Victor Clevenger- Two Poems

Bio:  Victor Clevenger spends his days in a Madhouse and his nights writing poetry and short stories from the kitchen table of his ex-wife's home. Selected pieces of his work have appeared at, or is forthcoming in, Chiron Review; The Beatnik Cowboy; Dead Snakes; Blink Ink; Zombie Logic Review; Rat’s Ass Review; Lady Chaos Press; Your One Phone Call; BAD ACID LABORATORIES, INC.; Horror Sleaze Trash, among several others.  His latest collection is titled, In All These Naked Pictures Of Us.

 

 

The Girl in the Flannel Shirt. We Flirt.

 

It was something out of this world,

yet still so simpleminded & normal,

like blinking, or drinking.

"Oh.  You're smoking the top notch

cigarettes now," she said with a sexy,

rich tone & a sarcastic smile—eyes

wide, tapping her fingernails against

the glass surface of the showcase to

Bowie’s, I’m Afraid Of Americans.

She stopped tapping, puckered her

lips, stepped back & in a slow motion

windmill windup, she tossed the pack

of smokes my way.  She left a plum-

hued lip impression (with a lip ring

void) on the cellophane.  I caught the

pack at chest level.

"Thank you," I said to her, placing

it into my left breast shirt pocket.

I knew that she would do it all again

tomorrow, & the next day.  She has

left her lip impressions in a great

variety of shades above my heart for

damn near a thousand days now.

Opening the door & walking out into

the street, I stepped on a wet, rolled up

newspaper with yesterday’s news smeared

all together in undecipherable words.

It squished under my boot & I knew

that I was now 23 hours & 48 minutes

away from my something out of this world,

yet still so simpleminded & normal,

like blinking, or drinking.

When She is Mid-Menstrual and Untouchable

Last night I

wandered the

desert sands;

 

the holes under

the rocks were

deep and occupied

with serpents.

 

I intruded,

sacked out,

hankering bones,

and timorous.

 

We whispered

to each other

in long tongues,

touched, and

sighed like lovers.

 

The morning dew

crept into the

crevices as the

sun's strings

were pulled.

 

I climbed out

at eight o'clock

and rubbed my

four day unshaven

face as I stripped

the wet dreamed

sheets off of my

mattress,

throwing them into

the corner with my

clothes.

 

I ran my fingers

softly through my

ruffled hair, and

then laid back down

naked—

 

shivering until eleven.

 

 

Bruce Mundhenke- A Poem

The Hall

And I keep on walking,
Walking down the hall,
And I'm continually amazed
Because I thought I'd seen it all.

And every jolt to my senses,
Numbs me more and more,
And I keep on walking,
I leave behind another door.

And the hallway is forever,
It goes on and on and on,
And every door I pass by,
Is another door that's gone.

And there are doors that open,
And doors that never will,
And there are rooms that welcome,
And there are rooms that kill.

But the hallway is forever,
It goes on and on and on,
And every door I pass by,
Is another door that's gone.

And you meet some in the hallway,
As they come and go,
Some move so fast they can't be seen,
And some are moving slow.

And I wonder should I choose a room
As I pass by the way,
And move myself into that room,
And make a choice to stay.

But the hallway is forever,
It goes on and on and on,
And every door I pass by,
Is another door that's gone.

Ken Allan Dronsfield- Three Poems

The Cellaring

A moldy cold
like a freshly
turned grave.
The smells of
decaying flesh
permeate the
bowels of the
icy basement.
Cobwebs move
in the dead air
a soft whisper
like long Spanish
moss being toyed
with by a gentle
wind upon red
oaks or pecan.
I'm home within
the coolish cellar
humming a sonnet
in my burial dress,
black strap shoes
hair a ghostly mess
a purple lilac purse
and Easter bonnet.

Desperado's Kiss

What distance be the
stars from your heart;
how many sunrise's will
turn into twilight's before
that first desperado's kiss;
how many full Moon's has
your loving soul caressed
since your first breath.

Where does your mind go;
when in the throes of love.
As the demon of hunger
tries to invoke repentance
for a loaf of baked bread,
does your distressed life
exhale its last before the
oven inhaled your dead.

In the chills and thrills of
an evening not forgotten.
Can you repel the worst
of a fleeting wishful thirst.
Now rain melts away your
path through the nebula's
core as you disperse icy
grips with a tenuous roar.

Chasing the Raptor Rev 4

Ghostly shadows soar in exhilarated flight;

forbidden in a life; bequeathed beyond the veil;

Memories burn like a candles flickering light;

Buried within, a soulless raucous fight I'll win.

Rising from the ground; to the clouds I inhale.

Once only strife where a life should've been;

the dream's finally real, I stand ready to begin;

Destiny fulfilled during this sunset at the harbor.

I'll smile for awhile; electric vibes upon my skin.

Now soaring into the mist; Chasing the Raptor.

(Initially Published, www.whispersinthewind333.blogspot.com)

Bio: Ken Allan Dronsfield is a Published Poet and Author originally from New Hampshire, now residing in Oklahoma. He enjoys hiking, playing guitar and spending time with his cats Merlin and Willa. His published work can be found in Journals, Magazines and Blogs throughout the Web.

