The Thracian Rider Is Doomed to Moonlight. A Poem by RW Haynes

 

Artemis of slippery rocks, O power
Of mesquite, O night, O resonant night
Of owls and tricky rapids, in this hour
Guide my faithful warhorse aright
In this crossing of this magic stream,
Where the ghosts of ancient rattlesnakes
Arise a moment from their deathly dream
To view the crossing an intruder makes.
Thus splashing splashlessly, now I ride,
Saluting the river with my brazen spear,
Across through the shallows to the western side,
To Mexico. Moonglow is strong, but sunrise is near,
And here I will abide when darkness is gone
Awaiting the impulse which will impel me on.

 
Just one game plays out at no remove
From reality, and its rules both produce
And require defiance of traps that prove
What you are. You must somehow turn loose
Of love’s numerous and bogus avatars,
Of pride’s super-subtle, invidious claims,
And all false illusions, from Hell to the stars,
As the clock steals vigor, and all the other games
Clamor for attention. But I have arrived
And crossed this river, one dragon slain
In Bulgaria, the battles I survived
Having cleared my soul of useless pain.
And now, freed from compulsion of choice,
I listen for orders from an inward voice.
 
Last night I met a perished knight at arms
Wandering feebly down the murmuring stream,
And we spoke awhile of debilitating charms
That lurk malignantly in hope and dream.
Death had relieved him of all but regret,
He smiled, his eyes unseen in the ghostly shade,
But hoarsely whispered then that to forget
He’d instantly take agony in trade,
And he reached forth to me his bony hand,
And I pronounced forthwith the living curse,
And he was gone with that crushing command
That the dead must obey and none can reverse.
And the waterfall echoes its perpetual sighs
And I stand watch here silent at moon-rise.

 
 
On the Savannah River 2013
 
 
 
R. W. Haynes has taught literature at Texas A&M International University since 1992. His recent interests include the early British sonnet, and he is completing a second book on the Texas playwright and screenwriter Horton Foote (1916-2009). In his poetry, Haynes seeks to celebrate life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness without sounding any more dissonant notes than he has to. In fiction, he works toward grasping that part of the past which made its mark on his generation. He enjoys teaching drama, especially the Greeks, Ibsen, and Shakespeare, and he devoutly hopes for a stunning literary Renaissance in South Texas.

 
 
 
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~SCHIZOPHRENIC TENDENCIES~A Poem by James Dennis Casey 1V.

 
I know my flaws
Holding on to the darkness
As I step out of the light
 
I did everything I ever did
I own up to it too
Never hiding behind a phrase
 
“The devil made me do it”
Not in my vocabulary
 
Good
Evil
Never satisfied
Either way
I keep them both hungry
 
Sometimes I recognize myself
Others I don’t
The times in between
Are madness
 
Schizophrenic tendencies
Of a multi-faceted gem
 
I fuel myself with whiskey
Fight
Drink
Fuck
 
Yet my heart is full of empathy
Forgive
Forget
Love
 
Many different faces
Many different masks
 
Hobo lullabies
Rich man dreams
Commando stain pants
Fresh clean shirt

 

 
james-dennis-casey-iv-jpg
 
I fancy myself as a bard & wordsmith, madman, artist, free thinker, cat lover, hat lover, owl enthusiast, and crystal collector. My poems have been featured in print form on two separate occasions. My poem “A Philosophical Treasure Chest” was picked for the anthology ‘Where the Mind Dwells’ after wining a submission contest, and five of my poem submissions were accepted to be in ‘Tribute-Pirates Anthology’ by Writing Knights Press. Some of my poetry has also been in the pages of various online magazine publications. Poetry Blog: http:// jdcivskeletonsfrommycloset. blogspot.com/
Rev.James Dennis Casey IV. Ordained Dudeist Priest at Dudeism, the Church of the Latter-Day Dude
 
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Bed. A Poem by Martin Foroz

 

