suffering soul by Mr. d.j.d.b

On the stairs i wept after the horrific sounds i heard kept me awake so scared and afraid to take a look at the aftermath blood stained carpets hand trail marks  along the hall way walls kitchens a mess the sceans are grotesque wishing i had left you days before my death the penalty for loving you with every breath i could in-hale so tell me how you murdered me now burning the house with our worldly possessions to many lessons from what i didn't learn raised alarms but none triggered a concern i hope in hell for eternity you suffer like i did at the whelms of your hands watching karma's plan knowing soon you will greet your fortune doom so i can be at peace and stop reliving the events that took place in that room...... here is the sort of thing i do 




suffering soul 
by mr d.j.d.b © 



  wondering through a lonly place 
by mr D.J.D.B 
Dazed and confused i wonder through the broken streets after being abused by society  feeling slightly under dressed as i stumble pass the only thing that could fix this mess would i make it in to the light an feel the freshness inhale a clean breath of air instead of this poison aroma that.s sent all the innocent in to comas watching the blind being guided by political corruption hearing no words to end this destruction violated the rights made by our four fathers anti publication is what drove us in to this apocalyptic future no proof of identification losing all form of male population animals present the new earths  creation manifestation i'm lost in this wasteland no sign of any human life so i  guess i'm next faced to re-debt this price borrowed when i jumped off a bridge wishing i never lived to regret the things i once did memories of an evil child growing up in the wild west i beg of you lord please forgive these stupid things i have done i confess it was me feeling numb crying in to the palm of my hands coming to terms while the emptiness burns as i try to withstand and out smart he.s plan but there is nothing more i can do hoping to start something new vanishing of in to the desert blue .......

THE ENGLISH ROSE BY MR D.J.D.B 
In an English country garden grew a wild rose that brought eternal youth word got to the out side world. The villages started to search for proof looking in every crack and cranny lifting rocks and the roof of every shed bringing the aged before the were dead but this rose could only be found by the purest of pure if you should ever touch a leaf she would no for sure who.s good and who.s poisoned to the core . One day a girl so bright was playing in the English garden when she caught sight of the rose under the beauty of the sun her power shows her magic glows the little girl froze as she lent in to pick this rose but was startled as the redness turned black she tried her hardest but the rose wouldn't go back to growing clouds covered the village sky as judgement day was coming thunder rain being forced from the heavens above it was the English rose.s pain as she who came to pick the rose wasn't as pure as every one knows

cheek out the new chapbook by Michael Brownstein, A RENDERING OF TORAH " key"is vintage poetry Favorite piece. 

http://booksonblog35.blogspot.com/

Bio: April Salzano teaches college writing in Pennsylvania. Her work has appeared in Poetry Salzburg, Pyrokinection, Convergence, Ascent Aspirations, The Rainbow Rose, The Camel Saloon, The Applicant, The Mindful Word, Napalm and Novocain, The Second Hump, and is forthcoming in Jellyfish Whispers, The South Townsville Micro Poetry Journal, andInclement.  She is working on her first collection of poetry and an autobiographical novel on raising a child with Autism.

 

Self Checkout

I can hear the genius at Walmart

corporate headquarters, pitching

his new idea:

Why open more lanes

when we can make the customer

do the job FOR us?

Please place your item

in the bagging area…

Ok, item in bagging area. Ha! I’m

my own cashier! I’m avoiding the lines.

I’m saving…no…I’m MAKING time!

Beep. Beep. Wahoo!

Please place your item

in the bagging area.

It’s placed.

Please place your…

It’s. In. The. Bagg.ing. Ar.e.a.

Please place your item…

Motherfucker, it IS in the bagging area.

Item not bagged.

Skip bagging. Ha! There.

Beep. Beep.

Please place your item

back

on the belt.

What? Why? It’s in the bagging area.

You said bagging area. Hello?

Assistance required.

Yes, yes please assist me.

Do your job. I am not

a cashier. Can’t you see that?

Please place your item in…

am I wearing a smock? Am I?

the bagging area.

Belt! You said the belt!

Please wait for assistance.

No! I won’t!

Fine! Happy? Waiting

for assistance. To finish

select your payment method.

