1/30/2021 0 Comments Poetry by Kevin Ridgeway VasenkaPhotography CC
POEM WRITTEN IN A VACANT LOT Crumbled bricks and copper wire and empty dime bags surround me in a fortress made of detritus. A man's head pops out in a sleazy game of whack a mole after I woke him up and he told me if i wasn't doing drugs buying drugs selling drugs stealing drugs or giving up and falling apart to go away while the country loses everything in the dark winds of a dawn that blows me away from all of those wasted, hidden and lost people with my own desperation to fill my own inner vacancy in my obsessive hunt for sanity, But false prosperity rules the day when this vacant lot becomes a 7 eleven built over a filthy burial ground of stray, broken people who gave up as the great mother of invention left them all in a fog where they forgot who they were when I begin to finally introduce myself to myself in my effort to get moving in a mangled and desperate march down the side of a mean old highway full of indifferent strangers who all speed passed me in desperate search of a shortcut to nirvana. AT THE END OF A LONG LINE AT DOLLAR TREE They are all in my way I need this stuffed bear with a human baby face and new masks to keep from going viral, my sniveling complaints worsening as they climbed out from my every rotten breath, and that’s when homie asked me to show respect to his baby mama or else he was going to dump his Diet Shasta all over me when I hissed I AM ABOVE THE LAW! at him and failed to escape when I got entangled In a batch of helium filled birthday balloons that contributed to the wasted time I insisted they owed me as my voice got higher in pitch after my EBT card was declined. I stood there trapped and ready to scream myself blind with all the other angry, broken day dreamers who hustled each other inside of a discount nation. Kevin Ridgeway is the author of Too Young to Know (Stubborn Mule Press) and nine chapbooks of poetry including Grandma Goes to Rehab (Analog Submission Press, UK). His work can recently be found in Slipstream, Chiron Review, Nerve Cowboy, Plainsongs, San Pedro River Review, The Cape Rock, Trailer Park Quarterly, Main Street Rag, Cultural Weekly and The American Journal of Poetry, among others. He lives and writes in Long Beach, CA.
0 Comments
1/30/2021 2 Comments Poetry by Dorothy Riehm William Clifford CC
A Person of Value She thought herself of no value, no value at all. Her father used her, abused her, her brothers too. She was trash, they said, to be thrown away, and this went on and on as she grew. Her mother ignored her, said nothing at all to stop her from thinking this true. But there must have been something within that she just could not dismiss a sense of herself as other than this, because she walked in our office one day and with her eyes averted, her head down she began to talk, but with barely a sound, with a shame too deep to be spoken out loud yet slowly she spoke and she spoke out loud a litany of wrongs that seemed without end from the gang of adolescent boys to the continuing rapes by strangers and kin acts she despised herself for blaming herself not them. The well-meaning counselor tried to relieve her She spoke of her value, her goodness, her innocent heart and the girl tried hard to believe her but she left the agency after only a start and no one heard of her after. Until a few years later the local paper published the news of yet another disaster, another opioid overdose, a young woman found dead and alone in her room. But she was not an addict. She used her brother’s drugs. Why did she do it? Because, because, because There are many more people I know who do not value themselves with far less cause than this, and have never discovered their one and only loveliness. They need to be taught. We need to teach each other our own inestimable value, and coax the wary soul out into the open air with a gentle and a tender care over and over. For is it not true that to give a thing its value only love will do? Dorothy Riehm is a retired therapist and social worker who lives at Rocky Hill Cohousing in Northampton, Massachusetts. She has always loved reading and writing poetry and for the last few years has been pursuing her own writing more seriously, with the hope that she has something to contribute both from her experience as a social worker as well as from her many other experiences in a long and well-traveled lifetime. She is also enjoying the teaching of poetry this year to a small home school class, in addition to learning much herself from writing with others in a weekly writing group. 