in the middle of writing a poem

i always love when

my arthritis starts

flaring up right in

the middle of

writing a poem

i have only

survived these

years by finding

pleasure in the

pain

god help us all

when that stops

happening

———————————————————-

love letters to female prisoners

is it possible life

has passed me by

possible all the

former lovers

weren’t the ones

to make the mistake

all the old guitars

collecting dust

all the things

i tried for pussy

this pen served me

as well as any of

them

i might as well be

writing love letters

to female prisoners

and as the mundane

starts to swallow me

everyday

prison becomes

a relative topic

modern day slavery

someone is always

making money off

of someone

———————————————————

walk in the park at dusk

here come the virgins

the terrorists were

promised

all the freedom we

gave up to feel secure

now our own nation

points the gun at each

other

kids can’t play outside

you can’t walk in the

park at dusk

and god forbid, don’t

you dare be mentally

ill

too bad we can’t make

money off of them

if that ever changes

suddenly…

———————————————————-

trying to steal my heart

an angel with dark hair

panties begging to be

yanked off

a smile that seems to

be too good to be true

the latest trying to steal

my heart although, i am

a willing victim

this one wants to get to

know me enough so she

can travel across the

country and fuck me

my inner child starts

to sprint

but the battered soul

inside knows there is

no way this will ever

come out good

all the while, i’m trying

to play it cool

i certainly believe i’m

due a fucking break

——————————————————–

words are not enough

the spanish princess cries

herself to sleep in my arms

complains about the pain,

life and all the miles between

us

i feel helpless, know that

words are not enough

fall in love with an introvert

and come to terms with a

brand new level of frustration

stuck in the old century of

love letters and flowers,

boxes of candy and a glass

of wine at sunset

how in the fuck did so

much time pass us by

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is trapped in suburbia, wondering where all the lonely housewives have gone. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Cajun Mutt Press, The Rye Whiskey Review, Misfit Magazine, just good poems and The Beatnik Cowboy. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

The Tip of Time’s Arrow

Time travel proved necessary
If we wanted to meet other civilizations
Among the stars
Everywhere our ships landed 
Goldilocks worlds, gas giants, 
Or sunburned cinders
Ruins dotted the landscape
Sucked dry of metals and useful minerals
Intelligent entities everywhere 
Had crashed their ecologies and perished—
Their technological prowess
Not enough, never enough
To compensate for their behaviors.

Time travel proved possible
In the mid-twenty-fourth century
When the physicist Krisha Dalal
Learned to point time’s arrow both ways
Her equations unarguable
A crew of select humans and one AI
Was sent into the past.

Crowded time vehicle
Humans: eager 
AI cool in its rack of superfast processors
We set sail for the Devonian, a test run
Early plants, insects, amphibians
But no large terrestrial predators 
(The sea a frightful tale of teeth and armor)
The ride was silent, uneventful
The doors opened upon a dusty plain
A hovering pall of dust.

Our first dire discovery:
The air, unbreathable—
Like inhaling a lungful of nothing--
Though evidence and theory 
Suggested the Devonian air
Would sustain us.

Fortunately mission control
Had planned for such contingencies:
We have vacuum suits
Our vehicle’s mini-airlock
Snug for one standing man.

Four of us set forth 
Three humans and the AI’s avatar
Nearby, lycophytes and ferns 
Cluster along a stream
Motionless, as if no wind 
Has ever breathed across this land.

Primitive flying insects hover in midair
As if captured in invisible amber
Their wings do not blur 
Nor move at all; they hang 
Motionless above the stream
Its surface dimpled 
As if with the reticulations of water flowing
And yet this surface is static
Still as a stagnant pond.

We move on
Keeping our vehicle in view--
The world like a vast art installation
We move thru it, observing,
Yet without interacting.

Are we trapped in one frozen instant
Of past time?  After our excursion
We discuss possibilities 
A test:
I try to pick a single leaf—and fail
The AI directs a robot
To try, with the same result

This world we cannot change
And we’ll never reach the date
We’re to be plucked from time
Reeled back to the future.