Card not read. Please wait

for assistance.

Please kiss my ass.

Please wait for assistance.

 

Ready or Not, Here I Come

1…works it in…

            2…kids later, I’m pleased with the struggle…

3…(pause) 4….(pause)

                                    5…(rhythm established)…

6,7…Yeah, right there (kegel’s working).

8..uh oh…9… I’m…gonna…(No! Wait!)…

10…I’m sorry.

Yes. Yes,

you are.

 

 

poems by Holly Day

Holly Day wrote to the editor , see what she had too say.

Dear Poetry Editor, Vintage Poetry:

For me, November is all about waiting for things to get really bad around
here, when the weather's gotten just cold enough that all the trees are bare
and all the plants are dead and most of the birds are gone but it's still
not too cold to try to spend as much time as possible outside because any
day now, it'll be 30 below zero and you won't have any choice but to huddle
inside, immobilized under blankets until spring. I've got a blanket on my
lap right now as I type this, but it's more for the cat than me. If it
wasn't for the cat hiding under my chair, curled up in the folds of the
blanket and purring against my feet, I'd be fine without my office blanket
for at least another couple of weeks.

Hope you like the poems.

Holly Day

Short bio: Holly Day is a housewife and mother of two living in Minneapolis,
Minnesota who teaches needlepoint classes in the Minneapolis school
district. Her poetry has recently appeared in Hawai'i Pacific Review, The
Oxford American, and Slipstream, and she is a recent recipient of the Sam
Ragan Poetry Prize from Barton College. Her book publications include Music
Composition for Dummies, Guitar-All-in-One for Dummies, and Music Theory for
Dummies, which has recently been translated into French, Dutch, German,
Spanish, Russian, and Portuguese.







Holly Day
878 20th Avenue Se
Minneapolis MN  55414 USA
(612) 378-4781
lalena@bitstream.net

        Z

last night I dreamed about your fingers on my flesh
my body too small to take your words anymore,
I am not your handpuppet, mister last night I

screamed myself awake to putrid memories of you
the linoleum pattern of the laundryroom
floor your anticipation festers inside of

me, I am not as fucking stupid as you think




Holly Day
878 20th Avenue Se
Minneapolis MN  55414 USA
(612) 378-4781
lalena@bitstream.net

        Yesterday, 1995

After he was born, I threw out
all the photos taken of my life, the
days before his birth, determined to become
someone else, wanted to be
new, like him, my baby.

sold all my records to pay for
rent and groceries, tossed all my clothes that didn't fit
all I owned crammed in a backpack
jewelry I could sell for
cash, enough to take me and my son

somewhere safe




Holly Day
878 20th Avenue Se
Minneapolis MN  55414 USA
(612) 378-4781
lalena@bitstream.net

        Tourist Season

we'd sit by the lake and he'd tell me stories
of the places he'd been, with convoluted names like
"Nebraska" and "Mississippi"
the difference in the way one pronounces "Kansas"
and "Arkansas." The people in his stories

were as exotic as the places they lived-men
who cut sheet metal into animal silhouettes
bent spades into birdhouses and
turned old train cars into hotels.

I wanted to badly to be with him in Colorado
to stand in the exact spot where four state lines met
to take a small rubber raft over rocks and dangerous rapids
and survive it all. He kept saying, Next time, next time, I promise.
Next time."

I waited by the lake for him to come and get me
waited with my suitcase packed, ready to leave
visions of Indianapolis burning holes in my brain
but he never came back to get me, never took me away.







Holly Day
878 20th Avenue Se
Minneapolis MN  55414 USA
(612) 378-4781
lalena@bitstream.net

        Dreaming

when I became pregnant
I spent the first few weeks trying to kill it
stopped eating, slept
stomach down against the cold dirt
beat myself until it hurt. Then

other thoughts began to set in
of what this child could be if it lived
how the nightmare of his or her conception
could unfold until a wonderful dream. Now
I slept with my stomach to the ground
to protect the child within
my body a shield against
the wolves prowling outside my door.

when he raped me a second time I knew
he had killed our baby, the way
one knows that the sun has risen
even while still deep in sleep. By morning
I knew I was completely alone.








