the violets snort without me
tele
comic
scram
bled
which shannon?
a wintry eye
& high beams
you’ve been
silent
skull popcorn
friends help
wilma!
a ladder into the television
I miss the winchell’s
& a normal king’s dinner
wallet toe$
a numbered eye
a sporty nectarine
a serious mammal
a friend of the sun
J. D. Nelson (b. 1971) experiments with words in his subterranean laboratory. His poetry has appeared in many small press publications, worldwide, since 2002. He is the author of several collections of poetry, including Cinderella City (The Red Ceilings Press, 2012). Nelson’s poem, “to mask a little bird” was nominated for Best of the Net in 2021. Visit http://MadVerse.com for more information and links to his published work. His haiku blog is at http://JDNelson.net. Nelson lives in Colorado, USA.
Category Archives: CHAOS
Poetry from Christopher Bernard
August, New Hope, 1961 By Christopher Bernard The heavy ripening summer, green in the mountains, high wheat, sleek corn, alfalfa massed against the ground, strawberries, raspberries, black, peaches almost over-ripe, tomatoes big and sweet – a sultry land baking hot with loam, topsoil, sleep. The year ripening: the wind from the north, in snow, rain, ice, forgotten. Trickles of moisture tickle the back of your neck. Nothing tempts like ice-sweat lemonade, except maybe a plunge in a pool under the hickories. Time stops for weeks. You never want it to move again. August the earth in that place slept and dreamt of a half-forgotten spring, winter dead, July’s hopes, as a whisper of coolness slipped inside, like a drop of water inside a crack. And under the sultry atmosphere a breath of ice stole like a knife, steely and rare. . . . Someone now long dead looked up from her summer book, hesitated, and said, to no one in particular, “I can feel fall in the air.” _____ Christopher Bernard’s collection The Socialist’s Garden of Verses won a 2021 PEN Oakland Josephine Miles Award for Literary Excellence and was named one of the “Top Indie Books of 2021” by Kirkus Reviews.
Poetry from Shaurya Pathania
Love affair with cigarettes You've kissed my lips, but why didn't you feel me? You've touched my fingers, but why didn't you hold me? Am I not worth you, Can't you set me free? You lighten yourself among others, the ones whom I loved, the ones whom I've been loved by, But I've always been left behind, Will I ever call you mine? I stand helplessly, to see you tasting people in front of my eyes, But I stand hopefully someday I will not be dull and you'll be my prize. Many say, you're a menace, yet I'm ready to kiss and caress, Never mind, I'll see you again soon, kissing my loved and dear ones, I'll be sadly happy to see you healing their wounds and burns. Woken Walks And the roads seem alone in the naive night, do they despise being lonely, or do they enjoy this presence of them only, I've tried to know, I walk down roads, but they don't sense my presence, and I shout at them for my relevance, still, they hide under the pretence of ignorance, I guess I disrupt their peace in the dreary dark, and somewhere they answer, they don't like getting marked, emptiness is what they crave but why am I here, do I want the same? Sniffs Smell, odour, aroma and fragrance Always chase the good kinds, at any stance, at any chance, good or bad, who defines? Where are my boxers, in my house, I shout Lie they under the table, worn out and torn out I pick them up put them under my nose Call me gross But this is what I do alone behind the doors closed. Why do I do this, I don't have any reason, probably, the odour and aroma makes me feel human. Is it bizarre or do you practice it too? find those boxers in the cart, don't think much, just do feel them, sniff them wear them and dance, witness the smells transgress into a fragrance. Saturday Saturdays are dreadful I stay entirely in the cubicle, stare at the heap of clothes, the heap so weak, that it couldn't stand for a single week, I see dirt on the fabric and the shirt hopefully stares at me, waiting to hold and to be held but I won't, and scarcely she will feel my scars on my shoulders, belly chest, back and arms, Today I am just naked lying down on the floor, I talk, I sing, I scream, I cry, It's raining but I feel dry, and my throat is sore, I stroke and scratch my wall and fit the paint in my nails, I fight my urges and deeply inhale, I'm glad I succeed or I'm sad I succeed, I don't want to know, All I wish is this day to move, I'll put clothes on my body and wear fancy shoes, I will run away astray without feeling weary, I need a different day, Saturdays are dreary. Self-portrait Mirror's a window, inside we see, trying to be real and free irresponsibly!
Poetry from Mesfakus Salahin
Oh father oh father, oh father of the nation You are the Bangobandhu, Shaikh Mojibur Rahman From the heaven make the garden of Sonar Bangla You are alive in the slogan 'Joy Bangla'. You have given us a flag of green and red We are still under your love and shade We shall never forget your contribution You are the father of the nation. You have given us wind of independence We see in our heart your courageous face You are the source of our inspiration You are the hero of the heroes of the nation. Oh father.oh father, oh father of the nation You are the Bangobandhu, Shaikh Mojibur Rahman.
Poetry from Christina Chin and Matthew Defibaugh
lying on the beach towels sunburnt nudes in a vintage Playboy Christina Chin / M. R. Defibaugh cresting waves she tells him how rough she likes it doing a cartwheel before the surf M. R. Defibaugh / Christina Chin he fans her with the wine menu after a swim and a cold shower still feeling hot M. R. Defibaugh / Christina Chin pretty bobbies in an updo hairstyle removing pins the night falls down to her waist Christina Chin / M. R. Defibaugh picotee edge white amaryllis on her lacy lingerie untying the ribbons with his teeth Christina Chin / M. R. Defibaugh
Poetry from Imam Sarafadeen
Morning Dew
I sat down beside the tree
Talking to myself and and the surrounded bee.
Inside me, nothing shows but thy love
Turning and turning as the day rough.
Impossible possible, not my love for you,
Table for two is ours for true.
If your love is a prison, then I’m your criminal
Tag me around you and take me to anywhere tonal.
Is love not a beautiful thing?
Think of it, and tell me everything.
I am not ready for your preaches
tones that come by your inches.
Instantly, I wake up everyday,
Thy love comes to me as the morning dew and stay.
Poetry from Preacher Allgood
grind the Saginaw and feather the six it’s a trip to the urologist in your ‘69 Chevy Blazer a wreck that needs a lot of money thrown at it money you don’t have the light turns green you jiggle the three-on-the-tree into first ease out on the clutch and pray it will catch there was a time when this heap was new there was a time when her paint glistened there was a time you were proud to drive her you grind that ten spline Saginaw into second feather the worn out inline six until it smokes and squeals and smokes some more at seventy they’re stripping your dignity away sticking fingers and probes up your ass asking if you know what year it is asking you if you get enough to eat You fiddle the shifter into third And check the speedometer even though it broke years ago another half a mile to go on this two-lane and then you merge onto the big road where the heavy traffic moves fast because everybody thinks they can catch up to some unassailable self-worth