ABOUT THE ARTIST:
Jamie D. Meissner is from Sparks, Nevada. Her inspiration comes from close family ties, especially her 7-year-old daughter Kenedy. She is also an accomplished singer and pianist.
Contact info:
Ms, Jamie D.Meissner #45401-048
5675 8th Street Camp Parks
Satellite Prison Camp
Dublin,California 94568-3106
Harry and the Potting Soil
In the year 2004, Harry lost his job with the orchestra, in which he played the violin for 15 years, and he moved next door to his elderly mother. At times, he felt his mother was doing quite well, and he would play his violin, all alone, until late at night, in the top story of his three-bedroom home. His house was stately, brick, and quite ornamental; his yard was quite plain, just a front sidewalk and some scraggly grass. Although Harry’s yard was nothing to complain about, it was nothing to praise either, and Harry decided that he would put some of his free time into making the yard more presentable.
When spring rolled around, Harry borrowed a pitchfork and a shovel from his Mother’s garage and just started digging. As he dug, he found treasures from the past that made him wonder about the families that had live in the house before him. One day he found a fork, once an old coin, and one day he even found the eye of a doll. He kept them all in a special box in his bedroom. Souvenirs from gardening, he thought. Treasures that others had cherished.
Before he’d begin digging in the yard each morning, he’d go next door to his mother’s for breakfast, just to check on her. He’d eat his eggs and toast with an extra eye on his mom’s right knee, maybe shakier today than yesterday. But usually everything was okay, and he’d go back out to the yard, start digging again, repeatedly noting the progress he was making.
Megan Guernsey is a writer, poet, and lawyer from Missouri, California. She may be reached at megan.guernsey@yahoo.com.
Tears On Her Guitar
She plays the guitar
Her father talks about the tragedies of the world
She keeps playing
Her tears fall leaving burning marks in the mocha colored wood
Her father just keeps talking
The news in the background; protests and street fights
Her father speaks of the increasing prices
As she fumbles with the keys, her father throws the grocery bag on the ground
Her eyes are shut, she’s on her father’s shoulders, her arms spread like an eagle and she’s flying
She’s three again
She’s happy
Her father is a bitter old man, his stories of chalice, humiliation and betrayal like fuel to her art
She sings about love, happy couples and intimate moments in bed
Her father interrupts her singing, asks if she wants beans or peas for dinner
She’d rather live off chocolate chip cookies but he doesn’t get it
“It’s a sad era” he grunts. “This country is damned”
Through the window she could see her bare-chested ex, his hips swaying with the girl he chose two weeks before
His hair is a haven of Twix and Mars and honey
His eyes a smoldering gray, like smokes sent by gods of the outer space
Yet she plays on her guitar, trying to change the atmosphere
She plants a seed, her father ploughs the soil
She sings a song, her father turns on the TV
Her ex abandons the woman pregnant with his only son
The news fades in the background
But only her music lives and sadly, so do we
Jaylan Salah is a freelance writer and Synchronized Chaos contributor from Alexandria, Egypt. You may reach Salah at vigilante171@yahoo.com.
Blues for Pamela Franklin
“There is always a real and an imaginary person you are in love with;
sometimes you love one best, sometimes the other.”
-Anthony Powell
I’m reading Anthony Powell
with the TV on and the sound
mum. Anthony Powell thumps
me on the cerebellum. It is al-
most autumn, almost. The
day is bright like a lemon and
like a lemon a tart, willing to
lift her splendid skirts. Or may-
be it’s just that Pamela Franklin
is on TV posing stripped for her
art teacher. I am stirred. Anthony
Powell imparts his tricky words.
I reach out for Pamela Franklin’s
perfect fundament but it is gone
now, these 42 years. I still long.
I still keep reading as the chill
enters me and pricks my sconce.
Corey Mesler has published 4 novels, 2 full-length poetry collections, and 3 books of short stories. He has also published a dozen chapbooks of both poetry and prose. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize numerous times, and 2 of his poems have been chosen for Garrison Keillor’s Writer’s Almanac. He also claims to have written, “Coronet Blue.” With his wife, he runs Burke’s Book Store in Memphis TN, one of the country’s oldest (1875) and best independent bookstores. Email chmesler@earthlink.net for more info.
