Searching for the anchor

by Daniel Ames

green eyes and brown hair remind me of Alabama
when a long sheet of rain took the pain from her forehead
and assuaged the cankles by the cactus of doom

God is on the run and the apostles have nowhere to go
maybe Tuscaloosa but the coyotes drink hard there
and the prostitutes rape the johns using poker chips

conflagrations sound like nuclear submarines on the beach
and the conch shells spread the gossip of Christ
the Lord helps those who are hapless at the free throw line

Morning Breeze

by Santosh Kalwar

I am like a tree
with so many branches
and leaves.

One branch of me
is purely an academic
and other is poetry.

rest of the branches
is very personal
and I don’t know
what personal really means.

born naked and
will die naked.
nakedness of sky
as I see it.

The brilliant moon
and entire universe
are all what I see,
when I see,
a dying person
growing in me.

As I climb
the hills
and the mountains
I find wisdom
is blowing
Just blowing
like a fresh
morning, breeze..

AIR

by Demeter Race

The trace of his fingertips

On my belly

Elaboration

Of the troposphere

In that

High place

Slipping

Off his tongue

Falling

Eyes closed

32 feet

Per second squared

Never

Reaching ground.

In My Letter

by Chris Middleman

I chose not to elaborate
on the dream I had of you

Where our skin was lit by
static on a rabbit-eared TV

Where I clutched your
knees as if I were falling

and held your legs apart,
intent on making you writhe

like a fever-struck child
My Summer to Remember,

the ring you wear lacks
any magic to ward off

the things you know
I'm capable of imagining

WHAT PATHWAYS

by Richard Godwin

What watchdogs lie in the eternal furnace
Of your mind?
When lazy Sundays
Stalk your dreams and
The friends you gather
Like lost coins
Fall away
As your tired skin cracks with cold.

What pathways to
Oblivion do you seek?
When you cry alone at night
And feign to care
That summer has come with its million glances.
Cut by the loss

That you built
A long time ago.

*http://richardgodwin.wordpress.com/portfolio/

poem

by Jo Hutton

I love the smell of just-cut grass,

Something about it

Takes me back to a peaceful

Time in my mind.

I used to lie in the long grass

In the field behind our house.

Look up at the sky

And watch the patterns I could make

By filtering rays of sunlight

Through near-closed eyelashes.

Those were the days.

Listening to the distant buzz of

My eccentric father

Whizzing up and down the lawn

In not-so-straight lines

On his new toy,

The Lawnmower

His pride and joy.

We used to laugh at his then,

Sitting astride the engine

Taking it all so seriously.

"Go and call Dad for tea," my mum would say.

"Whaaat?" he'd yell.

"Time for tea, Dad" I'd yell back.

"Whaat?"

"Oh forget it, Dad."

I'd tell Mum he was on his way,

And he'd finish up in his own good time.

And didn't we laugh at him again

That Day

Amidst our tears

Trying to come to terms with

The unimaginable

The deepest cut,

The sharpest pain,

The sudden death

Of the one you have loved the most

For the longest time.

Oh yes we laughed

About the lawnmower

And we cried

And laughed

And cried

And laughed

And cried some more

Until we were all dried up

And all that's left now

Is love

And dreams

And memories.

Document 13

by Charles C Brooks III

The work ethic of Tupac is five hits in the chest, Death Row records
courting Snoop Dog, Dr. Dre – the battle was built by a faux-thug
in a pimp’s outfit who had a college degree and a middle-income home. Bullets are a mouthpiece, a street prophet only after dying for running his mouth.

Blame that on the white man too. Momma being a black panther left little
room for a white man to be decent,
on the level, open to talk and take up old slack.
Genius got wrapped up, tangled up, Biggie too
got his walking papers for playing a roll, lazy-eyed, hard rivalries for money,
fame, enough cash to lift up where they came from.

Blam! Blam! Blam! It’s not the sounds of movies, of rough-necks drunk,
it’s death. It’s futile ambulance rides so more murder
loses the validity, not enough proud work
big enough for everyone. Hard, heated, it’s razor blades and cars
that roll like art. Elegance in the best of them,
earned but born with a charm, a bow, a bounce.

Ripped From Us During Endless Harvest

by Brian Le Lay

today is the first
of a long October

an Indian summer
that will lapse upon
our shoulders
for decades

plumes of smoke etched
in the New York skyline
that will last forever
in the books

we will paint autumn
leaves a moist salty
shade of blue

in the driveway
of a man
who went off
in the name
of the dollar

leaving behind
two little girls
and a confused
widow who
will only cry
in private

during harvest we wait
for the phone call--
"we found his body"

For My Mother Who Gave It Her All

by Rod Peckman

My mother slept. Well, she worked, and worked hard.

And she slept when not at work.

She excelled at sleeping,--an adept, a maestro,

a Svengali of somnolence.

And she tried, I know she tried

to be the best mother she could be,

but I could not wake her from what I now know

was the formal garden one lays out

against the fecund weeded chaos,

a fleeting snooze against a lingering insanity.

The Voice Of Despair

by April A.

Triangles of half-open doors
Reveal all the truth that is hidden:
Just condoms and cans on the floor,
Black papers with verses, forbidden -
Unfinished remakes of the song,
Deprived of the right to speak loud
Of wicked intentions gone wrong -
Erasers have muffled the shout.

The only illusion-proof mind -
A poet, the voice of despair,
Sincere, the one of this kind
Throws verses far into the air
Right there, in a dirty old flat
Among once great talents, now rotten.
They all have deserved more than that,
But even their names are forgotten


*http://april-abd.bravehost.com/Homepage.htm