I approach the horizon of my 70th year, at a slant.
Opposite the bars of the kitchen window
the gable end wall is stuffed with straw, stones, sand, birds
plus weird contortions.
O cellular automata paying lip service to an age of cryptography
decipher me
a digit in time saves nine.
The wall is yellow now, a mingling crumble
carte blanche in the sun's heat it stands to fall
a block across which entangled photons might reach
to inform the space already transfixed in the light
on this plane of observation
which might be the special attraction, the fractal symmetry
of this organism with its bacteria in my nose
together with the properties of impregnated asteroids.
*
On the bus. 27/05/14
under the hat, squaring the ridge, on the gravy train
traffic is more representative of our species nowadays
an extension of our inner space
put back what you get out of it
like the carnivore industry, from gravy to the grave.
*
Airport lounge. 2.30pm 27/5/14
extended into our traffic
but not our cattle, we eat them
whereas our traffic eats us.
*
Departure Gates
We're not meat as we're shuffled through Control
milled into queue
loaded into seats to be transported across the skies
our meat machines are the word made flesh from which we grow
to love, not hate!
*
Late in the Departure Lounge.
Night drinks a darkening
day in its deceit harvests green
with all its carnage unseen
beneath our conscious sheen
for were the green gone
how could night become
with a hey, a ho, a noddy
noddy hey ho.
*
On the floor stands an orange cow beside the snack bar
bedecked in flags of nations with tasty invites.
You can even touch it, it will not bite.
The Delicatessen sports legs of smoked ham, spirits
a cardboard cut out black bull rages in ferocious stance
a headless toreador, richly costumed brings it down
no need for fight or flight
it's there to tame your hunger.
*
Day 3, in the shaving mirror.
She was like a digital doll
young, almost beautiful
compiled to instruct us by ritual mannerism
to go through that door in the wall with a video camera
in every corner watching over us.
Who's going to watch it, I wonder
perhaps Watson, who one day
will be able to react on itself, in AI.
The con of life
the weirdness of its melodramatic sham
how good we are at yesterday, tomorrow
always better than before
like, being had - in the process by it.
*
At a slant – the street. 12/06/14
parades predatory robots, rapine vampires
a pageantry of prawns, satellites flying
computer sausage balloons
an android addresses the multitude with the question
who has not the free will to be immortal.
*
Skull Moon
looming in your implacable fashion
are we facing extinction?
You live longer than we do
tuned into the fine tuning of the cosmic sea
where we swim only to drown on the tides
drawn by the skull beneath the waves
*
Transubstantiation
we are special because between the bonobo, the baboon
we strike a happy medium, we grow the meat we eat
the world is our property.
*
A walk in the cemetery
no shining sarcophagus
no black, silver gleaming obelisks
no painted vases on filmy fields
here the bank's greenery gathers them
tipped, tilted awry, dark stained moss brown
not a tint of blood red.
They're a huddle of mute sameness
a closeness without plasticity
nature harvests no funeral
life simply goes on, appearances are deceptive.
Slant a summer's day
chicks sally forth in summer shorts
sequestering looks, selecting sequestered looks
the world is a mating call.
On the moor, nature unleashed
on this wind where ancient whiffs
of nostalgia blow from land, sea
were my predecessors really so free
or like me, trapped?
Dressed, undressed
the hairless ape
dressed, undressed
a dance of rigmarole
until we became a costume part
a marmot puppet of coloured rags
a roll of flags.
Out of town
shunting from the station
arches overhead, slanting
produces an OCD rush in the brain
'underneath the arches i dreamed my life away'
Arch trance
- an iteration of ink blots or patches of light, dark.
*
Shopping mall
float in a slip stream, an air
conditioned sunlight
euphoria of flowing flesh
epiphany of the age.
Saccades pass through windows
which mirror a time where nothing changes
a reflected object in the existence of distance
(there yet might be no external world)
ephemeral moments intervene
describe reality as slices of dream.
*
“Derby day”
Amongst those dark satanic mills
where the falcon soars the fell
over milk, honey, dairy swell
a videocam on each farm wall
to toil the land to till, kill.
*
Dancing tossed
a measure of uncertainty where the environment begins
(but only seems) in the drift of infinity
where it never finishes in its last ultimate instance
- on the pitiless wave ...
Here we are so so - big, so so - tiny small
are we a particle or are we a cell
that damned eternal interval – silencio.
