Passing the Harbor
Harbor waved at, noon, by my young son,
through a window, car-seat soon a bed,
and the tugs brawn ships like neighborly loans.
The Sun sits still, annunciating brilliance,
as I drive, remembering 7th Floor East,
my commitment, asylum, military psychiatrics.
Gown the waking of chill, dotted in floral schemes,
tied round my neck like a sweetheart.
"It's clear you're a danger to yourself, son.
We've already seen that, and maybe you're past it,
but we need to know if you're any danger to others."
Indifference there, long ago, was mostly wisdom,
a body of water through a door, down a hall,
into a chair.
"How about it, son? Would you hurt others?
Do you harbor thoughts like that?" Did I?
Desire, change the room, Summer chance
release, diverted to normality, a nature
modified perspiring the shady gown it wore.
Then crossing the years that shared my bed.
Crossing the tease, dotting the i of a nude life.
Now, the harbor brays in the all noon bask.
My son in back bickers down his window,
and the car-seat brims over, adrift atop joy,
with his copious exclamations for boats.
With the Wind in This Shirt
Fleet, lie down, pave for me across
your planks and hauls.
I wish to walk to an island far off,
and I guard you know the way.
Small fleet, lay down your masts
and bow lowly in the capping seatop;
let me walk across.
My death is far, at end in your charts,
and the village I know is port for all.
There will be ruins and storms to pilfer,
there will be catches of lightning in hands.
Let down your engines and stewards and sails—
Fleet, I’ve bled out my dream upon you.
The Downward Touch
In the rummager world,
that's where I am.
I need the fat light of items.
Together with some,
and alone, too, I am
in the rummager world,
even here with you.
I will return from lights
and trinkets at last,
but in what form do I travel?
A flat, but imperfect stone
sent three quick taps from shore.
Ray Succre currently lives on the southern Oregon coast with his wife and son. He has been published in Aesthetica, BlazeVOX, and Pank, as well as in numerous others across as many countries. He has been nominated for the Pushcart twice, and his novel Tatterdemalion (Cauliay) was recently released in print and is available most places. He tries hard.
Ray Succre Tendai Mwanaka Michael Lee Johnson Steve Parker Dottie Ann Stucko Felino Soriano
Sunday, March 01, 2009
Tendai Mwanaka
Nobody Tells The Truth
When a thing vanishes
And then-
Suddenly comes back
Nobody tells it
The truth
Even when everyone knows
The shapes
In the shadows
And a cult of
Personal honesty
Leaves not shadows
But hidden shells
Within hidden shells
Of all the things
That we had felt
As the truth
All gone away.
See How It Begins To Distort
Guard every speech
That you say
Because it carries
The warmth and moistures
Of your life
See how this utterance
Begins to distort
Everything
It is a seeker
Of sensations
Knowledge is
Just a side effect
Residing
In these particulars
Tendai Mwanaka: I have published several poetry and short stories in UK, USA, CANADA, AUSTRALIA, INDIA AND SOUTH AFRICAN MAGAZINES, inclusive of the following; wordgathering, decanto, winningwriters, earlscourt, newcontrast, itch, poetrylifeandtimes,languageandculture, kota, kritya, barnwood, beyond the rainbow, curious record, mobius, mgversion2,idiom and I have work forthcoming in decanto, newcontrast, phoenix review, downtreader, sonnetart, wordgathering, snailpress, Potomac, poetrymonthly international and newcoin.
Ray Succre Tendai Mwanaka Michael Lee Johnson Steve Parker Dottie Ann Stucko Felino Soriano
When a thing vanishes
And then-
Suddenly comes back
Nobody tells it
The truth
Even when everyone knows
The shapes
In the shadows
And a cult of
Personal honesty
Leaves not shadows
But hidden shells
Within hidden shells
Of all the things
That we had felt
As the truth
All gone away.
