Archie Bunker opines about Pellegrino Water **Archie Bunker was a character in the 1970s TV show, "All in the Family." It was a satire about a white working-class man-who was an unapologetic racist This ain't your Polish meathead Poland Springs this is what comes from what you call Virgin Springs.-- hey—nobody gets laid there they are happy just drinking water may Jesus strike me dead! It's like seltzer but it is not made by the hebes -- them people make it like a sucker punch christians make sure there is no bitch slap of dem bubbles here-- there are no troubles... She is long, lean and green a tall glass of water a regular queen hey! you know what I mean? Co-President of the New England Poetry Club Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene http://dougholder.blogspot.com Ibbetson Street Press http://www.ibbetsonpress.com Poet to Poet/Writer to Writer http://www.poettopoetwritertowriter.blogspot.com Doug Holder CV http://www.dougholderresume.blogspot.com Doug Holder's Columns in The Somerville Times https://www.thesomervilletimes.com/?s=%22Doug+Holder%22&x=0&y=0 Doug Holder's collection at the Internet Archive https://archive.org/details/@dougholder
Category Archives: CHAOS
Poetry from J.J. Campbell
the desire to even play the game i'm failing at modern life each day i step outside of the house the clothes, the language, the gadgets, the desire to even play the game at all it's all fucking foreign to me it's not even being a stranger in a strange land it's like my body got stuck on a planet without my permission and it's way too late to do anything about it ------------------------------------------------------------------ hands on his hips watching this old guy struggle on purpose so the young, beautiful physical therapist has to help him she has her hands on his hips and you can probably imagine the smile on the old man's face -------------------------------------------------------------- standing out in the rain wet feet standing out in the rain apparently, these waterproof shoes are just name only much like most humans they come up a little short when you need them the most -------------------------------------------------------------- enough is enough the temptation of oncoming traffic had a buddy decide this was the best way to go, especially after his wife of over twenty years said enough was enough i'm not stuck in one of those situations, yet there have been plenty of times i felt like i was being strangled by reality sometimes you have to get high enough to create your own fucking reality now, when that one fucking sucks your options are pretty clear for you prolong or escape... ----------------------------------------------------------- that inevitable never fucking ending hill wisdom isn't a given it has to be earned tell that to these spoon-fed fuckers that want to run the world it is an endless parade of clowns that only want what is best for the given few the masses are just supposed to die while climbing that inevitable never fucking ending hill imagine true equality the land of the free and all that other pie in the sky bullshit that the supreme court will eventually strike down as it doesn't do enough for the only people they want to serve rich white people
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is stuck in suburbia, plotting his escape. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at The Rye Whiskey Review, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Beatnik Cowboy, Disturb the Universe Magazine and Lothlorien Poetry Journal. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
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Poetry from Ian Copestick
A Promise Earlier today I was taking my dog out for her walk Just across the street from me was two old men. I'm fifty years old. So believe me. If I say that they were old they were old. They were OLD, but they were standing next to a Bentley. Two guys who must have been at least mid- 60's. Wearing shorts, and summer shirts, with at least three buttons undone. It made me feel sick. It made me make a promise to myself.