*
Day One Return Flight in the Shaving Mirror. (12/9/14)
Dear homo sapiens
it's a pity we can't be more than we are
but it's the same for all of us!
At the heart of all politics is religion
at the heart of all religion is gossipmongering
the birth of a nation state is a limited liability company
a moral fiction.
*
Click.
In the brain
again the rain
before the click
i can't locate it -
what shall i do
shall i let it stall
or unwind it all?
The click's the call – Click.
A bartered world
shrieks the parrot's song
pieces of memories - go ape.
What is the final emotion
we programme
every physical thing
information into a time machine
on a haunted meme?
*
A glint of flint
ground gravel
a spruce of sprig
broken twig
scuttling insect
scuffed toe
sombrero
there's no flow
membranous landscapes
slide show
but it's only the split, we know
time transforms all.
This life that drags
innumerable concerns
hand to mouth - the law!
World without doors
after the before that
doors do not speak
doors that let you in
doors that let you out
doors that lock you down
Tunes that determine words
words that determine tunes
Break in space
eat in public place
Do not touch
it must have a name
Like emergence
hurrah for war
After the before that
doors do not speak
World without doors
weathertime
patches in between.
The world is our closure
time its property
consciousness
like a pendulum's to, fro
manufactures dream in the instants between
age is made of memories & forgetting.
* * *
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Poem
BFF. A Poem by Frederick Pollack.
Bored, with the boredom of eternity,
Donatien Alphonse François, Marquis de Sade,
and Leopold Ritter von Sacher-Masoch
hang out. They have little in common –
nothing, according to Deleuze –
but shared experience of psych wards
creates a bond. And Sade
is always tickled by the moralism
of his scholarly socialist philosemitic pal.
(“Contracts” for bondage-and-discipline sessions,
the invention of the “safe word”–
parbleu!) Masoch for his part
finds the Frenchman’s wit
instructive, and accepts with grace
his constant teasing; it fulfills a certain need.
Like other dead white Europeans,
they float over to America
(which, they have heard, is diverting and unserious).
Sade preens: “My principles have triumphed!
What other people is as devoted to freedom?”
His companion demurs. “It may seem so,
but note: the whip is unpopular,
hypocrisy remains the spice of shame,
tortures are generally banal, and women –
still bound to the paternalism you despised –
are seldom given equal rights to them.
This is far,” he adds, “from the vision
of your revolutionary pamphlet, Citizens!
Yet One More Effort If You Would Be Truly Republican!”
The mood of the mercurial marquis
turns. “They’re afraid of their masters,”
he sighs. “Whose existence” –
thus Masoch, disapprovingly – “they deny.”
They are not watching in real time,
ever-tedious, but from the long end of a spectrum
where essences appear like subtitles.
There the prevailing mood is an orange haze;
and the steady pop of small arms
a rhythmic growl, like the machinery
the two friends had expected.
Slowly they realize it is a machine,
dispensing souls to each side of the trigger
before they need determine their own nature.
Author of two book-length narrative poems, THE ADVENTURE and HAPPINESS, both published by Story Line Press. A collection of shorter poems, A POVERTY OF WORDS, forthcoming in 2015 from Prolific Press. Has appeared in Hudson Review, Salmagundi, Poetry Salzburg Review, Die Gazette (Munich), The Fish Anthology (Ireland), Representations, Magma (UK), Iota (UK), Bateau, Fulcrum, etc. Online, poems have appeared in Big Bridge, Hamilton Stone Review, Diagram, BlazeVox, The New Hampshire Review, Mudlark, Occupoetry, Faircloth Review, Triggerfish, etc. Adjunct professor creative writing George Washington University.
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The Seasonal Change of the Schedule at the Y. A Poem by Danny P. Barbare
The Seasonal Change of the Schedule at the Y
The
sign
on
the
glass
door
reflects
the
seasons
like
the
fields
and
trees
so
the
day
is
served
better
by
the
hinges
and
the
tic
of
the
clock.
Cleaning the House Before Company
Straightening
up
there
and
here
oh
my,
so
much
stuff
everywhere
though
at
least
it
looks
like
someone
lives
here
I
pace
myself
before
company
comes
and
have
time
to
comb
my
hair.
