Ayaz Daryl Nielsen- Three Poems

myths, slumming

every now and then 

among our eons 

myths emerge from 

the primeval void 

within Mediterranean 

whirlpools, epicurean 

merrymakers and a 

few fortunate humans, 

reassurance of our 

gene pool’s well-

being, vitality, and

ability to party

three years of an 

expensive apprenticeship

the first clumsy attempt 

with a sorcerer's spell

erases his memory

a scrumptious birthday 

grandma’s homemade sauce

over hobbit-ka-bob

ayaz daryl nielsen, who has been a hospice nurse and roughneck (as on oil rigs), lives in Longmont, Colorado.  He is editor of bear creek haiku (26+ years/127+ issues) and an award-winning poet with hundreds of poems published worldwide.  His poetry collection ‘haiku  tumbleweeds still tumbling’ is at Amazon.com, and!  he is online - bear creek haiku  poetry, poems and info 

J.D. DeHart- Three Poems

On Ramps

a web, continuous

network and we are

engine rumbling roving

through the fallen

universe where ragged

figures roam and linger.

Trichotomy

he tried to tell them

he was one in three

and tried to warn them

about their own misery

etched across the stars

but their ears were stuffed

and their eyes were dull.

Similitude

in those familiar

eyes

I see my own

I see my space

and land

and planet

in those wings

I see a promise

of what I could be.

 

 

JD DeHart is a writer and teacher.  Please check out the blog for his chapbook, truthaboutsnails.blogspot.com.

 

John Pursch- A Poem

A Lobot's Thirst For Love

Three days later,

she still had not solved

the greatest mystery know to man

or beast or androidal life form,

on this or any other planet, planetoid,

has-been asteroidal compartmentalized carburetion clot,

or flexibly denoted popping cork entrainment vessel.

Nuns knew less than her

about crossing patterns,

crusted flakes of frosted

klaxon motivational tweakage,

and biplane tendon flagman manuals,

edited or not by wretchedly textual whitening agents,

tipping sandbox concierge goblets

to lick the final frumpy swath

of limpid factory youth

from transport bulkhead ballast bunks

of binomial barricades in bollocks

of a beatified swinger's setting son-in-slaw.

Coldly manufactured playground sty impingement

scuffs toenail glitter into vocal outrage,

currying to scary ontological potions

to rival any spun docks

of paste sport dancing drones

in tuned oracular omniverse communication frost,

swiped every other millisecond by frozen achievers

in unmet urges of an ogling diplomatic poacher.

Sometimes the past

had represented sated monopoles

with crowning lotion feedbag scoops

of carefully coated skirts in schoolyard stress point

fanning smacks and loose contraction friction,

gleaning sweetly quelled songstress tears

from subtly wined and actualities induced

to snowblind expurgation of posse parts,

torn lazily to splashing hordes on planar squeals

of causal aphasia's messy berm.

Galleys echo steeply lit

caulk penetration towels,

snapping bullfrog tent flap cortisol

to brawny maze semantics

of a salivating burial pet,

frothing fuel and towline notary

incubation wheels of central iffy goofball cork,

filed dangerously close to raw dyslexic eels

in hokey oral mushroom clods

near dualism's knifing divination.

Even so,

we could resist hebephrenic lamentations

of eternal earthquake rust long enough

to smash remainder mirror proving grunge

with shallow par syringe plaque decadence

on pithy hortatory radiation crunch

from falling feelings of a lobot's thirst for love.

John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. His work has been nominated for Best of the Net and has appeared in many literary journals. A collection of his poetry, Intunesia, is available at http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/whiteskybooks. 
Check out his experimental lit-rap video at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l33aUs7obVc. He’s @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook.

 

Alan Catlin- Three Poems

Italian Landscape with View of Glistening Firehouse

Beyond the ruined arbor,

ancient portals formed from

marble toppled upon cracked

mosaic floors, aqueducts

overgrown with vines, wisteria

tendrils, stunted bushes, berries

and brambles amid gnarled root

clusters, wild flowers, reeds;

beyond the unexcavated ruins,

centuries deep in neglect, at the

winding edge of disused paths,

incongruous as crop circles are left

by unidentifiable flying objects

something manmade, something

housing relics of a new age, air raid

and fire sirens set for pre-emptive

warnings that never came.

Voices from the Garden (Paris, July 1750)

after art by Cristina Vergano

speak through the third eye

in the center of the young black

man's head. What he is able to

relay is something like a language

of birds, a knowledge all the books

at his disposal are incapable of

framing into a coherent philosophy,

one that might explain how the skull

of one species resting on a Natural

History of the Animal Kingdom,

may be exactly replicated in that

of a living species perched in

the form of a bird on the raised hand,

pointing figure, of this extraordinary

scholar whose every thought is

a hypnogogic spelling, a transmission

of the spirit world from well beyond

ordinary knowing to lesser creatures

whose thoughts, once divined,

are of no practical use.

Their Voices ( Lisbon, July 1652)

after art by Cristina Vergano

can only be deciphered by

one born deaf and made holy

for his uncanny ability to be

transformed in the image of

those who speak in ways only

audible to him. Observers may

see him as a pale, naked youth

perched on a plush red arm chair

staring at onlookers with what

could be thought of as serious

intent but is actually supreme

indifference to this mundane

world of merest mortals so

constrained by fixed times, set

landscapes and three dimensional

space, a world so unlike his own,

he is compelled to constantly

rearrange his own in the manner

of his companions, colorful tropical

birds and then himself, growing

claws where his hands should be,

gripping talons for feet to scuttle

about on as he learns the awful

secrets of flight.

