The Texan Adventurer

I am an intrepid adventurer

I have journeyed through the Texan desert.

I am the perilous desert’s venturer.

I travel from desert to semi desert.

I hunt for the feral hog and the beaver.

I explore the hot plains like an achiever.

I have been warned by the lethal rattle snake

to protect my heels that are always at stake.

I must protect myself from a thousand stings

in haunted dark caves where the buzzing bee sings.

I must be safe in the Chihuahua desert

as I tread audaciously like an expert.

Give Me Texas

Give me Texas!

The Texan dream!

The Texan nostalgia!

The Lonestar custodian

of the historic wild west.

The zestry and pleasant

Tex Mex!

The attractive and entertaining

rodeo.

The ear to ear smile of the

unwavering southern hospitality.

The efficiently distributed plains

and landscape.

The bucolic tunes from strings and mellifluous western voices.

Hot and catchy barbeques.

The exciting fairs and typical western culture.

Give me this Dreamland, the nearest take off point to the moon.

Give me the Texas that I crave for!

The land of versatile dreams for the fantasizer.

Give me this vintage and modern land or nothing else.

Ever Again

I heard the “thuck” as the Proud Boy

smacked my head with a baseball bat

–his staff of righteousness–as if he

were playing cleanup for the St. Louis

Cardinals.

I felt a brief flash of pain, followed by

a metallic taste on my tongue and an

acrid odor in my nostrils.  Was I dying?

I wondered.

“Goddamn faggot,” he cursed me and

then my mother, for giving birth to such

a puke.  I’m certain that He delivered

numerous subsequent blows but I felt

nothing–ever again.

Mom, You’re Prettier than Lucy

Lucille Ball was our household icon. She

was pretty and funny and clever; she was

everywhere: on TV, in the movies, the

newspapers and so on.  We couldn’t get

enough of her.

As a redhead myself I naturally gravitated

toward Lucy. In fact, I thought wistfully that

a marriage between Lucy and popular

comedian Red Skelton, another redhead,

would produce the ideal parents.  I was

eight years old.

So one night, when we were in the basement,

watching television, Mom tossed me the

latest TV Guide, which featured on its

cover a photo of Lucille Ball. “She’s pretty,

isn’t she?” she asked me. i surveyed the

photo critically, then issued my opinion.

“Mom, you’re prettier than Lucy,” I said quite

honestly. She looked up from her crocheting,

startled.  “Me?” she squeaked, unbelievingly.

“Sure,” I reiterated determinedly, “you’re lots

prettier than Lucy.” I glanced at her,

wondering why she was so surprised. “Do you

really mean that?” she asked softly. I told her

I did.  I’d no idea I had rendered such a

profound compliment.

I guess it was a combination of things that made

me feel that way: a son’s love, a positive, nurturing

role model, and she was, in fact, quite pretty. Mom

said nothing more, but looked back down at her

needlework, a little smile playing on her lips.

Quicksilver

I knew that this world wasn’t for keeps.

In youth, I clutched

to my breast many precious things–fresh

turned soil; newborn

kittens, the soft hand of my dear wife.

In middle age I

beheld objects I treasured–a vivid yellow

field of corn, in

full flower; drops of dew clinging to

gossamer wisps

of silk, strung through a copse and glittering

in the morning

sunlight. my daughter dressed for Prom.

With age I know

things I will always keep close–the strength of

righteous liberty;

love of country and of God; and the knowledge

that life is but

ephemeral, and will soon pass like quicksilver

through my fingers.

