WOMAN ON THE BALCONY

I see her two

three times a week

sitting on the balcony

when weather permits

here in old Italy town

in what is left of North Beach

her robe slightly parted

thumbing through the pages of a book

taking no notice of the people down below

standing to stretch, she yawns

legs like sturdy pillars that stretch

to reach the sky into the boundaries

of my mind

my eyes begging to read the pages

she turns with sensual fingers

wanting just one quick look

one intimate journey into the pages

into the space between the

parting of her robe

a journey to forbidden places

a flight back in time

to another place another world

high on a balcony where

I too ignore the

people coming and going

down below

(First published by BARNWOOD PRESS)

DIGITAL AGE

I told you not to take a snapshot

I don’t photograph well

But you did nevertheless

And sent it to me by means of attachment

And there it was on the screen

In black and white the only colors that matter

And it split into two parts on the screen

Neither of them doing me justice

An injustice I am sure not intended

This faceless face staring back at me

Smashed into a thousand lines

This snapshot more like an empty face

Stuffed away in a shoebox

In the far corner of a closet

Like a series of quick winks lost

In cyber space

(Previously published in RATTLESNAKE)

LIKE FIREWORKS 

poems

are best when

they are

over

when the only

thing left

are their ghostly

tendrils

hanging in

the darkness

waiting to be

illuminated by the next

crack of light

A GOOD MORNING

when i woke

up this morning

i saw

your head on my

chest

your leg draped

over mine

and three arms

of which

at least one

was mine

Ronald Baatz

SOMETIMES I AM A HAPPY POET

Sometimes i am a happy poet.
Sometimes in my heart a lost and homeless bum.

Sometimes i can see my life as a clear, beautiful
crystal-cold stream, and at other times as
a distorted circle of foul-smelling mud.

Sometimes the joy of my life is unmistakable
and overwhelming, and at other times it is
the sadness and disappointment of a life
unlived and wasted, dark and empty.

Sometimes there is the love of family,
the warmth of friends, the embrace
of a passionate woman.
Sometimes there is nothing
but anxiety and fear and loneliness.

Sometimes there is God.
Sometimes not.

Sometimes i want to live forever.
Sometimes the thought of another day
is intolerable.

Sometimes i wake refreshed from dreams.
Sometimes i wake terrified from what i've seen.

Sometimes there are birds.
Sometimes not a wing
is left in the world.


 
THOUGHTS ON A SNOWY AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY

I watch a woman walking her dog at the park.
I'm sure i have never seen her here before.
It could be this is the first time she has visited
this park, or perhaps she has been here at times
when i was not. No doubt i appear a stranger
to her too. Perhaps to her i look as though i live
in some other town, and i was just out for a drive
and in my travels just wandered upon this park.
She doesn't know i come here daily to watch
trees blossoming in fog, women in bathing suits
down by the lake, men fishing through ice, leaves
beautifully rotting. But since i am a stranger
i'm sure she has few thoughts about me, if any.
The only reason i am thinking about her is because
i'm sitting in front of this blank page and i need
something to write on these endless blue lines.
I'm tired of writing haiku about birds. I picture her
home with her dog. I suspect she is not married
and she sleeps with it. I see the dog patiently
sitting by the side of the bathtub as she soaks herself.
I see her nipples floating on the water, slightly hidden
by soap bubbles. Her nipples have a warm familiarity
to me. Could it be the case that in a another life
i was her dog, and that i stopped living that life
only yesterday and at that point started living this life.
I am not on any kind of drug, it's just that it's freezing out
and i am sitting in this car with the engine idling
and i am writing on this piece of paper and so there must be
these thoughts. Yes, there must be these thoughts
or tomorrow i might return to being her dog all over again.
If i have these thoughts i will remain this person in this life
and, well, at least tomorrow i won't be out there in the cold
on a leash shitting in the snow.

