Three Poems by Jan Coulter

 

Our Demise

 

Night stars rend the

moon in two,

with ragged

sword of experience.

 

Her edges raw and

sharp are bleeding

a sad melody; a

refrain I have known.

 

Yet her beauty sings

through, her light,

barely dimmed by

her sorrow, which leaks

 

from wounds, of

rape and plunder, of our

land, for profit, for greed;

for our demise.

Poignant Silence

 

There is a deep pain, within a

desolate hollow, where a

heart once lived,

 

before it was given away,

without words to describe,

either presence or absence.

 

Words such as void,

Cavernous, bare.

Emptiness sticks to the senses.

 

Smell of rose turned to musk.

Taste neither sweet nor savoury, but

acrid, caustic, burning.

 

Hear the echo of

poignant silence as it

throbs inside,

 

aching chest walls, where

ribs expand and contract,

against a vast vacancy . . .

 

Perhaps, my heart will be returned,

to my time weary soul.

Perhaps, I shall befriend this quiet,

 

Perhaps, there is peace within this silence.

War

Buildings tall, bombed and burning,

flames like daggers,

stab the walls, lick her wounds,

yet, she bleeds.

 

Below this agony, shoe deep in ash,

a solitary child swings,

on a red and yellow swing set, oblivious

to the destruction, the desolate, the damned.

 

Plumes of smoke, black as ink,

exhale in deadly coughs, into

the sky, the day, the death toll, the dark; and

a red and yellow swing set.

Jan Coulter is a poet living in the Annapolis Valley of Nova Scotia, Canada. Writing from the heart, Jan weaves landscape into words, with a considered approach to detail. She is a retired cabinet maker and chair seat caner, having made fine furniture in The Arts and Crafts tradition for over 30 years.

One Poem by Victor Kennedy

 

Ode on intimations of morality

 

I went for a ride on my Sportster this afternoon

I don’t ride it much these days

I filled it up twice this summer

But it was a sunny August Sunday

 

I don’t have a vigneta so I stay off the highway

But the back roads are better anyway

Less crowded

And I don’t feel the need to go fast anymore

Well, sometimes…

 

I used to ride with friends

I enjoyed having a passenger to share the ride

But these days it’s just me

 

I like the way the engine purrs

Growls sometimes

I never felt a need for straight pipes, to share it

With everybody within a mile

 

The click of the gears when I shift

The green of the trees, the blue of the sky

The wind

 

Fifty years ago

I had the same feeling

Riding my BSA

Halfway across the world

 

It was more a social event then

I wasn’t as cautious

I remember doing my first wheelie

And sneaking into the house after midnight

To find my mother waiting up

Cross because I was bleeding on the carpet

 

I fell off a few times in those days

I had a photo somewhere of Marlene

Sitting on the grass at Bluffer’s Park

Laughing beside my Honda 350

She’d fallen off

Just as she was getting the hang of it

 

And then Lori and I lying on the road

in the middle of the intersection at Eglinton and McCowan

Beside my CB750

Where we’d hit some loose gravel in the middle of a left turn

Cars coming the other way

Honking but not stopping

 

Or the time I flew off the highway in upstate New York

I was so tired after a long drive from Toronto

I forgot to put the kickstand up after stopping at the border crossing

It grounded in a sweeping left curve

and my RD400 and I went over the edge into the Saint Lawrence River

A Good Samaritan with a rope stopped and pulled me out

while half a dozen drivers stopped to gawk

 

Now I’m careful

as I ride along, remembering,

thinking, it’s not the same now,

I feel guilty about climate change

and me just joyriding

a bike doesn’t burn much gas

but still…

 

Victor Kennedy was born in Scotland, grew up in Canada, and currently lives in Slovenia. A semi-retired Professor of English Literature, he spends his time writing poetry, walking his dog, and trying to play classical guitar.

 

Four Poems by Connie Johnson

 

Something Cool

Slim dream

Wispy, bathed in a summer

Night of the outsider blues

 

A willowy chanteuse on stage in

Mid-nod; remembering a dream

Or lost in one

 

“A cigarette?” she sings

And momentarily stuck,

She lingers there

 

“I don’t smoke them,”

Someone in the audience

Sings in reply, so cool

So cool!