John Pursch- Three Poems

Intervals of Silent Pause

In midday height

of tapestry’s revolving sediment

of dimly undertaken lifelong quest

for panty trades and rousing gullibility,

prescient sardines await a tube top’s

desperate unraveling, chafing at

a smoothly beckoned rib cage,

a cryptic tributary’s diaphanous charade,

an uncorked tramcar in descent

to river bog in fickle gravitation.

Here we find a longing segue

from rigor’s downy variance

of squashed car hopes and

dire emotive blinkered

prepositional collapse,

to tidal hours in consequential hovering,

belying belfry agitation’s raw acidic melt,

to crinoline encapsulation myths

of airy clause encampment binge

of curb line mollusk smiles

entreating dockyard hounds

to trusty beard reconnaissance.

How the spiny quibble over

contraindicated germ profusion,

carbon soot in burnished manger

wicket doorway saunter’s stepwise

intervals of silent pause for cog

immunity quotation dimes and

soothing crescent bantam curtseys

calling philanthropic cameos

to sordid chi-square dignity

of clam confession moonlight.

Sleeveless Carbon

Beefy horticulturists

mix hyperglycemic cortisol junkies

with blowgun mechanics

on freeway escapee binge release

down thigh plantation iceberg

ladder slipstream truckload

Boogaloo spelunking starch,

flaunting sin by heaven,

stout pie floral peculation trivia,

and gist in auric ankle wrecks,

scrolled festively to boomtown flukes.

We follow into depth,

illogical commiseration flounder

specifying croupier costs

in closely authored riptide air

and poshly quelled beneficence,

a sweeping pendant’s

amped archaic wooden charm

from porous barn panopticon

to knowledge dumps of celery

in lariat morphology’s

flung regalia.

Shaved by the bellicose

bombastic bombardier,

beluga whales run

in fully distracted terrier gear

to frontage cinder currying shine,

plastered on whipped cormorant stew,

crossing saddled haddock notions

of plucked demonstratives

with remonstration ruse delays

in hodgepodge potpourri

deflection mirth containment,

slipping past crucibles

of unclear lovers into

sleeveless carbon.

Merely Bipedal Mornings

Ageless doldrums

wriggle offal shuckers,

prancing for ungainly

neural legions,

airing maudlin scarves

amid the safest

swooning scenes.

Three pistols to the lopsided

quotient’s ample warning,

threaded thoughts lump

against a bottleneck,

collapsing contextual,

benefactors crossing

cadaver grates in

pontoon quartz.

Sable debts repel

eroding field hands,

crushing salacious calling scars

with stellar warning palliatives,

encapsulating shy fenders

in sandy plebeian isolation.

Cooling pharaohs

simply cannot eject

from merely bipedal

mornings with feelers intact,

blaring roadhouse ballyhoos

at nihilistic crooners.

John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. His work has been nominated for Best of the Net and has appeared in many literary journals. A collection of his poetry, Intunesia, is available at http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/whiteskybooks. Check out his experimental lit-rap video at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l33aUs7obVc. He’s @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook.

J.D. DeHart- A Poem

Apparition

 

She wore a wide-brim blue hat

and an ice blue coat, skin

of similar feel and shade.

A name I can no longer remember,

and could never pronounce

from a land I have never been to.

Visits came in the evening when

the kids had gone in from playing

and the streets were silent.

Everyone's early buzz gave her

safe passage.  We loved, passing

through one another, and she

always left, not a trace of scent

or warmth behind, only the brief

memories that even now fade.

 

 

JD DeHart is a writer and teacher.  His chapbook, The Truth About Snails, is currently available from RedDashboard.

Denny E. Marshall- Two Poems

House Of Time

Have seen things never seen before
Strange landscape and different forms
Many rivers as black as coal
So polluted they didn’t flow
Seen politicians with their mask on
Trying to cover up what is going on
From their tanks, they tell the people
Don’t you see there is nothing wrong
Travel far across the barrier
Pass on through the unmarked line
Step into an unreal horror
Come into the house of time

Miles of giant ghost town
All the people live underground
There are no clouds in the sky
The air so thick it can make you die
Reports the constitution ripped in two
There was nothing
No one could do
Have seen the cameras in my house
A brand-new game of cat and mouse
Come into the house
Of time

Have seen a museum with a redwood tree
With pictures of how it used to be
Then a vision appeared in the sky
Said it did not have to be this way
Have seen signs did not understand
Seen the blackness cover the land
With all the dreams dreamed of
Have seen turned to sand
Seeping
Into the house of time


Warrior

Love cast its shape into something unknown
You're alive forever cause you lost your soul
See the sun a shining on the river below
You have your attitude with no place to go
You will be a warrior and kill your soul

You assured your place in the sun
I can see right through you
When your dark side shows it is nothing new
You found your riverside on the valley below
And with your mighty sword
There still things you do not know
You will be a warrior to a place unknown

You will try for an army that will never come
You will shine your shield and wait for the hunt
Found the mountain peak and challenged the beast
Until you cut it down you will not be pleased
You will be a warrior