11/28/2020 2 Comments Poetry by Gregory Luce Derek Hatfield CC Just After Rain The scent of rainwater lingers as clouds slowly disperse and a huge three-quarter moon rests against a deepening blue sky. A few porch lights anticipate the night but I still have time to scoop a jar of brown water from a puddle on the sidewalk to take home and hope to find tadpoles and wonder again if they could have fallen with the rain. Clouds almost gone the sky stretches out beyond the edges of town. I'm thankful the moon is anchored there holding me in place. Gregory Luce is the author of Signs of Small Grace (Pudding House Publications), Drinking Weather (Finishing Line Press), Memory and Desire (Sweatshoppe Publications), Tile (Finishing Line), and Riffs & Improvisations , forthcoming from Kelsay Press). His poems have appeared in numerous print and online journals, and in the anthologies Living in Storms (Eastern Washington University Press), Bigger Than They Appear (Accents Publishing), and Unrequited and Candlesticks and Daggers (ed. Kelly Ann Jacobson). In 2014 he was awarded the Larry Neal Award for adult poetry by the D.C. Commission on the Arts and Humanities. Retired from the National Geographic Society, he lives in Arlington, VA, and works as a volunteer writing tutor/mentor for 826DC. He blogs at https://dctexpoet.wordpress.com.
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11/28/2020 0 Comments Poetry by Kendra Nuttall Holly Lay CC Interior Design There’s calm in headaches, like a winter hug, wind bursting with morning sick. I don’t want to be Mom, I already killed my Venus fly trap with a cruel joke. I’ve tried to stop the clock, but where would I be without the constant tick of the bathroom faucet reminding me nothing lasts forever? I only open calendars to see the pictures. There’s August, sweet summer child, sitting in her midcentury chair made modern again. Honey Bear I’m finding the gap between the stove and counter for the first time. Like a forgotten spam folder, everything is piling up. Walmart receipts in my front seat; dust bunnies reminding me of the cat I didn’t hold as she went to sleep for the last time; the high school yearbooks I say I don’t care about, but here they are packed into boxes again. I say I’m ready to move on, but how much stuff can one really fit into a box? How many licks does it take to get to the center of a tootsie pop? I don’t like tootsie pops. I don’t like tootsie rolls. I like Tootsie and Jessica Lange. Who doesn’t like Jessica Lange? I digress. There’s a jar of honey shaped like a bear sitting on the counter next to the gap. If food could talk, which I’m glad it cannot, Honey Bear would say “you’re going to be okay.” And maybe that would be enough. Kendra Nuttall is a copywriter by day and poet by night. Her work has appeared in Spectrum, Capsule Stories, Chiron Review, and Maudlin House, among others. She lives in Utah with her husband and poodle. Her debut book, A Statistical Study of Randomness, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press. Find her online at kendranuttall.com. 11/27/2020 0 Comments Poetry by Tina Isom-Carey Kaydee H CC
Chasing Shadows I yearn to find the old me endlessly peeping in places that I shouldn’t be-- naked closets, gloomy alleys abandoned buildings It's eternally dark, slippery and drenched with misery I see ghostly memories rise and fall like snapshots held of by invisible hands The silhouette of the bloodied butcher flinging unneeded parts of me I snatch them one by one for they are not worthless they are my unfortunate memories. Tina is a Personal Chef and a long-time writer and lover of poetry. She writes from personal knowledge of trauma, grief, mental health, and healing. She is hoping to inspire and create a unified experience of hope and understanding. Tina has been published by The Voice’s Project, AntiherionChick, Poetica Review, Call and Response Journal, Ghost Heart Journal, Poetic Pill Blog, Athena Review, and others. Tina is also the creator and founder of UniquePoetry.com 11/27/2020 0 Comments Poetry by Samiullah Khokhar Kaydee H CC Self-Harm & Acceptance What if this sadness was a gift, my child ? your broken heart meant to heal others. What if this sadness was a gift, my child ? your tears meant to water the gardens of tomorrow What if this sadness was a gift, my child ? And you were meant for so much more. Put down that blade, and rest easy. For this too shall pass. We are all but returning home. Blessed, more than you could ever know. And in this sadness, my child, I wouldn’t have you any other way. Sami, short for Samiullah, often translated from arabic to 'listener' or 'The one who