this fleeting moment of life lucid dreams swimming and suddenly drowning in a river of doubt this fleeting moment of life drifting on a lonely coast wishing for the only love that ever understood the pain the unknown tapping you on the shoulder and making you pull the trigger wake up in a cold sweat alone yet again you can never escape your demons if you never go anywhere logic does nothing for a soul trapped in its own hell there is only one way out and we all understand that is why the shotgun is still in the corner eventually, everyone gives in -------------------------------------------------------------------------- to get to the creamy center she slid down her panties with ease, eager to receive her gift i chuckled, hoping she wouldn't be disappointed i'm white after all and i'm sure she's been with some black guys that would put me to shame she laughed, grabbed me by the back of my neck and thrusted me into her ass i found out how many licks it took to get to the creamy center we spent the afternoon sweaty and sticky i lit a cigarette and put on some coltrane watched her walk naked around the house and then climb back into bed we laughed and chatted for hours drank a little scotch and a little kissing quickly escalated into round two not bad for an old man who can barely remember what life was like at her age ---------------------------------------------------------------- all the decay from your soul embrace the pain like a purple light breaking the night sky a burning neon ripping all the decay from your soul like an old lover that would take you right to the edge of losing your mind and then take a breath that sultry air lingers in your mind to this day grab it by the throat and squeeze the marrow out of this existence the broken souls cracked windows fields barren for years a playground of junkies waiting for the man there is still time to find the bent spoons and a good vein ------------------------------------------------------------------------- hundreds of miles away now i still think about holding you in my arms as we used to listen to old records in the afternoons after school over twenty years ago and i can still remember how you tasted how the perfume on your neck would drive me crazy you have moved on hundreds of miles away now i'm a lonely soul writing these cries for help wondering if anyone actually reads anymore i want to live in a world where love is still possible i wonder each day if i should be saving my money for a trip to mars -------------------------------------------------------------------- the sound advice from the elders i'm one of those assholes that never learned his lessons never stored away the sound advice from the elders i had a homeless guy tell me over stolen cigarettes to never fuck younger women the pussy is great but you don't need the problems and the drama and there i was today fucking a younger woman, amazed at my luck only to be at odds less than thirty minutes later, knives drawn how the fuck can you share something so intimate and then be the king of the assholes minutes later and my ego isn't strong enough to not think i did something fucking wrong as always, i have to be the problem forty-five years into life and nothing fucking changes rinse and repeat she had the kind of body that i will take to my grave smiling no one ever said you wouldn't get dirty along the way
Poetry from Aloysius S. Harmon
ELEGY FOR MY OLD-TIME LOVER.___
you arrived in the rainy season, later came our kisses during the cold July nights
i remembered the rainy days
& the fire you lit in my body
when you crawled into my chest making the joints in my bones restless in ecstasy.
our bodies, like the doorknob during a winter night .tight and cold-
//
Starring at the image on the wall ,i remembered you left me a memory to cuddle one every morning; maybe with my tears spilling through my smile
/then, in the autopsy that carried you in the dust/ & in the cloud where you are; or heaven that gets you close to God,
perhaps you will be back in the early sunrise; Outside my window, to paint the walls in my room with songs, like you used to.
Aloysius S. Harmon
Writer/ Poet
Monrovia, Liberia
Poetry from Stephen Jarrell Williams
A Great Witness
The stars wept last night
never knew they could
tears in the universe
fell and spread
in a slow swirling mist
all because of us
on our little planet of blue
never knew our sadness
had such a great witness
carried so far into the heavens
perhaps we are worth more
than we ever thought….
Us
They’re making fun of us again
Us seeing hope in every sunset
Us standing barefoot
In the cold rush of the sea
Us tingling after a kiss
First kiss never forgetting
Us loving hard and deep
No matter how much pain
Us crying endless tears
For our children
Us raising our hands with prayer
Each and every sunrise.
Chaos Slain
Something happening seemingly everywhere
a yearning
for the correct course of change
many have their ideas
their philosophies
all pointing in different directions
such a chaos in itself
so simple
the truth told a long time ago
so close
we have forgotten its touch
looking up
past the darkness
and light of stars
there is a Kingdom
of forgiveness
the only way
within reach of our searching hearts.
Poetry from Michael Lee Johnson
The Redemption By Michael Lee Johnson My eyes green are 2 glass windows into the past. I keep the blinds pulled down tight. Carnal knowledge is a Biblical definition of sin. I live in darkness, the shame of those early years. I pull myself out redemption in old age, a savior, before the grave, I flatter myself in a mirror, no reflection.