Will the engineers who sent us
Deduce our fate
Find us before we starve
Locate this exact nanosecond 
Where we are stranded?
Or will their rescue attempts
Be a few frozen instants away?
Along with the AI,
We wait and we pray.



David C. Kopaska-Merkel won the 2006 Rhysling award (long poem, written with Kendall Evans), and edits Dreams & Nightmares magazine (since 1986). His poems have been published in Asimov’s, Strange Horizons, and more than 200 other venues. Some Disassembly Required, a collection of dark poetry, was published in 2022. @DavidKMresists on CS. Blog: https://dreamsandnightmaresmagazine.blogspot.com/

More than two hundred poems by Kendall Evans, including a number of collaborations with David C. Kopaska-Merkel, have appeared in various SF/fantasy/horror magazines, chapbooks and anthologies. He and David also collaborated on "The Tin Men," which received the SFPA 2006 Rhysling Award for best science fiction poem written in 2005 (long poem category). His short stories have also received recognition, including two honorable mentions in THE YEAR'S BEST FANTASY AND HORROR. His novelette "Don Huavaca's Dia de los Muertos" appeared in the anthology BARE BONE #6.

***
My green throat has turned into a garden
I have to be silent a lot
I have to drink a lot so that the trees grow
I have to breathe quietly so as not to frighten the birds
I don't want to scare those who are happy

***
damp forest
how does the butterfly come out
heat from the clip

***
Shh shh she she she along with your hoarse cough
Leaves fall to the ground and you don't understand
Will tomorrow knock on your door again
morning…

***
explosions instead of music
death instead of sleep
butterflies everywhere butterflies

***
A huge bird with black glasses would have arrived
And taught us all to fly

We've never been here anyway

***
My thoughts live without me
In pursuit of them I stumble
And I die
The tide of the river

***
¶ spring warmth jumped to my knees ¶
♪ and they stopped freezing ♪
Thats how the dawn began

***
What do we gather instead of mushrooms after the war?

***
the dead man was smiling that day

***
Perfectionism is good
But

Perfectionism is not always good
Perfectionism is not necessarily good
Perfectionism is not very good
Perfectionism is not good
Perfectionism is not good at all
Perfectionism is bad
Perfectionism is very bad.
Perfectionism is often very bad
Perfectionism is quite often very bad.
Perfectionism is always very bad

So
Perfectionism is evil

***
(Based on a literary ballad)

The clock is knocking, knocking on the door:
Behind the door he, you just believe!
 
A gray-haired old man enters the house:
"Here I come."
"Are you an undertaker?
You dare not ask
Who should be buried?
 
"Who, why - I don't care."
"Then take, grab the log,
Drank, knock and prepare the coffin,
To bury my love."

***
dad mom me and other deaths
children nursery gardens and other shadows of the past
days of the night and other seconds
at one point everything burned down and turned
into a fungus mushroom nuclear mushroom from Hiroshima

***
autumn kills itself in advance in spring
the rain comes through and gets inside the heart
shells play snails
worms go underground
and in the eyes of a continuous prison

***
love really exists
but only in books

Mom

Mom
whisper of love
silent rustle
in the cradles you love
in the silence of the nights.
Looks
and love songs
those light hands
and the caresses on the faces
of children born in pain.
Mom
they are ointments
those words of yours
whisper in the night
to the chant of the lullaby.
Still your breath
on the skin and lips
pink mom in heart
your every smile
it is a wonderful flower.


These words like swords

The words remain silent
but soon the truth will be Light
with strength and courage
the universal verb
it will thunder in the cities of the world
in the voices he will find the way
the freedom of human thought.
These words will be the swords
will be the different realities
the history and the future
everlasting clothes
worn by warriors
fearless men
archers of life and time.

