poem by : ross vassilev

the indispensable nation if you ever find a human skull just lying around somewhere bury it in the ground and maybe it'll sprout an olive tree maybe it'll grow a pair of black wings and fly off with the crows all the way to India where 3000 years ago some Goddess laid her body down to become a river turning desert to forest for the people or maybe the skull would feel more at home in Cambodia joining the mountains of human skulls erected by Pol Pot and paid for by Uncle Sam.

https://soundcloud.com/prophet-has-soul/last-minute

poems by JD Dehart

JD DeHart

The Anti League

 

They have banners and sashes,

these quiet old lady patrol people,

their cracking voices infused

with some otherworldly

demonstration vigor, now seizing

memories of years ago, sit-ins

and nationalism, yielding themselves

to their new great cause – forget

the wisdom of years past, forget

the girls who need the extra care,

rocking their screeching young,

not getting the expected;

the league now marching,

their cracking voices laying down

proverbial knowledge for buttoned-down

old-fashioned homespun reason

where there is no reason,

only a cause and a static sound.

 

A Weekend’s Promise

 

Walk with me along the pathway

I walked when I chose to matriculate,

look now daughter at the piece

of your future that can be in this place,

that can grow full and unleashed;

do not be burdened with the mundane

life you see in front you, do not listen

to what the boys say about you

and what you can and cannot be,

listen to voice of my teacher, the sweet

high tone or learning as she unpacks

a sentence, noun plus verb.

 

Caricature

 

It would be easy to paint you

as a stark figure, my dear,

but do not illustrate yourself

as others do, leaving out the important

details, the parts of you

that make you whole, do not listen

to the angry voices of those

who should love you, for they only

criticizing themselves, then curling

back on a slight manipulation,

do not blame yourself for the fault

that lies in others;

so weave your portrait, strong,

strong like you can be, like you are,

and exist, a hope and complete circle.

April Salzano
asalzano@hotmail.com

Bio:  Recently nominated for two Pushcart prizes, April Salzano teaches college writing in Pennsylvania where she lives with her husband and two sons. She is currently working on a memoir on raising a child with autism and several collections of poetry. Her work has appeared in journals such as Convergence, Ascent Aspirations, The Camel Saloon, Centrifugal Eye, Deadsnakes, Visceral Uterus, Salome, Poetry Quarterly, Writing Tomorrow and Rattle. The author also serves as co-editor at Kind of a Hurricane Press (www.kindofahurricanepress.com).

Text Slap

I am sure there is an emoticon or emoji

to fit what is needed when I annoy

the hell out of you with my incessant questions,

answers to which you have already provided,

but I forgot not because I wasn’t listening,

but because I was—to everything

in addition to what you said,

laundry crying

kids on infinite spin cycle

students barking

dog whining

all forces conspiring

against my attention span, capability

of my memory.

We need a our own combination of keystrokes,

delivered via cell

for the next time it happens.

A symbolic hand to face, a parenthetical

punishment of sorts to shock me

back into the realm of the writer.

Retrospective Disapproval

is as pointless as retroactive praise. Lessons

have been learned with or without reinforcement.

The statute of limitations expired long ago. History’s

characters cannot change their clothes, the color

of their eyes, or be recast, except as memory fails.

Mine is sharp, all unfortunate edges, a mirror

I hold that reflects no perception but my own,

not fairest, but historically accurate. For the past,

I may be sorry, but I will never apologize.

The Church of Sugar

I worship bread dough rising,

kneel before icing slathered

on a binge, lick cupcake

with peanut butter center,

tongue the body of my tiny god.

Sincerely,
April Salzano
asalzano@hotmail.com





Text Slap


I am sure there is an
emoticon or emoji


to fit what is needed
when I annoy


the hell out of you
with my incessant questions,


answers to which you
have already provided,


but I forgot not
because I wasn't listening,

but because I was--to

poems by Donal Mahoney

Midnight in the Garden of Envy

 

It's hot in our bedroom this midnight in June.

The air conditioner died but my wife sleeps on. 

She spent the day weeding the garden.

I finally decide to open a window

and pray for a breeze.

No breeze but I hear roses and lilies

arguing about which is the prettier, 

which of them deserves more space 

in the garden to unfurl their beauty,

petal by petal, like Gypsy Rose Lee.

The peonies mock the roses and lilies,

claiming peonies are the prettiest of all.

The petunias along the borders yell

not to ignore them because they're not tall.

Suddenly there's a ruckus among the hibiscus.

They, too, claim they're the most beautiful.

