Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Issue 29

Image (Copyright © 2009 Tiffani Hollis)

Michael Wilson

Barry Seiler

Chrissa Sandlin

Mary Ocher

G David Schwartz

Jesse S Hanson

Adejoh Momoh

Keith Nunes

Christopher Barnes

Tiffani Hollis

Michael Wilson

The ECT Poem

Ward Round Monday 10.30am a ladder to somewhere else drawn on my arm
the days give each thought a bitter aftertaste
the terrible spun gold has finally been bled from my veins
as you were my boy
but the darkness always looks stranger with a keener sight
surrounded by gluey eyes that try and scratch any meaning from words and words written
over and over on the same scrap of paper til the ink sweats from the page
the doctor looks up from behind a shuffle of notes
"well we can't get there from here but I guess its time to see what we can call upon"
Something pushes my head into a nod and he tells me the treatment will begin very soon

Once he'd recovered his sense and the shape of his tongue
Tim tells us all a ghost story,
how if you change your thinking,
if you try and get off the Guerney,
they strap you don so they can safely feed icy water into your veins
to freeze the life inside you.
He tells me what the letters mean
"You were tricked my friend but don't worry,
it's just like sleeping except you wake so much more tired"

The days stalk the walls like shadows
My time is spent in circles,
orbitting the thought,
on an ever shortening leash.
I spend the night time sweating out my dreams,
and the daylight hours shitting out my fears
Until he tells me its time to go
Hold you head, you're the lucky one

On the guerney the ceiling glides over my eyes
The nurse looks down, distance and affection etch a sketched on his expression
Ward, corridor, lift, corridor, prep room
They inject the coldness into my hand,
and I count back through every mistake I've ever made
They drop the curtains so I never get to see the metal hands that pushed sparks into my mind

And I come back in the middle of his sentence, the world in front of me the size of a postage stamp
He plonks breakfast on the table for me
As my mind struggles into the clothing of thought
"Come on" he says, back to the halfway house,
"Only four more treatments to go"

"Every time I see you, you seem more alive"
Become familiar words from visitors carrying goodwill in brightly coloured bundles
Conversations are no longer conducted through cotton mouth sentences
That muffled everything down to a murmur
They told me at the last ward round I'd get out of intensive care soon
My progress the marvel of a Monday morning

A life to come as full as full as a harvest moon,
and eyes that have seen the things we hide from ourselves only to know the reason why
Shocked back into life, and slotted back into the world

Lot 48

Just now I saw a woman’s back as she fed an empty Shredded Wheat packet
Into a red post box on Oxford Road
Near the Lidl and the Superdrug
In a bulged carrier bag strapped to her wrist
Were egg cartons and such like

Her clothes didn’t look strange but her hair gave away her age
I didn’t stop to watch
But instead fell into an empty pub
To write these words, which seems so much worse
Asked the barman to carry the tea to my table
Cause even after all these years my hands still shake

I wondered about her serenity
Maybe between the knotted ends of furious thoughts
But there was something in her calm determination
That said to me that for her, for one moment at least, all was well in the world
But less so the 2nd, 3rd, 4th deposit she made
I even thought she might be a vandal
About to throw in a lighted match
But there’s enough tinder in there already
I wondered about the clichéd reasons
TV presenter voices, radios clicked off and eyes of strangers, got angry with myself
Then thought of the cliché that these things are usually true

I had wondered for a fleeting shameful thought
About taking her hand and leading her to the bright lights and green metal chairs of the nearby A+E
As stupid an idea as those who kneel beery breathed by the homeless in the cold and give them a list of things to save themselves

I’d probably just distress her, a simple mantra to repeat until such dumb heroic thoughts faded away
And soon the mundane thoughts of how to fill an evening begin to play out instead

So soon it’ll bleed white from memory
Until I see another member of her not so exclusive club
And there she’ll be, a figure to cut out and keep
To speak of in pubs and living rooms
When relevance comes along

