New Poetry by William G. Davies

Remnants Of A Deadly Winter

Leaves like caskets

float across the green grass

their leathery backs

carry the sun

doomed as they are

the way hands are clasped

and enveloped in Rosary beads.

- © William G. Davies 2021

William is a 66 year old purveyor of the mundane, the fellow at the dinner table who might imagine a face staring back at him from within the gristle on a pork chop. He was able to glean from these observations a slim volume of poems; "Before There Were Bones" published by Prolific Press in 2015. He has been published by numerous literary journals such as The Wilderness House Literary Review, The Cortland Review and of course, the "pepper" to which he is humbly indebted. William has been married to the same woman for 47 years and accepts increasing delight in the longevity of his marriage compact. William's Pastor recently suggested that his voice would do for audible books what John Glenn did for the space program. He lists this as a peculiar accolade but one consistent with his craft.

New Poetry by John Cullen

Forgetting You

Carelessness was too careful

for you---a borrowed car crunched to rubbish

and a lousy two hundred bucks 

seduced you to buy drinks

all night with red

abandon.   Any woman you met

became a target.   That’s why

I’m forgetting you.  

I remember you crouched, wedged

in fact, between toilet and wall, shivering and sniffling

while one room away your son cried

himself to sleep in a cut down television box

on layers of old blankets.  Your wife cried

at the table, “I can’t keep going,

I didn’t know what to do!”  

They stayed with us six months.  

“I’ll get it together,” you promised,

again.  You raged and threatened, then

asked for more money.                    

You ate your meal of sorrow, and drank indignation.

Finally, you moved out.

The stray cat returned two days

later, sniffing the yard, fearful

of any sound.   No one heard

from you for over a year, no phone call or birthday

present, no midnight distant call,

not even a promise leaked

on wet tissue.

Now we hear you died.   

No surprise.  You weren’t saving someone

from a burning building or even trying

to mow the lawn at whatever dump

you made your recent house.

Your neighbor called 911

after a week of not seeing you, and the police

found you bloated by alcohol

and heat in a rental hammock.   

Someone read in the paper

you had died, then asked

what happened to your wife and kid.

I won’t even say where

they live, patched up

clothing and minimum wage job

the best they can do for now.

They still have that photograph of you

on your bike, back once again

facing the camera.

But, hey!

None of it matters.  

I’m forgetting you 

as fast as I can.

I mean it. 

Complete. 

Forever.  

Erased.

This time

I mean it.

- © John Cullen 2021

John Cullen graduated from SUNY Geneseo and worked in the entertainment business booking rock bands, a clown troupe, and an R-rated magician.   Currently he teaches at Ferris State University and has published in American Journal of Poetry, The MacGuffin, Harpur Palate, North Dakota Quarterly and other journals.   His chapbook, TOWN CRAZY, is available from Slipstream Press. 

New Poetry by James B. Nicola

Parents, Poets, and Jokers

 

All three erase the grave

before the grave:

 

Poems are sons,

with name attached,

and in formative years

they’re disciplined and revised

until the dangerous day

of their release;

 

Jokes are daughters

to be tweaked, tucked

and husbanded

by those who’ll not even cite the name

of who dreamt the crazy thing up

in the first place.

 

And so we joke, and pass on jokes;

turn a phrase and jot it down;

as we love and touch,

that the world not be

so Godforsaken,

so barren, so absent of issue.

- © James B. Nicola 2021

James B. Nicola’s poetry has garnered two Willow Review awards, a Dana Literary award, seven Pushcart nominations, and one Best of the Net nom. His full-length collections include Manhattan Plaza, Stage to Page: Poems from the Theater, Wind in the Cave (2017), Out of Nothing: Poems of Art and Artists (2018), Quickening: Poems from Before and Beyond (2019), and Fires of Heaven: Poems of Faith and Sense (2021). A Yale grad, he also has enjoyed a career as a stage director, culminating in the nonfiction book Playing the Audience: The Practical Guide to Live Performance, which won a Choice award.

 

 

New Poetry by Tony Hughes

Looking for our footsteps

- for Cass

Looking for our footsteps.

