Lily and Reed

My mossy pad touching your mighty waist
melancholizes my petals. You play
the flute as if it were a lissom sword.
I love your Creole voice, twigs of raucous
French marinated and casseroled with
African leaves. A rich spinster reading
the soul of the perfect, poor man makes her
richer. I will give my horizontal
to your vertical. Give me not curved moons
that belongs to primitive people; give
me a rusty sickle that I may reap
you for myself. I cannot wait for you
to call yourself mine. Time, our breath, is but
a flower jealously jailed by its bud.
You are egoless; I want to live and
end on your reedbed, not in this soggy
palace. I want to call you, your voice mine.


Fatherly Forms

When I feel down, like a small bulb dying
among a crowd of condescending moons,
my guilty eyes see only one martyr.

He is a devoted, withering trunk
holding countless boughs, twigs, leaves, flowers, fruits.
Unmoved by his perpetual pain, like
greedy worms we feasted on his glory.
We picked up huge stones to stone him, sometimes.

Each dewy morning, the massive mountain
is losing his soil to the angry waves.
He walks around leaning against the walls
of the house he built but can no more own.
Like a scarecrow he kept us safe and fed

our fields, but since the avalanche of white
hair, he is toothless and frightens no birds.

And, when I spend the afternoon over
the bridge watching the fragile fish carry
their blissful bodies down the river, I
feel his youth in the rhythmic ripples and
know he would lie about his evening grief.


Self-Isolation & Shakespeare

A nameless day, I see myself leaning
on a Malboro backstage, my green tongue
in love with borrowed smoke. I talk of
dreams; I am the musical Mercutio.
Stickmen on fire queue up for my concerts.

A blank night, I find myself in seiza
at a shrine, gargling with sweet, warm water.
An Asian Orsino, I chew music;
I am the scarecrow stuffed with red hay,
whose harmonium goes wild and mild.

A dateless noon I see myself digging
into an oyster; I am Bassanio,
the gambler. I rejoice in the absence
of the sun, trying to lure a mermaid into
the spirited marrow of my drained skeleton.

I have no regret as my beard falls on
the cracked window sill. On the old table,
fresh newspaper. Covid count. Coldest rain.
To be Romeo, or not to be Romeo?
Back to my boulder, I am the snowman
cheating invisible death, in his blindness.

Amit Parmessur, 38, a private tutor, is a two-time Pushcart Prize and two-time Best of the Web nominee. His poems have appeared in over 165 magazines, namely WINK, The Rye Whiskey Review, Night Garden Journal, Hobo Camp Review, Ann Arbor Review and Ethos Literary Journal.  He lives in Quatre-Bornes, Mauritius, where he spent his adolescence hating poetry.

gree--------N

gob
lint




ammo/nia nile

nihil
N.O.




wal-

	ker
	lace
        let
        mart
	nut
	rus
	ter
	ton




cylindricalifornia

mistaken for old john coltrane
buttery sky oh




warm germ

petrie
petri
	peachtree




bio/graf

J. D. Nelson (b. 1971) experiments with words in his subterranean laboratory. His poetry has appeared in many small press publications, worldwide, since 2002. He is the author of several collections of poetry, including Cinderella City (The Red Ceilings Press, 2012). His poem, “to mask a little bird” was nominated for Best of the Net in 2021. Visit http://MadVerse.com for more information and links to his published work. Nelson lives in Colorado.

	         CIVIL WAR:  ACT 2 

		Three hundred years ago,
		Europe wasn’t white.
		Men were French, Polish, Italian, Greek,
		Swiss, Danish, Ukranian, Turk,
		Finns, Spanish, Austrian, Swedes,
		Dutch, Irish, German, Serbs.
		Not white.

		Three hundred years ago,
		Africa had no blacks.
		They were Maasai, Himba, Zulu, San,
		Dogon, Yoruba, Berber, Bantu,
		Kikuyu, Ndebele, Ashanti, Hausa,
		Fulani, Samburu, Hadzabe, Igbo.
		Not black. 

		Then slave traders came with guns and ropes,
		buying and selling.
		Captured Africans filled boats
                stacked like cordwood.
		Now they were black.
		Auctioned off to customers
		who matched every shade on the gray scale,
		but had the power to be white.

		Opposites.  Duality.
		Authority vs. slavery.
		Slavery endorsed by church-going whites.
		After all, black property wasn’t Christian.
		Nor truly human. 
		When the world is black and white,
		individuality is erased.

		Only poles remain,
		like goalposts in a football game.
		Immigrants jockey for a place on the yard line.
		But the poles are not equal.
		The balance is off,
		and imaginary goalposts
		flash like ghosts.



		Tremors of change shake the field,
		and those who own nothing but whiteness
		lash out, 
		afraid they will lose their grip.
		Those whose blackness is matched
		by talent and ambition
		see a new day on the horizon. 