So her fate it seems in all is whether we believe in good strong voiced endings
Or long tattered beginnings
The only real connection here isn’t with me and her
Not right now anyway
But whether any or even every other person that’s seen her before
Leaves the road and follows the same dead end path as mine

Digging Tunnels

City life shadows choice with compromise

but these actions on a slippery January night

are so far gone that they come back around again

to make total sense, not only to me,

but all the odd numbered traffic light eyes that watch hidden

and the flick of the timed and secret glances from inside the shine of moving cars

So here I am. My mind in clattering conversation with itself

pulling my coat over my head in the middle of a city road,

to leave it there to show I’m ready

to gain the world in a single night

the winter’s chill a distant sensation

and in nothing but the space and the solitude of a busy city street

And now I feel nothing but regret for every minute my life has counted until this place

and now I feel nothing but the inner glow of knowing

and now I feel nothing from the cars that pass my knuckled sides

and now I feel nothing from my silenced thoughts and seconds that drop like revelations

and now I feel nothing for anyone but me

and now I feel nothing

Because if time is two sided, it gives with the first and steals with the last

if standing on a height fills your eyes with the sky and not the thought of the fall

if you can kill the kid inside you, then it rises again in the morning

if you can walk into the newly franked world with a naked mind

then nothing wrong exists cause you haven’t brought it there yourself

then this will all be alright

So I stumble to the far kerb, tired and beat and bright eyed

and a voice from a sudden person calls out

“You’ve missed a bit” pointing back at the slumped coat where I’d left it to die

reminding me of my Dad’s response to my first shave, and I realise they know

but when I look back, it’s turned into something else, something wrong

and the entire street falls to silence, and the space opens up again,

This time all the shop fronts close in on themselves

and the coldness I barely noticed comes rushing in to wrap itself around my skin

and that soft revelation dims and returns in a harsh edged terrible light

and the space between me and the way back is as far as the one from me to you

when you can never really understand the white grip of loss

from something that your conscripting mind convinced you was there

And time calls out it’s horrible scream and you can’t bend back your mind to where it was

and no one here can help, cause they’re like you, they’re lost but they’re also angry

so you take your battered mind home, but the cuts won’t close

so you take your battered mind home, but the cuts won’t close

and all the street signs seem to read backwards, and you know from this moment onwards

This is who you are

Lucia Joyce (daughter of James Joyce)

Introduction, Lucia Joyce was schizophrenic and was seen by many as her father's muse

the slumped book between the bed and the wall
between the bed and the wall the slumped book
it's cover shape it's dense material
typset it's cover shape
it's dense material typeset
is the focus of a sourceless mind when the mirror only bites
when the mirror only bites is the focus of a sourceless mind

my cottonmouth sentences
spoken in sleep
have a way of stumbling into this world

he carries his original sin
the way this land
was held in the silvery palm of the English

and the lamp light shine doesn't know
many of his words are
half closed doors
strange hand me downs
the thoughts that run from this room to his
but never return

and this night book
fallen between the bed and the wall
was a meandering risk he made
greater than my mind could ever close itself around

somewhere lost among these words
was a chance, fading yellowing and browned
any time it was shown the brightening daylight
to be something other than his fearsome muse
more than a broken lover for his grovelling soft headed subjects

but the real words
are the ones I don't know how to form
never mind let go
to spin strange patterns
across this arcing room

so soon I'll sleep for him
I'll dream for him
to wake with fistfuls of things for him
to fool them again into believing the trick of the strangeness of his lucidity

and the reason of our insanity
is the slumped space between me and him
instead of the shared resting place
of the tender footprints of our most beautiful boundless self

