Five Poems by Dana Trick

 

Ladies of the Moon

 

Chang’e of the mourning and remembering,

Watching the world move and humans living and dying,

Dreaming in memories and yearning in vain.

 

Ix Chel of the star-weaving and healing,

Face of scars carrying burdens, hopes, and loves,

Letting them flow or fade as the nights go on and on.

 

Kaguya of the bamboos and mountains,

Peacefully in solitude and oblivion yet

Flecks of memories still cling desperately on the feathers.

 

Artemis of hunting and resilience,

Persistence and defiance celebrated,

Solace and solidarity given.

 

Coyolxauhqui of the wrath and hunger,

Always moving for death means submission,

Always fighting because one has to.

Painted Demon’s Rouge Vanity

 

The eyes are quick to judge and condemn

For certain shades and certain shapes.

 

“Looks don’t matter—”

If beauty is surely a sign of virtue,

Then why are rotten vices framed in gold?

 

“It’s who you are that matters—”

If ugliness is such a sign of a worthy person,

Then why must we constantly cover up with too tight clothes and itchy masks

Just to get treated like a person?

 

If only such pretty prose and poetry

Were ever enough to hide such vile hypocrisy.

 

Do not blame me if your loyal spouse and friends and family

Follow/stalk me—

Think of it of me ridding you of jealous poisons and unfaithful oaths.

 

Selkie’s Beauty

 

Why should we be locked-down

On a certain default ordered by someone else?

 

Why should we chain down a certain appearance

For careless and vain ones?

 

Why should we imprison ourselves to certain preference

When it is our life to live?

 

When there’s abundance of variety in the world—

The array of textures in fur, scales, blubber, feathers, and skin to touch;

The array of shapes in curves, circles, lines, and muscles to feel;

The array of color in every hue of the holy and worthy earth to behold—

We will not play the fool in displeasure.

 

So,

C’mon,

Unlock your hidden cloaks inside your cheats,

Then walk-fly-swim out of the warden’s vanity cage.

 

C’mon,

Laugh in defiance,

Sing in rebellion,

Breath in loveliness.

 

Ash-Girl

 

Heart bright with so much kindness

That cruel people are compelled to cover it with ash.

 

Constantly working and cleaning

To receive snide comments and shallow critiques

As displays of love.

 

It’s easy for a gentle flame to burn quickly without ash

But some stay bright and warm despite the wounds and tears.

Perhaps they are too exhausted and traumatized to be rude.

 

Nonetheless,

Goodness comes to them in the end,

From a doll, some bones, a grave, some birds, a tree, a nanny.

 

A few nights dressed in the beautiful clothes and fine jewels

Can make a lifetime of kindness worth it and the future seem brighter.

 

Baba Yaga

 

Listen closely to your baba, child,

For she has lived in darkness for some time.

 

There are people who preach

That beatings and bruises are symbols of love,

That degrading comments and conditional kindness are words of love,

That forced labor that break bones and shreds skin are action are actions of love—

When they are not.

 

It’s good to be kind and hardworking,

But it’s reckless to be naïve.

 

With my spells, with my wisdom,

I shall help you grow into a terrifying salvation

So that people will both be thankful and afraid of you.

Dana Trick - A first-generation Mexican-Canadian-American autistic biromantic-demisexual with ADHD, Dana Trick lives in Southern California where it is clearly foolish to wear black every day. Besides writing, she spends/wastes her day by either reading weird books; researching history because she has a history degree; drawing art and comics that she posts on deviantART under Silencedbook9; and watching cartoons, anime, and Youtube videos. Her work has been published online--Art of Autism, the Lothlorien Poetry Journal, The Kolkata Arts, The Writer Shed, Anvil Tongue Books, confetti, The Writers Club, and The Ugly Writers, Confetti—as well as in print anthologies by The Poets’ Choice and Wingless Dreamer; The Moorpark College Print Review; Other Worldly Women Press’ Behind Closed Doors; Free Spirit’s Historic Tales; Dragoon Soul Press’ Organic Ink Volume 5; The Ravens Quote Press’ Balm 2; Quillkeepers Press’ Inspired and Mythos and Lore; and RAW: Race & Disability Zine Anthology. She wishes the reader a nice day.

Five Poems by Jon Wesick

 

Gerbils Hijack Bongo Skins

 

Seems you can’t visit an espresso bar

without the rustle of tiny feet

on wood shavings. Watermelons

and Neville Chamberlain’s bus schedule

downplay the pickaxe in Trotsky’s skull

and their Louis XIV bifocals

send my gallium through the Karman line.

 

I spread honey on blackjack tables

but Saddam’s nukes stole the cards.

In the kangaroo court of public opinion,

crack babies declare Ferguson will bestow

food pellets and that the lampshades

were asking for it all along

 

 

Runaround

(sung to “I Get Around” by the Beach Boys)

Runaround, round, round, they run me round

Yeah, runaround, runaround, they run me round

From frown to frown, they run me round

I’m so sick of these clowns

My credit card bill looked a little odd

So I phoned it in to report a fraud

 

Listen to the menu cause the options have changed

Press 1 for balance and 2 to pay

For help press 6 though there’ll be a wait.

