the higher-order thinking behind her smile




they agree to fast forward through the death scene




the salty air surrounds the living saint




the surface tension of the tear on old Joe's cheek




the sacramental washing of her breakfast bowl




abject individualism killed the sunflower




She said She was the cat's mother!




you changed a poem I never wrote




texting in a room filled with people who are not there




I was the F student who stayed up all night with the stars




she wants to know why I won't follow the directions on the box




his every word a choking hazard




only if the dolphins knew how good they looked on television




learning he was a bedwetting pyromaniac changed nothing




she got no argument when she said: This is purgatory!

In My Dreams

In my dreams I welcome you, but sunrise breaks the spell. 
The reality of life is too much for my mind to endure.  
Only in sleep, when my soul is quiet, can you move freely inside of me without waking the demons... 
We can laugh, birds can sing, and flowers can bloom as you cool my soul. 
For when you walk softly in my dreams, you bring peace to my inner being as you tame the beast that lurks within my depths...  Relieve me of its merciless screams in my chest... 
Just make sure you close the door to my heart when you leave before dawn. 
My eyes are not yet used to the beauty of your sun. 



UNCONDITIONAL ARMS OF  LOVE
               (A Love Letter)

My Dearest One,

If there was ever a time that I broke your heart
or made you suffer, Please forgive me.
Because you always showed me  unconditional love.
There have been many who have pledged their love for me,
but never the way you have.
Even if the beautiful Lotus bloomed for me or mirrors
were intimidated by me, there are conditions with those types of love.
They fade and shatter in comparison by
the way you look at me and love me.
When the world starts to leave me, I have no doubt that you will be right there with open arms
that will always accept me, comfort me, and hold me tightly.
Yes, there are no if, and, or buts when it comes to your love.
Your love has always been unconditional when it comes to me.
And I thank God above that He gave me your unconditional arms of love to hold me... always.  

Love Always, 
Kristy...



THE HEART NEEDS NO PEN AND PAPER

You are there and I am here
We write to each other everyday
It's second nature now to pick up my pen
but today no new words come to me
I know my heartbeat leads to you 
And no doubt that yours beats for me too
Sometimes we need not even speak at all
For what is in the heart needs no lines 
It beats without effort as does our love
But you're still in my every thought
And when I wake, I know you are still mine
If I get no letter from you today, I do not fret
For a letter can't take the place of what is in your heart
And what is in your heart needs no pen or paper
I can always feel your love, regardless... And I smile.  
 

Bio from Kristy Raines:

A Poet, Writer, and Author, born in Oakland California, in The United States of America. 

Kristy has six books getting ready to publish. One anthology with a prominent Poet from India,  which will launch in December 2023 called, "I Cross my Heart from East to West", two fantasy books of her own called, "Rings, Things and Butterfly Wings" and "Princess and The Lion", an anthology of poems in English," Walking Without You”, one in French, "Little Rose Poetry", and one in Arabic called," Jasmine and Roses".   She is taking a course in Arabic to write this book.  And one surprise coming very soon with a prominent poet from Saudi Arabia, to be announced.  Kristy  has received many literary awards for her unique style of writing.

young lost men
 

demons

 

lost angels left

to dangle in the

wind

 

they find homes

in the brains of

young lost men

 

a simple host that

provides everything

a demon needs

 

until a woman

comes along

 

some maturing

happens

 

and then all hell

breaks loose

 

the rebellion resembles

a prison riot of sorts

 

and from experience

 

soften and give in
-----------------------------------------------------------------
be one with your desire
 

a passing rain

shower

 

your beauty as

easy as the pain

 

dance naked in

the shadows

 

regret, the last

thought that enters

the brain

 

don't try

 

just live

 

be one with

your desire

 

close your eyes

and let forever

grasp your will

to live

 

no one knows

the future

 

even the gods

you talk to every

night before bed

 

just don't pick

the shortest straw
-----------------------------------------------------------
tennis
 

do any of your dreams come true

 

does that beautiful woman ever say hello

 

do those legs go on for miles and miles

 

does the moon howl at anything

 

do the flowers still grow this late in the year

 

does she ever kiss you goodnight

 

do the ghosts visit you as well

 

does this music mean i'm going to hell

 

do you understand what pain really is

 

