Tracking Back
a nodal boudoir
not sham city’s clergymen
moves
that the scrotal passports
past paintbrush embassies use
rivalry elms
that illustrate
hospice doorsteps
as dreadfully central to the crusty
listeners
or businessmen
pressed
hierarchical pain moves
handle arterial law
*
platform darkness
enormous clearings retract parted
horizontal linguists coldly
laurels deleted
the chaotic bothers line up
under credit
about to fold
without improvements
to draw boutique silks forward
an ensemble moves a straight
bedtime workshop for array at
a raucous epidemic
watchdog to a linen sighting
depending on tailors
or impostors
wearing
orchestrated
throwbacks
for the volcano racket
Home in the Distant
dollar tone filters reprieve
the passing rubber collisions
measured and padlocked
the doldrum forsaken
as empty light darkening
epithet winds to the left
dumpster visionaries eat
modicum filters without fuming
over a fiscal meat current
doorbells remain a bare looming
transmission haunts return
whirling against a vernacular test
the wig suck of shrill beer
test serpents haunt a downside
vernacular heading bare memories
other fuming acclamations ring
downhill to undulate the comeback
Old Grouches Eating Early Bird Diner
lava withdrawal burnt slow invective
while sciatica released stark alliteration
sentry patrimony sparked a spectacular
daylight moratorium firecrackers withheld
pulsations darkened a rectangular pastime
the crossfire jubilee ripped worn rudiments
cornered the crumpled muffler caresses
where a convocation of balding hairlines
gradually receded in their lifetime hut
no flesh rescinded elastic calorie alerts
backing a mayday growl the creature
gone latent for some weaker principle
graphite-hot during the midship crawler
colored the flashy convocation failing
informally made gaseous duets ache
swamp clearance opposing separation
despite sorting the patrimony lithographs
another crossfire bouncing underway
and not the neutron spurt a turn renewed
sunshine worshippers leaking rudiments
after shops eased everything catalytic
lagoon revenge boiling electrical blubber
stuttered northward torn and metallurgic
timber outlines chafed worn inquiries
a cowl scraping punctual crisis disposal
no phosphate lanyard about to revive
unctuous pablum filters pretzel timber
the mosaic wife handling dead family
on a churn for hard trundling dentures
ladled sciatica spurts handicraft torn
between aching and explaining fear
atonal opera bubbled elusive pudding
for mutineers crumbling the tower price
before revelry welled solar betrayal
BIO
Vernon Frazer has published more than thirty books of poetry. Many of the individual poems have appeared in periodicals such Alien Buddha, D.O.R., eYeland, Otoliths, Plain Brown Wrapper and SYNCHRONIZED CHAOS. Frazer has also published three books of fiction, three recordings of jazz poetry and numerous multimedia videos, available for viewing on YouTube.
Short story from Bill Tope
Fruit Salad "I remember what it was like," recalled Beth softly, speaking to her daughter, "when I had someone." Deb peered at her mom with concern. It wasn't often that the older woman assumed a mantle of self-pity or showed signs of melancholy. "You've got me, Mom," she said hopefully. "You know what I mean," protested Beth. "I think kids nowadays call it a 'significant other.'" Deb nodded. "Or maybe you don't know," suggested Beth. "You're only nineteen. Maybe you haven't experienced..." "I know what you mean, Mom," said Deb, cutting her off. "I've had boyfriends - and lovers." Beth looked at her, as though for the first time. "Yes," she murmured thoughtfully. "Yes, of course you have." Deb was indeed a beautiful girl, as well as a lovely person. The bright spot in Beth's life. Deb suddenly felt a pang of guilt, just for having a normal life and regular relationships, while her mom was distraught. And lonely. Beth's husband - Deb's father - had died three years before in an automobile accident, which had left Beth bound to a walker. She leaned over the aluminum frame now, placed her coffee cup into the dishwasher. "You need to get out, Mom," Deb said yet again, "and meet people. Maybe find a boyfriend," she added with a gentle smile. Beth snorted softly. "Lots of men looking for a chick that they can take out, maybe go dancing, cycling, roller blading in the park," said Beth wryly. "It would work out beautifully." Deb's face fell. "Mom! Not everyone wants a dance partner or a jogger or a bike rider for a companion. You've got a lot to offer. You're gorgeous, and you're just 39. Not everyone is an ableist, not everyone is hypercritical or wants to fix you!" Beth merely