How it all began

He was stood with them on another street corner

A little way back from the road

Where the tigers pass

On the pavement people come by

With trademark tinderbox eyes

He was settled into his own boredom

Lstening to Simon tell that same raggedy arsed tale

But with even more bits and bobs

Stuck loosely on

To make him sound more

Like a bright shiny metal nail

He wondered how Simon thought at night

Did he really see himself

In the words he said

He felt anger tighten in his throat

So he looked over at her

Until everything steadied itself

She was stood with them on another street corner

A little way back from the road

Where the tigers pass

On the pavement people come by

With trademark tinderbox eyes

In front of them all

She was watching him

When he wasn’t looking

Normally she wouldn’t be that bold

But there was sweetness in her belly

And soft light in her sight

The shallow cut on her skin

From the sharp words of her mother

Had already closed over

And there was this moment

When their eyes met

Somewhere in the middle of Simon’s words

And she awarded herself a simple smile

To be unlocked and find so much inside


Watching trails of sweet teethed smoke

As she lay on his stomach

Thin curtains closed to make

A type of feeling out of a bored afternoon

Talking loosely of the not so great adventures

Of such and such and so and so

Fuck, if they were here right now

They realise something about themselves

Wrapped up lightly in the other’s words

He plays with her hair

In a half awake way

She thinks, outside this room

Anything is better than all there is

Or words to those ends

What if there was something, he thinks

Other than the park, the street, the bright clutter corner shop

He releases this as a blast of smoke

Hears a third voice

Even though there’s no one else there


He was stood with them on another street corner

A little way back from the road

Where the tigers pass

On the pavement people come by

With trademark tinderbox eyes

Sick of the taste in his mouth

And their words in his ears

Why would he go back there?

For a pointless piece of paper

It was her delicious mouth

That had troubled his mind

It was her fault

For him turning himself into a stranger

But no matter what they said, he was never given to throw his fist

That’s why they never really trusted him

And every grazing insult

Only built the shore line of his thoughts further


Somewhere between the restless sedation of TV programmes

Walls so papery, when there’s the silence

You can hear next door’s set

Her mother unfurls a coil of words

He’s Barrett’s boy and you know what that means

She knows to keep the deep waters

Of her words as calm as she can

But her mother taps sharp point nails

On skin already raw

She’s already been getting ideas above her station

You’re too good for this house

She feels anger come

And can’t swallow hard or fast enough

So she leaves the argument with a slamming door

Instead of the usual soft slow click

His flat is only streets away

She texts ahead

And he tells her he’s waiting for her

And pretty soon this world will feel alright

Michael Wilson: My writing spins uncompromisingly through the themes of mental health, sex, drugs, and rock and dole. Finalist of Cheltenham UK All Stars Slam 2008, Winner of Bolton Slam 2009 , and upcoming semi finalist for the Radio 4 Slam this year.

Michael Wilson Barry Seiler Chrissa Sandlin Mary Ocher G David Schwartz Jesse S Hanson Adejoh Momoh Keith Nunes Christopher Barnes Tiffani Hollis

Barry Seiler

Poems at the Door

The bed is thick with me, arrangement of flesh
And pill. The couch, the floor, the kitchen chair,

What do they care, the weight of me lifted
And done? But the door—the door—

When the door asks which side are you on,
How will I reply?

When is a door not a door?
What is black and white and red all over?

When the door is ajar who will enter, leave,
Or get the joke? Who will deliver?

In the dream the door kept blowing open.
I kept rising to close it.

Rain blew against the door.
I heard footsteps and traffic sounds.

Later my father entered the room and said
He’s sleeping, only sleeping. Let him sleep.

I came to the door, my forehead damp.
I pressed it against the wood.

Beneath the peephole
The wood was damp and cool.

Inside the wood I hear a ring of worshippers
Humming ecstatically.

Barry Seiler lives in the small mountain town of Roxbury New York with his wife, cats and cockatiel. He has published four books of poems, the last three with the University of Akron Press.