 

Jazz compatriots

In a moment of shivery

Perfection. The dreamer

Cracks a grin in this

Infinitesimally small

But perfect moment

 

She is not alone

 

 

Foreign Tongue

I feel lost in Ensenada

You were supposed to meet me

In Monterrey. On this boat where the sky

And the sea are one, it’s my soul that could

Capsize without you.

 

Soul voyagers

That’s what I’ll call us 

I’m ready to learn all that I can.

 

I’ve got no desire to play tourist

Tequila and silver jewellery in my bag

Mexico is where you wanted to take me

Funky Volkswagen:  border-bound.

 

We are penniless poets, set to explore

A different language.   Tijuana or La Paz

It doesn’t matter; the point is to delve

Deeply, mostly into each other.

 

Here is where I’ll help you

To translate me; Come teach me

Your own foreign tongue.

 

 

The Travelers 

My trunks are filled with souvenirs.

I can’t carry all this shit.

 

I’m bogged down.

It takes effort just to keep my head up,

let alone all this baggage.

 

I need someone to lighten my load. 

I need to be welcomed with open arms.

I need that kiss you promised me. 

 

I need to melt & disappear among all

the other lonely ne’er-do-wells.

 

Meet me at the corner of 3^rd & Inevitability.

We can be old together now.

This city doesn’t know us. 

 

We can get lost together.

We can be beside ourselves

with joy.

 

 

Last Call

the lingering buzz of all the jazz

that’s been whispered in your ear

 

peppery notes, this smoky room

and what would you do if she walked

thru that door?  an earthquake of feeling;

the freckles on her cheeks that the

bandstand reprobates  call

angel kisses

 

a lingering buzz

an earthquake of feeling

and what would be an angel’s

requested sip?

Connie Johnson is from the USA and is based in Los Angeles, California. In 2023 she was twice-nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Everything is Distant Now (Blue Horse Press), her debut poetry collection, is available on Amazon; In a Place of Dreams, her digital album/chapbook, can be found at www.jerryjazzmusician.com                                                                          

 

One Poem by Bartholomew Barker

 

Happy Hour

Still in our dry-clean only's
my tie loosened— top button
relaxed after the work day

At a long cobbled-together table
of overlapping conversations
her voice is all I hear

Her smile framed by wine-stains
our laughter a duet conducted
with stemmed glasses

Her diamonded finger
lingers on my left hand
a little too long

Goodnight hug in the parking lot
chaste kisses on each cheek
we climb into different cars

Driving to different homes
and different spouses
as the familiar warmth fades

Leaving the understanding
that this is not unrequited
it is merely unspoken

Bartholomew Barker is one of the organizers of Living Poetry, a collection of poets and poetry lovers in the Triangle region of North Carolina. His first poetry collection, Wednesday Night Regular, written in and about strip clubs, was published in 2013. His second, Milkshakes and Chilidogs, a chapbook of food inspired poetry was served in 2017. He was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2021. Born and raised in Ohio, studied in Chicago, he worked in Connecticut for nearly twenty years before moving to Hillsborough where he makes money as a computer programmer to fund his poetry habit. www.bartbarkerpoet.com

Two Poems by Myrtle Thomas

 

An Unseen Altar 

 

can we still remember the sacrifice of our bodies?

and submitting our hearts to our natural desire.

 

I wasn't beguiled by the moonlight

          nor fooled by a deceptive tongue

                    though your eyes mystified me.

 

                                      but like the seasons fall on us

      with colour or dull winter hues and embrace us

              with their natural holy arms.

 

our  time together will remain as another season

                    one to recall in good times and bad times

                                       as fallen leaves and shooting stars.

 

                     times when the fragrance of summer pines

                                  drifted in the air and mingled with roses

                                                        it was so profoundly intoxicating .

 

you found me upon eternities altar offering myself

                              to your eyes , your hands and your heart

                                             and the wind was like a bell singing softly.

 

                    there was like a rush of red from a stone

      buried within my breast , pale and clothed in passion

                                         crowned by a circle of stars and moonlight.

