Daniel Edward Moore

King Erasure

At your intervention which was nothing more
                                      than a pageantry of post it notes

stained by a ballpoint’s opium ink
                           dangling on an inch of yellow adhesive

stuck to your armored chest,
                                 you told us what you wanted to be-

a cold steel coffin of pink champagne
                               where a jewelry box gleaming with

dirty needles floated in the hands of ladies
                             in waiting who no longer spread their

legs like wings, sheltering veins of regal blood, as
                      your shimmering crown of aluminum foil

sparkled above a bath towel cape
                                                hailing you King Erasure.

 

 

Commando Ballerina

                                   The need to remember
not to remember   
    swallowing yesterday’s glassy swords 
                       sharpened by trembling hands,


                          by fingertips calloused from
dancing on lighters
                       to the beat of blood beneath these nails                                   
                                 that kept me alive through the night,    


                              is why ten little soldiers in
pink fishnet stockings  
                      salute the light in my eyes,
                                twirling at dawn on the shores

of my face, like commando ballerinas disarmed.

 

by Daniel Edward Moore

Daniel lives in Washington on Whidbey Island. His poems have been in Spoon River Poetry Review, Rattle, Columbia Journal, Western Humanities Review, and others. His poems are forthcoming in West Trade Review, Duende Literary Journal, The Inflectionist Review, Magnolia Review, Isthmus Review, Glass Mountain Magazine, Columbia College Literary Review, January Review, Under a Warm Green Linden, Yemassee and Cumberland River Review. His books, “This New Breed: Gents, Bad Boys and Barbarians” an Anthology, and “Confessions of a Pentecostal Buddhist,” can be found on Amazon. Visit Daniel at DanielEdwardMoore.com.

Vanishing Point (October Vignette)

on the bus, after we heard the news,

I saw a woman softly sobbing into her hands;

beside her was a Whole Earth shopping bag

containing what must be heirloom or designer apples

that were almost orange in color –

perhaps a miniature pumpkin,

if such a thing exists –

and what resembled a purple pomegranate.

 

another woman was picking at her nails

nervously

like a monkey searching for nits.

 

the crying woman patted the pockets

of her all-weather jacket;

maybe she was searching for a handkerchief

to wipe her face?

 

but then I noticed that her face

was darkening, like the tears

were soot, and by mingling with her skin,

they were turning her entire person

into black-and-white, like an old-fashioned movie;

soon, everyone on the bus

was fading into black,

or vanishing altogether

as they bleached out of my vision.

 

I looked down at my hands

and I, too, no longer

had any color except shadows

and pale, ghostly flesh –

it seemed like early Halloween,

or an Edgar Allen Poe tale come to life.

 

someone on the bus said,

I think we’re heading back into the 1950s,

before color TV, and someone else said, no,

the 1930s, before Technicolor hit Hollywood:

it’s like in The Wizard of Oz, in Kansas,

before Dorothy meets the Munchkins,

or follows the yellow brick road.

 

the woman stopped her sobbing, sniffled, then said,

yes, we’re going backwards, to when white men

didn’t have to share the country with anyone else.

 

by Alison Jennings

Alison Jennings is retired from teaching and accounting; throughout her life, she has composed over 400 poems, and recently published several of them, in print journals and online. She lives in Seattle, where she writes poetry whenever she has time.

Cherished a Hope

The emotion that lies at the heart,

not shown in gestures and words,

cannot be measured or felt,

but for myself.

Disillusion, sadness and despair,

even rejoicing and pleasure,

have created tears, salty and hot ones,

that have leavened the soil where I live,

bringing forth flowers, fruits, children.

Have also nourished and ennobled my spirit,

paying the toll I owe to the lord of the fief.

I am sure they are leading me to Canaan,

the promised land where evil finds no shelter

and milk and honey flow abundantly.

Where the woman I desire is waiting for me,

at the door of my house, longing and needy,

wife and lover.

 

by Edilson Afonso Ferreira

A Brazilian poet, Mr. Ferreira, 75, writes in English rather than in Portuguese. Largely published in international journals in print and online, he began writing at age 67. He was nominated for the Pushcart Prize 2016. His first Poetry Collection – Lonely Sailor – is coming soon, scheduled to be launched in London, November 29th 2018, with one hundred poems. He blogs at www.edilsonmeloferreira.com.