11/30/2023 Poetry By Natasha BredleDaniel X. O'Neil CC
The Mermaid The mermaid sometimes nicks herself with a razor. The mermaid’s hair has a boyish cut. The mermaid acts cool, but is really afraid of the musty deep. The mermaid has an old soul, but a youthful heart, always skipping beats nervously, putting jaws and teeth to the shifting shadows. The mermaid wants to shadow. Wants to secret. Wants to lurk. But the mermaid works the closing shift and finds it hard to wake up in the mornings, bedsheets a heavy current. The mermaid hates being a metaphor. The mermaid wants to remain an unknown, a sliver of undiscovery amidst the infinite blue. The mermaid doesn't live near water. The closest body is the gated nieghborhood’s pool. The mermaid drinks from the tap. Splashes her face over the sink. Cleans her scales above a shower drain, where the salt and sea foam swirl down. The mermaid doesn't want another day. Yesterday the mermaid wept on the sidewalk. The day before she got a speeding ticket. The day before she got a phone call. The mermaid wants a reason. She doesn’t need a castle, just a nicer view. The mermaid isn't beautiful. The mermaid needs beauty, something in dull lighting that doesn’t make sound. The mermaid has a good voice, but wants a siren’s. The mermaid gets lost often. The mermaid has to clock in now. The mermaid has a scar on her thigh. Leave the mermaid alone. Natasha Bredle is an emerging writer based in Cincinnati. She likes sunsets and the quiet, and is the caretaker of several exotic pets. You can find her work in Words and Whispers, Polyphony Lit, and Lumiere Review, to name a few. 11/30/2023 Poetry By Don J. KraemerLee Coursey CC
Keeping Time I ask, Any dreams last night? Yes, I was back on that beach, that black and gold beach. Anybody with you? Yeah. Who? People you know? Some—some from the street. We’re just lying around, happy. Happy how? Nodding off. Chilling. That it? I say, unremarking his shift to present tense, foolishly pleased that he did not say “laying.” That’s it. Nothing happens. Nothing ever? Nothing. Do you have a chair, a beach towel, a bathing suit, sun block? Is there sun? What is black, what is gold (I think: tar washes up on Southern Californian beaches; if the sand was black—Black Tar?). Do you make any eye contact with anyone? Do you ever think of getting up to visit with someone or help anyone in need? No, why would I? Why would I help others who are not in need of help, why would I ruin a perfectly good high, why make changes to a perfectly good dream— But the gold— —Silence is golden. Progression Sucks —Heroin is a temporary fix for long term problems Unfortunately, it works Try not to take the fall, cause it’s a long one I’ve never hit bottom before; beginning to suspect there isn’t one The whole thing might just be a looped circle Bottoms are like horizons we don’t hit. Loyal supporters are like horizons that recede but endure. Horizons are the circle we fall into, our endless limit. Horizons are the directions we think we forgot. No sense giving a horizon a questionnaire, an extended interview, ethnographic treatment. It’s going to suck you in regardless and always leave you different as you are. We met at a horizon once and never let go. We’re holding on, even now— even now that’s progress— progress so near, so far. Where It’s Always Night —Ferry man will take us over Over where it’s always night When you wake up, still night. When you hide away, still night. When you light the candle, still night. When the suboxone kicks in, still night. When we resolve not to enable, still night. When you shower at St. Ambrose, still night. When you eulogize your grandmother, still night. When you bury the light-blotting demons, still night. When you take turns with your better angels, still night. When we surround you in a shining family circle, still night. When the boat man needs relief and you seize the oars, still night. When you repudiate the cup and reject the Stranger’s poison, still night. Don J. Kraemer is semi-retired and resides in Claremont, California. He has three grown children, one of whom is the inspiration behind and the first audience for these poems. 11/30/2023 Poetry By Gwil James ThomasEdmund Garman CC