See How It Begins To Distort
Guard every speech
That you say
Because it carries
The warmth and moistures
Of your life
See how this utterance
Begins to distort
Everything
It is a seeker
Of sensations
Knowledge is
Just a side effect
Residing
In these particulars
Tendai Mwanaka: I have published several poetry and short stories in UK, USA, CANADA, AUSTRALIA, INDIA AND SOUTH AFRICAN MAGAZINES, inclusive of the following; wordgathering, decanto, winningwriters, earlscourt, newcontrast, itch, poetrylifeandtimes,languageandculture, kota, kritya, barnwood, beyond the rainbow, curious record, mobius, mgversion2,idiom and I have work forthcoming in decanto, newcontrast, phoenix review, downtreader, sonnetart, wordgathering, snailpress, Potomac, poetrymonthly international and newcoin.
Ray Succre Tendai Mwanaka Michael Lee Johnson Steve Parker Dottie Ann Stucko Felino Soriano
Michael Lee Johnson
Phil and Betsy: Illinois Farmers
Illinois writer in the land of Lincoln
new harvest without words
plenty of sugar pie plum, peach cobbler pie,
buried in grandma sugar;
factory sweets and low flowing river nearby─
transports of soy bean, corn, and cattle feed
into the wide bass mouth of the Kishwakee River.
It is the moment of reunion,
when friends and economy come together─
hotdogs, marshmallows, tents scattered,
playing kick ball with that black farm dog.
It's a simple act, a farmer gone blind with the night pink sky,
desolate farmer, simple flat land, DeKalb, Illinois.
Betsy and Phil, invite us all to the camp and fireside.
But Phil is still in the field, pushing sunset to dusk.
He is raking dry the farm soil of salvation, moisture has its own religious quirks,
dead seed from weed hurls up to the metal lips of the cultivator pitting.
The full moon is undressing, pink florescent hints of blue, pajamas, turned
inward near midnight sky against the moon naked and embarrassed.
Hayrides for strangers go down dark squared off roads with lights hanging, dangling,
children humming school tunes, long farmhouse lights lost in the near distance.
Hums till dawn, Christian songs repeat, over God's earth, till dead sounds the tractor
pulls itself down, down to the dusk, and off the road edge.
It is the moment of reunion.
Michael Lee Johnson is a poet and freelance writer from Itasca, Illinois. His brand new chapbook, From Which Place the Morning Rises, is now available at http://www.lulu.com/ and can be purchased here. He also has 2 previous chapbooks available here. He is also the author of The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom. He has been published in USA, Canada, New Zealand, Australia, Scotland, Turkey, Fiji, Nigeria, Algeria, Africa, India, United Kingdom, Republic of Sierra Leone, Israel, Nepal, Thailand, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, Finland, and Poland internet radio. Michael Lee Johnson has been published in more than 280 different publications worldwide. Audio MP3 of poems are available on request.
He is also publisher and editor of four poetry flash fiction sites--all presently open for submission:
http://birdsbywindow.blogspot.com/
http://www.poetriclegacy.mysite.com/
http://atendertouch.blogspot.com/
http://wizardsofthewind.blogspot.com/
Ray Succre Tendai Mwanaka Michael Lee Johnson Steve Parker Dottie Ann Stucko Felino Soriano
Illinois writer in the land of Lincoln
new harvest without words
plenty of sugar pie plum, peach cobbler pie,
buried in grandma sugar;
factory sweets and low flowing river nearby─
transports of soy bean, corn, and cattle feed
into the wide bass mouth of the Kishwakee River.
It is the moment of reunion,
when friends and economy come together─
hotdogs, marshmallows, tents scattered,
playing kick ball with that black farm dog.
It's a simple act, a farmer gone blind with the night pink sky,
desolate farmer, simple flat land, DeKalb, Illinois.
Betsy and Phil, invite us all to the camp and fireside.
But Phil is still in the field, pushing sunset to dusk.
He is raking dry the farm soil of salvation, moisture has its own religious quirks,
dead seed from weed hurls up to the metal lips of the cultivator pitting.
The full moon is undressing, pink florescent hints of blue, pajamas, turned
inward near midnight sky against the moon naked and embarrassed.
Hayrides for strangers go down dark squared off roads with lights hanging, dangling,
children humming school tunes, long farmhouse lights lost in the near distance.
Hums till dawn, Christian songs repeat, over God's earth, till dead sounds the tractor
pulls itself down, down to the dusk, and off the road edge.
It is the moment of reunion.