does the drugs even touch your soul

 

do you know when the game is tonight

 

does your favorite team ever win

 

do you ever gamble on cricket

 

does this poem make any fucking sense

 

do you even care

 

does it matter

 

do you know the answer

 

does anyone
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
still feels like fucking summer
 

here come the ghosts, slutty

nurses, witches, ghouls, goblins,

awkward superheroes and red

wagons full of candy

 

when i was a kid, it was always

cold on halloween

 

now, it still feels like fucking

summer

 

just my luck

 

i'm old, diabetic, and none of

those "cool" costumes will fit

 

all that candy would probably

kill me anyway

 

there are certainly days

where i'm willing to take

the chance
------------------------------------------------------------------------
a lost soul that looks like
 

i see

a young

woman

in glasses

looking

over at

me

 

i've been

told that

my flirting

is going to

get me

arrested

one day

 

don't let

these intense,

murderous eyes

fool you

 

i'm just a lost

soul that looks

like a creep

 

a child that

was never

loved enough

 

a poet, a hopeless

romantic that wants

to believe

 

in a world that

constantly says

no

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know where the bodies are buried. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at The Rye Whiskey Review, Disturb the Universe Magazine, Carcinogenic Poetry, Lothlorien Poetry Journal and Horror Sleaze Trash. You can find him on most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

now

i adjusted my attitude
in a quick thought this morning  
as i’m one for immediate changes
slowing down new directions
is a waste of time usually 
when enthusiasm is exploding in now     

i’ve been thinking lately
about how quickly time departs us
another year is now nearing its end
and with the speed that it’s travelling
paired with a major new issue 
my life could pass by fast as well

i sit outside under a kind sprawling tree
and chat with a magpie now my friend
we share our dreams with the sky
as the wind blows out tunes 
while a parrot watches closely 
with interest 
    
in a house nearby i hear people fighting
screaming loud is now not what i need
traffic speeds past me
hip hop music beats blast
a kid dances   
and people gather and clap  

a skinny guy at a café
who i’m getting to know  
says things aren’t too good for him now
i show concern for his angst
so he asks me to sit down
and shows me photos of his cheating lover

a musician and i chat outside of the cafe
and have coffees i buy now’s my shout
we laugh at stories we make up
share some secrets we’ve kept
the skinny guy joins our table 
and cries 
 

Stephen House has won many awards and nominations as a poet, playwright, and actor. He’s had 20 plays produced with many published by Australian Plays Transform. He’s received several international literature residencies from The Australia Council for the Arts, and an Asialink India literature residency. He’s had two chapbooks published by ICOE Press Australia: ‘real and unreal’ poetry and ‘The Ajoona Guest House’ monologue. His next book drops soon. He performs his acclaimed monologues widely. Stephen’s play, ‘Johnny Chico’ ran in Spain for 4 years. 

The Music Inside Is the Same

Paul* had signed up for piano lessons earlier in the year as a complete beginner, hoping for a creative outlet that might balance his academic work. He had progressed fairly quickly at first and showed quite a bit of potential but became increasingly distracted and had less and less time to practice. I had agreed reluctantly to be an itinerant teacher and come to his apartment, only because he pleaded that he couldn’t come to my studio for lessons and leave his two young children on their own. 

One week, he did not answer my knock at the door, so I headed back down the hallway to the stairs. Suddenly Paul burst through the stairwell door dressed in full, flamboyant drag, pulling off his wig as he approached. We both stopped and exclaimed, “Oh!” at the same time. I said, “I was just leaving. It looks like it’s not a good time for your lesson.” He was most apologetic about having forgotten and said he had just come from the big city three hours away, adding unnecessarily that he had a lot going on and would have to stop taking lessons. I knew he did indeed have a lot going on, between the children and his doctoral program to finish in the spring. Now, he said, he also was in transition to become “Paulina.” His ex-wife didn’t know yet. He hadn’t planned to tell me this soon.

I heard later that Paulina had graduated with a PhD and moved away. Wherever she ended up, I hoped the digital piano had come along too, and that circumstances worked out for piano lessons to be an option again. Whether Paul or Paulina, there is music inside, and it only needs a chance to come out.

*Name changed.