		But many hang on to the old days,
		days when Jim Crow kept order,
		kept the lowest white 
		a degree above the highest black.
		Along comes a TV name with a slogan:
		Make America great (white) again. 
		The second Civil War begins.
		
		Shots ring out.
		Hate crimes multiply—
		against Muslims, Asians, Jews, Hispanics, Blacks…
		The first skirmishes in a war we thought was over.
		Democracy dies first. 
		A foot on the neck, until life is snuffed out.
		We should have seen this coming. 

nerve damage
 
i can feel the nerve
damage in my middle
finger
 
i guess the knife
went deep enough
 
part of me knows
that many people
are chuckling
 
knowing they wanted
the knife to go deeper
 
all i can preach
is patience
 
your day will be here
before you know it
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
fogs up my glasses
 
another morning in
some medical center
 
scribbling poems in
the waiting room as
my mask fogs up
my glasses
 
i doubt the pandemic
ever ends and i'm sure
this will be my life
until my mother dies
 
not much of a life
by the usual standards
 
but i do what i can
with what i have
 
i can't say the same
for everyone else
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
a little less gentle
 
soft black skin
connecting the
tubes
 
explaining this is
going to hurt a little
 
i chuckle and explain
my high pain tolerance,
hoping she knows to be
a little less gentle
 
she starts the procedure
and i imagine her naked
 
i believe she noticed
 
or that was my imagination
having her lick her lips and
start to open her sweater up
for a better view
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
laughing at the hard times
 
i learned a long time ago
that laughing at the hard
times will take you much
farther than the endless
misery of complaining
 
now, my laughter has
turned more to sarcasm
as i have grown older
 
the joys of becoming
an old cynical fuck
 
it does have some perks
 
no one tends to fuck
with you
 
or bother to talk to you
 
or most days, if you can
get so lucky, they will
forget you exist
 
talk about a good day
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
make me find the joy
 
contemplating
suicide again
 
it always comes
up around the
holidays
 
there's an angel
out there that
hopes to cure
me
 
make me find
the joy
 
i applaud and
admire her effort
 
but she's old
enough to know
 
there is no escaping
certain tragedies

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Beatnik Cowboy, Terror House, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Rye Whiskey Review and Mad Swirl. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

THE POET AND LIFE

Authoress: HONG NGOC CHAU

 

Leaving the school podium, I process my dream

Literary career desire still lingers me, I write poems

About life, my feelings spread everywhere

I take the standard of human love as the ruler

 

The true, the good, the beautiful are my desires

Living for people, I respect this value as ever

Originally literature helps me sublimate my soul

And music, painting with glittering feature halo

 

I reflect on human life from the reality

Getting humanities to lead the journey

I always look towards the spiritual world

Teaching offsprings as the basic words

 

With virtuous behavior, I keep morality

To know mutuality, love, I live sincerely

Subjectively wrong or right as my own mind

Not many words, cunning I don’t mesmerize

 

For my career, I keep my words indeed

In my heart, the enthusiasm of the poet

I love life, days by days increasing vitality

Love my country, my people, and humanity

Her true name is NGUYEN CHAU NGOC DOAN CHINH. Her Pen name is HONG NGOC CHAU, her Facebook name is NGUYEN CHINH.

She was graduated Master degree in Education Management. She is a member of the Association of Writers of Ho Chi Minh City (Vietnam), the Honorary Foreign Advisor, Ambassador of the Suryodaya Literature Foundation (SLF) From- Vietnam; the member Admin of W.U. P (World Union of Poets), the level of GENERAL COUNCILOR of the World Union of Poets with COORDINATORS SILVER MEDAL ( 14th medal of the World Union of Poets), Contributor of VISHWA BHARATI – India (The Vishwabharati Research Center), Administrator, moderator, group expert of many literary forums around the world…

She got a lot of rewards and diplomas such as World Literary Prize World poetic Star 2019; Diploma of II ND Level “Temirqazyq – the Best Poet – Writer of the World,2019”;  Certificate of honor is a Gold categorized member in Motivational Strip showing outstanding qualities in global literary excellence and contributions 2019. Premio Mundial A La Excelencia Literaria 2019-2020; COPPER CROSS of The World Union Of Poets for promotion of art 2020; Honorary Diploma 2020/2021: Literary Luminaries Award of The School of Art and Poetry;  S.L.F Literary EXCELLENCE AWARD 2020, Certificate of appreciation of TOP TEN WRITER 2020; HAVEN FOR THE WORLD WRITERS, Certificate of honor 2020 of WORLD AWARDS “CÈSAR VALLEJO 2020”, for education, culture, academy, art, reporting, communication, TV, business, civic, human rights…; “THE ODER OF SHAKESPEARE” MEDAL (23/4/2021) of MOTIVATIONAL STRIPS; Certificate of author recognition presented to NGUYEN CHINH – 2021, Poetic warriors Award of excellence 2021; CASA POETICA Magia y Plumas, Primio De Arte Y Literatura Universal 2021, RHYTHM OF THE HEART, Certificate of appreciation is awarded as TOP CONTRIBUTOR  (2021), GENESIS WORLD WRITER COMMUNITY Global Certificate of Excellence (World Wide Platform to Elevate Outstanding Global Writers) 2021, Queen Zenobia Award for Global Culture 2021, Perfect Attendee Award GOLD A 2021-2022 of POETRY CENTER;

