Light Effect

The sun erupted
Light rose like erosion
To wash away
The night’s collection


Night Songs

Her lips were like silk sheets
Wrapped loosely around my mind
Aboard a magic carpet
With our hearts intertwined


Science Fiction Haiku

Alien attack
Insects did not understand
One-inch invaders

New robots for sale
With feelings or no-feelings
I could not decide

Aliens launching
Sent inhabited comets
Like a Trojan horse

Cosmic waterfalls
Turned into streams
Of stars

The end of the world
She took a long time to dress
We both arrived late

Eruptions On Io
Material shoots out to space
With no audience

Alien hunter
Shooting at me in the woods
Orange coat season


Wind Dance Green

Trees dance
With each other
Some dance close
Some far away
Others sing
While others sway
Then settle softly
Till the wind
Kisses them again


Music Of Nature’s Wings

Hear the sounds and music of nature’s wings
Birds calling from the branches and the sky
A classical song of hidden starlings
The knock of a woodpeckers as they try

Sparrows in a willow the chorus sings
The hummingbirds buzz as flowers they pry
The orchestra plays on, the chamber rings
Birds calling from the branches and the sky

Onward they soar, despite what weather brings
Notes of a migrating flock passing by
High in the clouds screeches of eagles cry.
Majestic hawks join and predator kings
Hear the sounds and music of nature’s wings


Inside Sunset

Sun peeks into
Cracks between blinds
Dust infected rays stream
Across room light to light
Cloud mixed colors glow
Right outside the room


The Right Size

When stepping down on that bug.
Did you think his wife would miss him?
Perhaps the children affected.
Was the subject to small to matter?
Or just to small, to have feelings.
Desiring life, what size does that start at?
What height is needed to reach a dream?
Do insect threat small forms in their eyes.
The way we have since rising from the dust
Or does mixing among dirt and mud.
Bring a bonding of a certain kinship.

Denny E. Marshall 

John Ramm (appearing at Eunoia Review and at Writing Raw)

When first domesticated, John was given

A power tie and a mug with antlers

He was informed about corporate life

Now he paces in the offices

Snorting and bucking, attempting to climb

The heights are sheer

This is what his hooves are made for

They talk about him at the water cooler.

The Ballad of John Ramm (appearing on VerseWrights)

Munching twigs, scenting

the air, hidden in a thicket

of leaves, brambles, thorns,

agile feet take him to flight

but not soon enough

Hailing a cab, trying to make

his way to work, he remembers

distantly what it was like to be

in the wild, but that was so long

ago, it seems like a different

animal lived then

While others preen, he pummels

While others rant, he rams.

Legend of John Ramm (appearing on Squawk Back)

Not sure why he spells his name

with two m's sometimes. Maybe

it's just been that long.

You can tell by the way he sniffs

the day, it's not all good here. He

wants you to think it is. We all do.

How are you, I'm fine. Do they

even give you time to answer? I

sit across, study his antlers, want

to set him free. But his handlers

just won't let me.

Like Ramms at Play (appearing on Venus in Scorpio)

He was a creature of the forest,

at work and at play,

then forced into an office.

But all that has been said before.

Now the family

must manage the remains,

decide if they will return

to the forest glen, scamper

and rut, or make the continual

business climb.

John Ramm's Retirement Party (appearing on Poems and Poetry Blog)

This poem is for the recently departed

Mr. John Ramm, a dedicated co-worker

who was found one day grazing in a field,

and who now exists in the halls of this

great company’s memory, a horned figure

once stuffed into a business suit, now

mounted upon the wide victory wall.

 

JD DeHart

Anonymous

If I asked you who you were,

would you hesitate before answering?

Layers upon layers protecting

someone in a mask,

whose identity has become lost

in a stream of unknown

consciousness. 

Hitting another key that

buries the truth as

the lies surf through

your very existence.

Can you find yourself

in this labyrinth

of cosmic mythology?

Lily Tierney

Monty

poppy hooded how rain hit you then like a feeling you could not

get out of, but how could you know this was the last time you would

be together and so every thing you tell each other in this moment

will be so unbearable in retrospect, but time is inside of itself

and you are not invited to its machinations only your own voice

testing its faith faintly, balloons draw your eyes away and wide, if you only knew how much I love the idea you inhabit, without skin, you are

a story, with skin, you are a song, and the words are 

musical so only a qualified magician could play the right notes 

in the right way and from out of my ear pull rabbits and the coat you 

wore and your brown hair against my cheek "I'll send you post cards from the road" this is how you hold the memory afterwards but the 

impression which had you then was that you were both something

for each other, even though neither of you knew exactly what that 'something' was.

