They are tired too The pained crunching Echoing like voices Down the stained hall of my old apartment. Beneath the soles Of my bare feet, Those heart-shaped leaves are confined To a rough powder of broken shapes and pieces, Those crushed artifacts harshly prodding At my exposed heel. The crumbling vines holding The once vibrant grape leaves, Grasping at the decomposing trellis that Continues to be their supporting factor, The one thing keeping them from dissolving into the rotting wooden slats below, Cheering them on from the not-so-side lines as they Cling with all the might contained in their frail limbs, Once thriving but now, That ancient, tea-colored beige, like the dust that clings to the windshield of her old Mercedes as the wheels grumble across the trembling metal bridge, like a game of “will it hold me.” the only game those broken pieces of hearts know how to play. Silky sandpaper, my fingers dragging along in the muddy foliage of the garden, coating my fingertips with the texture of life, only in a childhood background. Almost feeling drowned, drained, in the lack of moisture, the lack of care the ignorance thrown upon their once-photosynthesising faces i stand by, not interfering with the natural order of the way things always seem to play out, the branches scrape at my shoulders as I pass, opening new wounds that I'll leave for time to heal. yet both the leaves and i seem to be defeated by something. maybe just the heat of this smoky summer afternoon, giving false hope at comfort as it smears into shivering shoulders in the evening light. exhausted by that never ending cycle of hoping, my spine buries itself into the dirt, liquid seeping down through my roots, nurturing the vines, bringing life into their pretty faces. i lay here, fading, they thrive.
Category Archives: CHAOS
Poetry from John Culp
Shards of color from Broken Dreams It's all that's meant by Time it seems Our Love stands TALL Above Our clouds And drowns the Lakes Beneath gray Shrouds to mend the nights & heal the Days Where songs Reach out & ARMS swing High And Lofted Breath I'll rise I'll rise the Breeze catches the wind exhales an earthly mist I'll walk the plains and sweep the grasses until I forget to count the Dawns ♡
Poetry from Joshua Martin
Napkin miscellanea Following a footnote abridged to engross Japanese standard spellings gravediggers translate promotional resources as autumnal studies useless links condense their informative relations. humbled razor sharp Zen winter coat symmetric PVC pipe head a flowerpot earlobe an extension cord fleeing flea circus attitude adjustment cucumber cart telephone bra strap app scratching iron shackle papal smeared lips volcanic ash pile style smile cesspool HorroR escape hot RoD stone cold malfunction sprain backend that burps & slides so close to bearing shed farther than a ski slope swirl salamander can of shoefly pie leagues before JULES VERNE marathon a con a palm swan that sprays to play / / / / / / / / and no other than another bundled cut & razor shaped well-versed & terse & tenses a parody of electronic hearse screwing lightbulbs from exterior Reside where danger lies Geysers originate artificial weaponry on the imaginary look of future temporarily shares dimension shamed Greco-German empiricism mainly a latter gift aiming inheritance into the discourse of irredeemable anthropology specters pave the epochs blind emancipation backwards dwell on media theory legacies enveloping essential non-endeavors conflating forbidden w/ jealousy preserving diffuse critique the center of the every day Pragmatic convolutions hotbed of MONARCHY the human wart blasted feathering itinerant quarrels & unleashed furious press from their rejected ramparts came sighed relief hunted by runaway laity but one CRITIC presses play while another MOUTHPIECE repeats
Joshua Martin is a Philadelphia based writer and filmmaker, who currently works in a library. He is the author of the books Pointillistic Venetian Blinds (Alien Buddha Press, 2021) and Vagabond fragments of a hole (Schism Neuronics). He has had pieces previously published in Coven, Spontaneous Poetics, Ygdrasil, Expat, Selcouth Station. RASPUTIN, Train, Fugitives & Futurists, Otoliths, M58, Punk Noir Magazine, Beir Bua, and Scud among others. joshuamartinwriting.blogspot.com
