Three Poems by John Grey

Shooting the Messenger

Such a long time between letters,
I garroted three mailmen.
Now it's all about email.
When the missives don't pop into my box,
whose knuckles do I smash?
If the voice intones, "You have mail"
and it's only spam,
who is the intermediary
that needs their head scalped,
their liver removed?
Is there a programmer somewhere
in the world
who should be ingesting my poison?
I'm weary of those who
are just doing their job.
From now on, I will shoot every messenger
who comes within firing range.
If people I know won't take the time
then strangers must suffer the consequences.
I can't get at those who neglect me.
And I need to take it out on someone.
Of course, there's always myself.
But I already hear it from me.



Poem to the Others in this Coffee Shop

artists
with work on the walls of their brother's cafe,
dress-code picturing their future,
cussing Draconian schools and family,
on the page, an ants' nest of scribble,
playing the petal game with sips of Java . . .
genius or not--genius or not--
recognizing their surrounds as theater,
parlaying the ubiquitous I--
I admonish you--
I deserve your attention--
I create new laws on flowers and bodies--

this look, this creation, is for you--
my patrons, my buyers, my historians--
all you futurists--
dance tributes on my grave--
exchange my rumpled locks,
my day-old beard,
red-lined eyes, scruffy clothes,
for a self-portrait in MOMA--

doubt in secret, skulking in attics,
their fleshy canvas no match
for the ravishing success beauty--



Inward

The smallest of herds, a buck, a doe, and one yearling,
nibbled the moist grass at the edge of the field.

The buck's head, heavy under antlers, still
knew enough to look in all directions,

the many ways from which danger could come,
the deer trail through the brush that promised safety.

I kept my distance, but close enough to witness
sunset bathing coats in deep resplendent colors:

first a sharp red, then a smoldering orange,
and finally a mottled blue to match the rising moon.

The world had more than enough reasons to move on:
the dark, my hunger, the inherent insecurity of wild things.

But it took a chance on my wonder, their exquisite trust.
The earth did turn but inward as I remember.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident.  Recently published in New Plains Review, Mudfish and Spindrift with work upcoming in South Carolina Review, Gargoyle, Sanskrit and Louisiana Literature.

Five Poems by Erren Geraud Kelly

soulmate

a touch
of
your
hand
awakens the
inner child
from
long years of
sleep
spin a web
out of your smile
to lure me in
again and again
we are diverse extremes
connected
through soul



Mary Jane and Red Roses

she pictures the red roses
the diver sent to her house
only the roses are in metairie
and she's in new hampshire
her mama called and told her
they had arrived
even from 2000 miles away
her mama's voice is a slap
across the face
a finger wagging admonishment
but her mother knows the old
ways are dying
her mama sees mixed couples in
supermarkets
at the movies holding hands
emmett till would be proud
she knows if mary jane is not
careful
she succumb to it like a disease
she tells mary jane about the roses
which are as red as blood
and tells her one last time.
"don't ever talk to that boy again!"
mary jane writes the diver a letter
tells him, it cannot be
maybe someday she won't be like
the rest
but for now, she's society's child
mary jane sprays the letter
with her scent, a rose scented perfume
which will be a stake in the diver's heart
she seals the letter, a final kiss off



Midori

Who is one of god's
Fruits
Whose name is sweetness
In miles' muted
Reverie
If you could catch the wind
She would be perfect
In her eyes lie
Lightning



Aubade

Even mozart would fail
to create a
Melody that personifies you;
under your red hat
is a head of spring,
though you speak winter, you
Linger in my thoughts,
like a ghost, long after you've gone
Your buttocks shapely
and luminous as a full moon



Like the Eyes of the Sun

Like the eye of the sun, you rise
And another day begins; the tide pulls its blanket back, and you
Yearn for the daylight, to give you wings; you blow
Lustily into your heavenly horn and the sound erupts like
A cry from your heart, you shake your jean-clad butt

Along with the heat-soaked beat; it is night now, this song is
Never ending; it can take you anywhere, from New York City to Rio to Mexico City, it
Gives you a tune and you will make it true
Urgently, you shake your body like a maraca
Long and fast, until you become the moment
Oh the pleasures, the curves you and your horn give;
As you play in the eye of the sun

Erren Geraud Kelly is a Pushcart nominated poet from Seattle, and has been writing for 25 years and has over 150 publications in print and online in such publications as Hiram Poetry Review, Mudfish, Poetry Magazine (online), Ceremony, Cactus Heart, Similar Peaks, Gloom Cupboard, Poetry Salzburg and Other Publications.

