Monday, March 19, 2012
Poems by Andrew J. Stone
Hailing Night
blackclouds
black
shudder
-ing
rockice&ra(in)
rain
hammer(s)
-ing
bleed
-ing
&
the sun(n(ever))
sh
ines
Verbose Flapdoodle
He’s atendentious enervate
who bombinatespretentious grok,
indagating topalliate madness
He traduces me,Yale graduate,
asininemollycoddle
Bio:
Andrew J. Stone lives and writes in SouthernCalifornia with two cats and coffee. He sleeps with one eye open. This is alie. Recent work has appeared in Eunioa Review, Yes Poetry, Fullof Crow, Danse Macabre, Weirdyear, and Short,Fast, and Deadly, among other places. In 2010, he received a national GoldMedal from the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards for his poetry. Recently, hefinished a chapbook of ekphrastic poetry and is currently seeking publication.A novella is also in the works. He'll eat you at: http://andrewjstone.blogspot.com/.
Friday, February 17, 2012
A.J. Huffman Poetry
High Noon
comfort is an attitude
and everyone is trying the same thing
the ice queen does it gently
triple zero
independence makes her less desirable
about face
personality injection
a great way to begin
you’ve chosen the evil
cover your face
a-pluses are guaranteed
Exotic Evenings
how far will you go
runway choices celebrate the dawn
those who can’t speak chill a martini glass
true confessions
no streaks no smudges
the postman always rings twice
True Illusions
do i look like public enemy number one
change your eye color
now shape it wet
keep it touchable
what gives you the power
acid face peels
too many politicians
your score
designer loyalty
only nature could inspire so perfect a gift
A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. She has previously published three collections of poetry: The Difference Between Shadows and Stars, Carrying Yesterday, and Cognitive Distortion. 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/
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
3 poems by Ross Vassilev: another vintage poetry favorite)
3 poems by Ross Vassilev:
trinity
the veterans
are coming home
again
as I put a quarter
in the soda machine
and remember a poster
I once saw of a
gorgeous redhead
in a black dress
the veterans
are always coming home
from the latest war
and God must spend
a lot of time
jerking off
while people are busy
killing each other
and giving each
other medals
and somewhere
out in the New Mexico
desert
lies the hollow skull
of a yesterday cow
dull and oblivious
and dessicated
as the bull-brained
mob parading
down the street
behind me
a Georgia O’Keefe
cow skull
a sacred-cow skull
with a yellow rose
in one hollow
eye
calling out to me
across the desert stars.
we’ll be on our way home when the smoke whispers in the sky
these red brick walls
these grey streets that I’ve walked up and down
for so many years
with the sparrows at sunrise
under the afternoon drizzle
with sunshine on the snow like all
the Christmas bullshit suddenly come to life
and I remember the last 20 years
like an old great river that never stops
like a short walk to the end of the street
and I remember that old hobo
who asked me what time it was
and I told him and he said
Is that all?
and then like Bob Dylan
walked away and disappeared
among the streetlights and dusk.
propaganda of the deed
I see the ghosts of dead anarchists
who took their outrage
and fired guns and threw bombs
I see the ghosts of 60s radicals
marching and fighting in the streets
of Chicago ‘68
these were people who got out
and took action
so everyone knew they really meant it
instead of just writing it down
like me and Langston Hughes
the fire and rage of revolutions
that lit up the nights of bygone days
that set the rich trembling
so they called out the riot police
and if that didn’t work
they called the troops and their boots
and if those revolutions failed
well they came damn close
and the intent and the effort were noble
all those wild dead radicals
and revolutionaries
I’m just a pale reflection of their
sainted shadows.
trinity
the veterans
are coming home
again
as I put a quarter
in the soda machine
and remember a poster
I once saw of a
gorgeous redhead
in a black dress
the veterans
are always coming home
from the latest war
and God must spend
a lot of time
jerking off
while people are busy
killing each other
and giving each
other medals
and somewhere
out in the New Mexico
desert
lies the hollow skull
of a yesterday cow
dull and oblivious
and dessicated
as the bull-brained
mob parading
down the street
behind me
a Georgia O’Keefe
cow skull
a sacred-cow skull
with a yellow rose
in one hollow
eye
calling out to me
across the desert stars.
