A peaceful river
Through the chaos of my mind
Calms mind and body.
Shirley Smothers is an amateur poet, writer, and artist.
She mostly writes short stories. Some of her short stories can be viewed at storystar.com and she can be reached at boopr6@hotmail.com.
A Nation With Crippling Economy
How can it grow?
A nation where truth suffers
Social justice buried
Injustice prevails
Fragrance of truth, very difficult to smell
Concoction of corruption, cooked and shared, to kill proper conduct
Many among the led cheat
In their spheres of influence
But always blame their leaders, for their woes
Really, vast majority contribute
To the economic mess
Including a worker, who pilfers at their workplace
Tell a nation with crippling economy
To revamp its value system
Winds of change blow
Only through the positive moves of upright citizens
Walking out into a late Spring Day
SO = Jan was lucky to have walked out into a late spring day. They had been pushing and pushing and + but + no, no. The steps had been taken, and. That was all over. There came time for lines in the sand et centratoonlia, but, the important things were there to be taken. The yard. The grass of the yard’s so green. And, the day. Dew glistened across right left up and over and. S telephone pole stretched there pointing from between the square yards pres’t the houses uck’dde neighboring, and/und, a line could be drawn down the pole cross the grass to the sidewalk clear out to the street, if one were so inclined to desire. “Can’t Stand This [gorilla]” and.
And.
And.
One step out. Grass. Look ‘round. Look over. Step {turn} grass. Neato-rupt’ out to the pole. Lean. Down. Lean. Down. Yes; there’s something about it, yes. It does smell. :what do we smell, snark: smells like just one’s another type II weedy-rotting log but upon second glance smells much more likewhich a utility Experimental Heemio pole-trilliac pole, in some circles which may or may not exist in past or future days (does it make a sound?) all’s which-so mee’ b’ known as a rott’d heeliog of’f a trilliac’d down Experimental, Mat’ema’tic’alle, ‘sso Wagner’s gas station of great big nose acne’d, raise the lift so we can see the bottom of this Ford, quite long t’phone pole—and stepping back-Jan. While was stepping/step’t back Jan. One instant of loneliness. Struck from un’ ‘nder someplace in the press to the grass o’er bottomsides that pole, Hishteennea, think ‘m ‘h ‘e ‘ressed it’ll :get: when those three are on it down the road but no no no do not want to be lonely ‘til the three will step up off and over to get the slope down ‘cross the fat Main street : of which Jan’ll no ono never’ll be positioned to merely know of it let alone to experience it, SO, turn to the left onto the grasse long armflick’d lift od a walk’d dog who not yet existed/exists yet, moreover, thwack-stain, thwack–stain, thwack-stain, thwack-stain, thwack-lillian’s astckly great bit dead “stain”, which rub can not get, nor Sunday to Saturday, oh so many times, as—Jan musedly walked toward a suddenly handy next thing to see, t’ ‘e <> lump in the lawn, but wide like a pile, some dirt’d been dump’d here, for some purpose or other, known only to one single person most likely, and Jan, you ought to have seen it; this mound-hill grassed-over nine-ten o’ yards ‘umferenenced roundy ‘bout why, oh why, oh, why have I never once wondered why this is here, yes why like the pole there whose being I’ve never questioned, why we’d never off’d Lucifer to know the damn thing, eh why is that there eh why do you need to know that Gimi, why d’ down’d dirt d’ya need to know that now, after all it’d been there all your limited allotted days Gimi, and it was never important to you ‘til now, when you are lonely and need somebody Gimi, why is is only when you’re lonely or need something all of a sudden what’s under this here moun’’s so equally important Gimi oh why o why Gimi, oh Gimi, why oh why, Gimi oh why and oh why and oh why Gimi Gimi stuck down on it’s platter it did become tiresome, where’s the switch there’s the switch they made it big and red to be easy to hit in the inevitable emergency life and/or limbed seven-legged emergency, which when pushed shines strong light in the room where the creature’s come [ so hot to the touch and to the touch only ] threatening, which said light make a dash n’ scurry ‘way gone of at least this problem but remember there will always be more many more yes lots more Gimi Gimi see here ha Gimi, there’s always been and always will be plenty more of me slithering in Gimi, so aw dump the scamper don’t pull that trick this time, we know you so well and sir turn-kneenevtable gas, frustration frustrationfrustrationfrustrationfrustrationfrustrationfrustration but {[ why on earth when they saw the need for an emergency stop button did they not simultaneously see that meant they felt the effort to perfect the machine was incomplete? Like, y’know, we fear it may be deadly we fear we fear we fear et-schrectoolia,? Why’d ‘ot go ditch the red