listens to God' was born and raised in Karachi, Pakistan. Writing has always been a form of expression that helped him to understand himself, and connect. He writes not with the intention to impress, even though that feels very nice, but to connect with others. The thought of having someone, whose life, experience and geography are unknown to him, but knowing that in this strange existence, his words meant something to them, there is no greater feeling in the world than that. 11/27/2020 1 Comment Poetry by Cole Kelly jmettraux CC Nothing is better Nothing feels better than my pen at night. Slowly, slowly, I regain my senses, which have been dulled and soaked in alcohol. Beat me leather whips because I cannot feel the breath on my neck, how it used to tingle through me. The irony of these compulsions; that we burn the taste buds cease to feel, scrape ourselves raw seeking sensation. Nothing looks better than candle light on paper and in the warm glow I can almost not remember what it was I was trying to burn off. Hungry The streets at night the doors spilling bodies bars the yellow lights glow in closet alcoves, people smoking cigarettes it always made me restless. I want I want I want to run my fingers over bartender, wine in all its dark and velvet glory, coat me from red lip to hungry belly. I want to smoke ten thousand cigarettes and light one from the other off their cherry ends. I want to burn my throat raw and kill this craving, this empty angry growling, this hyena, that’s shrieking starving searching, that eats and eats and eats and still the stomach is churning, I don’t want to be hungry like this anymore. I’ve been gorging skeleton off fumes and oil and poison, Nose to the ground, tufts of fur, stray animal. I don’t want to be hungry like this anymore, hollow cheeks and growls of desperation. I want lips upturned to dripping nectar, I want to be full from what I’m given. A moment of clarity The light on the kitchen counter set against dark windows lightening slowly with the rising sun reminds me of my father Of dark coffee in the morning, five a.m., when he tiptoed so as not to wake the house on his way to work to pay for it. I forget, in the caramel coloured memory, all of the reasons I am at a rehab clinic in Kelowna and all the ways it must be very hard to be my father. Cole Kelly is a poet, journalist, aspiring documentarian and radio broadcaster living on Vancouver Island in British Columbia. She has been writing poetry for as long as she can remember writing. Cole is in her first year of sobriety after a particularly ugly battle with addiction that lasted most of her adult life so far. She has dedicated her future projects to helping people with addiction issues have their voices heard through the mediums of podcasting, documentaries and writing. She believes that the stories of addicts are the stories of our most innate humanity, and the world should hear more of them. You can find her podcast at www.storieslessspoken.com or on Instagram at @storieslessspoken 11/27/2020 0 Comments Poetry by Craig FinlayCraig Finlay is a poet and librarian currently living in rural southern Oklahoma, where he keeps collecting stray animals. His poems have appeared in dozens of zines and journals and his debut collection, The Very Small Mammoths of Wrangel Island, is forthcoming from Urban Farmhouse Press, an indie press in Windsor, Ontario. 11/27/2020 1 Comment Poetry by KPH jmettraux CC
The Girl I Once Was Do I miss the girl I once was? No. I admire her; her strength and courage to face each new day without knowing if she’d be able to survive it all again the next one. I respect her; more than most people I’ve encountered because despite it all, she always stayed true to herself. I love her; though I know she didn’t love herself back then because she thought you were only worth loving if other people tried. And they didn’t really try back then because she wasn’t easy to love, though she was worthy of it. And so, I will admire, and respect, and love the girl I once was because the woman I am now is all of the things she had longed to be; does all of the things she had dreamt of doing; lives the life she could only imagine then. Enough For some, I will never be enough and for others, I will be too much. Not enough glam, too much height. Not enough absent-minded giggles and too much noise at the wrong time. Not enough sun, and too much rain. Not enough tame and too much thunder. Not enough skin and too much shirt. For some, I will never be enough and for others, I will be too much. But there will come a time where someone will look at me and know that we would be just right together. So I’ll smile at those unable to see what’s right with me since one day, someone will smile back knowing that they can never get enough of me, and that too much will always be too little. KPH is a bilingual Canadian writer with a yearning to set her soul in ink and paper. Fiercely driven to ensnare all of life’s little moments, she works tirelessly for her passion so that she may someday lead others to find their own meaning in her words. 11/27/2020 0 Comments Poetry by Tony Gloeggler spablab CC
