Poetry from Noah Berlatsky

Spock! Spock!

It’s clearly the wrong Spock.

The whole point of the right Spock

was that he was right,

Nimoy slightly stooped, the long face

impassive not with lack of emotion

but with the contained quiet of competence.

You could trust him to jettison the fuel,

to identify the imposter and brave the radiation,

to boldly go with raised eyebrow and without fuss

into the plot holes and out of them,

like a tricorder tracking the moral law.

He said, “it is logical,” but he meant, “It is good.”

And then along comes Ethan Peck

with a beard and a tragic backstory

babbling about child development

as if the only character worth having is trauma.

If you want a character defined by trauma

why make him Spock?

If you want a character who is Spock

why define him by trauma?

What is the logic of an identity

that is not an identity?

Maybe there is no logic to identity.

There is no Spock. Spock is just an image

you watch because you are you.

He is behind you like a tragic backstory

and before you like a tragic backstory.

You cannot escape him

as you cannot escape your own beard

which grows like narrative out in space

a rough fuzz on the viewscreen.

It makes a brittle sound like the teeth of a comb

which says, “Spock! Spock!”

Both of them turn.

Poetry from Jacques Fleury

Young adult Black man with short shaved hair, a big smile, and a suit and purple tie.
Jacques Fleury
Who Am I?


[Originally published in the Somerville Times & Fleury’s book You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self]

if you peel layer 
                  upon layer
                           upon layer
maybe then and only then
you will find me...
for i am a multilayered entity...
a building block of heterogeneity 
i can be fierce and unflinching
              apathetic and also doting
                    docile and also volatile
                            lovable and also irritable
                                      compulsive and also discernible
I am a man
I am a “black” man
I am an American
I am a “black” American
I am a DNA test from
Ancestry dot com’s family tree
And twenty-three and me
I am African ancestry
I am Afro Haitian ancestry
I am European ancestry
I am the legacy of a middle class family in Haiti
I am the legacy of America’s social and economic disparity
I am the story of Horatio Alger’s characters thriving over adversity

I am a malady
I am a remedy
i am a rainbow
i am a shadow
I am a son
I am a brother
I am an uncle
I am an author
I am an educator
And pervasive human valor coconspirator
           I am in attrition
             I am in progression
               I am an amalgamation
I am perfectly imperfect
And imperfect perfectly
I am a thesis of social injustice
I am a vision of personal apotheosis
                  I am all this and more...

I am            ME!


Silhouetted figure leaping off into the unknown with hand and leg raised. Bushes and tree in the foreground, mountains ahead. Book is green and yellow with black text and title.
Jacques Fleury’s book You Are Enough: The Journey Towards Understanding Your Authentic Self

Jacques Fleury is a Haitian-American poet, author, educator and literary arts student at Harvard University online. His book “You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self”  & other titles are available at public libraries, The Harvard Book Store, The Grolier Poetry Bookshop, Amazon etc…

Poetry from Soren Sorensen

36 questions and no answers

What is the universe?

Is there life elsewhere?

And what is the meaning of life?

Is the soul real?

Does it live forever?

Is there life after death after all?

The past time is dead?

The future is a dream?

Is there present time at all?

Or it’s gone as we blink?

Dying before its birth?

Vanishing in the stomach of the monstrous past?

But don’t we hear the birds’ cheerful tweets?

Don’t we see the sparkle of a glistening star?

Or sunlight shimmering between the branches?

Do you still remember your mom’s lullaby?

Your father’s sermon, your teacher’s praising words? 

Where are those reflections?

Those waves of sound?

Are they wandering somewhere forsaken?

Whizzing like maniacs, following skewed paths?

Or did they fade away into nothingness?

Are they beyond the point of no return?

Annihilated in a singularity?

Can I zoom into spacetime’s reciprocity?

Follow those mysterious curved trajectories?

Delve into a wild spatiotemporal trip?

Reach the galaxy’s outer bounds?

Grasp the shadows of past ruminations?

See faces, hear words long over and done?

Reverse time’s stalwart forward tendency?

Can I tell my parents thank you, forgive me?

Can I ask my teacher questions never asked?

What is the universe?

Is the soul real? 

Is there life after death after all?