button go just design better and harder out to perfection which is actually attainable but for their inherent [don’t go there can’t go there said not to and never because you just might find HORN HORN that phrase intentionally blanked down to nonexistence]]} ten hots for ten Hoovers lack of the simple everyday ability to see past the God-damned you-know-whats’ tip? Bland lo Schledney c r a n k we get frustrated we get frustrated we get lots and lots of frustrated oh hell of course its fine you can’t yet see. We are after all only 839 and a half pages in, and counting drag block tackle drag block and tackle drag block and tackle God damn let us in as you rig up your damned block and tackle need power to LIFT this why the hell’d they construct this so ASS to require block-tackle and more liniment o’er the burning part to bring this big question mark of a simple gragoon-simple instance of a COMMON race RAZOR to HEEL! ‘kay why’se guy why dontcha? Gimme gimme here gimmi gimmi gimmi-hech’ BUT Jan stepped toes-up to the mystery mound in the grass-lawn {back the usually most shady spot most of every hot summer} and toed a light kick into its base. Hard, they though. Now we ought-could have dug into this. To find out what’s inside, you know? But it was not important at the time. Like always these are; when the tools commonalities and the actual object of interest (ya ya what’s its history what’s it’s [we get lots and lots of letters] history) no more Art Linkletter ever again Gimi please promise me that Gimi please promise me o-o—o-o please promise me no more Art Linkletter ever again, Gimi are available, the interest in knowing what’s inside is not, “whereas”, when when the tools commonalities and the actual object of interest (yrotsih ]srettel fo stol dna stol teg ew[ s’ti s’tahw yrotsih sti s’tahw ay ay ya ya) jamais d’Art Linkletter Gimi, s’il te plaît, promets-moi que Gimi, s’il te plaît, promets-moi o-o—o-o s’il te plaît, promets-moi de ne plus jamais avoir d’Art Linkletter, Gimi are no longer available, the interest in knowing what’s inside is not, and ye yat brains as Jan stood there musing all this out, wow wow WOW a voice bark, said the startled dog
Hey. I’ve got this game here. Want to play it?
: turns :
What?
I said hey. I’ve got this game here. Want to play it?
Hook = Playing it alone vs. playing it with people colorforms piano for people unlike other people
Am tired of playing it alone. You know?
Am tired of playing this game alone.
EVENING’S TIDE The broad beach has disappeared beneath the rising tide Faint rose tints the scattering clouds of this sunset & as blackness settles with the song of some night bird, frogs & a gecko the fiercer waves climb the steps of the long-gone promenade leaping, splashing against that rubble white rip currents pulling into the high ocean & the lights of distant villages speckle the far horizon LEAVING BEHIND I leave behind mothers bathing their naked daughters in a growing tidal pool & follow a narrowing path through mangrove brambles escaping far from people I sit on this deserted beach the porpoise-colored sea rolling its rising tide against the black rock … shaking off troubling thoughts to be captured by this surf, washed far, far away & my Spirit takes wing like that piquero soaring over the waters swooping & diving … to be like that sea lion pup, playfully plunging beneath, bobbing with each roll of this sea TOWARDS THE RIVER PLATE (Montevideo) Paper & leaves scuttle down cavernous Saturday streets, few souls out in these depths. A woman holds the reins of a horse-drawn cart, her children staring into the closing morn. Limp bags of cardboard & bottles hang off the sides. Along Sarandi Street, artisan stalls of puppets, stones & carved gourds, honey & fruit preserves in the cool shade of worn buildings. A silver-haired man plays violin, his sightless eyes closed. Case open at his feet, scattered with coins. Suddenly the rhythm of drums echoes up this way from the Plaza Constitución. Three boys with blue & yellow tambores, a friend with hat in hand, followed by a policeman herding them away from the antique sellers beneath trees, away from the couples dancing folklore, gaucho & tango in front of the cabildo, away from the diners in sidewalk cafés. Up the calle along the Central Market & Mundo Afro, beats of a comparsa resonate resonate. Dark hands caress the skins while the other grips a stick rapping rapping, painted stars bobbing on the red & black drums. Beyond, the River Plate flows, bands of muddy brown, dull green, tarnished blue in the past-noon sun. Down along the Rambla, men sit sipping mate, thermos tucked under arm. Families swim along the sparse-sand beach, bask upon wave-smooth rocks. Up on the Cubo del Sur, children pose upon a rusted cannon for papá's photo. A man slits the silvered belly of a fish. Long black rod in hand, white cap shading his eyes & balding head, he baits his line. & far on the horizon, in the haze of sun & sea, slow ships steam to other ports.
