Alicia Mathias

  for: J.A.F.

MY LATE GRANDMOTHER'S 

LONG-LOST PEARL

returns 

to its 

setting 

Wyatt Underwood

bewitching

I don't think I shall ever see

a poem as wicked as your eyes

that danced and glanced and hypnotized

and seemed to look at fantasy 

nor song that moved like your hips did

and made your miniskirts a bid

to offer heaven alive on earth

while teasing my mind to think much worse

I never knew how much of that

was from my own too twisted soul

and how much your intent and goal

to revive eye of newt and wing of bat

in thoughts of men and boys around

focused on your every move and sound

and wishing they could dance with you

in whatever steps they cared nor knew

as long as they danced close to you

and closer still, then close as cloth

and dreamed of kisses and touches from you

that turned our iron world into froth

Radomir Vojtech Luza

Sunset Blur

Hands rough as old rocks

Heart cold as a frozen sidewalk

Slippery as lice

Big butt

Short shorts

Large breasts

Low top

Who am I?

Who are you?

Can you be true?

Or am I a huge fool

Lost in the Tinseltown swirl

My L,A, girl

Born in Beverly Hills

All the skills and frills

She knows blow jobs

Not slow sobs

Betting on the material

Scaling the superficial

Climbing the ethereal

She took what I gave

Gave what I took

Like Captain Hook

Earning her living giving phone sez

Big fan of money and the fashion hex

I hated to love her next

Without Children

My art is my child

I keep telling myself

To be free

When in fact I missed

The most important moments in life to

Hard deadlines and forsaken suicides

I broke my sanity on bloody glass and

Windows black

Lost my 42 years of virginity to a L.A. Street urchin

Who hated her life but loved sex

Splattered my idealism on a Store and Factory

In a city where nothing shimmers or grooves

On an industry spread so far apart that my children

Would have no fingers for dark climbs

Into the mouth of every ego blind

Shining and shaking

Like a misbegotten dime

Tangerine Stew

No brunette parade

In the strawberry shade

No crimson raid

Magenta fade

This is pure love of self

Lenin was a visionary

Without eyeballs

Communism his wife

Death his life

The system has not worked

And never will

Eight million dead thanks to this Red

Scraping bloody skies

Bludgeoned thighs

Lenin is no saint or revolutionary

But a tragic off-ramp from the freeway of sanity

There is no Red Square

Russia without wear

Just a cold war

History's non-bloody bore

There is yet a sad river

Shallow and untrue

Flowing into the mouth of Lenin's South

Somewhere near Moscow blue

 

Denise Dumars

Heart Line 

 

When palmistry espies 

a curved heart line 

pointing to the index finger, 

it says romantic, psychic, easily hurt. 

So tell me something 

I don’t know. Like, 

what if little red flowers 

grew along the heart line 

and a big bad wolf came along 

and ate them 

and then Grandma arrived 

babuschka on her head 

machete in her hand 

and she chased the big bad wolf 

back into the forest 

said, “Whew, glad that’s over,” 

and those little flower stems left 

through the heart line 

that we recognize as scars— 

well, that’s the price 

of doing business 

if you’re romantic, psychic, 

easily hurt. 

 

Lorelei Kay

Guarder of the Nectar

 

The green-throated hummingbird

perches on a branch near the patio

feeder, providing daily company

as I peruse my morning paper.

 

As other hummers fly close,

they are quickly chased

away in a blur of flight

by the defending sentinel.

 

Hour after hour, day after day,

he guards his territory, bolting

after any intruder who might

threaten his personal supply.

 

Lori Wall-Holloway

Smile with Love

(Dedicated to Baby Miles)

 

Wide toothless grin

of six-month-old baby

brightens gloomy day

His laughter and efforts

at conversation

using his own expressive

language demonstrates

a love for people and life

only a smiling infant

can teach

Realization

High School Drama

Alone

On stage

I begin to speak -

 

“O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?”

 

As I recite Juliet’s love

lines, a part of me wonders

if a young man is in

my future with the ability

to show heartfelt care

 

TV shows formed fantasies

of how relationships

should be, but inexperience

caused me to walk away

from a genuine love

waiting on the sidelines

Instead, I chose a path

with someone else

that did not turn out

how I expected

 

Would I go back to those dark days

to decide differently?

 

Or would other kinds of heartaches

transpire to shape me?

 

Like a cabinet being sanded

to the real wood

or a butterfly pushing out

of a cocoon

I realize no matter what

decision was made

trials would still  

occur to peel layer after

layer of myself to reach

the person I have become

 

 

Trevor Witt

We need more poets

 

We need more poets,

To battle bullets unafraid,

To speak with words as shields,

To use stories as spears,

To cut beneath the pain.

 

To rush into the war with verses,

To break trauma’s curses,

To end cycle after cycle of violence,

To provide healing as recompense,

To reconcile humanity with the vile,

 

We need writers to right the wrongs

That hurt so hard they can only be sung in songs,

We need to pause, to take a breath,

To carry on through tears and death.

