Category: Poetry

Mark Niedzwiedz

I wonder who lives in the house

with the bright red chimney. Someone must,

for on cold winter mornings,

smoke bellows from the stack,

and the smell of freshly baked bread

stops me in the thaw and snap.

So, I linger for a moment

and stare at this dreamy abode,

lit by the soft edges of snow clouds

and the sun a pale embroidered gold.

All is well with the world then I say to myself.

All is well in the house with the red chimney.

I wonder who lives in the house

with roses around the door. Someone must,

for come late bloom,

peckish birds gather, flock

to taste the plum tree garden

and jam from the pantry pot.

So, I wait at the kissing gate

to see who drinks the cooled barley,

who hangs the crisp, cotton sheets.

Then comes a girl to peg the sky, a threadbare carpet beat.

All is well with the world then I say to myself.

All is well in the house with the red chimney.

I wonder who lives in the house

with the bright red chimney. Someone must,

for you were built to silence the soulless city,

smash the concrete slab, my daydream cottage  

with honeysuckle borders

and thick soup made from pottage.

So, if you glimpse me at the fence,

tap my shoulder, then with muddy boots we’ll tread

the creaky stairs, the homely rooms,

and rest our weary bones on a soft feather bed.

All is well with the world then I say to myself.

All is well in the house with the red chimney.

Amanda Tumminaro

First, Mary will pick at your brain,
till you feel like a lab rat
rushed down the drain.
You’re a fad, and she takes out her Nikon
to make you feel so utterly diseased,
till Susan Atkins considers you her personal icon.

Second, Mary will pick up your clothes and ask,
“Why are you such a ragamuffin?”
She’ll then look about for the steel of your flask,
and throwing up her hands, she will be frustrated.
Dangling a gold coin before you—
this is how she is compensated.

Finally, she’ll pick your heart like a flower
and check it like a pocket watch
every quarter of an hour.
Though she senses no strut in her stroll,
she wants to know for certain
that there’s no guard on your patrol.

Ifeoluwa Ayandele

My mind is a wandering star, travelling

through illustrations & re-thinking how

to redraw the graffiti of my ancestors.

My ancestors are people of drums & dance,

& in my dream, I’m initiated into the occult

of the calligraphy of an hourglass-like drum.

My grandfather leaves indigo footprints

in the marble floor to teach me how the paths

of music intertwine into choreographic steps

on the hilltop. I place my feet on his footprints,

& my mind glows into a slithering memory

of the polyrhythmic drum in my dreams.

I’m in the forest of gods; I beat my ancestral drums,

& my ancestors hear the melody of my call.

Their ghosts gather around the tantrum of rhythms,

dancing around my naked being & chorusing:

You are the son of the Earth & the stars in your mind

are constellation of echoing corridors. Walk through

the echoes & pick your roots from the interlocking

sounds of footsteps in the corridors of your ancestral

gods, & you will unravel the myth of rebirth in drums.

Holly Day

we were going to take the boat out, sail

to the edge of the world, tease

the monsters waiting there with our

bare, dangling feet, toes tickling the ocean skin

like tiny pink fish

but you had to go and ruin it

chase shore-hugging mermaids instead

had to search clam-shell bikinis for pearls

find out where baby mermaids come from

we were going to become pirates

treasure hunters, world explorers

wrestle giant squid at the world’s edge

find the fountain of youth

but you had to go and spoil everything

in your search for suburban normalcy

chase dreams of apron-clad mermaids

who’d give up their kingdoms for you

David Romanda

how do snails have sex?

if I learn to pray with my full being

will God materialize in the room

and maybe sit on the edge of the bed?

murder couldn’t ever be truly satisfying, right?

should I or shouldn’t I mention

my epilepsy on the first date?

does anyone really win big on scratch lotto tickets?

do I love myself unconditionally?

what time is it?

Catherine Coundjeris

Her mind has spaces

that we fill

with gratitude

for days gone by.

We hold for her

a lifetime of

conversations,

stories told.

We carry                                                                                     

the goblet of her memories.

We sip our thoughts,

taking small bites

of daily bread,

quiet times spent

together.

Philip Deal

When we’re done for good,  

we leave behind an unopened box 

of colored pencils, two brand new tubes 

of cadmium red, 

a set of new brushes

bought at full price, 

a tube filled with 

delicate silk paper, never tried. 

This is not waste.

This is our final piece:

Optimism.  

Gavin Bourke

Landed into the midst,

ensuing chaos.

Exaggerated connections,

heart-sink presence.

Cynicism and entitlement

Severed from the natural, human relationship.

Emotional shrapnel inside the urn,

carried by the pallbearer.

No longer to be ventriloquized, 

alcohol seeping through the cracks

of the last few generations.

Induced Alzheimer’s in a mother,

cared for by her unmarried daughter.

He walked through the working life,

causing scars to bleed,

closer to savagery than those

in the vicinity.

A broken father stood in a doorway,

in the darkness, for over 20 years.

Carried the anger, through the social world,

harnessed by Valium’s touch,

carrying inherited darkness that

never was hers.

From father to son and so on,

throughout each new generation,

traits in common.

Knowingly and unknowingly bringing

the weight of unwarranted aggression

to bear on every situation.

Dysfunctional frameworks,

paradigms passed down from the rotting wood

of successive staircases.

Selfish emotional terrorism,

oft rewarded by the modern organization.

Emphasis on cute bureaucrat,

the enemy of statute.

The movement of the body and eyes,

mismatching language.

The departures of form from semantics

under well-dressed hides.

Privilege without responsibility.

Deeper into valleys of narcissism,

schisms of aggression, never contented,

mottled mind.

Couldn’t live with this anymore,

a father and blackening suns.

Barking in hallways,

through watering eyeballs,

with persistent rancor at everyone

and no one in particular.

Left blood on autumn leaves,

results of peculiar anger

and personalities disordered.

Ethanol breath,

condensation around brass pendulums.

Fell like the blackest slugs,

from stalactites to stalagmites

in darkened caves,

through the generations

on his father’s side.

In chain mail,

draining those in close proximity.

Killings with pens and phones and keystrokes,

the black filth of back-office politics.

Twisted in online abysses,

morbid self-interest, records amiss,

the stock in trade

of negative diatribes.