***

Monty X

One day you will

return the favor

the flavor of hip skin

and eye shadow-less

loops of enduring

through the brokenness

your teeth

like Greek sculptures

smuggled from

wreckage,

the wild land

between your breasts

setting fire & burning down

the meadows

along the spine of your back

vertebreak-me-open

& place me

underneath your tongue

cracking, face to face

along the edges of you

into water you drew

from out of the earth

with a spell, a heavy sigh, a shrug

of your shoulders, smoldering sultry

forgive-me-nots

and 'how do I look

under this light?'

like sunken treasure

wrapped in rainbow paper,

like a shadows edge

punctuated by car headlights

on the side of the road

in a storm that will not end

like get-away-from-me

I can't be this close

to open doors

to paradise,

'oh please, I'm just your idea

of paradise, your voodoo doll,

your comfort

blanket, your safety break,

I'm as much of a mess

as anyone else'

& I know this, I know,

but still,

aren't ideas born this way

in the first,

the second place?

Can we reach the second place

barefooted, messy,

fantastically

smelly creatures

walking the great unknown?

Unknowing greatly- small bone

to small bone

sedimented Autumn

laid open

on tarmac

wild in our skins

fifty different Japanese words for rain

how when I say

each one

I mean

I love you

when I say

I love you

I mean I don't know

what to do with myself

paradise shuddering

beneath our eye lids

daylight closing

our bodies up

like thick walls

kissed with ivy

I'd finger your poison

until my heart explodes

but that's not love

it is obsession.

***

Monty XI

You are barnyard

covered in early morning mist

you are things to do

places to be

tongue that cracks open

peanut shells at 2 am

and leaves the casings

like empty bullets scattered

on the bed

and when my hand reaches

for you I come up with only air

& there are two versions

of this poem

one that I've written

and the one that I wish

I wrote, with a single

word, like glass or aspen

leaves that tremble

from the most inconsequential

brush of air

against its veins

when I think of you

the words get stuck in my mouth

and I don't know

sometimes if I'll ever

be able to say them

to you in this way

without you laughing

tongue-in-cheek

mossy eyed & barely skin

underneath skin the heat of sun

airing its origins out

on your fingertips

like porcelain falling from a shelf

in a family home

I run to catch you

but come up with only air.

***

Monty XII

If I could only write of mountains

& orange groves in June

mealybugs that dig into the pulp

juice at the bottom of the crate

despite the pesticide flowering

death knells with each bite

each tug the unfortunate

famished specks of only-doing-our-part

make, a taste like tang & welcome

to your death aphid number forty two

and counting, Pedro & Manuel

carrying out wooden barrells

full of ruined fruit and kicking

their boots along the side of it

as if to say 'ah fuck it, only gringo's

buy these oranges anyway'

but no, I am compelled to write

something about you, Monty, who

I know so little about really,

besides the basics, how your facial

expressions actually match the enthusiasm

in your voice & how your eyes thread all of this

together like trinitarian transubstantiation

hello and goodbye

each breath-muscle you exercise

like salvific wine

externalized into outer shells

of pinwheel blue

the carnival lights you swallow

until your belly glows

and you become like a beacon

in the night,

a light house for lost souls

weary

or wonder filled

and I-don't-know-what-the-fuck-I'm-saying

so upturned

under the smoky wood

this keepsake of flame

and I imagine we sit along different sides

of the same compass

one hand touching the other's location

letting go, coming undone

it's not so bad really.

***

Monty XIII 

light on or off

you are still roving

river beds

up my spine

let's settle this

you are spotty dream dripping

in my palm

& when I close my hand

I'm a complete fist

waving at the sun

as if to say: you did this to me,

didn't you?

If my eyes were green

we could twin our moss beds

together

you and I

shaking wet

& removing our skins

in front of each other

our fingers so electric

when we touch

we light the room

& the glow

mutually swallowed

why can't I feel my arms

when they're wrapped around you

(that's called a hug you don't want to end)

serotonin

addling – fucking up

the heart

hole

dug clean until I can sleep

all dirt deep and not remember

your smell- smiling

slipping into dusk

ash can of howl

& yelping sideways

you can't be kept

can't be held

in my arms

long enough

deep enough

to undo this damage.

***

 Monty XVI 

This peeling behind the mortar

left wandering

across three thousand islands of sleep

how close you aren't

in this dream I had

can't tell you how long I've waited

to spell my own name

without imploding at the last letter

without pulling the wool over my own eyes

it's this way when you breathe & I stand right next to you

counting each one

you ask “what number are we on?”

