Monday, September 29, 2014

Denny E. Marshall- Three Poems

Doubt, Doubt

Our love is shining now
Will it shine tomorrow?
Our love is happiness
Will it turn to sorrow?
Your eyes are singing messages
The notes I don’t know
You were catching some signals
That I can’t even throw
Doubt, doubt
What’s it all about

Our trust was a fire
Turned into a glow
We would get high on each other
Now we both feel low
Our faith is breaking
Cracks are starting to show
Have to release the emotion
Have to let them go
The bridge of trust we have
Will it wash out?
Doubt, doubt
What’s it all about

Angel Call

Lost in the woods walking at night
Hoping to find a guiding light
Take a wrong step and you can fall
In the sky, hear an angel call

Life is a storm blowing like sand
Signs can be hard to understand
The answers no one has them all
In the sky, hear an angel call

Pathways can be lonely and dark
The fire can lose magic and spark 
Hear a voice say time to stand tall
In the sky, hear an angel call

Touch of Angel Wings

Never noticed the touch of angel wings
Then felt the unexplained, tap the shoulder
Light plays like magic and the great sky rings
Never noticed the touch of angel wings
Four times saved by the invisible kings
Each time felt the black-robe hand grow colder
Never noticed the touch of angel wings
Then felt the unexplained, tap the shoulder

Michael Keshigian- Three poems

Microscopic migrant Martian workers
inhabit my skull,
though their exact location is a mystery,
yet I believe them to be
a nomadic tribe of insolent invaders
constantly building
in the blood vessels of my brain,
bulldozing platelets,
back hoeing plasma
and blasting capillary walls
from the cranial dome
to the base of my neck
and forward to the temples,
paving and leveling
while hammering mercilessly
in an attempt to reconstruct
my Earthly perception,
though they cease their efforts
for a day or two
en route to another site
when their task begins again
with the heavy rumble of work
weighing profoundly upon
my sensibilities,
curtailing my progress
as the constant pounding
begins to create slight fissures
upon my scalp
and a red planet hue
in my eye.
Expressed as tinnitus
most professionals profess
is a ringing in the ears
induced by stress
and a number of other
environmental tendencies.
It’s said,
that rambunctious mechanisms
and music too loud
can destroy the drums
in the ear canal,
ingesting caffeine
is a culprit as well,
its special buzz
instigates the ears
to incessantly trill
a variance of frequencies
very high to low,
white noise or static
is the common explanation.
The more sophisticated
prefer to refer
to the affliction
as auditory acuity ,
much above the norm,
an ability to detect
signals and radio transmissions
of interplanetary discussions,
meant for only few to hear,
with discourse duly noted,
received day and night,
lengthy conversations,
concerning universal plight,
divulging invaluable insight
when the messages
are decoded.

Meditatively I sit
upon the verandah
during cold, dark moments
after midnight
as dim shimmering moonbeams
cast decadent silhouettes
of shadowy branches on the wall
which silently undulate in a gentle breeze
and with snake like precision
entangle my hair
with needle tip fangs
to penetrate delicately
the recesses of my brain
and charm stubborn words
with unforgiving thoughts
nocturnal in nature
from out the lair
to inscribe upon fresh molt
a venom which devours
the unsuspecting prey.
Michael Keshigian’s ninth poetry book, Dark Edges was recently released this September, 2014 by Flutter Press.  He has been widely published in numerous national and international journals and appeared as feature writer in over a dozen publications with 5 Pushcart Prize and 2 Best Of The Net nominations. (

David S. Pointer- Three Poems

space gasoline
made with spinal fluid
from the beheaded

sky terrorists
all the tiny planets
have the most oil

red planet dog tag
stamped on roboforehead
near last rite psalm

About the Author: David S. Pointer has recent acceptances for Chiron Review,  Dead Snakes, Main Street Rag, Kind of a Hurricane Press, Section 8 magazine and many others. David’s most recent horror poetry book is entitled “Beyond Shark Tag Bay.”

J.D. DeHart- Three Poems

When the Tigers Died
She watched their movements with her
almond eyes, full of sand and water,
worshipping them, loving them
until the last one collapsed
in its winding way across the grass-stitched
plain, then decided she must be the one.
She set about her plan, putting first the paws
on, then the tail and mask,
practicing her growl,
but sadly the effect was just not the same.
I Was the Machine Who
Washed your laundry today with a smile
Spat out three cups of coffee, perfect brew
Solved the quadratic equation with a crayon
Strode the line between maintaining attention
and committing offense
Defined the word transgression
Told you to stop cussing so much
A whirling, twirling dervish
of human and mechanical cyborg behavior
Mr. Solution, Mr. Fix-It, Mr. Gloss-Over-It
Mr. Trust-Me-Really, I know the answers.
Hi, how are ya, he intones
each time someone passes, while turning
the white fish samples in his small circle
of oily heat
It took me all day to realize
he was a robot, serving up toothpicks.

Sunday, September 14, 2014

Denny E. Marshall- Art

                                                                   Dark Night

Denny E. Marshall has had art and poetry published, some recently. He does have a website with previously published works. The web address is He also has a “Guest Artist Page” on his dot net site if any artist would like to submit. (See Guidelines)

Ayaz Daryl Nielsen- Three Poems

the hounds within my poetry
These howling hounds in my poetry.
Who are they?  The hounds who love poetry.
Why are they howling?  The love hounds
of poetry, it’s their laughter, the laughter of 
love hounds, this howling in my poetry.

Big Bang Kitchens

Ingredients within transcendent
possibilities for beginnings

Fetal celestial shrouds clinging
to unforeseen out-breaths
Without script or method, infinite 
recipes for unimaginable awakenings.

There are lakes of emerald waters
where harbingers soak their feet -
I can hear their long sad sighs.

ayaz daryl nielsen, husband, father, veteran, x-roughneck (as on oil rigs)/hospice nurse, editor of bear creek haiku (25+ years/120+ issues), homes include Lilliput Review, Jellyfish Whispers, UFO Gigolo, Shamrock, and! (translates as joie de vivre)

Martin Dale & Tim Gardiner- One line haiku

Orion rising in a dawn sky - the Equinox beckons       Martin Dale

the Plough swings across a cold sky - winter's seed sown         Tim Gardiner