POETRY: JIM ZOLA – EUGENE

Eugene

I wrote about his death until he died.
Then I became my father. The shift
was gradual, the way a house might inch,
year by year, down an incline towards the street.
Bushes feel the nudge. Sidewalk cracks
could tell a tale, but who would listen?
Eventually the house will tumble

beam to basement. Unless contractors
come in to bolster floor joists, add girders.
When my mother visits for Christmas,
his name isn’t spoken. But in photographs,
I feel his eyes follow my movements.
My oldest son lumbers into the kitchen,
comes to lean against me. I pull away,
afraid of what is already happening.

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POETRY : Bobbi Sinha-Morey – THE SCENT OF ORCHID

The Scent Of Orchid

I saw her bare back as she
leaned forward in her bath,
her brown hair pinned up to
reveal the back of her neck,
and I caught a glimpse of her
chin through the bathroom
door, open by just a quarter.
I could imagine the scent of
orchid on her skin, water
running over her fingers,
the palms of her hands;
my mother’s sister, and she
didn’t care if I happened to
see her. But her beauty, her
perfect form, aroused the spirit
in my heart and I had to draw
her on paper. I stole away to
my own bedroom and in
the pale eloquence of the moon
I drew her on one of the artist’s
tablets I had; every curve,
every detail, the grace we lovely
women shared. And when I was
done the pearl sheen of my
sheets remained the screen I
drew up against the night.
I slept there, dreaming of
a muse bathing by herself
in the gentle dropping of
a waterfall.
~
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poetry: r.t. castleberry – a transfer of affection

A TRANSFER OF AFFECTION

Watching her movie look-alike,
I went to bed remembering
an Alabama ex-girlfriend.
I woke later, hard at the memory.
Younger than me,
she gave head, loved light jazz,
told me stories of her babies lost in divorce.
Engaged twice,
we drove ourselves to distraction
and transfers out of state.
She married in Birmingham, moved home
to monitor her mother’s health,
fell in with a fishing crowd.
She sends holiday emails.
I check photos on Facebook.
Her mother passed.

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POETRY: ERREN GURAUD KELLY – YOU BRING THE JAZZ OUT IN ME…

You Bring Out The Jazz In Me…
 
You bring out the jazz in me
The Art Blakey, Max Roach the Roy Hanes in me
Seeing you  shake your hips like
Congas…the way you move your hips to a mamba
My heart pounding like drums inside my head
But this fever wont put me in bed
Instead I get out on the dance floor
Your body like a treble clef note
Makes me  want  to dance more
It’s true,  you do…
You bring out the jazz in me
The Fats Navarro , Terrence Blanchard  and  Dave Douglas in me
I want to mimic the trumpets shout…cure war and recession
Act a clown like Dizzy, fix this country of racism and oppression
Make this country great again, even better than trump
You make me sing sweet freedom, every time I see your rump
Make me want to take king’s place on  that balcony
Be a human shield for J.F.K.,  oh for the life of me
Maybe anarchy will prevail with the sound of a horn
Though my rage and fury causes flags to be torn
Maybe like Chet, I’ll walk both worlds between a boy
And a girl, I’ll help the alphabet army rock the world
This is my love letter,  from me it’s true
You bring out the song of revolution in me
Yes, you do…yes, you do.
You bring out the jazz in me
The Jaco Pastorious Charlie Mingus
And Paul Chambers in me,
See your body mimic the the shape of a double bass,
Grab your wide hips
Cos I’m all about that bass, could never be a gigolo
Though I’ve been a heartbreaker…I’ll play you like
A brass band, be a real love maker, as every note
Comes out of me rings true
Together,  were a symphony and i want to play you
Play you, play…you….
You bring out the jazz in me
The high hat and the double time in me
Feel the downbeat of you and
And the backbeat, that’s true
Watch my blood pressure rise and
Fall like arpeggios
Want to take five after swinging with you
But oh no, a rim shot salutes your
Brilliance
And I want to multi track your excellence
I want to solo with you for ever and
Ever
You bring out the jazz in me…the piano playing
Keyboard slaying shaman in me…I want to make
Robots rise like Herbie…and turn l.a.
Into a psychedelic sci fi  roller derby
Like Wynton Kelly, I’ll seduce you into a trance
And  we’ll wake up in a speakeasy, and I’ll watch you dance
Like Bill Evans, the song of the mademoiselle suits you
We’ll dive into hysteria like monk
Craziness suits you
I can lose myself in any dream I please
Be a warrior or a healer, by way of 88 keys
I’m an errand boy for rhythm it’s true
A masochist for aural pleasure, it’s all because of you
It’s  true, you do, bring  it out of me…
-for Lisa
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poetry: jd dehart – world goes