Michael Wilson Barry Seiler Chrissa Sandlin Mary Ocher G David Schwartz Jesse S Hanson Adejoh Momoh Keith Nunes Christopher Barnes Tiffani Hollis

G David Schwartz

My Mother Said I Was Her Favorite Son

My mother said I was her favorite son
Doesn't she know I am the only one?
She gave birth to me
And then two girls you see
Yea sure I'm her favorite son

G. David Schwartz is the former president of Seedhouse, the online interfaith committee. Schwartz is the author of A Jewish Appraisal of Dialogue. Currently a volunteer at Drake Hospital in Cincinnati, Schwartz continues to write. His new book, Midrash and Working Out Of The Book is now in stores or can be ordered.

Michael Wilson Barry Seiler Chrissa Sandlin Mary Ocher G David Schwartz Jesse S Hanson Adejoh Momoh Keith Nunes Christopher Barnes Tiffani Hollis

Mary Ocher

Proper adjustments

Big blue veins
I wish they’d be any other color
but blue
But they don’t care, see -
Opposing your wishes
they grow and spread and take hostage
of the body
as it opens,
and the blue veins conquer:
We have always been"
the emperors,
We have always ruled
this waste-place,
and nobody else but us”.


Will you then admit?
And babies are not different from
And blushes are not different from
And turning plates on dining floors
Are not too different
not at all
And hands, they burst through thick earth-twigs
And roots, and vanity,
And many firsts.

Lots and lots and lots.

Mary Ocher was born in Moscow, in 1986, grew up in Tel Aviv, is now living in Berlin.

Michael Wilson Barry Seiler Chrissa Sandlin Mary Ocher G David Schwartz Jesse S Hanson Adejoh Momoh Keith Nunes Christopher Barnes Tiffani Hollis

Chrissa Sandlin

Sleeping with My Depression

I've been sleeping with my depression.
Sometimes it knows the worthless me
Better than the rest of these ignorant people
To whom I am tied or related.

So, I'm having this casual affiare
In the empty day before the lights
Shrink this house into a home.
I think I'm enjoying it.

We are a powerful couple, on the edge
Of our own sacrificial volcano.
I scream; the day shakes. I was young
And peace flies in the fire to make me so again.

What if they find out?
Affairs creep out from under mats,
Become like real life, turfed over
With a familiar foundation.

I won't enjoy it as much
When we're living together.
When I'm drinking something else
To blunt the carve of the sucking wave.

Chrissa Sandlin is a poet living in Texas who has found that depression and anxiety both push and fight her work.

Michael Wilson Barry Seiler Chrissa Sandlin Mary Ocher G David Schwartz Jesse S Hanson Adejoh Momoh Keith Nunes Christopher Barnes Tiffani Hollis

Adejoh Momoh

The Others

My memory is adrift: constantly engaged in bouts and
bouts of thoughts that both be wrong and right.
As the tide rises, I offer prayers to mighty Allah:
‘Does he still live?’. ‘Do not take this like you took the others?’
My sanity is adrift: woefully the others haunt my day
dreams: dishing pain/suffering in deathfully cold slivers.
To heavenward I turn, the others who in death engaged
should in death remain.
Should he join the others, in pain would my days be
consumed. The fangs of death would I with much
pleasure embrace: all my hospital nights of near death
would I willfully recall.
My many loves have the others been: with their
deaths, I die over and again.

Stuck Where I Am

From this end to that end I will to move:
All my toil, my labor is in wait for the
In lowly tones, you ask that I wait:
It was my mistake: for with military might I
flung my heart open, but still was I
open to bindings from the world I left: my ideas
preconceived I didn’t deny.
Was I not listening? When by fire you commanded,
‘deny all that to you is familiar, accept all that
which I offer you’
How do I come to terms with man denying family?
‘I was lost but now I’m found. I was alive
and now I’ve drowned’

Adejoh Idoko Momoh: I was born in Kaduna, Nigeria in 1988, I have loved poetry all my life. Draw my inspiration from old classics. Use poetry as a creative outlet for negative energy. I hope someday to have a book of classic poetry published.

