Category Archives: CHAOS

Poetry from John Patrick Robbins

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Before You Go

Sometimes when it’s silent in the bar the memories come to me as  a flood .

Emotions I would rather bury and old ghosts at times I wish only to see again.

And alone with my demons I find no excuses but every reason .
So I simply press the gas pedal .

Drink until I collapse and pretend it’s all in a good time .
When that old truth long since left this party so long ago.

Nobody truly needs you .
And don’t believe you cannot be replaced .

As easily as a person changes a lightbulb.
And throws the old one away.

Never lie to yourself .
For I know this truth better than any other .

My story has come to its end and you as a reader will find another thats suits your mood all the same.

It was good for the moment .
Whispered lies, are lies all the same.

 

 

 

         A Difference Of Opinion

A beautiful woman is like blessing upon the eyes .
And times a curse upon the tortured soul.

A great conversation after she has long since left the room .
Perfume for thought and the fuel of want and distant stories .

I once had a friend tell me.

“You don’t respect women cause you write such terrible things about them”.

I was always amazed by a critics opinion of my words .

Let alone the opinion of someone I considered my friend .

I laughed and bled in thought my temper held in check .
For my words were like the razors edge and I could cut anyone to bits if I choose to easily .

” Sweetheart as long as you’re not the bitch I’m writing about why does it matter to you”?

“You can’t group all people together “.

I laughed .

“I didn’t believe I was my dear , I write my truths leave them bare I love women even the ones that left a scar “.

“Well you have a funny way of showing it “.

I didn’t reply and eventually I allowed her self righteous opinion of me to smolder .

We joked and as usual the past was soon buried with the dead conversations much like this one.

I could push every button at will much like a old typewriter .

If she didn’t care she wouldn’t be so damn quick to snap .

Well either that or she was secretly a lesbian like a old friend once said .

I loved women and nothing brought me more pleasure than firing up the ones I truly respected .

Guess that’s why I was still single.

Michael Robinson reviews Jamel Gross’ poetry collection A Knight Without His Lovers

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Jamel’s poetry is new and refreshing, for he mixes older ideas with several new points of view on love. He has given much efforts and energy into the flow of each poem, which follows a unique pattern. Many of his poems are about the idea of finding and keeping love, and he has a rhythm to each line. Each word flows into the next, with each following a simple, yet unique flow. The themes of love bring expressed clarity to the experience of life, love, and death.

The imagery conveys the emotions of each poem along with themes that ignite one’s own imagination about love. His poems: “I Care 4 You”, “Untitled,” and “My Day Apart,” and “If I Should Lose You” are just a few of my favorites because of the stories they express. I had a hard time choosing these poems out of the collection because starting with ” I Care 4 You” and continuing with all of the following poems, Jamel’s poetry breaks the mold of grammar and still holds the reader’s attention. It’s a jewel worth keeping.

Jamel Gross’ A Knight Without His Lovers is available here. 

Poetry from Joan McNerney

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Another Night

 

Once again waking

to flashing blue lights.

 

More guns,

more assault weapons,

more mass shootings,

more death.

 

Darkness pierced by sirens,

angry screams,

air spinning with smoke.

 

Blood on streets

slick and slippery.

 

My weary eyes want

to stay shut and

my lips pray for

long nights of silence.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“A” train

 

brassy blue

electric

bleeds upon rails.

 

blue, white flashes

leap forward.

they move, they move

constantly they move.

 

close your eyes

watch points

like stars

 

think now

how insignificant

you are

compared to train

speaking for itself

 

stars known

in no language

shooting

thru

tiger’s eyes

 

brain in

constant action

reaction

 

to what we do not know

plans of distant stars

galaxies floating by as

 

“A” train

silver worm

bursting through

big belly

of city

 

 

 

 

Eleventh Hour

 

Wrapped in darkness we can

no longer deceive ourselves.

Our smiling masks float away.

We snake here, there

from one side to another.

How many times do we rip off

blankets only to claw more on?

 

Listening to zzzzzz of traffic,

mumble of freight trains, fog horns.

Listening to wheezing,

feeling muscles throb.

How can we find comfort?

 

Say same word over and over

again again falling falling to sleep.

I will stop measuring what was lost.

I will become brave.

 

Let slumber come covering me.

Let my mouth droop, fingers tingle.

Wishing something cool…soft…sweet.

Now I will curl like a fetus

gathering into myself

hoping to awake new born.

Poetry from Michael Robinson

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Black Boy I

 

In the middle of the night,

Forgot all the bad in his life,

Walking into the moon’s light.

 

A soulful prayer,

At 3AM when all is quiet,

Living in the moon’s delight.

 

 

 

Black Boy II

 

If you knew the story,

If you felt the pain,

If you loved life,

You would understand,

A Black boy life.

 

 

Black Boy III

 

No more guns,

No more knives,

Nor more razor blades under the sleeve.

 

No more cocaine in the midnight hour,

No more sins in the dawn of day,

No more psych units.

 

No more lies,

No more pain,

No more tears.

 

Black Boy IV

 

My skin is dark, and my tone is light,

My eyes are bright, and my smile is warm,

My soul is full of God’s light,

Black Boy in the middle of the night.

 

 

Black Boy V

 

You crossed the seas looking for me,

Carrying me away,

Chaining me to the deck.