most of my adult life

just love sitting around

listening to people bitch

about how much sleep

they are not getting

it makes me laugh

for most of my adult

life i haven’t got more

than four hours a night

people are usually

shocked and warn me

about how unhealthy

that totally is

usually, i’ll shoot

them a look and then

they will understand

i have no interest

in living a long life

just want to get the

shit done i can while

i’m living

i won’t give two shits

about any of this after

i die

—————————————————————————–

where nothing good ever happens

and here come

the ghosts of all

the nightmares

to come

a leonard cohen

paradise overtaken

by david lynch

she laughs as i

nervously pace

the floor

i ask her

what’s

so funny

she says your zipper

is down dumbass

i look and realize

the zipper is now

broken but it has

become a black hole

where nothing good

ever happens

yet another one

of those sad truths

i pour myself a drink

and start the process

of ending this once

and for all

————————————————————————–

starts to taste like sorrow

anytime my birthday rolls

around i start thinking

about death

i know i don’t have that

many more to live through

the parties don’t happen

anymore

the alcohol starts to taste

like sorrow

i can’t help but think

of the number of people

that don’t remember

but it would be a crime

if i would forget theirs

this is where i should

have embraced being

a sociopath earlier in

life and just burn all

the fucking bridges

to the ground

instead

its a restless night alone

patiently waiting for death

or a partner to do it for me

imagine those poems

—————————————————————————————

she said i love you two days ago

thanks for wasting my time

that was the line some russian

bot typed to me after i refused

to give her money to take care

of her sick grandmother

it made me wonder, i’m sure

these bots have a certain quota

they have to meet each day

and given the number of times

i say no to going out to get a

gift card or send money

they must get pretty frustrated

given all the nude pictures

they send

i want to think of it like

a sweatshop

but the workers are killed

when they don’t meet that

quota

now there’s a thought that

will have me sleeping

comfortable at night

———————————————————————–

some majestic soul

turn on the

old tunes

a cool woman

by your side

old enough now

to understand

the games of

love

and all the

silliness that

wastes everyone’s

time

fall asleep in the

arms of an angel

some majestic soul

that has decided

you’re the lucky

one

finally, a damn lottery

i didn’t have to buy

a ticket for

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is trapped in suburbia, plotting his escape. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Lothlorien Poetry Journal, The Beatnik Cowboy, The Dope Fiend Daily, Disturb the Universe Magazine and Horror Sleaze Trash. Rumor has it, he may have a new book of poems coming out sometime in 2025. You can find him daily on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Ina Coolbrith Circle

sponsors the 98th ANNUAL SPRING CONTEST
(formerly Poets’ Dinner)
Open to All Poets Entry Fee: $20

Awards Announcements During Program ON ZOOM
Saturday, June 7, 2025, 1 pm to 4 pm
Must Attend on Zoom to be Eligible for Awards
THEME: INFINITY GUEST SPEAKER: to be determined

CATEGORIES:

BEGINNINGS & ENDINGS, HUMOR, LOVE, NATURE, PEOPLE, POET’S CHOICE, SPACES & PLACES,

THEME (INFINITY)

Poems must be original, in English, not have appeared online or in any journal or newspaper professionally published and
not be previous cash prizewinners (Honorable Mentions OK). Winning poems may be included in a future anthology. 42-line
maximum (not including spaces), any form or style. Up to four entries (4) per person; one (1) per category 

1. DEADLINE: April 1, 2025 (POSTMARKED BEFORE MIDNIGHT; NO CERTIFIED OR REGISTERED MAIL)
2. Type entry on ONE side only of 8 1⁄2 x 11 white paper.
3. Type category in upper right-hand corner of each page.
4. DO NOT put your name or any identification ANYWHERE on any entered poem. 
5. Send three (3) clear copies of EACH entry (with no illustrations).
6. Include a separate page with the following information (typed or legible): Name, Address, Tel no., Email, Title and
   Category of each poem.
7. Entry fee of $20 (check) made out to INA COOLBRITH CIRCLE.
9. AUTHOR MUST ATTEND ON ZOOM TO BE ELIGIBLE FOR AN AWARD.
   ENTRIES accompanied by ENTRY FEE should be mailed to: Contest Chair Aline Soules, 48 Danville Oak Pl, Danville,
   CA 94526. Questions? Please contact Aline Soules at soulesa@yahoo.com
   PRIZES: One POETS’ DINNER GRAND PRIZE: $100 — To be chosen from among the first three prize winners in each category. For
   each CATEGORY: Three Prizes — $50, $30, $20, plus three Honorable Mentions.
   Last Year’s Grand Prize Poem, Hermit Thrush, will be read by the author, Deborah Bachels Schmidt

AWARDS PROCEDURE: Winning entries will be announced ONLY on Saturday, June 7 and checked against the master list. If there
is NO CLAIM, the prize will go to the next ranked submission. Judges’ decisions are final.