They put me on hold. I’m eighty-fifth in line

While my FICO score sinks like a diamond mine

 

Runaround, round, round, they run me round

Yeah, runaround, runaround, they run me round

From frown to frown, they run me round

I’m so sick of these clowns

 

A service rep greets me like an old friend

Then the phone cuts out so I dial again

I’m on hold once more. Number ninety-nine

My blood pressure spikes above the Karman line

 

Runaround, round, round, they run me round

Yeah, runaround, runaround, they run me round

From frown to frown, they run me round

I’m so sick of these clowns

 

Ballad of the Man with a Small Chin

 

I splash on the aftershave of hopelessness

with its scent of divorce papers

and child support payments.

 

I fantasize kisses of recrimination

and the disco beat of mortgage payments

but the two-faced god of reason and detachment

denies even that dopamine hit to its priesthood.

 

Grateful for the stillness. Grateful

for the lamp illuminating this monk’s cell.

The magic glow of friendship

so precious, so fleeting

 

First-World Problem

 

Pain! Blinding pain!

The pressure an ice pick

inexorably piercing my ear drum

as the airplane descends.

No screams, curses, gum,

or frantic swallowing helps.

 

Once was once too many.

A half dozen and I learn my lesson.

Never fly with a head cold.

 

When I buy a non-refundable ticket,

it never fails. Two weeks before departure

a conspiracy of coughs and sniffles

choose seats next to mine.

 

I wake with a scratchy throat at 3:00 AM,

guzzle fruit juice and pots of tea.

Weak, dizzy, my sinuses a battlefield.

My cold moves from throat to head

to chest and back again.

Doctors, no help.

 

$1600 for a flight to nowhere?

Ticket in hand I stare at the phone.

 

What About Me?

 

Late night at the physics lab

all quiet except for the slap-slap

of the copier printing hundreds of resumes.

Little chance of a job despite ten years in college.

How insensitive of me not to worry

about Hollywood’s unrealistic body images!

 

My arms leaden. How can I earn a living

when fifteen minutes on the keyboard leaves me

in agony? The orthopedist tells me,

“Go to a medical library and figure something out,”

Workers Comp offers me two-weeks’ pay

but what about teens on social media?

 

“These numbers have to come down!”

the program manager sneers.

My cost estimate is higher

than the number he pulled out of his ass.

Should I call the fraud-and-abuse hotline

or just quit my job? But what about

safe spaces, trigger warnings,

and cultural appropriation?

 

The stabbing pain in my hip

keeps me awake all night. Obamacare

emails they’ve cancelled my insurance.

I scream for hours over the phone

but what about diversity at Harvard?

 

After a dozen tests, MRIs,

and doctor visits, my neck tumor

has to come out. I have no one

to drive me home after surgery.

Your social justice never cared

about me

 

 

Jon Wesick - Hundreds of Jon Wesick’s poems and stories have appeared in journals such as the I-70 Review, New Verse News, Paterson Literary Review, and Unlikely Stories. He is a regional editor of the San Diego Poetry Annual and host of the Gelato East Fiction Open Mic as well as the NAV Arts poetry reading. His latest short story collection is Saint John the Blasphemer. He lives in Manchester, New Hampshire and longs for gene editing to bring giant wombats back from extinction. http://jonwesick.com

 

 

 

 

Three Poems by Deborah A. Bennett

 

Praise Song for Eve 

glorious the tree 

glorious the fruit

glorious the color

that collected the eye 

glorious the juice

running down

sticky and sweet

glorious the seeker

of wisdom 

glorious the garden 

and the wilderness 

glorious the God of 

the naked

and the clothed 

glorious flower and root 

glorious thorn and thistle 

glorious the west and the east 

glorious the taste of the fruit 

and the seed

Ars Poetica 

what love is to grow 

what moon is to the river 

in the palm

to exhale 

to be bodiless 

where mad with joy

or sorrow

steeped in vine 

or briar

where all reason glows 

in simplicity 

where the world's out 

of the eye

where in the burning 

where in the cool of the day 

where in the bough

where in the root

where light sings 

where laughter breaks 

in its stems

fills the petal folds 

with sun and dew 

where in the heart 

makes flesh of heaven 

spirit of earth

where in the head

tangles round and waits 

where in the mouth

blooms with thorns 

and with leaves

sweet and ripe

as an apricot 

broken open

The Body's Argument 

ourselves unknown 

even to ourselves 

the body  the cocoon 

the knowledge of change 

the first thought after worm 

wings of the last sky

the first thought after rapture 

roses of the last sky 

zinnias  chrysanthemums 

lilies  daisies 

any sweetness anywhere 

through any field 

a restlessness  an emptiness 

wide as the bee's 

as the hummingbird's 

scent of honeysuckle 

as the wind of summer nectar 

dripping from our mouths 

all day  all days 

everywhere  the wholeness 

we want  we want  we want 

more of the body 

beyond this body 

birds of the last sky

Deborah A. Bennett is an Illinois-based poet whose work has most recently appeared in Wales Haiku Journal, Heron's Nest and Africa Haiku Network's Mamba Journal.