 

will we ever forget the moment we died to ourselves?

and became welded to one another with our passion!

 

 

Things That I Think Of Suddenly

 

We have forgotten the sight of daylight

and walked hand in hand from dusk to dawn

tasting the sweetness of the blackberry of night

staining ourselves with the darkest hours of time.

It seems as though each footstep flees from us

and the sun and the moon revolves so quickly

spinning the fine threads of time into eternity

wiping our fingerprints from our life-

and turning them into dust in realms we can't see.

Where will we be then?

who will take our place or remember our love!

should I be fearful of what lies ahead more than-

what was behind us in our footprints?

maybe there will be a land so vast of nothing at all

only planets and scattered stars dancing in the moonlight.

If this life is all that will consume us we might never know-

more than we've had here in our breath and memory

maybe our very passion was the fire in our souls

and our blood was the ink we wrote our love with-

staining our very fingerprints on the pages of my poetry

and the wind of time recites each verse like a song.

 

Myrtle Thomas lives in the United States and is retired from a large manufacturing company. She has been published in " Otherwise Engaged Literature and Arts Journal , Writers and Readers Magazine , Literary Cocktail Magazine, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Sincere Dalliances , Ink Pantry , Masticadores USA ,  Chewers & Masticadores . She is a member of Allpoetry.com and you can find her under the Penn name Blue2U.

Three Poems by Scott Thomas Outlar

 

Administrative Leeches

Look at the chaos

wrought by social engineers

who love their trips

of petty power wielded

throughout entwined bureaucracies

in the labyrinthine corridors

of the beast system

as they sell their souls

and serve the interests

of globalist fascists

who feed rusty pennies

into their open mouths

 

The type of person

who lusts for

a position of authority

over others

is the same type of person

who has no control

pertaining to what occurs

in their own mind

 

and we are stricken

like a plague

by this swarm

of wretched creatures

 

but we no longer care

about whatever weird traumas

originally twisted their psyches

causing the creeps

to act in this fashion

serving as parasites

upon the body politic

 

we are far more concerned

with swatting them away

post haste

while we still have

the blood of liberty

coursing through our veins

 

No Villain Shall Prosper

It’s at the edge of atmospheric pressure

with a tensile brushstroke of annihilation.

 

Fingertips are unable to grasp the air’s gentle whisper

but can you not sense it anyway?

 

…

 

The trick to remaining inwardly peaceful

even as drooling tyrants torture the concepts

of freedom, liberty, and personal sovereignty on a daily basis

is to understand that every deceitful, cowardly action they take

will wind up working doubly against them in the end.

 

For it is written that as the clowns stumble

along their path of authoritarian giddiness,

they will eventually lose all balance

and fall face first into their own worldly devastation

and eternal despair.

 

Therefore, it is wise to laugh at the conduct

of those who have no shame,

for that which serves as gallows humour

to provide a mild sense of merriment during the time of chaos

will return on its investment in manifold proportion

through schadenfreude raised to the nth degree

once the cookie finally crumbles

and all the swinish scoundrels are stuffed fat with their just desserts.

Paint and Preach by Numbers

Perception forms the baseline structure for reality

fill in the blanks

dot dot dot

 

Consciousness as the driving force of creation

 

the gauge by which we measure

the lens through which we view

 

one witnesses desolation

belched over

a blackened harvest

 

another observes beads and balloons

sent soaring

in celebration

 

eye of the beholder

Scott Thomas Outlar originally hails from Atlanta, Georgia. He now resides and writes in Frederick, Maryland. His work has been nominated multiple times for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. He guest-edited the Hope Anthology of Poetry from CultureCult Press as well as the 2019-2023 Western Voices editions of Setu Mag. Selections of his poetry have been translated and published in 15 languages. He has been a weekly contributor at Dissident Voice for the past ten years. More about Outlar's work can be found at 17Numa.com.

