My Mother Drove a Rambler by David Michael Jackson

I remember radios with tubes
and Cokes for a nickel
and the smell
the smell of the times
The smell of oil in the gas station
The dusty smell of the old store

and all of those places

and we wish we had a picture,
but we were in too much of a hurry.

Do we all die saying
oh but I was gonna…
as well as
If I had just…

yes we remember radios with tubes
and we knew people who remembered

We all remember
like we are cameras.

I used to rub my mother’s feet
and I didn’t want to
but now
I wish I could
and she drove a Rambler and
raised a son who rambles around on this page
and reaches no conclusions
like every one else
except that
it was all worth it

It was all worth it,
seeing the sun light everything up
seeing only certain wavelengths
hearing only certain wavelengths

A run down outsider poet on a worn out piece of paper headed for the trash

one more time
Have you seen the dew on the petal?

beauty and love
are all we know
and all
we need to know

a little to and fro for H. Jerome Alter Poem by Pen Chant

“Wherefore my rhymes oft decorate the page,
When others ’round, this virtue e’er forsake?
Wherefore past giants of this noble art
Employ this modus in their grandest works?”

“Or is it anything a writer pens,
With rhythm, rhyme, and context undefined?
Dear reader, now your choice is icy clear;
The pow’r is yours to foreordain!”

by H. Jerome Alter

to H. Jerome Alter

Whereas you mock the grandest greats:
Walt Whitman, Dylan Thomas, Sylvia Plath
and for heaven’s sake the many
alive and well and writing yet still…

mind the mind that binds one to do
another’s will
thru trickry via word skills

oh doth you dare claim
old Reason(s) as thy own
i.e. with “certainity”
“if you exercise you end up healthy”

penned words may touch a human heart
to soothe, to leap, to fly
but only if and forever still
when heart freely sings.

Alchemy Pain Poem by Edy Benjamin

(sometimes it takes an emotional

blast to reopen the right side of

the brain

fortunate sometimes they start

slow then grown hang on with

your teeth)

seeing yourself in another’s eyes

from, sometimes, we need to hide

o eyes




fiery in

both hate and love






and who owl

feels the smile

before seeing it

old soldiers

marching into war

we, to morn,

the loss of life

rest in peace poet

if de facto you are gone

who told the story

of his tortured life

and yes the joys

fleetingly higher

than my eyes beheld

for sure de facto

if gone

i will not miss you

your stories reside

in the treasure chest

of moi.

Wordplay poem by David Michael Jackson

Wordplay you say
was it play then
was it the trees then
the trees and the wind
and the child playing among the roots in the
in the dirt
in the,
in the wind.
Do all the yesterdays go back as far as all the tomorrows
and backward
or does it all go both ways
like crazy mad
like the wind metaphor rattling the branches of the tree
until the arthritis
stops my hands
from typing on this keyboard
and it all
stops one day
and ends up in that picture
where George lassos the moon

Whores and Flophouses by D M Jackson

I have no whores with broken heels
to write about.
I am not famous among the flop houses.
I did not spend last night or last year
on the street or in some
roach infested place which
would mean so much in a modern poem.
I have not drunk myself to sleep.
I am not Buk, no one showed up
at my door to write about,
no whores to quote in this or any other
I did not abandon all to head to Paris like Ernest,
was not caged and carried through half filled or
half empty streets.
I have thrown my angst against cubicle walls,
factory floors, subdivisions, all
benignly taking their toll.
It’s a quiet desperation which
leaves me
wishing for
whores and flophouses.

The Loner Poem by D M Jackson

He lived in a small house beside the river.
We would only see him on the road,
riding a bicycle with a small motor,
an eccentric loner puttering by on that cycle.
He didn’t drink,
caused no trouble it seems,
we kids didn’t really know him
except for the motorized bicycle
and the river.
I guess every group of kids has a loner
full of mystery to
speculate about.
I think of him to this day.
Was he a poet or just a lonely man.
He is stuck forever in a memory that
forgets almost everyone, forgets
all the wasted or plentiful lives.
How do we not waste our lives?
The famous dead poets are merely names.
These words are just magnetic spots on
a disk somewhere.
If the bill is not paid, then
the ones will become zeros
and I will have puttered by.

Sad Day For Regrets Poem

Sad day
what to say but
sad day
it didn’t rain
the news was bad
an aside in an email
a phone call
a someone.

The headline reads “Love Triggers Regret.”

as I sing my sad team song
“Shoulda and Coulda and Woulda, they all get better at the end.”

Oh regret
you can pick at my bones, regret
you and your buddy, guilt;
you can pick them clean, regret,
and mix them with sorrow
and stir them in your
black pot

To the Bed Pan Person Poem by David Michael Jackson

Nursing home
Clean white
dry sheets
every day now.
There are the memories of another place
another time
wet sheets every day
bladder infection
kidney failure.
No don’t think about it, he says.
The bed pan persons
are doing the job
as important as the doctors
as the nurses
There is a place for you
in my tears
We need
for you

Slide Into the Sea You Blood Red Moon poem by Ken Peters

my constitution is killing me
I know enough to care
about the lead in the water
or in the air
somebody mistook their freedom
for a license
we should just be fair
everybody complains about the water
but just wait until it’s gone
everybody complains about their life
but just wait until it’s gone
they all talk about the violence
doesn’t touch them behind locked doors
they don’t have to be out there
hanging with the poor
so if I never danced for my father
and didn’t dance that much with my wife
I can hear the drumbeat/heartbeat now
I’m dancing for my life
slide into the sea you blood run moon
we’ll do it on the run
slide in to the silent, silent sea
slide in you blood red moon
slide in you blood red sun

The Other Road Poem by Dandelion de la Rue

I watch them
Trotting slowly
On the road less traveled
Four white horses
Looking at Not Me
Seeing me not
In my parallel universe.

But I see them.
I slow
Watching them
Their road
Trying to guess
Their secrets
And why they glow.

I have no glow.
It’s all a blur
on the superhighway
That magic energy
lies only on
the dusty rocky
secret wild horse road.

Horns honk
I must go 55.
I must keep up.
The horses are behind me now
Their road is disappearing
into mist.

But NO!
I must not lose it.
I pull over
hearing shouts of rage
and warning cries.
You can’t stop here,
You fool!

But stop I do
Fearing losing
The misty magic road
I climb the fence
Barbed wire
piercing me
vicious claws
to keep me in.
A siren shrieks
I have parked
In a No parking Zone.
They want to throw
away the key.

I lay at last
in the magic road.
clean dirt.
I breath it in
delicious dust
making snow angels
in the dirt
and laughing.

I make footprints
and look at them
archaic memories
springing forth of
footprints past.
This road will know
that I was here
until the next wind comes.

The horses come along
around the bend
seeing me now
watching carefully
with thoughtful eyes.

You’re welcome here
they think to me
but there are no signs here
no laws
no ambulances
to protect you here.
I want no signs
no laws
no ambulances
I think to them.

I look back, once
barbed wire fence
at the dark shapes
racing along it
orderly, a fast and
dull parade with no
clowns on bicycles.

I will not go back
I think to them
for it is living death.
They nod understanding
and trot on.
I will find others
here I know
other refugees from
the superhighway
and we will walk
this glowing
living road
and sometimes we will
the superhighway
in the distance
and celebrate
our footprints
and the scars
of our escapes.