NOT MAJOR HOOPLES BOARDING HOUSE:

I just returned from a long mostly silent journey.
To discover I just inherited a twelve-room house.
It feels vaguely like the last house. 
But don’t ask me its location.
Exterior needs a little paint but don’t they all.
Remodeling seems to be a work in progress, just like so many of my paintings.
There are tenants occupying most of the rooms.
But even those that are currently empty one often hears the whispers of the past.
It’s rumored that Tiny Tim produced his best music in room number three.
The Venus room looks wonderful, but Saturn has done the decorating.
Surya shines bright and bold, but I find it too hot…Jim Morrison felt the same way.
A hell of a fight breaks out in room number six, Mars breaks a window or two.
The Moon is milky sweet but is afraid of Rahu’s shadow.
That snake scares me too.
Why oh why did they decide to be roommates!
Mercury is fast but sometimes outruns himself and forgets to lock the door.
Jupiter is gracious and our guiding light, watching over everyone like a sleepy owl.
In time they all will transit to other rooms.
Google maps says follow the neon sign shouting Color TV and Free Coffee!
Damage deposits and thirty days’ notice required.

SHADOWS:								

My dear departed wife collected dolls.

I am now collecting shadows.

Storage is not a problem.

This collection is not for sale.

I normally don’t play favorites but this one has all my attention.

Its exact location is hard to pinpoint.

Google maps does not help.

It often appears under a passing cloud or nestled beside me in the warmth of my shadow.

Often it shows up in a dream, wearing a blond wig and a t-shirt that says I love Cairn Terriers.

I even wrote a long and beautiful love letter to it, but it was too long and too beautiful.

Now it’s gone AWOL… was it stolen or just a runaway?

Is there an app for this?

Searching Frantically!

I might put on a milk carton… Have You Seen  Me?

My friend Jenny collects sentences.

Frankie Laufer is an oil painter and writer living in Walla Walla, WA. His paintings have been shown in both the SF Bay area and Eastern Washington state. His poems have recently appeared on Piker Press.

The expressive nature of both painting and writings creates the possibility of rediscovering lost or forgotten feelings and the possibility of new discovery.

Drowning
this poem
is like the deep blue sea
rolling with numerous history
lingering in its sleeves.
at the depth of this poem
are dead bodies swimming to freedom,
bodies that have bumped themselves into death
while escaping the jaws of slavery,
this poem, too, is a graveyard
like the deep blue sea,
this poem is a diary
of many lives that never returned home
& dreams the sea waves have destroyed;
dive to the depth of this piece
you will see pieces of mama Liberia
swimming to the shores of freedom
wanting to be independent like the sun
with corruption glued to her skin;
she’s wearing a floater, but
her body is befriending the sea’s bottom.

THE POET AND LIFE

Authoress: HONG NGOC CHAU

 

Leaving the school podium, I process my dream

Literary career desire still lingers me, I write poems

About life, my feelings spread everywhere

I take the standard of human love as the ruler

 

The true, the good, the beautiful are my desires

Living for people, I respect this value as ever

Originally literature helps me sublimate my soul

And music, painting with glittering feature halo

 

I reflect on human life from the reality

Getting humanities to lead the journey

I always look towards the spiritual world

Teaching offsprings as the basic words

 

With virtuous behavior, I keep morality

To know mutuality, love, I live sincerely

Subjectively wrong or right as my own mind

Not many words, cunning I don’t mesmerize

 

For my career, I keep my words indeed

In my heart, the enthusiasm of the poet

I love life, days by days increasing vitality

Love my country, my people, and humanity

Her true name is NGUYEN CHAU NGOC DOAN CHINH. Her Pen name is HONG NGOC CHAU, her Facebook name is NGUYEN CHINH.

She was graduated Master degree in Education Management. She is a member of the Association of Writers of Ho Chi Minh City (Vietnam), the Honorary Foreign Advisor, Ambassador of the Suryodaya Literature Foundation (SLF) From- Vietnam; the member Admin of W.U. P (World Union of Poets), the level of GENERAL COUNCILOR of the World Union of Poets with COORDINATORS SILVER MEDAL ( 14th medal of the World Union of Poets), Contributor of VISHWA BHARATI – India (The Vishwabharati Research Center), Administrator, moderator, group expert of many literary forums around the world…

She got a lot of rewards and diplomas such as World Literary Prize World poetic Star 2019; Diploma of II ND Level “Temirqazyq – the Best Poet – Writer of the World,2019”;  Certificate of honor is a Gold categorized member in Motivational Strip showing outstanding qualities in global literary excellence and contributions 2019. Premio Mundial A La Excelencia Literaria 2019-2020; COPPER CROSS of The World Union Of Poets for promotion of art 2020; Honorary Diploma 2020/2021: Literary Luminaries Award of The School of Art and Poetry;  S.L.F Literary EXCELLENCE AWARD 2020, Certificate of appreciation of TOP TEN WRITER 2020; HAVEN FOR THE WORLD WRITERS, Certificate of honor 2020 of WORLD AWARDS “CÈSAR VALLEJO 2020”, for education, culture, academy, art, reporting, communication, TV, business, civic, human rights…; “THE ODER OF SHAKESPEARE” MEDAL (23/4/2021) of MOTIVATIONAL STRIPS; Certificate of author recognition presented to NGUYEN CHINH – 2021, Poetic warriors Award of excellence 2021; CASA POETICA Magia y Plumas, Primio De Arte Y Literatura Universal 2021, RHYTHM OF THE HEART, Certificate of appreciation is awarded as TOP CONTRIBUTOR  (2021), GENESIS WORLD WRITER COMMUNITY Global Certificate of Excellence (World Wide Platform to Elevate Outstanding Global Writers) 2021, Queen Zenobia Award for Global Culture 2021, Perfect Attendee Award GOLD A 2021-2022 of POETRY CENTER;