Zillo

I miss my summer days in beautiful Bradillo,

my grandma’s village on the slopes of mount Gravillow,

its wide wheatfields sparkling with gold and yellow,

its watermill and the spring at the chirping rivulet below.

Summers were hot, apples and pears were ripe and mellow.

I enjoyed leisure days with my friends Blaise and Marcello.

We swam in the creek, despite it being brisk and shallow,

gathered wild blackberries uphill from my grandma’s bungalow.

There was a small woman with a big hump, named Zillo;

she carried water daily with a copper jug, as big as a cello.

Kids would tease her regularly, yelling “Hey Zillo, Zillo,

why don’t you marry me? I’m a real good fellow.”

Once I saw Zillo sitting all alone in the shade of a willow,

like weighed down by her hump. I approached and said “Hello, Zillo.”

She turned, then frowned her eyebrows resembling the wings of a swallow.

Zillo said nothing, yet I was certain she was ready to bellow.

It was many years later when I revisited Bradillo.

I asked my grandma – all grey-haired now – about Blaise and Marcello.

They both had left the village, she said, then I inquired about Zillo.

“Zillo died last year,” she gave me the bitter pill that was hard to swallow. 

I didn’t cry, but deep inside I felt a big hollow.

What my grandma said next, I was unable to follow.

Memories of Zillo were full of remorse and sorrow.

Had she left forgiveness for me, I would gratefully borrow.

Oh you poor hunchback woman, my dear Zillo,

you come to my mind every time I think of Bradillo,

why did you refuse to utter the simple word “Hello”

when I tried to talk to you under that old, weeping willow?

Yellow leaves

Yellow leaves blown by late October wind,

drab sky obscured by frosty, tedious rain

drearily drumming on the windowpane…

they bring back memories I thought were bygone.

                     

            Let the wind blow and the rain fall,

            the past is gone once and for all.

The shady alleyway, the old oak tree and the bench below,        

you and I, and the evening, the moon’s timid glow,

Will you come tomorrow? you pleaded gently seeking reliance.

The wind responded with a soft whistle, then there was silence.

Let the wind blow and the rain fall,

            the past is gone once and for all.

Now I am dreaming that it was today

and that tomorrow was one midnight away.

Alas, it was yesteryear before yesteryear before yesteryear.

Time does not cure; memories will never be wiped away by years.

Let the wind blow and the rain fall,

            the past is gone once and for all.

What I lost one evening is revisiting me on a rainy day. 

I should have known, real things come seldom, they come only once.

The void cannot be filled by belated regret.

I wish someone had told me: You can lose easily but will not forget.

Let the wind blow and the rain fall,

            the past is gone once and for all.

Dreadful mornings

It’s morning again.

I feel the dim light scattered in the room with my eyes still closed.

My brain is waking up to face the terror,

to encounter the reality,

to deal with the twirl of terrifying thoughts…

I wish it was night, a never-ending night.

I would then submerge in a deep slumber,

hide in the bushes, or behind the rocks,

squeeze in my sleeping bag and fasten it tight,

run from the unbearable weight of actuality,

from the creepy spiderlike creature advancing toward me to procure my life,

turn off my conscience,

return to the realm of my whimsical dreams,

the times when life was so cozy, so calm, 

when biggest worries were a lost keychain, a rejected poem, a departed train.

The biggest miseries of yesterday’s life would seem like an invigorating breeze.

Now I’m in a boat that seems to be a flake lost in a rough sea.

I’m unwillingly drifting in empty space encircled with an ominous halo.

My train is nearing a final station…

Still there is a chance, even though a slim, an improbable chance.

Maybe God will be merciful to me.

God?

Someone who never appreciated God suddenly is referring to God’s authority,

asking for almighty God’s benevolence, hoping to be spared by a miracle…

I know some people survive the disease while others do not.

Yes, it’s a slim chance, it’s all in God’s hands.

But if God saved all, then God’s existence would be meaningless,

and if God saved me, then he would instead take someone else’s life,

so my survival would be corrupted, I’d be culpable for someone’s misery.

What should I wish then?

I feel gone astray in a deep forest, a lifeless wilderness.

Fear of death is worse than real death!

I get up, get dressed,

put on my best look and walk down the street.

I smile to people, some smile back to me—

nobody knows what’s hidden inside.

Now my soul is like a swirling typhoon,

next moment it transforms into a desert,

a hollow phantom with bleeding insides.