Owen Roberts

2006

no more resolutions

this year

better to be disappointed

from the start

then wait awhile

MIRROR IN THE BATHROOM

because of the drugs

I stopped looking in mirrors,

this lasted for over 7 years

ashamed

today; clean and sober

I turned on the bathroom light

and just stared at myself...

turns out I wasn’t missing much after all

Christopher Cunningham

LAST MEAL OF THE NIGHT

he looks at me with red eyes

thru thick round glasses,

heavy black frames slipping forward

on his human nose.

it is two minutes until closing.

I tell him,

“go ahead man, what do you need?”

the kitchen grumbles, I can feel

anger washing against my neck

in hot tired waves.

he mercifully orders the

easiest thing on the menu.

his will be our last meal of the night.

the cook is fast, throws it

to me and I bag it up.

he reaches out to take it

and asks me my name.

I tell him.

he then reaches out to shake my hand.

“I know you are trying to close

but I really needed this food.

my brother is up the street at the university

and he is probably

going to die

tonight.”

he is still holding my hand and I can see his eyes,

the space beyond his eyes, shielded sort of by

the thick lenses,

grow wider, but not very much.

“thank you for your kindness.”

he drops my hand and is gone.

the hunger we cannot stand to bear alone,

but must.

(Previously published in LAST MEAL OF THE NIGHT – RESTAURANT POEMS - Blue Monk Press) 

THIN TONES OF MARCH

we got high

in the front seat of the

car with the heater running

and the

rain coming down slow.

we’d grabbed to-go burritos

and chips

and they were in the back seat

smelling good.

we drank our coffee

and the windows fogged

and we smoked and

listened to the world out there,

the horns, the car doors slamming,

the bass from stereos booming, shaking the pavement

where the water pooled.

the

gas gauge sat at

empty,

but we had some money left

and didn’t care.

we got high

then

went home and ate the to-go mexican.

the rain didn’t last long.

sometimes,

it doesn’t.

(Previously published in HAZMAT REVIEW)

Karl Koweski

ARCHITECTS

we talk straight lines

and angles creating

personality blueprints

to be unrolled and surveyed

during lulls in construction

searching for structural flaws

before we inhabit each other

(Previously published in CAN’T KILL A MAN BORN TO HANG - Bottle of Smoke Press)

CORNCOB

my wife often asks,

especially after reading

one of my pornographic

stories, how much

truthfully occurred

how much of “me” is in it

I’m tempted to relate

the anecdote concerning

the same question posed

to William Faulkner

by a casting director

in regards to his

novel Sanctuary

Faulkner’s answer –

“Madame, I am the corncob”

of course, my wife

doesn’t even know

who Faulkner is

and...

I’ve never actually

read Sanctuary

(Previously published in CAN’T KILL A MAN BORN TO HANG - Bottle of Smoke Press)

Glenn Cooper

REAL MEN

the men who’ve been coming

to Nino’s bookstore to install our

new reverse-cycle air conditioning,

are real men:

they wear ball caps, smell of cigarettes,

swear like wharfies, traipse mud

through the store without

giving it a second thought.

oozing testosterone, these men

talk in deep baritones, play football

on weekends, have compliant wives

& girlfriends (usually pregnant)

& are confident always

in everything they do & say.

they are the men

all young Australian boys

are taught to grow up to be.

but you know what? they still can’t

get the damn air conditioning to work.

 WAY OUT BEYOND

i have fallen out of your

sure and steady orbit,

i know i have.

i can tell

by the way i float so

aimlessly, drift

through the days without

meaningful direction.

and it's cold out here, so cold.

the newspapers today

tell me that scientists have

discovered a new planet

in our solar system,

way out beyond Pluto.

it's easy to believe.

K M Dersley

THE WIDE WORLD

comparing prices we decided

we didn’t have three grand

for a home cinema

but a digital projector we got from eBay

has revolutionized our viewing instead

I never knew Clint Eastwood

had so many freckles

and we practically felt

we were up there sharing the same saddle

as Eric Fleming.

it’s funny but you can now clearly tell

where his horse’s turds

and those of other nags

have been scraped up from the prairie.

nor did I know before this that Tarzan

swung from such flimsy vines

or that the jungle floor was so far down.

as for route 66

apart from the car sickness it’s

a marvellous open air education

in monochrome.