Keith’s War. It wasn’t the seagulls that’d attack him on his balcony, the bin men that never turned up, the inconsiderate cars parked outside his garage when trying to leave, the kids that drew cocks on his dusty car bonnet, when he parked across the road, or the overpriced breakfasts in the cafe that I worked in, below his flat. In the end, Keith’s war was not one waged by anger - these battles were there to keep him animated, in a world that otherwise wanted his surrender, since in his own words - most people were just too scared to do anything, about anything, anymore. 13. 09. 2023. How’s death? You once said, that my life was like someone trying to put out a fire with lighter fluid - that hasn’t changed, since we last spoke 10 years ago and in truth, I thought that I’d have more answers to this life thing by now. I may no longer, think that I can see you in crowds, but every so often - you’ll appear in a dream, to deliver some thought or message. I kept up my promise and carried on writing and since then I’ve written myself out of so many corridors of hell. Yet, I can’t help but shake the feeling that all of this, you somehow, somewhere, already know - so in the meantime, wait for me and until then, I can’t help but miss you upon this earth. Gwil James Thomas is a poet, novelist and inept musician. He lives in his home town of Bristol, England but has also lived in London, Brighton and Spain. His twelfth chapbook of poetry Wild River Carry me to Sea was recently published by Back Room Poetry. Other work has recently been published in Vipers Tongue, DFL Lit, Paper & Ink Zine and Roi Faineant Press. He plans to one day build a house, amongst other things. Instagram: @gwiljamesthomas 11/30/2023 Poetry By Merril D. SmithLee Coursey CC
Sister Songs Our phones calls always began no one is dead-- until someone was, and we sang sister songs of blue that drifted over rivers to the stars-- tendrils of light that danced in the night sky reborn in pink blossoms adorning the trees like the pink she used to wear so often, soft like a sigh of goodbye. Goodbye, we said, to our sun swallowed by time, as all stars are, and as they do, she’s left a trail-- her laugh, sparkles in memory and dreams. Ghost-echoes, laughter shimmering. Merril D. Smith writes from southern New Jersey. Her full-length collection, River Ghosts, was published by Nightingale and Sparrow Press and was a featured book on Black Bough Press. 11/29/2023 On Homecoming By Vasilios MoschourisFlickr CC On Homecoming 1. The old house tries its best not to be found; shrouded in twisting locks of Spanish moss and sweeping willow branches, it is invisible even from the road it sits on, and that road appears on no map, returns a blank search result. I find it only with memory. 2. When I lay down to sleep the first night I hear noises and can’t be sure if they’re real—little taps like the footsteps of mice across the wooden floor. They do not wake me but seep into my dreams, where silhouetted creatures crawl under my blankets, over my chest, and when half asleep I sit up to peer over the edge of my bed I cannot tell them from shadows. 3. The neighbor makes noises. Hammering things and revving engines. So infrequently and just far enough away that when I hear them through the walls I think someone is at my door. I ignore them as best I can. I check the door every time. 4. The inside of the house has not changed except for where it has. Hands of clocks all stuck in place. Old pictures of us lining the walls. The kitchen, the bedroom, the living room, all the old spaces waiting to be filled. Spiders have built webs in all the corners; mice leave droppings, chew holes in the walls. Maybe that is how change works, how it should: not revealing itself until it has already passed. 5. This morning I open the window to let real light in and there is a man outside—the neighbor—standing with his back to me. Not in the yard but where the trees that marked its edge used to stand. In the years since I’ve been back here he has cut them down. He is large. A foot taller than me, a long graying beard, black eyes deep set into the folds of his face. I drop the curtains shut—I don’t want him to see me seeing him. 6. When I was a child I was afraid of things that lived in the cracks of things, beings I could only see pieces of. In my first nightmare something like a snake pushes itself through the hall outside my door, and I watch it pass, waiting for its scaly body to taper off into a tail end, but it never does. 7. I spend the days setting traps, cleaning droppings, patching holes, but there are always more the next day, and the traps are never full. Where are they coming from? 8. A mile down the road there is a park, and in the park there is a spring: deep and blue and green, and every minute of every day I want to go down to it, cast myself into it like a stone, sink down to its primal mouth, open, waiting, and be consumed. 9. What is he doing? I watch him through the sliver of the window, his body passing in and out of sight. He has friends. They have shovels. One of his engines purrs, incessant, encircling; tires larger than myself roll past. He is encroaching, his life spilling over into mine. 10. The house keeps changing. New holes in old spaces, new noises in the silence. The traps are empty. Engines rev. The traps are full. I do not look outside. The spring waits down the road, waters as new and as familiar as the morning. I check the clock. It is always the same time. It will never be this time again. ![]() Vasilios Moschouris is a gay stay-at-home writer and Best of the Net nominee from the mountains of North Carolina. For now, he lives in Wilmington, where he is completing his MFA in Creative Writing at UNCW, and raising two unruly novels. His writing has appeared in Chautauqua Magazine, Trampset, Roi Fainéant Press, and the museum of americana. Find him at vasiliosmoschouris.com or, if you must, @burnmyaccountv on Twitter. 