We need words, to bear our burdens,

To shoulder our fears, until the final curtain.

 

We need people to feel,

We need words to heal.

Plain walls (born of tears and love)

 

Plain walls,

That children never drew on,

Carpets which never saw dirt,

 

Clean rooms,

Everything put away,

Closets with clothes unworn,

 

Boxes of crap,

Records never heard,

Notebooks of stories never shared,

 

This is not the home I seek,

A shiny, unblemished mansion, chic.

 

This is not the room I rent,

Where every penny is spent.

 

I want dirt and pain and striving,

To reach for my dream,

Born of tears and love.

What use do I have for love poems?

What use do I have for love poems?

They cannot capture the warmth of your embrace.

They cannot recreate the lines of your face.

 

They cannot lend an ear when I am falling apart.

They cannot console me when I have a hole in my heart.

What use do I have for love poems?

 

They will only let me down,

As I close the pages of my feelings,

What use do I have for fairy tales?

 

They only break your heart.

 

Hedy Habra

The Way a Flock of Birds Improvises

                        To Rosemary (1952-1998)

 

 

She marks the calendar every day

now, believes we should live life

as a miracle. 

No one notices the difference

in her chest.

She reminds me, smiling:

"You once said

I was flat as an ironing board."

 

I wonder if we should live love

as a miracle,

when your lover slips into a coat of mail

of indifference,

when his eyes only reflect an inward vision,

when your heartbeat espouses his,

the way healthy people

grow unaware

of their own pulse.

 

Then take every moment,

imperfect as it seems,

its dissonant echo,

transforming it into a score       

the way a flock of birds improvises,

over barbed wires.

  

 

First published by Sulphur Literary Review

 

 

Face à face

            After Flying Blind by Jaclyn Alderete

 

When with eyes closed, I face the mirror of desolation, I see myself

as a dove fluttering in slow motion like a still mirage while I walk the

desert dunes, wondering where I’d last seen the scarce palm trees still

erect by the smothered tents where all the ones I’ve ever loved are

now buried. I search for ashes shrouded in sand, and only see

through half-open lids feathers the color of my hair, lidless eyes

staring at their mirrorless reflection, lips pursed in triangular silence,

and oh, yes, how can I omit those metallic blue shades making us all

one, woman and fowl, in love and loss?

 

 

First published by The Bitter Oleander

From Under Brushstrokes (Press 53 2015)

 

 

Desert Song

            After The Kiss by Federico Zarco

 

It all started when he set out in his suit and tie, searching for a sand

rose in the desert. Wandering through dream’s thresholds, he hoped

to unearth a treasure that would resist the drought of feelings, each

millenary facet telling of the innumerable ways love can be

immortalized. He must have taken a wrong turn since all he found,

erect like a menhir, was a fossil. Was it the hip of a dinosaur, or

rather a Titan’s, lost from times beyond memory, so smoothed by

the scorching sun that it bore no signs? Looking closely he saw an

open jaw with pointed teeth and a hole where an eye once stared. He

feared he had to return empty handed in time for his date, but

realized with terror that he had no recollection of the path that led

him there.

 

 

First published by Danse Macabre

From Under Brushstrokes (Press 53 2015)

Jordan Sandoval

Zombie

 

I am a zombie

the corpse of a man
in perpetual motion

wandering
but not aimless

driven by raw, instinctual need,

enslaved by instatiable hunger

compelled to consume
searching for the way
to sate that one
single craving

to live again

I am a zombie
for I am without my heart

until I am with you again

Marsha Grieco

 

Click on image to enlarge

Gia Civerolo

 I REMEMBER ...

 

I remember the loud band screaming their song

I remember shouting my story though no was listening but you

I remember they lit the bar on fire

I remember the sheer black and white polka dot shirt I was wearing and the white mini skirt with fishnet house and combat boots

I remember you were wearing a 40’s paisley tie with a black shirt and black pants and your hair slicked back 50’s style with matching sideburns

I remember sitting on top of a cigarette vending machine with my legs crossed and a bird’s eye view

I remember you helping my friend who is not my friend anymore carry her drums placing them gently in the car

I remember the smoke-filled room with bodies dancing

I remember you were quick with a light and a smile

I remember our friends that were there

I remember my black cat eye liner was smeared in a punk rock way

I remember I had a crush on your friend who seemed like my type but even more shocking I was his type too (no one ever thinks they are someone else's type)

I remember we talked and talked even though I don’t remember what we said

I remember thinking you were a “nice” guy, but I don’t remember knowing then that you would be my forever….

 

 WAVES MARCHING TO THE GUILLOTINE

 

I can’t find the

words to talk to you

I send secret messages

in a bottle

red lipstick sealed

beaten by ocean waves

foaming words

out of Aphrodite’s head

MANHATTAN BEACH

Walking by the sea

the day changes

the clouds mirror

the waves

The sun starts to set

taking on colors

painter wishes

they knew

Horizon stretching

going further than

perception

Still, all I can do

is think of you

and me

like there is

nothing

else in between