 

Look into my eyes,

Look at my back,

With the torn skin from the whip.

 

Another day of misery,

Keeps me company,

Prays touches my heart,

In the daily sun.

While picking cotton till dusk,

Deliver me from the whip,

I long to be free.

 

 

Black Boy VI

 

I walk into the morning sun,

My skin blackens from the noonday sun.

Mile after mile,

I walk while the tears fall to the ground,

I walk with bare feet,

With lashes on my back.

 

I walk to my freedom,

Crawling in the mud,

I kneel at the rock and Cry:

 

Save me from my captures,

Save me from my oppressors,

Save me from my sins.

 

 

Black Boy VII

 

Have you seen my mother?

She was wearing a red dress.

 

Have you seen my mother?

She was walking down the street.

 

Have you seen my mother?

She has my eyes.

 

Have you seen my mother?

She was heading to the Red-light district.

 

Have you seen my mother?

She was with that man.

 

Have you seen my mother?

She left me in the rain of my tears.

 

Michael Robinson (right) and fellow contributor Joan Beebe

Poetry from J.J. Campbell

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————————————————————————————-

when you are defeated
there is no joy when
meeting a beautiful
woman when you
are defeated
when this universe
has broken you
when all the old
friends have moved
on and you can’t
remember how to
make new ones
please and thank
you only get you
so far
and being kind isn’t
exactly telling a
woman you just
thought what her
inner thighs would
smell like wrapped
around your face
and you can’t
exactly pass a
love note while
at the bank
that might just
give the wrong
impression
—————————————————————————-
a sigh of relief
the muse
asked me
the other
night what
size my
penis is
i told her
and she
let out a
sigh of
relief
that almost
makes me
think she
wants to
see it one
day
——————————————————————————
this kind of pleasure
a friend asks you
to describe the pain
i tell her to take a
hanger and stick it
in the electrical outlet
that shock you feel
pretend it’s constant
and it pulses at times
and then wrap your
head around the fact
that you like it
that it makes you
contort your body
and then touch yourself
at inappropriate times
she asks if i’m feeling
the pain now
i told her i was picturing
her naked, rubbing that
hanger against my neck
as she grinded down on
me
and as long as the pain
brings this kind of
pleasure
the world will be safe
from all of my potential
rage
—————————————————————————-
one of those nights
i listen to
your stories
of the crazy
men and
crazy nights
and can’t help
but wonder if
i will get lucky
enough
to have one
of those nights
for myself
————————————————————————-
admitting defeat
smooth black skin
and endless dreams
of what could have
been
those long legs
walked out of
my life years
ago and i’m
still trying to
win them back
i have a hard time
admitting defeat
you know, where
there’s a will,
there’s a way
while i’m still
breathing, i still
have a chance
insert your favorite
cliche here
most people understand
that’s called insanity
i know they are right
but it makes for a better
story to say they just
don’t understand
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at The Dope Fiend Daily, The Rye Whiskey Review, Otoliths, Horror Sleaze Trash and Cajun Mutt Press. His most recent chapbook, the taste of blood on christmas morning, was published by Analog Submission Press. You can find him most days waxing poetic on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (http://evildelights.blogspot.com)
—————————————————————————–
J.J. Campbell
51 Urban Ln.
Brookville, OH 45309-9277
jcampb4593@aol.com
http://evildelights.blogspot.com
http://sites/google.com/site/losersincsite/
http://soundcloud.com/j-j-campbell
http://goodreads.com/jjthepoet

Poetry from Joan Beebe

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SURVIVAL

Life is a long  fight for survival, or so it seems.
I know there are so many confusions and health issues –
Families can be part of this  and cause us to feel real pain.
Our thoughts become a source of sadness and longing..
Our emotions become deep with despair.
Yet, we keep a glimmer of hope within ourselves.
We pray, talk to friends and browse through old pictures
Suddenly our thoughts turn to the future and the feelings
Of hope and faith begin to shape our mind instead of relentless
Depression.
The opportunities and gifts have been so many as we remember
the joy and happiness some have brought.
So we begin to change our selves
and look forward to sharing time and talents
in special ways with those around me.
We finally experience peacefulness within our soul.

 

Joan Beebe (left) and fellow contributor Michael Robinson

Poetry from Ryan Flanagan

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Sucking at Cartons of Milk as though You Never Left the Nipple

 

Learn to walk like a baby again and they think you jitterbug queer:

men, women, shapely pundits of the left foot right foot

all manner of insistences over the loudspeaker –

that you have lost your way or found the wrong way

which is simply not their way, of course,

and you start on your knees but they are knobby

and push into the hard floor in such a way

that you become a quick learner,

up and about in days, a few awkward steps on the sides

of your feet, crashing into tables you are still paying for

on the installment plan

simple glass tables with rod iron bottoms

and soon you are running down the halls

getting into all sorts of mischief

sucking at cartons of milk as though you never left the nipple

and you choose your first words carefully

a team of imaginary speech writers in heated coffeepot debate;

in the end you settle on sounds that have escaped the

mad dictionary’s purview,

the sounds a drafting board would make if it were forced

to draw up office towers between company picnics

with coal black garbage bins instead of harvested organs

and placards on the doors of fools.

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