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.
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
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
dissolved into an archipelago.
The old man looked at me
and patiently explained, "
constant smacking of its
one roach each day will
and pause and pose as if to
'Go ahead and smack me, that'
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.
Thursday, October 4, 2012
We are still here!
We are still hear and ready to hear from you! submit to : goodozog@gmail.com for vintage poetry consideration ! thanks!
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
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!~
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
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.
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 http://www.facebook.com/
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
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 . . .
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
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
ROOM TEMPERATURE PSYCHIC UNREADING
ROOM TEMPERATURE PSYCHIC UNREADING
by Bob Eager
Are you a black sheep?
Not a message from the departed it is a message
from the people sitting next to you.
Due to becoming recently clairvoyant,
The spirit are asking just one question, what are you doing with your life.
Somewhere over here,
In this general direction,
waiting for you to respond so I can become more specific.
Ready for a cold read,
I mean a psychic evaluation.
Its not a calculation of probability and statistics;
it is a collective field of informative energy.
You will stay poor!
You will not succeed!
You will stay mediocre!
Am I getting warm yet?
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