I stood on south point

and listened to the

wind howling

I don’t have

tears left

Its

late

I sit

by the

spirit fire

listening to

your playlist

Tracey is

taking the

force

of the

blow

I pretend

you wait

for me

to finish

my glass

of wine

before I climb

into your curves

where our

bodies fit.

Will winter

always find

me here

guiding the

last embers

of the fire

off to sleep

I planted

two stardust

banksia trees

today

one for you

one for me

- © Tony Hughes 2021

Cassandra Woodburne, to whom this poem is dedicated, was the beloved wife and best mate of Tony Hughes and mother to their two daughters, Georgia and Eddy. She passed away on 22nd November 2020 after a long and courageous struggle with cancer.

Tony Hughes is an Australian actor and singer. As an actor, he starred in The Lost Islands (1976), Chopper Squad (1977–1979) and the film adaptation of Puberty Blues (1981). As a singer he has fronted Bellydance and King Tide. (Courtesy of Wikipedia)

© Reg Mombasa (painted for Cassandra for her twenty first birthday)

New Poetry by Roberta Santlofer

Going Home

A journey back to the self

That you no longer know—

Lifting your sweater to show your appendix scar

Holding up your hair to be sixteen again

Visiting relatives and sleeping long

Being asked about the length of your dreams

Then, sitting around the dinner table with Aunt Emily

And Aunt Adele

Smiling at their rhetorical questions

Mouthing assents to their pauses

And then, as the evening gets late, and drowsy eyes and mouths

Flicker more slowly and not at all

Getting to concentrate on a piece of the firelight

To hold it, to take it back into a part of some life

Of some moment, when words were spoken to mean something

- © Roberta Santlofer 2021

Roberta “Bobby” Santlofer (1943-2020) was a mother of sons, an avid reader, and a poet. A posthumous collection of her poetry is forthcoming. Santlofer’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Gargoyle, Philadelphia Stories, Grey Sparrow Review, and elsewhere. 

[Editor's note: Roberta passed away in June 2020. These poems were sent to me by her son, Mark Danowsky, in his capacity as her literary executor.]

New Poetry by David Adès

Trinidad Nights 

Whether the moon is full or crescent, 

whether the moon is absent, 

whether the night breathes silver and shadow, 

whether the night breathes darkness and stars — 

dancers always come. 

The musicians’ jump  

to congas and bongos, 

to percussion and guitars, 

to saxophone and trumpet, 

fill the stone courtyard with sound, 

fill the night with sound, 

fill the dancers with movement. 

The sound is loud and fast, 

the sound is rhythmic, 

the sound is salsa. 

Above, 

on the stone steps to the Casa de la Musica, 

the drinkers drink Cerveza, Ron, Mojito, 

the drinkers talk, 

the drinkers’ eyes slip down 

to the bodies of the dancers, 

slip down and up, 

down and up. 

On the stone courtyard 

the dancers step forward, step back, 

link arms, unlink, 

step around each other, 

the man always directing the woman, 

the woman circling the man, 

dancing on and on, 

changing partners, 

feeling sinew and muscle, 

feeling the drip of sweat, 

feeling the slip of shine and sheen, 

feeling the brush of skin on skin, 

of hands touching backs. 

The dance is hot and close, 

the dance is hypnotic, 

but the dancers do not dance for love or lust, 

not for youth or memory, 

not for themselves or each other, 

not for the drinkers’ eyes. 

The dancers dance 

for the perfection, 

for the intricacy, 

for the synchronicity 

of movement, 

the dancers dance 

for salsa, 

always for salsa, 

only for salsa.

- © David Adès 2021

David Adès is the author of Mapping the World, the chapbook Only the Questions Are Eternal and most recently Afloat in Light (https://uwap.uwa.edu.au/products/afloat-in-light). In association with Mascara Literary Review, David is a recipient of the 2020 Don Bank Writing Residence (extended into 2021 due to Covid) together with Michelle Cahill, Debbie Lim and Michelle Hamadache. 

 

New Short Fiction by Sandra Williams

 Mystery Men

 For two days, I saw a una-bomber look-alike in a baggy orange sweat shirt wandering around restlessly through the halls of the hospice center where we each had a friend who lay dying. When we passed each other one night, I tried to read the words on his shirt, but the folds of the shirt kept folding in on the letters. His red MAGA hat, too small over his shaggy hair—reminded me of those clown hats with a wig attached to it. Around his neck was a heavy silver chain with a figure dangling from it. 

