Daily Archives: June 11, 2018


“The Question” by Ted Mc Carthy

Always, I see now

I have been asking the wrong question:

not “Where are you?” but “How did you get there?”

Dragged in a river I know to be the same,

whose course has shifted day by day,

I cannot bear to face the sea,

I stay afloat by looking back.

 

 

 

 

 

Ted Mc Carthy is a poet and translator living in Clones, Ireland. His work has appeared in magazines in Ireland, the UK, Germany, the USA, Canada, and Australia. He has had two collections published; November Wedding and Beverly Downs.  (tedmccarthyspoetry.weebly.com)


“Four Poster” by Peter Savigny

Half the pillows
Upon my bed
Are never used
To rest my head.

 

I stay just on
The side I sleep
The floor below
My slippers keep.

 

I have no cause
To cross the line
It’s been that way
For quite some time.

 

The covers stay
So nicely pressed
The taught white sheets
Are never messed.

 

Perhaps one day
I’ll toss and turn
With love and lust
And fury burn.

 

To toss the sheets
Both far and wide
The way I did
With my new bride
When she would pull
Me deep inside
And passion took
Us on a ride.

 

Maybe that half
Serves as a shrine
An untouched ode
To better times.

 

One night I think
When lights are dim
I’ll go around
And slip right in.

 

Then nestle deep
As sleepers do
To see my room
From this new view.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Peter Savigny is a 25-year art director in television turned poet and sculptor. He is an avid change artist and experientialist.  (timestories.com)


“Drug of Choice” by Kaitlyn Pratt

I wonder about her
empty brown bottles, dirty wine glasses
that reach her height high above happiness.
Drowning in
the drug of choice,
merlot, bud, or her own self-worth she sips
and gulps until she hits her low.

 

Her body lies in soaking pearl carpet
one hand stretched, the other
reaching for
the drug of choice.
Eyes glazed and blood filled to the rim as
depressants stream through her vitals.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kaitlyn Pratt is in the process of obtaining a Creative Writing Bachelor’s degree from San Jose State University.  She writes what she sees and what she feels. She lives in San Jose, CA and enjoys every second of it.


“Dream Catchers” by Steve DeFrance

Things
are
what they
are.
Coloring Jupiter green
won’t make it so.

 

Yesterday’s meaning
was for yesterday—
today the sun comes up
on another planet
entirely.

 

One night’s sleep
divides us
from an uncertain past.

 

The dead & the living
can’t mix often except
in poetry or dreams
where everyone’s illustrated
in a few fictive lines

 

purple cows here or there—as words
exculpate whatever they please.

 

Until they don’t and then
they damn the very thing
they’ve once raved about.

 

One minute now
until this day’s cares disappear.
Daylight hisses into dark,
and night barges into the frightened
corners of our mind—until at last,
the eternal stage manager lowers our curtain,
and consciousness skips,
among stars & rampaging raptors,
slipping right off the spinning earth.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Steve DeFrance is a widely published poet, playwright, and essayist both in America and Great Britain.  In England, he won a Reader’s Award in Orbis Magazine for his poem “Hawks.”  In the United States, he won the Josh Samuels’ Annual Poetry Competition (2003) for his poem “The Man Who Loved Mermaids.”  His play The Killer had it’s world premiere at the Garage Theatre in Long Beach, California (Sept-October 2006).  He has received the Distinguished Alumnus Award from Chapman University for his writing.


“Extension” by Fabrice Poussin

Fabrice Poussin-Extension

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University, Rome, Georgia. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and more than two dozens of other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, San Pedro River Review, and more than ninety other publications.


“With Smiles and Photographs” by E.V. Wyler

Sparkling like the midday sun, resting

on the sea’s crystalized horizon, Emily looked

lovely, smiling in her royal blue cap and gown,

touching the golden tassel on her mortarboard,

topped with the words “Thanks Mom and Dad.”

Tassels on the right turn to the left; Emily poses

with classmates and poses with family;

each segment of her day is punctuated

with smiles and photographs…

 

Three days after the graduation,

we fly Jet Blue to Orlando, visiting

4 Disney parks in 5 days…

With our skin sautéing in sweat and

sunscreen, we repeat the tourists’ ritual:

pose… smile… click…

until it makes us all impatient and cranky

(because there is no “fast pass”

for smiles and photographs…)

 

Five days after the family vacation,

a large U-Haul truck backs out of our driveway,

heading towards Chicago and Emily’s new job,

studio apartment, and her next life’s chapter…

Yet, in Emily’s old bedroom, on top of her empty

dresser, there’s still the mortarboard

that reads “Thanks Mom and Dad,” and on

our closet shelf, there is a new album, filled

with smiles and photographs…

 

 

 

 

 

 

E.V. “Beth” Wyler grew up in Elmont, NY.  At 43, she obtained her associate’s degree from Bergen Community College.  She and her husband, Richard, share their empty nest with 3 cats and a beta fish.

a middle-aged homemaker and poet who lives in New Jersey with 3 children, 3 cats, 2 beta fish, and her husband, Richard. Her poems have been featured in The Storyteller, WestWard Quarterly, Feelings of the Heart, Nuthouse, The Pine Times, The Pink Chameleon, The Rotary DialVox Poetica, and on The Society of Classical Poets‘ website.


