Five Poems by Paul Tristram

 

Time For Repercussions

 

Oooh, ‘Emotional Annihilation’

and ‘Sadistic Submission’

… hang on a minute,

I’m just gonna run and fetch

myself a paper napkin…  I’m

beginning to drip and dribble.

The term ‘Arachnophobia’

also covers Scorpions…

I can make both the pincer

arms on my tattoo move Alive.

Having a ‘Soft Spot For Ya’

is a little misleading…

what she actually means is

… you all dressed up smart

in ‘Cognitive Immobility’…

sounds like (Dreamboat) Goals.

“Awww, your cute/upset face

… we may never speak again!”

Obviously, I only agreed

to Scaffold you Dyadically

… so I could be the one ‘Hand

-ing’ you the ‘Crucifixion Nails’.

 

Guards Down

 

… we were laying

there

(all cwtched up)

listening to 

the torrential rain

battering

the windows…

when she said

(in a warm,

contented voice)

“I cannot

get any closer

to you,

it’s impossible.”

And, I replied

“Keep trying

… my sweetheart.”

 

Out Of The Fog

 

‘Acceptance’ can be a ‘Gateway’

to either a new found ‘Dignity’

or castrated ‘Meekness’…

depending upon Foundational

Character/Personality.

You do not NEED ‘Advice’,

nor to follow ‘Instruction’

or ‘Direction’ to Not do Wrong.

Even when the ‘Right Way’

is Obscured by Choices, Fears,

and Self-Sabotaging Reactions

… the ‘Darker Pathway’…

always remains crystal CLEAR.

‘Loop Back Around’… Life’s

Circles… Stronger, Wiser, and

Spiritually Advanced each time.

“I’m Still Growing”… leaves

room for E-X-P-A-N-S-I-O-N…

‘Ego’ is always a Drunk Driver

to each Learning Curve…

I will not dip or rise to meet you

I’m focused on my own Journey. 

 

Getting Back To Neutral

 

(Alquemie) ‘Dissolution’

… buoyancy…

graceful as you riSE

… upwards…

from the Ashes of

your former (shelf) self.

You Burned

‘Sober’… and, now,

complete ‘Faith’

in your unique Journey

and very own Footsteps

going F-O-R-W-A-R-D

… will carry you

Elevating higher…

than the ‘Grounding’

need for ‘Earthly’

Promises or Bible Pages.

 

Intro… Interlude… Outro

 

… ‘crops fail’

(start as you mean to go on)

 

… that silent witness

The Moon…

answers my questions

(intuitively)

with Soul-Shivers for ‘Yes’

… nothing for ‘No’…

and a hollow, silver,

metallic taste for ‘Maybe’

… it’s truer than Dice,

quicker than Runes,

and almost as sharp

as (single card) Cartomancy.

 

I never ‘Kiss’ mean people

(once discovered)

… not even… Goodbye.

Paul Tristram is a widely published Welsh writer who deals in the Lowlife, Outsider, and Outlaw genres.  He wrote his first poem as a teenager following his release from the (Infamous) Borstal ‘HMP Portland’, and he has been creating Literary Terrorism ever since.

 

One Poem by Barbara Godin

 

The Last Day

The morning sun was exhilarating.

It was the time of day before reality set in

That moment between sleep and wake.

Time was slipping away.

How much time do we have?

Will today be our last day together?

Sadness overtakes me.

Please give us one more day.

Words are still unsaid.

Children need to be told.

Parents need to be told.

I need you with me.

How will I go on without you?

I dress and comb my hair quickly.

I know you are waiting for me.

Waiting to say goodbye.

How can we say goodbye?

We didn’t have enough time.

Goodbye is a horrible word.

I drove to the hospital.

You are waiting with a smile.

I hold back the tears and touch your hand.

Your eyes slowly close.

Tears flow down my face.

I lay with you.

We are together one last time.

 

Barbara Godin received her B.A. from Athabasca University, Edmonton, Alberta Canada. She began writing her popular “Dear Barb” column in 2003. In 2019 Barbara won the first-place award in a short article contest from the prestigious Professional Writers Association of Canada (PWAC) for “Mary’s Story.”

Barbara is the author of five books. "Dear Barb: Answers to Your Everyday Questions" "Glimpses in Time: A Collection of Memoirs and More" also "Dear Barb 2: Advice for Daily Life” “Can I Come HOME Now?" is a bestselling memoir of her life. Barbara’s latest book “Seasons of the Heart” a collection of poetry. Barbara was born in Windsor Ontario Canada. She now resides in Chatham Ontario Canada with her husband and their ginger cat aptly named "Prince Harry." Visit Barbara's website at barbgodin.com, she is also on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter.