Michael Wilson Barry Seiler Chrissa Sandlin Mary Ocher G David Schwartz Jesse S Hanson Adejoh Momoh Keith Nunes Christopher Barnes Tiffani Hollis

jesse s. hanson

seeing love

I climb all day some stairs in my head
I have to go fight the devils off
I don’t like to face the truth
I turn my back instead

You look out over all creations
You hold no truck with preachers
You honor the old promises
You recognize no nations

this is where I dwell in madness and sorrow
this fear operating from my shoulder
this cursed world without is now within me
this damn mythical tomorrow

Your words of recognition calm me
Your rules of iron, your heart of wax
Your sad brown eternal bottomless eyes
   Your vina, bell, and mrdanga call me

here in these haunted brackish waters
here upon these raw boned blooded knees
here where my appeals have been denied for so many ages
here I turn on the wheel of insane religious potters

seeing love, the world turns away in shame
seeing love we sin the harder
seeing love the armies come to kill it
seeing love the world remains the same

Michael Wilson Barry Seiler Chrissa Sandlin Mary Ocher G David Schwartz Jesse S Hanson Adejoh Momoh Keith Nunes Christopher Barnes Tiffani Hollis

Keith Nunes

We Are One

Three fours and she’s curdling in the milk
Smacking diving cormorants with a piece of wood
That looks like Buddha
I peel away the skin of my grandfather
And emerge veins out of place
A smile I don’t recognize
She substitutes befuddled for a tap beer and
We slide toward a dilemma
Full of Bulgarian businessmen and
On the stroke of one we are two

She slides on purple Docs and I
Immediately revolutionise the map
Telling Aunt Mary there is a spade and
An ace she can use to unearth heaven
Back at the front they are dying for a cuppa
At the rear five fatties with rounded burps
Collapse at the sight of Father Tomlin flying
And on the stroke of two we are one

Holy Hole

The hole needed to be dug
The spade needed to be cleaned
He wanted a compliment but
She needed a reason
Now they talk through lawyers
He hasn’t dug a hole in a long time

Keith Nunes: I am from Tauranga. A former journalist I now write poetry to stay sane and fight off my ever present depression. I've been published in a number of poetry journals and ezines in New Zealand and overseas over the years.

Michael Wilson Barry Seiler Chrissa Sandlin Mary Ocher G David Schwartz Jesse S Hanson Adejoh Momoh Keith Nunes Christopher Barnes Tiffani Hollis

Christopher Barnes

Waiting For The Love Train

White-out. We’re in the portacabin, a winking of slides.
Collingwood’s monument piking a matt finish Tyne
is newsprint grey. Then a lovely mistake
a body-snatched Midas is found axed
his twin hears a rumour of a skull in a cistern,
in black-gothic print. (The ink unheard)
Anita Harris swallows
the crystals of Peter Pan. (What’s this lesson about?)
Ah…the media, the peeling back of trivialities.
There’s gnashing inflation
and dustmen write Marx flame-swirling barricades.
It’s Social Studies (excuse me sniffing) a diamond-studded version
by the dangerously well-heeled. Then
fog pulls plug on dog racing. (Are you sure?)

Quick-melting night was a lopsided spiral galaxy.
Gobstoppers, blackjacks, a hard rubber
space hopper, Thunderbirds are go!
And ten minutes of spine-chilling spectacle
through the atoms of a sizzling tv
   -        a big old Isley Bro. whipping up
white-light spandex and fool’s gold boots
and a deal of blind poker
chucking shadows on an easy-wipe table.

War Criminals In The Government-To-Be

you’re turning over our bleeding dossier.
I eavesdropped the phone.”

Miss Anyface, a plonking redhead
with a saddle-horse list,
hummed permissively.

“Top Drawer sent you?
Analyse and Smear Department?”
She maims a false docket
in sticky-hot fists.

“Our initiative is the Labour Camp.”
She deletes words from a document.