World Goes

Tomorrow, the world goes on,
they have no idea what has
transpired. It is as if everyone
lives in a vacuum.

Everyone continues to the road
to finding personal happiness
through grand spending. We must
be there at 7:30 AM, we must be
here by noon.
The memo is so important.

They have no idea what I have
lost in the process, and could barely
be bothered to slow down enough
to take note.

~

DeHart blogs here.

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poetry: andrew hubbard – the five year plan

The Five Year Plan

I’m in the full church
For Cathy’s wedding.
Groom’s side, third row, aisle seat.

She walks past me
With the poise of a princess
Looking every inch the swimsuit model
She was until she became pregnant.
And whether that was an accident
Only one person will ever really know.

But I’m pretty sure how I’d place my bet.

Eyes that once spoke of love,
Lips that once loved
Now speak a silent warning
So clear my testicles contract:

“Don’t say anything.
Don’t mess up my day.
Why are you even here?”

The maid of honor
Told me last week
She said to Cathy,
“Do you love him?”
And Cathy replied, “I don’t know.
Sometimes maybe. It doesn’t really matter.”

Ten’ll get you twenty
I have her on the rebound
Within five years.
You just have to wait
For things to come around.

But Oh-Sweet-Jesus
Not for a shovel full of diamonds
Would I even try to survive
What they’re going to put each other through
In those five years.
It would make hell seem like
A week in Maui.

So: man up—
Do you want the bet or not?

~

Here’s where to find Andrew Hubbard

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poetry: john tustin – frying potatoes and onions

FRYING POTATOES AND ONIONS

I woke up and coughed my disease into the sink
And then I pissed and brushed my teeth.

It was when I started frying potatoes and onions,
Potatoes I cubed and an onion I sliced in this same room
Where I now sit and type,
That I began to think about you again,
For the third time that morning.
We were in my old apartment and it was after one A.M.
You were hungry and I made you a bacon and egg sandwich
The way my grandmother used to make one for me on Sunday morning
When I stayed at her house as a teenager.
You were so grateful, so filled with happiness
That I was doing something that is really so small
Compared to what I would be willing to do for you
And you kept saying how delicious it was,
Us warm and still vibrating from our hours
Going back and forth in bed.

Every object in the room brings a memory,
Every toss and turn in bed brings flames of fetid anger
Simmering in my stomach.
Now the rain has stopped and the fog is rolling in
But never enough that I cannot still see you
Delighting in every moment with me and steeling yourself
For when time would suspend our moments for another week
Or two.

It feels as if you are as dead as my grandmother
Or my mother
Instead of just gone from me and me alone
And when I think of you all that exists is mourning
Because it is still so new.
The potatoes, the onions, the spices
Clench themselves at the pit of my stomach
And all my eyes can see are things that are not here
And all my heart can feel
Is a phantom pain for the love we had
That you let suffer and die
All for the sake of the congruity
Of a false and moldy
Paradigm.

So I went back to bed,
Coughing again,
And wishing
For another night
Where you were still alive in my life,
Oblivious to your secrets, your artifice,
And the fraud of your extended silence

 

~

find John Tustin here

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