Friday, July 20, 2012

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

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


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.

Sunday, July 1, 2012

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 and!/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


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 . . .


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 . . .


The search begins for a straight-line
single, a crazy kite, the elusive
large picture frame . . .


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.


Another match, another stamp, another dirty
look.  Impervious
as another ball is pulled.  She breathes
[only] for the caller . . .

B . . .