11/29/2023 Father, Son By Zary FeketeSigfrid Lundberg CC Father, Son 33 years ago, he was a swimmer. He wore tight speedo briefs in the school pool and swam laps and raced with his teammates. He loved the feeling of slick water sliding past his muscled arms, working like pistons up and down the lanes. But one day when pulling himself out of the pool he felt the soft roll of his belly against the wet elastic of his briefs. He hated that feeling. Nothing could be hidden in such tiny briefs, and a gnawing worm began to chew through his mind. What had been thin now seemed thick in the mirror. That boy created a careful system of eating. In the mornings when his mother prepared Minnesota country breakfasts of pancakes and French toast, he learned how to take just one piece. One piece could be cut in two. One half could be concealed under the napkin, pressed apart as though it were a casualty of the meal. The second half could be carried in his mouth to the bathroom for a final pee before the school bus arrived. A quick flush and he was free of the awful weight of food for the morning. Lunches were easier. His friends believed him when he told them he needed a few more minutes of studying in the library. So, while they all ate together in the molded plastic cafeteria, he hid away among the top racks of books on the upper mezzanine and chewed through two gumballs, savoring the sweet saliva in his mouth. He was pleased how quickly his young body shed flaps of skin. He was one of the lucky ones. He was scared how quickly he became bones and sinew. He hated the Minnesota cold which seeped beneath his skin no matter how many layers he wore. He finally told his mother one morning and begged to see the doctor. You were that boy. Today you have a son. Your son is a dancer. He wears tights and stands before the mirrors of his rural Minnesota dance class, plieing and pirouetting. He loves the feeling of the air gliding past his face when he jumps. But one day when he changes out of his tights he feels a jiggle in his thighs. He hates that feeling. Nothing can be hidden in dance tights. He starts to feel the skin on his face when he makes tiktok videos with his friends. His face feels puffy and full. The gnawing worm reappears. He creates a careful system of eating. He insists dancers needed a special diet. He asks permission to make his own meals. He loves how quickly his young body dissolves fat. He isn’t one of the lucky ones. He eats one egg and half an apple each night for weeks. He shivers under his five blankets during the Minnesota winter. Soon he doesn’t have enough energy to climb out of bed. You tell your son about the boy from 33 years ago. You tell him even though that boy’s world had no tiktok or cell phones, it did have tight elastic and a gnawing worm. You ask him a question. Your son’s thin face nods. For six months he sits with other boys and girls through long online sessions on body dysmorphia and countless times answers the question, “What lies is your eating disorder telling you today?” Six months ago, that boy graduates from the clinic. Today the two of you compare your twin minds and smile as you look up at the Minnesota sky. ![]() Zary Fekete……grew up in Hungary …has a novelette (In the Beginning) out from ELJ Publications and a debut novella being published in early 2024 with DarkWinter Lit Press. …enjoys books, podcasts, and many many many films. Twitter: @ZaryFekete 11/28/2023 Poetry By Carrie AlbertSusanne Nilsson CC
For Kindness He thinks my words are too nice, that one must be cruel to be of literary intrigue, ready to stick one’s knife into the heart of a poem and then study the cadaver, shun anyone’s approval. Why is kindness good in a friend and bad in writing? “Kindness is the light of life” (according to my Yogi teabag fortune). 2. Kindness bends, voice relents gives up argument. content with distance, neither fighting, nor resistant. Am I soft as bird feather in his ear, sea waves of distant traffic, gentle as the scent of electricity? Am I overripe apples that can’t hold onto limb? The forgotten name of a folk band that once mattered? Softness resembles death, is like kindness. 3. My father was happy the day he made me cry in front of him, he said, because I always went to my room. I swore at him then instantly regretted it. This poem must be for him too. Carrie Albert is a writer and visual artist. Sometimes these merge. Her works have been published widely in journals and anthologies, most recently: The Protest Diaries (B Cubed Press), Gyroscope Review, Sleet, Plumtree Homeless Edition, and Ekphrastic Review. She lives in Seattle with her papier-mâché animals. 11/28/2023 Poetry By Charlotte HamrickLucky Lynda CC