3:30 THURSDAY AFTERNOON During the 45 seconds we face time, I find out how Jesse’s doing, good as always, and I explain why I can’t visit him again this month, Covid, and ask him if I can come next month and he says October 2, two nights, Tony go home Sunday and I answer, Great, I can’t wait as he sighs deeply, looks away from the screen and I say I really miss hanging out and his worker prompts him to say, I miss you too while Jesse shifts in his chair. All three of us then say goodbye in a rushed, ragged harmony and I think I understand a bit of what it means to be autistic: the way everything races by, how our words, voice tones and facial expressions never connect our feelings to each other. But I know it’s only a guess, a thought, Jesse can never tell me what it’s like to feel like him. TRUMP OR BIDEN Over the phone, me and Joe are covering the usual subjects, discussing and arguing long established sides, conceding a point or two but never changing minds: Mantle and Mays, Trump or Biden, Breonna Taylor, cops and looting, wearing a mask or not, right to life, growing old and trying to pass these Covid, stay at home times. He was the leader of the kids hanging out at Bowne while I always went my own way. Except for that touch football league we played on that black tarred field in Bayside. I was the top receiver, best defender. He, the quarterback who still can close his eyes, picture me running my double move, post pattern, getting open, sometimes cutting it sharp, breaking free across the field. He’d lay the pas out there with just enough air under it, my strides lengthening. I’d leave my feet to meet the ball, guide it into my arms, a thirty yard gain. Other times, flat out beating the defender straight down the field for an easy score. I miss those days, that connection. I want to meet at a bar, order beers, sing along to Glory Days playing on the juke box. But I stopped drinking in my twenties and he doesn’t give a shit about Springsteen. We worked for the same agency forty odd years. Me, a group home manager, He, the psychologist, Doctor Joe. We both loved the guys, the work, felt the same fulfillment and then watched it all change, dismantled by new management. He retired gracefully, influenced by age, health, I made some noise, hired a lawyer, settled for more than I deserved. I miss it more than him, When we’re arguing, I try to remember our friendship, how every one is entitled to their beliefs, but it feels like we’re sixteen, back on the court playing three on three. He’s guarding me, my eyes lit with amped up intensity. His game is based on strength, his thick thighs trying to control, hold me down, overpower and bully me, his hands jabbing at my ribs, leaning, pushing while I grow more determined. Channeling Chet Walker and Bob Love, I slide into the post, latch onto the pass. He’s hulking over me like he owns my air space, like he believes every inch of heaven above is his. I dribble once, twice, lean in, two head fakes, a shoulder flinch. He leaves his feet and I pause the instant it takes for him to start coming down, then I lift off, pop my elbow into his Adam’s Apple, bank it home, He checks his jaw, teeth, while I walk off the court, whisper under my breath Game time, you fuck as stars shoot through his sun dazed eyes. PLAYING IT BACK My father knew how much I hoped, how much it meant to me, that after cleaning his dinner plate, drinking his cup of Lipton tea, crushing his butt in the ash tray, he’d say it looks like there’s still a little light out there two or three times a week. I’d grab our gloves, a ball, from the basement, meet him by the curb; or that morning he cut work, I cut school and we woke before the birds, took a bus, a subway to the Stadium with my best friend Ed, waited hours for bleacher seats, took turns carrying a shopping bag filled with salami, pepperoni, roast peppers, provolone heroes to watch Mantle, Mays play in the ’62 Series; or that Little League game, standing on the mound, twelve years old and the batter’s father’s face pressed against the fence, yelling c’mon hit this four-eyed bum, he can’t pitch and my father jumping out of his seat, standing right behind the guy saying loud enough so everyone could hear, Anthony, strike this kid out or I’ll kick the crap out of this fat ass loud mouth. And I did: three high inside fastballs, three swings, three weak misses. Tony Gloeggler is a life-long resident of New York City and has managed group homes for the mentally challenged in Brooklyn for 40 years. His work has appeared in Rattle, BODY, Juked, New Ohio Review and Trailer Park Quarterly. My full length books include One Wish Left (Pavement Saw Press 2002) and Until The Last Light Leaves (NYQ Books 2015). My new collection, What Kind Of Man, was published by NYQ Books 6/ 2020. 11/27/2020 4 Comments Poetry by John Riley jmettraux CC