One Poem by Moe Seager

 

Oblivion Magic

 

Unity

Bread to the mouth

Milk to the lips

Tongue to the nipple

Tender loin bathes in the honey of your hive

Tender pleasures our lives

Separate and shared

Under my sun, your moon

Round as butt cakes

Cupped in my hands

Yours upon my cheeks

Descending

The deep wells of your eyes

Fires of orgasm and prayer

Burning us to death

And rebirth

We give one to another

That we may lie and rise again

Horizons broad

As curved shoulders

We clutch with melting fingers

In the final moment

Letting go

Everything precious

This life gives us

Such short time

Moe Seager

From Moe's collection We Want Everything, Onslaught press.

Moe Seager is a poet and jazz & blues vocalist who sings his poems on stages in Paris, New York and elsewhere and has recorded 2 jazzpoetry c.d.s. Moe is the Paris Jazz Poet Laureate.

Seager founded and hosts Angora Poets (Paris) World Café,100 Thousand Poets for Change Paris and is one of the coordinators for le Fédération des Poètes Paris.

He has 5 collections of poetry and currently publishes with Onslaught press, Oxford, U.K. Other poetry collections are issued from the French Ministry of Culture –

Dream Bearers,1990.

One World, Cairo Press –in Arabic translation, 2004

We Want Everything in French translation, les Temps des Cirises, Paris, 1994

Perhaps, La Maison de la Poesie, Grenoble, France, 2006

Fishermen and Pool Sharks Busking editions, London, 1992

Additionally Seager won a Golden Quill Award (USA) for investigative journalism,1989 and received an International Human Rights award from the Zepp foundation, 1990.

He teaches writing in Paris.

Keep the Beat on the Pulse of Life!

Moe Seager

http://www.facebook.com/moe.seager

http://www.myspace.com/bluenotemetaphor

http://moe-seager.blogspot.com

Five Senryu Poems by Barbara Anna Gaiardoni

 

Five Senryu Poems

my life force
simply fled my body
before it shattered

from almond biscuits
to a molted chocolate cake
discover everything

tear the earth
completely into pieces
laughing or crying?

nuclear breeze sends child into a sneezing fit

the mushies know what I need 

 

Barbara Anna Gaiardoni alias @bag is winner of the First Prize 2023 “Zheng Nian Cup” National Literature Price and finalist of the Edinburgh “Writings Leith” contest. She receveid two nominations for the Touchstone Award 2023, recognized on the Haiku Euro Top 100 list for 2023 and on The Mainichi’s Haiku in English Best 2023. Her Japanese-style poems has published in 146 international journals. They are been translated on Japanese, Romanian, Arabic, Malayalam, Hindi, French, Chinese, Korean, Turkic and in Spanish languages. Drawing, swimmer and walking in nature are her passions. "I can, I must, I will do it” her motto.

http://barbaragaiardoni.altervista.org/blog/haikuco-2/

 

 

Five Poems by Sterling Warner

 

Waltzing Towards Atlantis

Sepia pen and ink mermaids
swim across my canvas
luscious locks of auburn hair
levitate off bare shoulders
drift in irregular currents
allowing tail fins to stabilize
lithe dancing bodies long enough
to captivate a seafarer’s fancy
demonstrating, encouraging desirability

transforming into seals or humans
shapeshifting once again as nereids
ever inviting, always beyond reach.

Rise, rise, rise up through the depths
enter my saltwater dreamscape
requite romantic notions of oceanic trysts
reclining on coral beds like a coma reducer
we’ll share childhood secrets, reveal adult fantasies,
pantomime our aqua lust beyond seaweed and kelp
move closer and closer until fingertips touch,
pursed lips release bubbles, and laughter
generates tsunamis that cleanse my emotional prison

like Heracles flushing filth from Aegean stables
passion shall invigorate our oxygen deprived lungs
as maritime nymphs sing and reinforce siren resolve.

 

Motor Cards

 

Playing cards clipped to bicycle wheels

one eyed jacks motorize the rear

while all four aces shuffle on front spokes

drowning out early morning sparrows and wrens

slicing though dew laden streets

clickety clack, clickety clack, clickety clack

announcing my roadway prominence

weaving in and out of imaginary traffic

hands free from the handlebars

defying safety and parental rules

flirting with girls who stroll to school

in cotton dresses, waving as I zip pass them

smug as a biker sans leather… sans Harley

tires increasing momentum—wind at my back.