They want more space, as do the hydrangeas.

The roses decide to offer a compromise.

Tomorrow they promise to count 

which flower in the garden attracts

the most butterflies and honeybees.

The flower that attracts the most 

will be named the most beautiful 

and be given more space in the garden  

and won't lose a bloom to bouquets. 

The other flowers discuss in a whisper

the compromise offered by the roses.

They take a vote and agree to comply.

Finally, silence returns to the garden.

I tell my wife in the morning to hide out 

in the yard with a clipboard to confirm

which flower attracts the most 

butterflies and honeybees.

We can't trust the roses, I tell her.

They'll cheat on the final results.

I ask her to keep an eye on the sunflowers

since they didn't join the furor at midnight 

over which flower's the most beautiful.

I tell her more butterflies and bees 

will visit the sunflowers tomorrow

than any of the others because 

sunflowers at noon leap in the air 

and kiss every cloud in the sky.

 

Donal Mahoney

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

Nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, Donal Mahoney has had work published in Vintage Poetry and other publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa.  Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/. Some of his latest work can be found at http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html#sthash.A1MWANJM.1vEf04em.dpbs.

Melissa Davis

 

 

 

mdavi584@yahoo.com

 

 

 

 

A Still Life Portrait

 

 

I painted my life when I was twelve

Sunshine and beaches and lots of friends

 

I would find my match –

A connection for life

We’d have children

We’d party

We’d be rich with never a strife

 

I restored my painting when I was twenty

Good books, good food, and a few good friends

 

I would find my match –

A connection for life

We’d have good educations

Wait to marry

Have children later

Be secure with never a strife

 

And now my painting is cracked

No team can restore its former state

 

I have no match –

No connection for life

I am alone, lonely

My friends are pills

Reality is a nightmare

And it cuts like a knife.

  I have read work from Vintage Poetryand have noted the high quality of work accepted. I only hope my poem meets your standards. I am a doctoral student and teacher. I have had poems and fiction pieces published with journals such as Leaves of Ink and The Circle Review. My nonfiction has appeared in journals such as the American Reading Forum Yearbook and The Commonline Journal.

 

Thank you in advance for considering my work.

 

Sincerely,

 

Melissa Davis

short stores from umehoma new link

cheek out my new link  , short stories from umehomo


http://umehoma.com

poems by John Grey

John Grey    

Bio is as follows:

John Grey is an Australian born poet. Recently published in International Poetry Review, Chrysalis and the science fiction anthology, “Futuredaze” with work upcoming in Potomac Review, Sanskrit and Fox Cry Review.

RICH WOMAN IN MIAMI BEACH

a la affection,

amongst the latter-day suitors,

always followed by flowers,

arrive bedchamber

behind which the believed,

beloved, besought,

enter the. big blue room,

window by the bay,

sills copper-casket brown,

like your skin

wrapped round

a face defeated by cameras

eiderdown quilts

fleet and wavering,

having flung your fragrance

for 30 years,

now around your mouth,

another gigolo,

full disclosure

SITES

We drive by the site of the murder.

No body, no blood-stain,

no cop car with whirring siren,

no ghoulish bystanders.

But there's no people either.

Not a soul in sight.

It's just this brick wall

with faded election poster,

a sidewalk with weeds poking

through the cracks.

I stop the car, get out.

You stay behind.

I am exactly where the victim was.

You could be as close

as the killer.

We're at the site of a murder

and it feels as if

I'm the first since then

to stand here and wonder,

what if it happens to me.

And who but you,

from such close range,

could ask yourself

what if he's the one

I do it to.

It's not even a murder by this.

It could be love

for all we know.

It could be whatever

we feel or fear

could happen with another.

No violence, no death,

no arrest, no execution.

But we leave the site of that murder

like it's the site

of something in our lives.

UPBRINGING, THE DOWN SIDE

and you think you dragged

yourself up from nothing

but not like the nothing I'm from

eating out of trashcans

licking the rain off sidewalks

begging all the alley bums

to be my old man

just look at my face

can't you see the fish-heads

the taste of raw cement

the breath the booze

that I am heir to

okay

so I've cleaned myself

up a little since those days

I only eat the best garbage

I only drink the pavement

outside the fanciest addresses

and I even have a kid of my own

the bum

WATCHING THE PITCHER

you're on the mound

you're in command

you're elevated

like your body

is your brain

and they're both pumping

two guys

struck out already

this inning

you're throwing smoke

and the fans are

as rabid as wolves

I'm wishing

I could write poems like that

readers cheering

or tensed up for the next one