Poetry from Anna Ferriero
SE FOSSI POESIA Ti farei libera volare e senza più barriere la tua silenziosa melodia ti farei raccontare. Sul bocciolo più bello un raggio di sole ti farei lì posare e come un treno in stazione farei tutti salire per scoprire ed osservare quell’attesa meraviglia. Se fossi una poesia la più bella sceglierei e la rosa d’Inghilterra farei nascere d’inverno. In un libro di paesaggi scattati ad occhi chiusi la tua anima vagante si schiude in libertà IF I WERE POETRY I would set you free to fly and without barriers your silent melody I would let you tell. On the most beautiful bud a ray of sunshine I would make you sit there And like a train in the station I'd get everyone up to discover and observe that expected wonder. If I were a poem I would choose the most beautiful and the rose of England I would give birth in winter. In a book of landscapes taken with eyes closed your wandering soul unfolds in freedom APELIOTE Ti inciderò in eterno nello sguardo del mio verso corteggiandoti in silenzio senza un dopo come petalo irlandese. Ti inciderò in eterno nel fatato firmamento spezzando la tua rosa che Belle richiese in dono. Da Amore generato con Psiche decantato si generò passione che nel cuore dell’inverno, quando il gelo fa il suo ingresso dal colore di cannella, all’orizzonte c’è Urania che rinasce per schiudersi Apeliote dando vita al suo Ponente APELIOTES I will engrave you forever in the look of my verse courting you in silence without an after like irish petal. I will engrave you forever in the fairy firmament breaking your rose which Belle requested as a gift. From Love generated with Psyche decanted passion was born that in the heart of winter, when the frost sets in cinnamon-colored, on the horizon there is Urania who is reborn to hatch Apeliote giving life to its Ponente
Poetry from Mykyta Ryzhykh
*** Under the heels of silence lie the silhouettes of people-leaves. Where do we go grinding buried bones with our huge feet? Air dancing snowflakes. The stone is snow. The stone is water. We are all dancers. Fire in the eyes of a butterfly. A bonfire on which prospects burn. The fire on which dinner is cooked. One day a man left his house for a shop and never came back. *** Nobody was born killed. Only the birds grimaced like tangerine skins. Nobody was born. New Year's magic frozen in the snows of time. *** Five birds sit on a branch of one tree One tree holds five birds How many trees can the earth support? How much paper is burned daily? How many people got burned today? God's assistant pressed the wrong button again *** The flying bird is extinguished The moon is fading in the sky The candle in my heart melted completely Morning begins *** Fear of grass on cold lips Spring sweetness of first kisses *** feast for mother memorial for mom funeral for mom who are we burying? where do we bury? we bury our childhood under a bush at the request of the mother dead mother in the cloud – smiling *** the rebellious spirit in my stomach gurgles and begs for alcohol dog catching snowflakes with tongue christmas all year round easter around the clock *** we exchange skulls with each other like silence our hands itch as if after the crucifixion our genitals itch like a virgin virgin birds above their heads turn into ticks on paper the world is squeezing deeper and deeper into a gas mask *** iron mosquitoes exhaust the body wooden organs rot brain cloud exfoliate a church candle in the chest vomits the fire from which the future will be born *** butterflies in the stomach die silently looking at the fire *** i want the bird to die then the military pilot will not go astray then the nuclear warhead will fly where it needs to shit *** sky composed in advance gnaws earlobes Icarus freaks out like an impotent before sex kisses of air in the weather forecast are not foreseen and the earth from below is hard as if it is not round at all
Poetry from Mesfakus Salahin
Modest Proposals Open your heart and embrace reality Break your cocoon and hold the baked sun Don't suck the last point of dream Don't attack your fate as a doll in a lap Read and read the philosophy of love Make a history of your own. Open your eyes and invent possibility Break the icy land and touch existence Don't forget that life is a question Don't spend moment in vain Enjoy the beauty of struggle Pick up happiness in simplicity. Open your earth with love and hospitality Build your heart with humanity Open your mind with a mirror of satisfaction See the reflection of love and love kiss the crown of happiness in everywhere Paint whatever you like with the colour of life.
Poetry from Mark Young
In Memory of my Brolgas Instead of thinking about poetry today I am indulging my- self with a slomo re- play of the brolgas dancing around a farm dam five kilo- meters north-east of Ridglands. There is a quietness in it. A cold steer Next time you watch a truck- load of cattle being trans- ported to the meatworks, don't think of them as living creatures about to be put to death but observe them im- partially as part of the food web. It is so much more melodic. Déshabillé Because of its cognitive style & incandescent light every tonne of scrap metal you clean up from a public place can work as a wardrobe staple in the same way that a built-in lum- bar support will retool your internal guidance system. conjunction In the slice of sky more or less directly above me is an invisible passenger jet; yet its engines heard so clearly that the sound seems rather to accompany the si- lent hawk coasting on the thermals much lower down.