Clytemnestra’s Venue

 

Sultry laughter soared above

squeezebox-like voices in the lobby

personality echoed wall to wall as I

sought out Clytemnestra’s faceless figure,

legendary, alluring, exotic without form

as ever present as a phantom sirens

haunting mezzanines, balconies

and lobbies with effervescent persistence.

 

Over my shoulder a cool breeze whispered

curious thoughts in stereo, tickling both ears

 

turning I beheld a woman as enchanting as Circe,

spiritual as Dante’s Beatrice, chill as Helen of Troy;

a halo enveloped her body and shimmered

like moonlight glancing off virgin snowflakes

I stared. She smiled. We both began to speak—

 

then stopped—blushing in tandem, our mouths

refused dialog locking eyes in a mutual gaze.

 

Misreading her countenance as consent assured

when I reached out to touch her lustrous apparition

any semblance of corporal substance melted

into shadows although her voice—soft, distinct,

sultry, and pure—seethed up floorboards,

bounced off the ceiling frescos, vibrated

stain glass windows, and settled in rafters

out of hands reach, by memory eternalized.

 

 

Sidewalk Blizzards

 

Long before a gross-out contest 

with Mötley Crüe when Ozzy Osborne

snorted ants through a Jackson like a line of cocaine

 

Sammy sucked up rank and file travellers

along pheromones trails with her Ryobi

hand vacuum, watching the herculean insects

scale the transparent sides fighting

the intake draw, thrown into circle

as if attempting to navigate the eye

of a tornado—sans Dorothy, sans Toto—

looking for scented pathways and exits

their confined existence in the dust

busting penitentiary jostling for space,

competing with fluff balls, dirt, lint,

and whisk broom straw, claiming

microscopic space, steadying themselves

to ride out a storm driven by passion 

fuelled by Sammy’s cordless cleaner

 

screaming the lyrics to “Crazy Train”

eyes wide-open, lungs breathing heavy, she

stalked daylight pests like the Prince of Darkness.

Tanya’s Spin

 

We climbed the monkey bars during recess

watched the girls twirl in circles

on a cold, grey turning bar; around

 

& around they’d spin like circus acrobats

picking up momentum, daring peers

to follow their lead—regardless of age

size, height, or dress; Tanya walked

to the bar every day, stared at steel—

ever a challenge, never at ease;

though plumper than most girls,

she looked quite adult, long hair

cascading down shoulders that one day

would strut runways. We’d coax Tanya on,

till one morning she mounted the beasty,

left knee link around the bar, ready

for action; moments later she hung

upside down, her flowery dress

covering a torso (that dared to be great)

like a reverse umbrella, leaving

the sight of a chubby leg clinging

to the twirl bar, revealing pink flesh

 

through three holes in cotton underwear

—something we laughed about while sucking face

during high school, both seeking to reach third base.

Sterling Warner - A Washington-based author, poet, educator, and Pushcart Nominee, Sterling Warner’s works have appeared in such literary magazines, journals, and anthologies as the Galway Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, Lothlórien Poetry Journal, Ekphrastic Journal Review, and Medusa’s Kitchen. Warner’s volumes of poetry include Rags and Feathers, Without Wheels, ShadowCat, Edges, Memento Mori, Serpent’s Tooth, Flytraps: Poems, “Cracks of Light: Pandemic Poetry & Fiction, Halcyon Days: Collected Fibonacci (2023) and Abraxas: Poems (2024)—as well as Masques: Flash Fiction & Short Stories.  He currently writes, hosts “virtual” poetry/fiction readings, turns wood, and enjoys fishing and boating along the Hood Canal.

 

Three Poems by Julie A. Dickson

 

No roommate, no cry

 

How peaceful it is,

lying in bed with only the sound

of morning, a few birds, wind

ruffling branches, perhaps a car

rolling by on its way somewhere.

 

I have no roommate, been alone

for a few years now, actually

I sleep much better, wake up

on my own, no one else there,

no snoring or wrestling for covers.

 

It’s ok. Don’t feel sorry for me.

I was married, perhaps you were too,

more than once for me, and a few

roommates or partners along the way

until I decided to stay by myself.

 

There may be times when I feel it,

a bit lonely, but I can choose friends,

family to be with, instead of a constant

presence; now the house is quiet

unless I want it to make noise.

 

 

Get over it

 

Sitting in jungle, strangely quiet

leg stinging from shrapnel,

around him all dead –

his buddies.