While I Wait I want to throw the same, the same, and the same into the garbage can, let it all nestle next to smelly tuna cans and soggy tea bags. There isn’t a blanket thick enough to deter a determined moth, there are no shoes that water can’t breach. Missing things still wander, still wait to clasp my hand. So I make sandwiches and drink tea, but plant moon flowers at sundown and keep my shoes by the door. Continental Drift We are tectonic plates in a house of misgivings, knocking together then apart, lava flowing dull-eyed & destructive closer to the village. It’s said life passes in the blink of an eye while we become set in our ways. In my heart is a vase of dead flowers crying without tears for the sun, each skintight night strangling it a little more, a little more. Charlotte Hamrick writes, reads, and photographs extraordinary everyday things in New Orleans. Her writing and photography is included in a number of literary magazines and in the Best Small Fictions 2022 and 2023 anthologies. She is Founder and Co-EiC of SugarSugarSalt Magazine. Sometimes she writes in her Substack, The Hidden Hour. 11/28/2023 Poetry By Jeff FinlinMike Fritcher CC
Addicts bent There is no romance in writing..it's like cleaning a toilet bowl..everyday....over and over..with a dirty brush...wiping it clean with your tongue Behind the dance of writing... there is the romance of it cloaked in the corner... that bounces in the distance off of roads uncharted.... there is a lifestyle of thought, literature and characters stalking the cobbled streets of far off towns ...caped and cloaked in boudoirs....a loveless state of longing for words that pull us past whats real and hangs you out to dry.....into a confusion unseen..creeping there..as the addicts bent... "They got this down to a science." she said..."you are the mouse...it, the trap. The problem is the trap is invisible..it waits, baited in your mind...the work we do is so we can see it in the corners....spring loaded and waiting to snap" I forget, that's the problem But i hit some real greazy shit today ..a real slippery slope on the edge of nowhere Montana..in the battered loam of nothingness here strung out across the prairie...in Butte...what am i doing here?...stalking the writers house...standing at Kerouac's grave in my head, reading Mexico City Blues on social media...driving into the abyss...it scared me by reminding me how i get sucked into this romance ..enamored...until I’m unclaimed...until it turns into this kind of toxic dance and i start to lose, very subtly the ability see the true from the false...and it slowly becomes the core disfunction...the bad feeling in your gut ...the obsession with the adjective instead of the noun...the flair instead of the craft.....the lust and not the love.... the dreaming instead of the seeing.......the me and not you....the story and not the life...the myth and not the man...then the lights blink...the crossing bars come down on your connection.....you find yourself gone....like the famous writer... hopeless....a useless drunk...dying in his own legend...staring holes through his good for nothing... Jeff Finlin is an American artist, songwriter, author and yogi. He has released 15 critically acclaimed albums around the world, authored three poetry books and two books on yoga and recovery. He is currently living and working in Colorado. 11/28/2023 Poetry By Lisa Romano LichtDonald Lee Pardue CC
Small Robberies “You’re ugly,” my best friend decides, “where you have lots of beauty marks.” Guilty, I hair-hide my face, generously sprinkled. We’re twelve so I believe her. Tall boy at the pizza place wispy dark lip, fresh-muscled guards the take-out window breathes her in-- already bloomed—high T-shirt bumps and cheekbones, long lucky hair. A hostage on the sidelines, I haven’t learned this game. Legs burn, bicycle trails her home. Back in her room she orders: “Turn around,” so she can change her top. Cross-legged on the shag, I do. Then steal a glance in the corner mirror. When dusk falls summer nights I run the block, her house to mine. Like mockingbirds, we trade a call I still feel in my throat. Years of dusks descend before I hear her echo true-- a warning cry of future thieves. Lisa Romano Licht’s poetry and other work has appeared in Blue Heron Review, The Westchester Review, San Pedro River Review, Steam Ticket, Please See Me, Mom Egg Review and elsewhere, and was selected for The Year’s Best Dog Stories 2021 and Vita Brevis Press’ Nothing Divine Dies, both anthologies. She lives in Rockland County, NY with her husband. Find her on Twitter:@LRLwrites |
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