eyes grey and granite, sparkling and shining, like the
moonlight luminously across the lake.
beard soft and shaggy like a large and
lovable saint bear-nard pup.
face gentle and gentile like an
uplifting and used book.
soul lucent and lovely like the
pure and precious driven snow.
hair sticky and short, like a
grown and grey koala.
tummy oval and oversize, like a sweet and
succulent water melon.
heart rendering and reachable, like a
rich and reliable light house.
Steven Jacobson was born and raised in the Mid-west graduating from UW-La Crosse, WI with a double major in Physics and Mathematics. He has attended classes from the Loft Literary Center, promoting all levels of creative writing. His poetry has appeared in Access Press, Calvary Cross, Burningword, The Glasscoin, Praisewriters, Enoiar Review, Penwood Review, Littleredtree, and Message in a Bottle.
Like the Phoenix, he rises out of ash
from the chastening fire of his rage.
How sweet the sting of her linguistic lash
confining his wild tiger to its cage.
Fleet-footed carnivores prowling the plain
must seem no fiercer stalking helpless prey
than him, smoldering, making her maintain
control of him. He’ll doggedly obey
her every whim, as though her verbal whip
exacts his shamed submission to her rule.
And he’s afraid to move for fear her grip
will lose its feral hold on him. He drools,
while she keeps pacing – following his rout –
like she’s inside the cage and looking out.
Frank De Canio was born in New Jersey and works in New York. He loves music of all kinds, from Bach to Dory Previn, from Amy Beach to Amy Winehouse, and the poetry of Dylan Thomas. He also attends a Café Philo in New York City.
Five long hours. Under my dark. I sprawl awake.
Tumbling through the house. Sinking against the
windowpane, watching rained acoustics patter on
the terraced roof. Cries of raindrops. Mingle with
a symphony of ghosts roaming about me. Then I
pour myself a memory from a simmering cauldron,
flavored of alphabet scars and flakes of consciousness.
Hands on the pot. A sudden blink. How do I pour the
liquid thoughts and lettered inks into a bottomless beaker
without leaving my body in a pool of shadows? But now,
my lips thirst for drink. To warm over the cold where the
bone is hollow. Until, I lean in, something exposed and
glassy, echoing on the surface. It is my eyes staring back
at me. Gliding through the fluid with hooked arms. And
its mouth slurping up the pale gullet, heaving off the
squirting blood. The muddy mass of flesh throws up
in the mirage. Then high above, a dullard of rain again
breaks over the house. If I listen, my heart would once
more weep and my eyelids would suspend in tears. So I
stretch my skin where the stairs lay muted and heavy,
under the particled air into which darkness goes.
Lana Bella has a diverse work of poetry and flash fiction published and forthcoming with Anak Sastra, Atlas Poetica, Bareback Magazine, Bewildering Stories, Beyond Imagination, Buck-Off Magazine, Calliope Magazine, Cecile’s Writers’ Magazine, Dead Snakes Poetry, Deltona Howl, Earl of Plaid Lit, Eunoia Review, Eye On Life Magazine, Family Travel Haiku, First Literary Review-East, Five Willows Literary Review, Foliate Oak Literary, Garbanzo Literary Journal, Global Poetry, Ken*Again, Kind of a Hurricane Press, Marco Polo Arts Literary, Mothers Always Write, Nature Writing, New Plains Review, Poetry Pacific, Spank The Carp, The Camel Saloon, The Commonline Journal, The Higgs Weldon, The Voices Project, Thought Notebook, Undertow Tanka Review, Wordpool Press, Beyond The Sea Anthology, War Anthology: We Go On, Wilderness House Literary Review, and has been a featured artist with Quail Bell Magazine. She resides on some distant isle with her novelist husband and two frolicsome imps. facebook.com/niaallanpoe
I try to imagine what it will be like,
not how it feels, but how I’ll look
to the young group busy scrutinizing
every detail of my naked prone body,
touching, commenting on its every part.
Am I some sort of vicarious exhibitionist?
They will saw off the top of my skull,
glad I don’t have to listen to that noise,
and slice me down from neck to navel.
Of course, I won’t feel a single thing,
its an experience I won’t experience,
not subjective although a subject.
They will see parts of me I never have,
an intimacy denied to me while living.
I assume it will all be very clinical,
no bad jokes or untoward behavior.
They will even give me a new name,
a new identity, an afterlife indeed.
I wonder if I will have gained a kind of immortality,
the first body, like the first sex, always remembered.
Perhaps the details will be dulled by time
and the many bodies that have passed their eyes.
Maybe only the deadly disease is remembered.
Rather than the person that suffered it and died.
The body, like meat in a supermarket case,
each piece carefully labeled, neatly dissected,
the blood sucked off, and placed on display.
The bones, the muscles, the ligaments in logical disarray,
the disparate parts of the skeletal personality,
deconstructed from flesh, blood and bone.
The class over, the parts, like the remnants of a festive meal,
are collected and bagged, ready for their final journey
to the crematorium where they will meet their fiery end,
their mission of life and mission of death completed.
Hugh Giblin has been writing poetry for some years. He has been published in local and online journals and won honorable mention in a Duke poetry competition. He is an omnivorous reader of poetry, likes realism, and is happy to be a minor league poet.