nodded, unconvinced. They'd had this conversation umpteen times before. Deb glanced at her phone. "I've got to get to class," she said, gathering up her school books. "And I have to shop for groceries," remembered her mother, walking to the parson's table in the hallway to retrieve her keys. "Will you be home for supper, or do you have a date with a significant other?" she asked, smiling with love at her daughter. At the market, Beth piloted an electric cart through the aisles of the store, pausing to snatch items from low-lying shelves. sometimes using her reacher-grabber to seize items higher up. Moving rapidly through the grocery, she came to the produce section and grabbed navel oranges from a bin. Misjudging the distance to her cart, she dropped the fruit and it rolled merrily away. "Shit!" she said crossly, tracking the path of the oranges with her eyes. "I got it!" said a man huskily, stooping to pick up the orange globes. "Here you are," he said, handing the fruit to Beth. She smiled her gratitude. Pausing for a moment, he asked her, "Are you new?" She blinked. "No, not really," she said, "I'm nearly forty." It was his turn to blink, then he grinned. "Good one!" he said. "I mean, I haven't seen you here before, have I?" She looked at him for the first time. He was tall - six feet - and slender, had graying dark hair. And he seemed perfectly pleasant. What did he want? she wondered. "I usually just shop on weekends," she explained briefly. He nodded. "My name is John," he said. "Beth," she introduced herself. They shook. His hand felt warm. "Well, listen, when you get your shopping done, if you like, I can help you put your groceries in your car - if you like." She stiffened just a bit. "Thanks, John, but I always get one of the boys to do it; it's their job, you know?" He immediately nodded. "I understand. I didn't mean to overstep, Beth." He seemed embarrassed. "I'll be seeing you," he said, and in a flash, he was gone. Beth frowned. He was only being helpful, she told herself. He didn't mean any harm. "Shit!" she said again. Beth stood in her kitchen, putting away the items she'd just purchased, when her landline rang; unlike her daughter, she eschewed cell phones. It had been a careless motorist's use of such an instrument which had resulted in the tragedy which cost the life of her husband - and had put her in shackles. Walking to the counter, she picked up the receiver and said hello. "Hi, Mom," said Deb, speaking very rapidly. "I'll be home for supper, like I said, but I want to know, is it alright if I bring two people with?" "Of course. Of course," said Beth. "Are they friends of yours?" "Well, sorta. They're students in my writing class and we're working on a project together and we wanted to meet tonight. I thought we could just meet for supper, if that's okay?" "Not a problem, baby," Beth assured her. "Do they like fried chicken?" "Who doesn't?" replied Deb. "We'll be over about four, work, then have supper, and then go back to work." "See you later, baby," said Beth, secretly pleased to interact with other people for a change. The "children," as Beth thought of them, worked steadily from 4pm until supper time, at which point Beth summoned them to dinner. As they filed around the dining room table, Beth was taken aback. In addition to the 20-year-old blond girl that Deb introduced as Stephani, was a man who turned out to be none other than John, the helpful stranger from Kroger's. Beth took a moment to absorb the coincidence, but John was not at all discomfited. "Beth!" he exclaimed happily. Beth smiled. "You two know each other?" asked Deb, pointing at them both. "I met your mom at the grocery store," explained John loquaciously. "She was tossing around navel oranges," he added with a smile. After explanations were tendered, they sat down to eat. Stephani and John were uncommonly gracious, entertaining guests and Beth found herself immersed in a warm camaraderie. John, as it turned out, despite his prematurely graying brows, was but 33 years old, an older student due to six years spent in the Air Force, and he was majoring in engineering. He and Beth were almost palpably struck by a connection to one another. Moreover, he seemed to consider her disability not at all. A good time was had by all. Over the next several weeks, John ventured several times to Beth's home to work on the project with Deb and Stephani. He stayed for dinner twice more and one time took "the girls" out to dinner at a nice restaurant, his treat. He was solicitous of Beth, but not hovering, and even liked the same foods that she did. At evening's end, she found