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Nest Under Lorca Aurora
I nestle in your space.
I create a nether sphere
So we can tether here
Any time under a tent
Of stars crudely drawn.
Preparing, I try to create space
For us to crescent in
Spreading the world blanket
Over the stellar broken glass
Of history so you can walk
Safely to the deli even when
You are not hungry-potential salvation.
I nightingale in your space.
You sing in mine.
A small symphony
All at the same time,
same cage, good page.
This duet from the black contract,
Cataract of the bubble chamber
and nautilus-this spiral spitting
a spore of truth, a quark or quirk.
I crepuscule and pulse in your face.
Neither neo nor nascent noir orb
Can chronicle this infamous lore.
Simply crumble.
They make tricycles out of the poets’ bones.
Children ride them all day
Down sidewalks partitioning zoos and museums.
It’s vainglorious and golden unctuous.
Hologram laurels waver among the scattering lizards.
With level heads we bevel landscapes in our own images.
Barren survivalist wildernesses nestle near our stars.
Amen. From aleph to zen, all will be well. Promise you, I’ll call.
Joseph V. Milford is a Professor of English at Georgia Military College south of Atlanta. His first book, Cracked Altimeter, was published in 2010. He is the host of the weekly Joe Milford Poetry Show, which he maintains with his wife, Chenelle. He also edits the literary journal Scythe with his wife from their shack in rural Georgia. Currently, he is happy with the Atlanta Falcons football team.
In the Silence
She hides from day
And lives the night,
Her paws betray
Her padded steps.
She slinks through gardens,
Alleys, gates.
She hides from streetlight,
Drinks the dark.
Her silent grace
Knows each step
Away from humans,
Buildings, noise.
A shadow; black,
Unseen, unknown.
Her eyes glisten,
Await her moon.
A final crack
In wooded fence,
She crawls, and stretches,
Licks the trees.
Her quiet sea
Of grass, of green,
Caress’ whiskers,
talons, fur.
She rolls and mews
And takes her moon,
And lies in silver
Soft, serene.
The night flows gently
Heart is calm.
She feels the silence,
sky, the stars.
And here she feels
The earth, the air,
Beating in her
Soft and pure.
Til eyes move gently
Remember time,
The coming sunrise
Threatens her eyes.
Back through woodland
Through the fence,
Back through the gardens,
Alleys, gates.
She must return
Before the sun
Burns through her fur,
Her paws, her tail.
She shuffles in
The urban house,
Pads through the cravings,
Hunger, strife.
She climbs the stairs
Into the room,
Heartbeat racing
As the light
Slowly sets
Her fur aflame.
Awakes in hands.
In skin.
In life.
Lucinda Troth may be reached at lucinda_troth@hotmail.com.
The Banshee
Within the wail of the banshee…
This concept I will await
As momentarily, she touched on my soul…
but as yet, she has failed to take
A Celtic spirit, an usher proclaimed…
for those amidst us
that move to the next world
Foregone is the conclusion
that my loved ones
will be forewarned
My torment echoes
and my soul has been destroyed…
As my soul is in limbo
and my prayers for release
are being ignored.
Regardless of the Banshees silence
whilst she washes human entrails
I again get to meet my old friend
Darkness once again
The prince of darkness
The bringer of death
Again I ask my old friend
Why is my spirit in limbo
and the banshee does not wail?
Awkwardly he acknowledges
my plea…and dispositions it
as the undead of society.
Relentlessly I forgo my quest
of seeking normality
As darkness has succumbed my
world.
Within my hopes, my dreams
and desires
My old friend darkness will
always transpire
As within the realm of light
Darkness will always prevail
As the wail of the Banshee…
Is no more
For what was once accepted
As a warning of foreclosure
Which was duly accepted and understood
This concept is no longer
Apparent…
Instead I still seek refuge and
Comfort in the realm of the shadows
Whilst my life is in limbo
And my feelings no more.
Linda Sheppard may be reached at angeleyes370165@googlemail.com.