Lorraine Caputo is a wandering troubadour whose writings appear in over 400 journals on six continents, and 23 collections – including In the Jaguar Valley (dancing girl press, 2023) and Caribbean Interludes (Origami Poems Project, 2022). She also authors travel narratives, articles and guidebooks. Her writing has been honored by the Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada (2011) and thrice nominated for the Best of the Net. Caputo has done literary readings from Alaska to the Patagonia. She journeys through Latin America with her faithful knapsack Rocinante, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth. Follow her adventures at www.facebook.com/lorrainecaputo.wanderer or http://latinamericawanderer.wordpress.com.
given the family history i always get an eerie feeling when a family member dies especially out of the blue or way too young given the family history i have started counting sunsets smelling the flowers embracing kindness instead of despair the end is coming up over the horizon borrowed time is about ready to pay the bill last call boys make it memorable ---------------------------------------------------------- high school glory only goes so far making art out of an awkward moment laughing in the rain because they have laws against killing the innocent remembering when you were the toast of the town but high school glory only goes so far comforting the dead knowing damn well you'll be joining that club before too long -------------------------------------------------------------------- release the evil the blood always starts as a trickle let it bleed let it flow release the evil turn on some music and make it a ceremony a sacrifice although, that is all life seems to be anymore revolutions come and go like a thief in the night hope is a lost cause happiness comes with a price love is something someone invented for greeting cards ---------------------------------------------------------------------- all the way out here a deafening silence all the happy trees have been cut down that little bob ross cabin in the woods would be where he would take his victims they can't hear the screams all the way out here he leaves them all in the basement a poorly dug hole just enough light to see the horrors the bones a bucket to shit in all the lost souls of women they stopped looking for ---------------------------------------------------------------- a winter coat halloween tonight chance of snow i still haven't seen a superhero ever wear a winter coat we stopped giving out candy years ago i wanted to pass out little bottles of jack daniels but that is frowned upon by the authorities here they apparently are unaware of all the dysfunctional families that exist
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Disturb the Universe Magazine, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Rye Whiskey Review, Carcinogenic Poetry and Lothlorien Poetry Journal. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
Hired Ghost Cigarette Plague
gentle kick
ing cycle
holi
day screech
beach wing’d
net
horrific rally
swe
pt pet
scheme
ream
beam
picnic rest
less
pond
prevent
ed
explosive
bone
bike
sight
Interested Curb Hill
ire
ire
g o i n g
virtual primary
under
statement
Revolt
ballot pressed sheets
wheat thin king dome
reversal Nut crack
crackling sung hanging
m a g a z i n e
lubrication
bAsIc clean wrench
contrasted
oblivious
Neighborhood OP-ED
k e e p urgent
gle e
glue gloomed
hurricane
Mutual
rust
Slow zone phone stone
overturned limbo LED
rEEf wandered conversion
Diss Miss Hiss Swish
listen Free ur than a feeler
fumigation National psychosis runner
an Errand Err or stymied swamp
fist cuff muffler storybook ledger
page wedger fluffy mist
coast armful of puzzle zipper
weeping seeping entrail poppy
seeded search party bestseller
confirmation basis bias dais
tiered welt felt sweltered chin
heaving Having five cents Water
bottle Sensory overlord Sword
Had swallowed Demonic log
In fanciful aside Residing
cabin Wood Should Could under
where stand flying trapezoid knives
gRoSsLy GREASY palm StAiRs
….. reveal a firecracker recommendation
slobbered consumerism exile thrust rust
eat end amend ID inheritance Screwed
suicidal FanNy PaCk rAcK rIb nip bib
earth to earth to thirst to worst clenched
spinal rectal recital ant sunflower ram
Cumbersome smack dab launcher raunchy
ranch pyramid headache tank rank pan
cake corpse sniffing fog soggy zero times
denominator bewildered tombstone deck
satellites sickened Standing stubborn sky
….. whereas popsicle pitch indulge
rotten whim sickle manhole Latin beat
neat brownstones eyed paradoxes…..