 

Why him?

He sees the vision nightly,

Survivor guilt, they call it –

he felt unworthy

 

to survive when no one else did.

Back in the states, they sent him

to therapy, to groups, gave him drugs,

told him to get over it

 

but the picture was forever etched,

burned into his retinas, whenever

his eyes closed. No alcohol or drugs

dulled the memory.

 

Get over it?

He would gladly like to forget,

or transcend, as the therapists say –

how does one do that?

 

 

Thinking aloud at 2:00 am

 

Cigarettes, God and alcohol

 

seem to be topics of poems, or conversation,

as if one has anything to do with the other,

alcohol too – perhaps mind-altering substances

allow some to feel closer to a deity that cannot see,

one that may not be there at all, but they can’t cope

with the idea that they own their destinies, that

being alone is part of being alive and human.

 

Food, life on other planets and sleep

 

or the lack of sleep in my case, being a light sleeper,

one that lies awake at 2 am, wondering whether

thrashing around is better than getting up for a snack

or reading to clear my mind of daily detritus, like broken

bits of asteroids in space, mind fragments travel to other

worlds where the origin of humans might be.

 

Makes sense, can’t prove anything, Show me

 

I’m from Missouri, they say…if I cannot see or touch,

it doesn’t exist, except that the earth does, with all its pain,

joy, loss, work, barking dogs, playing children and death.

Some feel the need to question everything, need a reason

to live. Perhaps we had better just live for today, in case

there is nothing out there, if this is all there is – this earth,

this life, with no answers, no one listening after all. 

 

 

Julie A. Dickson advocates for captive elephants, writes poetry from art prompts, nature and memories and shares her home with two rescued cats named Cam and Jojo. Her poems appear often in journals such as Ekphrastic Review, Tiger Moth, Blue Heron Review and Lothlorien, full length works are available on Amazon. Dickson is a push cart nominee, former coordinator of 100 Thousand Poets for Change, past poetry board member and is still writing after 50 years.

One Poem by John Yamrus

 

he tended to

 

forget

that (more than anything)

 

life

is a condition,

 

and

things like

hunger, cold and death

 

are only

elements of that condition.

 

so,

when she came to him,

giving off a music that had no sound,

 

he was

confused, scared

and more than a little bit sad.

 

he

looked at her and said:

 

this is

all just a mistake...

 

a sentimental idea

that does none of us any good.

 

she

was naked...

 

he

was sad...

 

and

the morning light

coming thru the window

 

had nothing more to add.

John Yamrus - In a career spanning more than 50 years as a working writer, John Yamrus has published 39 books. He has also had more than 3,500 poems published in magazines and anthologies around the world. A number of his books and poems are taught in college and university courses. He is widely considered to be a master of minimalism and the neo-noir in modern poetry.  His two most recent books are the memoir THE STREET and a volume of poetry called PEOPLE (AND OTHER BAD IDEAS). In addition, 3 of his books have been published in translation.

The Monday Jar - Flash Fiction Story by Lorette C. Luzajic

 

The Monday Jar

Flash Fiction Story

by Lorette C. Luzajic

 

The jar was plain enough, standing out from the others for its lack of adornment. The rest were elaborate patterned enamel swirls and flowers, old Turkish treasures with sensual, curved necklines and flared spouts. Another had glass as light as a bird’s skeleton, exquisitely etched by a master hand. The shopkeeper had an eye, to be sure, but the one that caught her attention was sturdy and serviceable, off-white, ceramic, with a mouth wide enough for her hand.

 

Penny loved rifling through junk shops for curious objects and beautiful ornaments. When she pulled into the plaza, it was the medical mart she was after. Ted needed special socks for his swollen ankles, and new rubber tips for his cane. A neighbour had suggested this place for its impressive selection. Penny couldn’t help noticing the collectibles corner at the end of the strip, a welcome distraction after rows of hemorrhoid donuts and bandages.  Today she passed over the allure of yesterday’s crackling leather-bound hymn collections, and jaunty fascinator millinery. She reached for the simplest vase.

 

Ten bucks. Perfect.

 

“You sure about this one?” asked the fellow at the front. There was something peculiar about his affect, and his angles, everything sharp and jittery. 

 

“I am,” Penny said. She waited for his upsell speech. The enamel vases were no doubt more than $100. He took her money, but he hesitated then. “This jar comes with an apparent curse,” he said. “I could show you a nice milk jug. Is it for flowers?”

