Poetry from James Diaz

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The Dreams and The Keepsakes

 

“Unrequited love is a poignant state of heartbreak, with no remedy. But it is a heartbreak mirrored in the very intimate and necessary art of being able to see, to appreciate and to come to love our selves. A blessing then, for unrequited love.” -David Whyte

 

I dreamt I was a cosmic canopy
for your night terrors
soak up the sweat
with warm towels
lay the boards down just right
so that nothing unwanted gets in
haul the tarpaulin over the wood
in winter, keep the home fires burning
and a small square of light
outside your bedroom door

I wouldn’t need to know what you’re thinking
every minute of every hour
the wind through the poplars
would be enough
and you down the hall
writing your memoir
tearing paper and starting from scratch

 

dreamt I was deep-water coral
you were light cast into dark
unwavering, beautiful,
inside and out

I’d live at the bottom of any mountain you’re on
you’d never even have to come down for me
I’d send my prayers up to you
one by one
tied to the foot of a crow

be still, oh, be still here
when I wake

I pray.

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Poetry from Logan Lane

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The Immortal Pumpkin

Large pumpkin growing in a patch

Photo credit Leticia Garcia Bradford

Pumpkins large and small, orange and green

Lie in the fields under brown and gray leaves.

The eyes of the pumpkin watch.

Halloween, Halloween.  

Their green stems eye the pleasure of those dressed. 

Witches, ghosts, young and old celebrate the Eve.

They look for signs of spirits and some feel their presence. 

The Immortal Pumpkin knows.

He has grown in the fields.

Watched the celebrators in search of eternal life.

Some feel the signs of the ghosts, evil devils and loving angels.

The pumpkin knows.

The pumpkins watch. 

 

 

 

    

    

 

 

Poetry from Ian Lewis Copestick

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On Poetry As Flower Arranging
 
Reading a slim book of poetry
On life and it’s mutability
Poems written from inside of
A safe, cosy, middle class cocoon
The words have no sharp edges
To burst the balloon
Poems about flowers
To while away the hours
Between the visit of the vicar
And the next pot of tea
Not poetry for you and me
Or anything like reality
Poetry as a gentle hobby
Like baking
Or flower arranging
Not poetry from the gut
That comes raging
Like fists planted upon the page
Poems of love, or loss or rage
But tenderly placing
Each word on the page
Like a delicate flower
To be arranged
I don’t hate the woman
Who wrote this stuff
For her, this obviously is enough
I envy her, her easy life
It’s lack of struggle
Lack of strife
Perhaps one day it will be me
Writing of such superficialities
When I’m fat, well fatter
Rich and content
And all of my life-force has been spent
I’ll sit in my garden
And smell the flowers
Then while away my hours
On my hobby, writing poetry
Between the visit of the vicar
And the next pot of tea
 
 

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Poetry from Joan Beebe

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DEWDROP TEARS
 

Joan Beebe (left) and fellow contributor Michael Robinson

Like the dewdrops on a beautiful flower,

The tears fall gently on my face.

The small drops of rain cover the ground

With the tears of heaven reflecting the

Rays of the sun nourishing nature’s gifts,

Those dewdrops sparkle in the sunlight and

The beauty surrounding us refreshes our soul.

Poetry from J.J. Campbell

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laughs at impossible odds
she has a smile
that brightens
every room she
walks into
i’d do anything
to make that
woman mine
i tell her that
everyday
she responds
with every
reason why
it would
never work
i tell her i’m
the kind of
asshole that
laughs at
impossible
odds
she tells me
i’m going to
be laughing
for a long
time
i introduce her
to my friend
patience
he guides me
everyday
and one of these
days you’ll get
tired of hoping
to wait me out
—————————————————————
when the remote control came along
i remember when
i was little i was
the one that had to
get up and change
the channel for my
grandparents and
my lazy ass father
when the remote
control came along,
my grandparents
were dead and my
father still asked
me to change the
channel for him
when i would throw
him the remote, i
usually would have
to go out and mow
the lawn, again
he would tell me
i was born to be
of service
little did he
understand
my rebellious spirit
would come along
before my teenage
years
—————————————————————-
as the sun was setting
i had a dream
the other night
that buddha was
coming down
from the cross
as i was eating
your cancer out
of your body
we drank rum
in puerto rico
as the sun was
setting
we laughed as
we butchered the
spanish language
as we were the
two white fuckers
on the dance floor
it’s the only time
i ever woke up
on a beach and
wasn’t alone
——————————————————————-
on the toilet
every time i strain
while on the toilet
i think of elvis
and how he died
and each time
i make it out
of the bathroom
alive
yet another day
i’m better than
the king
——————————————————————-
on a hot summer night
i remember years ago
walking this woman
out of a bar and kissing
her while we chatted
at her car on a hot
summer night
i asked if she wanted
to go somewhere a little
more private and she
said no
i went in for another
kiss, thinking she was
cool with right there,
but she stopped me and
got in her car and left
i saw her a couple months
later but didn’t ask her
about that night
i knew the answer
they never tell you
when you are a kid
that not all of god’s
creatures get to be
loved
they keep that myth
alive so children won’t
kill themselves at an
unacceptable age
you know that age where
hope and dreams are shit
that is still possible

J.J. Campbell

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is currently trapped in suburbia, wondering where the lonely housewives are. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Fourth & Sycamore, Horror Sleaze Trash, Under the Bleachers, The Beatnik Cowboy and Reprehensible Digest. His most recent chapbook, the taste of blood on christmas morning, was published by Analog Submission Press. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (http://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Essay from Abigail George

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Bullied

 

Sometimes we will watch television together. She will sit like a crouched tiger ready to spring like a mousetrap, her frame hidden by a thick blanket, her legs resting on a stool, the dog next to her where she cuddles him and feeds him titbits off her supper plate affectionately. He doesn’t have to fight for her affections like I do. He transforms her into a maternal archetype of St. Francis. When she shouts, screams, she draws blood. I experience a rush of blood to the head. I see red. A furious beast spurned on by hate and a low, awful feeling of being rejected.

 

I sweat. I levitate like the crescent of a half-moon, glowing resplendently in the night sky. I glow. I shine. I try sometimes half-heartedly not to give in to her insults. How else can I defend myself? My mouth is shut obstinately as if I have just tasted something unpleasant and foul. It is curled at the edges. My lips in a pout.

 

Is she happy? Is she sad? Is she despondent? Is she glowing? What is her ransom that she holds for my happiness? Money. She spends her pay cheque all in one go. She lives beyond her means. She buys extraordinary beautiful things that are expensive and breakable. My father always admonishes her when she spends too much but she never heeds his warnings.

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