When I must leave you for a little while, Please do not grieve and shed wide tears Hug your sorrow, for I have gone to fetch for you. Live and do all things the same A day will come when you will feed your loneliness with gladness. Remember, before bringing me forth In your arms you taught me to never lose sight even when time seems helpless You guard me jealously like a Guinea fowl that guards her eggs. When hospitals were far, you painfully brought out with gladness A day shall come, When your product will be in demand, When others will look forward to seeing and shake hand with your production You give me a life and a world A day shall come when you will gladly see joy at you feet And by your side, there's nothing we cannot beat Sad are the hearts that love you Silent the tears that fall Living my heart without you is the hardest part of it all It is with heavy heart and tears in my eyes To think of the fact the way I came A day shall come when your hand will reach out in comfort and in cheer And I shall gladly sit by you and hold you near.
Poetry from J.J. Campbell
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- in the winter blues stuck in another waiting room heat raging in the winter blues coat rack full my imagination hoping something young walks in soon i don't think it wants to dream about the wrinkling skin under three layers of clothes fresh out of some vacuum space saving bag although, it certainly has dreamed of worse --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- plenty of happiness honesty hurts laughter doesn't cure shit money can buy you plenty of happiness true love does have a fucking price cheaters always get ahead faster and death is a relief it's up to the user if it is sweet or not ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ i never asked to be born on the cranky days i remind myself i never asked to be born then i'll think of my father and the worms six feet under the ground the anniversary of the day we put that fucker down there is coming up suddenly a smile --------------------------------------------------------------------------------- past any sense of reason there's a darkness deep inside of me that every blue moon or so wants to come out and play stir some shit up push the envelope well past any sense of reason this is where i always tend to hold back the desires and do my best to just play it cool but one of these days they might as well get the riot gear ready madness has no timetable ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- high heels the sound of high heels on tile floors scratches that itch i will always have in the back of my brain of a long-legged queen digging those heels in my chest with a skirt on short enough that i can enjoy the view as i embrace the pain
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Yellow Mama, The Beatnik Cowboy, Terror House Magazine, Horror Sleaze Trash and Cajun Mutt Press. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
Story from Leslie Lisbona
Summer in the City Dorian talked to me like I was an equal, even though he was an adult in his late 20s and I was a child of 13. Debi, our sister, was closer to Dorian’s age and like a mother to me. Sometimes Dorian did unsafe things or said things an adult wouldn’t say, which made me concerned but not enough to tell our parents, except once when he found a gun and shot it in our room. We used to take long ambling walks with our Doberman late at night in our Queens neighborhood. Across from our house was my cousin’s house. Her parents divorced and she no longer lived there, but I knew the house well. Next door on one side was Adrian, who was from Haiti and whose dad had a yellow taxi in their driveway. On the other side was Anabelle, an only child who was a little odd, maybe because of that. We walked past Jay’s house, a large white brick structure. He was three years older than I and an Orthodox Jew. I liked talking to him, but I hated when Debi said he had a crush on me. “I gave him $5, so you have to marry him!” We passed a small stucco house where another only son lived with his parents. He was Debi’s age, and he killed himself one day. He was a dentist. We turned the corner and passed the Greenbergs’ house, another family from Lebanon who were close to my parents. Their son was bar mitzvahed in the backyard when I was six. We walked on 112th Street, right by a home for foster children. This is where we sometimes encountered a pack of dogs. I was scared for my dog because although he was fierce, he was outnumbered. We went all the way to the high school, with its large dark running track surrounded by a fence. On the way home we passed Barry’s house, the local stoner. His was the most beautiful – red brick with stained glass windows and a purple kitchen. Barry jogged obsessively before jogging was even a thing. Dorian and I talked a lot on these walks, and he called me Arn, even though that wasn’t my name. “Arn, let’s go swimming,” he said one night. He said he knew of a great pool: John Jay Pool on the Upper East Side. We rushed home to pick up our bathing suits, then got into his black Camaro. The windows were open, and the night air was thick with summer as we drove up 68th Drive, passing the Annex, where the local boys played stickball, and then 108th Street and Yellowstone Blvd, until we came to Queens Blvd, which we took to the 59th Street Bridge. Dorian had his left foot resting on the dashboard as we drove, his long brown hair fluttering in the wind and his large nose sitting perfectly on his face as he smiled. “This is going to be so fun,” he shouted above the motor, which rumbled below my feet. Once at the pool, I stared at the tall black gate. It had spokes on the top. I clasped an iron post in each hand and peered into the long still pool. Dorian pressed his Chinese slippers firmly onto the bars and shimmied up like it was nothing. He perched on the top and waited for me to join him. He had so much confidence in my abilities to climb that when he held out his hand to me, I somehow reached him, surprising myself. Once at the top, I put my arms around his neck as he lifted me over the spokes. I took off my Levi’s as Dorian dove in, his body sliding into the pool without a sound, and started his methodical laps. When Dorian swam, It looked like he was part of the water, gliding through, barely breaking the surface or making a ripple. He was muscular and lean, his hair streaming dark in the night. I slipped into the inky pool and floated on my back, my ears submerged, staring at the sky. It felt like I was the only person in the world. Water usually scared me, and the empty pool was eerie, but if I looked towards my brother, I could get my breathing back to normal. The multitude of cars on the FDR Drive below us seemed far away. I’m not sure why I agreed to go wherever Dorian suggested. Maybe I said something like “Are you sure this is a good idea?” or “Are we going to get in trouble?”, but in the end, I always followed him. Almost every outing turned into an adventure. My parents didn’t seem to worry, and anyway, they had lives of their own. They often went out with friends and came home late, assuming I was tucked in bed or with one of my siblings. On the way home in wet jeans, we took a detour to Mamoun’s, on MacDougal Street in the West Village. It was a small, narrow place with dark walls. It had Lebanese takeout food and was open all night. It smelled of mint and cardamom and meat. We got shawarmas, meat shaved off a gyro stand and stuffed into a pita with tahine, lettuce, and liffit. We ate them on a stoop across the street, where we sat bent over and let the tahine drip to the ground between our feet. No matter how many napkins we had, it was never enough. The tea was hot and sweet in Styrofoam cups, just the way we liked it. Sated and tired, we people-watched in silence, blowing on our tea. “All right, Arn, let’s head home,” he said. He drove us back to Queens, the motor’s hum pulling me to close my eyes, my beautiful brother by my side.
