Three Poems by Miki Byrne

Eradication Therapy

Heavy words.  Dense, meteor-solid.
Weighty, as if each syllable could be collected.
Placed together like a handful of stones.
Turn my closed fist into a hammer.
Yet, a hammer would be futile.
No single unsubtle weapon will suffice
To break this fast-held hold.
A siege must take place.
A slow, gentle seeping.
Brought in regular repetition.
Two weeks each time.  Plugged.  Attached.
One tiny entrance breached.
Specialist force enabled.  To encroach,
infiltrate.  Creep slowly, industriously,
in a slow flooding.  Overtaking the enemy
until the balance shifts.
The hostage must wait.  Hope for success.
Balance upon an unpredictable outcome.



Getting it Back

A small demon of fear took residence.
Moved in unannounced, unwanted.
His hands grasped at thoughts.
Twisted them into licorice knots, black, sticky.
Offered insecurity, hesitant action,
slow responses.  His eyes saw all,
crinkled with mirth at failure.
He hunkered down in every room,
hand to mouth, giggling at attempts to work.
Attention was diverted for a long time,
maximum distraction occurred.
Now I stare back at him.
Attempt his diminishment by force of will.
Dislodge his hold upon my life.
Imagine his death by various means,
let my dislike billow cloud-soft and broad.
Now each time I catch a glimpse,
he is becoming smaller.



Sunlight on Sea

A million sparks flicker.
Dance bright fractals,
sharp as hand-scattered stars.
Peaked on ever small wave-top,
reflected from cupped hollows.
To flare in firework bursts, pin sharp.
A restless tapestry stitched in bright needles.
Its pattern sketched by breezes.
Cloud-shadows tear ragged random holes
for the sun's quick fingered darning.

Miki Byrne began performing her poetry in a Bikers Club.  She has had three collections of poetry published and work included in over 160 respected poetry magazines and anthologies.  Miki has won poetry competitions and been placed in many others.  She has read on both radio and TV and judged poetry competitions.  She was a finalist for Gloucester Poet Laureate.  Miki is a member of the charity Arthritis Care's People Bank.  She has been disable for many years.

Three poems by Dawnell Harrison

Purpose

A lobotomy would be nice.
All emotions pressed out

by shocks of blankness,
my hands laying flat

and upward towards the sky.
I cannot feel your hatred

or your tenderness.
I am in a long, sweet

abyss of nothingness.
I am the person I always

wanted to be--
soft and sweet like

cotton candy.
I dream that I am Dorothy

in The Wizard of Oz.
Toto rambles beside me.

The yellow brick road
awaits me--
I have a purpose now.



Chipped Smiles

Chipped smiles roam
the streets--

unhappiness reigns
like a King in his Kingdom.

A cold memory moves
in my brain--

suddenly my feet are frozen
and I am back in Idaho

where snow falls heavily
upon the tattered streets.

Nobody is outside--
crackling fires ignite

the indoors and everyone
feigns contentment.

Still a long-married
couple's sex hangs

in the air like
a deer's head--

dead, glassy eyes
look out into the abyss.



Gone

My stomach dreams
of something ripped from it.

My soul dreams
of tattered bits of blue

raining down like
a ticker-tape parade.

My mind holds cold blanks--
it does not know what

to think since I said it is over.
Memory moves like snow drifts--

holding onto the highs
and shoving the lows

into the hooded background.
Two red beating hearts

stopped dead like a dog
that freezes to death

from the elements.
Take notes.

Dawnell Harrison has been published in over 200 magazines and journals including Mobius, poetrymagazine.com, Pyrokinection, Queen's Quarterly, Nerve Cowboy, Fowl Feathered Review, and many others.  Also, she has had five books of poetry published, including Voyager, The Maverick Posse, The Fire Behind My Eyes, The Love Death, and The Color Red Does Not Sleep.

A Poem by Michael H. Brownstein

And Then the Heavens Opened Their Throats to Sing

This is the word of my mistaking:
Hike with me through the prairie of prayer,
through mudflats and iron weed,
the eulogy deep and dry, the earth
salted with columbine and passion fruit,
lace wing and flying unicorn, a terrain
of frenzy, the yellow mollies of spring, milk
and milk thistle, a porcelain of words--
grant me this wish.  Spare a fictional animal.

Michael H. Brownstein has been widely published.  His latest works, Firestorm:  A Rendering of Torah (Camel Saloon Books on Blogs) and The Katy Trail, Mid-Missouri, 100F Outside and other poems (Barometric Pressures -- A Kind of a Hurricane Press).  His work has appeared in The Cafe Review, American Letters and Commentary, Xavier Review, Hotel Amerika, Meridian Anthology of Contemporary Poetry, The Pacific Review, and others.  In addition, he has nine poetry chapbooks including The Shooting Gallery (Samidat Press, 1987), Poems from the Body Bag (Ommation Press, 1988), A Period of Trees (Snark Press, 2004), What Stone Is (Fractal Edge Press, 2005) and I Was a Teacher Once (Ten Page Press, 2011).  He is the editor of First Poems from Viet Nam (2011).

