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

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?

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/.

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

                                    a body at ease

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/profile.php?id=100000191382454 andhttps://twitter.com/#!/poetess222. 

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.