Still, I am trying to remain focused, to make sense of it.

There should be some kind of justification.

How did I come to this tribulation,

this nonsensical desolate ordeal?

Oh, I think I know, I see the meaning of my destiny.

Yes, it’s payback time—

I pay for the sins I have committed.

I have never been a perfect human,

played a decent man while being a cad,                                     

have betrayed my friends, been insensitive,

have sought gain at the expense of other’s pain…

Oh, how comforting are these memories!

So, I keep digging, digging deep and far,

opening the dark pages of my life.

The spiderlike creature is now my friend.

We dig together and we find bad things, disgusting misdeeds,

shameful acts that you’d never imagine.

The worst of my deeds are the most consoling,

like a sip of water under scorching sun.

They bring ease, relief, gratification.

I feel so relaxed.

What I am facing is so meaningful, so agreeable.

Life’s repudiation seems just and fair after all my sins.

The white horse

(A talented person with a terrible addiction)

You were born to ride a horse,

a white one, a beautiful one,

one that will take you to the top of the hill,

jump over the creek in a magnificent leap,

then gallop fiercely,

ascend and conquer the mountain’s snowy peak,

but the slopes were too steep, the bushes were thorny,

the shrub scratched to blood all your horse’s legs,

the sheer slopes made him wacked and weary,

so your horse opted a different path

into a black forest so dark and dreary,

descending into a watershed valley,

galloping madly, so wild, unruly,

all covered with repugnant black sludge,

unheeding your calls to stop or turn back,

leading you, instead, into a ghastly swamp,

making you whimper and hopelessly bellow:

“I lost my white horse, I lost my white horse,

I lost my white horse…”

Days

Days come and go like flickering flashes of a firefly,
nature changes colors like a chameleon.
Daybreak, noon, nightfall—one more day is gone,
today becomes past, tomorrow—present.

Days are the black and white keys of a clavichord
that play the concerto of our life—
elating tunes like a rhapsody
or chords that echo with your broken heart.

Days are paintbrush strokes on a vast canvas
made of the fabric of our destiny.
Some brushstrokes are bright, the others—murky;
the resulting masterwork is what we call life.

Days are paved like the cells of a chess board.
Some days we walk straight like a magnificent queen,
but then—find ourselves traipsing like a pawn
or crisscrossing wonky paths like a forlorn knight.

Days… There are days we laugh, and days when we cry,

We want to believe that most brilliant days are waiting ahead,

but before they come, we live on borrowed time

and submit ourselves to the wheel of fate.

I had a nickel

I was a schoolboy when I first met her.

We walked down the street and stumbled upon a group of gypsies.

One held my love’s hand and started telling what’s waiting ahead.

The other offered a lovely necklace that I couldn’t buy—

I had a nickel but needed a dime.

I saw a flower in someone’s backyard lawn.

The flower enthralled me by its magic charm.

I came to pick it, but the owner said it was in his yard.

I said I’d buy it, but the price was high—

I had a nickel but needed a dime.

I left my parent’s home, traveled many miles seeking good wages

but most of the days barely earned enough for a piece of bread. 

I received a note that my mother was sick.

I set out fast, but couldn’t afford the journey’s fare—

I had a nickel but needed a dime.

I was like a leaf blown by vicious winds, a motherless child,

Not only were my pockets empty, but also my heart.

I had grit and courage but not a pinch of luck.

My good intentions never came to life for one damn reason—

I had a nickel but needed a dime.

When I grew older and finally managed to save a whole dime,

I came to a path leading to two doors.

The left one was the door to Eden with an entrance fee of mere ten cents.

The one on the right had a sign saying Inferno, five cents.

I knocked on the right door, extended the dime and said Keep the change.

Dreams

My good time is night time

when I am asleep.

I am by myself,

securely shielded by my coverlet

from the grim darkness of the other side,

away from the day’s preposterous whims,

alone with my dreams.

At night I am whole;

none of my troubles bothers me at all.

I can feel no pain,

the images I see are so rich, so pure,

I hear music of fantastic allure, 

my feelings are deep,

the ambiences are a milieu of spectacular scenes.

But my dreams are so real,

yet so perplexing and inexplicable,

sometimes so dreadful and formidable,

often mystical,

supernatural and psycho-analytical,

at times enchanting and inspirational,

at times so unreal, metaphysical.