Five Poems by Simon Perchik

*
As if this tie could slow your fall
--full blown and yet each sleeve
expects the helpless rollover and flames

though your heart knows so little
about how chancy it is to breathe
spewing smoke no longer sea-blue

or dry--all that's left in this shirt
is the surrounding valley
that carries you down--you need more sky

and side to side stretching out
for a rickety bridge--you jump holding on
to a single knot huddled in fog and off course.



*
This calendar gets its genes, stays put
as if its yellowing pages
have nothing to do with fall

--the paper has already begun to age
though you were a coat to bed
for those cell-to-cell signals

from dry wood taking hold, has the smell
frost makes when clearing the ground
to rest for awhile and your tired eyes

barely able, close to keep warm
no longer move just to move
--it's been years since you stopped

and each morning a grinding sound
disappears ahead, the sun
helplessly trying to melt

now that it's summer and the day-to-day cry
that begins in the Earth
all along reaching away from you.



*
You're new at this
though in front each window
your eyes close just so far

are not used to a rain
that comes right up against you
won't move even when you make room

once you learn where to look
for the sky, for the shoreline
half gone ahead, half

peeling off and your fingers
clamp on to its sharp turn
covered with sand and thirst and death

--you never know
but this rain is dangerous
has saved its memory for last

put all its strength
in how to circle you down
as days and nights together.



*
You were so sure!  the boxes
sealed and no one
getting a bead on you

--wherever you're moving
it would be by air--not the kind
that comes from runways

but cardboard, corrugated
where its turbulence is hidden
at least till high enough

safely under your arms
still closing the flaps
and though the wings are taped

they're already breaking apart
held the heading too long
--you thought this place

would last out the month
not burn to the floor
become winds and your emptiness.



*
There is no tunnel, you crawl
the way a turtle takes hold
and from the sidewalk a dry breeze

smelling from salt and two in the afternoon
--the crowd thinks the cup is for beggars
fill it so the air inside

will rise and you can breathe
one more time:  a tide
lets you survive in the open

though one cheek is dragged
over the other till your mouth
becomes a shell--all you can do

is drink from it
do what skies once did
filled with thirst and emptiness.

Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, Osiris, Poetry, The New Yorker, and elsewhere.  His most recent collection is Almost Rain, published by River Otter Press (2013).  For more information, free ebooks and his essay titled "Magic, Illusion and Other Realities" please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com.

A Poem by ayaz daryl nielsen

overnight rain
under the bridge
an older me whom
failures abandon
rain-fed acolyte
follower of rivers

ayaz daryl nielsen, x-roughneck (as on oil rigs)/hospice nurse, editor of bear creek haiku (25+ years/125+ issues), homes for poems include Lilliput Review, SCIFAIKUEST, Shemom, Shamrock, Kind of a Hurricane Press and online at bear creek haiku.

A Poem by David Subacchi

Marubbi

On the cafe walls sepia photographs
Of the old couple dominate
Dressed as if for Sunday mass
Their Italian name engraved in glass
Removed from the main door
Has been framed and is displayed
Alongside the family portraits
I catch my reflection in it
Imagine I can hear
Their whispered dialect
Categorizing each customer
A regular, a good tipper,
Likes extra toast, a nuisance,
Watch he doesn't run off
Without paying like last time,
A lovely family always in church
Every Sunday, every Sunday

Teas, ices, confectionery, cigarettes
They called it the Temperance Bar
Established in 1896
But it's all big breakfasts now
Another town center cafe
Hidden away down a side street

Wiping my plate clean
Of egg yolk and baked beans
I smile at Signor Marubbi
Looking down sternly
From an ornate frame
The ends of his mustache
Are impressively waxed
I get up and pay hurriedly
Returning my empty cup
As I leave
He seems to wink.

David Subacchi was born in Wales (UK) of Italian roots and has published two collections of poems.  First Cut (2012) and Hiding in Shadows (2014).  He studied at the University of Liverpool and is a full time writer and poet.  He is increasingly well published internationally.  Blog:  http://www.writeoutloud.net/profiles/davidsubacchi  You can find more of David's work online, including performance videos simply by searching David Subacchi + Poet

Three Poems by Ron Yazinski

Princess Balloons

Tied to the sagging banister of an old migrant worker's shack,
The only update to which is an air-conditioner in a side window,
Three Disney Princess balloons bobble at half-staff.

