Sanctuary. A Poem by Miriam C Jacobs

 

Each of them has his own room, here, his own cardboard pallet,
 
drawer. A mirror above a row of pipes reflects disorder’s emptiness.
 
Ideal Music, the shop next door, has electricity.
 
Sometimes late at night they can get inside, turn on lights, play records.
 
Once in a fit of drunken nostalgia for childhood,
 
for bottomless night and stars, Reggie busted out
 
a window over the enclosed alley between stores,
 
while Goose, weeping in Spanish for the cuts on Reggie’s hands,
 
leaned against the rain-soaked wall eaten with black mold,
 
a man in love. He pisses into empty beer bottles, sets
 
his good boots in a corner, still brushes his teeth. For him, their abandoned beauty
 
shop is World Navel, Jerusalem, their threesome a Sartre play – book
 
she’s never read – and the rooms are drawers. His mother lay him down
 
to sleep in a drawer, he’d told her once.
 
When she was a little girl she imagined a found life in household drawers,
 
their low ceilings, landscapes within them shut. She conquers her fear,
 
now, by opening, emptying. Reggie and Goose make cushions
 
from the contents: shreds of wallpaper, palm- size flecks of lead paint, leaking color bottles,
 
Styrofoam crusted with dried Chinese take-out, clothes or a lone shoe
 
discovered in the streets and carried back. On rainy nights they rip up these beds
 
for toilet paper, or shit out that broken window. Reggie’s vomit
 
stinks and then dries like a jack-less
 
telephone. These are toxins of particularity, poisons within the self.
 
Beyond these walls, it’s a nightmare staying alive, toxins of survival.
 
Goose is next door playing records. Music leaches through the walls:
 
Partridge Family’s Greatest Hits, Jerusalem of Gold.

 
 
 
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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Interstate Moments. A Poem by David Chorlton

IMG_20150730_171639500

 
#1
A roadrunner has climbed the concrete slope
from roadside weeds to where it meets
the bridge’s horizontal, and he stops
with his beak directed
at the angle in which a patch of sky
illuminates his profile.
 
#2
The yellow and the white lines meet
straight ahead at perspective’s
farthest point, where blue mountains divide
Earth from the storms
about to break in Heaven.
 
#3
Along the rails that run beside
the interstate, an eastbound freight train
leaves daylight behind it
as clouds churn into the sky
with red lightning inside them.
 
#4
A nighthawk’s wing
above the traffic flow
slides between the day
and a night of endless
taillights.

 
 
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David Chorlton was born in Austria, grew up in Manchester, England, and lived for several years in Vienna before moving to Phoenix in 1978. Arizona’s landscapes and wildlife have become increasingly important to him and a significant part of his poetry. His Selected Poems from FutureCycle Press appeared in 2014. The shadow side of Vienna provides the core of The Taste of Fog, a work of fiction published by Rain Mountain Press. And the poem follows
http://www.davidchorlton.mysite.com/
 
 
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MACHINUS ROFOCALE. A Poem by Joseph Armstead

 
 
Tinny, brittle music wafts like cigar smoke

    from out the open doors to a dingy bar,

where the leather-coated Machine Men speak

    through plastic masks in rough whispers.

 
Today, the lemon sun above the amber fog of industrial haze will not shine —
 
And my Dream of You asphyxiates, ink-smudged and soiled, sinking into a bed of clouds…
 
 
i. The Exquisite Concatenation of Elastic Chaos
 
The victims march single file from the set
of a televised Game Show
where Time and Mind are manipulated
by strange mathematics and arcane
sorcery
as the Automaton Master of Ceremonies explains
to these departing, blank-eyed contestants,
the Rules of Engagement for their commercial gain.
 
It’s all white noise
filtered
through a sound mixing board
by a synesthesiac
madman.
 
There is a sense of Order beneath
the overly-regimented
facile architecture
presented with unearned fanfare
to a comatose viewing audience.
 