Yet nighttime remains my favorite time,

when I am alone with my reveries

intertwined with numinous enigmas and awes

that keep me secure from the reality’s frightening claws.

I cannot resist the enticing appeal of the siren songs

calling me to a sublime world made up by my brain,

away from the life’s insipid terrain.

In visible darkness      

In visible darkness of a misty morning

a willow bends to a quiescent pond

to drink, or whisper fond words of friendship

in the obscurity of invisible light.

Silence is hung thick upon the dormant pond,

numinous and dark are the shades of the forest,

all motion has ceased, time is nonexistent,

the nature, it’s no more than a nebulous myth.

A subtle quiver disturbs the languor,

a star timidly flickers in the sky,

a ripple idly freewheels to the shore,

the forest heaves a surreptitious sigh.

A pale silhouette of a unicorn

appears in the far side of the pond,

the breeze opens up the willow’s foliage,

the pond freezes in exasperation.

The unicorn glides slowly ‘round the pond,

from behind the clouds emerges the moon,

the willow sparkles with enchanted gleam,

the pond remains still, soundless and cold.

The unicorn gently nears the willow,

touches the branches, caresses the twigs.

Embraced by myriads tender floral arms

the unicorn takes shelter in the tree.

The crescent slithers back behind the cloud,

all shadows vanish in the nightly haze,

the willow leisurely waves her supple sprays,

the pond stays somber, desolate and dazed.

The unicorn retreats, wanders to the woods

uncaring for the willow’s longing gaze,

the forest stands unwavering, calm,

hiding ages of mysteries inside.

The nature submerges in tranquility,

the sky is murky, the dawn is far,

the ether murmurs a soft lullaby,

the quiet pond reflects a lonely star.

In my life

excuse me,

in my existence

I have reveries, recollections, contemplations,

I have doubts, questions, lengthy conversations

with me, my memories, and my sub-conscience.

I try to untangle knots,

to make sense of my mystical thoughts,

to comprehend my baffling misadventures,

to discern light in the nebulous brume,    

to find justification for life’s repudiation.

In my mind, I travel the landscape of the creation,

ridges, canyons, and dreadful depressions.

At times, it seems to me I see uncanny reflections,

familiar patters coming from the past,

peculiar shades blown from the future.

The knots become more tortuously disheveled,

yet bleak traces of light blink at a distance,

hence, I’ll go on trying to make sense of my life,

excuse me,

of my existence.

Poetry from Mark Young

The Contender

& so, eventually,

come back or make

a comeback. Such

area contained within

that (missing) space.

Comeback means

trying to get back

to where you were

& hope you make it.

Come back implies

you never left there.

Blink

A participle of

movement. The

running man. Snap-

shot open to

interpretation. Statement

given, vision

attached. Nothing

in it. Wait for. Wait for

the man to pass

by. Ask. Why? State-

ment means nothing.

Formulaic

Look, she said, I

know you’ve got

all these fancy ideas

about structure &

trochees & the

lengths of breaths

but they’re all

far too complex

for me to compre-

hend. My way

is simpler. Go

down to the

beach to do

your writing &

put in a line

break every time

a beautiful body

passes by.

from a past life

Rain, finally, after months of dry. Bucketing down. So dark I turn the lights on at 1.30 p.m. only to have them go out five minutes later as the power goes off. Thunder & lightning, directly overhead, only nanoseconds between flash & crash, not even enough time to say one thousand one. I sit in the open area beneath the house, some meters back but not far enough to escape the rain which sweeps in everywhere. I do not care. The gutters flood. Through a blurring curtain falling off the roof I watch the water start to lap over the edges of the pool. Ten minutes ago it was several centimeters lower down. The cat cowers under another chair. The turtles of the Woolwash Lagoon will be hurrying to lay their eggs. At the first sign of rain . . . Branches break off trees. There are no birds.



The storm moves away. The birds return. The power takes another twenty minutes.

Meanwhile, in the Ozarks

Metal brackets, 18 carat

white gold men’s wedding

ring, no glitch. Advanced

technology, the image

printed directly onto can-

vas, rounded & beveled,

art deco style. Any euphem-

ism for describing queer

people. A real all rounder.

