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Tuesday, November 24, 2015

Zamir Birnbach ------- four poems

Zamir Birnbach

“Honeysuckle Sickness”
Bodies steam, widening
spectrum of exposure to the strobe
floral patterns flaunted breasts
pilot caps crowned on shaved brows
sleek men crowding the kitchen:
a frantic quest for more elixir.

Arm reaches, extending the unmistakable
sweating - eye sight hazy
peering into its purple depths as I drink

the sweetness sometimes lingers with the scent of joy
to mask the salutations, late assignments, novel knowledge,
we search for alternatives,
ways to abscond from the sober.

Weekend hordes squeeze rooms,
sloppy introductions, gurgles of attraction
these words get tossed around in the laundromat of discussion
washing over me with pungent tide
exuding from the doorframe once the cycle is complete.
But the rounds repeat.
I grow sick of this saccharine lifestyle.

“It’s Always Sunny Above the Clouds”

Traveling east in evening expedites nature.
Close your window to blinding beams 
Open it to a retreating molten orb. 

Most towns are clumped, crippled fireflies, only void between. 
Steady crimson flash on the tip of the wing and your conscience.

Stars melt into lineless horizons and cities indistinguishable. 
Without sun to give identity, clouds are black,
Lights fade in and out of existence. Unnatural. 

Paying premium to relatively teleport over the world
it still suffers beneath. 
It enters our eyes but elicits no thought. 

So we scramble to squeeze the sinking seconds
of Wi-Fi, invisible beams of indulgence.
We have begun our descent.


My back isn't straight anymore
it hasn't been since they talked to momma.
No other way for lulu to go
to school, it must be done.

My elephant knees are caked with copper dirt 
I forget my fingers.
They are stained with blood
but it is not my own.

Mr. Johnson says it is Christmas season in America
but it only gets hotter here.
If my basket is not full
neither is my belly.

momma touches the bruises but does not speak while lulu
sits at the table backpack on, buries beaded braids
in her arms like an ostrich.

“Gaze through Glass”

Blinding needle peak, argon beams
painted on like layer cake.

Lone-star glistens
hunched bodies bustle beneath
labyrinthine constructs of metal and light.

Evening indigo glides
infiltrating man’s machines
chokes on haze muting perception.

Linoleum floors wooden cabinets
sticky sap scent still lingers
papers adorn desks abreast paddles and balls.

Two brothers, four fish, and snails
seasonal loratadine. 

Thursday, November 19, 2015

Donald Gasperson -------- two poems

a lark's psalm

pray stay lady mary 
and say a sad mass 

hard's that raw fact 
a man falls splat jack 

as a bad man 
act that last gasp 

a fat cat's black math 
hard cash class 

what say that mad max 
bank that fast track 

craft a bad draft 
cash all that graft 

and that's tact 
'happy and all that'

as apt as art 

a lark's psalm 

windfall apples

a hard early frost
leaves rime in the coffee pot
so stir the fire up
enough to warm a cold cup
breakfast a windfall apple

about in that cold
the fields as raw as should be
the fences are down
under the bramble and fern
the wood coming back to true

awake and sleepless
the 'possum under the boards
likes good company
accepts a windfall apple
carefully eats in quiet

Monday, November 16, 2015

Magdalena Brzezińska ---------- poem

lema sabachthani

My Christ’s bedsores
are so deep
they can easily enfold my fist.
I have been looking for months
at my distorted face
reflected in the Siloam bottle of morphine
placed by his bed.
His cries,
doctors say,
are just the organism’s memory.

My Christ
only speaks to me
in parables
engraved in his purple veins.

Saturday, November 7, 2015

Julie Dickson ----- three poems

Melt into Rhyme
When you allege an untruth,
attempt to drive a wedge -
I find it uncouth,
this type of descent
into the abyss of strife.
I would be remiss
if I failed to make good
or henceforth unveiled
the plans I understood
long ago we set forth.
We vowed to forego words,
allowed, written in pen -
at the time I was smitten,
unto you felt sublime,
caused me to melt into rhyme.
Julie A. Dickson
Exeter, NH

Traveling minstrel sets off on his way
walking from village to town he will play
upon his carved whistle or bow to his shoulder,
music conveyed from small stage or large boulder.
Hat set in place collecting donations,
plays well-known tunes or his own creations.
Some towns accepting, and some prone to dance
but wandering minstrels must all take a chance-
for serious folk might chase him away,
while welcoming kinsmen will ask him to stay.
His garb a soft tunic with felted green hat
Fiddle cuts silence in the key of e flat.
His welcome is worn, pockets weighed down with coin,
leaves town with his food stores, all bought or purloined.
If you see a minstrel who plays on the trail
you may hear a ballad or perhaps a tall tale,
for all through his travels, the roads left behind,
all music and stories are held in his mind.
He wanders - the minstrel to share what he hears
the music plays on, until he disappears.
Julie A. Dickson
Exeter, NH

I may have held my breath
during a hot day in late August,
almost angry to see a red leaf so soon,
as if its mere presence shocked me,
the premonition mounting like a crescendo
The curtain of season-change drops,
warmth fading, seemingly in just one day –
caught, the red, a stray blown leaf,
lost, while others rejoice, sharing their brilliance.
Julie A. Dickson
Exeter, NH