One Poem by Oliver Baer

 

91. 

The world’s crying again tonight, my child

It saw our holiday on the River of Tears

The sky laid its neck bare

A stiletto sunset sliced its contents

Over julienned clouds

The big black curtain of night

Cut off our light

Diced phonics fell into your ear to reveal

I got knives

We ate our funnel cake

In that carnival hallway

Between the river and the forest

The water pared you away from me

Strips of shawarma floating ever onward

It was a jackknife evening

Options folded in on each other

Medea’s choices locked in line

I walked back to the forest

The wailing trees ate away my grief

Darkness skewered me to the path of the next river

Awash in forgetfulness I greeted my changeling

So, slip into a switchblade sleep, my changeling child

Dream while the world is weeping.

Oliver Baer was the editor for Cthulhu Sex Magazine and Two Backed Books. He mostly writes dark poetry and horror stories with the occasional blog post, review, essay and play. His poetry has appeared in Goodreads Best Poems 2020, The Long-Islander, Hear We Are, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Punk Noir Magazine, Paper Teller Diorama, Horror Between the Sheets, Horror Writers Association Poetry Showcase Vol. II and other publications. His stories have appeared in April Grey’s anthologies as well as Even in the Grave, Trembling With Fear and Soul Scream Antholozine, Vol. I. He has two books out, Letters to the Editor of Cthulhu Sex Magazine and Baer Soul. He was the writer for Deena Warner’s Halloween Card project in 2021. He also has a CD of poetry set to music, Gathering Souls by A Conclave of Baer, which became a show in NYC. He has appeared as an indescribable horror from the depths and his likeness has appeared on tv and film. He can be found in the virtuality on social media: https://twitter.com/obaer and https://www.facebook.com/obaer3 and much of his work can be found at http://tentacularity.wordpress.com

 

Two Poems by John Doyle

 

Ronnie James Dio

Some kids in school hated 

Ronnie James Dio -

not me.

Ronnie James Dio 

called it straight-up 

with the wisdom

of men with long-white beards 

and stooping shoulders. 

Girls with tacky perfume called Sonia

slipped their way round carnivals in 1989

in white pumps and stonewash jeans

turning into demons like Medusa

at sundown.

Kids in school hated Ronnie,

just because he called out broads like Sonia and boys in envelope lips of uselessness

needing girls like Sonia to

keep their bedtimes

half-alive -

girls like Sonia who sailed across silver bubbling seas with the carnies

every summer, to clutch a few puritans on the way. 

We played football in the park

when the carnies arrived,

set-up their tents and dodgem grids.

We'd sneak back, watch them drinking;

how they'd kick their animals for fun, laughing, 

starting fires where we played; so we

cursed them like lyrics straight from 

The Last In Line.

Ronnie James Dio called it out -

exactly as it was,

carnies those demons hanging on shards of pentagram pendants, 

girls called Sonia 

in white pumps and stonewash jeans 

taking teenage boys' souls 

at sundown. 

Not me, 

with Ronnie shoulder high

on a snow-white dragon

breathing fire beside me,

warding off loveless nerds

and warlocks’ molls

named Sonia

Maxell Blank Cassette Mix Tape of Power Ballads Done to Impress Gretta the Kitchen Attendant in Work, 1995

A war is coming, a plague will foresee its demise,

I can't find a few of my shoes,

a friend from the Crimean front arrives today,

we should've had a kettle on,

I ignored everything .

I listened to Alfred's nephew Robin 

try his hand at Bob Dylan songs.

Stop digging John; sat myself and the rest of me

beside some lost cat

and someone else's kitten,

told them about Meath St. and the Liberties in April 2018.

A tower-block stood where Tom's grocery-yard was,

a memorial to turpentine, 

Fred Astaire, and Communist party newspapers

blowing, blowing...

landing outside the munitions factory.

Five score and fifty-seven tons clay are shovelled away in the Garden of Eden, 

I know momma, I know poppa,

I'll write a letter to the secretary general, I will, honest,

I'll write a letter to the rhythm and blues singer,

to the people who stole my shoes,

to the kids in old newspapers looking for penpals

to write them in Washington D.C. 

tell me how they love their dogs and cats, their gramps,

David Cassidy and Shirley Jones. I'm nearing Australia now

as I look up, my adjutant hands me down a mug of Joe 

I've had a Jones for, since David Windsor withered and died.

I climb out, still no shoes, 

a friend from the Crimean front gone again. I sigh, clasp my mug,

ready for alchemist deeds 

like conjuring Maxell blank cassette mix tapes 

of power ballads, done to impress Gretta the kitchen attendant in work -

honestly, Gretta’s such a drag, 

laughing, playing with her hair,

her husband saying nothing about precious little

gives Detective Sturgess enough rope to go hang someone else;

sure won’t be me I scream to myself,

lipstick saying INRI on my sunken chest - 1995 so horribly passe

John Doyle is from County Kildare in Ireland. He returned to writing poetry in February 2015 after a gap of nearly 7 years. Since then he's had 7 poetry collections published. His 7th collection, "Isolated Incidents" was published by Pski's Porch in Summer 2021.

 

Two Poems by Dana Trick

 

Playing With My Poem-Heart  

 

We were strangers once, yes, 

But poetry wove us together. 

 

I wrote lines of friendship, philosophy, life, hypocrisy, 

Joy, sorrow, struggle, identity, anger, and art— 

Then you wandered into my side 

And eagerly devoured each verse and stanza  

With praise and constructive criticism.  

 

You my treasured editor, me your favourite poet.  

 

Poems that used to come monthly 

Came weekly then daily then hourly— 

And you were always ready to love my dirty shitty drafts. 

 

Soon I started to write of the sun and moon dancing in the sky, 

The fragile existence of a lonely flower and fleeting hummingbirds, 

The want and need tangling in each other.  

 

I couldn’t stop giving you my poems just to see you smile, 

Crooning under my woven words. 

I wanted to give flowers and kisses, 

Whisper verses in your ear and your ear alone. 

 

I realized too late I love you.  

 

Then, on a monotone night, 

I saw you in bed with another, 

Who gave you pleasure upon pleasure  

On your sweet and soft body— 

Something I couldn’t give or be able to. 

 

I ran away, 

And I wrote this with discarded tears  

Of a broken bleeding heart.

  

 

Bows and Arrows Are the Perfect Love Poems  

Only a wound carved from arrowheads  

Are the most reasonable metaphor of love. 

 

A careless aim, 

A impulsive shot, 

Then you are unable 

To move your arms and legs 

Like you used to. 

 

A random target, 

A chance moment,  

Then your memories are forever marred  

By rose petals.  

 

An unstable string, 

A wobbly balance, 

Then it seems you cannot exist without  

The pain and the passion.  

 

A single last kiss can still leave you bleeding.

Dana Trick - Born 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 any day. Besides writing, she spends/wastes her day by either reading weird books and comics; researching history because she is an historian with a degree to prove it; drawing crappy art and comics that she posts on deviantART under Silencedbook9; and watching an unhealthy amount of cartoons, anime, and Youtube videos. Her work has been published online--in the Art of Autism, the Lothlorien Poetry Journal, The Kolkata Arts, The Writer Shed, The Writers Club, and The Ugly Writers—as well as in print anthologies: the 2018 Moorpark College Print Review, the Poets’ Choice Realm of Emotions, Free Spirit’s Historic Tales, Wingless Dreamer’s My Glorious Quill and The Book of Black, Dragon Soul Press' Organic Ink vol. 5, and The Ravens Quote Press upcoming Balm 2 anthology. She wishes the reader a nice day.