Sh-Boom, Sh-Boom

Mother awakened me in the morning. There was now a lake of ash where there had never been
one and behind it a pair of wrinkled mountains like a giant’s cracked, dusty boots. Birds on a
fence idiotically chanted, “Sh-boom, sh-boom.” I picked up a stone and threw it without taking
careful aim. Some people who were passing would later say the expression on my face made
everything worse. I hadn’t even realized I was smiling.

                                                                                                          &

Life there felt a lot like life elsewhere – steel bars on windows and suicide nets on roofs.
Hatchet-faced men in leather trench coats would grab people right off the street. The last words
of a prisoner were eerily prophetic. “Ah,” he said, “the cows. . .” Work parties threw the corpses
in ovens or down wells, often slaving at rifle point through the night.

                                                                                                            &

The angels were dry-mouthed and sweaty and feeling like they hadn’t slept for days. A rogue
herd of cows in gas masks had stampeded. I stared out at the sign by the church when I should
have been watching the road. Love Like Jesus, it said. Nice sentiment, I thought, as the sun sank
in a profusion of toxic colors, a ship full of chemicals burning intently at the edge of the world.

 

 

Howie Good is the author of more than a dozen poetry collections, including most recently Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing).

 

I Am No Longer Me

Just a worn out shell like a vacant building, that haunts the landscape seen by a random passerby.

Sometimes the sadness can become comforting in the oddest sense.
Like a snail to its shell.
It's simply part of our being.

A hideaway to deaden yourself to all.
Sometimes the pain becomes all we ever need before this nonexistent party ends.

Some view me as something I never was but delusion beats rose colored glasses.

And a dance and death spiral.
Hold odd similarities disturbing and beautiful all the same.

Sorry for my morbid disposition.
But I am no longer the stranger I once knew as me.

 

 

John Patrick Robbins,  is the editor in chief of the Rye Whiskey Review he us also the author of The Still Night Sessions from Whiskey City Press. 

His work has been published in Fearless Poetry Zine, Punk Noir Magazine, Piker Press, San Pedro River Review,  San Antonio Review,  The Dope Fiend Daily Lothlorien Poetry Journal. 

His work is always unfiltered. 

“blessing”

god said, enjoy your
afternoon, you deserve it.

thanks, i said, i’ll try.

he shook my hand
and walked away

45 minutes later
i sat in the spring sun
on a poorly painted porch
drinking mexican beer

i got to thinking about god,
how he’d been involuntarily
committed for the past 6 years,
i wondered if he’d be happy to know
i was enjoying my afternoon

then a breeze came by
and i thought about something else.

 

Tohm Bakelas is a social worker in a psychiatric hospital. He was born in New Jersey, resides there, and will die there. His poems have appeared in numerous journals, zines, and online publications. He has published 10 chapbooks. He runs Between Shadows Press. 

“The Tree”

The tree
prays for
the future that―

leaves flush,
sing hopes,
and
kiss the ground
full of tears of the rising sun―

The tree
prays for
the future that―

hug of recovery
fills the sky,
spreads a pastel carpet,
and
cocoons the ground
in misty gleam―

The tree is gazing at dawn
The tree is shaking
with a blessing

Yuu Ikeda is a Japan based poet. She loves writing, reading mystery novels, and drinking sugary coffee. She writes poetry on her website; https://poetryandcoffeedays.wordpress.com/
Her published poems are “On the Bed” in <Nymphs>, “Seeds” in <Tealight Press>,“Dawn” in <Poetry and Covid>, and more.

Why Tamper with the Spectral Spoil?

The string was hung above the ground –
31” long and 31” high. Below,
The compost pile, and under that
A primum non nocere agreement
Between the celibate intensity and
Verruciform, bantam network. (My skin
Like microfiche, this property
Anathema to lithium, Athena, random
Miracles.) The seven 1s and seven 0s
Ran above: retaliation’s form of libel;
The postal industry’s falsetto trait in mime.

The ground’s gung-ho astringent, like a
13, cinches the quotidian by its one-and-thirty
Piles of short-and-curlies; and under,
Nociceptors: agriculture’s double-ply
Phenomena, in tandem with celebrity
Intestines; the skein of net worth cruciform.
(The micro-cliché improperly ties
Lythrum to the enemy, the anthem in the killer
Mirror’s ransom.) The seven 1s and seven 0s
Farm retaliation, run aground these billet-
Doux encrusted mines of tried and true.

Jake Sheff is a pediatrician and veteran of the US Air Force. He’s married with a daughter and six pets. Poems of Jake’s have been published widely. Some have been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology and the Pushcart Prize. His chapbook is “Looting Versailles” (Alabaster Leaves Publishing).