NOTE: The Ina Coolbrith Circle invites all those interested in poetry to its September 20th meeting on Zoom where winners are
invited to read their winning poems.

DONATIONS: Contributions to sustain awards may be sent to Awards Co-Chair Natica Angilly,
1515 Poplar Ave., Richmond, CA 94805-1662. (Donor calls only, please, no books): (510) 235-0361.
Find us at: https://sites.google.com/site/poetsdinner
https://www.facebook.com/PoetsDinnerContest http://coolpoetry.org/

Earn your parents’ trust.

You have lived so many years of health,
You have done so well.
Now gather your mental quickly,
Earn your parents’ trust.

Discussed a lot of with heart.
You have done your greed helpless
Now gather your share-out.
Earn your parent’s trust.

You are done linguist by destine
You have decided Orientist.
Now You struggle quickly
Earn your parent’s trust.

Allah gives chance repeatedly.
Mean knowledge is available for you
Now You will have done again.
Earn your parent’s trust.

Go-between used to come and left.
You have cried, said ”l will read”
Now you don’t lose your way.
Earn your parent’s trust.

They told: “No married, another girl”
Girls are too much on trees.
You said: l have got a lot responsibility.
Earn your parent’s trust.

Believe. None of parents don’t
connect their hope from girl.
Go to Makkah together them.
Earn your parent’s trust.

Ask only from again Allah
He is Al-Majiyd from unique lord
İf you write poem, write only from life
Earn your parent’s trust.

Murodullayeva Muharramxon Rustam qizi

THE PRICE OF EGGS

The time to prevent fascist dictatorship

was yesterday, not tomorrow.

He said he would burn it all down—

and now we choke on smoke.

He promised retribution.

Made no secret of his hates—

brown-skinned immigrants,

gays and trans, import prices.

Made no secret that his game plan

was Project 2025.

But we didn’t expect he’d hand the reins

to the man who bought him the office,

a billionaire now looting our coffers.

Yes, I’m angry.

Angry at simpletons who ignored his words,

ignored his crimes, his insurrection;

ignored his pandemic failures,

and voted for him because he said

he’d lower the price of eggs.

On Day 1, as promised, dictatorship begins.

We watch him try to end birthright citizenship,

close public schools, defund social programs,

take over the Panama Canal, Canada, Gaza.

Each day brings job loss and threats,

hijacked budgets, chaos.

The time to stave off chaos was yesterday.  

Today, we watch democracy on fire.

Our grandchildren will sift through its ashes.

Copyright 2/2025                Patricia Doyne

Happy wedding sister!

Only you are as kind as my mother,

My dearest pearl in the world,

My loving angel

 Happy wedding, Dilmira sister.

You are the happiness in my life,

Your covenants are my covenants

I will love you forever

 Happy wedding, Dilmira sister.

Oh my God, thank you so much.

I will find peace for you,

all over the world,

 Happy wedding, Dilmira sister.

Let your name be famous, epic, let it be

sometimes good and bad

One day our time will come,

 Happy wedding, Dilmira sister.

May every happy moment be with you,

justification of discipleship,

I am like you

 Happy wedding, Dilmira sister.

I love you more than my life sister.

Not for the world, your lonely soul,

Be healthy in my happy moments

 Happy wedding, Dilmira sister.

 May we be happy every day

Sobirjonova Rayhona, is a 10th-grade student of the 8th general secondary school in Vobkent district, Bukhara region. She was born in December 2008 in the village of Cho’rikalon, Vobkent district, in a family of intellectuals. Her parents supported her from a young age.  She started writing in the 3rd grade. Her first creative poem was published in the newspaper “Vobkent Hayot”. She has also published extensively in America’s Synchaos Newspaper, India’s Namaste India Magazine, Gulkhan Magazine, Germany’s RavenCage Magazine and many other magazines and newspapers. She has also actively participated in many competitions, won high places and won many prizes. She is still busy creating.