1/30/2021 0 Comments Poetry by Karen Cline-Tardiff Lenny DiFranza CC Your resin taints everything, It started out in small things, a little smudge on your shirt and I had to rewash everything after I had thoroughly scrubbed every piece of clothing with alcohol. Your resin taints everything. I am always Santa, buying presents to surprise everyone, myself included, on Christmas morning. Last year I was surprised when I bought myself a new set of dishtowels, white with green stripes and promise. By New Year’s Eve half were ruined with black splotches and thrown out. Your resin taints everything. I used to buy dish sponges in the three pack. I wash your plate from beside the couch and suddenly I’m assaulted by the smell of tar, depression, and disappointment, knowing I should have bought the 8 pack instead. Your resin taints everything. I like a clean house, though you wouldn’t know from the looks of things sometimes. I splurged on a nice mop with a large surface perfect for scrubbing up after a family, but I can’t afford the replacement heads, so it sits in the corner; now I buy mops from the dollar store. Your resin taints everything. I know you’ve been driving my car when I open the door, and I am thankful I had the foresight to buy a bottle of alcohol. I don’t even like to ride in your truck anymore, no longer riding shotgun. Your resin taints everything. You are convinced when any one comes over they are looking for your resin and you swear you had more before they came over, even though you were watching them the entire time. Your resin taints everything. Even as I’m writing this I take a drink of the hot tea I just made and I can taste your bitter resin sitting in the bottom of the mug waiting for me to swallow. Karen has been writing as long as she could hold a pen. Her works has appeared in several different anthologies and journals, both online and in print. She founded the Aransas County Poetry Society and hosted a monthly Open Mic (pre-Covid). She has a Kindle edition book of poetry, Stumbling to Breathe. She is Editor-in-Chief of Gnashing Teeth Publishing. 1/30/2021 1 Comment Poetry by Betsy Mars Paul Wordingham CC When Internal Worlds Collide Sometimes in passing, we grind against each other's pain, like flint. A tiny spark lights up the dark or inflames, destroying tender tinder. Sometimes we shrink, avoid contact, slink – tail between legs, abrade nonetheless. We bruise or burnish. Sometimes our entire geography is reshaped by a single passing encounter. Betsy Mars lives in the southern California suburbs where she practices poetry, photography, and runs Kingly Street Press. Her second release, Floored, features 27 poets from around the world and will be available early in 2021 on Amazon. Her poem, “Pyriscence,” was a winner in Alexandria Quarterly´s first line poetry contest series in 2020, and she was a finalist in both the Jack Grapes and Poetry Super Highway poetry contests. She is the author of Alinea (Picture Show Press) and co-author of In the Muddle of the Night with Alan Walowitz, coming soon from Arroyo Seco Press. 1/30/2021 0 Comments Poetry by Jeannie E. Roberts Ian Livesey CC In Tender Remembrance, Gifts to Soften Your Past and a Basketful of Blue Ribbons for Your Posttraumatic Growth A host of angels to abate the anxiety associated with culture shock A second flight to cradle the disquieting influence of death A third to tend to your numbness Crowns and tiaras set with peridot, carnelian, and rose quartz-- your loving contribution to heal the xenophobic mind A cascade of no’s and a waterfall of boundaries to preserve your faith in the goodness of humanity Dream Cloud mattresses attached to your apartment door to ease the impact of collision A case of velvet gloves to lessen the pain inflicted by angry and besotted hands A trunk of awareness for the times you trusted the untrustworthy A Fender Tone Master Deluxe Reverb amplifier to intensify the warnings of your inner voice A halo full of mercy for repeating what you could not repair and a fountain of resolve for your redundancy Containers of clarity instead of confusion over your value as a person An ocean of self-compassion and waves of positive self-talk A demagnetizing suit to repel the power of charm to dispel any magnetism shaped with ingrained prejudice A crystal ball to impart the obvious-- you cannot change bygone narratives nor the people in them Garlands of grace wrapped in forgiveness for the folks unwilling to