Tranmere Grove is linked after all

to Sunset Boulevard.

we’d certainly journey into that screen

to stay and have a life

if we could only find out

how to make the projector

feed itself.

CRITERION

last night as I was about to leave off

I found out Les the driver

used to clean Woolworth’s back in

the ’70s for good old Criterion

Cleaning Contractors.

who woulda thought Les

was one of Ted Chalkley’s alumni?

I said do you remember Peter?

tall bloke? said Les.

no, says I, short guy with glasses.

his dad died of psoriasis.

oh yeah, says Les, I know Peter--

used to push the scrubbing machine!

we started chinning about 

the old days, when Sid Mills’

putt-putt bike got stolen and

abandoned at Diss.

the days of Cyril with the pink shirt

who put in a full day at Reavell’s

then worked at Woolworth’s at night

to pay for his

car.

great days, said Les

great days? I thought to myself

… seems to me I was scared stiff

in those days

even then I only wanted to get paid

and go home.

while my first floors that I’d mopped

were still wet

at the very same time my first poems

were about to get paid a few quid

from Samphire

(is it any wonder I dreamed up a life

that never developed?)

funny, but I’d never have known

Les’s background

if I hadn’t come out

with an old Woolworth’s remark

when he saw how many boxes

they expected him to load up:

I quoted Sid Mills: 

WHAT IS NOT DONE

WILL BE LEFT.

David Barker

 SCATTERED

the van is

in the shop

and

the dog is

in the kennel

and the black

berries are on

the vine and

my mom is in

eternity, but

her ashes are in

the bay and

her family is

on the boat.

[Previously published by Bottle of Smoke Press]

SPOOKED

they say this

tavern is haunted,

but, you know,

sitting here, an

old poet among

all these

younger people,

I am probably

the most

haunted thing

around.

[Previously published by Bottle of Smoke Press]

Keith Gery

Die young

The family reunions happened
every year in the summer heat,
in a glade with no plumbing
and a shack with a refrigerator..

Memories were dusted off about
the ones who were gone,
the smiles and the tears,
the good times and the bad,
amid charred hot dogs, cool beer,
and quoits and softball.

Today in the summer heat,
there was another family reunion
of a private nature
as I dusted off headstones,
while thinking of
the ones who were gone,
and the hot dogs,
and the quoits,
and the beer.

As the last one left,
I don't care to know why.
I guess the good ones
really do die young.

(To be published in DEATH LASTS WAY TOO LONG TO WASTE YOUR WHOLE LIFE DYING - Water Row Press)

Tissues

She was crying.
I held the phone tighter
wishing I could hold her
as she sobbed.
She left me years ago
for the arms of another man.
And now things
were not well
in paradise.

While she spoke,
I heard the sound of tissues
wiping her eyes
and her nose,
vainly trying to remove
the debris of her sadness.
She left for awhile
to get another tissue,
and then continued the story.

I comforted her as best as I could,
knowing she'd run back to him
when the sun shone again.
And with her tears
running down my face,
I knew I'd only be used
to get her through
this darkness,
and then discarded
like her soiled tissues.

Hosho McCreesh

& There Is Triumph As The Matador
Hoists High The Severed Ear-  
But Not For Him Or
Any Of Us...

it is the bull who has won,
though it doesn't
seem
so-

    dead & leaking,
    the sun
    slanting through the
    dusty, trampled
    afternoon.

It has been carelessly
added
to the comical &
rotting
pile of it
all,
this
earth-

-but added
without the
tedious &
customary

compromise.

They're Feeding The Pigeons In Venice,
& Someone In Amsterdam, In Paris
Is Standing In Front Of A
Van Gogh
Weeping...

because they understand it,
they understand that there's just
not much
grace
left,
understand that almost everywhere
there is an inescapable ugliness
& that the soul grows tired of its shell,
of being told not to scream
when all it wants to do is
sing, sing of this
miraculous frail misfit
that surrounds it, this
miraculous frail misfit
that stumbles through
hours & decades & drunken midnights,
loveless, wallowing, begging condolence like
scuffed pennies.

