live for now
and feel the rush of this moment
because all time stretches ahead
and nothing seems vital
in Chattlebury Park.

But phantoms rush from every corner
and laugh inside the blushing ear:
"Tomorrow is here and you've still got nothing done."
The sky turns gray, the wine to sour lemonade,
and a dustdevil scatters the blossoms
in Chattlebury Park.

Andrew M. Bowen works as a sales manager.  He is trying to publish his first novel.  He has appeared in eight independent films and five stage productions.