love, honor, and respect diversity A basketful of blue ribbons for realizing that failure creates resilience and lack is a teacher in gratitude it is both a bounty and a burden to feel things deeply you do not need anyone’s permission to live an authentic life whatever wattage you possess, use it, do not dim it, you have it for a reason if you aspire to a higher vibrational frequency the universe will answer in reciprocal response you have plod along a laden path as preparation for today-- Its name? Evolution And last but not least a festoon of feathers, buoyant and luminous, to celebrate the angels the ones you have come to know, the mystic ministers who have been actively stitching your broken and tender essence into wholeness Jeannie E. Roberts lives in an inspiring setting near Chippewa Falls, WI, where she writes, draws and paints, and often photographs her natural surroundings. She enjoys spending time outdoors, listening to the birds, and taking long walks. She’s authored four poetry collections, two children's books, and is listed in Poets & Writers. As if Labyrinth - Pandemic Inspired Poems is forthcoming in May 2021 from Kelsay Books. She’s also poetry reader and editor of the online literary magazine Halfway Down the Stairs. 1/30/2021 0 Comments Poetry by Jason Baldinger William Clifford CC
peter laughner's ghost (for john burroughs) it begins and ends with chicken paprikash touching elbows with strangers, sharing tables in this tiny diner the old lady is waiting for her friend after church before going to take care of her mother, like pittsburgh the women of cleveland are tough gnarl blizzards howling across this post industrial landscape they still cough mill smoke carry traditions, novenas I have my traditions too and we're all just getting by ill be here again waiting to get snowed in on van gogh's birthday from white out to motel I float like peter laughner's ghost Ill take snow road as far as it will leave me george avenue will always be sacred john, shelley and the dogs up into the wee hours with an internet jukebox and stories of our appalachian lives, the marks it's left on our souls we practice moderation as we get older still, as americans we feel we are imbued with this strange light this morning, light sits in the smoke the vapor of exhaust we are hungry for stories it begins and ends with chicken paprikash our memories already fading Jason Baldinger is bored with bios. He’s from Pittsburgh and misses roaming around the country writing poems. His newest book is A Threadbare Universe (Kung Fu Treachery Press) with The Afterlife is A Hangover (Stubborn Mule Press) coming soon. His work has been published widely across print journals and online. You can hear him read his work on Bandcamp and on lp’s by the bands The Gotobeds and Theremonster. 1/30/2021 2 Comments Poetry by Heath Brougher William Clifford CC Overcome It’s all bad-- but we can always change it back/ mirror its mutations/ use our primary survival muscle to outsmart and finally triumph over it in the dampenedsweet euphonyrain of our collective Humanitarian hallelujahs and yawps of barbaric personification. True Vision In the land of the blind everyone had perfect vision though few could Truly see. As the eyeful yet visionless crowd paraded through the main streets a one-eyed man stood in a dark alley wearing a crooked grin and giggling to himself. Heath Brougher is Editor-in-Chief of Concrete Mist Press and poetry editor of Into the Void, winner of the 2017 and 2018 Saboteur Awards for Best Magazine. He is a multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee as well as winner of Taj Mahal Review's 2018 Poet of the Year Award. His most recent collection is "Bleeding Backwards" (Diaphanous Press, 2019). His work can be found in various print and online publications. He hasn't had a good night's sleep in years. He is hoping to get one soon, though. 