 

Eight Haiku Poems by Samo Kreutz

 

HAIKU

 

red umbrella ...

how only her giggle

stays dry

 

wedding photo ...

between bride and groom

carnation scent

 

giant chestnut tree ...

how much has her son

blossomed

 

his fishing story

paused in silence

a breeze

 

scarlet wine ...

the way she

sighs

 

his old bones ...

that sudden urge to buy

Ferrari

 

dilapidated house ...

the faint smell of mum's

lullabies

 

tarp in the rain

my dad's words echo

how to stand tall

 

Samo Kreutz lives in Ljubljana, Slovenia. Besides poetry (which he has been writing since he was eight years old), he writes novels, short stories and haiku. He is the author of ten books in Slovene (four of them are poetry collections) and four in English (they are haiku books, the last two are titled No Bigger Than a Crumb and Forgotten for a Moment, all published by Cyberwit.net from India and are available at Amazon.com). His recent work has appeared on international websites (and journals), such as Ariel Chart: International Literary Journal, Better than Starbucks: Poetry and Fiction Journal, Green Ink Poetry, Ink Sweat & Tears: The poetry and prose webzine, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Seashores: Haiku Journal, Stardust Haiku Online Journal, The Bamboo Hut, The Heron's Nest and others.

 

Five Poems by Arvilla Fee

 

Perhaps God is Waiting for a Hallelujah

 

prim, proper—nearly stoic,

people lined into orderly pews,

dresses, stockings, ties, and suits,

voices keeping a low-key rhythm

with mouths opening and shutting

like good little fish,

the sacraments are in tidy plastic cups,

the offering baskets dutifully passed,

the three-point sermon tied with ribbon,

but

what if God is holding his breath—

what if he’s waiting for a little stirring,

a little swaying of the hips,

hands waving to heaven,

heads thrown back in abandoned;

what if he’s waiting for a glory-hallelujah,

waiting for feet to dance like David did

before the Lord,

and what if God came down and stormed

the pulpit with a hell, fire, and brimstone

sermon that shook the rafters, raised the roof,

and what if he said, Can I get an Amen?

 

Enlighten Me

 

oh, great one

full of knowledge,

I am waiting—

a blank slate

designed to absorb

your every thought;

impart your wisdom,

use big vocabulary;

I love it when you talk

            Dictionary;

I’ll spend nights

dissecting the meaning;

you, oh, cosmic one,

on your seat next to God,

how have I survived this long

without you pointing out

my every imperfection?

I’ll kiss the ground you walk on,

now that I have seen your holy shoes;

where would I be

if not under your feet?

 

The Real Planetarium

 

back on a blanket, torso exposed

to the summer’s falling dew,

fingers trace the constellations

as if they’re all brand new:

 

the Big Dipper spills some soup;

I taste it on my tongue;

Andromeda and Gemini

sing a song I’ve never sung

 

Ursa Major prowls for food,

yawning as she lumbers by;

Orion shoots an arrow;

I blow a kiss to the sky

 

Phantom Pain

 

Like a severed limb—

they say you can’t feel

the pain,

yet pain jitters like needles

stabbing the missing section

of your heart,

the chunk that broke off

and shattered like fine crystal

three seconds after the midnight call,

two seconds after the blood drained

from your face,

one second before time

cracked like a walnut

into then and now.

 

Impromptu Childhood

 

Rain peppers my windshield,

headlights on, wipers swishing.

 

I pull into the parking lot,

summon the courage

 

to disembark—so much

for doing my hair today;

 

the drowned-kitten look

is most unflattering.

 

I sigh, grab my umbrella,

getting wet before it opens.

 

I start to sidestep a puddle

but have a sudden fit

 

of inspiration—regression

maybe

 

and I stomp, as hard as I can

then jump to the next puddle

 

and stomp it too;

I must look like a woman

 

gone mad—but I continue

from puddle to puddle

 

utterly soaked to my bones

and happier than I’ve been

 

in a long, long time.

Arvilla Fee teaches English Composition for Clark State College and is the managing editor for the San Antonio Review. She has published poetry, photography, and short stories in numerous presses, including Contemporary Haibun Online, Calliope, North of Oxford, Right Hand Pointing, Rat’s Ass Review, Mudlark, and many others. Her poetry books, The Human Side and This is Life, are available on Amazon. For Arvilla, writing produces the greatest joy when it connects us to each other. To contact Arvilla or to learn more about her work, you can visit her website: https://soulpoetry7.com/