Holly Day
878 20th Avenue Se
Minneapolis MN  55414 USA
(612) 378-4781
lalena@bitstream.net

        Wednesday

The seagulls search the sand, seeking
the crippled claws of the cold, curled up
beneath the burnt rubble of the beachside boardinghouse
the remains of the fire, thirteen boys dead.

Diligently digging deep into the dead, digging past
the makeshift markers left in memory
by the sympathetic who saw the squatters' squalor
but still seemed surprised by the flames.

Vintage poetry presents: Poems by Donal Mahoney

Caseworker Takes Notes

I was there the day

there trickled down the wall

of an old man's room one roach

that stopped across

a canyon in the plaster till

the old man's elevated slipper fell.

The roach absorbed the blow

and as though perforated for that purpose

dissolved into an archipelago.

The old man looked at me

and patiently explained, "Despite my 

constant smacking of its brethren

one roach each day will trickle down that wall

and pause and pose as if to say,

'Go ahead and smack me, that's okay.' "

To take advantage of the archipelago at hand

the old man pointed toward the last palpitating island

and once again explained,

"Each roach I smack, you see,

offers me that same good-bye--

one last flicker of antennae."

Donal Mahoney 

(©)

copyright

--------------------------------------------------------

Donal Mahoney has had work published in Vintage Poetry and various print and electronic publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/

We are still here!

We are still hear and ready to hear from you! submit to : goodozog@gmail.com for vintage poetry consideration ! thanks!

VINTAGE POETRY IS ,NOW, FOR THE FIRST TIME EXCEPTING ALL TYPES WRITING, non fictions AND NON- non fictions....keep it short, and fiction ;) goodozoog@gmail.com  music aswell!~

G. David Schwartz

written by G. David Schwartz - the former president of Seedhouse, the
online interfaith committee. Schwartz is the author of A Jewish
Appraisal of Dialogue and Midrash and Working Out Of The Book
Currently a volunteer at Drake Hospital in Cincinnati, Schwartz
continues to write.  His newest book, Shards And Verse (Baltimore,
PublishAmerica, 2012) is now in stores or can be order on line.
 

            Names are not real people




            G David Schwartz
            DavidSchwartzG@AOL.COM

I Saw A Pig IN The A@P
        G David Schwartz
I saw a pig at the A@P
He sat there just starring out at me
gave him a notice to be sure
I wouldn't eat him, I am kosher

My Mustache Doesn't Feel Bad
        G David Schwartz
My mustache does not  feel bad
My mustache does not feel good
I even forget its there
Whenever that I could

If I Say My Memory Is Good
        G David Schwartz
If I say my memory is good
That just goes to show
My memory is so horrid
That I don't even know

With Tonsils In My Mouth
        G David Schwartz
With tonsils in my mouth
They are difficult to get out
So think a bit about this
But them in your hips

poem's by Ross Vassilev

Maya

by Ross Vassilev

sitting at the window
looking up at the trees rustling in the wind
while Uncle Sam jinnies up a new war
in the Persian Gulf
a war that could wipe out everything
and everyonewith the push of a button

so it's important to enjoy every second

of the butterfly's flight
and admire each leaf as though it were the last.

New poems by, A.J. Huffman

 
A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida.  She has previously published four collections of poetry: The Difference Between Shadows and Stars, Carrying Yesterday, Cognitive Distortion, and . . . And Other Such Nonsense.  She has also published her work in national and international literary journals such as Avon Literary Intelligencer, Writer's Gazette, and The Penwood Review.  Find more about A.J. Huffman, including additional information and links to her work at http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100000191382454 and https://twitter.com/#!/poetess222.

Sun = Sense = Less

My thought is ÷ by the waves’ echoes

+ing to the background noise inside

my head.  The miniscule % chance

of [b]rain is unlikely

                                  & irrelevant as I

love to dance b/w its

            drops

anyway.

B-4

suffocating in the smoking area, her sister refusing

her the glass divide of pro-offered isolated reprieve,

she tentatively listens for the initiating

echoes of the omniscient

voice:  a nameless mouth . . .