The Doctor’s Office
Sitting
in
the
waiting
room
a
patient
who
is
patient
knows
the
world
depends
upon
a
one
simple
smile
that
quickly
spreads
throughout
the
doctor’s
office
as
time
goes
by
and
the
door
opens.
Danny P. Barbare resides in the Upstate of the Carolinas. His poetry has recently appeared in The Santa Clara Review and Huizache and DoveTales. He studied creative writing at Greenville Technical College, where his poetry won The Jim Gitting’s Award.
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Loneliness. A Poem by Rajandeep Garg
A fistful of sunshine
loiters over my window
flickering raw images on my blinds.
Slithers inside gay and gaudy
along the flannel hems of blinds
and beckons the Sun inside, incensed already.
With envy ignited soul, it
sulks over my floor
falling down alongside infinite flares slowly.
Then crawls towards a lonely nook
before brooding up the paneled wall
till our acquaintance mellows a scarlet twilight.
In my sea of loneliness, we three
With oaks of Sunshine, I, sail the Sun
Seeking a shore.
Where the Sun starts to sink, evanescence
followed by Sunshine o’er the offing
drowning me till dawn.
Rajandeep Garg is a young Civil Engineer of 26,from Thapar University and is now more of a poet. He is a member of United Haiku and Tanka Society. His Tanka poems have been appreciated at few international journals. His poetry had appeared in an Indian e-journal The Literary Yard. He spends his nights writing poetry and exploring the night sky.
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Miner’s Quest (To Don Petersen). A Poem by Gary Beck
And the miners came down from the hills
only once a month, to eat, drink, fight,
if they were lucky,
spend the night with a woman,
instead of in jail.
For sheriff Bennett met them at the edge of town
and gave them the same warning each time:
‘Have a good time, boys, but don’t wreck the town.’
And the miners nodded sincerely,
chorused, ‘Sure, sheriff. You bet. We promise.’
But the sheriff was used to their rough ways
and knew they were there to escape the pressures
that gripped them in the bowels of the earth.
And they weren’t bad men, just childlike,
toiling like slaves of eld, then seeking release.
They meant their promises and meant no harm.
Nevertheless, the sheriff hired extra deputies
on the day the miners came to town
for their monthly binge.
Now the miners respected the sheriff,
who understood their need to blow off steam,
but the deputies were another kind of cop.
Mostly young, scared, acting tough to impress the hard men
who only feared Mother Earth’s crushing embrace
waiting to hold them close, far beneath the surface.
And they mocked the posing deputies
who wore one-way sun glasses to hide the uncertainty
that made the miners mistrust them.
There was one deputy the miners really hated.
Reardon, a big-bellied bully, meaner than the rattlesnakes
that sometimes tumbled down the mineshaft
and couldn’t find their way to the surface again
and shared the dark confines with their fellow prisoners
and sometimes got lucky and bit someone,
before the miners could stomp them to death.
The only thing the miners hated more than rattlers
were the bosses, whose venom flowed from far away.
Reardon always greeted them the same way,
slapping his club in his bulbous paw, scaring no one,
but alert for the chance to hurt the miners.
They despised him, staring through him,
another dangerous clod of earth to be avoided ,
but never feared, because he only trapped the unwary,
and if you labored deep below the ravaged earth
you learned to be wary, or didn’t survive
the hungry pits that always beckoned.
So the miners rushed to their favorite bars,
where bored trailer girls served the drinks
and didn’t really care that a lot of hands
did a lot of exploring of their veined bodies.
And they listened to the usual comments:
“That’s a number one shaft. Deep hole. Dig that strata.”
And the girls snapped their gum in boredom,
for they took worse abuse than words
from the harsh hands of their redneck boyfriends.
The retired professor of something or other
met them at ‘Purple Nell’s’ and bought them drinks,
preached to them that they should spare the earth.
They laughed kindly at him and explained it was their job,
if they didn’t do it, the company would hire others
eager to take their place in the mines, because
someone was always waiting to steal a man’s job.
But they never insulted the professor
while drinking his liquor.
The miners never went to ivy covered schools,
had no book learning, just blue collar skill,
acquired the hard way, in the pits of shattered dreams,
where the mines sapped the souls of men
who never got used to the pressing rock above
and the dank, devouring dark below,
always waiting, implacable as time,
to catch a careless miner in a moment’s lapse,
the last summons to the final ascent.
Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director, and as an art dealer when he couldn’t make a living in theater. He has 11 published chapbooks. His poetry collections include: Days of Destruction (Skive Press), Expectations (Rogue Scholars Press). Dawn in Cities, Assault on Nature, Songs of a Clerk, Civilized Ways (Winter Goose Publishing). Perceptions, Displays, Fault Lines and Tremors will be published by Winter Goose Publishing. Conditioned Response will be published by Nazar Look. His novels include: Extreme Change (Cogwheel Press) Acts of Defiance (Artema Press). Flawed Connections (Black Rose Writing). His short story collection, A Glimpse of Youth (Sweatshoppe Publications). His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway. His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines. He currently lives in New York City. A Miner’s Quest appears in Civillised Ways. Editor’s Note.
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Pen Pal. A Poem by Holly Day
My friend has been divided into perforated sheets of new stories
I tell her how I’m pretty here despite having being quartered myself
about the monsters that are loose in my bedroom again
the obscenities that come to the table at lunch.
“I guess I liked to be scared. There’s no other reason for my brutal sophistry
and tearing my hair out in mock terror is fun
and ripping my brain into confetti is fun
I enjoyed nightmares when I was a child, and this where I belong.”
Huge fish with sharp teeth complain about their weight
tell stories and poems that have been gnawed in half.
My last nightmare was almost as thin as I used to be.
I tell her how I’m pretty here when she sends me pictures of her:
Posing on the beach with nubile Afrikaners.
Washing oil off of penguins and seals.
In bed with her new cat.
There’s nothing quite as wonderful as seeing the end of a long winter in Minnesota . The birdfeeder is busy with sparrows and warblers, robins are nesting in the back yard trees, and tulips and daffodils have pushed themselves up all the way up through the moldering piles of last-year’s leaves to explode in a frenzy of yellow, purple, and every shade of pink and red. It’s just warm enough that I can walk my dog in the morning without a jacket, but still cool enough that it’s not complete torture to work in my tiny, windowless office in the basement.
Short bio: Holly Day has taught writing classes at the Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis , Minnesota , since 2000. Her poetry has recently appeared in Oyez Review, SLAB, and Gargoyle, while her recently published books include Music Theory for Dummies (3rd edition), Piano All-in-One for Dummies, The Book Of, and Nordeast Minneapolis: A History.
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Never The Less. A Poem by Trevor Maynard
Before her there is a stone circle
The meaning of which is unclear
But it has been here for thousands of millennia
It is not well known, even unknown
But when the sun rises, the shadows cast
Surround her as she sleeps; gentle wraiths
Whispering in the low cloud, like distant thunder
But this is always as afternoon opens its door
Now, as dawn hazes into morning and midday
She rises to a clear sky, and the shadows are short
The deer have eaten and the birds have flown
But she does not render movement from her pose
But she does drink in the whirling breeze
Delving into buttercup, white daisy and wild geranium
She does embrace another chance to live
But she is not breathing, she has no blood
Tears do not well up in her eyes of their own accord
For that the heavens must open in abundant rain
But not tonight; the sky is heavy with condensation
The air itself wicks the salty emotion of betrayal
The statue of Gaia is taken down; she will miss the stones
Before her there is a soft, old cloth; she cannot see
But she detects the odour of musk and storage
She hears the crack of wood as her crate is moved
Before Man, there is a stone circle, though not only of stone
But of concrete, plastic, glass, aluminium and steel
It has been here for decades, if not a hundred years
Some men rise to the Owl and fall to the Lark
The meaning of day and night is gone for them
But they still seek supper and sleep, even as the sun warms
It is not well known, even unknown
But when the day dawns, and the people commute
They are surrounded in shadow; gentle wraiths
Waiting to caress their eyelids back to slumber
But Man is agitated, he is constant in his fight
He cannot stand still, there is no room for pause
But when will he breath, is there blood pumping to his heart
Are their tears in his eyes before the rains fall
Does he remember the statue of Gaia, he once carved
Before us there is a veil of ignorance, of intolerance
Of disrespect, of discrimination, even betrayal of Nature
But is there no hope, no remembrance, no emotion
Working days end, weekends arrive, Gaia beckons
But only for those who raise their downcast eyes
Who open the wooden crate and unfurl the old, soft cloth
Before her the stone circle is set out once more
Man lays upon Mother Earth as the shadows rise
Late into a summer evening, they are reunited, no buts
Never the less, it is not well known, even unknown
That when the sun rises and gentle wraiths surround us
Each shadow of each stone is Gaia to every Man
Before me there is a stone circle
The meaning of which is clear
Though my single life may pass, I will always be here
©Trevor Maynard 2015. excerpt from and will be included in my third, as yet unnamed collection, which is due out in late Summer www.trevormaynard.com
Author of two poetry collections “Keep on Keepin’ On” and “Love, Death and the War on Terror”, a collection of one-act plays “Four Truths” as well as the plays “GLASS” and “From Pillow to Post”.