We should be sick of desperation,
sick of stagnation, of lifelessness, joylessness,
sick of all that is left to plague & pitter,
all those content to just
dangle about like
spiders & cheap
earrings.

Amidst all we push around & carry,
all we imagine & invent,
all we kill ourselves to garner,
this remains
the only
crux:

    There, once again,
    begins the
    snow-

    -though the
    clean
    living
    through it
    is
    all.

Luis C. Berriozabal

IN THE HOUSE OF THE BUTTERFLIES

In the house of the butterflies

Death arrives

The cadaver opens its mouth

Threads of blood

Spring out like a red-colored

Rainbow

Gold feathered birds disappear

In between

The fire, smoke, and dust left by death's

Thin hand

The indigenous writings

Destroyed

The beautiful flowers appropriated

By death

The walls stained blood red,

The hair and

Feet of the Indians, pulled

And burnt

Only their song survives amongst

The ruins

The stones keep the memory of

The dead

The ones that planted the seeds in these

Confiscated fields

 (From RAW MATERIALS – Pygmy Forest Press)

IN THE GREEN ONION FIELDS

In the green onion fields

Children too poor to go to school

Get their education

Work under the sun

Dirt on their faces

Dirt in their fingernails

Dirt on their clothes

The schooling is harsh

Their wages are low

The employer gets rich

Sends his kids to private school

Clean clothes, new shoes

Clean faces, clean fingernails

Take every diced onion

Out of their scrambled eggs

(From RAW MATERIALS – Pygmy Forest Press)

John Dorsey

 LIBRARY FINES

dressed as  ghosts

our fines   paid in

karma the  book of

the dead  checked out after

each of  us were

reborn as  spirit animals

is

   overdue

we break  bread spend

our lives   talking about

death singing   his folksong

to an   unchained melody

and call   it prayer

once in  pittsburgh i

wrote a  poem about

                    sunset

i was  a child

ghost blowing  a kiss

to a   blackhole beaming

smalltown pride  that was  

death checking  his watch

for

    miracles

THE HOLY MISSION OF RUSSELL VIDRICK

drunk on words i

walk down the street

thinking russ doesn't look

like much of a

knight not even in

the style of don

quixote it's raining while

he tightly holds on

to bree's library card

as if it were

the holy grail more

intent on purpose than

crusade he has a

lost sad look in

his eyes once they

dreamt of proust james

joyce wonka bars with

golden tickets 1960's surf

music and steamy nights

turned to

noir

peering up at the

sky you can just

tell he is looking

for the words to

find himself again as

if they were written

in the

stars

Don Winter

SONG FOR SOMEONE GONE AWAY

You have seen those who’ve begun

to ghost their lives. You see them hunched

in grocery lines or on the bus.

They have grins lost somewhere

in the folds of their tweed

faces, with fences of their teeth

broken and leaning. They have no

pocket charms against their

oblivion and they

are not going to cry about it.

Maybe they have invited

sadness as a shield against

despair. Like old dogs they

hobble home, push and pull the sheets,

knead and scrape until the have them right,

then drop down and breath out

deeply.

(Previously published in ARSENIC LOBSTER)

THE TACOMA TAVERN

is drunk with rain.

And our tables are careless

with empty bottles, cigarette ash.

And we run our fevers

up over a hundred

arm wrestling our motorcycle buddies,

drinking pitchers on one breath

for a dollar. And we try to drink enough

to lose our names.

And we make up stories to fit

the bad things, by turns hero and victim.

And the waitress acts vaguely in love

with each man. And the need for touch

is a razor-toting, cuss-tongued bad ass.

And the best sex rises from vacancies:

divorces, failed jobs, incarcerations.

And the closing time door flings open

like a warrant.

And the land tears away from us

and slides off the horizons.

(Previously published in PLAINSONGS)

Kenneth Hickey

WILD CAMPING

Woke with a hammer head ache,

in my father’s camper van,

at the centre of Listowel’s large square.

Arc eye itching.

Turned my head away,

listened to the Kerry rain’s

pitter patter

on the cold tin roof.

No sign of cats.

My mother’s voice

saying she wakes up tired.