Michael Lee Johnson is a poet and freelance writer from Itasca, Illinois. His brand new chapbook, From Which Place the Morning Rises, is now available at http://www.lulu.com/ and can be purchased here. He also has 2 previous chapbooks available here. He is also the author of The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom. He has been published in USA, Canada, New Zealand, Australia, Scotland, Turkey, Fiji, Nigeria, Algeria, Africa, India, United Kingdom, Republic of Sierra Leone, Israel, Nepal, Thailand, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, Finland, and Poland internet radio. Michael Lee Johnson has been published in more than 280 different publications worldwide. Audio MP3 of poems are available on request.
He is also publisher and editor of four poetry flash fiction sites--all presently open for submission:
http://birdsbywindow.blogspot.com/
http://www.poetriclegacy.mysite.com/
http://atendertouch.blogspot.com/
http://wizardsofthewind.blogspot.com/
Ray Succre Tendai Mwanaka Michael Lee Johnson Steve Parker Dottie Ann Stucko Felino Soriano
Steve Parker
the night’s travel
in and now out the same door
like all knives whirling
our utter politics in collisions
of limestone pavements
across all this she travailed
with sepia sandbags
of County Clare
all sailroads to traverse
and only 8 O-clock
by the whale's chime
this big hand by the night's wild travel
points to 12
the little hand
flickers and stops
iris of heart attack hope
—love of small things
and wild places
be certain now be sure
it's that time
in between
where the hands don't count
it's okay to be scared here
to lie down and breathe
to lie a little
before waking
Steve Parker: I'm a UK poet working near Haworth in Yorkshire. I've been published in various journals and zines etc, including Underground Voices, The Chimaera, The Cleave, Ditch, Dogzplot, Cause and Effect, Admit Two, Chaos International, Machenalia etc etc, with more forthcoming. Published in a couple of anthologies, with two poems forthcoming in the Cleave Anthology this Spring. Also published a couple of short collections, with another coming soon. I was a founder-member of the Orzel Collective experimenting with transtextual poetry. I also run a poetry and critique forum (criticalpoet.org) and have a lively poetry blog (brickstackblockstack.blogspot.com). I'm 45, originally from Liverpool, and have two young sons.
Ray Succre Tendai Mwanaka Michael Lee Johnson Steve Parker Dottie Ann Stucko Felino Soriano
in and now out the same door
like all knives whirling
our utter politics in collisions
of limestone pavements
across all this she travailed
with sepia sandbags
of County Clare
all sailroads to traverse
and only 8 O-clock
by the whale's chime
this big hand by the night's wild travel
points to 12
the little hand
flickers and stops
iris of heart attack hope
—love of small things
and wild places
be certain now be sure
it's that time
in between
where the hands don't count
it's okay to be scared here
to lie down and breathe
to lie a little
before waking
Steve Parker: I'm a UK poet working near Haworth in Yorkshire. I've been published in various journals and zines etc, including Underground Voices, The Chimaera, The Cleave, Ditch, Dogzplot, Cause and Effect, Admit Two, Chaos International, Machenalia etc etc, with more forthcoming. Published in a couple of anthologies, with two poems forthcoming in the Cleave Anthology this Spring. Also published a couple of short collections, with another coming soon. I was a founder-member of the Orzel Collective experimenting with transtextual poetry. I also run a poetry and critique forum (criticalpoet.org) and have a lively poetry blog (brickstackblockstack.blogspot.com). I'm 45, originally from Liverpool, and have two young sons.
Ray Succre Tendai Mwanaka Michael Lee Johnson Steve Parker Dottie Ann Stucko Felino Soriano
Dottie Ann Stucko
The Love Poem
The worship of your soul
Along with the blind
Bathed in Complete Light
created a past
Branched into the never ending sky
the Present is now showered with gifts
Binding the future with dear Death
and so dear friend
may we never part
Dottie Ann Stucko: I had a few poems previously published in Poetry Sz in September of 2000. My bio stated that I was a diagnosed schizophrenic and art student at the age of twenty-two. I was actually misdiagnosed in the past, but do presently live with bipolar disorder. I am still a practicing artist and was recently part of an abstract surrealism exhibit in November of 2008. My goal in this life is to be remembered somehow without giving birth to children.
