January 2016 | poetry
Enlightenment in the Parking Lot
You curl up in the corner of the washroom
without concern about the urine on the floor
and you hear hot voices and cool riffs
leave through the door of the village barn
where they celebrate your getting hitched
to husband number three. While you were pensive
and wondered, he stumbled drunk
into your best friend holding on to her tits
to soften his fall. You lick salt and hug yourself
not caring about the bruises, then you lift
yourself, slowly, because your body is heavy,
and you walk out unseen through the back entrance.
You kick off your heels, your head clears some
and when you get to the parking lot
you’re not sure where you’ll be driving,
but you know you won’t die again.
imperfect recall
in the car whistling
shrieking metal on metal
big woman shuffles
a soprano voice and
sharp cuts crystal
shatters on flagstone
I have insurance
abandoned fields fierce
orange mushrooms push
open the wound on a fallen trunk
old man furtively pisses
out old afflictions mosquitoes
throng and settle on
the heat coming off me
smears of blood on my cage
suppose it’s mine
then it was summer
night air police sirens
one-hundred-and-seven days
needed to return
now bare trees smeared
glass brittle with frost
tattered images
by Rose Mary Boehm
A German-born UK national, Rose Mary Boehm lives and works in Lima, Peru. Author of two novels and a poetry collection (TANGENTS) published in 2011 in the UK, well over 100 of her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in a good two dozen US poetry reviews as well as some print anthologies, and Diane Lockward’s The Crafty Poet. She won third price in in the 2009 Margaret Reid Poetry Contest for Traditional Verse (US), was semi-finalist in the Naugatuck poetry contest 2012/13 and has been a finalist in several GR contests, winning it in October 2014.
January 2016 | poetry
Remember this.
Remember tonight.
Remember the rain
hitting the window,
the train’s whistle
cutting through the wind while the night moves southwards.
Remember.
Remember this.
Memorize this.
These were the words she uttered,
warm and wet, softly and lazily,
while a brief summer storm washed away the dirt
on your bedroom’s window.
And you promised you would remember everything,
and you tried, you tried hard.
But even then you were already starting to forget.
Time goes by, and you learn.
You learn, for instance,
that the soul is a complex system
and solitude is its only constant.
Yes, these last nights have been long,
quiet,
monotonous.
Yes, you know well that she does not want to forget you;
you do not want to forget her either.
But who knows…
perhaps you are forgetting her already.
Perhaps you are forgetting her, little by little,
as you write these clumsy lines
of nostalgia and oblivion.
by Juan Cruz
Juan David Cruz Duarte was born in Bogotá, Colombia, in 1986. In 2010 he immigrated to the United States in order to get a PhD at the University of South Carolina. Some of his essays, poems and short stories have been published in the Colombian literary magazine Escarabeo Revista literaria. Cruz’s poetry has also appeared in Jasper Magazine. He published a collection of short stories (Dream a Little Dream of Me: Cuentos Siniestros) in 2011, and a short novel (La noche del fin del mundo) in 2012.
January 2016 | poetry
a wave good-bye
a hug, a kiss
parentless
a thirsty Hispanic teen
travels north
on blazing train-car roofs
and searing dirt roads
away from king-pin violence
and cold fear
towards warm streets
paved of gold
caught crossing the border
an embarrassed patrol worker whispers
aquí está su casa billete de autobús
by John Sweeder
John Sweeder is a retired university professor from La Salle University in Philadelphia, PA. He considers himself an emerging poet and memoirist who has had several poems published in The Opening Line Literary ‘Zine and The Ocean City Sentinel. He is presently self-publishing a completed work entitled, Breathing through a Straw: A Memoir for Baby Boomers and Neurotic Catholics, one chapter per month, at https://jsweeder.wordpress.com/. Prior to his retirement, he wrote several scholarly articles in his field and co-authored an academic textbook entitled, Drowning in the Clear Pool: Cultural Narcissism, Technology, and Character Education, with Peter Lang Press.
January 2016 | poetry
My hope is a blue fluffy pillow.
A mirror of the sky, there to cushion my falls.
It glows; sunlight through a window.
My hope is the city.
The smell of cigarettes
mingling with bus exhaust.
Empty sky with stars on the ground
in orderly lines.
My hope is the ocean.
Giving and taking.
Advancing and receding.
Salty air on my skin.
My hope is the bells in the distance.
Spices and smoke,
foreign places I have yet to see.
My hope is laughter,
my hope is wails.
My hope is goodbyes and hellos and the tippy-tap of little feet.
My hope is life.
by Katherine Pixley
Kate Pixley is a poet, comedian, and student from Des Moines, Iowa.
January 2016 | poetry
–dedicated to Gandhi and King
wage a war of peace
a war of peaceful ways
a war of peaceful means
let violence be validation of violent
let murder be mandate of murderers
let bloodstains stain bloody, blood soaked hands
but let conquerors conquer by means of peace.
wage a war of peace
a war of peaceful ways
a war of peaceful means
let legacies of brave be legacies of peace
let ways of strong be peaceful ways
let days of wise be peaceful days
to the end so it is to always seek.
let violent be violent
let murderers be murderous
let clamorers clamoring conflict clamor
but let wise, let strong, let brave,
let courageous, conquerors champion
the ways of peace
by Jerry Johnson
Jerry Johnson is a new writer to the Connecticut/New York area. He does performance poetry at several venues in New York City and has published one e-book, “Good Morning 2015, An Inspirational Journey”.