we’ll be on our way home when the smoke whispers in the sky
these red brick walls
these grey streets that I’ve walked up and down
for so many years
with the sparrows at sunrise
under the afternoon drizzle
with sunshine on the snow like all
the Christmas bullshit suddenly come to life
and I remember the last 20 years
like an old great river that never stops
like a short walk to the end of the street
and I remember that old hobo
who asked me what time it was
and I told him and he said
Is that all?
and then like Bob Dylan
walked away and disappeared
among the streetlights and dusk.
propaganda of the deed
I see the ghosts of dead anarchists
who took their outrage
and fired guns and threw bombs
I see the ghosts of 60s radicals
marching and fighting in the streets
of Chicago ‘68
these were people who got out
and took action
so everyone knew they really meant it
instead of just writing it down
like me and Langston Hughes
the fire and rage of revolutions
that lit up the nights of bygone days
that set the rich trembling
so they called out the riot police
and if that didn’t work
they called the troops and their boots
and if those revolutions failed
well they came damn close
and the intent and the effort were noble
all those wild dead radicals
and revolutionaries
I’m just a pale reflection of their
sainted shadows.
Friday, December 16, 2011
poems by linda m. crate
murder
she laid buried there underneath the point where the truths started and the lies began; you all ignored that as you tittered your adulations in birdsong as if ignoring her dead body would make it go away imbibed leaves burn her throat, her body would thrash if she weren't already dead; her lips the blue of azure skies dipped in loving white clouds - still you hold hands and laugh as if she never existed there; the lilting songs of disaster clinging to her lips in an unsung hymn that you all feign to have forgotten; she lays there in a sprawl of gold and scarlet, her hair the petals of the sun birthed upon grey rocks that cover her more prettily than her fine clothes torn to tatters by wolves, you have no silver tears left for her. unearthed by shaking hands some years later, a strip of pink is the only thing that separates her skull from that of a wild animal; his fingers trip over her syllables like a laughing girl, he discovers the truth hidden in her marrow and he is rendered mute. - linda m. crate cyanide lullabies
cyanide lullabies cling to her lips in rivers of red lipstick, she knows no other color of passion but scarlet - she chokes on cardinal feathers simply so she can feel the vibrancy of being alive; she does not know that love isn't a heart attack walking on egg shells or a victory march, but something a little less grand yet in it's simplicity even more beautiful than her lovely dulcet hued lips.
- linda m. crate the clock was dead
the hands of the clock were fixed - they could only tell the right time twice a day; every other hour they lilted in dulcet tones the exact hour of impropriety, a weirder shade of midnight sung on pomegranate seeds; the eyes of one and two ever staring in their stained maroon, a garish hue loud enough to make babies lament. - linda m. crate wounded
they made their pilgrimage through the town dotted with churches, their hearts twisted in an odd shade of pomegranate the memory of love brought back only bitterness, it left it's stain in garish maroon hues they could never wash from their souls, they recalled the impropriety of the priests that called themselves men of God, remembered their sins went unpunished by men, it brought the tang of anger darting to their tongues - silver rain fell upon stained glass windows, as alms of their anger poured forth in rivulets of angry words; the men were happy when they returned home to a place where only bars had sprung their wooden hands, drowning out their disdain with a bit of needed ale. - linda m. crate healing
drowned in the ale of silver rain, she made a promise to let it wash away the stains of every garish yesterday that had painted her in it's ugly obsidian hymns sometimes streaking her with pomegranate other times with royal blue; she took her life back in a breath of fog, let the white mist swallow what was left of her pain; let the rain mingle with the salt of her eyes, it made a good fertilizer for the flowers that grew beneath her feet in dulcet pastel hues. she knew that God would one day heal her broken heart, until the doves came she would sit here in the field as she sipped on the liquor of the clouds; letting the pain blossom forth so it could be washed away by wet fingers.
- linda m. crate
poems by Donal Mahoney
The Next One Like You
I’ve found no new woman,
as you’d like to surmise.
But the next one
who braids
my mind with my heart
won’t get away,
not even if she’s a nun.
