Michael H. Brownstein

The Water Lillie Contemplating Suicide 

 

The flower rickshawed through her,

a water blossom yellow and strong

like a plank of wood, smooth and narrow,

a one by two, only true as if true

could ever be exact or honest

or even a deity worth dying for.

 

The stem of her body fluid and full,

her root work deep and philosophical

as if the voice of pain could ever be a flower,

the thick trunk of a tree, a nearby stream

bubbling over river rock, the carcasses

of the dead fish who swim there.

 

Michael H. Brownstein has been widely published throughout the small and literary presses. His work has appeared in The Café Review, American Letters and Commentary, Skidrow Penthouse, Xavier Review, Hotel Amerika, Free Lunch, Meridian Anthology of Contemporary Poetry, The Pacific Review, Poetrysuperhighway.com and others. In addition, he has nine poetry chapbooks including The Shooting Gallery (Samidat Press, 1987), Poems from the Body Bag (Ommation Press, 1988), A Period of Trees (Snark Press, 2004), What Stone Is (Fractal Edge Press, 2005), and I Was a Teacher Once (Ten Page Press, 2011). He is the editor of First Poems from Viet Nam (2011).

Christy Hall

Later, You Returned to the Sea

To the coast, what other setting but by the shore.

We crept along the promenade holding hands,

staying close in the cold.

You were reluctant to step onto the sand

in canvass shoes, so I piggy-backed you

towards the surf, and the bank of wet stones.

A sprig of seaweed, typical litter, a twig.

I set you down there, safe

and threw a rock or two seawards; you laughed.

Hooking yourself to me and using my feet

as stilts to keep out the damp.

I leant in. You turned back.

The wind now whipping hard at our necks

and I can taste the salt of the chips we had.

Christy Hall is the tenant and manager of a pub in Beverley, East Yorkshire. He is a graduate of the Creative Writing Master’s course at Hull University. He has had poems published throughout the U.K as well as in America. He hopes one day to publish his own collection.

Ivo Drury

Atavist's Statement #23

You asked for a paragraph or two about my paintings,

but what’s the point?

You like them or not.

You understand them or not.

Your opinion is equal to, greater than, less than mine.

Nobody really cares – they come for the cheese and the chardonnay,

but chiefly the chardonnay

Ivo Drury workshops words in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Recent work has appeared in Liliput Review, Conium Review, Curio Poetry and Elimae.

Arun Budhathoki

Dark Ages

The flushed sky reserves miniature eyes

Enwrapped in bluish blanket

For the darkening city,

I’ll pluck all and paste it on my forehead.

The blind city wonders at my brightness

Fireflies and moths suck radiant tits

Visiting every home to pass the awesome light,

I’m losing my foresight.

I’ve been growing a child in my belly

The world is round and so is my navel

Circling adults who walk without sights,

The child of mine is rage.

The flushed sky protects winking eyes

Dotted tactfully over the mind’s ignorance

Silencing the soured iron-clad tongue,

I live open-mouthed.

I’ve engulfed scores of stars and burst into millions of filaments

Stitching you with my belly,

Eat me now. 

Arun Budhathoki, alias Daniel Song, is a Nepalese poet / writer / founding editor of The Applicant, a Kathmandu-based literary journal.

Rory Fleming

Gen Y

It's about having everything at your fingertips and still being bored
Going to work and realizing you have nothing to do
You tell me something that I can look up
Using google
On my phone
When else were gods this lost

Rory Fleming is a future law student at UNC-Chapel Hill.  He also composes poetry and prose, some of which can be found at Thousand Shades of Gray, Camel Saloon, and other places.

Mike Berger

Coos Bay Oregon

The smell of the ocean tickles your nose.

The view across the gray ocean-endless.

The little town is quaint with trees growing

everywhere. The logs in the paper mill pond

are a jumble, jammed in at odd angles.

The drive all along the shoreline is green and

somber. Stands of pine obscure your view.

There in a protected cove is a small island

laden with sea lions.

They bark and there raspy, rancorous voices

assult your ears. They were a loquacious lot.

They bask in the sun and frolick. Across the

cove is an old lighthouse standing defiantly

against that sea breezes.

Outside the cove the breakers crash against

the rocky shore. The eternal battle between

rock and wave has existed for eons of time.

 

Mike Berger is an MFA, PhD. He writes poetry and short stories full time

He has been writing poetry for less than four years. His work appear in seventy-one journals. He has published two books of short stories and eight poetry chapbooks .The winner of several poetry contests, he has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He is a member of The Academy of  American Poets.

Mark Nenadov

The Road To Maine

The hot 401 drive spirals down

under screaming, spinning rubber

the angry, vengeful Toronto stretch kicks you to the ground

you spring back gasping for air in Oshawa

then cool Kingston air caresses you hair

like cattails waving to the road's rhythm

sit back and sigh softly till Montreal

while sweetie softly sleeps.

You’ll remember some of what you see

like in Quebec near Vermont you feel the hot air 

of road-rage raging resolutely

or the quiet defiant resolution

of a man using horse drawn buggy 

to pick up his groceries

(I don't think the Amish trot Quebec

and I don't suppose Amish men go shirtless and without beard)

Eventually on to New Hampshire behind a truck

bravely lugging logs and languishing beneath the load

then you feel like you are being folded

swiftly tucked away like a stained napkin

into the expansive breast pocket

of majestic cloud-shrouded mountains.

 

 

Mark Nenadov lives in Essex, Ontario, Canada with his lovely wife, a cute young daughter, and their cat. He's fairly new to the world of literary journals, but has been writing poetry for a long time. He has a forthcoming poem which will appear in WestWard Quarterly.