Ray Succre Tendai Mwanaka Michael Lee Johnson Steve Parker Dottie Ann Stucko Felino Soriano
The worship of your soul
Along with the blind
Bathed in Complete Light
created a past
Branched into the never ending sky
the Present is now showered with gifts
Binding the future with dear Death
and so dear friend
may we never part
Dottie Ann Stucko: I had a few poems previously published in Poetry Sz in September of 2000. My bio stated that I was a diagnosed schizophrenic and art student at the age of twenty-two. I was actually misdiagnosed in the past, but do presently live with bipolar disorder. I am still a practicing artist and was recently part of an abstract surrealism exhibit in November of 2008. My goal in this life is to be remembered somehow without giving birth to children.
Ray Succre Tendai Mwanaka Michael Lee Johnson Steve Parker Dottie Ann Stucko Felino Soriano
Felino Soriano
Painters' Exhalations 23
—after Edward Hopper's Room in New York
Duality of common indifference. They
conducting silent, unmusical tongues,
spreading separated bodies
farther into mind controlled remoteness, diffusing
a contingent pause in human connection.
Newspaper, holder of his eyes in cupped
palms, elaborate prose. Her lean
precious as genius, her lean
curling into nonchalance atop
the piano's luscious tone.
Art on butter walls,
an infantile landscape
crawling near the feet of
fatherly mountains. Such a
universal translation of comfort,
the mind, if it fishes in an amorous thought,
their bodies can rejoin in married,
amalgamated devotion, where distance's voice
is too faint to wrap around the wings
of fleeing embraces.
Felino Soriano (California) is a case manager working with developmentally and physically disabled adults. He is the author of two chapbooks, an e-book, and has a chapbook forthcoming. The juxtaposition of his philosophical studies with his love of classic and avant-garde jazz explains his poetic motivation. Website: www.felinosoriano.com
Ray Succre Tendai Mwanaka Michael Lee Johnson Steve Parker Dottie Ann Stucko Felino Soriano
—after Edward Hopper's Room in New York
Duality of common indifference. They
conducting silent, unmusical tongues,
spreading separated bodies
farther into mind controlled remoteness, diffusing
a contingent pause in human connection.
Newspaper, holder of his eyes in cupped
palms, elaborate prose. Her lean
precious as genius, her lean
curling into nonchalance atop
the piano's luscious tone.
Art on butter walls,
an infantile landscape
crawling near the feet of
fatherly mountains. Such a
universal translation of comfort,
the mind, if it fishes in an amorous thought,
their bodies can rejoin in married,
amalgamated devotion, where distance's voice
is too faint to wrap around the wings
of fleeing embraces.
Felino Soriano (California) is a case manager working with developmentally and physically disabled adults. He is the author of two chapbooks, an e-book, and has a chapbook forthcoming. The juxtaposition of his philosophical studies with his love of classic and avant-garde jazz explains his poetic motivation. Website: www.felinosoriano.com
Ray Succre Tendai Mwanaka Michael Lee Johnson Steve Parker Dottie Ann Stucko Felino Soriano
Saturday, November 01, 2008
Issue 27
Image (Copyright © 2008 Michael Lee Johnson)
Megan Burns
Jefferson Hansen
Lois Marie Harrod
Michael Lee Johnson
Christopher Barnes
Linda Graham
Laurie Cook
Megan Burns
from Anatomy of Depression
the world as ordered if you depend
on your mind for translation
sit down
if you recognize these thoughts as other
or if you deny easily that
which could be defined as disturbing
melancholia
a romantic indisposition
I believed I had a right to my wrong thinking on some level.
it was mine and to be defended
imagine: healthy
as a species of flower
as a turn in the weather
as a geographical pinpoint
as a location found by vertical and horizontal planes intersecting
it’s one thing to speak of what is misfiring
and another to locate
here in the deep, deep recesses of porous organ
half able to function coherently
what half is left and is this accurate
what percentage and on what days and on what dosage
Are you beginning to divide
the notion of trust?
animate object: as other that lives in me
inanimate object: as quieted by this medicine and
put to sleep, a wild animal stuffed and mounted
glassy-eyed wonder
of how it arrived
genetic
as a gift from those before me
a realm of suffering
to greater clarity
here is the diseased mind realm
am I making too much of it?