The next one like you
I’ll lock in a room
near the sky and there
will I kiss her until
she is certain
a thousand butterflies
one by one
are lighting
all over her body.
Donal Mahoney
On Taking Secretaries To Lunch
If you live in the valley
know the lava above
has the tact of Comanche
demeanor of dove
Hoe furrow
don’t sprinkle
your seed
then enwire
Post sentry
tall criers
Go home
to your love
Donal Mahoney
When The Words Begin
It always begins
like indigestion,
slowly at first,
then full bore.
Either way,
I need relief,
no question.
But no antacid
can abort a poem
so I have to stop
and take dictation.
I’m no Matthew, Mark
Luke or John.
They wrote the Gospels
by Divine Inspiration.
I’m on my own;
I have to listen.
So when the words begin
I grab my quill.
I have no choice.
I have to stop
and take dictation.
Donal Mahoney
------------------------------
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri, U.S. A. His poetry and fiction have appeared in a variety of publications, including Public Republic (Bulgaria), Revival (
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Poems by A.J. Kaufmann
JAZZ ME BLUES (EXILE DEUTSCHLAND!)
The seraph, the tempest, in cobbled sky
avert in milky mourning
thumbs up, 23
still wedded under
hope signs
Strands and days of marriage
jazz your blues
out of the moon
cheering wrecks
in harvest
Starlight reclaims
mind's burden
suicide hipsters
drown
where nightfalls
blow
Soul's fire showers
stigmata whirled in sands
scythes
in the whirlwind
driven to flame
Fountains pitched in the lightning
screaming
exile Deutschland!
while mercy reigns
on Saturday heaven
Body be our pride
black sex
chalk stain
lions in lettering light
hunting
penthouse pain
Palms crash
your madrigal flesh
granite soul
a quarter of earth
you’re ink sketch Christ
unshapeable
Exile Deutschland!
for the years we spent
on bitter surf
THE SHADOW BOYS
Wake up to the burden
feel pain in everything wild
Polaroid electric smile
Round formless river eating herself
drinking with sadly late some
enduring in parade of poker
True fat age
shows through winter covers
tight family suits
Stormy days of heavy past
gather round
mouth meat
hearing fellow sounds
of a rat reel
Money, air, eccentric ink
with little sun painted squeals
brown bowdlerized
dinners rose
to prove
you’re eating noise
Night knell for the clowns
hard-earned peace
diminished
in clattering thoughts
We suddenly stop stealing
savage states
hitching strange
rags of times
tuned with low
sailor days’ cravat
One frightful April
policeman laughing at
a nameless death
climbed, in face anguish
to the silence jury doodling:
talk of the pigs
Cold everything, muffled sick
shelved to watch
worried women
insects, booze
blue, burnt blankets
The frantic wait
of sharp cruel dogs
dead city thirst
war sick divers
playing the old
patriotic drum
On far German deserts
of circus love
in begging eyes, serving
the glare wheel
you soberly walk
round twirling of words
memorizing
the shadow boys’
heaven
YOU DON’T EXIST
Murmur of leaden wings
dead edge
of a coffin
Thru whispers mad
we know you
Little pitiful
body death
a warm strange hand
in the night
Between incense
and the dark
blood is the flame
you burn
In waking moments
carefully watching
the blade
Rarify ecstasy now
then you don’t exist
BOMBAY
Ashes she describes
her white and smallest you
light unwraps your head
every ornament
of intellect
childlike, translated
larvae
Guiding lady hybrids
thru satisfactory ages
burning sand in your eyes
days to their palm
anxious, demoralized
nights
Simple cracks, like us
subtle to destiny
practice monotony
against the shades
of reply
this black, nauseous
leather
Parting with the quiet life
long, indigenous months
make me feel resigned
but I hold my true Bombay
in words timidly
carved
YIDDISH GHETTO FLOWER
Yiddish ghetto flower
old twilight bird
searching eyes
in irony of vision
Cities forgotten
in velvety gleaming night
are slow side
phosphorus flesh psalm
Ridiculous, gone
gleaming without a world
as ancient darkness saddles
our thought
Empty sunken stones
parade red words
creeping up our fine cold skulls
blocking books and harmonies
Garbage goblets, mirrors
dull, ephemeral beauty
shocks the stars, screaming grapes
on vermilion black surface
A.J. Kaufmann is a young poet and songwriter hailing from Poznan, Poland, whose debut poetry chapbook, "Siva in Rags", was published on June 28, 2008 with a small American publisher, Kendra Steiner Editions. Since then he has published lots of poetry chapbooks in the USA, UK and Poland, including “Saint of Kreuzberg”, “Cut-up 2010” and “I’m Already Not Here”. His debut studio album, "Second Hand Man", appeared on the Polish music market on October 2, 2011.