“Shall we march on
to Black Markets, the thick-of-things,
Spoiling Tactics,
the downgrading of murder?”

from the ‘Spooks’ poems

Christopher Barnes: in 1998 I won a Northern Arts writers award. On Saturday 16th August 2003 I read at theEdinburgh Festival as a Per Verse poet at LGBT Centre, Broughton St. Christmas 2001 The Northern Cultural Skills Partnership sponsored me to be mentored by Andy Croft in conjunction with New Writing North. I made a radio programme for Web FM community radio about my writing group. October-November 2005, I entered a poem/visual image into the art exhibition The Art Cafe Project, his piece Post-Mark was shown in Betty's Newcastle. This event was sponsored by Pride On The Tyne. I made a digital film with artists Kate Sweeney and Julie Ballands at a film making workshop called Out Of The Picture which was shown at the festival party for Proudwords, it contains my poem The Old Heave-Ho. I worked on a collaborative art and literature project called How Gay Are Your Genes, facilitated by Lisa Mathews (poet) which exhibited at The Hatton Gallery, Newcastle University funded by The Policy, Ethics and Life Sciences Research Institute, Bioscience Centre at Newcastle's Centre for Life. I was involved in the Five Arts Cities poetry postcard event which exhibited at The Seven Stories children's literature building. In May I had 2006 a solo art/poetry exhibition at The People's Theatre why not take a look at their website The South Bank Centre in London recorded my poem "The Holiday I Never Had", I can be heard reading it here. I have written poetry reviews for Poetry Scotland and Jacket Magazine and in August 2007 I made a film called 'A Blank Screen, 60 seconds, 1 shot' for Queerbeats Festival at The Star & Shadow Cinema Newcastle, reviewing a poem...see

Michael Wilson Barry Seiler Chrissa Sandlin Mary Ocher G David Schwartz Jesse S Hanson Adejoh Momoh Keith Nunes Christopher Barnes Tiffani Hollis

Tiffani Hollis


In neat little rows,
They sit.
Windows open, curtains flutter.
In neat little rows,
They stare.

         On crooked broken path,
           I crumble.
         Windows latched, shades drawn.
         On crooked broken path,
           I fall.

In neat little rows.
They stare.

They stare, but cannot see
Past weathered weather vane.
They stare, but cannot look
Through shuttered window pane.
Lights off, faucet drips
Tap Tap Tap.

         On crooked broken path,
           I fall.

         I fall, but cannot break
           Through barricaded doors.
         I fall, but cannot crash
           Through rotted termite ridden floors.
         Lights off, faucet drips.
           Please Please Please

In neat little rows,
They sit.

Tiffani Hollis: I have been diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder for about a year, but the condition has wreaked havoc on my life for at least the last 15 of my 31 years. I have made ruinous mistakes and am now trying to find my peace in writing and art.

Michael Wilson Barry Seiler Chrissa Sandlin Mary Ocher G David Schwartz Jesse S Hanson Adejoh Momoh Keith Nunes Christopher Barnes Tiffani Hollis

Sunday, March 01, 2009

Issue 28

Image (Copyright © 2009 Dottie Ann Stucko)

Ray Succre

Tendai Mwanaka

Michael Lee Johnson

Steve Parker

Dottie Ann Stucko

Felino Soriano

Ray Succre

Passing the Harbor

Harbor waved at, noon, by my young son,
through a window, car-seat soon a bed,
and the tugs brawn ships like neighborly loans.

The Sun sits still, annunciating brilliance,
as I drive, remembering 7th Floor East,
my commitment, asylum, military psychiatrics.

Gown the waking of chill, dotted in floral schemes,
tied round my neck like a sweetheart.
"It's clear you're a danger to yourself, son.
We've already seen that, and maybe you're past it,
but we need to know if you're any danger to others."

Indifference there, long ago, was mostly wisdom,
a body of water through a door, down a hall,
into a chair.

"How about it, son? Would you hurt others?
Do you harbor thoughts like that?" Did I?

Desire, change the room, Summer chance
release, diverted to normality, a nature
modified perspiring the shady gown it wore.