Drying I don’t want you to die today, he said. They were eating a meal, alone, sitting in the back of a laundromat. He was nine and it was something he had wanted to say for days. He hadn't been able to form the words. Finally, while they ate their sandwiches and waited for their clothes to dry he blurted it out. They had not been talking when he said it. She touched her mouth with her paper towel. I had no plans to, she said. It’s good. We agree, he said. His mother nodded. Yes, she said, Good for now. Beauty May Be There had been no way to know she would end up with roots lighter than the fine ones that do the hard work of drawing the moisture from the soil and pushing it through the proud wooden top roots and into the gluttonous tree, or that she would so love her fine new hair and not care that the poor paycheck she earned turning money into food had disappeared into the pockets of the tall woman who had bent in an uncomfortable position to make sure the dye permeated all the way to the skull bone that separates her from the tall tree. Of this she is sure, she is no tree, although sometimes when she sits in the old Nissan for the last few minutes before her shift and watches how the few trees left alive across from the strip mall's partitioned parking lot make a temporary home for the blackbirds she is reminded of a future she will never have, one in which she won't remember sitting with the other old ladies in the clean day room while the well-dressed attendants make sure she has all the things she needs to rest and wonder, to make sure she does not flutter away. John Riley has published poetry and fiction in Smokelong Quarterly, Connotation Press, Fiction Daily, The Molotov Cocktail, Dead Mule, St. Anne's Review, Better Than Starbucks, and numerous other anthologies and journals both online and in print. He lives in Greensboro, NC, where he works in educational publishing. 11/27/2020 2 Comments Poetry by Paula Lewis-Gamble spablab CC A LOVELY LIFE Days pass in a succession of alarms: shower, keep breathing, call your mother. I do not leave the house but I do get out of bed sometimes, to sit at the worn oak table in the corner of the kitchen and wait for the dog to indicate her need to piss. I find it kinda funny the way her left ear folds back: soft, pink skin offering itself to every ‘good girl!’ (In this way, I think we are alike) I’ve nothing new to say. It’s raining. The woman across the street is a thought-cloud, that curious sheep: umbrella floating like a question above her head. Are the women all accounted for, before I go to sleep? It’s enough to make you shear your own skin. It’s pissing down, the woman is a black cloud, the dog is playing dead black cloud black dog dead I take the pills to keep me awake - which are not to be confused with the pills to make me fall asleep, or the pills to stop the intrusive thoughts - they bring their own alarm. I get serotonin-drunk, count breaths until my fingers numb, and call my mother — who is fine by the way, in that way of us always being fine. An inter- generational fine-ness. I come from a long line of fine women: grin-bearing, broad shouldered. How heavy can the world be? I’m not as sad as I seem. I’m what they call managing which I guess means I’m somehow the one with all the answers, yet I question the wisdom of leaving all this in my butter-hands. Once, I slipped and landed on the wrong side of consequence. Both of these things are a lie. So the days pass in their alarming way, and I am nothing if not my mother’s daughter. Really, it is a lovely life: there are freshly picked flowers in a crystal-cut vase. Shower, breathe, scream into coffee cups. Paula Lewis-Gamble is an emerging writer and poet from Wales, UK who studied Creative Writing with The Open University. Paula writes about mental illness, gendered violence, body image bias, and other fun things.
She can mostly be found wearing pyjamas. |
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