& I tell you “number one, still number one”

another way of saying “this life has not been so kind to me”

hold the hour (my body)

against your skin

I will count us down

to the beginning

that irreclaimable moment

your first throaty question on the orange bench

outside of eternity

how do I get back to that... who am I going

to turn to in the night

with empty arms

holding shadow

sister to the trees in winter

any wind could break me now.

James Diaz

MALIBU MINDED

I'd been walking down a dark and dingy

Alleyway for the last twenty years until the

Day, that joyous first moment, when She

Appeared and suddenly life had a meaning

A purpose, a way to make me feel damn

Good again

She is my Trancas beach, my Malibu sunset

The moment that will stick with through

Thick and thin; the good times to enjoy

The sand underfoot as the inevitability

Of those bad times when all we'll need is to

Sit back and work it out.

SHE’S QUELLED MY DESIRE FOR PERVERSION

Sitting thinking of her hundreds of miles away and

How in such a short space of time she's gone from

Fantasy to reality and how now when I think of such

Things, often for someone of my age because essentially

I'm just a dirty old man; it ain't all about the fantastic

My desire for perversion, the sexy clothes to be ripped

Disrobed.

None of this matters because when I'm with her it all just

Feels like a dream, a fantasy come real; a woman I

Just want to see, hug and be with.  Now she's reading that

First novel of mine and I thought I needed to write this to

Explain that those were fantasies of a disillusioned mind, dreamt up

Whilst horny and high

But when I return I want her to know I just love being with you

The way you are and how you make me feel and no fantasy

Could ever better that moment when I shall hold you

In my arms again, just the two of us with no bullshit

Eroticism needed to make me feel as if this is the greatest

It's been for years and years.

 

I HAD ENOUGH OF THIS

I sit in my room and drink beer surrounded by books of poetry

Hoping my muse will ignite but right now all I can think about is my shitty job

My shitty life and all the problems in it

Not enough money from my job

Too much money for everything else

What’s a poor old poet to do apart from drink

And hope that I can forget it all

So what am I going to do but sit here, get drunk and fuck it all up

Just because, I fucking had enough

NOT STONED

Another night all alone just at home

And i made it through so far I think unscathed and not stoned

Just a bottle of beer, a bit of writing and some games of chess against a machine i can easily beat

But alas there is always a but what night terrors will come and torment me tonight, who knows but the beer is dead

And the chess is done so there ain’t nothing to do but go squirm uncomfortably, not stoned in bed

Shit this life is dull but what else is there to do as tomorrow is another important day on the road to recovery

But all I can wait for is the day when someone says come round I got some decent weed and we can have a smoke

Just remembering not to buy some, take it home because then, fuck, it’d be back to square one.

 

FALLING DOWN

Another day at work and I’m falling down

Just like Michael Douglas in that film

An ordinary man at war with himself and his town at large

But now it’s Brighton not the city of Angels

I sleep badly that night as scenarios play out

In my mind as I grow scared of what my happen

If I get chastised by another idiot Londoner

During my next shift at work

PLEASE DAD

I can talk about anything me

Said the man who spent all his

Time doing nothing but sitting in

His chair belching, farting occasionally

Or cheering loudly when the right

Goal went in

Locked away in a cell of his own

Headphones on, almost seemingly

Sitting there waiting for death.

But the company he keeps love him so

They beg, they plead with him

Go out and get your old self back

Only to be ignored as he grows

Angry at the news in a country

He doesn't live in, please Dad do

It just for me. I want my friend back

And Mum wants her man back and as long

As you sit there you're depriving us

Of both.

Bradford Middleton

Used to be Cute

It is easy to see

as they try to sell

cookies, they used

to be cute

Adolescents who now

are becoming early

adults, caught between

being really young,

starting to pay car payments

They are in between,

and they give me bouts

of nostalgia.

Up and Up

I traveled up

and up, from the wide

roads to the narrow

To find that quiet place

where I could be alone

and remember my name

Remembering the word

heritage in a solitude.

Nicknames

They give others

nicknames, rude creatures

who take their beaks

trying to tear others down.

I will go behind them

scattering seed to replant

rebuilding what they try

to destroy.

 

Ridley Flock

Dancing Shadows

on the farthest

wall you can see

a portrait of the finest

elements

each aspect

of the story emerges

by the firelight

telling a story blown

out of proportion

by the flame.

When I Lose My Head

when the executioner

comes remember my name

or at least what I stood for

as soon as I decide

what that is.

Mailbox

I'm going to make a mailbox

in the shape of my face

So I can chew up junk mail

and digest love letters.

Red Ink

I find my jagged

old name written

in the forever words

I find my future

and past in all the words

of an ancient tome.

 

HR Creel