A Poem by David S. Pointer

Bio-punk Princess

She looks for brain
splatter with a buffalo
horn-handled monocle
under prayer feathers,
and warm pillows where
bloated gallows once
torched down…. and
another obsidian hour
creates high barter for
morgues-n-meat glue



David S. Pointer has recent publications in "Rattle," Popshot," and Gutter Eloquence." He has work coming in "Modern Lovecraft," "The Spirit of Poe Anthology," and "Battlespace."

A Poem by pd lyons

Belize

The cinnamon woman pulls me down

In an ancient heat

Her golden fingerprints

Whisper of an unborn midnight

Long long ago in the dream time

Before moonlight ever was

And every shadow moved with care

Beneath a hunter diamond sky

Before the horse spirit was hid

Beneath slimy limestone floors

Covered with pottery chips and rusted cans

All twisted up in fibre root and rot.

The cinnamon woman pulls me down

In an ancient heat

Her golden fingerprints

Show me another way to that secret place

And how to draw up the horse spirit

So that it may once more

Run on into the high bush country

Where our flesh lays in blossoms of hibiscus

And the caves of heaven are radiant with swimmers.

 

 

 

pd lyons has been writing for a long time now and hopes to continue doing so for even longer. Work has appeared in many mags & zines through out the world. Has two collections of poetry published by Lapwing Press Belfast. For further info please visit pdlyons blog for poetry publishing info and new releases:
http://pdlyons.wordpress.com/

Three Poems by Janet Rice Carnahan

BLACK

 

A hardened density,

Only knew one constant,

Silent present force,

Not at all inspired to uncover,

Anything unlike it,

Fearful of the slightest revelation,

Subtle hint of any underbelly,

Of light, throwing it off,

Its cautious balance!

Alerting anything deceptive,

To its nature,

Dark and foreboding,

Moving about in the mystery,

Holding onto all in tight resistance,

Given the unknown aspects,

A life beneath the radar,

Ensuring its quiet slip,

Into hidden still realms,

Not calling for discovery,

Threatening its rise to the surface,

Hesitant of impending exposure!

Darkness that lay in wait . . .

 

Only for itself.

 

 

WHITE

 

Reflecting nothing overt,

It sat poised in perfect splendor,

Gazing out freely,

Easy assumption that nothing,

Different would appear,

On a horizon laid bare,

Purposeful of a continued possibility,

Essence of the familiar,

Ending all consideration,

Any unknown substance,

Would wander in,

Arriving to come forward,

Questioning any current reign,

Signaling a wide spread dominance,

Pertaining to clarity,

Revealing purity,

Exuding calm,

Giving into an expansive vista,

Reassurance filled the air,

No waves of perturbing energy,

Even remotely forming,

A varying concept,

Until the awareness came,

From here . . .

 

There was nowhere to go.

 

 

YIN YANG

 

Imbalance became ignited,

Creating movement,

Through a sudden awakening,

Like some giant deep welled river,

Springing to life,

After a lingering dry spell,

Suggesting extinction,

A most likely certainty,

Yet timing secrets of earth,

Remain buried in the rusty pages,

Of unexplored time,

Now with a determined surge,

Brought to life,

A balance seeking energy,

Driven by a bold necessity,

Searching quick and assured growth,

To answer a deep cry,

For a united blend,

Most primal taste of the familiar,

With a ready reminder,

That one without the other,

Will lack any true impetus . . .

 

To change!

 

 

 

Janet Rice Carnahan freely allows her muse to search any body of water for inspiration, preferring the California coast, Lake Tahoe and the Hawaiian Islands. She has written about the human experience for many years after earning three college degrees in related fields. Along with her two children, Courtney and Scott, her husband, Bruce and a large California family, her many experiences provide rich material to draw from for her poetry. Janet’s recent publications include, “Prompted: An International Collection of Poems”, by RLYB, December 2011 and two online places to submit poetry, “Jellyfish Whispers” and a previous publication of“Pyrokinection”. In addition, she had a photo with caption published on the cover of the anthology. For Janet, poetry brings her wonder of life into moving and heartfelt expression.