A Poem by Kelley White

Maybe not

            August 15-18 1969

 

We had tickets, but I couldn’t get the weekend off

from the Big Banana (where I was the head vegetable,)

it was Tommy Chase, the head fruit, who’d said it was the greatest

lineup ever—but I don’t think he went either, nor the fuzzy haired

boys from the hardware store in Franklin nor their matchstick

thin sister—but you went, tossing your Boy Scout backpack

into the back of someone’s pickup (or VW or bus or camper,

you don’t remember whose, you were, you admit, pretty

fucked up then) from your parent’s house. I was fourteen.

You were twenty-two. We didn’t meet for a quarter

of the twentieth century. I lost the tickets. You lost your

sleeping bag and mess kit and everything else a person needed

more than his pockets to carry (I think that meant a little money

and some matches and some dope) and didn’t really listen

to the music, you remember the Pig Farmers and you’re so proud

you’ve friended Lisa Law on facebook and it turns out Wavy

Gravy is not really so much older than you, or even me,

and we’ve all lived into the twenty-first century—I think—though

even as a kid I never got it how the 18 hundreds are the 19^th

or is it the 17^th, centuries that is, and we have lost a lot,

lovers, loves, our bodies, our spirits, minds, the ability to

imagine. Still you half-wake and tell me your dreams. For how much

longer? Eight years was a generation. Junior high to Viet Nam.

You didn’t go there. Maybe your number came up. And my

daughter’s been to the American wailing wall, to see her husband’s

father weep at a name he didn’t save. Maybe I saved you.

Maybe you saved me.

 

 

 

Pediatrician Kelley White worked in inner city Philadelphia and now works in rural New Hampshire.  Her poems have appeared in journals including Exquisite Corpse, Rattle and JAMA.  Her most recent books are Toxic Environment (Boston Poet Press) and Two Birds in Flame (Beech River Books).  She received a 2008 Pennsylvania Council on the Arts grant.

 

A Poem by Chase Gagnon

Universal 

I wonder if aliens write poetry,

comparing their love to the endless stars in their dusty red sky

where our sun is just a faint flicker. 

Do they write with technology beyond ours

or do they still dip their quills into a jar of ink

as dark as the universe between us? 

I wonder what other worlds have spilled their tears

onto a page stroked by the pen

of a mentally unstable genius,

who let his soul gush from out the pores of his gray skin

and travel down his arm 

to the tip of a silver pen 

empty of whatever substance would mark the paper. 

 

 

 

Chase Gagnon is a college freshman from Detroit, currently enrolled in the local community college. He is a recluse who stays up all night reading old books, drinking coffee, and playing Xbox... all while attempting to write decent poetry. His poems have appeared in places such as Otoliths, Modern haiku, Teen Ink, Cattials, and Bones, just to name a few. 

A Poem by J.J. Campbell

becoming a man

i press the
blood of
innocence
against
my lips

i quickly
realize

i prefer
the taste
of guilt

J.J. Campbell lives and writes on a farm in Ohio.  He's been widely published over the years, most recently at The Camel Saloon, Dead Snakes, ZYX, Raw Dog Press, and Midnight Lane Boutique.  You can find him most days bitching about something only he cares about at his blog, evil delights.  http://evildelights.blogspot.com

Two Poems by Michael Lee Johnson

Jesus in a Nighttime City

Jesus walks
Southwest side
Chicago nighttime city
in bulletproof vest
barefoot
broken
beer
bottles
glass,
stores closed,
blasted windows,
mink furs stolen,
a few diamonds for glitter
old parks, lost quarters, nickels, dimes,
black children on Merry go rounds, Maywood, IL
danger children run in danger
in spirit, testimony,
red velvet outdates His robe.



Clock Maker

Solo, I am clock maker
born September 22nd,
a Virgo/Libra mix insane,
look at my moving parts, apart yet together,
holes in air, artistic perfection,
mechanical misfits everywhere,
life is a brass lever, a wordsmith, an artist at his craft.
Clock maker, poet tease, and squeeze tweezers.
I am a life looking through microscope,
screen shots, snapshot tools,
mainsprings, swing pendulum, endless hours,
then again, ears open tick then a tock.
Over humor and the last brass bend,
when I hear a hair move its breath,
I know I am the clock waiter,
the clock maker listens-
a tick, then a tock.




Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era:  now known as the Illinois poet, from Itasca, IL.  Today he is a poet, freelance writer, photographer who experiments with poetography (blending poetry with photography), and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois, who has been published in more than 750 small press magazines in 27 countries.  He edits 8 poetry sites.  Michael is the author of The Lost American:  From Exile to Freendom (136 page book), several chapbooks of poetry, including From Which Place the Morning Rises and Challenge of Night and Day, and Chicago Poems.  He also has over 70 poetry videos on YouTube.
Links:  http://poetryman.mysite.com/
http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/promomanusa
https://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos
http://bookstore.iuniverse.com/Products/SKU-000058168/The-Lost-American.aspx
http://www.amazon.com/The-Lost-American-Exile-Freedom/dp/0595460917