Alberta Bound (V4) By Michael Lee Johnson I own a gate to this prairie that ends facing the Rocky Mountains. They call it Alberta- trails of endless blue sky asylum of endless winters, the hermitage of indolent retracted sun. Deep freeze drips haphazardly into spring. Drumheller, dinosaur badlands, dried bones, ancient hoodoos sculpt high, prairie toadstools. Alberta highway 2 opens the gateway of endless miles. Travel weary, I stop by roadsides, ears open to whispering pines. In harmony North to South Gordon Lightfoot pitches out a tune- "Alberta Bound." With independence in my veins, I am a long way from my home.
Tiny Sparrow Feet (V2) By Michael Lee Johnson It's calm. Cheeky, unexpected. Too quiet. My clear plastic bowls serves as my bird feeder. I don't hear the distant scratching, shuffling of tiny sparrow feet, the wing dances, fluttering, of a hungry morning's lack of big band sounds. I walk tentatively to my patio window, spy the balcony with my detective's eyes. I witness three newly hatched toddler sparrows, curved nails, mounted deep, in their mother's dead, decaying back. Their childish beaks bent over elongated, delicately, into golden chips, and dusted yellow corn.
Beach Boys, Dance By Michael Lee Johnson They dance and drum to their songs. Boogaloo Boys, Beach Boys, still band members die. Revolts and rebellion always end in peace, left for the living. Even the smoking voice of Carl Wilson dies with a canary inside his cancerous throat called "Darlin." Dennis Wilson, hitchhiking, panhandling with the devil Charles Manson, toying with heroin, he's just too much trouble to live. Check their history of the living and the dead; you will find them there, minor parts and pieces musical notes stuck in stone wall cracks, imbibe alcohol, cocaine. Names fade, urns toss to sea dump all lives brief memories, bingo, no jackpot.
Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era and is a dual citizen of the United States and Canada. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, amateur photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, DuPage County, Illinois. Mr. Johnson is published in more than 2033 new publications. His poems have appeared in 42 countries; he edits and publishes ten poetry sites. He is the administrator of six Facebook poetry groups; he has several new poetry chapbooks coming out soon. He has over 533 published poems to date. Michael Lee Johnson has been nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards poetry 2015/1 Best of the Net 2016/2 Best of the Net 2017, 2 Best of the Net 2018. 233 poetry videos are now on YouTube https://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos. Editor-in-chief poetry anthology, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze: http://www.amazon.com/dp/1530456762; editor-in-chief poetry anthology, Dandelion in a Vase of Roses available here https://www.amazon.com/dp/1545352089. Editor-in-chief Warriors with Wings: The Best in Contemporary Poetry, http://www.amazon.com/dp/1722130717.
https://www.lulu.com/shop/search.ep?keyWords=Michael+Lee+Johnson&type=. Member Illinois State Poetry Society: http://www.illinoispoets.org/. Do not forget to consider me for Best of the Net or Pushcart nomination!
Poetry from Sharma Shashi
Star addicted Looking up in the sky I miss those Who missed me And those Who were my dears I forget drink and hunger I keep my eyes stable I observe each movement of star From the roof of my house By looking into it I travel from hell to the heaven Suddenly, a noise distract me from heaven So, I come to the hell again When i see around me it's been morning And mom is awaking me with a cup of coffee Stars make my dreams sweet Really, stars are priceless That's why I always sleep with stars Without stars, I can't sleep So, I have been addicted from it.
Poetry from Jack Galmitz
The Untitled rocks and I are found often in unexpected places a shoulder of a road a shelf in a book case we don't get along with others we don't expect much we aren't courageous rocks and I are often referred to as things like he is hard to get to know or it has no name he is common it has no shape you've heard of rocks come from mountains you can find them at their bases I come from the sun I came here once and refused to return Spotting Robert Creeley on Allen Street I find it hard to imagine him in a grandstand sitting with everyone looking down squinting to see that agon explicitly his mind is on other things certainly the grass the mound count in but circumspectly he knows love and speaks of it not as fans do uncomfortably he brings to it scrutiny in every word gives it due and you rackingly feel as alone as you are meant to
Ken Ciocco reviews Michael Robinson’s poetry collection From Chains to Freedom
At a time when many Americans feel that we may finally, after over 150 years, be coming to some form of recognition of the Black experience, Michael J. Robinson’s From Chains to Freedom gives voice to the pain and loss suffered by so many long ago. Only time will tell if this moment will be the change we are seeking but Michael’s poems will live on, regardless.
The poems here are tightly constructed images of the slave experience with the sea and salvation the only comforting companions to the world they were forced into.
This collection provides a history and imagery that cannot be forgotten. They are designed to be reread and reconsidered for their messages. Recently poetry has enjoyed popular recognition with several collections nudging out novels on the NY Times bestseller list. Hopefully this interest will extend to such vital collections as From Chains to Freedom as it a work that deserves to be recognized. It serves as a historical reminder of an American mindset that is too easily misrepresented in our culture. It brings the pain of the past to the present.