Seeing this past the sutures
that have sewn its eyes shut,
Chaos is weary, but nonetheless amused.
 
The march of the disenfranchised penguins goes the wrong way.
 
Something bad is happening.
 
 
ii. A Spectrum of Contradictions in Deepest Black
 
No one is supposed to talk about it.
No one is supposed to know about it.
The secret is not kept hidden.
 
Maybe it is best that way.
Maybe transparency is best.
Maybe we need to know
that which we do not
want to know,
even though we have
subconsciously
suspected it
all along.
 
The Truth does not set you free.
 
It invades you like a virus,
invading, unwelcome and infectious,
and our expectations
darken and curl at the edges,
like smouldering paper as it burns.
It battles with our natural defenses,
revealing our immuno-deficiencies,
spotlighting weaknesses
in the Body Politic.
 
Chaos is weary, but nonetheless amused.
 
Something bad is happening.
 
 
iii. The Collapse of Zazen Structure During Fractured Fission
 
It is a quiet night in Shadow-Town.
The echoes of Industrial Authority
have begun to fade like the hush
of a far distant surf upon
the debris-strewn shore.
 
You are in my vision,
a focus of painful ecstasy,
the rupturing of heavy nuclei
under the relentless, streaming
assault
of acrimonious proto-atomic
catalysts,
a rain of beauty and tragedy and fury,
 
… a dream …
 
accompanied by the sound of murmured prayers
spoken in an empty, unhallowed hall of mirrors
 
A consecrated Mass
that dares not be spoken
too loud, lest the potency
of its message
be lost
past the dark, open maw
and down the deep gullet,
of a bird of carrion prey.
 
I can see the blossoming
delicacy
of your growing decay,
an alien viral corruption.
Seeing this past the sutures
that have sewn its eyes shut,
Truth does not reveal itself.
 
Maybe it is best that way.
 
The leather-coated Machine Men
are pallbearers
of my Dream Of You.
 
Chaos is amused, but nonetheless bitter.
 
Something bad is happening.

 
 
 
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BIO

Joseph Armstead is a suspense-thriller and horror author living in the United States’ San Francisco Bay Area. Author of a dozen short stories and ten novels, his poetry has been published in a wide range of online journals, webzines and print magazines. A mathematician, Futurist and computer technologist, Mr. Armstead’s poetry often defies easy description, but frequently includes neo-classical imagery, surrealist viewpoints and post-modern themes.
 
 
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Cogitation of a Soul…A Poem by Anca Mihaela

 
 
Your Look concaves my retina…
Truth… dripped from my Eye!…
Each moment is moisturized
by fractured fractals.
 
Engaged in your disengagement
in this residual stillness,
my past Self… still spins
inside an alabaster universe…
 
Choice?… just an illusion
in these phosphene empyrean dreams,
the place… where your Name
shines in parallaxes!…
 
I know… Now… Your words
cannot satisfy my thoughts.
I am left here…
reflecting thousand times
your feathered images…
 
Logarithmic mirrors watch me
how I climb my own
bibliography of a Wish!…

 
 
Anca Mihaela Bruma - Image
 
Anka Mihaela Cogitation of a Soul
 
Anca Mihaela Bruma – Short Bio
 
My name is Anca Mihaela Bruma, I am Romanian living in Dubai/UAE. My love for poetry started when I was just 9 years old, when I registered myself to some creative poetry writing group. It was a turning point for me as I started to discover the mysteries of the written word and its impact on the readers. Since that early age, I have always viewed writing poetry as the perfect medium which is able to depict profound unfathomable complexities of someone’s life or life itself, to render into words that which is unsayable, that ineffable, which can be truly deeper than the language itself. Through my writings, as well years of readings, I always looked to seek something beyond that which was apparent to others! I was fascinated to see how different aspects of truth were transfigured by different emotions, how experiences were poetized. I pursued seeing beauty expressed in all forms of art, not just poetry; creating a “thirst” within me to explore more and more for the knowledge of the mystery beneath and beyond it, as a symbol of something greater and higher with its own power to immortalize the expressions over the years.
 