And knew what she meant.

Neck sore from where I forgot the pillow,

Remembering the sleeping bag was hard enough.

My nadir almost complete.

The chemical toilet worked hard

with three adults reviving to the grey morning.

Dreamt of us as Ovid’s slaves,

Beloved,

and wished the world away.

A wild camping recluse.

Skipped breakfast and headed for Tralee,

The rain rushing to meet me from the reeks.

MARMALADE

The little kitten we got together

Free ads in the evening paper,

Every tumbling Tuesday,

Is lame limping.

Not eating her expensive gourmet cat food,

The half water, half milk mix untasted.

Weaning can be a bitch.

The vaccination alone was thirty quid.

Must have leapt blind

from too high a height.

Fell.

Damaged.

Taken too much of a risk.

The heady days,

Early rushing round rooms rapid,

A memory.

So now the coldness between us

sits on an animal’s shoulders.

Marmalade’s demise an omen maybe,

For more pressing,

Disquieting,

Mishaps.

Bradley Mason Hamlin

TIME IS ONLY TICKING CAUSE YOU TELL IT TOO 

Sometimes

you

are trapped

within

the poem

maybe

you want

to write

another novel

go ski drunk

on white hills of powder

that look like cocaine nirvana

or make your cavegirl have

a cave scratching orgasm

right now …

but the gods

only

give you

this.

 ZEN IN THE ART OF JAZZ

Drinking

Jack Daniels

straight from glass

to lips

no water or ice to crack

the flavor

and I must admit

I am in love

with this American whiskey

not bourbon

a purity …

only found between the legs

of your lover

if you really love her

and in the hands

and heart

of a lone jazz musician

in the embrace

of

instrument.

Henry Denander

7 AM AT THE ZEUS HOTEL

Because of a long swim in the sun yesterday and

a three-hour long siesta in the afternoon, I wake up

before 7 AM this morning.

I sneak out of the room and take a table at the front

of the hotel, overlooking the beach. No one else is

around, no guests, only Paris Theodorakidis and

his dog Astero.

Paris gets me a cup of coffee and Astero leans her

head on my leg. The small city of Tolo starts to

wake up, there are deliveries of Loutraki water,

fish, fruit and vegetables. Some early swimmers

are heading down to the beach.

After a while Paris gives me an omelet and some

bread.

I have my notebook and the book on Mycenae, I

drink coffee, pat the dog and write some stuff in

my notebook.

Stuff like this.

 (Previously published in WEEKS LIKE THIS - Bottle of Smoke Press)

THE SALMON IN THE SKY AND HOW EVERYTHING HAPPENED

No one died but a few people were injured and it was

a miracle that it didn’t end in a disaster since Stockholm was

     filled with hundreds of thousands of people. It was

The Water Festival and there were crowds of people

     everywhere; on bridges, on the islands and

          all over the city.

Strangely enough, someone‘s brainless idea of showing the

newest Swedish fighter jet and flying it over Stockholm had

          somehow been approved.

I stayed at home since I hated the crowds but when I heard

     the loud noise from the plane’s engine I walked out on the

balcony and saw a very impressive JAS 32 fly over

          our house.

Then when the plane disappeared over the roofs of the

     houses on the other side of the street suddenly

everything turned quiet. When I looked up I glimpsed

the plane turning up towards the sky and after the

     engine stopped everything was so quiet, as though

the whole city had just stopped and everyone was waiting

              for the plane to crash.

It was more than ten years ago and the feeling of someone

          just turning off the sound of the city,

     and the plane in the sky,

like a small salmon in a rushing water, showing it’s belly

          and struggling in the sun,

                            that’s what I remember.

(Previously published in WEEKS LIKE THIS - Bottle of Smoke Press)

James Quinton

FLAMES

hypnotic

wisps of

orange

dance in

the air

slivers

of

heat rising

on the

wind

hands

held out

the dark

of the night

dissolves

my eyes

transfixed

my thoughts

wander

as I

watch

the

flames

DEAD EYES AND SNATCHES

claustrophobic

tiny

space

lowered ceiling

dim

li