Poetry from Hongri Yuan, translated by Yuanbing Zhang
Three Poems By Chinese Poet Yuan Hongri Translated by Yuanbing Zhang Another Me From The Heavens If blue is namely white and black is namely red and gold is transparent as crystal and light makes the soul smile forgetting the sun moon and stars and you were filled with wisdom, drunk for thousands of years and back to the prehistoric giant city and that giant is just like another me from the heavens by the lotus throne in the golden palace. 天上的另一个自己 如若蓝即是白而黑即是红 而黄金透明若水晶而光芒令灵魂微笑忘了日月星辰 而汝醍醐灌顶一醉千年而回到了史前之巨城 而那金殿之莲花宝座上的巨人宛然天上的另一个自己 The Azure Sea Tonight I thought of the platinum city above in distant space Where there is no day and night and the giants are interstellar travellers by spaceship Their words have the dignity of God and create the holy Kingdoms So that the pictures of the soul in the maze of memory lasts a billion years Standing by the azure sea near the great palace with swirling sweet music in the city of the gold 3.4.2017 蔚蔚之海 今夜我想起那遥远太空之上的白金巨城 那儿没有昼夜巨人们乘坐飞船在星际航行 他们的词语拥有上帝的尊严而创造圣洁的王国 亿万年的时光是一幅幅灵魂的画卷在记忆的迷宫 黄金之城橚矗那飘洒蜜甜乐曲的巨人殿宇之蔚蔚之海 2017.3.4 The Bath of The Cool Breeze Prehistoric words of the gods are waking up in my body The platinum city from a strange planet is as if in a fantasy on the blue coast The giant men and women who walk by the light do not know trouble or sorrow There where the temple of the gods is in their heads, whose light is like wine flowing in the blood And the music of the stars sways gently around them, which is like the bath of the cool breeze on the earth The huge ship of stars which they have ridden can arrive at the other side of time To let you get a glimpse yourself yesterday in the future and in the divine light of fragrance 12.23.2016 淸风之沐 史前的诸神之词语正在我体内醒来 那陌生星球上的白金之城在蓝色海岸上恍如梦境 那乘光而行的巨人男女不知道烦恼或忧伤 他们的头颅里有诸神的圣殿光芒如酒在血液里流淌 而星辰的乐曲在身边拂荡犹如地球之上的淸风之沐 他们乘坐的星际巨舰可以抵达时间的彼岸 让你一睹昨日未来之你神性之芬郁之光 2016.12.23 Bio: Yuan Hongri (born 1962) is a renowned Chinese mystic, poet, and philosopher. His work has been published in the UK, USA, India, New Zealand, Canada, and Nigeria; his poems have appeared in Poet's Espresso Review, Orbis, Tipton Poetry Journal, Harbinger Asylum, The Stray Branch, Pinyon Review, Taj Mahal Review, Madswirl, Shot Glass Journal, Amethyst Review, The Poetry Village, and other e-zines, anthologies, and journals. His best known works are Platinum City and Golden Giant. His works explore themes of prehistoric and future civilization. Yuanbing Zhang (b. 1974), is Mr. Yuan Hongri’s assistant and translator. He himself is a Chinese poet and translator, and works in a Middle School, Yanzhou District, Jining City, Shandong Province China. He can be contacted through his email-3112362909@qq.com. Address:No.18 middle school Yanzhou District ,Jining City, Shandong Province, China Yuanbing Zhang Phone:+86 15263747339 Email:3112362909@qq.com
Poetry from Mark Young
Jean, dansant It was a temp- oral regression from which he returned singing La Marseillaise between mouth- fuls of an egg & lettuce sand- wich. Arch- ival footage shows there were times when he had all four feet off the ground. Later the Holy Roman Empire would come to be regarded as the first successful franchise. Initially, however, it didn't seem to have a hope of making it until Emperor Constantine finally paid attention to the local cuisine & replaced the basic communion wafer with bite-sized pide. Working on a capsicum farm Way before television, up & down the main street on a Saturday night. Olive oil heated in a large sauce- pan, a high energy production. Unanimously well received. Great feedback for a never say die team. "The intention is to allow people to stay living in their own homes," Carol explained. "We're hoping those people who want to become train drivers will wear white on the night − lots of lace, no denim. "It's so rewarding to see them once they step out of their comfort zone." Out & About When last heard of she was said to be running a clinic & outreach program for theo- dolites made redundant by an uptake of GPS devices. No- one can pinpoint its location. Now that the voices in my head have deserted me, who is there left to talk to?