her face fatigued from the endless smiling. "What is this project you all are working on?" asked Beth curiously one night. "It's the Magnum," replied Stephani at once. "We're editing the college literary journal this semester; you know, Deb and I are creative writing majors, and..." "But," interrupted Beth, "I thought you were studying engineering," she said, turning to John. "I've got a minor in creative writing," offered John, taking up the thread. "They say people with technical skills often don't know how to effectively communicate with others," he explained. "I've found it a very useful experience." Beth smiled warmly, a gesture which Deb caught. She, in turn, smiled with pleasure. Two nights later, John called Beth and asked if he could come over. At odds with herself, she said yes. When he arrived, he carried with him two bottles of sangria, Beth's favorite; how had he known that? she wondered. Sitting in the living room before the muted television, they toasted everyone they ever knew. They discussed everything: school, relationships, work, you name it. Finally, the evening began to wind down, much to Beth's dismay. "I've got to get going," murmured John. Beth glanced at the clock on the wall: 1:15. "Are you okay to drive?" she asked. He assured her that he was. "Oh, well, I'm sorry to see you go, John," she said in an inebriated voice. "I've really enjoyed your company," she added, wondering if John would think her a lush. Without warning, John leaned in and kissed Beth on the lips. It fairly took her breath away. Then he did so again and she opened her mouth and savored the kiss. It had been so long since she had been kissed like this. As she struggled to catch her breath, he leaned in and kissed her once more, rubbing his fingers lightly over her breasts. Beth lost all control, clutched John fiercely and kissed him back, passionately. The next morning, John had arisen, dressed and departed even before Beth had regained awareness. She was dimly aware of being kissed as she slept. She wondered briefly if it had all been a dream. But then she saw the note. John had written a letter in what Beth thought was beautiful penmanship, and attached it, in a gesture of whimsy, to her walker. In the missive. he thanked her for "a remarkable evening" and hoped that she had a wonderful day. All day long, Beth wondered at the nature of Deb's relationship with her new love interest, John. Love interest? she asked herself. Was she kidding? No, she decided, she was not. As they stood about the table, setting places for dinner, Beth snuck a look at her daughter. "Could I ask you something, honey?" she asked. "Something... personal?" Deb glanced up. "Sure, Mom." "Have you ever... been intimate with John?" inquired her mother with growing trepidation. Deb said nothing at first, then she replied, "Yes." Beth felt everything she had built up in her mind come crashing down on her. "Mom," said Deb, "I'm sorry...." "Don't be ridiculous," said her mother hastily. "You're a young and beautiful and desirable woman, in your prime. What man wouldn't want you?" Damn it, she felt tears welling up in her eyes. "If he hadn't wanted you, I would worry about John," she added. "It was only the one time, though," said Deb. "Last year. It was nothing; I mean, we're friends, but we're not... intimate... anymore." Staring down at the table, Beth only nodded. "Okay?" asked her daughter. Beth glanced up now, nodded again. "Okay, baby. Thank you for your honesty." Beth reconnoitered with John several more times in the ensuing weeks, though they were not again intimate. Beth wondered at that, considered procuring birth control, which she hadn't accessed for years. Sometimes, the "children" worked in the living room and Beth and John met afterward for wine; Deb seemed fine with it and Beth, so desperate for company, put to the back of her mind the idea that her paramour was perhaps a player, and had already achieved what he had sought. They still enjoyed one another's company, however. Things proceeded apace, until they didn't. One day, Beth's mind swooned as she did a home pregnancy test. "Abortions are still legal in this state - for now," added John, looking solicitously at Beth. They were seated at the kitchen table one morning; Beth had asked him to drop by after class. "I know all about women's reproductive rights," muttered Beth unhappily. "And I'm not interested." It had been nearly six weeks since her one night of intimacy with John; now she was torn. "How would you possibly carry a baby to term, then care for it, for - the next eighteen years?" he asked, endeavoring to be 'reasonable.' "I