CULTURAL AND ARTISTIC ACTIVITIES Books of poems published: Vietnamese Contemporary Poetry (Volume 1); The road to the true heart, Pitiable or Blamable… and many works have been published on world literary forums, newspapers, magazines of English Literature, USA, India, Poland, China, etc., global publications; honored to receive the Excellence Award of the European Poetry Championship 2021, honored to participate in the 2nd World Literature Festival 2021, honored works selected by Indian Educators to be published in a multilateral anthology Global convenience, honor to attend the World Poetry Championship 2021, Inner Child Press International-‘building bridges of cultural understanding’ 2019, 2020, 2021. v.v…

nerve damage
 
i can feel the nerve
damage in my middle
finger
 
i guess the knife
went deep enough
 
part of me knows
that many people
are chuckling
 
knowing they wanted
the knife to go deeper
 
all i can preach
is patience
 
your day will be here
before you know it
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
fogs up my glasses
 
another morning in
some medical center
 
scribbling poems in
the waiting room as
my mask fogs up
my glasses
 
i doubt the pandemic
ever ends and i'm sure
this will be my life
until my mother dies
 
not much of a life
by the usual standards
 
but i do what i can
with what i have
 
i can't say the same
for everyone else
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
a little less gentle
 
soft black skin
connecting the
tubes
 
explaining this is
going to hurt a little
 
i chuckle and explain
my high pain tolerance,
hoping she knows to be
a little less gentle
 
she starts the procedure
and i imagine her naked
 
i believe she noticed
 
or that was my imagination
having her lick her lips and
start to open her sweater up
for a better view
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
laughing at the hard times
 
i learned a long time ago
that laughing at the hard
times will take you much
farther than the endless
misery of complaining
 
now, my laughter has
turned more to sarcasm
as i have grown older
 
the joys of becoming
an old cynical fuck
 
it does have some perks
 
no one tends to fuck
with you
 
or bother to talk to you
 
or most days, if you can
get so lucky, they will
forget you exist
 
talk about a good day
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
make me find the joy
 
contemplating
suicide again
 
it always comes
up around the
holidays
 
there's an angel
out there that
hopes to cure
me
 
make me find
the joy
 
i applaud and
admire her effort
 
but she's old
enough to know
 
there is no escaping
certain tragedies

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Beatnik Cowboy, Terror House, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Rye Whiskey Review and Mad Swirl. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

	         CIVIL WAR:  ACT 2 

		Three hundred years ago,
		Europe wasn’t white.
		Men were French, Polish, Italian, Greek,
		Swiss, Danish, Ukranian, Turk,
		Finns, Spanish, Austrian, Swedes,
		Dutch, Irish, German, Serbs.
		Not white.

		Three hundred years ago,
		Africa had no blacks.
		They were Maasai, Himba, Zulu, San,
		Dogon, Yoruba, Berber, Bantu,
		Kikuyu, Ndebele, Ashanti, Hausa,
		Fulani, Samburu, Hadzabe, Igbo.
		Not black. 

		Then slave traders came with guns and ropes,
		buying and selling.
		Captured Africans filled boats
                stacked like cordwood.
		Now they were black.
		Auctioned off to customers
		who matched every shade on the gray scale,
		but had the power to be white.

		Opposites.  Duality.
		Authority vs. slavery.
		Slavery endorsed by church-going whites.
		After all, black property wasn’t Christian.
		Nor truly human. 
		When the world is black and white,
		individuality is erased.

		Only poles remain,
		like goalposts in a football game.
		Immigrants jockey for a place on the yard line.
		But the poles are not equal.
		The balance is off,
		and imaginary goalposts
		flash like ghosts.



		Tremors of change shake the field,
		and those who own nothing but whiteness
		lash out, 
		afraid they will lose their grip.
		Those whose blackness is matched
		by talent and ambition
		see a new day on the horizon. 

		But many hang on to the old days,
		days when Jim Crow kept order,
		kept the lowest white 
		a degree above the highest black.
		Along comes a TV name with a slogan:
		Make America great (white) again. 
		The second Civil War begins.
		
		Shots ring out.
		Hate crimes multiply—
		against Muslims, Asians, Jews, Hispanics, Blacks…
		The first skirmishes in a war we thought was over.
		Democracy dies first. 
		A foot on the neck, until life is snuffed out.
		We should have seen this coming.