Then crossing the years that shared my bed.
Crossing the tease, dotting the i of a nude life.

Now, the harbor brays in the all noon bask.
My son in back bickers down his window,
and the car-seat brims over, adrift atop joy,
with his copious exclamations for boats.

With the Wind in This Shirt

Fleet, lie down, pave for me across
your planks and hauls.
I wish to walk to an island far off,
and I guard you know the way.

Small fleet, lay down your masts
and bow lowly in the capping seatop;
let me walk across.

My death is far, at end in your charts,
and the village I know is port for all.
There will be ruins and storms to pilfer,
there will be catches of lightning in hands.

Let down your engines and stewards and sails—
Fleet, I’ve bled out my dream upon you.

The Downward Touch

In the rummager world,
that's where I am.
I need the fat light of items.
Together with some,
and alone, too, I am
in the rummager world,
even here with you.

I will return from lights
and trinkets at last,
but in what form do I travel?

A flat, but imperfect stone
sent three quick taps from shore.

Ray Succre currently lives on the southern Oregon coast with his wife and son. He has been published in Aesthetica, BlazeVOX, and Pank, as well as in numerous others across as many countries. He has been nominated for the Pushcart twice, and his novel Tatterdemalion (Cauliay) was recently released in print and is available most places. He tries hard.

Ray Succre Tendai Mwanaka Michael Lee Johnson Steve Parker Dottie Ann Stucko Felino Soriano

Tendai Mwanaka

Nobody Tells The Truth

When a thing vanishes
And then-
Suddenly comes back
Nobody tells it
The truth
Even when everyone knows
The shapes
In the shadows

And a cult of
Personal honesty
Leaves not shadows
But hidden shells
Within hidden shells
Of all the things
That we had felt
As the truth
All gone away.

See How It Begins To Distort

Guard every speech
That you say

Because it carries
The warmth and moistures
Of your life
See how this utterance
Begins to distort

It is a seeker
Of sensations
Knowledge is
Just a side effect
In these particulars

Tendai Mwanaka: I have published several poetry and short stories in UK, USA, CANADA, AUSTRALIA, INDIA AND SOUTH AFRICAN MAGAZINES, inclusive of the following; wordgathering, decanto, winningwriters, earlscourt, newcontrast, itch, poetrylifeandtimes,languageandculture, kota, kritya, barnwood, beyond the rainbow, curious record, mobius, mgversion2,idiom and I have work forthcoming in decanto, newcontrast, phoenix review, downtreader, sonnetart, wordgathering, snailpress, Potomac, poetrymonthly international and newcoin.

Ray Succre Tendai Mwanaka Michael Lee Johnson Steve Parker Dottie Ann Stucko Felino Soriano

Michael Lee Johnson

Phil and Betsy: Illinois Farmers

Illinois writer in the land of Lincoln
new harvest without words
plenty of sugar pie plum, peach cobbler pie,
buried in grandma sugar;
factory sweets and low flowing river nearby─
transports of soy bean, corn, and cattle feed
into the wide bass mouth of the Kishwakee River.
It is the moment of reunion,
when friends and economy come together─
hotdogs, marshmallows, tents scattered,
playing kick ball with that black farm dog.

It's a simple act, a farmer gone blind with the night pink sky,
desolate farmer, simple flat land, DeKalb, Illinois.

Betsy and Phil, invite us all to the camp and fireside.

But Phil is still in the field, pushing sunset to dusk.
He is raking dry the farm soil of salvation, moisture has its own religious quirks,
dead seed from weed hurls up to the metal lips of the cultivator pitting.

The full moon is undressing, pink florescent hints of blue, pajamas, turned
inward near midnight sky against the moon naked and embarrassed.

Hayrides for strangers go down dark squared off roads with lights hanging, dangling,
children humming school tunes, long farmhouse lights lost in the near distance.

Hums till dawn, Christian songs repeat, over God's earth, till dead sounds the tractor
pulls itself down, down to the dusk, and off the road edge.

