I sing a streetcar serendipity. A Poem by Marie Marshall

Marie Marshall New Orleans Poem Picjpg
 
I sing a streetcar serendipity,
pralines and beignets, king cakes and pears,
a chicken pot pie from The Pie Lady,
mango, banana, Mr. Okra’s wares.
I sing of the sweet Sweet Street Symphony,
of improvised signage by Dr. Bob,
the half-folded fan of the Marigny,
be nice or get yourself a new paint-job.
I sing Jackson, I sing Congo and Pops,
jazz, blues, Dixieland, or gospel menu,
the iPhones of the rookie female cops,
the Quarter and the Faubourg; I sing you
the Gutter Punk’s hat where a quarter drops,
the boys, the girls, the creoles and the whites,
the seedy bars, the dance that never stops,
the lost blue of days, the yellow of nights.

 
 
 
Bio – Marie Marshall (3rd person)

MM is a middle-aged Anglo-Scottish author, poet, and editor, who says little about herself, preferring to let her writing speak. She has had three novels published, two of which are for the young adult / older children readerships. Both of her collections of poetry are currently in publication. Naked in the Sea (2010) in its 2nd imprint, is available in e-book form direct from publishers P’kaboo and in Kindle version on Amazon; the 1st imprint may still be available in print, if you enquire at Masque Publishing of Littlehampton. I am not a fish, nominated for the 2013 T S Eliot Prize, may be bought direct from publishers Oversteps Books. Marie has had well over two hundred poems published in magazines, anthologies, etc., but has not submitted anything since 2013. The most unusual places in which her poetry has appeared are on the wall of a café in Wales, pinned to trees in Scottish woodland, and etched into an African drum in New Orleans Museum of Art.


 
 
 
 
 
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French Poet Flies Continental. A Poem by R.W. Haynes

RW Haynes
 
 
Of course the body wants to stay alive
And generate survivors unto the end of days,
Mused Baudelaire, his bladder somewhat awry,
Yet this old testament will not suffice.
“Water,” he growled to the flight attendant who
Hovered with false benevolence in the aisle,
And his sister gladly poured him half a glass,
Wishing it were warmer, but it’s always hot in Hell,
And he turned back to the window and beheld
Green England extend its southwestern leg.
And the new testament, brethren, why are we now
To subsist on hope, on charity and faith,
Unless, mon Dieu, they are inevitable?
“I refuse to get the joke,” he told himself,
“And I also refuse to decline the prize.”
Diana of the drinks-cart completed her cycle
And stood again nearby, one eyebrow raised.
“I thirst,” he said, and the airplane was no more.
 
(originally published in Tertulia, 2009)

 
* Editors Choice for National Poetry Day at Poetry Life & Times 21/03/16
 
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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Silent Obscurity. A Poem by Adam Levon Brown

 

I feel like I’m fading; into silent obscurity.
Shadows play tricks on the wall.
 
I look up to the sky
for answers to my life.
Am I even here anymore?
 
Or have I faded to beyond the reaches
of a human hand’s grasp?
All memory escapes me –
 
As I look to collect myself
on the canvass that is my life
 
I must be painted somewhere in the grand scheme,
I am thinking to myself.
 
Why can’t I find myself?
 
I seem to be faded away;
like a dried leaf that blows in the autumn winds.
 
I will work with what is left of me
and try to love you
the way I’ve loved in the past;
 
Just know that I’m not the same person I once was.
 
Passion has left me
and I seem to be fading into-
 
Silent Obscurity.

 
 

 
Adam Levon Brown is a poet and author residing in Eugene, Oregon. He has one published poetry book out, Musings of a Madman, which is a collection of poems made to enlighten and inspire the reader. Adam attributes his love of poetry to the many great poets he discovered in the school library during his formative years. He enjoys listening to political hip hop music and is a political activist himself.
 
 
My Author Page: www.ctupublishinggroup.com/adam-levon-brown-.html
My Facebook Author Page: www.facebook.com/AuthorAdamBrown
My Twitter Account: twitter.com/adamlevonbrown

 
 
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Solaris. A Poem by Robin Ouzman Hislop


I'm out of the Station
out of the shuttle
perched on this moving 
crumbling Mimoid 

in its shimmering ocean
                        disintegrating
like an ancient city in ruins
                        like a Pompeii in lava.

Suddenly there's Snow's voice 
in my brain, she's gone Kelvin 
she's gone, she was just a projection.

The ocean laps at my booted feet
as if to anoint them
as porous stalagmites slide underward.

It's in my blood, but not my blood
our crystals are alien, i hear 
Snow's voice again, like an echo
                            she was just a projection

& you, Snow, what are you, i yell
as the stalactites fall to dust – 'Snow!' 

 
* Solaris Stanislaw Lem
 
robin2705

 
Robin Ouzman Hislop, born UK, a reader in philosophy & religions, has travelled extensively throughout his lifetime but now lives in semi- retirement as a TEFL teacher and translator in Spain & the UK.
 
Robin was editor of the 12 year running on-line monthly poetry journal Poetry Life and Times. In 2013 he joined with Dave Jackson as co-editor at Artvilla.com, where he presently edits Poetry Life & Times, Artvilla.com, Motherbird.com.
 