CULTURAL AND ARTISTIC ACTIVITIES Books of poems published: Vietnamese Contemporary Poetry (Volume 1); The road to the true heart, Pitiable or Blamable… and many works have been published on world literary forums, newspapers, magazines of English Literature, USA, India, Poland, China, etc., global publications; honored to receive the Excellence Award of the European Poetry Championship 2021, honored to participate in the 2nd World Literature Festival 2021, honored works selected by Indian Educators to be published in a multilateral anthology Global convenience, honor to attend the World Poetry Championship 2021, Inner Child Press International-‘building bridges of cultural understanding’ 2019, 2020, 2021. v.v…

No freckles in a foxhole

No reason to go straight
with all the roads and learning
on the curve.

No freckles in a foxhole,
that’s what I always say with
no one around.

Slowly spooning cubes of green Jell-O
out of the Borg continuum.

Wishing Hitchcock Photography 
was in charge of all my best close-ups.

Midnight taco trucks playing greasy  
shell games to God. 

Everyone down at the Employment Center 
in line looking for the works.
 
Land Bridge

Once they close the damn thing down,
you start to think of all the circuitry involved, 
that intricate green board of so many unpleasantries, 
a murder of crows for silicon valley, the cops on the scene 
with massive hangovers so you can watch your
toilet water tax dollars be flushed away;
truckers like lonely monks without the sash, 
but I could never accept the cabin like a coffin 
for so many miles; all those rules of the road,
that carnival itch of a six day beard –
how closely I resemble this land bridge 
of complex carbohydrates, a bedside table 
full of happier times I can hardly remember
standing over this buzzing ice machine waiting 
on another glacial pull from the heavy-eyed doldrums 
you find west of the Rockies.

 
OshKosh Brioche 

You can’t take the vaude out of the ville 
no matter how small the population gets
and it’s OskKosh brioche, all factory stacks 
to smoke; the smoker of cigarettes travelling 
around in packs, dry-mouth nicotine armies
blowing smoke rings of unholy matrimony,
during those many long lunch hours
that seem like they should be for more than drugs
but never get there in the late-January
snowshoe sense.
 
Prayer Mats

in the sprawling 
dry mouth desert

spitting hump day camels 
at market 

going Bedouin 
for the long
haul

all those prayer mat Fridays 
facing the East instead
of liquidation 

waiting for some 
simple scorpion sting 
around the fire  

under all those stars 
from the sharing fellowship 
heavens

of the waiting 
galactic federation.
 
Long Gone

He said he worked at a gas chamber
and it took me three hours to figure out 
he had said gas station,
but by then I was sitting at home
and he was long gone
like all those shoot ‘em up extras
in spaghetti westerns 
that don’t even live as long 
as the horses.
 
She Smacks Her Lips 

Those ugly gusts of wind 
are almost enough to keep 
the once-friendly dog parks 
indoors.

I threaten to drop the bomb
even though I have never had the bomb
and any of its known accomplices 
in my popular employ.

She smacks her lips 
so you know she is preparing 
to say something important
even if it doesn’t mean shit to 
anyone else.

On that slippery plastic couch 
my grandmother once died on with 
a tongue so thick it could be some cement mixer 
ham steak the kiddies can’t bite through
come dinner time.

Crack a tooth and cry on command.
Put all your problems to bed.
Sit up in the dark on a phone 
that threatens to 
come over.

Her snoring husband in the background
of a movie no one will 
ever remember 
seeing.
 
Name Plate

Nevermind the name plate,
you could be anyone’s failing blood feud,
pick umbilical at that bacteria-laden innie 
half a world away from the stringy pink placenta 
some performance artist in Europe insists
on eating to the great bemusement of a failing union –
standing inside that last payphone in town for warmth,
I blow across gloved hands out of habit,
watch the cheesemonger with mites for legs 
crawl home to some seasonal flood zone  
in the burbs; that scratching body lice of old records
along the bus route, no way to get anywhere
that ever pays near enough to make it
in a naked 

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle though his garbage.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Synchronized Chaos, Literary Yard, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.