I’d hate to draw attention to it, the gaze then lends it value
but to ignore—does “not seeing” mean… what am I afraid of is that
the reader will think it is simply the vehicle for my desire, for my
identity but I am the vehicle, I’m certain, that it has gotten in
beside me
where are we going?
a small insect blows onto the open pages of Brenda’s book
lands on “Rare held over world”
from here on Folsom Street
I can see Jack Collom bringing in his dirty laundry
define the hidden: as dirty laundry
skeletons in the closet
dirty skeletons
bone left
(dirty organ)
skeletal: tactile, able to walk out on its own
laundry: tactile, able to be cleansed
this is a map of hope in revelation
mind as imaginary, as illusory, as porous
the examiner knows that when you open the skull
the brain can crumble within seconds
upon losing its container
upon touch
fragment fragile fingered mush
must be poisoned further to provide the perfect specimen
formaldehyde, spun in a web of fluid and glass
suspended and sliced to millimeter
slid onto thin sections of plastic and caught under the magnifying glass
this sheer exposition
what went wrong?
even then how to connect dead tissue to the imagination
to the cellular experience
to see how the drugs changed the identity
my place in the world
the amount of space I took up
the gap left that haunted me
where the I I was not fell behind
but followed me
I can see her out of the corner of my eye.
who said this?
Am I too gone to be
healed?
Being healed is a misnomer.
Health in that sense is not
something attainable.
Remove heal from thy language.
Insert “contained”
Insert “changed”
Insert __________
Megan Burns is the author of Memorial + Sight Lines (Lavender Ink 2008). She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize in poetry and has been published in Exquisite Corpse, Contance Magazine, YAWP and Callaloo. She lives in New Orleans and runs the 17 Poets! Reading Series with poet Dave Brinks.
Megan Burns Jefferson Hansen Lois Marie Harrod Michael Lee Johnson Christopher Barnes Linda Graham Laurie Cook
the world as ordered if you depend
on your mind for translation
sit down
if you recognize these thoughts as other
or if you deny easily that
which could be defined as disturbing
melancholia
a romantic indisposition
I believed I had a right to my wrong thinking on some level.
it was mine and to be defended
imagine: healthy
as a species of flower
as a turn in the weather
as a geographical pinpoint
as a location found by vertical and horizontal planes intersecting
it’s one thing to speak of what is misfiring
and another to locate
here in the deep, deep recesses of porous organ
half able to function coherently
what half is left and is this accurate
what percentage and on what days and on what dosage
Are you beginning to divide
the notion of trust?
animate object: as other that lives in me
inanimate object: as quieted by this medicine and
put to sleep, a wild animal stuffed and mounted
glassy-eyed wonder
of how it arrived
genetic
as a gift from those before me
a realm of suffering
to greater clarity
here is the diseased mind realm
am I making too much of it?
I’d hate to draw attention to it, the gaze then lends it value
but to ignore—does “not seeing” mean… what am I afraid of is that
the reader will think it is simply the vehicle for my desire, for my
identity but I am the vehicle, I’m certain, that it has gotten in
beside me
where are we going?
a small insect blows onto the open pages of Brenda’s book
lands on “Rare held over world”
from here on Folsom Street
I can see Jack Collom bringing in his dirty laundry
define the hidden: as dirty laundry
skeletons in the closet
dirty skeletons
bone left
(dirty organ)
skeletal: tactile, able to walk out on its own
laundry: tactile, able to be cleansed
this is a map of hope in revelation
mind as imaginary, as illusory, as porous
the examiner knows that when you open the skull
the brain can crumble within seconds
upon losing its container
upon touch
fragment fragile fingered mush
must be poisoned further to provide the perfect specimen
formaldehyde, spun in a web of fluid and glass
suspended and sliced to millimeter
slid onto thin sections of plastic and caught under the magnifying glass
this sheer exposition
what went wrong?
even then how to connect dead tissue to the imagination
to the cellular experience
to see how the drugs changed the identity
my place in the world
the amount of space I took up
the gap left that haunted me
where the I I was not fell behind
but followed me
I can see her out of the corner of my eye.
who said this?
Am I too gone to be
healed?
Being healed is a misnomer.