Poetry from Ubali Ibrahim Hashimu
M Y J E W E L You're the poetry I study In you, I find myself busy Getting to know you weren't easy It's as hard as reaching the sky You're the book I flip through In you, I find comfort & solace A truly human being I become For you enlarge my mind. You're the music I always harken to In you, I find myself in the elysian field A field of complete bliss & cockaigne It's as sweet as the seventh paradise. Ubali Ibrahim Hashimu An Infant Poet ✍️✍️
Poetry from Stephen House
in nature sea spray a residue for the lucky i decide as showered standing alone on a rock in pink moonlight wondering and worshipping i dance in circles now celebrating what just is learning to laugh and cry alone in silence singing to my shadow watching days evaporate gently omen maybe magpie peck on head protecting next generation smile in evaluation applaud bird courage forgiven quick at dawn appreciation of all disseminates softly with age in nature and that itself is an indication of measured time remaining here the fish i’m in horror watching him pull up the hooked fish on the end of the jetty where i am taking in the sunset and while i know i can’t do anything to save the fish from this accepted by most slaughter i look into the fisherman’s eyes and quietly say ‘that poor dying fish’ to which he shrugs but i get a sense by the look he gives the fish and me that just for moment hearing my words he falls into what i said and i suppose that counts for something regarding the fish and the life it has lived on planet earth our shared home
Stephen House has won many awards and nominations as a poet, playwright, and actor. He’s had 20 plays produced with many published by Australian Plays Transform. He’s received several international literature residencies from The Australia Council for the Arts, and an Asialink India literature residency. He’s had two chapbooks published by ICOE Press Australia: ‘real and unreal’ poetry and ‘The Ajoona Guest House’ monologue. His next book drops soon. He performs his acclaimed monologues widely.
Poetry from Donna Dallas
Time Gets So Big What’s left are my mother’s linens and every damn coffee cup chipped and cracked What’s gone - the summer leaves stunning when examined up close in the strips of sunlight that dart through the trees Why so sad? Don’t reminisce….. it will remind you of us of this – that time just grows so big like that It’s an ache in my toe (from a bunion that grew out of the side of my foot) cracks in the walkway my child’s college tuition haunting to be paid unopened boxes of candles forever waiting for laughter to be paired with glasses clinking….. We braced ourselves for those tremendous waves at Jones beach we just dove into their bellies before they hit we caved into each other in preparation for all the deaths so big - the list of thank you cards I meant to send another wedding another baby born somewhere in this endless family -- We Don’t Stop -- Who can wrap their pretty head around it shrouds me with busy-ness – am I busy enough? can’t I just watch - for a moment as the hummingbirds delicately buzz the feeder? stare at their sweetness before death stares into me Feel my heart rapid now slower soon slowly time just gets so big like that so fast Devil’s Playground I got lost in the aisles of your woe shopped all your poisons passed row after row of angels with harps on warped rocking chairs Thought time was a falling leaf yet I’m still here bones and soul body a violin case holding the shroud of Jesus I’m old like the music that echoes through the store my head is concrete lead pellets in my socks dragging corpses through centuries of wardrobes stage after stage drug after drug journeys that left us with permanent memory loss a gimp and missing teeth like who’d a thought… a walk in the park an ancient game of handball long drag of a cigarette O-shaped smoke eyes so freakishly blue they glowed Who’d a thought we would create kryptonite and it would blow up into a long-winded sci-fi flick with us as the creepy creatures left sifting through the scraps When God Made Man He put that extra succulent rib in man’s body only later to rip it from him - that perfect baby back and rewire it with a few upgrades We knew back then to hold tight grip our orgasms work fingers to bone a kids mouth forever sucking We knew back then we were fused with mooncut bone some extra-terrestrial beam perhaps to wreak havoc on man who couldn’t bare the thought of any one of us fugitives being the backbone of their succession
Poetry from Chris Butler
Billion Dollar Bombs, Baby We human beings are squishy, soft little blobs pumped full of life's liquid that can be killed by a sharpened stick, but we decided to go all the way to the other end of the spectrum to mass extinction. Barbarism in the Next Apocalypse If society were to break down, if civilization reverted back to basic animal instinct, if there were no laws or government, if there were no rules or regulations, if the food was to become scarce, if the storms were to come ashore, if the levees were to break, if the lights were to turn off, most cruel men would not be murderers or profiteers, they would become rapists. Meltdown Is the world's most dangerous elephant's foot afraid of a mouse, as much as we are afraid of its next step? The first day of hell on your last day on earth, the person you could have become will meet the person you became. Plague The rats will follow us to the moon, stowaways in the circuits of space rockets, settling in the walls of our little colonies, sneaking to eat all of the celestial cheese and transit and transmit the fleas of disease.
Chris Butler is an illiterate poet howling from the Quiet Corner of Connecticut.