      It was not
      the same bed
      Your spirit,
      somewhere else
      But the flesh
      familiar

 
mf-pic
 
BIO
Mohammad Forouzani (Martin Foroz) is an Assistant Professor of English
Language and Literature. He is originally Iranian, and is now living and teaching
at university in Oman. His poems were recently published in Voice of Monarch
Butterflieies: Middle Eastern anthology by Ten Poets from Ganges to Nile
(2016-
Editor: S. Saeidnia), Tuck Magazine (August 2016), and Raven Cage Ezine (2016, 3rd issue).
http://martinforoz.wordpress.com
https://www.linkedin.com/in/mohammad-forouzani-5b330572

 
 
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WHAT THE METAL HOLDS TOO LONG IS CONSUMED BY FIRE #34#35#36. Poem by Darren C. Demaree

 
WHAT THE METAL HOLDS TOO LONG IS CONSUMED BY FIRE #34
 
The small, repeatable
actions
 
that go wrong one time
always snatch
 
your throat
& divide it up
 
into a tributary
of failure
 
that dumps fire
into more fire, spreads
 
until the harbor
becomes a deep hell.
 
 
WHAT THE METAL HOLDS TOO LONG IS CONSUMED BY FIRE #35
 
Throw the remaining eggs
at the ashes of the silo. Eat
 
what cooks there. Enjoy
the plenty that is nothing
 
left to burn. If the house
goes up too, your fingers
 
will substitute for the silver
that can never be saved.
 
WHAT THE METAL HOLDS TOO LONG IS CONSUMED BY FIRE #36
 
Wear the crisping.
Wear it into town.
Pick a bar, rural
superhero, the silo
smoking on your chest
is worth a month
of free Wild Turkey.

 
 
 
 
Darren C. Demaree
 
“Darren is a dangerous dreamer, concocting love poems to his home state, and pastorals to his true love. But there’s always something more beneath the surface: sex and violence, villainy, mutilation, uneasy redemption and troubled ecstasy. These poems are pins pressed deep in the disfigured heart of America. They work a dark magic on the reader — they’re unsettling in necessary ways.” Christopher Michel
 
Darren-C.-Demaree
 
My poems have appeared, or are scheduled to appear in numerous magazines/journals, including the South Dakota Review, Meridian, The Louisville Review, Diagram, and the Colorado Review.
 
I am the author of “As We Refer To Our Bodies” (2013, 8th House), “Temporary Champions” (2014, Main Street Rag), “The Pony Governor” (2015, After the Pause Press), and “Not For Art Nor Prayer” (2015, 8th House). I am the Managing Editor of the Best of the Net Anthology.
 
I am currently living and writing in Columbus, Ohio with my wife and children.

 
 
 
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SWIMMING TO THE MOON. A Poem by Steve De France

Tonight my fingers stiffly stumble across
my keyboard as my mind is repulsed,
as I am frightened of this task, as I am afraid
of the pain of thought., as my spirit fills & trembles
with the mystery in words.
Words that once flashed
in the eyes of the dying,
words that fade into a wet cough,
words brushing past the living
with silken lips as cold as marble,
their frightened gasps merge into darkness.
Ancient images tumble into my mind, I pass the
rough tips of my short fingers across my
damp forehead—very carefully as I
rehearse for my passage to the moon,
knowing all of us will have to make this swim
through skin and blood and memories.

 
 

steve-defrance
 
 
Steve DeFrance is a widely published poet, playwright and essayist both in America and in Great Britain. His work has appeared in literary publications in America, England, Canada, France, Ireland, Wales, Scotland, India, Australia, and New Zealand. He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize in Poetry in both 2002 and 2003. Recent publications include The Wallace Stevens Journal, The Mid-American Poetry Review, Ambit, Atlantic, Clean Sheets, Poetrybay, Yellow Mama and The Sun. In England he won a Reader’s Award in Orbis Magazine for his poem “Hawks.” In the United States he won the Josh Samuels’ Annual Poetry Competition (2003) for his poem: “The Man Who Loved Mermaids.” His play THE KILLER had it’s world premier at the GARAGE THEATRE in Long Beach, California (Sept-October 2006). He has received the Distinguished Alumnus Award from Chapman University for his writing. Most recently his poem “Gregor’s Wings” has been nominated for The Best of The Net by Poetic Diversity. for further poems by Steve De France see www.artvilla.com & www.motherbird.com
 
 
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Let me go. A Poem by Robin Wyatt Dunn

 

Let me go;
I am drawn.