 

Penny shrugged off her annoyance. Antique people were all a little odd and many had strange beliefs. They lived in the past, after all, a world of folklore and things half-known, and it was part of the enchantment you were seeking when you bought old things. Today’s assembly line stuff did not have the same spirits and stories.

 

“What kind of curse?” she asked. She couldn’t help herself. If she was buying a genie with her bottle, all the better, she thought. But this particular jug was not so exotic and not very old. It was probably made in a small factory a state or two away, and just a few decades ago. 

 

“I do not know the nature of the curse,” the thin man said. “But this jar is always returned to us. We are of course happy to refund our unsatisfactory products …” He tapped with sharp fingers a notice for ten day returns. “However, the small expense doesn’t seem to be the problem here.”

 

“Well, what is the problem?” Penny asked.

 

“We aren’t sure,” the man said gravely. “The last several owners have all said this jar ruined their life.”

 

“I’ll take that chance,” she said lightly, stuffing the jug into bag with Ted’s new socks. 

 

Driving home, she felt a bit of excitement. She had already talked to Ted about the Monday Jar. It was something from a talk show she had seen, a concept for couples designed to “invite intimacy back into your marriage.” The idea was fairly straightforward. You put your fantasies and fun ideas on little pieces of paper. Every Monday, you randomly pulled one from the jar. And that week, you found ways and time to bring the fantasy to life, together.

 

Ted thought the Monday Jar sounded a bit like dirty dice, those corny smut novelties you rolled that might land on “kiss” and “toes.” But he was still game. Like Penny, he wondered where the years had gone and how they had both grown soft and veiny around the edges. Ted managed diabetes and Penny shared the woes of his neuropathy, hers a gift from the chemotherapy she survived. Pleasure wasn’t often on their minds, so he thought that a saucy game that could get them naked more often wasn’t a bad idea.

 

Being more playful together appealed to Penny, too. They had weathered the temptations and monotonies of married love rather nicely, when so many couples, if they stayed together at all, never made love, and acted so bitterly towards each other. She and Ted could be sad or frustrated like anyone else, but they worked to cherish each other rather than grow into enemies.  Sex was of course different and less frequent than when they were newlyweds, and modified by their various aches and woes, but they still found ways to connect and love.

 

The first few weeks were promising. The tab that Ted pulled from the jar put a twinkle in his eye. They were more touchy feely than usual after that. The Monday after Penny pulled a paper out, they both braved the sex toy supermarket, laughing together while feeling all kinds of buzzing plastic and gooey unguents. They took delight over being the oldest couple in those glossy aisles. 

 

It was tough to pinpoint when things started to disintegrate in the rush of lust and laughter, or when their chummy closeness started to change. But along the way, they started to grow ill at ease. Penny felt weirdly vulnerable that a few of her filthiest fantasies were floating in the Monday Jar, ready to surface in the light of day by chance selection. She felt sick one week to discover a trick she’d been using for years on Ted was all wrong. This time, she burst into tears when she read the random Monday paper. Ted got angry because Penny had insisted they be honest and uncensored when they started this part of their erotic journey. He didn’t like feeling judged when he’d been so willing to entertain her unexpected needs.

 

“Trouble in paradise?” the man at the collectibles corner asked. He did not seem surprised to see her. He pointed at the ten day returns sign. “I don’t want a refund,” Penny assured him. “We just don’t want the jar. Please take it.” The man nodded as he unwrapped it. 

 

“You think you know someone,” Penny said, mostly to herself, as she was leaving.

Lorette C. Luzajic reads, writes, publishes, edits, and teaches small fictions. She has a Bachelor in journalism, but has always focused on creative writing and the study of art history. Her work has been published in hundreds of journals, taught in schools and workshops, and translated into Urdu and Spanish. For many years, she wrote a column for Good Food Revolution, pairing Wine and Art. Today she writes about culinary lore in the monthly Eat Play Rove, often centering food in visual art in her stories. She was selected for Best Small Fictions 2023 and 2024. She has been nominated several times each for Best Small Fictions, Best Microfictions, Best of the Net, the Pushcart Prize, and Best American Food Writing. She has been shortlisted for Bath Flash Fiction and The Lascaux Review awards. Her collections include The Rope Artist, The Neon Rosary, Pretty Time Machine and Winter in June. Lorette is the founding editor of The Ekphrastic Review, a journal of literature inspired by art, running for almost nine years, and the brand-new prose poetry journal, The Mackinaw. Lorette is also an award-winning mixed media artist, with collectors in more than 40 countries so far.