The seraph, the tempest, in cobbled sky
avert in milky mourning
thumbs up, 23
still wedded under
hope signs
Strands and days of marriage
jazz your blues
out of the moon
cheering wrecks
in harvest
Starlight reclaims
mind's burden
suicide hipsters
drown
where nightfalls
blow
Soul's fire showers
stigmata whirled in sands
scythes
in the whirlwind
driven to flame
Fountains pitched in the lightning
screaming
exile Deutschland!
while mercy reigns
on Saturday heaven
Body be our pride
black sex
chalk stain
lions in lettering light
hunting
penthouse pain
Palms crash
your madrigal flesh
granite soul
a quarter of earth
you’re ink sketch Christ
unshapeable
Exile Deutschland!
for the years we spent
on bitter surf
THE SHADOW BOYS
Wake up to the burden
feel pain in everything wild
Polaroid electric smile
Round formless river eating herself
drinking with sadly late some
enduring in parade of poker
True fat age
shows through winter covers
tight family suits
Stormy days of heavy past
gather round
mouth meat
hearing fellow sounds
of a rat reel
Money, air, eccentric ink
with little sun painted squeals
brown bowdlerized
dinners rose
to prove
you’re eating noise
Night knell for the clowns
hard-earned peace
diminished
in clattering thoughts
We suddenly stop stealing
savage states
hitching strange
rags of times
tuned with low
sailor days’ cravat
One frightful April
policeman laughing at
a nameless death
climbed, in face anguish
to the silence jury doodling:
talk of the pigs
Cold everything, muffled sick
shelved to watch
worried women
insects, booze
blue, burnt blankets
The frantic wait
of sharp cruel dogs
dead city thirst
war sick divers
playing the old
patriotic drum
On far German deserts
of circus love
in begging eyes, serving
the glare wheel
you soberly walk
round twirling of words
memorizing
the shadow boys’
heaven
YOU DON’T EXIST
Murmur of leaden wings
dead edge
of a coffin
Thru whispers mad
we know you
Little pitiful
body death
a warm strange hand
in the night
Between incense
and the dark
blood is the flame
you burn
In waking moments
carefully watching
the blade
Rarify ecstasy now
then you don’t exist
BOMBAY
Ashes she describes
her white and smallest you
light unwraps your head
every ornament
of intellect
childlike, translated
larvae
Guiding lady hybrids
thru satisfactory ages
burning sand in your eyes
days to their palm
anxious, demoralized
nights
Simple cracks, like us
subtle to destiny
practice monotony
against the shades
of reply
this black, nauseous
leather
Parting with the quiet life
long, indigenous months
make me feel resigned
but I hold my true Bombay
in words timidly
carved
YIDDISH GHETTO FLOWER
Yiddish ghetto flower
old twilight bird
searching eyes
in irony of vision
Cities forgotten
in velvety gleaming night
are slow side
phosphorus flesh psalm
Ridiculous, gone
gleaming without a world
as ancient darkness saddles
our thought
Empty sunken stones
parade red words
creeping up our fine cold skulls
blocking books and harmonies
Garbage goblets, mirrors
dull, ephemeral beauty
shocks the stars, screaming grapes
on vermilion black surface
A.J. Kaufmann is a young poet and songwriter hailing from Poznan, Poland, whose debut poetry chapbook, "Siva in Rags", was published on June 28, 2008 with a small American publisher, Kendra Steiner Editions. Since then he has published lots of poetry chapbooks in the USA, UK and Poland, including “Saint of Kreuzberg”, “Cut-up 2010” and “I’m Already Not Here”. His debut studio album, "Second Hand Man", appeared on the Polish music market on October 2, 2011.
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