1/30/2021 0 Comments Poetry by Tanvi Nagar Paul Wordingham CC What we made I made stardust. Rather, we made it together, We mixed the ashes of our ties, Along with time-the famous healer, We simply let go. The ashes divided, broke into pieces So minute, so tiny, so little, That they became power And magic, they became our healer The goodbye didn’t hurt anymore, It simply existed in the universe Floating Existing Remaining Like the stardust we left behind, Maybe that’s what destiny made of us- Two souls, too far away yet united with magic. Tanvi Nagar is a student of class 11 at Delhi Public School, Gurgaon. She has been writing for the past eight years and is passionate about public speaking, travelling, playing sports and reading. She has contributed to national newspapers like ‘The Times of India’ and ‘Hindustan Times’; magazines like the ‘Neev Magazine’ ‘Cathartic Youth Literary Magazine’ ‘Ice Lolly Review’ ‘Life in 10 minutes Magazine’ and ‘Children’s World’ and anthologies like ‘The Last Flower of Spring’ and ‘Riding on a Summer Train’ by Delhi Poetry Slam; ‘The Great Indian Anthology’ by Half Baked Beans and ‘She the Shakti’ by Authors Press. She is the Editor in her school and has authored three books titled, ‘A Treasure Trove of Poetic Wonderland’ ‘A Bountiful of Rhythmic Stories’ and ‘My Book of Short Stories and Poems’ and two research papers which were published in the International Journal of Multidisciplinary Educational Research. She has won the Eye Level Literary Award 2018 by Daekyo, South Korea; the Create Change Challenge 2020 by the University of Queensland, Australia; the Millennial Essay Writing Contest by UNESCO and Takthe; the Haryana State Badminton Championship 2013-14; and has worked with organisations like The Global Leadership and Education Foundation and The Faridabad Education Council to serve the community. Ian Livesey CC Everlasting Pieces Roots and bones- The two are supposed to go into the ground for good. Truth, right? Me, I hate to be rooted; It's always seemed like the slowest demise. Water that doesn't move, it stagnates, of course. So that furious sound of a river after heavy rain - It's the tears of yesterday's dead gone to heaven, Hurrying to realize what it is to be a sea. With a short fuse burning, I'm on the long road to realize The coast. How did this country become a Black Dahlia? Is it because the politics is pulling an act of Jekyll and Hyde? State after state, whether it's at a rally, cafe, or a parking garage, I only encounter alternate spirits. But they won't stop me from pushing West; I'm going where blacklisted angels are said to exist. Back home, it was a story of a ghost playing with the radio, And the erosion of garden. Shit jobs; Though I did work enough shifts to afford this Candied pilgrimage. All I've ever known is a rosary of broken hearts. Saint Janis, will I see your apparition dancing along the shores Of a zodiacal Avalon? I'm bringing "the blood of Christ" and bourbon both. God, don't forgive me. Don't bother! I pulled up roots because I miss the days when I was alive. In this America -that's not mine- I follow the Birkenhead highway we unwittingly built in pieces. I'm the last page of a book my mother burned long ago. Dennis Villelmi is the co-editor and interviewer for the dystopian and horror webzine The Bees Are Dead. He is also a poet of some note, having been published in such corners as Peeking Cat Poetry, DEAD SNAKES, Duane’s Poe Tree, Horror Sleaze Trash, and In Between Hangovers. He is also the author of the chapbook, “Fretensis: In the Image of a Blind God” (currently out of print and in search of a new publishing home.) As writing doesn’t pay the bills, Dennis works in private contract security. He resides in the state of Virginia. 1/30/2021 0 Comments Little Bird by Unity DieselDemon CC Little Bird There sits at the base of the Goldman Sachs building in New York City a line of dead finches. “They keep the glass so clean, the birds just fly right into it,” the doorman says as I crouch before one of the birds, scooping it into cupped hands. “That’s bad,” I say, stroking its feathers. I. A. Richards wrote that metaphor is a “transaction between contexts” we conduct through language. I wonder what you would have said about that. You always hated metaphor. “You should say what you mean,” you said, and I understand this in a way. Life would be simpler if meaning stood still. If our contexts aligned with only themselves, providing no gaps for the pain to slip in. I sit with my bird and I think about you, Clutch. Once you were a bird, and I was a shimmering pane of glass. “You have lost touch with all reality,” you said from the ground where you landed. You were right when you said that. But wrong about metaphor. The bird in my hand comes alive, a miracle. It spreads its small wings and flies away. Unity is a writer and troubadour from upstate New York. His alter ego, Miss Unity, is the world's greatest permanently institutionalized Lana Del Rey impersonator. The two Unitys can be found on Twitter and Instagram: @doyoumissunity |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. Archives
April 2024
Categories |