POETRY: Philip Rafferty – Before the Crying

Before the Crying

One last one

Before the crying

Must be soothed

By either of us.

One about your feet

Now plump and weighted.

How small they were then, wrapped in bags,

Summer sloshing through the snow.

We wandered together.

Searching for an open pharmacy.

A trek duly and subconsciously

influence by your Quakerism

And my Catholicism.

The sentimentalist in me

Would take your swollen feet

Indefinitely, to have more time,

To savor this, because I fear I didn’t

do it well enough when in bags.

POETRY: BROC RIBLET – JEN ESCAPES THE RUINS IN AUSTIN, COLLIN WILL FOLLOW

Jen Escapes the Ruins in Austin, Collin Will Follow

I found these handwritten notes
sent by a woman named Jen
to a man named Collin

In them Jen acknowledges
the two of them as “poets” and talks
of the importance of
handwriting (it is close to speech)
and imagines that Collin
feels the same about his typewriter

Eh. . . . there is a little reminiscence
about a party, a little filament
about some vague romance,
repeated mentions of vodka and
“drunken poetry talks”

Jen describes her failure to
harness a strange,
abstract voice,
is finding it hard to beat away
the locals’ influence

Says there is a lot
of poetry ahead for both of them,
they are, after all,
young

Well, Jen,
Collin,
drink in your own
rooms away from your peers

After the conversation has died down
and the last cigarette has burned,
open the notebook up

Cut back on the letter writing
and write more poetry

Pack your luggage and get
out of dodge, avoid a
trip into stark perdition
because I suspect

your final tally of conversations,
and smokes, and drinks, and levitating
parties, and grandstand speeches – will
greatly outnumber and overwhelm
your poetry

POETRY: ALINA STEFANESCU – On A November Night

On A November Night

From deep in the woods
we hear the harrowed shrieks
of females resisting.
Not rape
but foxes
gickering.

The human female’s assault
is covered by a pact of silence.
We can’t be certain.
But foxes.

In the dark shadows
of a park at night, words
fall softer than leaves. A
hush smothers the Sunday
school heart. Who says
a whisper is not intimidating.
Who stands above the fear
of hidden sounds.

We hold our breath
and count backwards.
Girls groped by the question
posed as secret underthings.

Visit Alina’s website.

POETRY: YELLOW BRICK ROAD – AJ Gutierrez

Yellow Brick Road

As I jabbed
the man across
from me
in the face, I feel
his soul and ego
enter my fists.
They’re becoming heavy,
I’ve broken so many
noses, hurt too many
people. I’ve changed
my ways, but do
people really change?
My heart feels like
glass, light and
fragile. Being in
denial that
I hate myself.
I fight like Tyson:
close and vicious, the
same in bed. My
poetry is beautiful
but my sex
never killed a human.
My hands are
heavier than a
cinder block in a
graveyard full of people’s
hopes and dreams;
I want someone to love
me, hug me, kiss me, cuddle me.
She’ll loosen the weight
of my death machines,
and turn the glass in
my chest to flesh.

–

Check out AJ’s website.

POETRY: JOAN MCNERNEY – CRAZY HOT

Crazy Hot

During this summer, bales of hay explode,

crops scorch, livestock are slaughtered early.

We shuffle through grocery stores. Limp

lettuce, mushy tomatoes languish on counters.

Prices rise inexorably when we drive to

gas stations where fumes fill our nostrils.

My throat is dry and coated with metallic taste.

I guzzle a bottle of ice tea, saccharine sweet.

Our town park floods with children spilling over

brown grass, their shouts cutting the air.

Laundry comes out piping hot from

the dryer, zippers burning my fingers.

Clumps of wrinkled clothes wobble on chairs.

Unopened mail and dust cover my table.

A rayon nightgown sticks to my skin as

fans push warm air brushing my face.

The shrill of cicadas drown the night.

I wait now to melt into dark oblivion.

POETRY: POST-SECONDARY – LUKE NORMSY

Post-Secondary

mom has 2 Masters’ degrees and a Ph.D. and her

husband does too

they are alumni of the same university as me

and when i was there as a student she said

“Steven and I put $5 bills in our doctoral

theses at the university library so we’ll know

if anyone’s read them!”

i went to the library, found their

theses, and took

the fivers

a few weeks later she was on campus again

she was all smiles

“Somebody read my thesis!” she squealed,

“and Steven’s, too! We put another $5 in them!”

i went to the library, found their

theses, and took

the fivers

it worked 2 more times before they switched to $1 bills

i took those, too

they were satisfied that their scholarly

efforts were appreciated

i had money for drugs

everyone was happy

POETRY: STEVE HOOD – AQUATIC

Aquatic

Giant double hook through

a puppy’s snout, dragged

alive by a picturesque

fisherman’s boat on sunlit seas,

of gorgeous Reunion Island,

as shark bait thrashing.

POETRY: ROOTED – LUCAS HERNDON

Rooted

we planted flowers
we planted flowers in the garden bed
they’re already coming up
too late for spring,
just in time to be wilted by summer heat
when we planted flowers it all seemed so real
like seeing them grow was inevitable
and now,
well
I’m here
and they’re growing
and I can’t figure out why you’re not
you’re like the bees
you buzz in and out
I feel like I need you
or I’ll wither
but maybe you’ve already
done for me what I could not do for myself
and now I must bloom
and die back again
and take this energy and store it up
because i’m using too much
chasing you around
stuck rooted here
turning toward the sun and asking
where’s that bee?
and he won’t answer me back
he just shines on,
slowly creeping west to avoid the answer
great, more avoidance
more pain
if only someone would come and snap me up
put me in a bouquet
where I could shine as part of a whole
and then wilt
having brought joy to someone else temporarily
but I remain
rooted

POETRY: Roberta Pantal Rhodes – India

India

Seventeen zillion, twelve

gazillion, one

trillion, sixteen

billion, three

hundred thousand?

No one knows

for sure

how many people

Inhabit India.

Scared cows

wander into

traffic. All movement

halts.

The Bengal tiger’s

stripes blend in

with tree branches.

Women peek

from behind veils.

Pink blossoms line

the path,

and float in a

nearby fountain.

A dead dog drifts down the Ganges.

Pink, yellow, orange, crimson,

rose, purple, violet, gold,

magenta, scarlet saris dot

the landscape.

POETRY: MOONLIGHTING – STEPHEN MEAD

Moonlighting

The graveyard shift has a solitary pace,
a long distance run for some thoroughbred
putting itself out there.
How I prefer these cloaked night owl
passages, the clock idle, and the mind
freely roaming, if keen with intention.
This babysitter concentrates.
A house watchman sprouting

hooves, the couch now a brook and,
nearby, nylon screens commanding some
mistral. I lie here opening. It’s
an intricate job. Across

the street, by moonlight, a machine is
devouring lilacs for a parking lot.
Seems rather dumb, the large merciless
rototiller lapping up sweet bunches…

Severity bleeds mute, says it’s humane.
I turn, trot on, become

a notebook momentarily. The flanks,
bulging images, succumb to the dignity
which language unbridles.
By sunrise, a Benzedrine mare,
the words will reclaim themselves

as the barn beds me down.

–

Check out Stephen’s website.

Cacti Fur

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