Heather Gelb- A Poem

Flying Monkeys

I was born in the year of the Monkey.

That is what the Chinese zodiac tells me.

And I do jump eagerly

From tree to tree, in search

Of bananas to satisfy that something deeper than

Momentary gratification.

I climb to the top of creativity and observe

The gardens  below unfolding, blooming.

I run towards the East

Wearing white and blue and

Chattering at predators who

Dare to rewrite my history.

And I fly on the fuel of curiosity,

Out of range from the pull

OF apathetic black holes.

Even monkeys can fly on noble missions,

Independently  minded with

No ties to green-faced witches or

Wizards plump with ulterior motives.

Invite a flying monkey like me to cookies and tea.

With a generous spoonful of empathy.

Open your preconceived box and

           I just  may surprise you.

Brief Bio: I often feel like a gazelle as I leap from hilltop to hilltop.

On one of these hills I recently published my memoir, my spiritual  journey from the hills of one land to another:  

http://www.amazon.com/From-Hilltop-Path-Rwanda-Israel/dp/1937623076

One of my poems based on this book was  featured in the fall edition of Poetica Magazine.

I have also published stories and poetry in other various publications like Pyrokinection, Green Panda Press, Deronda Review, Jellyfish Whispers, Stepping Stones, IJN and Esra Magazine

Richard Schnap- Two Poems

DARKENED HEART

She heard the cry
Of a distant train
And wondered how far
It could take her

And saw the lights
Of the liquor store
And wondered if wine
Brought release

And read a page
Of her holy book
And wondered just when
She’d be chosen

But sadly knew
That till that time
She’d never escape
From her shadow


PHENOMENON

Once the phone rang
And my caller ID displayed
My own name and number

I didn’t pick it up
And checked later to find
There was no message left

It was probably a scam
To trick me into donating
Funds to a fake charity

But then I wondered
If it could be myself
Calling from a parallel universe

Or maybe even worse
From beyond the grave
Attempting to warn me

That in the next world
I’d have only myself
To keep me company

Christopher Hivner- Two Poems

Outside

The silence laid me

on a blanket,

the darkness

folding around me

in white-light edges.

I could see through

the sky

beyond the planets

to the prayers,

a wash of connected puzzle lines

abounding with souls

walking the wire

from questions to answers.

A car passed by

to break my reverie,

standing on my porch

staring at the night sky

the stars

crashed into one another,

the beyond lost to me.

I blinked, turned,

and almost lost my balance,

walking my own wire

from alive to living.

Trans-Neptunian Objects

he remembers his dad,

behind him,

fading into the sky

throwing a

noncommittal wave;

when he turns

to face the old man

he debates

whether to wave back

Mars, Jupiter, Uranus,

now Neptune

his father passes

on the way to Pluto

he remains

staring into the sky

still deciding

whether it matters

Paul Tristram- Three Poems

Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography
published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids
instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet.
Buy his books ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press)  http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1943170096
‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326241036
And a split poetry book ‘The Raven And The Vagabond Heart’ with Bethany W Pope
at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326415204
You can also read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/

The Well

If only they’d had a light,
if only they’d been able to see
that everything was now futile.
The inside of the well
was throat like
and their little scrapings
meant nothing.
There were no finger grips
in the bricks and stones,
the corners had been rubbed
smooth with eagerness
and frantic desperation
by the first few
without light or hope
all those years ago.


© Paul Tristram 2005


Published in Purple Patch, No. 112, November 2005

The Road

The straight edges kept him going,
he ran his fore fingers around the grooves
he had been patiently digging
and coughed a dirty, excited squeal.
A paving slab is easy to lift
but to push it from underneath
is a different story all together.
He grasped the edges tightly,
focused completely upon the middle,
which broke and spun away
in two different directions.
Upon determined, bandaged elbows
he started up out of the hole,
the miracle of moonlight and fresh air
sent exhilarating spasms through him
as he crawled in indescribable agony,
one arm length at a time,
closer to the road.


© Paul Tristram 2006


Published in Chillout, Issue Seventeen, Winter 2006

The Silver Ghost

Traipsed the midnight graveyard pathways,
in and out of ivy smothered tombs
and lichen, crumbling marker stones.
Unhurriedly, un-purposefully
and without set course or direction.
Melancholy under the full moon light,
deep in meditative thought, always,
transfixed to a nagging problem
which troubled deeply her spectral mind.
She often scared the village folk, unwittingly,
with ghostly pacing back and forth.
This was indeed a wretched afterlife,
since swapping her two-penny boat ride
for a thousand year solitary wait,
trapped within this hallowed place.
Where she had vowed to meet him again,
upon passing over, at that long ago harbour,
battered by a cold and windy Winter’s morn.
Should he not return to her loving arms
from the terrible seas and distant lands.
His mind must have become lost and muddled
for him to be still other-worldly ship sailing?
For it has been a hundred and fifty years
of grieving and singing this sad, silent song.


© Paul Tristram 2015


Published in The Literary Hatchet (USA) #12, Sunday the 16th of August 2015