“The Library” by d.w. moody

rows and rows of books

so orderly and clean

unlike the streets we play on

 

the light warm and inviting

unlike the shadows

from the buildings on our block

at night

 

the smile genuine

no ulterior motive

and as usual she greets me

as if truly glad to see me again

recalling things I’ve said

weeks or months before

finding one more magical book

to transport me

away from the grime and violence

 

in that moment

I know I am always welcome

not as a poor dirty kid

but just like everyone else

I hold back tears

that want to wash across my face

I wish I want I need

everyday to feel like this

 

 

 

 

 

d.w. moody grew up between California and the Midwest.  He has lived on the streets, hitchhiked around the country, and held a variety of jobs in Kansas and Southern California until settling into life as a librarian.  His poems have appeared in Shemom, The Avalon Literary Review, and Foliate Oak Literary Magazine.


“Local Glamor Queen” by John Grey

She longed to be made into a movie,

see her life on the big screen

in three different theaters at the multiplex,

a dazzling presence blinding

a string of male co-stars

while the audience looked on in awe

and dollars rained down on her.

 

She was weary of her ordinary life;

the job behind the fingernail polish counter

at a local department store,

the shame of a third floor apartment

that she shared with two roommates-in-kind.

 

She filled her imagination

with characters and storylines.

Surely, she told herself,

it’s only a matter of time

before the cameras begin rolling.

 

But Hollywood looked elsewhere

when she sauntered down the street

in dark glasses, tight jeans,

and the fox wrap

with the tiny stuffed head at one end.

 

She turned the heads of some guys

who wouldn’t even make it as extras

in her fantasy world,

and construction workers whistled

from on high,

but none of what she was

ever made it onto celluloid.

The best she could do was

pick up a credit or two

in some poems I was writing.

But I didn’t show them to her.

Her CV never knew.

 

 

 

 

 

 

John Grey is an Australian poet and US resident.  He has been published New Plains Review, South Carolina Review, Gargoyle, Big Muddy Review, Louisiana Review, Cape Rock, and Spoon River Poetry Review.


“August Farewell” by Linda Barrett

On August’s last day,

the sinking sun bleeds red in the west.

From an open car window,

The radio blares Sinatra’s “The Rest of Your Life”

The clouds hover around the descending sun

Their flat palms turn purple

Cupping over the flame of the day

Back ground Violins weep as Sinatra pleads

To the unknown woman in his song

Does he cry out because she’s leaving

Or because August is departing

And taking the summer with her?

 

 

 

 

 

Linda Barrett seemed to be born with a pen in her hand, or so her mother says.  As a prolific poet, she won the Montgomery County Community College Writer’s Group Contest four times over a period of years.  She lives in Abington, a Philadelphia suburb.  Her work is featured in Twisted Sister Literary Magazine and Night To Dawn Horror Magazine.


“Swimming to the Moon” by Steve DeFrance

Tonight my fingers stiffly stumble across

my keyboard as my mind is repulsed,

as I am frightened of this task, as I am afraid

of the pain of thought, as my spirit fills & trembles

with the mystery in words.

Words that once flashed

in the eyes of the dying,

words that fade into a wet cough,

words brushing past the living

with silken lips as cold as marble,

their frightened gasps merge into darkness.

Ancient images tumble into my mind, I pass the

rough tips of my short fingers across my

damp forehead—very carefully as I

rehearse for my passage to the moon,

knowing all of us will have to make this swim

through skin and blood and memories.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Steve DeFrance is a widely published poet, playwright, and essayist both in America and Great Britain.  In England, he won a Reader’s Award in Orbis Magazine for his poem “Hawks.”  In the United States, he won the Josh Samuels’ Annual Poetry Competition (2003) for his poem “The Man Who Loved Mermaids.”  His play The Killer had it’s world premiere at the Garage Theatre in Long Beach, California (Sept-October 2006).  He has received the Distinguished Alumnus Award from Chapman University for his writing.


“A Love Note for John C.” by Jimmie Ware

The second set was over and I showed no emotion as a seductive storm brewed beneath my skin in this smoky room of half empty glasses of beer

 

His forehead drenched with sax sweat and his well tailored suit wore him so well, he was jazz in human form and I longed for his sheet music

 

I sat quietly hair styled in a sophisticated French roll black seamed stockings adorned my crossed legs, red lipstick accentuating my sultry expressions for I dare not smile

 

I absorbed every note knowing they were written for me I could feel the cadence of his saxophone sonnets translating poetically to my soul

 

He reappears from backstage and stands before a dark velvet curtain as the spotlight glistens on his handsome face he wipes his lips with a white handkerchief…it is time

 

Lips to sax, heaven floats from his horn and I lift one brow, secretly tap one foot and politely refuse yet another drink from across the room

 

I cannot look away, his lovely notes command my attention with such musical finesse as he creates unforgettable memories

 

Tonight, time stands still and my heart applauds his genius, I sway softly as a subtle yet lovely tune fills this place, I am unable to prevent tears from falling as he deliberately invades my emotions

 

He is beyond beautiful, he is complex, spiritual and charming with a daunting presence, he is the epitome of musical devotion

 

How easily his gospel goes blues… I long to worship at the altar of this rhythm after all that jazz

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jimmie Ware is the founder of The Black Feather Poets in Anchorage, AK.  She is a freelance writer who has been published in several anthologies as well as two books, including Bearing the Mask: Southwestern Persona Poems.  (facebook.com/jimmie.ware2)