Every day’s a Tuesday here

she was dancing with ganesh
I just had him on a T-shirt

stones went slipping into the lake
ducks sclattering

a ramshackle cocoon boomed
the lake on fire

replacing ‘I am’ with space
in the end, they bite just the same

the moon gibboussing
the monk walking through in his
cerise robes
squeezed & pleased

a vector of sounds
instead of sights
ducts to ducks
vapour pouring off the underworld
what would be smoke now stilled

the fairy stock, the pixie carnations
sold out
narcissus jangular
little blue irises
please the teacher

a pundit for cosmogeneity
crosses on all fours
doesn’t get his knees wet

a paucity of deal-breakers
slapdash alternated
hands in the ruck

he wore knee pads
under his onesie
no harm in looking after yourself
in the rocky clouds

Where everything revolves around you
or, an egoid of poets

surfboard stuck upright in the sands
like a gravestone
for the living

Every day’s a Tuesday here

THIS IS THE FIELD

this is not the field
for truth to grow in.
its furrowed lips are sealed
with knowing
nothing can sing
in the wrong wind.
the crop is stunted
self-expression blunted
opinion gagged
and head sagged
waiting for the final blow
from the farmer’s shadow.
the field hands
cut to His commands
and every leathered face
has served in its place
like all the others, for centuries
in these peasant penitentiaries,
without bolting
or revolting
in union, except for Loveless’s Tolpuddle few,
who knew what to do
but were jailed, or transported
and thwarted.
this is the field
to refuse to yield
in. at Peterloo, sabres slit gullets,
and now, tear gas and rubber bullets,
try to abolish workers’ rights,
but our solidarity is stronger and fights.

Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry  https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms. 

His poetry has been published in over 200 publications including: Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Melbourne Culture Corner and Literary Yard Journal.

Safest Place to Be

They’re screaming
far back on a distant street

sagging roofs
foundations cracking

sunset reflecting
vibrating windowpanes

straining voices
under currents of crying

a country collapse
no time to pack

domino effect
slapping faces and rumps

pistol pulling
no bullets to pop

frantic arguments
which door to yank

sudden helicopter
wide circling overhead

sirens blasting
all directions hopeless

I stand in place
on my cold homeless corner

out in the open
safest place to be

at least for now.

 

In the Bitcoin Era

The cavalry approaches — or is
it Calvary. I get mixed up when
people are bellicose around the
time of religious festivals. Ponti-
fication. Fits both alternatives. A
Pope in jodhpurs, ready to ride off
to meet the Uhlans who are far
closer than anyone was aware,
since the cackling geese, the early
warning system of their time, have
been removed from Rome for
economic reasons. That, & for the
dinner plans of another religious
festival. Elsewhere, & for others,
it is a time of fasting as I watch —
one feed across many YouTube
channels — the minor pilgrimage,
Umrah, the Kaaba circled anti-
clockwise, by a peaceful crowd.

Tornado Dodgers

The trailer park resident
waits at a forever detour for a thank you
from a gated compound privilege.
Suburban and urban dwellers
contribute to the joke butt
by retreading in public canned sitcoms.

Flooring an accelerator
on the extraction principals,
a high roller cartoon character
takes, only, too busy to hail a cab
or to let up on the poor.

Government regulatory administrators
tire while sitting in the emergency vehicle
with four flat tires and a bumper dimple.
The red tape that comes with a legislative bill
doesn’t hold long before private sector
moths eat loopholes for trucks.

And pathways to wealth for clerks exhaust:
Promotion to a hedge fund right hand
wears down shoe leather too
but worth the deadening exercise.

“Trash” piles just off the highway
for the eventual blind sacrifice.

Rich Murphy’s poetry has won The Poetry Prize at Press Americana twice Americana (2013) and The Left Behind (2021) and Gival Press Poetry Prize Voyeur (2008). Space Craft by Wipf and Stock also came out 2021. Books Prophet Voice Now, essays by Common Ground Research Network and Practitioner Joy, poetry by Wipf and Stock 2020. He has published seven other collections of poetry.

Not An Easy Chair

It used to be said
that a hard chair
straight backed
was best
for you.
Now though
they say
it’s ok 
to lounge,
to slouch,
to curl up
in comfort
like a cat
at ease 
in an easy chair.
But some chairs aren’t
easy
for lounging,
or for comfort
or for sitting up 
straight.
They have a design problem
that is not easy to resolve.
It takes determination,
a palette of positions
and maybe a drink
to find a way.
And some deep thinking
on the matter.

Curious

A wind whirls
bells peal
confusion surmounts
decisions
matters of ultimate
concern
draw near
furrow a brow
imagining the life-course
patterns
of unknown extras
in the background
black and white
of old movies.

 

 

 

Randall Rogers is a writer from the US Midwest.  He is intensely concerned with the little things in life.  Makes him tough to live with.  Even the plants are rebelling.  He prefers ground up to top down.  Do not worry of the little people, Randall says, “little folk will survive.”  Randall stands 5′ 5″ after double hip replacement surgery.  Says Randall “Short people do have a reason to live!”  He lives at home with his tall wife and dog.  He often intones “height challenged is bliss.”

 

A FAIR NUMBER

I drank a fair number of beers
While it was still light out
But the sun sure did sink fast
And then it was night.

I kept opening the beers
And then pouring them down
While eating fistfuls of mixed nuts
And reading poetry, listening to music
The way I do
On days that I drink
A fair number of beers
With the sun sinking fast.

The music kept playing
And I began to sing along.
I think I peed at least fifteen times.
I never looked at the clock,
I just kept the radio on
And read all the poems.

Finally, I had had enough –
The beer bottles were all huddled
Together on the corner of the kitchen counter,
Looking bitter and used up
And I’m not sure if I was listening
To Sonny Boy Williamson I
Or Sonny Boy Williamson II.
Before going to bed
I looked out the front door
Just to make sure
And the night was still out there

With all her vivid darkness.

 

 

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

 

 
 

 

 
 
 
 


 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

the solo lafarge decoder

I am the salamander in the window well

bacon loves the asphalt
the lasting salad names a wedge

the white eye syndrome of the rockies
the fossilized ornament is the universal laugh

most of the mountain
were you ahead of the light?

Drums

Down the hill behind him
shots were again being fired.
Each explosion split a thought
into pieces that drifted in different directions.
He put on earphones then
and turned on native American shamanic drums
and followed their rhythm to a place and time
where everything that happened
was part of the same current
that would lead anyone who followed
to where it
and all else
both began
and came to an end.