mean, you're..." "Disabled?" she completed his sentence. "That's not what I was going to say," he protested unconvincingly. "It was all impromptu, if you'll recall," she said ruefully. "But in retrospect, had I thought of it, I suppose I had some notion that the baby's father would in some way be involved," ventured Beth. What he observed on John's face did not make her happy. She saw goodbye. "I can't do this, Beth," said John, raising his hands to shoulder level, palms out, and rising to his feet. "I'm going to graduate in a year and then, who knows what happens? Job opportunities in engineering exist world-wide. I can't commit to staying in Chicago, or anywhere else. You understand, don't you?" "Maybe you should have suited up prior to going into battle," suggested Beth wryly. "It's like you didn't consider the consequences of your actions." "Well," he came back at her, "if you'd been on the pill..." "I hadn't had sex in three years," she said a little shrilly. "I thought I'd never make love again. Then you rode in on your white charger and showed me how everything could be different!" Tears were seeping from her eyes now. This was just too much, she thought, drawing her fingers to her lips. The lips that John had kissed. John turned and made for the door to the kitchen. Deb, standing outside, had heard everything. He met her on his way out. "I'll call you about the project," he told her gruffly. She stared at him. "Go. Fuck. Yourself." she said in reply. He left without another word. After John had departed, Deb and Beth sat at the kitchen table, Deb with a glass of wine, Beth with a decaffeinated cola. They sat in companionable silence for some time, until at length, Deb spoke. "You're still a young woman, Mom," she said. Beth stared at her. "We're in this together," Deb added. "Next time, though," she said. Beth looked at her daughter. "Yes?" she asked. "Pick up your own damn oranges." Together, they laughed.
Poetry from Orzigul Sherova (needs to be May 1)
✨🌹Looking for Mother🌹✨ My thoughts are towards you from evening to morning, My tongue will be with you even from poison, From such a city that lights up at night, The burning eye weeps in thought, I looked for you with all my heart, mother. Without you, my days seem to be dreary, Hasn't luck turned around, Everything that appears is just a dream, A butterfly on your sunbul hair, I looked for you with all my heart, mother. At night, I wait without closing my eyes, Sometimes the coral floats or swallows pains, Maybe these days will pass in one pass, I'll meet someone as beautiful as you. I looked for you with all my heart, mother. A white scarf was left hanging, Without you, I'm even taller Come on, ask me what's wrong? Looking at your picture, the heart cares, I looked for you with all my heart, mother. Alisherovna Orzigul
Poetry from Christine Tabaka
Becoming Nonexistent
Shrinking from existence. Fading from all worth.
Time holds out its hand to pull me in. There is
wisdom in the longing & sorrow in the loss. Each
footstep takes me further off my path. I look at you
with sullen eyes as you walk out of view. The
sound of crickets fills another lonely night. The
mirror no longer shares my image, only a history of
what might have been. Neatly shredded strips of
paper dangling in an autumn breeze. Expectations
vanish with the sun. I have nothing more to give.
The smaller I become, the less I have to offer.
No one will miss me when I’m gone.
There Can Never be Another Casablanca
There can never be another Casablanca. There
can only be one epic drama / one epic romance.
Some sagas can be retold /rewritten, but this one
cannot. No one will ever replace the actors with
such immortal style. Years in the making / hours
to observe. Romeo & Juliet – it is not! I need
your succor / the enemy nears. Darkness overcomes
dusk / time explodes in sparks & flares / battle has
begun. We never stop fighting / we never stop
learning / we never give in to fear. Morrocco /
land of mystery & romance - there love stories
go to die. I close my eyes to destruction and war.
I march to the song in my dream. And yet … time
vanishes too quickly. I waited for too long / the
curtain begins to fall.
La Marseillaise starts to play.
Night Dread
I cannot stop the craziness
that marches through my head.
Nights filled with anxiety-ridden soldiers
battling for space between my dreams.
Demanding center stage among distorted
visions that float past my closed eyes.
Filling every crevice with this & that.
An insistent litany of turmoil,
trying to sort through illusion,
searching for fact. There is no peace
to be found in my restless mind.