                                                                                                          Brothers

They
they are in us
and we are
They.
Brothers
same blood
equal loves
thorns and pains
joys and songs
we are family.
Distances never desired
roots intertwined in the heart
and still love
in our eyes
our dreams and flowers
to live together.   

                                                                                                                                                                                                                        Is love tears and violence!

It is love that then
sleeps in mud and pain
forcefully torn from the earth
afraid of human violence
hidden beyond borders
silent desert in the world
dies in the silence of the truth.
Is love tears and violence
wear elegant dress
it shows kind on the face
dirty inside of feelings
poisoned by rabies
and eyes blinded by evil
that kills the beloved beauty.
It is sleepless and wounded love
ready to become a legend
in the mouth or in the blood
love watches over mothers
women and wives in wars
the souls who fell victim to the song
once the beloved cup married. 

                                                                                                                                                                                        Sing again man!

Sing man
sings life
hears the days
and to the deeds of the heart
don't let yourself die
inside this envelope
in this endless night.
Still a man
dance and laugh
jump on the edge of the imagination
tell your dream
never be afraid
to show your eyes
your reasons
every feeling inside you.
Man of reason
wind man
man of silence
your courage still screams
give your strength to the stars
in the night of the world
drowns without hesitation
all pain and fate
chained to the events of life.

                                                                                                                  Heart

Like bread
it's you heart
crumbly
warm with love
full of joy
memory of a dream
breath of a man
it always pulsates
suffers pains.
My heart
good morning heart
heart so big
friend of the world
feeling
without borders
barriers
humble and so strong.
Inside this
immense sea
you always fight
Heart
warrior you are
rest on memories
everlasting is your blood
love buds from your eyes
truth from the days
spotless
they flow silently
in your thoughts
in born poems.                                                                                                         
                                                                                                       Need.......

Need
of love
in this world
of hugs
of kisses
and many caresses.
Need
one more smile
of a tear of joy
of dreams for everyone
and happiness to every heart.
Need
that life
extinguished by violence
free from any inferred reason
be a long breath of love
that the sky
no longer gray
and the stars shine
for all the people.
Need
of peace
in this crazy time
where love is humbled
from muscles
from anger and pain.
Need
that the words
are true
no more lies
and that reality
of us humans
is a poem to love
and the wind that stirs
the reasons for the pain
be it finally
a drowned tear
in the sea of life
like a light feather
no more fears
torn truths
in the eyes of children
and to the victims of this
useless paradise.                                                                                                 
                                                                                                                    The power of poetry

Vibrate in the chest
scream in blood
the verses are the words
it's the breaths sometimes
other times instead
they are sharp knives
it is poetry
the true power of poetry
storm inside the blood.
It's not a game
it is never an empty story
she is always the poem
the words of the soul
the face of human life
love next to thorns
the wind whistling in the sky
daughter of the heart.                                                                                                       

Come again Faith!

I would like wings to fly
to reach
the end of the universe
overcome the dark
and eternal understanding
buried inside my heart
break the invisible barriers
and so then land
in the world of love.
Come again Faith
inside this flesh
like a sharp blade
rips
tears
this human shell
and make me a man
that I can understand
the meaning of life.      

                                                                                                                                                                                                         The sun in the eyes

There is love in every flower
in the caresses of a mother
in the sighs of a woman
there is love laughing in the heart
and still there is the sun in the eyes
and the silent breath in thoughts.
There is a party in the memories
dressed in songs and poems
it smells of love and beauty
rare rose reserved for life
there is a small world in dreams
and often cries out the need for love.

---

The poet Francesco Favetta was born in Sicily in Sciacca, he has always loved poetry, writing verses, but above all culture, food for the soul: culture is Freedom, it is Free Spirit, it is Soul in Movement, not it should never be harnessed!