 
Willow in June, Millhaven Creek 

Smashed on the rocks near the old mill and basket factory lies a white ceramic plate with black script that would have spiraled to the center from the outer edge. It seems poetic somehow, the general sense of the words I see while walking past and trying to resist the urge to gather the fragments and make sense of them, as well as the fact of the plate having been thrown with force onto the ground. Someone’s dignity, stolen by anger or despair.

But my destination is the willow tree beside the creek with the wide cascade of rapids no more than half a meter high, so I keep walking. There seems always to be a willow near an old mill. The composer Rachmaninoff took care to plant willows at his secluded summer estate but only enjoyed them for seven years until 1917, when the place burned during the revolution and he fled by sleigh over the border into Finland. His dignity—and that of the willows—stolen by war.

Willows grow quickly, anywhere from two to ten feet a year. The trade-off is that they only live for 20 to 30 years, but one can propagate more trees by taking “switches” from an old tree in the spring, placing them in water, then planting the rooted cuttings in the fall. One of the blessings of willows is that other species of trees can sometimes emerge from a fallen willow. Thus the life cycle continues, as does the dignity of the gentle elder.

I thank to independence

There are no sadness in the heart, only happiness,
The spirit of people rose from joy.
Their sorrows turned into blessedness
I thank to independence!

Gardens thrive in various streets,
The mountains are amazed at the patience of my nation.
Even the spot of moon disappeared from the face
I thank to independence!

We gratitude our president,
Our heads always be safe.
We are united, come to our weddings
I thank to independence!

My words are endless to describe my country,
My eyes shine with happiness every day.
My friends, protect our motherland like heaven
I thank to independence!

My Uzbekistan, you are new, raise your prestige,
You are my golden cradle, my heaven.
You are dear to my heart, every moment in my soul
I thank to independence!

I Need A Lover


When you give me that Yes, 
I approve of your fragrance look,
that flash tilted stare you so carefully hid 
from others, you gave me the courage 
to send you a drink. I wasn't ready to give up  
and go home alone. 

For years you gifted me snippets 
of myself, happiness I will always remember. 
Even when I forget your last and first name
those pictures won't vanish. 

Driving you home on those treacherous
Puerto Rican mountains was like discovering
a stolen Van Gogh, a universe of revolutionary
starry nights and wild irises. A place
where nothing and no one could touch us. 

It had to end. I wasn't ready to settle, 
and you insisted on hiding
from macho eyes and their complaints. 

But what the hell, it wasn't all a waste. 
There was a lot of good sex and beer.


 

Photographs

I keep getting ass pics 
when what I want to see 
are you and me old together
like stale breadcrumbs

I gaze at the man 
I'm with, my summer 
climb, nothing to stop us 
from trailblazing joy

We listen to a song 
from Camila, 
caliente, caliente 
frío y caliente 
Hot, hot, cold & hot

The beach & the daiquiris 
are amazing


 


The Myth of a Piece of Paper 


I never married but yes, 
I'm divorced. Same-sex marriages 
were not allowed in my time. 
My Lord the Moon painted lust 
on my face three times. 

Mr. Moon knows 
I cannot manage tempests 
on my own. He sends 
them to Her Majesty the Sun 
who then lights up my thirst-filled 
lips with fire & water.  

In the garden of faith 
& trouble all of us tread 
uncertain of the hazards 
lust might avail.  No 
celebration, naive beliefs 
blown away. A mixture 
of dirt, wind, & rain.

moon's glint
the sun above 
my ghost

 
The Stillness of the Moment


It's time for lunar silent men 
to strike a pose. The ivy covering 
men's eyes must come off.
The hour of kisses covered 
with mud has ended. Dogs scurry,
hide in deep water. 

Sleepwalking cats made of glass 
perched on the tree 
of my remembrance shatter.  
Boys and girls without wings 
or halos vanish.

I sit on a high chair 
wearing crocheted roses like the ones
stretched out on the skin of my  drums.  

Your ghost, clothed in musical silence, 
watching. 

Your conscience, a sore 
that sways through Cocytus 
staring at my face.




Sergio A. Ortiz is a retired Educator, Bilingual-Gay PRican Poet, Human Rights Advocate. Pushcart nominee, Best of the Web, Best of the Net. He took 2nd place in the 2016 Ramón Ataz annual poetry competition, sponsored by Alaire Publishing House.