Mutual Happens Giraffe
strutting stunned hinge
skin trap tarp warp burp
same argumentative ooze
supplemental façade self-buttoned
bottom inane entity barrage onion
certain stupid super salutary figs
supple dimpled conceptional morons
FaiLinG Obtuse spruce
UpUpUpUpUpUpUpUp
grunt manage foreign shelter
Shrimp Shampoo Radiation
messiah differs facing squadron
, of somehow , hear , indicates
genial environmental ,
crusted released
Tank took Tone
,
nice Ram ,, nice vice Ram
& Toon a page to
drown oppressive swaggering
, egg
Joshua Martin is a Philadelphia based writer and filmmaker, who currently works in a library. He is member of C22, an experimental writing collective. He is the author most recently of the books peeping sardine fumes (RANGER Press), [Ruptured] >> Schematic << MAZES (Sweat Drenched Press), destructive paradox slips on banana peel (Cajun Mutt Press), and Dance of Resistance Brainwaves (C22 Press). He has had numerous pieces published in various journals including Otoliths, Synapse, Version (9), Don’t Submit!, BlazeVOX, BRUISER, and Unlikely Stories Mark V. You can find links to his published work at joshuamartinwriting.blogspot.com
I grew up in an age & a country where banning books was commonplace. Authors – Henry Miller & William S. Burroughs. Titles – Lolita & Lady Chatterley’s Lover. I seem to remember that Ulysses was not long off the list; & there is a marvellous story, which I’ve never checked in to preferring to keep the memory intact, that Barchester Towers & Doctor Thorne were banned for almost a century because they appeared under the author’s name of A. Trollope.
Not that I’m against banning things. I marched calling for an end to nuclear proliferation – ban the bomb. I marched in support of outlawing racial discrimination. I believe commercial whaling is wrong, that industry should have an incredibly strict set of environmental guidelines. I believe capital punishment is totally wrong, & have written earlier of how its legality in New Zealand depended on which political party was in power until a conservative Attorney General broke with his party & said it should be outlawed forever if it could be (re)introduced on a political whim. (& a little later, I remember reading an essay by Camus – Reflections on the Guillotine? – where Camus describes his father, who was a strong advocate of the death penalty, attending a public execution & coming home totally opposed to the State taking lives.)
But never books, or movies or records, no matter how distasteful & offensive they might be.
I have seen nationalists like Ho Chi Minh & Fidel Castro basically forced into the Communist Bloc because their leftwing views were unpalatable during the Cold War. I have seen the Russians crush a revolution in Hungary, & felt it quite strongly because of the protests outside the Russian Embassy which was directly across the street from where we lived. I thought JFK was the hope of the world & mourned his death. I was shattered when later Martin Luther King & RFK were also assassinated. Mandela – happy birthday, Nelson – was a figurehead in prison for most of my life & I remember weeping with joy the day he was released.
I am ambivalent about nuclear power.
The coming of Nixon fucked the world. L. blames most of the current troubles on “my generation” – the beats, the hippies, free love, lotsa drugs, lack of censorship. There’s some truth in it, but for a different reason. I do not believe we went far enough! Not quite sure what I mean by that; but I feel that at some point we decided we’d done enough, got sidetracked or comfortable or aged, & stopped pushing. Stepped back to revel in our small achievements. Got steamrolled.
I am anti-terrorism where the innocent are killed or maimed yet I am pro-Palestine, feeling their cause is just & they’ve always had a rotten deal. Where do you draw the line? I think the U.S. & its allies are reaping what they sowed – the seeds of Bush’s arrogance; Le monde, c’est moi – in Iraq & Afghanistan though again it is the innocent who suffer. At least in the Cold War there were sides. Now, with just one megapower, there is no-one else to turn to, no-one to stand up & get in the way.
I have seen in an earlier time in N.Z. laws enacted which gave the police the power to raid houses if “they suspected drugs were there”. Up until the time someone blew the whistle, this power was used probably 50 times & only once for drugs. I watch the new anti-terrorism laws in many countries with horror. The presumption of guilt instead of innocence, & such gobbledygook! We can’t tell you what you’ve been detained about, & because of this you can’t tell us what we want to know because we don’t know what we want to know & you don’t know what we want to know & don’t know what you know or don’t know. & & &…..
I see that the trial against the last Australian in Camp Delta at Guantanamo is to go ahead, even though it has been proved there is no chance of a fair trial.
& why this rant, this scattershot diatribe? Because on the news today the Australian Government is talking about banning, outlawing, charging Islamic bookshops because they might be stocking ‘dangerous books.’
The thought police are breaking open my head.
2005