It is the moment of reunion.

Michael Lee Johnson is a poet and freelance writer from Itasca, Illinois. His brand new chapbook, From Which Place the Morning Rises, is now available at and can be purchased here. He also has 2 previous chapbooks available here. He is also the author of The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom. He has been published in USA, Canada, New Zealand, Australia, Scotland, Turkey, Fiji, Nigeria, Algeria, Africa, India, United Kingdom, Republic of Sierra Leone, Israel, Nepal, Thailand, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, Finland, and Poland internet radio. Michael Lee Johnson has been published in more than 280 different publications worldwide. Audio MP3 of poems are available on request.

He is also publisher and editor of four poetry flash fiction sites--all presently open for submission:

Ray Succre Tendai Mwanaka Michael Lee Johnson Steve Parker Dottie Ann Stucko Felino Soriano

Steve Parker

the night’s travel

in and now out the same door
like all knives whirling
our utter politics in collisions
of limestone pavements

across all this she travailed
with sepia sandbags
of County Clare

all sailroads to traverse
and only 8 O-clock
by the whale's chime

this big hand by the night's wild travel
points to 12
the little hand
flickers and stops

iris of heart attack hope
—love of small things
and wild places

be certain now be sure

it's that time
in between
where the hands don't count

it's okay to be scared here
to lie down and breathe
to lie a little
before waking

Steve Parker: I'm a UK poet working near Haworth in Yorkshire. I've been published in various journals and zines etc, including Underground Voices, The Chimaera, The Cleave, Ditch, Dogzplot, Cause and Effect, Admit Two, Chaos International, Machenalia etc etc, with more forthcoming. Published in a couple of anthologies, with two poems forthcoming in the Cleave Anthology this Spring. Also published a couple of short collections, with another coming soon. I was a founder-member of the Orzel Collective experimenting with transtextual poetry. I also run a poetry and critique forum ( and have a lively poetry blog ( I'm 45, originally from Liverpool, and have two young sons.

Ray Succre Tendai Mwanaka Michael Lee Johnson Steve Parker Dottie Ann Stucko Felino Soriano

Dottie Ann Stucko

The Love Poem

The worship of your soul
Along with the blind
Bathed in Complete Light

created a past

Branched into the never ending sky
the Present is now showered with gifts

Binding the future with dear Death

and so dear friend
may we never part

Dottie Ann Stucko: I had a few poems previously published in Poetry Sz in September of 2000. My bio stated that I was a diagnosed schizophrenic and art student at the age of twenty-two. I was actually misdiagnosed in the past, but do presently live with bipolar disorder. I am still a practicing artist and was recently part of an abstract surrealism exhibit in November of 2008. My goal in this life is to be remembered somehow without giving birth to children.

Ray Succre Tendai Mwanaka Michael Lee Johnson Steve Parker Dottie Ann Stucko Felino Soriano

Felino Soriano

Painters' Exhalations 23
after Edward Hopper's Room in New York

Duality of common indifference. They
conducting silent, unmusical tongues,
spreading separated bodies
farther into mind controlled remoteness, diffusing
a contingent pause in human connection.
Newspaper, holder of his eyes in cupped
palms, elaborate prose. Her lean
precious as genius, her lean
curling into nonchalance atop
the piano's luscious tone.
Art on butter walls,
an infantile landscape
crawling near the feet of
fatherly mountains. Such a
universal translation of comfort,
the mind, if it fishes in an amorous thought,
their bodies can rejoin in married,
amalgamated devotion, where distance's voice
is too faint to wrap around the wings
of fleeing embraces.

Felino Soriano (California) is a case manager working with developmentally and physically disabled adults. He is the author of two chapbooks, an e-book, and has a chapbook forthcoming. The juxtaposition of his philosophical studies with his love of classic and avant-garde jazz explains his poetic motivation. Website:

Ray Succre Tendai Mwanaka Michael Lee Johnson Steve Parker Dottie Ann Stucko Felino Soriano