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/

 

A Trip to the Zoo - Flash Fiction by Sam Kilkenny

A Trip to the Zoo

Flash Fiction

by Sam Kilkenny

Mike lived in a house across from the zoo. He rented this little two bedroom with his roommate, Stephen. Despite their proximity Mike and Stephen rarely saw each other. Not by chance, either. Stephen had a habit of leaving his dishes wherever he ate. Mike had a habit of being very annoyed by that.

That morning, the overcast sky was filled with geese. Mike loved geese. He loved that multiple geese are called a gaggle. He left the house after piling Stephen’s bowls and cups into a nice stack and left them on the stairs. The stray cat was waiting by the door and Mike gave her a handful of kibble.

“God, you’re getting fat, Turkmenistan. Might need to cut back on your portions.” The cat meowed. Mike walked down the concrete porch steps, cracked by rainwater freezing in its porous body. His boots made a thunk with each step. Down the street, a car pulled out of a gravel driveway. A few song birds chirped in the trees. He headed toward the zoo. In the morning he could see the elephants and giraffes leaving their stalls, eating and drinking. He wished he knew what a group of giraffes was called. A little coffee shop preceded the zoo, just a small stall. The coffee was bitter but it was hot and cheap. The biscuits were dry but the geese loved them. He laid four dollars on the counter.

“Cream and sugar?” the clerk asked, not looking up.

“You know how I take it.” The clerk looked up this time, purple rings around his eyes. Mike thought that he might need the cup of coffee more than himself.

“Right, didn’t recognize ya. Boss is in today so I got the ol’ nose to the grindstone ya get me? A man’s gotta keep his job nowadays,” the clerk said with a tired wink.

“No doubt. Black is fine, thanks,” Mike reminded him, in case the clerk was too embarrassed to ask again.

“No problem, bub.” He handed Mike his coffee and biscuit along with his change. Mike dropped the dime in the tip jar.

“Don’t spend it all in one place now. Bub,” Mike said, returning the tired wink. He gave the bell on the counter a little tap and it dinged sweetly, resonating in the air as he walked off. It really is the little joys of life that keep us going, Mike thought as he took his first sip. It was lava hot, so he took the lid off to let it cool faster. The steam filled the chill morning air in a cloud. He lit a cigarette and walked on.

Mike walked up the hill to where the best vantage point of the elephants was. The wind was picking up a bit now and his hands were getting cold. He took the cardboard sleeve off his coffee to be closer to the warmth. As he approached the crest of the hill he saw the geese, circling the small pond on their squat little legs. He crushed the dry biscuit in his hand and flung it to them. They honked and he smiled as the gaggle ate.

The cigarette was burning down to the filter now. He took one last obligatory puff and stomped the butt out on the concrete. Pausing a moment he picked the butt up and put it in his pack and sat down on the bench. The iron was cold. It felt damp somehow, and Mike took another sip of coffee, cradling the paper cup with both hands.

He waited there, patient as a monk, for the big barn door to slide open and let the elephants out. He thought about Stephen walking downstairs and tripping over his dishes, falling on the floor, covered by last night’s dinner. It annoyed him that he didn’t find some joy in that. Stephen was alright.

The barn door creaked open. The world’s loudest creak. He saw the elephant’s heads, their ears flapping, from their own volition or the wind, he could not tell. His favourite elephant came out second. A big grey beast like the rest of them, but he always seemed a bit dirtier than the rest. He had a brown tinge to him. He came out of the barn, eyes half open, gave the air a little trumpet, and took a five pound shit on the floor.

Sam Kilkenny is a nonfiction writer and poet. He lives in Atlanta, GA where he writes everyday. He is currently writing with C.W. Bryan at poetryispretentious.com When he isn’t writing, you can find him biking around Atlanta like a madman.

Four Poems by Elaine Sorrentino

 

Before and After

My life is measured in befores and afters.

Before slimming down
I was a carefree, kind, jocular teen

After, I was self-aware, guarded, judgmental.

Before marrying the wrong man
I romanticized married life

After, I embraced solitude.

Before children
New Year’s Eve was about partying

After, New Year’s Eve was about staying safe.

Before divorce
the ocean washed my home away

After, home was anywhere my children were.

Before my father died
life was carefree and celebrated

After, the plane hit the building.

Before my forever man
perfect marriage was a fairytale

After, I was loved unconditionally.

Before cancer
I was undone by mean emails

After, I pressed delete.

Irish Twins

When folks inquire about my children
I tell them I was twenty-seven when I had my first,
twenty-nine when I had my second.
This is not the whole story.

I fail to share their birthdays are seven weeks apart
or that my birthday is sandwiched in the middle,
because two years is a more respectable gap
than thirteen months and three weeks.

I omit the part about passion born
out of our Red Sox in the ’86 World Series,
the excitement of witnessing victory after victory…
interrupted when Buckner and Mother Nature surprised us both.

My Hero

She tattooed swooping sideburns
and intricate Irish symbols
in vibrant blues and greens
on her exposed scalp,
for when alopecia knocked.

I couldn’t unhitch the parachute, freefall
I’d choose the wig,
perhaps hair replacement,
but never sterilized needles
with their mandatory repeat performance
every few years.

She never judged,
this maverick
who cuts my aging, thinning locks,
she calls her radiant self a freak.

Godmother Sacked

Stay away from her
they instruct you,
as if divorce
were contagious.

Quietly, they remove
you from my influence
assign a new spiritual overseer,
a deferential one

who follows the rules…
directives powerful enough
to unravel my purpose
and impact my children’s future.

I hope you understand:
sacrificing you
was never my intention.

Elaine Sorrentino has been published in Minerva Rising, Willawaw Journal, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Ekphrastic Review, Writing in a Women’s Voice, ONE ART: a journal of poetry, Haiku Universe, Sparks of Calliope, Muddy River Poetry Review, Gyroscope Review, Panoplyzine, Etched Onyx Magazine, and at  wildamorris.blogspot.com.  She hosts the Duxbury Poetry Circle and was featured on a poetry podcast at Onyx Publications.