A Poem by Andrew J. Stone

Her Name is Vespertine

 

She lies methodically,

              hypnotically,

across the canvas as

the colorless hues

sweep over her,

deepening the darkness

where she sways in

          starlight unveiled

 

 

 

Andrew J. Stone is a pseudonym for life. Andrew J. Stone is a pseudonym for death. He hates the sun, sleeps under its shine. His work has appeared in over fifty literary journals & he recently finished an ekphrastic chap of poetry. He dwells where the graveyard is always full: http://andrewjstone.blogspot.com/ & tweets where the birds have stopped their chirp: https://twitter.com/#!/AndrewJStone1

A Poem by Thomas Zimmerman

Notes from Rome

 

1

At the Coliseum: “They loved the blood.

Lots of it,” said our Tuscan guide,

proud of his own.

 

Drank lots of water—

safe, we’re told— from city fountains. Saw

the house where Keats died.

 

Had a beer,

called a grown man Signora

at the Villa Borghese.

 

Everywhere, myriad depictions

of the Son of God.

I came, I saw, I didn’t go bonkers.

 

--Colonna Palace Hotel

 

2

Horn-honks, a siren, a beep-

beep repeating itself. All underneath

the cicada scream.

 

Still on the balcony.

Haven’t talked to my wife. Let her sleep.

I want to write.

 

A little tired, but having a good time.

The tourist’s bought-and-later-paid-for

leisure life.

 

--Albani Hotel

 

 

 

 

 

Thomas Zimmerman teaches English, directs the Writing Center, and edits two literary magazines at Washtenaw Community College, in Ann Arbor, MI. Poems of his have appeared recently in Untitled Country Review and Big River Poetry Review. His chapbook In Stereo: Thirteen Sonnets and Some Fire Music is forthcoming from The Camel Saloon Books on Blog.

Two Poems by Agholor Leonard Obiaderi

LETTING GO

Like cells
dividing. One splits , then
multiplies into

the phantom of our
separate lives.

My house, your
house creating more
vacant rooms that
increase the conflict

without revealing the
truth.

The wedding ring has
been melted to craft a
golden trash can.


The children don’t know
whose cheek to kiss
without drawing accusations .

Whose house to keep
their school bags , spend
the weekend, spend their loyalty.

We bump along
a once promising road.
Rocky stretches, winding
paths replace hope.



BACKWARDS IN TIME  

Same as climbing the
back of a bullet
to zap through
space no wind buzzing
my ears.


Gases nudge my backside,
zero gravity
weightless limbs, weightless
thoughts reach


the destination before
the space shuttle. I see
God’s work-table, bits
of clay scattered.


My mind and civilization
fly in opposite directions,
one forward into space the
other backward into time.

I seek the first
footprints in inter-galactic
sand. The first dinosaurs
are preparing their own lift-off,
jumping off cliffs
to land on the earth a
far-away splash in
the virgin ocean, to startle
man.

God startles, as
our shuttle lands. Roused
sleep, anger at
the invasion of his
backyard.


This futility;
is it a search for my
elusive self, or another
failed re-union of
spirits? 



Agholor Leonard Obiaderi is a High School teacher in Delta State, Nigeria. He considers himself a collector of poetic imagery as well as an avid lover of the written word.

Two Poems by Giuseppe Infante

 

so many roads

 

cement roads

over luscious swamps

endure florescent

lit bells banging

inside of cranium

 

put a dollar in my hand

and i’ll give you a dream

 

ralph waldo emerson

clad in a droopy toga

explained that a work of art

is an abstract

or epitome

of the world

a result

an expression of nature,

in miniature

 

empty cans

against a green fence

laid the fuck out

 

foam

sud

blow

hole

 

we are all linked in

panama canal

and if you can’t swim,

find a life raft

or humpback whale

back to the highway

 

 

 

swift rage for this great world

 

gone are the days

in bigfoot country

dark as a tumble

downhill

or a run

back back home

saccharine in sight

we ate eggs

around swirls

thunder and toast

aglow ill evil skies

till my tale

my tune

my kismet

loiters beside

a lithosphere

of lava

Giuseppe Infante was born and raised in Brooklyn, N.Y. His poems have been published in Brooklyn Paramount, Pulp, Downtown Brooklyn, Having a Whiskey Coke With You, Splinter Generation and By The Overpass. Giuseppe is one of the founding editors at Overpass Books (overpassbooks.com). While completing his MFA for creative writing at Long Island University, he won the Esther Hyneman Award for Poetry in 2012. You can find him reading poems to the Atlantic Ocean, playing roller hockey, dancing in the crowd of a Phish show, or home cooking with his wife, Sarah. Visit his website “ANYTHING GOES // with giuseppe” at joeythepoet.com to keep up with his escapades.