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”.
January 2016 | poetry
(Inspired by Patrick Leigh Fermor)
In dark latitudes
beyond the mountains
clouds gather
fluorescent and frosted
in a disturbing array
shivering
with summer lighting
Unknown figures
in the wilderness
bode ill
with spells and charms
keep close
to spreading spokes
of campfire light
In unreported river islands
lies an atmosphere
of pre-historic survival
where children look
like the adults
the refuge of an otherwise
extinct species.
by John Kropf
January 2016 | poetry
Conquests illuminate weaknesses
Conquests illuminate weaknesses
As pastels set off primaries
We are all relative to primates and colors
Tripping strapped to the desk
Eclipsed by ourselves
Hidden beneath the surface
Unknown unborn
Irrational suppositions on existence
Keep us occupied
While we wait for the real moments
Of transcendence and transformation
Into something worthwhile
Opinioned to be
The next
Evolution
Incarnate
The Night Lou Reed Died
The night Lou Reed died
Every bar in the city
The big borough city
Played the poet
Who encapsulated
What drove us down to town
Took us back into our lives
And captured what needed encapsulation anticipation
Dreams to live to die by
Sometimes shuddering our way home
Whilst we tried to recall our listless motivations
To get our asses out of lost towns
And onto the bridges that always smiled at us
While we waited for acceptance or acknowledgement
Something that made the beat worth defending
The cripples chalice-sing
Past sifted by the moment
by Josef Krebs
Josef Krebs’ poetry appears in Agenda, Bicycle Review, Calliope, Mouse Tales Press, The Corner Club Press, The FictionWeek Literary Review, and Burningword Literary Journal. A short story has been published by blazeVOX and a chapbook of his poems will be published soon by Etched Press. He’s written three novels, five screenplays, and a book of poetry. His film was successfully screened at Santa Cruz and Short Film Corner of Cannes film festivals. The past seven years He’s been working as a freelance writer for Sound&Vision magazine having previously worked at the magazine for 15 years as a staff writer and editor.
January 2016 | poetry
Because the window in my heart was left open wide
The cold crept in quietly to chastise vein miracles.
Because the cold crept in quietly to chastise vein miracles
The breath frosted over in wisps of ether demons.
Because the breath frosted over in wisps of ether demons
The downy innocent flesh tingled untouched in restless slumber.
Because the downy innocent flesh tingled untouched in restless slumber
The ancient aging entombed in tattered blankets birthed shadows.
Because the ancient aging entombed in tattered blankets birthed shadows
The convict ghosts escaped the confines of darkened corners.
Because the convict ghosts escaped the confines of darkened corners
The voices of laughing children vanished from the garden.
Because the voices of laughing children vanished from the garden
The twisting vines brought the carousel down in disrepair.
Because the twisting vines brought the carousel down in disrepair
The grains of lost futures trickled through ticking hands.
Because the grains of lost futures trickled through ticking hands
My calloused feet ran to the edge of earth.
Because my calloused feet ran to the edge of earth
The memory of home forgot its own misunderstood importance.
Because the memory of home forgot its own misunderstood importance
The abandoned thoughts seeped into cracks in the ceiling.
Because the abandoned thoughts seeped into cracks in the ceiling
The attic spilled all the wreathed secrets once hidden.
Because the attic spilled all the wreathed secrets once hidden
The desolate crimes waged weary war on the sun.
Because the desolate crimes waged weary war on the sun
The unsettled darkness killed countless candles with unassuming precision.
Because the unsettled darkness killed countless candles with unassuming precision
The goose-pimple flesh was cataloged intently by naked fingers.
Because the goose-pimple flesh was cataloged intently by naked fingers
The fall of Eden passed through ruin with pardon.
Because the fall of Eden passed through ruin with pardon
The shedding of buttons and cotton adorned vested rituals.
Because the shedding of buttons and cotton adorned vested rituals
The sighs in wanton throats swallowed the night sky.
Because the sighs in wanton throats swallowed the night sky
The faultless stars were lost in our universal vision.
Because the faultless stars were lost in our universal vision
I stood with bleeding feet on the doomed shore.
Because I stood with bleeding feet on the doomed shore
I could not hear static voices calling for home.
Because I could not hear static voices calling for home
The window of my heart was nailed decisively shut.
Because the window of my heart was nailed decisively shut
The winds of the weathered world could not escape.
Because the winds of the weathered world could not escape
The wisdom creaked within the echoes of hollow bones
Because the wisdom creaked within the echoes of hollow bones
The internal cacophony transformed broken chords into infinite symphonies.
And all other sounds muted in tapestries of silence
Eternally whispered in tones of varied octaves into myriad ears,
But the discorded choir sang deaf songs they understood
Because tongues only form words familiar to their corpus melodies.
The consequence of the speaking, the touching, the seeing
From the last to the first, the admission in living
Paid alone in exhalations of seeds of hardening wax
As autumn comes calling to consequently consume summer’s fugitive flame.
by Adam Huening
Adam Huening lives around Bloomington, Indiana, in a house with three kids and one beautiful, understanding fiancé. He is often listening when no one thinks he is, making copious notes for use at a later date. He writes because he is compelled by forces greater than himself, and, although he knows not what these forces are, he feels it is unwise to argue. Read his other stuff in 1947, Soliloquies Anthology and Poetry Quarterly.
