A Poem by Grace Maselli

The Twinkies Are Gone

 

But then they came back,
even after Hostess tanked.

Other Big Firms to the rescue,
lest you flip
out and horde, as some did,
the golden sponge,
filled and artificial.

You’ll wish you’d had more cream
before The Nuclear
Winter
with only cockroaches left to feast
on the sugary nectar,
the radiated sponge a bygone thing.

Take back the night swinging
on the yellow mini cake like an oblong moon
bounced into open ovens in bakeries.

A skilled workforce pulls down the door
to 425 degrees or so of heat —
slips raw batter into the cooker
open
euphoric
a sugar high
at the Emporia.

Sons, daughters, mothers, fathers,
cranking out sponge cakes for 50 years.

Better than Hungarian cherry pie.

The darling of fake foods:
golden
and glorious,
from which American dreams are made.

 

 

 

Grace Maselli is at work on a collection of essays and poems. She studied for seven years in New York City at The Writers Studio founded by American poet and author, Philip Schultz. Her work has appeared in Cleaver Magazine, Poydras Review, Streetlight Magazine and The Penmen Review.  Her poem, What the Hair Is Going On? was recently published as a mini chapbook by Phafours Press, Ottowa, Canada. She lives in North Tampa, FL, with a husband, two kids, two dogs, and a Coronet guinea pig.

A Poem by Dan Jacoby

parmita dana (perfection of clarity)

 

greatest power of the mind

seeing what’s not there

mystery of making things up

a cowboy on a horse

a lab named spot

 

doing best with  nonexistent deadlines

mad hatter dinner at seven be there

bring face painted flowers,

too conventional,

bring antique standing mirror,

any house can use another

 

bring a book

books stay quiet

when you want to think

except one missing

last page

 

leave the windows open

so your music and I

can converse

gives the moonlight

something worth shining on

 

a warm breeze that comes

with gentle rain as

elfin ears hear

different soft whispers

every night parfait

real life doesn’t measure up

to what’s in the mind

 

 

Dan Jacoby lives in Illinois on a very old family farm. He is a former student, special forces soldier, spy, steel worker,  teacher, coach, mentor, and principal.  He has published poetry in  the Shore Review, Deep South Magazine, Lines and Stars, Red Booth Review, Wilderness House Literary Review, and Red Fez. He has work soon to be published in Ascent Aspirations Magazine, The Vehicle, and Steel Toe Review.

A Poem by Lyn Lifshin

Some Afternoons When Nobody Was Fighting

 

my mother took out

walnuts and chocolate

chips. My sister and

I plunged our fingers

in flour and butter

smoother than clay.

Pale dough oozing

between our fingers

while the house filled

with blond bars rising

and kisses of fudge

Mother in her pink dress

with black ballerinas

circling its bottom

turned on the Victrola,

tucked her dress up into

pink nylon bloomer pants,

kicked her legs up in the

air and my sister and I

pranced thru the living

room, a bracelet around

her. She was our Pied

Piper and we were

the children of Hamlin,

circling her as close as the

dancers on her hem

Two Poems by Walter Ruhlmann

The Rain Bows Down

No bows, no arrows,
rainbows twisting around my neck,
erupting from my sex.

Drops of rain like drained hopes,
thick and sticky, copulating
castrated rivulets of blood,
water rolling down the panes.

Pains and sheltering blows,
cleavers chop and chisel this skin,
foamed and soaped,
eternally scratched,
bruised and itching.

Downward movement
towards the ground
where smashed flesh,
crashed corpses,
purple tumescence,
scarlet portraits,
explode in fireworks.

Leak like dark liquid sparks
unsettled, guffawing
cherishing falls, breakdowns,
bleak houses on hilly trade winds,
or mountains blowing zephyrs,
colourful, dazzling beams,
wet rays, orange, pink ore,
the rainbows slit-open is
spitting iridescent ordeals.



A Bowling Ball in My Stomach

A dragon laid an egg inside my corpse;
not a body, nobody sees that I exist,
yet my scales shine in the beams
but an egg lies here inside me.

The hatching is coming,
I can sense strange vibrations,
the ovum was once fertilized,
invaded by white sperm
from an ancient Python,
or some reptilian snake.

Walter Ruhlmann works as an English teacher, edits mgversion2>datura and runs mgv2>publishing. His latest collections are Maore published by Lapwing Publications, UK, 2013,  Carmine Carnival published by Lazarus Media, USA, 2013 and The Loss through Flutter Press, USA, 2014. Coming up in 2014 Twelve Times Thirteen through Kind of a Hurricane Press.and Crossing Puddles through Robocup Press.        His blog http://thenightorchid.blogspot.fr/

Two Poems by Changming Yuan

The Two in the Grove

she is a willow
gorgeous and graceful
his whispers are breeze
gentle and generous
blowing through her branches
slim and sunlight-glazed
constantly making her tremble like a chuckling tree

 

 

 

Chronometry

           

I kissed your morning

With mine, and held

Your night closely with mine too

 

Between your spring and autumn

I lay my summer

Deep in winter

 

From your January through February

To your March, I wrap your April and May

With my June and July

 

Within your August

I use my September or October

To caress both your November and December

 

And right from your moment

I suck my whole year

 

 

 

 

Changming Yuan, an 8-time Pushcart nominee, grew up in rural China and currently tutors in Vancouver, where he co-edits Poetry Pacific with Allen Qing Yuan. Since mid-2005, Changming's poetry has appeared in 839 literary publications worldwide, including Best Canadian Poetry, BestNewPoemsOnline and Threepenny Review. 

 

 

A Poem by Diane Webster

Green Light, Red Light

 

Green lights blur

like white center lines

on midnight highway

faster…faster…

until car

euphorically sails

silent in darkness

fingertip close

until roller coaster

plunge flashes

red lights, red lights.

 

 

 

Diane Webster enjoys the challenge of picturing images into words to fit her poems. If she can envision her poem, she can write what she sees and her readers can visualize her ideas. That's the excitement of writing.  Her work has appeared in "The Hurricane Review," "Eunoia Review," "Illya's Honey," and other literary magazines.

A Poem by Adreyo Sen

Indifference

 

The wind tugging at the hem of her black and gold caftan,

struggling to pull her close as it blasts its way,

she stands remote, her hands crossed across her bosom,

oblivious to the catcalls of urchins as they loll past her,

staring at her with insolent curiosity, yet respectful,

her eyes looking beyond the jungle of traffic,

past the bleating cars, past the commuters,

to the desire of her heart, she waits patient,

monument of sacrifice,

mutely shaking her head in negation, as vendors,

spread their colourful array of goods before her,

hoping to take advantage of her soft tender face.

 

Gentle and barren, the black hem of her caftan,

forming a respectful train, she waits,

waits for her dream, her eyes firm and resolute,

a part, yet not a part of this world.

Commuters hurry past her with dispassionate glances,

trained in the controlled cynicism of stock markets,

casting her into the scattered scrambled memories,

to mull over in the security of their home,

the pathetic sweet figure they think they smiled at.

 

As her lips start to tremble and her eyes dim,

no longer her bright messengers of hope,

she sees her dream and flings her arms around him,

and as he lifts her up in his arms, kissing her radiant face,

the great city of commercial gods carries on, oblivious as ever,

to the triumphant march of love.

 

 

 

Adreyo Sen resides in Kolkata, India.  He is pursuing his MFA degree at Stony Brook, Southampton.