Yesterday, there was a birthday party here,
Celebrating the dreams of a five-year-old Hispanic girl,
Whose teenage sister had brought these balloons
Of Ariel and Snow White and Cinderella,
To let her see what her true soul was like;

Her kind sister, who sweeps up the Magic Kingdom for minimum wage,
And a discount on day-old balloons.



The Last Thing Adam Learned

The last thing Adam learned
Was forgiveness:

First, for the sun's intensity,
Wilting buds before they bloom;

For the moon's taunting,
Elongating the shadows of night;

For the spring wind
And its lingering scent of God's breath;

For the clumsy rains
Falling either too early or too late;

For the sandy soil
Which gives trees something to hold onto,
To bear fruit when he's gone;

For the birds that caw with anticipation
As the harvest nears;

For Sister Death, who is as bored as he is,
With the monotony of her task;

But mostly, for his Creator,
Who designed Adam to forgive Him,
After he forgave himself.



Raid at Lake Eola

At the heart of "The City Beautiful"
Police are shutting down the food trucks
And rounding up the Good Samaritans for feed the homeless,
In direct violation of Orlando's ordinance against it,
On the grounds that once they're fed, they'll stay,

Fouling the public restrooms;
Soiling the park benches at midday;
Frightening little boys and girls clinging to their father's hand,
By shouting their minds louder than a swan can trumpet:

That the black brothers won't always be kept down,
Humiliated at every turn,
Like that damn sign that forbids being horizontal in this park,
On either the benches or in the shrubs around them;

Someday the whites will be taught a lesson
About making laws telling a man where he can and cannot live,
Just so some cracker taxpayer can point out to his pale brats

The mute swans that swim here,
Or the black ones cuddling at the feet of a man



After dividing the last four years between his native Pennsylvania and Florida, Ron Yazinski and his wife Jeanne have recently become permanent residents of Winter Garden.  A retired high school English teacher, Ron is inspired by the personalities and energies of his new hometown.  Initially enticed by the climate of central Florida, he finds the hospitality and openness of the people who live in this marvelous little town, refreshing and rejuvenating.  Ron's poems have appeared in many journals, including Strong Verse, The Edison Literary Review, Chantarelle's Notebook, Centrifugal Eye, and Pulsar.  His is also the author of the chapbook Houses:  An American Zodiac, and two volumes of poetry, South of Scranton and Karamazov Poems.

Two Poems by A.J. Huffman

Cowboy Karaoke

wafts through the air just before midnight,

as my neighbor who is obviously well

past sober decides to ring in the New Year

as Garth Brooks, and I shake

my head in exasperation, hurry the dogs

into the house before they decide to howl

along with the next drunken refrain.

I know I am finally getting old,

a wine cooler and a few hours

of this generation’s Dick Clark

are my preferred partners for watching

the ball drop this year.  Maybe I will

make a resolution to go out next year,

but I doubt it.  My 4 a.m. homeward stumbles

and taxi-cabbed cookie tosses ended

years ago, and I realize I am glad

as the chime tolls a close on a dead year, and I

tuck myself into my comforter,

getting a head start on my decided promise

that this year I will get more

sleep.

I Wrote a Poem at Midnight

this New Year’s Eve because I am superstitious

and I do not want to temp the fates that prophecy

what you are doing at midnight is what you will be

doing all year.  Friends and family laugh, kiss

and clink drinks around me as I scribble. 

The idea of a year without ink more terrifying

than an after-midnight car crash, and I am relieved

when the last stanza stands as scar

against the stark white of the page. 

The muse of this past year has followed me

through the twelve welcoming chimes of the new.

A.J. Huffman has published twelve solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses.  Her new poetry collections, Another Blood Jet (Eldritch Press), A Few Bullets Short of Home (mgv2>publishing), Butchery of the Innocent (Scars Publications), Degeneration (Pink Girl Ink) and A Bizarre Burning of Bees (Transcendent Zero Press) are now available from their respective publishers and amazon.com.  She is a four-time Pushcart Prize nominee, a two-time Best of Net nominee, and has published over 2400 poems in various national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, Bone Orchard, EgoPHobia, and Kritya.  She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press.  www.kindofahurricanepress.com.