Math Time Math time is just before the first recess, And children can’t wait to play outside, But they love math and know they’ll have Exploration and computer time When they return if they remain focused. Except this particular day, our class got an Unexpected but pleasant surprise, a messenger Pigeon flew right into the classroom, and Students forgot all about math faster than a Tick-tock in a hurry. They excitedly called out, “Teacher, there’s a bird in the classroom!” Teacher stopped teaching math and quickly Turned off the light and asked students to close The blinds to keep them and the bird safer. Teacher asked students to remain calm. Students wanted to catch and play with the bird. Teacher carefully caught the bird and placed it in A shoebox. Recess bell rings, and teacher has Yard duty. What to do with bird. Under Teacher’s armpit it goes, and students are excited. Students forget about playground equipment and Stick by teacher like a tick on a deer. It was a long recess for sure but bird survives. Once back in the classroom, students get to Pet their temporary pet. Because everyone is in love with the pet, They forget to close the classroom door And the messenger pigeon flies right out....
Poetry from J.D. Nelson
I tell the black dog that his coat is so shiny— good boy licks my face --- black beans at midnight— last night's dream of Christ's return made the day feel strange --- the two hens eat oats & blueberries in their coop— cold wind before snow --- could it be Venus? wispy clouds race in front of a twinkly planet --- truck backs up & beeps— the dog sniffs the deflated orange basketball --- bio/graf J. D. Nelson (b. 1971) experiments with words in his subterranean laboratory. His poems have appeared in many small press publications, worldwide, since 2002. He is the author of ten chapbooks and e-books of poetry, including *Cinderella City* (The Red Ceilings Press, 2012). Nelson’s first full-length collection is *in ghostly onehead* (Post-Asemic Press, 2022). Visit MadVerse.com for more information and links to his published work. His haiku blog is at JDNelson.net. Nelson lives in Colorado, USA.
Art from Mark Young
Poetry from Aliyu Umar Muhammad
MINING A FAITH My language tells me all I know That for every name, is a contour To the beginning of it's origin That God breathe into souls I pushed in fears, oxygenate prayers And dioxidize glory in a carbonated poem That to back my country Is to lick lips of men with juicy curses My head stocking valleys of grieving That heaven is full of lovers The sun adores moon Like how lord sweeten kids For men are riot gods Men fighting peace to how stars looked peaceful That for in a second a trumpet plays We will all melt into sands gone And there be a holy poem to recite That for every angel's letter Is an acquaintance of either of two postal stamps YOUR RIGHT HAND? Everything in right means good to go YOUR LEFT HAND? There are more classes after learning red. Your body deceives you DANGEROUS ZONE The address being located at the street in your spine My language tells me all I know That everything invisible isn't God God is always beautiful when you close your eyes looking into his.
Aliyu Umar Muhammad is an 18 years old Nigerian writer, poet, spoken word artist and a member of Hill Top Creative Arts Foundation, TYNSWA and Guided Minds Initiatives. His works are published and forth coming on: Kalahari review, pine cone review, open doors magazine and elsewhere.
Poetry from J.J. Campbell
the eyes of jumpsuit elvis you can see the road glisten with the rain through the cheap blinds you swear the last ten years of your life have been lived with one foot stuck in the fucking grave a woman once told me i had the eyes of jumpsuit elvis i laughed hard and whispered that means i'm still the fucking king baby she didn't take that as i was hoping she would that fine line of arrogance and confidence has been tripped over by many drunk fuckers and this isn't the first night i have worn cheap alcohol that's why you never wear the good flannel in a place like this --------------------------------------------------------- reminding the clueless there's his old guitar all the blood and sweat of a genius soaked into that old wood strings nothing but rust now the demons walk these streets at night reminding the clueless what this place used to be some people consume nostalgia by the spoon others prefer a damn shovel the lost souls like to go down to the river and see which brave fucker can make it across they have pulled up three bodies so far this week ----------------------------------------------- one of the youngest ones here the smell of ointment and decay must be tuesday in the waiting room my mother is one of the youngest ones here these other ones are hanging on because no one ever told them it's okay to fucking die the one thing i can guarantee i will not be one of those miserable fucks -------------------------------------------- avoid any and all mirrors snow in the middle of april arthritis has me on the brink of deciding death is a much better place the i love yous are few and far between these days embrace the pain and avoid any and all mirrors that man has lost all hope ------------------------------------------------------- from these suburbs thoughts of murder dance in the lost souls of children way too young to know what it truly means to lose anything but it's way too comfortable from these suburbs to think anyone understands life on the streets like the ones trapped in that fucking war
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is stuck in the suburbs, plotting his escape. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Horror Sleaze Trash, The Black Shamrock, The Beatnik Cowboy, The Rye Whiskey Review and Yellow Mama. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
Poetry from Mesfakus Salahin
Death is the Best Art Death is not the end of all Rather it fails to break life's wall It is the media of transfer That flies us so far It is the beginning of mystery That reflects personal history Life will kill death forever Death will not be visitor any where We will be the permanent guest The King of death and life will listen request The world will be without boundary Endless life will be first mandatory Death is the best art Which always dances in my heart It is truth and beauty Work hard and perform duty we are living in truth and death It is our power's beneath.
Essay from Susan Hodara
Itches
There are harmless ones, tingles that dislodge your hand so you can run your nails into your hair and along your scalp, up and down, once, twice, and that’s all it takes.
There are elusive ones, beckoning from somewhere on your back that you can’t reach and you can’t find, so you contort your elbow and slide your thumbnail across the vicinity, over and over, leaving angry red lines that you won’t notice until later, when a hot shower ignites them and you crane your neck to see what you’ve done.
There are flirtatious ones, a tickle here and then there, along your ribcage, on the side of your knee, behind your ear. Fickle ones that vanish moments after they emerged, not committed enough to stay.
There are latent ones, absent until you caress the area, tease out the ghost. Then you can scratch or press or rub, as you would with any other itch, all the while knowing that the need wasn’t truly there.
There are urgent ones. Sirens that lure your fingertips, masochists that want the pain your nails offer. You slip them over the bumpy surface. You dig their edges into the core of the call, and you know you shouldn’t, but you can’t stop, and you lose yourself in the scraping, the grating, the ecstasy of what feels like relief but is really the plea for more.
Susan Hodara is a journalist, memoirist and educator. Her articles have appeared in The New York Times, Communication Arts, and more. Her short memoirs are published in assorted anthologies and literary journals, including River Teeth, Feed and Airplane Reading. She is one of four co-authors of the collaborative memoir “Still Here Thinking of You: A Second Chance With Our Mothers” (Big Table Publishing, 2013). She has taught memoir writing at the Hudson Valley Writers Center for many years. More at www.susanhodara.com.