In 2018 he was awarded by the Accademia di Sicilia, Academician of Sicily. He has been published in various anthologies and in various magazines, among which, we mention a few: international magazine The Poet; Revista Azahar who edited the first Sylloge of Poems in Spanish: Encantamiento y Palabras como Plumas; Anthology The Silk Road Anthology: Nano Poems for Africa; “Poetic Galaxy Atunis”; WorldSmith International Editorial; OPA The Poetry Journal; Inumbrable magazine; Magazine Polis; rank of minister in the Order of the Titan and publication of a lyric in Octobermania; international literary magazine Kavya Kishor in Bangladesh; international journal of language, literature and culture “Petrushka Nastamba” Serbia; international magazine, Namaste India and Certificate of Appreciation; Different Truths social journalism platform; Cisne Magazine Digital; Humanity St. Petersburg magazine; fourth Panorama International Literature Festival Spain, delegate for Italy.

He founded a theater company in Sciacca: “Theatrum Socialis Sciacca”, and a Lions Club, the “Sciacca Terme”. Finally, the poet Francesco Favetta is convinced that poetry will be the weapon with which humanity will make their lives free, and furthermore beauty will always be a truth that will never be buried from the times and events of daily human life!   

Note: The poetic style is a reinvention of an old formal style, the lanturne, into a new form called a saturne binary.

A saturne binary (satbi) joins two saturnes, a speculative variation of lanturnes.  Poems are centered with 1,2,3,4,1 syllables per line suggesting the shape of a lanturne or Saturn with its rings. In a satbi, the second poem is reversed. For more information, see “Saturnes: A Speculative Variation of Lanturnes,” Scifaikuest August, 2021, print edition.

When the Martian Wind Blows

the

only

signs of wind

dust  in the air

no

pond

rippled with waves

no leaves tossed

by a

breeze

This Rhysling nominated poem first appeared in Scifaikuest, August 2021, print.

*

There it Goes!

our

perfect

zero-G

ceremony . . .

stops

short

when he fumbles

and “drops” my

wedding

ring

This poem first appeared in Star*Line 45.1, winter 2022.

*

Cleaning Cosmic Clutter

space

sweepers

– magnetic

exteriors – – –

huge

maws

remote controlled

fleet keeping

orbits

safe

This poem first appeared in Scifaikuest, August 2021, print.

*

First Day Among Humans

when

he heard

a mom say

“time for baby’s

change”

a

young shapeshifter

changed too    screams

still haunt

him

This poem first appeared in Scifaikuest, August 2021, online.

*

My New Fur Coat

stuck

hiding

from snapping

fangs till the moon

sets

wait!

are these teeth marks?

healing fast

under

fur

This poem first appeared in Scifaikuest, August 2021, print.

Lauren McBride finds inspiration in faith, family, nature, science, and membership in the SFPA. Nominated for the Best of the Net, Rhysling, and Dwarf Stars Awards, her poetry has appeared in dozens of publications including Asimov's, Fantasy & Science Fiction, and Dreams & Nightmares. She enjoys swimming, gardening, baking, reading, writing, and knitting scarves for our troops.
 

I might not know why, but I’ve got a pretty good idea why; here’s why; wrong’s the number one great-big-sign-on-the-highway polesitter and <whew> now there were five there to fight over who’s to * serenade and flowers * do it okay knock it * serenade and flowers * off damn you * serenade and flowers * damn you and damn you and * serenade anPERIOD by that now long-gone great big wallpaper superstore past which we normally would enter the northbound lanes of the interstate numbered all 287 {ghost}

Whoop!

Rich!

Seemsytha’s wapped up ‘rre back-alleys!

So there take that and take this kind fellows!

Take that and take this if you’re men!

Yes big fat strong hollow men!

Party!

WHOOP! no non no – p-p-p-p-p-push head out ‘nn’d s-s-smoke clearing—body; quick, follow!

Whoo.

Empty silent solid steel room.

But—“who”—“who”—catch breath.

Yes catch breath.

Okay. |late breaking late breaking|

<null>

<null>

Ack. So.

So where the hell were we?