He’s been previously published in a variety of international magazines, later publications including Voices without Borders Volume 1 (USA), Cold Mountain Review (Appalachian University, N. Carolina), The Poetic Bond Volumes (thepoeticbond.com) and Phoenix Rising from the Ashes (a recently published international Anthology of Sonnets). His most last publication is a volume of collected poems All the Babble of the Souk available at all main online tributaries

 

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Irrelative. A Poem by Miriam C. Jacobs

*For Ed Hall

Wash hands of him, rip collar,

band one arm in black.

Every year say kaddish, and press

a stone into the ground.

You saw his stumble on the down

step – a Mobile city bus –

two years old, but already wearing his father’s

sins – indistinct, sleepy, immobile

with Norman Rockwell crack,

his mother’s rage, “Get your black

ass up,” what the world will say

if he falls – dreaming – of red hair and freckles,

promises exed. Of course,

she turns on him, tears that calendar

from the wall, pops his woolgathering

head.
 
 
Jacobs recent head
 
 
MIRIAM C. JACOBS is a alumnus of the University of Chicago and teaches college writing, literature and humanities. Jacobs is the editor of Eyedrum Periodically, the art/literature journal of Eyedrum Art & Music Gallery, Atlanta. Her poetry has appeared in Jewish Literary Journal, The East Coast Literary Review, Record Magazine, The Camel Saloon, Bluestem: the Art and Literary Journal of Eastern Illinois University, The King’s English, and Oklahoma Today, among other publications. Her chapbook of poetry, The Naked Prince, was published by Fort!/Da? Books in September 2013.
 
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The Body Politik. A Poem by Ron Olsen

The truth too painful to bear
Honesty becomes the fault
For those who would control
A basis in deceit
Down the Devil’s hole
Where the light of truth
Never shines
 
Come unto me
You who suffer
And I will comfort you
With words so sweet
So euphoric
An eternal promise
Where fear never dies
 
A choice
Between fear and hope
Fear the stronger arm
Wins the contest
The evil of lies
Overtaking good
The truth too painful to bear
 
Only love
Overcomes
Reaching out
Challenging the call
For the annihilation
Of belief
In something better
 
The beginning the end
The end the beginning
The struggle
To control and contain
The truth
That love enters in
Where fear is cast out

 
 
 
walden-pond-005-300x225
 
 
Ron Olsen is a Peabody and Emmy award winning journalist based in Southern California. He is recently retired from the Tribune Company, where he was stationed at the Los Angeles Times, working with the newspaper’s writers and editors to adapt newspaper stories for KTLA-TV. He is the author of more than one-thousand essays and an occasional poem. His essays have been published by several local papers in the Los Angeles area. He began writing poetry just recently. He says he loves the craft of saying more with fewer words, with each word playing a significant role in the piece. “I am sometimes struck by my poetry”
he says.”I’ll look at what I’ve written and wonder where it came from-some wellspring that’s beyond my understanding. What a strange and wonderful process.”

 
 
A more complete bio can be found here –
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ron_Olsen
http://workingreporter.com/wordpress/a-question-of-priorities/
or at his blog at
http://workingreporter.com/wordpress or his Facebook page at
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End of World Blues. A Poem by Akpa Arinzechukwu

 
The world is aging
Soon perchance
It shall forget how to dance to the rhythm
Of this song
 
Our lovers in bed with us
Shall become nothing to our eyes than
Logs of wood
 
Their smiles shall become nooses
To which we shall be hung
 
And sex
Shall become a frontline
Where blood shall flow in abundance
Desecrating our lands
 
And the smokes from the chimneys
With other flames from burning bushes
Shall to the atmosphere return
 
Then
The world shall die
And we the inhabitants
 
Shall vaporise into the thin
Air
 
 

 
Akpa Arinzechukwu i
 
​Akpa Arinzechukwu is a Nigerian born poet, environmental activist, blogger and tutor. His works have appeared or will feature on Fundza, Visual Verse, Eastlit, Poetry Pacific and elsewhere. He is currently working on his collection of poetry.
 
 

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The Last Film. A Poem By Steve Klepetar

 
The last film we saw was about a house
in the woods, with an owl circling..
 
After, you said you saw a painting once, in a museum
in some back street, with a Roman god
 
parked in front – a house with a circling owl
whose white wings stretched beyond the canvas.
 
Its wrinkled face tickled your eyes, but the house
itself looked small and broken –
 
crumbling with rotten boards and holes,
windows cracked and great trees dripping
 
above a derelict roof. You stopped for coffee then,
small, pale hands warming around the cup,
 
then bounded down uneven marble stairs just as
snarling guards ushered patrons out into the glowing night.

 
 
SteveLadysmith
 
 
Steve Klepetar’s work has appeared worldwide, in such journals as Boston Literary Magazine, Deep Water, Expound, The Muse: India, Red River Review, Snakeskin, Voices Israel, Ygdrasil, and many others. Several of his poems have been nominated for \Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize (including three in 2015). Recent collections include Speaking to the Field Mice (Sweatshoppe Publications, 2013), My Son Writes a Report on the Warsaw Ghetto (Flutter Press, 2013) and Return of the Bride of Frankenstein (Kind of a Hurricane Press).
 
 

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