steel city flowers bloom in steel city where the allegheny and the monongahela rivers meet to form the ohio we walk through ghost neighborhoods turned into public parks where police watch my friends and i under the approaching noon sun no longer a smoking city, the mills are razed but the cancers still linger ukanhavyrfuckincitibak the flames from the cuyahoga still burn more than half a century later and the ghosts cleveland claimed are still dying after all these years— known names with snowy faces, their shadows grow fainter in the april sun 12 hours to lawrence, ks 4:11am and cold snow sprinkles on cleveland, we drive into the night where life sleeps and the highway is empty billboards preach religion and rest-stop lights scratch the skyline we wait for the sun to rise to see the future we survived i-70 846 miles from cleveland to lawrence to read at a dive bar that cancelled the show without telling anyone… met with empty eyes and confused stares that purchase everyone a round from the lone man sitting at the bar because he doesn’t wanna see any shit go down… thanks man, i guess.
Poetry from John Edward Culp
To lessen is
the lesson
feeling is enough
My preference is
Yours as I stand aside
and have an enjoyable
moment of my own
I have a feeling
As seeds of
Hope take Root
To find me
Ready to Appreciate
To lessen is
the lesson
Poetry from Gabriel T. Saah
The Tragedy Of Jessica Looking at the western region of the continent of Africa, The satellite of patriotism lands on Mother Jessica. A lady stained with the blood of Patriots, Wallowing in the pool of distress, Fighting to impress. A neglected mother by those she fed, Even Pastor Testimony and uncle Fred are her progeny, They claim to be the best in this mess, But forgetting the distress of a great Mother. They remember her only when their birthday party is around the corner, Common on, for God sake stop being a Demon, There are days other than elections, When you can help her out of her consternation. The time is nearing again when they shall come to cause her more pains, Like the aridness of the Sahara desert, Her distress is hot to burn even her own feet. Short Bio about the Author Gabriel T. Saah is the son of a Liberian farmer who hails from Kolahun, Lofa County. His mother is a kpelle woman from Bong county, a Liberian. He is a student at the University of Liberia reading Biomedical Science. His passion for writing is an inspiration to him. He is the founder of the Bong Writes Education Movement an organization that pursues to promote literacy in Liberia. He goes by the pen name, Marvelous Inker.
Poetry from Dana Kinsey
Instructions For Living Like Tofu be like whoever’s nearby softening in a saute pan coagulating soy milk dying to be buffaloed jerked spiced riced burrito bowled baked into chocolate cream pie ubiquitousness is nothing terrible since marinades drown your pores with tang plump you like tiny teriyaki pillows of misshapen mush cherished only by sleepers like you who surrender give up resisting the chef with his spinning knives reeling overhead whistling a Sinatra song as he carves you into uniform squares till “My Way’s” last big note Birthday Candle Remix ~for Jillian I carried you into the world my flame lily Bore your candle deep in my dim delivered you tender fire bouquet in bleak November dusk That gift was all I had You carried me into the world my flame lily Spiced my fading like a saffron suncatcher curled about my empty trellis climbing in bright November dusk That gift was all you had We carry us in this world my flame lily We carpet cold winds scarlet the gray velvet bloom as we must resplendent in bold November dusk Our nothings left light everything My Classroom Needs a Baggage Claim You scurry to check-in stack luggage between us tall leathery walls, cumbersome trunks, questions bulging out the sides. We strap down our pasts with bungees so nothing delicate unfolds. We hand over our devices, but what can airport x-rays see? Do you know me? Because I don’t know you yet. Give me your heaviest bag, the one that cost extra, wrenched your back as you bore it through dark tunnels to reach the gate. There’s just us now, dying to go faraway places together find space to rest our heads in flight. Portrait of My Son as Kanye’s Vision he lets Marvin, Ray, & Otis spin gold under his stylus alchemy’s his power & samples rise like prayers artist wearing canvas lyrics sing our scene so many lionize him mama’s still his queen
Poetry from John Tustin
BATTLE Life is only life If it is filled with wars And battles always within these wars. The battle to get your children to do what they’re told. The battle to overcome your lovesickness and your grief. The battle of the hungry bird and the wily worm. The battle of the space between the unnecessary noise and the uncomfortable quiet. Life is only life If every moment is a struggle inside your mind Between sanity and letting go. The battle to wake up every morning With the fist doubling in your stomach And the hammers pounding out S.O.S. on both temples – A battle daily fought and daily won until the morning you lose the war Like we all must, in some way, lose the war In the final place where the space narrows, The lights dim, the music fades to distant silence. FREEDOM OF SPEECH I have found my freedom of speech In slipping through the bars Of the constriction of my words To tell you plainly that I see God In a bubble that floats in a dish Full of rain that sits unnoticed On the backsteps of a house Where nobody any longer lives And at the same time tell you that I know for certain there is no God. HOLY TIME That time of night that’s also morning when the time moves so slowly and you ponder all of it. You feel all of the ground overturning. A religious time. Contemplative time. Holy time. She calls you and she’s just had surgery and she was afraid lying there waiting for the knife that she would never wake up, never see you again; never tell you that even when she hated you, she still loved you. She calls you in the depth of the night that is morning. Holy time. Halfway between the death and birth of the sun. The words come to you and they feel like they belong to someone else; that you are just a transcriber, a monk with his quill and parchment squinting in the candlelight but you are more than that. The words are yours but they’re also not and, years later you tell that story about the time she called you up right out of the blue and told you that she loved you even when she hated you and please could you tell her that you always loved her, too? And you did so you tell her. It’s only that time during the mass sleeping in your part of the world, the thickness of everything thinned, that you can bring yourself to tell such stories that you usually can’t even bring yourself to remember. The time when the sun is farthest from you and the moon feels her power to push and pull you just before her influence fades again. A religious time. Contemplative time. A holy time when something unquantifiable enters you and brings words that you didn’t know resided inside you right out