THE POETIC BOND V. Publication date 30th September, 2015
The Poetic Bond V is the fifth anthology of poets from new media, social and professional networking, mainly garnered from the professional networking website, LinkedIn, but also through performance and word of mouth. The Poetic Bond is about exploring, sharing and encouraging poetry from all over the world, it will be published by Willowdown Books and will be available on Amazon from 30th September 2015. Copies can be pre-ordered for the pre-publication offer price from http://www.thepoeticbond.com Trevor Maynard is a UK based poet and writer, manager of Poetry, Review and Discuss Group at LinkedIn
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Withdrawn. An Ekphrastic Poem by Richard Lloyd Cederberg
Ekphrastic – composed with triolets
“It is good for a man that he bear the yoke in his youth”
I’m not the one I used to be
Who broke the rules and pushed the bar
Who never wavered, can’t you see
I’m not the one I used to be
But now since much has changed in me
I’ll dream but never go too far
I’m not the one I used to be
Who broke the rules and pushed the bar
I’m not someone of naïve quest
Espousing all that’s given me
Nurturing all my hearts unrest
I’m not someone of naïve quest
But if I’ve not somehow possessed
The art of sweet simplicity
I’m not someone of naïve quest
Espousing all that’s given me
I’m not the one I used to see
In stirring flames and mountain streams
Artless on a raging sea
I’m not the one I used to see
But if I’ve struggled just to be
A somber shawl of unsung dreams
I’m not the one I used to see
In stirring flames and mountain streams
I’ve become withdrawn with age
Beguiled with simple fare
Inspired more to disengage
I’ve become withdrawn with age
Nevermore to war and rage
Against this life unfair
I’ve become withdrawn with age
Beguiled with simple fare
richard lloyd cederberg 2015
August 2007 Richard was nominated for a 2008 PUSHCART PRIZE. Richard was awarded 2007 BEST NEW FICTION at CST for his first three novels and also 2006 WRITER OF THE YEAR @thewritingforum.net … Richard has been a featured Poet on Poetry Life and Times Aug/Sept 2008, Jan 2013, Aug 2013, and Oct 2013 and has been published in varied anthologies, compendiums, and e-zines. Richard’s literary work is currently in over 35,000 data bases and outlets. Richard’s novels include: A Monumental Journey… In Search of the First Tribe… The Underground River… Beyond Understanding. A new novel, Between the Cracks, was completed March 2014 and will be available summer 2014.
Richard has been privileged to travel extensively throughout the USA, the provinces of British Columbia, Manitoba, Alberta, and Saskatchewan in Canada, the Yukon Territories, Kodiak Island, Ketchikan, Juneau, Skagway, Sitka, Petersburg, Glacier Bay, in Alaska, the Azorean Archipelagoes, and throughout Germany, Switzerland, Spain, and Holland… Richard and his wife, Michele, have been avid adventurers and, when time permits, still enjoy exploring the Laguna Mountains, the Cuyamaca Mountains, the High Deserts in Southern California, the Eastern Sierra’s, the Dixie National Forest, the Northern California and Southern Oregon coastlines, and the “Four Corners” region of the United States.
Richard designed, constructed, and operated a MIDI Digital Recording Studio – TAYLOR and GRACE – from 1995 – 2002. For seven years he diligently fulfilled his own musical visions and those of others. Richard personally composed, and multi-track recorded, over 500 compositions during this time and has two completed CD’s to his personal credit: WHAT LOVE HAS DONE and THE PATH. Both albums were mixed and mastered by Steve Wetherbee, founder of Golden Track Studios in San Diego, California.
Richard retired from music after performing professionally for fifteen years and seven years of recording studio explorations. He works, now, at one of San Diego’s premier historical sites, as a Superintendent. Richard is also a carpenter and a collector of classic books, and books long out of print.
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