Sleep is a stranger
that haunts my restless mind.
TooMANYToo
Gone – all GONE.
TOOOOO many /dreams/ are left behind!
WHY have we killed the DRM?
Power-Lust-Greed …
all HAIL the mighty warriors of DTH!
$ongs $ung out of tune …
Too MANY days / Too MANY times / Too MANY sins.
We are the carriers of D O O M
We are the bringers of
~ DESPAIR ~
the DRMS are ALL <GONE>
Ann Christine Tabaka was nominated for the 2017 & 2023 Pushcart Prize in Poetry; nominated for the 2023 Dwarf Stars award of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Association; winner of Spillwords Press 2020 Publication of the Year; selected as a Judge for the Soundwaves Poetry Contest of Northern Ireland 2023. Her bio is featured in the “Who’s Who of Emerging Writers 2020” and “2021,” published by Sweetycat Press. She is the author of 16 poetry books, and 1 short story book. She lives in Delaware, USA. She loves gardening and cooking. Chris lives with her husband and four cats. Her most recent credits are: Sand Hills Literary Magazine, The Phoenix, Eclipse Lit, Streetcake Experimental Writing Magazine, Carolina Muse, Ephemeral Literary Review, The Elevation Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Tangled Locks Journal, Wild Roof Journal, The American Writers Review, Black Moon Magazine, Pacific Review, Pomona Valley Review, West Texas Literary Review.
*(a complete list of publications is available upon request)
Poetry from Michael Ceraolo
Beginnings
libel- noun
"defamation of persons by means
of written statements,
pictures,
or other visible signs"
Defaming private people was bad enough,
but
"reflecting on those who are entrusted
with the administration of public affairs"
was even worse,
because it
"has a direct tendency
to breed in the people
a dislike in their governors
and incline them to faction and sedition"
This was the climate I worked in,
and
it didn't seem likely to change much, if any
My name is John Peter Zenger,
though
I preferred to be called Peter
I made my living as a printer;
unlike today,
owning a part
of what in America would come to be called the media
wasn't a pathway to great wealth,
so
when Lewis Morris and James Alexander
approached me about starting a paper
to be called the New York Weekly Journal,
for which they would provide the content,
I was receptive to the idea
The words were never mine,
but,
as the printer of them
and with my name the only one on the paper,
I would be held responsible
And
since I agreed to keep their names secret
(a secret kept until this moment),
solely responsible
(in exchange for keeping their identities hidden,
they agreed to support my family
and provide for my defense
should I be arrested for printing their words
Promises kept on both sides)
The grand jury three times
refused to indict me for libel,
but
the determined royal governor
got around that quite easily,
and I was arrested November 17, 1734,
destined to spend the next nine months in jail
The words at the trial weren't mine either,
though I am proud to be associated
with those spoken by our side
The prosecution reminded everyone
"It is not material
whether the libel be true or false"
but
we trusted the jury to determine
if our words rose to the level of criminality
(whether
"the just complaints of a number of men
who suffer under a bad administration
is libeling that administration")
and
the jury judged me not to have
committed criminal libel
I don't know if mine was the landmark case
that some have made it out to be
(I'll leave that debate for historians),
but it was a first step,
a beginning:
though not citing my case directly,
afterward juries were reluctant to convict
anyone charged with seditious libel,
and that's enough for me
The Great Dissenter
SPOILER ALERT:
it's not Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr.