 Later I learned the figure was St. Jude, the patron saint of lost causes. That says it all, I thought, but still haven’t figured out what the “all” was. 

 Did he believe that America needed to be “great again,” but didn’t have much hope that it would happen, or was the lost cause his friend who had no options left, except waiting for the grim reaper to swing his scythe?

 On the third day, at the coffee cart, I asked him, “So, who is the little shiny fella there?” pointing to the dangling figure on the chain.

 “It’s St. Jude!” he said in a tone of voice suggesting I should have known.

 “But Judas isn’t a saint, is he?” that much I knew, but I got the wrong saint, or in this case, sinner.

 “No, no, no, you are thinking of Judas Iscariot. He was the apostle who betrayed Jesus,” he said.

 “Yeah, that’s him, for thirty pieces of silver, right?” I said.

 “Exactly."

 Exactly thirty? I wondered. Just before I bit into my multi-grain muffin, I blurted out, "Well, they say no good deed goes unpunished.”

 “What do you mean, good deed? His was the greatest betrayal in the history of the world.”

 “You mean the greatest catch 22! I mean, if Judas didn’t turn him over to the Romans, Christ wouldn’t have 'died for our sins,' which was the plan all along. So, they both end up hanging from a tree, right?”

 “Yes,” he said, “but Jesus in victory and Judas in defeat.”

 “But…but,” I started to say.  Then I decided to put the mystery men: the una-bomber look-alike, Judas the sinner and St. Jude the saint out of my mind. It was starting to sound like a sporting event.

 I poured the guy a coffee, passed him the cup, and we stood eating our muffins in silence. Then we moved on into our respective friends’ rooms—to watch and wait at the foot of their beds.

 My friend died that afternoon, and I wept.  

 On my way out, I saw Mystery Man #1 coming down the hall. Our eyes met for a moment, then I looked down and was able to make out what was on that orange shirt:

 It was the image of the blue marble Earth in darkness, and below it the words:

YOU ARE HERE.

New Poetry by Jean Bohuslav

compartmental beauty

a rusting iron bucket with

cracked patinas

muted greens

translucent mauves

an artefact most would dismiss

instead treasuring prominent

renowned efforts

a rounded sculptured kettle

or toaster

chrome with thick duco paint

shaped like an fj holden,

overlooked glory

a button

an exquisite thread

faces with unspoken thoughts

embedded in each silent expression

a tricycle with chipped enamel

scratches and dents

hollering reckless enthusiasm

another syphoned with care

objects

comparisons of yester year

fortitudes of treasured principles

placed in mental compartments

each thought

tone and movement

affecting the whole

relics of time

connected intrinsic beauty

- © Jean Bohuslav 2021

Jean Bohuslav enjoys the company of friends who like the arts on the Surf Coast of Victoria.  Her interest in philosophy and mindfulness is sometimes reflected in  her work.

New Poetry by John Tustin

Let it Rain

It’s raining out there

And I mean really raining

With the thunder that shakes the foundation

And the soothing jargon of raindrops

In their sheets coming down

Like endless theater curtains

But that’s fine with me

Because I have nowhere to go

And even if I did

I probably wouldn’t want to

So this rain coming now

Might be a waste for me

Because it could make a fine excuse

To not go somewhere I’m expected to be.

I stand in the doorway looking out.

A Haydn sonata battles the sound

Of those big fat drops crashing to the ground

In their continual downward assaults.

I could stand for it to rain like this a long time.

My house is ready to continue guesting me –

There’s coffee and there’s sugar for the coffee

But no milk.

Also there’s

No beer,

No cigarettes

Which is fine

Because I don’t need milk,

I don’t drink beer anymore

And I’ve never smoked.

Let it rain.

Let it fall and fall.

I can last here for a while.

- © John Tustin 2021

John Tustin’s poetry has appeared in many disparate literary journals since 2009. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.

New Poetry by Tom Montag

from The Old Monk Poems

We could tell you

twice as much,

the old monk said,

and you still wouldn't

know the half of it.

