New Poetry by Robert Bulman

The archaeology of anxiety

the archaeology of anxiety

found the fear of death inside the vase

plugged up and out of reach

until relentless curiosity

spilled thanatophobia

into the atmosphere

where it circulated

across the continents

drifting down as dust

the accretion of our collective fear

guided by gravity

floating back to the center of things

where we all meet up again

eventually

- © Robert Bulman 2021

Robert Bulman is a professor at Saint Mary's College of California, where poetry seems to hang in the air like smoke. Born in the American Midwest, he grew up in Southern California and then drifted north. He is an emerging middle-aged poet living and working in Northern California

New Poetry by Gwil James Thomas

Summer Departed like a Fallen Scoop of Peach Ice Cream, Licked up by a Rabid Dog from The Dirty Pavement.   

Beaming with black sunglasses

Summer wandered over

wearing denim hot pants 

and a sunflower yellow bikini top.

You gently wrapped your hands 

around her bronzed hips, 

as she pressed her chest against yours 

and planted a bittersweet kiss on your lips.

It was hard to see her go -   

but she assured you that she’d return 

and you knew that she would - 

just as you knew she’d be coming back 

for a long time after you were gone too.

Smiling, Summer then peeled herself 

from you and slowly stepped back -

brushing your palm with her fingers

as she disappeared to the 

rustling of leaves. 

Her sisters were already on their way - 

they were colder, grittier, more complex 

and all that made Summer truly matter. 

- © Gwil James Thomas 2021

Gwil James Thomas is a novelist, poet and inept musician. He lives in his hometown of Bristol, England, but has also lived in London, Brighton and Spain. His two most recent poetry chapbooks are Lonesome Wholesome Soup (Holy & Intoxicated Publications) and Under The Same Moon (Between Shadows Press) a split with the poet Tohm Bakelas. He plans to one day build a house, amongst other things.

New Poetry by Henry Stimpson

Memory Murder Mystery

I know the Cream of Wheat jingle,

the first four lines of “To Autumn,”

Mickey Mantle’s batting average,

Doric, Ionic and Corinthian columns,

artiodactyls versus perissodactyls,

sushi versus sashimi,

my dead alcoholic grandmother’s

favorite brand of sherry,

and the square mileage of Delaware,

but among that vast detritus

I can never ever dredge up

those three pap-bland names

the singer had to rub out

to be reborn

as Nina Simone.

The Loneliest Monk

“And who is The Loneliest Monk?”

–MTV reporter to Bill Clinton, who said Thelonious Monk was his favorite jazz artist

The acolyte of solitude speaks sparingly,

each word a pearl cultured in his mind

with opalescent layers of meaning.

World leaders: pay attention.

His aura trembles to the music

of the spheres like candlelight.

- © Henry Stimpson 2021

Henry Stimpson’s poems, articles and essays have appeared in Poet Lore, Cream City Review, Lighten Up Online, Rolling Stone, Muddy River Poetry Review, Mad River Review, Aethlon, Bluepepper, The MacGuffin, The Aurorean, Common Ground Review, Vol1Brooklyn, Poets & Writers, The Boston Globe and other publications.  He’s been a public relations consultant and writer for decades. Once upon a time, he was a reference librarian, a prison librarian and a cabdriver. He lives in Massachusetts.

New Poetry by R. Gerry Fabian

Learning Curve

At last, the reunion,

under an Ottawa traffic signal

during December’s last days.

The return of a stranger

with heavy foreign accent

in the middle of an ice storm mirage.

A frozen tongue speaks stencil messages.

I’ve lost more

than I can ever regain 

to this city.

Ours is a unicorn union, now.

I fumble in the present

in an attempt to initiate the past.

You are a snow sculpture.

Every minute together

hangs like an icicle.

Finally we call a halt

to this terrible two day catastrophe.

It is awkward because you

are home

and I am a Christmas present

that needs to be returned.

- © R. Gerry Fabian 2021

R. Gerry Fabian is an internationally published poet and novelist. He has published four books of his published poems, Parallels, Coming Out Of The Atlantic, Electronic Forecasts and Ball On The Mound. In addition, he has published three novels : Getting Lucky (The Story), Memphis Masquerade, and Seventh Sense. His web page is https://rgerryfabian.wordpress.com, Twitter @GerryFabian2. He lives in Doylestown, PA.

New Poetry by Joe Balaz

Not My Circus                                                                                                             

I no tink so Slick,

dat no sound too good to me.

Not interested,

no desire,

so you can just stay deah

on your street corner

wit your little bags

of momentary euphoria.

               

I not looking

to be bathed in wun heavenly glow

cause wen da shine wears off

it’s like jumping out of wun airplane

witout wun parachute

and landing on da pavement

like wun ovah ripe cantaloupe.

I’m really much too spunky

to be wun sorry junkie

fooling wit da fire,

spoon, and needle.

It’s moa hip

to take wun natural trip

by rapping to da beat of my feet

dat stay walking away.

If you could read my mind

it would be telling you

not my circus,  

not my monkeys,

cause wen you play stupid games

you win stupid prizes.

- © Joe Balaz 2021

Joe Balaz writes in Hawaiian Islands Pidgin (Hawai’i Creole English) and American English.  He is the author of Pidgin Eye, a book of poetry. In July, 2020, Balaz was given the Elliot Cades Award for Literature as an Established Writer.  It is the most prestigious literary award given in Hawai’i.  Balaz presently lives in Cleveland, Ohio.

New Poetry by Jean Bohuslav

pruning

Inspired by Ali Whitelock's ‘the lactic acid in the calves of your despair’

who will wring disappointment from the

sleeves of your thick woollen jumper

soak separation from each repetitive stitch

with warm soapy water

as thoughts of mother hang in the air

who will lay your hand-knit on

a slab of hindsight

in bright forgiving sun of a new day

who will sow seeds of inspiration

into each stride

and serve you a meal at their table

does pride need to be honoured when

batons are left at the blocks

uncage the bird from your heart

only you

have keys for surrender

support exists  

even when you doubt

now is time to let the hungry dog loose

cleanse bat-winged corridors from mind

light bonfires of desire

prune

for spring buds

- © Jean Bohuslav 2021

Jean Bohuslav lives on the SurfCoast of Victoria. She enjoys submitting to Meniscus, Kissing Dynamite, Poetry on the Move, Poetry Wivenhoe, Mad Swirl, U3A SurfCoast Poetry, Tango Australis as well as Bluepepper.