(he's The King of the Weak Analogy,
and
later dissenting from your own weak analogy
falls far short of greatness)
No,
it's a man by the name
of Robert Carter III
I wasn't born in September,
didn't die in September,
but
in my seventy-seven years here on Earth
two of the most important events in my life
took place in September, early September
to be precise:
September 6, 1777
At fifty,
I was baptized on this day,
and
that went against the grain:
Virginia
had an established church, the Anglican,
and
though soldiers were busy fighting the British,
some of them weren't too busy
to be among the mobs
that attacked and destroyed our churches
I eventually left the Baptists
because of doctrinal differences
Such dissent among the gentry
was usually labeled eccentric,
as it was in my case
September 5, 1791
"I have for some time past been convinced
that to retain them in Slavery in contrary
to the true Principles of Religion and Justice,
and
that therefor it was my Duty to manumit them"
and
on this date I submitted to the Court
what was called the Deed of Gift,
a schedule to emancipate my slaves gradually,
a schedule that would continue even after
my death a little over a dozen years later
I don't think anyone knows exactly
how many slaves were freed by this
(a few different numbers have been offered),
and
it entirely possible that some
who thus obtained the necessary certificates
attesting to their freedom
weren't even my slaves,
which
I count as a good thing
Though
I showed that gradual emancipation,
without eventual resettlement elsewhere,
was not only possible but practical,
few of my fellow Virginians
followed my example;
in fact,
laws were soon passed to make it
more difficult for anyone to even try to do so
I always wanted to be
"laid under a shady Tree
where he might be undisturbed
& sleep in peace & obscurity"
and
for the most part I have been such,
because
"My plans and advice
have never been pleasing to the world"
and because they didn't fit the narrative
that has come to be constructed
regarding my more famous contemporaries
Michael Ceraolo is a 66-year-old retired firefighter/paramedic and active poet who has had two full-length books (Euclid Creek, from Deep Cleveland Press; 500 Cleveland Haiku, from Writing Knights Press) published, and has two more, Euclid Creek Book Two and Lawyers, Guns, and Money, in the publication pipeline.
Poetry from Brian Barbeito
It was Hot Like Summer and the Demons Ran Deep, or Not in This Life Anyways the rains had arrived when there was supposed to be snow, and the fields became beige and flaxen again, and the world was strange and stayed that way. it was as if it had longed to be strange and present that part of its personality that nobody cared about. and now that it had gotten the chance, it wasn’t going to give it up. for many days and nights the precipitation continued. an old solitary hawk that lived somewhere near or perhaps on the top of the movie-house came down and alighted atop a No Trespassing sign. a dirty sad area, who would want to trespass there anyhow? I watched the beautiful hawk as it looked for something, here and there a bit like you look for where you put your keys down right?- found it, jumped down, seeming to let itself fall down more so than jump, having just jumped into the air I felt, retrieved the thing, and left. later I had seen a few souls, two in person and two in vision, that presented well enough, but which I felt were possessed. I have a soft spot for the aged, the idea of the old man w/his sweater and perhaps book or cane even, hard fought sagacity as it were…but not these ones. whatever had taken up residence in them, if I was right, (you always have to leave room for the idea of being wrong), had really done a number on their souls. I was sad and always a bit startled at this. let them be for it was not my responsibility and besides,- these people wouldn’t only not change, but would defend their ideas to the end. pride. arrogance. one day that end would come, but that was up to the Whole, the Universe, God, whatever nomenclature or moniker one chose or that was in fashion. the rain was rain for the high temperature. if you went near a window or outside it actually felt warm and sometimes hot. back by the way of the hawk again, I glanced to see if my old friend who was not my real friend was around. nothing though. no hawk today. sometimes there is nothing but the rain. Brian Michael Barbeito is a Canadian writer and photographer. Prose poem and landscape photo book, Still Some Crazy Summer Wind Coming Through, is forthcoming from Dark Winter Literary Press, summer 2024.
Poetry from Ike Boat
Don't Miss Me #DMM <--- Title Of Poem #TOP Don't miss me when I'm gone, For I'll be in a better place. But please, don't forget me, And the love we used to embrace. Don't miss me when I'm gone, For I'll be free from all pain. But please, don't let my memory fade, And our moments be in vain. Don't miss me when I'm gone, For I'll be in eternal sleep. But please, don't forget my face, And the promises we couldn't keep. Don't miss me when I'm gone, For I'll be just a memory. But please, don't let me be forgotten, And our love become a mystery. Don't miss me when I'm gone, For I'll be at peace at last. But please, don't forget my name, And the moments that have passed. Don't miss me when I'm gone, For I'll be beyond your reach. But please, don't let go of our love, And the lessons that it did teach. Don't miss me when I'm gone, For I'll be in a better place. But please, don't forget me, And the love we used to embrace. ✍🏿🗣🎤 Ike Boat