When The Big Man Blows. A Poem by Phillip Henry Christopher

(for Ed)


When the Big Man blows,
relive those glory days
rockin’ and rollin’ in the back seat of
a beat up old Buick,
an Asbury Park tune,
a hemi-head
double-barrel bass guitar,
wild and innocent
shufflin’ down E Street,
when Adam first raised a Caine
dancin’ in the moonlight Rosie
low tide summer,
and the tilt-a-wheel
caught us by the collar
and we hung on
and went around and around,
when the Promised Land was
clandestine alleyways,
heavy breath moist
air-fogged window
gasp of a woman child
back street September sixteen,
rockin’ back beat crashin’
fifty ton plates,
furious splooshing
ladles plunging into
liquid steel,
skinny silky skin
long-haired boy
trying to flee
the future,
the mill waiting
to turn velvet hands
to sand paper,
skin to leather,
the quick nervous
wrapping of limbs,
bumping of bellies,
then a house filled with silence
and forty years
of punching in and punching out,
of hot molten slag
like hell fire.
No Jersey Shore fantasy,
just the short ride
down Main Street
to the flats.
No sandy beach ocean,
just the Brandywine Creek.
No neon spinning carnival rides,
or stroll down summer boardwalks.
Just plod along under
smoke stack steeples,
clock in and out forever,
but never forget summers
of desperate fumbling
on back street back seats,
of alleyway heat,
of the Big Man blowin’ righteous
saxophone songs of
Sandy, and Rosie
and Crazy Davey,
while you sang a
song of yourself.
When the Big Man Blows” appeared in PiF Magazine, No. 188 (January, 2013)


Poet, novelist and singer/songwriter Phillip Henry Christopher spent his early years in France, Germany and Greece. His nomadic family then took him to Mississippi, Georgia, Ohio and Vermont before settling in the steel mill town of Coatesville, Pennsylvania, where he grew up in the smokestack shadows of blue collar America.Escaping high school, he made Philadelphia his home, alternating between Philly and cities across America, living for a time in Buffalo, New Orleans, Fort Worth, even remote Fairfield, Iowa, before settling in Indianapolis. While wandering America he has placed poems and stories in publications across the country and in Europe and Asia, including such noteworthy journals as The Caribbean Writer, Gargoyle, Lullwater Review, Hazmat Review, Blue Collar Review, Haight Ashbury Literary Journal, Blind Man’s Rainbow and New York Quarterly
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; his publications include
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules, Next Arrivals and Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems, collected poems, as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande´s La llave de niebla, as Key of Mist and the recently published Tesserae , a translation of Carmen Crespo´s Teselas.
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

If Greatness Were To Call | Poem

man of questions painting

If greatness were to call
would they get an answer
from an old man on an acre
in a place called Tennessee

If greatness were to call
would it scroll by
leading me to an
ad at the end
with vacancies at the inn
and people sleeping in
the street

If greatness were to call
would it be so great
as to wish that
they wouldn’t look at me
as I pass to
get my reward in the gallery,
in the bookstore
with smiling faces, smiling

kick my bones and tell them
that they are great bones
The best we can do is dust
from which may grow a flower.

David Michael Jackson…..from a cave surrounded by crazed Neanderthals in a pandemic.

Floating. A Poem by Fabrice B. Poussin

Strolling at noon on a precious day
when ghosts hover to a favorite dive
he bumped elbows with a girl in white.

The zenith stood guard above misery
throwing flames into his indecent gaze
for he must not dare to confront the heavens.

Black souls danced arm in arm
walking in a deathly cadence
until the bell again rang for order.

She did not belong in this ghastly crowd
her body smiling with the aura of ideals
a promise she vanished in a private realm.

The absent-minded saunterer attempted to follow her
beyond the glaring windows
a bright world in this indecent nightmare.

Her vision invited the stranger one last time
but he could only remain by the gate of horror
to see her disappear within the world she saved.

Fabrice B. Poussin is the advisor for The Chimes, the Shorter University award winning poetry and arts publication. His writing and photography have been published in print in the United States and abroad. He teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, La Pensee Universelle, Paris, and other art and literature magazines, where he has also featured here at Poetry Life and Times & Artvilla.com. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications.
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

Untangle my World | Poem

Untangle my World Poem

My hair is tangled
as I run my fingers through it
and I hold it out from my head
to cut or brush
away my loneliness.
Armed with just my brush
to untangle my world,
the tangled hair
catches the bristles
as I brush the mess
for a moment
into smooth lines
in the mirror.
Even curls can’t
cover the furrows
in my forehead,
in my soul,
but I try
because I must try.
We must try.

By David Michael Jackson

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