 
Hereout the maids hinder my suffering;
The maids are buildings, and faces.
The asphalt itself. They seem to care for me;
to prevent my exit from the city’s gravity.

 
All my wishes are spent on the mornings here;
And even the nights tell me I am growing.

 
I want to shrink, under the sun,
Away from all this history.
 
 
mugshot
Bio:
 
Robin Wyatt Dunn lives in Los Angeles.
 


“Agitate. Agitate. Agitate.”
— Frederick Douglass
 
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http://www.democracyforpeople.net
 

 
 
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Out of Time. A Poem by Soodabeh Saeidnia

 

Years have passed and that slim cider plant

is now a strong tree

The mesmerizing highway’s been constructed

across the mysterious sea

Wars started and presumed

to be ended soon

My senses have deadened, whereas my body

promoted to defend
 

I wonder why in this time

I’m not feeling good, I’m not fine
 

Days have come and nights have gone

without a sign of evolution in our genes

Climate smirks at our greenhouse dreams

Through once in a while, monsoons of disease

cyclones of death

Men are digging the earth at a furious pace

but I’ve always known that there are planets, in which

rains are diamond, snows emerald
 

Along this ephemeral wasting of time

I’m not feeling good, I’m not fine
 

The spider web’s connected all the people

Some are trapped like butterflies,

Some are tearing off the net, though cannot fly away

I heard their wings have hurt

and needed a century of rest

Galaxies have been expanding through the Dark Energy

I know that the chance of dropping in a Black Hole

is less than becoming human for some men

We are now safe living in the Milky Way!
 

But I’m running out of time

I’m not good, I’m not fine
 
 
Untitled
 
 
Biography:
Soodabeh Saeidnia lives in NYC but originally is Persian. She got her Pharm D and Ph.D. of Pharmacognosy and has worked as a researcher, assistant and associate professor in the Kyoto University (Japan), TUMS (Iran) and University of Saskatchewan (Canada). She is interested in English literature and poetry, and has published a collection of her poems, Words for myself, in Farsi. Her poems have been published (or a head of publishing) in the American magazines and literary journals including Squawk Back, Sisyphus Quarterly, Paradox, TimBookTu, Bobbling of the Irrational, SPINE, American Writers Journal, Tuck Magazine, La Libertad, Tiny Poetry, Indiana Voice Journal, The Pen, 352 degrees and the Great Weather for Media. A number of her poems have been printed in the books Where the Mind Dwells and American Poet by Eber & Wein Publishing as well as Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze by Johnson Publications and Artistic. Her newest book, Street of the Ginkgo Trees is now available online on Amazon.

 
 
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Oslo. A Poem by Christie-Luke Jones

A solitary orange for breakfast; she delivers it with her unmistakably virginal smile,

kneels by my bed in thanks.

My body fizzes with polarising urges strong enough to kill us both.

Her apartment is beyond all comprehension; I feel undeserving of its pine-scented

air, the only discordant note in an otherwise harmonious melody.

She dresses in furs and heavy knits.

Her glowing skin and lithe body are untouched by the sweating guilt of midnight

trysts.

A nervous laugh rocks the vast drifts as our paths tentatively entwine across the

blank expanse of canvas.

Our eyes devour in absence of trembling lips.

The inevitability is palpable.

A joyful expression of unspoken lust; her hands scream to be touched.

I debate the drop, survey the cliff edge with a melting restraint.

Hurtling forth; I find myself discussing pickled herring in her father’s slippers.

God-fearing Christians, no doubt afraid of this wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Such a charming sheep, though. I bleat and graze with impeccable timing, convince

even myself.

Neither of us find sleep that night.

Impatience drives me to my annex room, whilst her mind is a dance of plush hearts

and handwritten love letters.

Another 12 hours to keep my mask from slipping.
 
 
Bio Photo
 
 
Christie-Luke Jones is a poet, fiction writer and actor from Oxfordshire, England. Christie-Luke’s writing is strongly influenced by the Gallic blood that courses through his veins, as well as his interest in the more macabre aspects of the human condition. To see more of his work, visit www.christielukejones.com.
 
 
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