Poetry from J.J. Campbell

Middle aged white man with a beard standing in a bedroom with posters on the walls
J.J. Campbell

——————————————————–

the end of this parade

i had a therapist tell me

that writing out my pain

would be a good thing

he was one of these fucks

that was never interested

in what i had to say

only wanted to make sure

the money was good

and people wonder why i drink

i feel like i can see

the end of this parade

that the light in the tunnel

is a fucking train and i feel

no desire to get off the tracks

i tell my mother there is

no reason to fear death

it is only the natural

conclusion of life

i don’t know how to be

a hypocrite on this one

i close my eyes and

accept the pain

i could care about

what comes next

but then again,

if i’m dead…

—————————————————

hoping to look cool

frank used to make

his saxophone howl

on a saturday night

i used to stand there

smoking a cigarette

hoping to look cool

putting pen to paper

when the moment

would arrive

there was a drunk

woman that took

my pen one night

i was hoping she

was going to write

her number down

on my hand

she threw it across

the street where it

got run over by

a car

i’m sure she has

kids now that bitch

about their kids and

all the school taxes

frank died a few

years later

and i haven’t been

back there in years

i did learn though

to hide my fucking

pen from the drunks

———————————————–

last nickel to my name

maybe love is a dragon

misunderstood and pissed

off about it

any delicate nature isn’t

tolerated anymore

as usual i am lost

broken and disheveled

last nickel to my name

a glass of scotch and

a clove cigarette for

that last reminder

of my youth

she was a snare drum

in a long solo from

coltrane

how she ever found me

will remain a mystery

i probably will never

get the chance to

read it

most likely

i am just a footnote

a chapter that some editor

will mark as not necessary

for the final edition

—————————————————

never cool enough to enjoy

two in the

morning

alone

it feels like

morning is

just another

reason to die

love is some

distant rumor

you were never

cool enough to

enjoy

once you got to

the second hand

of dead friends

you stopped

counting the

ones that beat

you to it

so many years

behind you that

the truth slaps

you and never

in the way you

would like

a cold reality

jack and coke

old reruns of

austin city limits

just hoping for the

right song to start

playing

————————————————

hoping for some kind of reply

i can remember the

quiet nights waking

up alone

thinking of you on

the other side of the

world

all the damn messages

sent

hoping for some kind

of reply

even a fuck you is

better than the waiting,

hoping

what good is this instant

society if you still believe

in smoke signals

the blinding sun and

a bottle across the top

of your head out of

nowhere

the average man

would take that

as a sign

i was blessed with

stubborn genes

i hope one day

someone can

appreciate that

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is trapped in suburbia, plotting his escape. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Horror Sleaze Trash, The Rye Whiskey Review, Disturb the Universe Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy and The Asylum Floor. His book with Casey Renee Kiser, Altered States of The Unflinching Souls, was recently published by RaVenGhost Press. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Poetry from Christopher Bernard

The Creation of Hope


Take a memory.
Add a thought,
a handful of questions,
and five tears.

Add the wings
of a mourning dove, 
a cruel caress,
a love, a lie,

a betrayed promise,
an aimless rage,
three sleepless nights,
and seven years.

Place in a pan, that,
each summer wide,
is ten winters long.

Finally, dust 
with a cloud of doubt.

Place in the oven
of a heart that is broken,

and bake for an hour
or a lifetime.

*

You will know it is done
when the stars are brighter
than when you began,

when the sea chants
to the sleeping hill

and blind with morning
is the sun,

when the birds dance
in the sky and shout
with castanets
gold and shrill,

when the snake slips
from its curdled skin,

and the chrysalis 
peels back to free
the Monarch’s brief,
painful beauty,

and you see an angel
cross the sky,
its wings transparent
as a dragonfly’s,

when, with the sun,
the old earth leaps
in the savage dance
of all beginnings,

and you wake, weeping
with a wild joy,
wondering where
your despair has died.

Take a spoon
of distant sigh,
silver whisper,
finch’s cry,

and feast on it,
o dearest love,

on the shortest day 
of the longest year, 
at the darkest hour 
of the deepest night.

_____

Christopher Bernard is an award-winning poet, novelist and essayist. His most recent books are the first two stories in the “Otherwise” series: If You Ride A Crooked Trolley . . . and 
The Judgment Of Biestia.