S-scat backenda pup-tent, c’estergee-e Top-mayor and their McFreeze-dMcHenchamanette deeply willowed :yas thatz wright! Party! Quite deeply willowed!: hung ten off their boards until once more fully sensible. Like—like “Crafty Nation Cereal—Good for yer Mean-Streak”—t’ b’ kneaded by all n-n-ninnimalle trainers up this earthbounded strip-mall. God! Must you need to be told ever [‘illina ‘illina stil’ down t’ road hipsla-tango!] .ything? Must you be—told? Everything? Really everything? No imagination, really? No God-damned imagination at all? Wow. Wow. Then—PUT DOWN THIS BOOK!

NOW!

RIGHT NOW!

Party!

[ ¡Fiesta! ]

Wonderful!

So they restarted the plant = quelled the town’s fear of fire = {ghost} = and Bergeron’s Bulkermen [La Stahl all La Stahl] triggered the beaching for scrapping lllllllllllang! o’ what remained (if any) of Tapper “BB” Rose : hafter hash-recting h’ plaque in har’s honour JEEZ! : down the waterfront (off the long lashing training ground if you’re familiar) but—Hey, Pop Cuba! Where the hell you been, old man? It’s not been the same! / the horror / wow / hey dig them “Pink Christians” / opium-dream off mah side! / please cleanse men crank, Carmen Basilio it is time to get back to work volver al trabajo takaisin töihin reen al laboro it is back to work [volver] is time to get “al trabajo” takaisin time to get ’töihin reen’ al laboro back to back to work it volveri is al time trabajo to get {TAKAISIN} that universal töihin indoor “court game” reen court game al laboro “it is time to get that universal coin-operated indoor court game supercenter Carmen Basilio built here Mister GENERAL-MANAGER what is the what is what is the status is the status of getting that universal coin-operated indoor court game supercenter Carmen Basilio Carmen Basilio Carmen Basilio built?”

Mister GENERAL-MANAGER huh?

ĉu?

а?

‘diarisus U.?

‘toch?

Yep!

Yup. “casaluna! casaluna!” N’ so, c’est just like ringmasters fatly howling “all’unisono” in bitter tones crank, ‘La-Lune!’ they repaired out down ‘n away to obtain by way of stray cat support-staff a picture of who’s ‘heeze ‘gwonda-tined down the incompletely built gigantical Jai alai center (which even though its now termed “universal coin-operated indoor court game supercenter Carmen Basilio” they’ve found that at least in the interim “Jai alai center” is much ‘heezier to reversely-sween-swallow (out its other much more intelligible way) why don’t ya?) there were those same young men-tinios playing the Jai alai game { but being beginners doing so in a very rudimentary manner HiccuP }, c’est oo’ oof the cestas slashing the rubsoles squealing the time flow l-l-ling’d the bad passing the goods crank, the granite slab up (t’ top out their (heh heh heh)) back : wrench! :, c’est big flow and big after; and the return; fling! Fly! Pop! so Back! no they Catch! play are wrong very wrong get Fling! down and Fly! stop them Pop! stop them!

Get down and stop them!

Carmen Basilio?

Carmen Basilio.

“Isn’t this game great, great fun?”

“Yes it’s fun!”—UP no b-but now the Toply-mayoral blessed young Henchmanette took charge crank,  and rendered them down * without using their stunplug * back way-way-way phum, c’est Isn’t this game great, great No no stop fun? Yes it ‘n lop-it yo it’s fun! Get off you polesitter great-big-sign-on-the-highway one number the wrong’s; why here’s; idea good pretty, a got I’ve but why, know not might I. {ghost}

Jim Meirose's short fiction has appeared in leading journals. His novels include "Sunday Dinner with Father Dwyer"(Optional Books), "Understanding Franklin Thompson"(JEF), "Le Overgivers au Club de la Résurrection"(Mannequin Haus), "No and Maybe - Maybe and No"(Pski's Porch), and "Audio Bookies" (LJMcD Communications) coming in 2024. Gen'l info: www.jimmeirose.com @jwmeirose