Lorraine DeMauro reviews Michael Robinson’s poetry collection From Chains to Freedom
This poet, Michael Robinson, writes from his heart, there is no doubt….when reading his poetry, you truly feel the emotions as if they hop off the paper….
A truly gifted poet whose life journey has been difficult, but has made him a true example of how someone can beat the odds and shine as a shining star in the art of poetry….a truly amazing poet….
Lorraine DeMauro, Artist….
You may order a copy of Michael Robinson’s book From Chains to Freedom directly from Michael, at MJROBINSON@rollins.edu
Poetry from John Hicks
Family When you graduated, no one hired draft bait. You lived at home. Waited for the hungry nation’s letter. Collected in October. Bus full of strangers. One, his pockets full of candy. Another, cigarettes. No one shared. Guy behind you was reading Psychology Today. Now, after four months of training, you’re trying to use every minute of this twelve-hour pass slipping through your fingers. Last freedom before new orders. Fog cold. Can’t pull your collar close enough. Head-down walking. The light without edges. Can’t see the city through suffocating gray. No idea how far from the Greyhound depot. Looking for a place that won’t shun a soldier. To be among civilians a few hours. But you’ve wandered into a warehouse district. The Draft, a law for world war—now part of the country’s character—has sent you to learn automatic weapons and explosives; to build strength to march with heavy packs; equipment, and ammunition; to carry an injured comrade out of harm’s way; to dress wounds; to dig for shelter in the dirt. It’s taken you for your country’s hardest work. At the bus depot you bought a San Francisco Chronicle. First newspaper in four months, now limp in the fog. Training’s over for your platoon. No longer strangers uncertain about each other or the Army. Comrades waiting for orders: Vietnam on everyone’s mind. Among steel and concrete buildings, a single light caved in mist above a store front’s faded letters, EAT. Looks like a place out of Jack London. A place for bearded men in pea jackets, wool caps, heavy boots. And cheap enough for a $100-a-month Army private. Brass door handle’s wet, cold. Thumb the latch. Push. Almost empty. Air heavy with grease. Cook, with stained apron and tattooed arms, has spread the classifieds on a table. Doesn’t look up. Radiator clicks by the door; coffee urn grumbles. Murmured slap of cards from the far end of the counter. Her uniform is faded pink; hair in a bun, pencil stuck in it. You’re too late for breakfast, she declares. We got pie and coffee. Take the seat by the register. The cup is heavy china; kind that holds blistering heat. Slip your fingers around it; one through the handle. She returns to the game. Takes her cards from her apron pocket. Other players are pink-faced—gray hair slicked back on one, fluffy gray ring above the other’s ears. Black industrial shoes with gym socks. Their backs toward me. Students are protesting. San Francisco wants to build the world’s tallest building. Nixon has a plan. Crossword, horoscope, Goren on Bridge, Ask Abby, sports, want ads. Pages of another world. Pay for the coffee. Leave the paper. Fog’s unchanged. Pull your neck into your collar. Back to the bus depot. Back to your platoon. Back to wait for orders. Unspoken: You’ll be split up. Singing in the Dark Few things weight your heart like men’s voices lifting in the relief of camp songs, songs that echo back from a grove of trees taller than their sound. Nothing is more terrible than men’s voices lifting to branches leaning down, keeping to themselves what lies ahead. Pride On the plaza, the Marine Band struck up the national anthem, and in the awareness of a ten-year old, you noticed the changed posture of the man standing next to you; how he pulled his feet together, how he squared his shoulders, and took the cigarette from his mouth; how both sleeves ended in stainless steel hooks. Bus to the Weekend Market Hot. Sun off the concrete so intense, I have to squint. Digs through the bottom of my shoes. No taxis on Sunday—so a bus. Alone at the stop on Sukhumvit Road, I’m moving with the shade splatter under this flaming jacaranda. Tomorrow, the young woman with white blouse and blue sarong, will set her baskets down in the shade, lean her bamboo pole against the fence, and roast banana slices on a brazier for customers