~

Is this what

it comes to,

the old monk asked--

an old man,

a cot,

cold coffee?

~

Where the horses run,

the wind follows,

the old monk said.

- © Tom Montag 2021

Tom Montag's books of poetry include: Making Hay & Other Poems; Middle Ground; The Big Book of Ben Zen; In This Place: Selected Poems 1982-2013; This Wrecked World; The Miles No One Wants; Imagination's Place; Love Poems; and Seventy at Seventy. Two new collections, The River Will Tell You and Maybe Holy: Six Old Monk Poems are forthcoming. His poem 'Lecturing My Daughter in Her First Fall Rain' has been permanently incorporated into the design of the Milwaukee Convention Center. He blogs at The Middlewesterner. With David Graham he recently co-edited Local News: Poetry About Small Towns.

New Poetry by Kenneth Kakareka

My Love

Her and I

are out to eat

tucked away

in a red brick corner

all our own.

She’s looking at

a skinny group of girls

celebrating 1st place

for their swimsuit modeling competition.

I’m looking at her

dark roast black hair

pulled up in a bun,

hazelnut-colored skin

and milk chocolate eyes.

Her wonderfully crooked teeth

she doesn’t show enough of

with a smile;

that’s my sunrise.

I’m looking at her

California-shaped birthmark

beneath her eye

tattooed on as character.

Her cute, pudgy

sausage link-shaped finger

with the diamond ring

I gave her

that seems to have been

carved and crafted

solely for her;

no other finger

wearing that ring

could look

even remotely close

to brilliance.

- © Kenneth Kakareka 2021

Ken Kakareka is a poet and writer who lives in California with his wife-to-be. He is the author of Late to Bed, Late to Rise (Black Rose Writing, 2013). Ken's stuff has been published in Lost Lake Folk Opera Magazine, Ink & Voices, Conceit Magazine, Spontaneous Spirits Magazine, DoveTales Journal, Amulet Magazine, HASH Journal, Route 7 Review, The Vital Sparks Journal and Burnt Pine Magazine. He has stuff coming forth in Gargoyle Magazine.

New Short Fiction by Veronica Kirin

 Elephantalism

 I dreamt that the circus had come to town. We gathered at the railway to watch the train roll in. The master of ceremonies was eccentric, we had heard, and was experimenting to perfect the circus animal.

 We were awed as the old steam engine puffed past, for the first car was a flurry of activity. With each breath of the blackened metal issued an infant elephant. One by one they landed beside the great wheels of the engineer’s car, righting themselves and trotting along to follow in a manifest herd. 

 These calves were strange, unlike those at the Zoo. They were smaller and grew before our eyes. Their skin soon changed from smooth and glossy to tough and wrinkled, tusks began to form. They trumpeted to each other as they trotted along, their feet crunching the weed-covered stones.

 Step by step, clickety-clack, the hoard grew up as they followed the painted cars. Their grey forms obscured the bright yellows and reds that swooped along those wooden frames. The rumbling metal wheels grinding on metal rails was scarcely heard over the cacophony of stomping feet and snorting trunks.

 Into adulthood they paraded as the end of the train neared. Their tusks were long and they trumpeted loud their joie d’vivre. But the mad ringmaster had not perfected his elephant formula, and as his elephants aged into full height, they began to fall apart.

 Their weight was too great, their pace too quick, and the elephant bodies cracked. A leg here, a tusk there, breaking beside the train. Distressed, but not in pain, each stopped to pick up its own pieces. The pride of elephants that followed the train now limped along the tracks. 

 They gave their best effort to follow their master, but instead they continued to weaken. As the red caboose pulled away the elephants began to fall. To our horror, their heavy bodies split open when they met the ground. The seam of their backs, the top of their heads, broke as if brittle ceramic. Layer upon layer we could see inside, not blood or bones, but clay and sandstone. What bizarre chemistry had the ringmaster used to form these artificial creatures?

 Silence fell with the last elephant, all movement and prancing ceased. The train, our joy, and the elephant's lives ended unceremoniously.

- © Veronica Kirin 2021

Veronica Zora Kirin (she/her) is an award-winning queer author whose writing aims to unearth within the reader something they may not have known existed.  Learn more at https://veronicakirin.com/books