Saturday, March 23, 2019


Hectate was always the one who entertained us.
Latin was never spoken here. How strange.
Yes, we always left gifts, quite a few,
enough to satisfy wild dogs, selfish men jackals,
and Rhiiannon who flew here to satisfy me
watching through the open bathroom door,
the shower curtain missing, shampoo coursing through my hair,
Saturday night, late. (Perhaps it was Sunday morning, early.)
Our gods watched us imprison the fugitives deep in the sand
until only their heads were exposed.
Then the earth began to shake and roll releasing a fresh spring.
Carob trees sprouted out of nowhere and there was shade and   
Then an angel appeared badly disfigured as a foreign trader.
Not able to fold her wings, she kneeled before father and son.
There was no need for all of this. These men were thieves.
They deserved punishment, but she knew of them what we did not.
With a look she silenced us into another place.
An earthquake was not necessary to set them free.
This too happened at the crossroad.


His thin face consternation
peeled back into anguish.
The air cruel, the wind,
A lack of sunlight, but no clouds,
The sky gray blue/blue gray.
He is too thin, too straight,
Sickness inside cheeks and eyes.
Cold seeps into all things,
A cold moisture of mold and distrust,
Everywhere a browning of grass.
Michael H. Brownstein
Supple singed

This morning
had a rainbow come through the panes
ate it off my breakfast plate

felt the fertile soil of the valley beat
under my hot feet
on the hot concrete

and will crack
hard slew will come up
one of the hundred million-year plates
shall roll over us

mess with the dead and they come in your dreams

This morning
the dog I put down came on the breeze
stinking lovely as she was
dozing in a spot of sun
Sweet Pepe arrives through the buckling screen

and the Buddha comes also to me
warm squinting lifted snarling
depends whether
I myself am supple
or singed.

(After Peggy Stone) 

And now

in the midst of my handiwork
poking through the din and the silence
I hear my neighbor sobbing
and I remember

he has lost his wife

he has an aria playing
and he is sobbing

and I look out now of my reverie and I see the bars of rain
I can only see them now
bars of the gently falling prison

bars that fall and rise
with her voice
his aria
his wife

my neighbor goes on sobbing and I see
things I don't see always

he is alone in his grief

it is as this work is
but I would like to go to him.


Sometimes Of Course You

don't have a choice
sometimes your lover gets ill and dies
and this brilliant vibrant compassionate person
full of wonder

but remains in your heart

whatever is comfortable for you
staring through the abyss of the nucleus
this is what she offers you

rain bridges
north poles
the sky nail

a black hole

you will cross dark space on the wings of blackbirds
you will become the self-sustaining furnace
that you are
and your wife will exclaim
in wonder

and she is with you again.

Henry Grier Stanton


Two trucks pass, honking
playfully on Valentine’s
Day.  Is this what love is
for giants, like two behemoths
passing in midnight water?


I gave my name
into the metal box.  Sadly,
it could not be heard.
One day I will find more
than the first letter hiding
inside a microphone.

Gave a Word

The writer broke a word
like bread to share.  One loaf
of lines fed thousands like
the age-old story.  Then he
rang the word like a bell
in the street for a century.
Write for Yourself

A wise teacher says, I write
like I want to read.  Don’t spend
your time crafting for others.
Language is your own warm bath.
Soak, wallow, wrinkle in its wave.
JD Dehart

Monday, March 11, 2019

Two days ago
the sun caught me stealing light
to illuminate a poem,
demanded restitution,
then reported me to Mother Nature
who posted my likeness about the land.
Soon, the ocean, forest, birds, flowers, et. al.
filed suit for substantial abuse
and complacent philandering without permission.
I pleaded guilty;
admitted taking breath from wind
for deliverance,
marshmallows from the sky to sweeten song,
and rage from the ocean
to instill a sense of urgency.
Convicted and confined to a windowless room,
no writing, visitation
or glimpses of stolen sights,
I was sentenced to imagine beauty
without embezzlement
and the wholesale exploitation of words.


He imagines us on the beach,
soft sand at our feet
just after lunch
when warm rays and a delicate breeze
bid us rest.
He considers my arm around her waist,
my body sideways against bikini curves,
surrounded by seagulls
that squawk for attention
and the litter seas throw.
It’s been so long for him. 
He has difficulty deciding
what may be real
and occasionally doubts
the idea of our very existence.

All day
I’ve listened to the song
of a single cardinal
ripple stillness
just outside my office window. 
An opera in red tux
his throat is a spring
stretching an aria
through the cluttered house
of sound, awakening memories
of events since past.
The timbre enlivens my heart.
I can almost touch
what once was
as it floats between
song and wind.  An inflection
so crisp, that I’m convinced
the cardinal sings for more
than to merely texture
the commotion.  His tune
incites another gift.
He performs daily,
tireless and without hoarseness,
to make sad hearts flutter.

In the beginning it must have been
that the Neanderthal
emerged from his cave
early one day
into a cold and ruthless world
and noticed for the first time
sun’s reflection glistening
upon lake serenity
between twin peaks
of a snow covered summit.
And speechless
as he might have been
for images never seen,
he fell to his knees,
staring mutely,
unable to excise
the swell in his soul
and realized
each morning thereafter
would speak differently.
Staring from the moon
in a dream
I saw people of Earth
meander aimlessly
from minute cavities,
following burrows
to dutiful destination
and back again.
Some moved faster
others carried more
and few were prostrate to fantasy.
Yet above each hill
hovered ghosts of intentions
not resting, but preparing
markers with singular openings
where well meaning will be placed.
On a tree
by a narrow street
upon an bending bough
I perch in a dream
over people in a field
hovering about
an empty hole
obstructed by a box
with contents
of what use to be me.
Some are sobbing,
most are somber
and few hide
a reluctant obligatory glint.
All see the hyphen
between random dates
engraved upon granite,
transform my toil
to a trophy abbreviation
for living.
Michael Keshigian

It is an never ending shape
that can make you dizzy.  
It begins and ends the 
exact same way.

Reach for the center,
and maybe you will see
things in a different perspective.

A collage could emerge 
challenging all your previous
thoughts and actions.

Why stay the same 
when you can change
even in midstream.
Lily Tierney

Friday, March 8, 2019

how much money she wants
the next woman
that calls me
i'm simply just
going to ask how
much money she
there's no point
in the bullshit
even this jaded
fuck knows the
at war with itself
i wake up each morning
right as i'm getting ready
to fuck some beauty in
my dreams
i think it's the clearest
example that my body
is at war with itself
there are no winners
in this struggle
simply just another
day closer to death
if i had a nickel
here comes
another jesus
freak that tells
me god loves
i said if i had a
nickel for every
time someone
said that to me
i would never
have to worry
about money
again in
my life
and obviously,
god stopped
caring about
me when i
decided to
wake the fuck
up and face
the facts
he's the one
that fucked
up with the
free will
after all
they tend to catch me staring
i see these
women in
their thirties
and can tell
the ones that
played soccer
or volleyball
of course,
they tend
to catch
me staring
i'll just smile
and if they
ask, i tell
them i just
a woman
with a nice
i have learned
over the years,
the way i
to duck just
in case
stuck in that horrible
area of not being
rich and not being
poor enough to
qualify for
it makes it pretty
reasonable to
consider suicide
the most viable
would fall for
it's a short skirt
that leaves not
much to the
that's too bad
she's the type
of beauty that
my imagination
would fall for
time and time
J.J. Campbell

Helpless I do not know if good intentions prevail among the elected, among the appointed, leaving me apprehensive that the fate ...