into the world from your hands. The holy time when your wounds open and it helps you convalesce. HOW MANY MELANINS We were visiting my wife’s brother Saddiq in North Carolina: My wife, my three-year-old son Johnny, baby Sara and me. Her brother was divorced and remarried. His two daughters from his first wife were also staying with him that weekend. My wife and her brother were from Pakistan although their father was born in a part of India That is now Bangladesh. Saddiq’s ex-wife was a Sikh from India. I’m just a white American mutt. Saddiq had two daughters and no sons And it became obvious having a son was important to him Because he paid more attention to my son that weekend than to his own daughters. His older daughter was about twelve and right away she began to confide in me. I don’t know why. She told me about how she hated her “wicked stepmother” And that she considered herself to be ugly. I told her to look in the mirror and see how much she looked like her mother, Which was true. “Is your mother ugly, Jia? No, she’s beautiful. So are you.” I also told her that being a stepmother was not an easy thing And to be patient and understanding of that. Later on she declared, “I know why you like Sara more than you like Johnny.” She had made that assumption because, Seeing how much attention my son was getting from Saddiq, I was giving my daughter more attention than usual so she wouldn’t be upset. “Well, first of all, Jia, that’s not true But I would like to know why you think I like Sara more.” “It’s because Sara’s skin is lighter and Johnny’s is darker.” With that, my son walks up to us. He had heard what Jia said about skin color and merely responded, “I’m brown!” As a declarative statement of fact – without any emotion whatsoever. Then he went back to watching SpongeBob. “Jia, there is something in the skin called melanin And it helps to decide how dark your skin is. Johnny has more melanin in his skin than Sara. That’s all. How silly would it be to like one person more than another based on something like that? They have no say in how much or little melanin they have. They have no control over it. I’m too smart to like or dislike someone over something so trivial. I’m sure you are, too. I would never even think to like or judge someone over it.” “Well, how many more melanins does Johnny have?” she asked. “I don’t know, dear. I don’t know how much more melanin he has. It’s not really important. It’s who he is in his heart that’s important. That and how he treats himself and others.” She said she understood And I really think she did. I’m long since divorced and I haven’t seen Saddiq or his family in years. Such is life. Well, If you ever read this, Jia, I hope you’re doing well And you still understand what I told you Because too many people never will. IODINE We held onto one another Until the money ran out. I spent it on lottery tickets, You on wine. I spent it on lawyers and looseleaf, You on bandages And bottles of iodine. We may not have money, honey, But we got rain. The stars blind against the sun, Too far away to matter. Time as thin as a razor blade, As short as its handle. You spent your money on worrying. I spent my money on the horses. You spent it on transportation To always the same lifeless destination Where your sister and your mother led you As I pitched pennies in the alley, Trying to strike it rich with the other poets And losers. We may not have money, honey, But we got rain. We loved one another As long as the moon allowed us, Peeking in through the blinds To see our naked bodies So helplessly ensnared. To see our naked everything. The moon could not hide us well enough Or illuminate us beyond our own walls. The moon is gone now, along with the money. I made for you clothes to wear. You made the salve that calmed the scars That lay long and razed along my back. I see you in my clothes now As I run my fingers along My whiplash scars Just as you used to do. Now My crumpled words, Your secret photographs, All smoldering in an ashtray In a room we once occupied Together. A room now half-occupied. The smell is bitter Like burning leaves with kerosene. We may not have money, honey But we got rain. I close my eyes and listen to it Outside, just beyond my thoughts That concentrate on your heart That is stained red With iodine. There is nothing to do, the money is gone. You close your eyes in your Home for the Indigent And I sit in mine, Both huddled alone, Both waiting for the things That never arrive. Knowing they will never arrive But hoping. I close my eyes, You close yours, Listening to the same rain That falls as red And bright As iodine. We ain’t got money, honey…
John Tustin’s poetry has appeared in many disparate literary journals since 2009. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.
Poetry from Ridwanullah Solahudeen O.
MET IJEOMA This is Ije, She's the radiance in the solar, She came tonight And the stars came too, To envy the sky basking in her light She was the moon Do you know? The black domes in her eyes Told me I was due for a hajj Obiaruku, Abraka— Makkah, Madinah, to where, the call, I'll heed Days have a way of crawling into our nights Like a drunkard I got high on her excess Only to daydream of her Like spoken verses for Subh at Asr
Poetry from J.J. Campbell
a bottle or two my shadow has always wanted to kill me perhaps i never paid enough attention to it when i was little perhaps i never offered him the right drugs i know damn well we knocked back a bottle or two perhaps my shadow is a bigger asshole than i am ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- ever coming true wishing for death does me no good anymore countless years of no wishes ever coming true will break you eventually open mouth insert hose connected to the tail pipe i'm sure there are sexier ways to go another thing i was never blessed with at least by most eyes ----------------------------------------------------------------- no confidence in that belief i can laugh about it now but that is with plenty of years between it all i'm sure my life was supposed to be different than this although, i have no confidence in that belief i truly don't want to believe that this was supposed to be my destiny sadly, i'm not that cynical yet a few more years and the bitterness might be the only taste i have left --------------------------------------------------------------------- dark amazing eyes it's another set of dark amazing eyes hello from the sweet lips i like to imagine it's actually come fuck me but i try not to verbalize that dream at least not yet ------------------------------------------------------------------- even beauty can give you all the shouting shows are worries headed for oblivion your kiss tasted like a cold sunshine even beauty can give you a cancer that will kill you i don't envy the woman that wants to clean up this mess
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Terror House Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy, Horror Sleaze Trash, Misfit Magazine and Mad Swirl. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)