Lost Numbers

Abhor the horizon
Entreat pestilence
Empire advert quiet members
Steven is sober on the patio

Delay costs of leprosy
See a llama today
Holy rosy memory
Jesus of the transitional prism

Prize the devolved mass
Key Largo’s armor of nostalgia
Eat the grazing puma
Instant Tang!

Quite legal cement
Impale desperately
Bert, Bert, Bert!
Yosarian, Yosarian!

The last roses of pestilence
Serious horizon
Final natal case
Poor cue of lost members

Hugh Tribbey is Emeritus Assistant Professor Of English. He lives in Stillwater, Oklahoma, with his wife Larna.  He has published nine collections of poetry.  His most recent is  One Knowledge from Idler Press.

THE KNOCK ON MY DOOR

Much time passes and I wonder why
My door is never darkened with a shadow,
My walkway never clattered with footsteps
And after more time passes I’ll go to my door,
Finding notes written there, nailed pieces of paper
That are now flaked and yellowed with weather and age.

Don’t mistake my aloofness for rudeness.

You may be tapping or even pounding right now
And it’s possible I can’t ever hear

The knock on my door –
I’m too occupied
Listening to me.

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

CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION

voices
make their choices
in the game-
to remain
loyal, or abstain
and stunt reputation
for self gratification.

get real
profits of career soon heal
the sacrifice of bold ideal-
when the grey suits in the system
say: preserving status quo, is the wisdom
in this play. other tunes, are moments of fame-
memorable then forgotten in the main
stagnating stream of politics,
where embedded institutions share the same
out of tune,

out of reach hot air balloon
playing unmusical licks
treading us down in the gravity
of tribal tricks
with ghost notes
wearing uniforms of halved normality
in the foreground
and background
with loaded guns inside
and outside
their tunic coats-
ready to suppress any massed intention
of Bastille insurrection.

you don’t have the right to repeal my name,
or make me think and do the same
as you.
your way, is extinction-
only seconds
as time reckons,
a philosophy founded on myths,
twisted in technological trysts
tuned to suit you.

THAT BLACKSMITH FELLOW

crumpling
crumbling
heart

war thump
peace pump
stall start

cave hunting
and gathering
in groups

to farms with crops
and hoofed livestocks
drink beer, eat meat and soups.

that blacksmith fellow,
with fire and forge, hammer and bellow,
is still the alchemist-

malleolus like his mettles
when everybody settles
into civil lists.

in us now,
the subliminal plough
sets our furrows footsteps-

so summer’s run and winter’s plod,
with, or without god
in and out of upsets.

Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. 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. He is also the founder, editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/

His poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, Australia, England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, France, Spain, Germany; Serbia; India and Switzerland in numerous publications including: Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Literary Yard Journal; Poppy Road Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine  Poetry Magazine; Dissident Voice.

Feebleness

Every whipstitch, it is essential to be exposed
to lifehacks cached in inner chiffoniers. Better
still to exhibit them on primal vitrines: easy
to access, easy to annex.

On my way to the solemnities of your last rites
the one hosted in my mind, I resolved never
to be reminded of you, but I neither possess nor
have I penned a grimoire?

Vision

When you unself
from a situation or skein:
you deliver lavish
dividends for yourself.

Opportune distancing
mends the ache:
of the eventualities
of our exploits.

Propinquity bedims
the perspective:
leaving us to lust
after our parakeet or pelt.

(‘Feebleness’ was originally published in Peacock Journal. ‘Vision’ was originally published by The Fictional Café)

Sanjeev Sethi is published in over thirty countries. His poems have found a home in more than 350 journals, anthologies, or online literary venues. Bleb a Wee Book from Dreich in Scotland is his latest release. It is his fourth volume. He is joint-winner of Full Fat Collection Competition-Deux organized by The Hedgehog Poetry Press UK. He is in the top 10 of the erbacce prize 2021. He lives in Mumbai, India.

The Rope’s End

The doctors told us to strip to our underwear.
Mine – out at the waistband – long past white –
barely hung on my emaciated body.

They ordered us to stride long and fast
in circles around the carpet to make a quick
assessment of our healthiness.
A lung infection forced me to cough and wheeze.

They poked and grabbed us one after the other –
making further assessments –
and finally I put my threadbare and smelly
clothing back on.

They let me in – I was judged fit enough
to go to Navy boot camp.

But of course my sick and malnourished body wasn’t fit.
They’d let me in out of pity.

Even the most detached observer could see
I’d run out of alternatives and ended up in that
Military Enlistment Processing Center
because I had no where else to go.

I hated every minute of
the pitching and rolling arduousness
on that gray-hulled destroyer –
and it all began with an act of
sympathetic kindness
from a doctor who saw
that last inch of rope my life was dangling by.

Hugh Blanton combs poems out of his hair during those moments he can steal away from his employer’s loading dock. He has appeared in The American Journal of Poetry, The Scarlet Leaf Review, The Rye Whiskey Review, and other places. He lives in San Diego, California.