B-15

Seconds later her hand responds.  An automatic hammer

motion translating this gaming code into gobs

of day-glo goo marring dingy numbered papers strangely

referred to as cards . . .

B-8

The search begins for a straight-line

single, a crazy kite, the elusive

large picture frame . . .

B-2

A titter of excitement rustles through this crowd of broke

n dreamers.  She feels the stolen

glances from across this stain-tortured table.

“You are jealous of my B-filled card,” she says not needing

to reciprocate the autonomous ogling to know her sister

‘s cards are sparsely beyond hope.

B-11

Another match, another stamp, another dirty

look.  Impervious

as another ball is pulled.  She breathes

[only] for the caller . . .

B . . .

poems by : by F. S. Symons

Fumes

by F. S. Symons

An old car arrives, leaks 

in its exhaust system,

holes in the rusty floorboards.

Inhaling carbon I cough in the lube pit and

shout, turn off your engine. Through the floor,

I see the driver’s long pale legs, inches 

above me, safe in the pleats of her khaki skirt. 

Years ago, my friend Kyle 

had been wearing a khaki shirt,

in our classroom turned shooting gallery,

bright red oozing out of the bullet 

hole and  dyeing the cloth.   

Too slow to unscrew the oil pan plug,

I scald my arms with the car’s spewing 

black oil. The mechanic’s blowtorch 

points at me for a second. I could be 

incinerated in this pit, shaped like a coffin. 

The woman’s car is dead now.  It

disgorges differential fluid.

I pour in a serum, molasses brown

to nurture it back to life.

Her engine oil stinks of burnt carbon, 

unlike the new gold blood I inject.  

Her coolant oozes out pinkish  and

I replace it with orange liquid, but first, 

 curious, I lick a drop.  It is 

sweet.

I finish the job, wipe the oil 

off black greasy cuts on my hand,

wounded like my faith. 

I observe the woman as she sips her milky coffee.  

Her car roars to life, the nutrients flowing.  

She pays, the wind nips her 

receipt out of her hand and

she’s gone, just a customer, a piece 

of receipt paper now, 

carried away like a voice in the wind,

like Kyle, like the fumes of this pit I live in.    

==========================================

Two stars 

by F. S. Symons

Today she feels heavy—very heavy,

the child in her belly like a lead balloon—

so she just lies down.  

Around her, the same dirt, same sharp rocks, same 

glaring sun as the last trailer park,

same social workers kicking up the dust. 

It’s so long since she’s seen anyone

and the loneliness weighs 

like the heavy body 

of her now-dead soldier.

She lets herself outside with her dog,

her half-wolf only friend.

Teetering in the blistering sun, 

rings swimming before her eyes and 

off in the distance, fleeting silhouettes, 

maybe children, the supermarket

or cars, it’s hard to tell.     

Her body hits the ground 

like a piece of driftwood, and she hears 

in her head a sharp noise 

like a gunshot. 

She pushes herself to her feet,

stumbles, falls again, and a scorpion and two beetles 

watch her crawl inside on her hands and knees. 

Through her dazed eyes, sparks burst 

forth from the leaves, the stones, 

even from the end of each of her nails.  

Finally she gets onto her feet but then 

the waters seep out beneath her and she falls again  

whimpering, unable to walk, the waves of pain   

the loneliness filling up the mobile home, 

spreading in terrifying silence. 

Opening knees, her arms hugging her watermelon belly, 

holding it in like a belt.  Slowly, instinctively, 

her arms begin kneading, doing their work 

of expulsion, forcing long, feverish chills 

through her limbs. Then suddenly, 

she’s no longer alone—the baby at her breast.

The dog’s eyes shine out 

into the shadows like two stars, as if their light 

were enough to keep the world at bay. 

  F.S. Symons, MPA, PhD, has published his short stories online at opiummagazine.com, gloomcupboard.com, among others and non-fiction in academic journals such as Economic Geography (distributed world-wide) and Canadian Communication.  After being tinker, sailor, soldier, spy and foreign correspondent he studied and moved on to telecommunications at the UN and the Canadian Federal Government.  Married with six children and two grandchildren, he likes sensual, natural world-based prose and poetry. 

I hope this helps.  -- FSS