waiting for the bus. She’ll wrap their breakfast in fresh banana leaf before it arrives. _______________ Still my first month in Bangkok. Today, I’m going to the old part of the city. Have heard of Sanam Luang, the Weekend Market on the royal public grounds. I want to see where the food comes in from the countryside. I’ve heard you can buy almost anything there: brass woks, boars’ heads, horseshoe crabs, and temple offerings—like small birds in cages, or Siamese fighting fish in plastic bags of canal water—small animals for making merit by setting them free. _______________ A bus at last! As we pull away, I hand my coin to the attendant in his khaki uniform. Can’t be more than ten years old. With a practiced gesture, he flips back the hinged lid of the aluminum tube, drops my fare into its compartment, and tears my ticket from the tiny roll. He stays close to me and, looking up with a shy smile, touches the top of his crew cut with the flat of his hand, compares to its level on my shirt—something I did at that age. I smile back. Ah, luck! A seat on the shady side and an open window with breeze from our movement. The young mother in the seat ahead holds her baby up to look over her shoulder at the farang. A surprise of black hair spouts up through a pink bow. I look down a moment, then up; wiggling my eyebrows. A giggling reward. Like all babies, she can’t stop staring. I’m guessing she’s going to visit grandparents. They get off at Soi Nana Nua— just before Ploenchit Road where we begin heading west. Near Erawan Shrine, I hear whispers behind me in a dialect I don’t understand. I pick out the word American. A gray-haired woman leans forward and raises her voice to get my attention. Her hair is cut short, sarong folded in the old style. I can’t make out what she’s saying until she offers me a kaffir leaf and a scoop from her jar of betel nut paste. Her daughter, in western dress and sunglasses, tugs at her arm, an effort she pulls away from— eyes bright above her betel-red mouth. In a country that esteems its elderly, she’s being generous with her attention. Respectfully, I decline with a modest lowering of my head, then a wink and smile. Her laugh lines are for me. We ignore daughter. _______________ As we pass Emerald Buddha Temple, people start gathering their belongings. The attendant stands next to the driver to look out the front. We pull over, and everyone gets off. So I do, too. The street stews with weaving vehicles. Taxis, bicycles, samlors, small trucks, motor bikes and scooters weave, beep, honk and puff exhaust. Everyone seems to be unloading baskets or crates or dropping someone off. Sanam Luang itself is an uproar of tarps in all shapes, colors and patterns— all with their backs to me—obscuring thirty grass-sparse acres of the royal public grounds. I retreat to shade beneath the tamarind trees planted by King Rama V. How do I get into the Market? There seems to be no entrance, and everyone’s too busy to ask. As I watch, a woman with a basket of duck eggs resting on her hip gets off the back of a motorbike, and dodging through the traffic, disappears behind a canopy. Staying under the trees, I follow and find the opening where she entered. ______________ A path on the battered grass wanders vendor-to-vendor. I turn left, dodging tent poles and tie-downs, duck under tarps sagging with the weight of sun, and stop at crowd around a table where someone sells small birds from a tall wire cage. A boy and his father have made a selection and are watching the vendor trying to catch it without losing the others. The birds make small clicking sounds as they flick perch to perch. Each grab inspires laughter and encouragement from surrounding children and adults. Home has become far away, New Car Pattaya Beach, Thailand Hot Season I parked my new car last night in a grove of royal jacaranda for shade over our beach weekend. Tomorrow we’ll walk to the water through coconut palms rustling in the sea breeze. At noon, we’ll move into the shade for steamed rice in banana leaf cups, and chicken satay roasted with a local curry sauce, drink Amarit or Singha from a chipped-ice cooler. This morning I find I’d parked in a photographer’s dream— a theater setting of clustered orange trumpets, regal fanfare deafening polished metallic blue. But trees only talk with trees. They whisper to each other what pride cannot hear, I’ve brought a painted toy into paradise.