Facebook: Anca-Mihaela

 
website as artist: http://marmoset16.wix.com/ancabruma
 

 
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Done with a liaison. A Poem by Aparna Pathak

 
Remember how much you liked
every word I wrote on your screen,
interpreted in your own way.
Research was focused
on vulnerable valency.
I sat answering all the queries
benefitting you to find techniques
to get me involved.
 
Your thesis didn’t take long to finish
and you then wanted to start afresh.
Some relationships end like experiments.
Nothing is required once your page ends with,
‘hence proved’.

 
 
aparnaiit

Bio:
Aparna Pathak belongs to Delhi, India. Graduate in English (Honors) and post graduate in public relations , her poems have been published in more than 30 print anthologies, online publications and also various literaty magazines like twice in “Reflections”, and Negative Suck, Rolling Thunder Press, and blue Cygnus. One of her poem has been awarded the commendation of ” Highly Commended ” in the Poem of the Year Category of the Destiny Poets’ International Community of Poets ICOP Awards 2012. Her own book of poetry, “silent flute ” was published in January 2014.

www.facebook.com/aparnapathakchaturvedi

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You’ll Thank Me Later. A Poem by Ron Olsen

 
 
Trust me
It’s for your own good
You’ll thank me later
You need only turn to face yourself
 
Wealth speaks to poverty
Centurions to slaves
Lords to peasants
Bourgeoisie to the Proletariat
 
No healthcare costs
No harassment issues
No sick time
No vacation required
No request for family leave
No retirement plan
No bereavement leave
No union fights
No confusion
No complaints
No liability
No people
 
Just machines
 
Quantifiable
Reliable
Inorganic
Cost effective
Profitable
Without complaint
Personality without soul
Intellect without compassion
All needs fulfilled
All care eliminated
Life without humanity
 
Trust me
It’s for your own good

 
©2015 – Ron Olsen/all rights reserved
 
walden pond 005
 
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
https://www.facebook.com/workingreporter?ref=bookmarks

 
 
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After the Dead. A Poem by Robin Ouzman Hislop

 
 
Are my dreams of the dead
dreams of purgatory
battered, wounded as they are?
 
Where I live now!
 
The mad struggle of the dead
in the vacuous corridors of time.
 
Really, they’ve gone
they don’t return, except as myths
to reinvent time.
 
Our time of broken dreams
 
‘creatures of tradition moulding a nature
that weeps not for us for the wounds
it heals, impervious
after it nurtured us into existence’
 
Blind Tiresias had warned.
 
As if we had a choice in this paradox
as if we could escape
the blunder which created us
 
the cosmic joke, where time
will destroy even the world
for time to be reborn.
 
In this dream world, where I
only seem to wake
to this small dance of words
a dance of phantoms with their shadows
where this poem shapes its becoming.

 
 
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[the betrayal of a tree] A Poem by Yuan Changming

You long to be a Douglas fir
Tall, straight, almost immortal
But you stand like a Peking willow
Prone to cankers, full of twisted twigs

Worse still, you are not so resistant
As the authentic willow that can bend gracefully
Shake off all its unwanted leaves in autumn
When there is a wind blowing even from nowhere

No matter how much sunshine you receive
During the summer, you have nothing but scars
To show off against winter storms
The scars that you can never shake off

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[bio info]:: Yuan Changming, 8-time Pushcart nominee and author of 5 chapbooks, is the most widely published poetry author who speaks Mandarin but writes English: since mid-2005, he has had poetry appearing in Best Canadian Poetry, Best New Poems Online, London Magazine, Threepenny Review and 1069 others across 36 countries. With a PhD in English, Yuan currently edits Poetry Pacific with Allen Qing Yuan in Vancouver.

poetrypacific.blogspot.ca/
http://poetrypacificpress.blogspot.ca/
http://www.facebook.com/poetry.pacific
http://yuanspoetry.blogspot.ca/

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