July 2011 | back-issues, poetry
Her vitriol is shocking
like the unfounded kick
to fat puppy
though He reacts in
teeth gnash
rabid snarl
the mean passion
of that same
fat puppy reared
on a diet of
no love and
meager bones.
Like me,
He has pissed
on the Persian rug,
shit on the carpet,
and chewed
something worth
raising Her voice.
But when She calls He
still comes running,
the calm dog who
needs a particular touch.
– Tyrel Kessinger
Tyrel lives, eats and breathes Kentucky air and work in Louisville as a Braille transcriber. He is the recent recipient of the 2011 Literary Louisville LEO award and his work has been published in the LEO magazine.
July 2011 | back-issues, poetry
battered, bruised
used, overlooked
forgotten
poor yet rich in
faith unprotected
sex object in
the eyes of
bad and dark spirits,
bad and dark souls
innocent, saved, redeemed
in time
tired of working
for worth with (already)
a worthy name
short of being tall
obese yet healthy
enough to
survive, surmount, embrace
being troubled in
mind do
like to communicate
with only the truthful,
with only the wise;
a teacher, loyal friend
perplexing lover poised
in damaged purity…
Image of,
reflection of enmity
that keeps apart
two souls drawing near
E.
two shades of color
warming the
beauty of your
presence
a ray of sun-
lit sand
an island
who holds its miseries…
at a distance here
or far away
waiting, patiently
for sound to break
silence hitting
a sea called
lonely ears.
A heart
dying for hope
to have again
the true desire
of equal treasures
in a mirror of
equal measures
weighing you
into me
as an image
of we.
–Leah James
Leah James is an emerging African-American writer of poetry who writes in combinations of English, French and Spanish. She is a Midwest native who writes with the flavor of Chicago, the syncopated smoothness of St. Louis and gravity of the deep south.
July 2011 | back-issues, poetry
the Forgetting Look
This late in the year she’s coughing up a bed.
With a pair of scissors and a pen
she begins to lay the flowers out.
She opens her mouth and they fall
onto the pages of her book and she’s
started to hate them.
Volume after volume full and full of petal bits;
full of stem and seed.
But she can’t bring herself to lose them
nor can she help wish them away.
No matter how deep and black her longing is
or how vicious her words want to be
when she goes to speak them
they flock from her lips and flutter down.
‘Til they are saved-
crushed in the forever there of her book
(like a bible). Always to remind her
what weakness she is capable of.
shirt sleeves.
she goes on and buffs the bone-
how sinew is gold
and ribs pristine.
her temple-legs all adorned
she’s a flaming sword away
from making her point.
I’m more than happy down here-
pouring this stuff
down the hole.
my meat is murder and
the only thing hanging
in my halls is dust and noise.
she thinks these falling apart
skins are meant for honing and
keeping clean
I just want to sin some more
and pile on the dirt-
she won’t let me do the damage
– adrian ibarra
Adrian was one of the last students to graduate from Cal State Los Angeles with a BA in Creative Writing; he took it as an omen. He wrote a poem a day, every day, in 2010. The finished project can be found at fulltimecowboy.blogspot.com.