Health in that sense is not
something attainable.
Remove heal from thy language.
Insert “contained”
Insert “changed”
Insert __________
Megan Burns is the author of Memorial + Sight Lines (Lavender Ink 2008). She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize in poetry and has been published in Exquisite Corpse, Contance Magazine, YAWP and Callaloo. She lives in New Orleans and runs the 17 Poets! Reading Series with poet Dave Brinks.
Megan Burns Jefferson Hansen Lois Marie Harrod Michael Lee Johnson Christopher Barnes Linda Graham Laurie Cook
Jefferson Hansen
words
where we depend but don't know
a shiver comes
at the intensity of
burst glass
a trickster's
attempt at lost heavens
short and shorter
stout like brick
and thick like
wall gone paranoid
rolling dark clouds
stretch and leap
nerve to wind
gust
and the historical autopsy
revealed
'hidden geography of body'
what liver
in coil of what kidney
what place the aorta
of the nerve
in the pinkie
the past returning in furls
of flesh where is the edge
of seeing the beginning
of
Megan Burns Jefferson Hansen Lois Marie Harrod Michael Lee Johnson Christopher Barnes Linda Graham Laurie Cook
where we depend but don't know
a shiver comes
at the intensity of
burst glass
a trickster's
attempt at lost heavens
short and shorter
stout like brick
and thick like
wall gone paranoid
rolling dark clouds
stretch and leap
nerve to wind
gust
and the historical autopsy
revealed
'hidden geography of body'
what liver
in coil of what kidney
what place the aorta
of the nerve
in the pinkie
the past returning in furls
of flesh where is the edge
of seeing the beginning
of
Megan Burns Jefferson Hansen Lois Marie Harrod Michael Lee Johnson Christopher Barnes Linda Graham Laurie Cook
Lois Marie Harrod
At the County Fair Lugubrious
The peaches stood
in dark rows like mourners
at a funeral, the zinnias
bowed their heads
as if they knew they had worn
the wrong riot of color.
Some said it was not the rain,
some said it had rained
nine days, enough to carry
the chest of doves
from Mississippi to Spain.
We curled in our coffin
like those lovers
in Plato’s cave, the ones
he forgot to mention,
this time sure that when
he opened the lid
there would be more
light than shadow.
But no, more rain,
and everyone looking
down on us like saints
with gray umbrellas,
even the rabbits
in their rows of wire cages.
Too much sanctity
for so little salt, I said,
thinking of an old theologian
who seemed to be missing
in the damp crowd. I was thirsty
but no one gave me drink.
There’ll be a heaven to pay.
Of course, I knew
I was sick again, weeping
as if the sky were falling,
which it was, in big, fat drops.
Lois Marie Harrod’s ninth book Furniture has just been published by Grayson Press where it was awarded the Grayson Poetry Prize. She is a 3-time recipient of poetry fellowships from the NJ Council on the Arts.
Megan Burns Jefferson Hansen Lois Marie Harrod Michael Lee Johnson Christopher Barnes Linda Graham Laurie Cook
The peaches stood
in dark rows like mourners
at a funeral, the zinnias
bowed their heads
as if they knew they had worn
the wrong riot of color.
Some said it was not the rain,
some said it had rained
nine days, enough to carry
the chest of doves
from Mississippi to Spain.
We curled in our coffin
like those lovers
in Plato’s cave, the ones
he forgot to mention,
this time sure that when
he opened the lid
there would be more
light than shadow.
But no, more rain,
and everyone looking
down on us like saints
with gray umbrellas,
even the rabbits
in their rows of wire cages.
Too much sanctity
for so little salt, I said,
thinking of an old theologian
who seemed to be missing
in the damp crowd. I was thirsty
but no one gave me drink.
There’ll be a heaven to pay.
Of course, I knew
I was sick again, weeping
as if the sky were falling,
which it was, in big, fat drops.
Lois Marie Harrod’s ninth book Furniture has just been published by Grayson Press where it was awarded the Grayson Poetry Prize. She is a 3-time recipient of poetry fellowships from the NJ Council on the Arts.
Megan Burns Jefferson Hansen Lois Marie Harrod Michael Lee Johnson Christopher Barnes Linda Graham Laurie Cook