Three Poems by J.J. Campbell

 

a tornado watch in february

here comes

the thunder

the wind that

damages more

than just money

cats and dogs

running for

cover as the 

bones start

to ache

nothing quite

like a tornado

watch in 

february

the parking lot of the grocery store

i was pumping gas

the other day and 

i swear i saw a duck

get on top of a car

off in the distance

for a second, i

thought maybe it

was another acid

flashback

when i got done

pumping and got

my receipt, i drove

over into the parking

lot of the grocery

store

sure enough, there

was a fucking duck

on top of a red car

happy and warm

in the sunshine

too bad it wasn't 

a damn convertible

consumed with war these days

i sit back and

watch the birds

fight outside

of the kitchen 

window

every living thing

consumed with

war these days

i wonder what 

god pissed those

birds off

the rain starts to 

fall again

i better get out of

this chair before

arthritis says no

in the front yard

a squirrel is

contemplating

one giant leap

the stupid fucker

is about three

moments away 

from his death

J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is currently trapped in suburbia, plotting his escape.  He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Synchronized Chaos, Terror House Magazine, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Rye Whiskey Review, and The Beatnik Cowboy.  You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

A Poem by Alan Walowitz

 

Primordial

We've made the soup-of-the-day ourselves--

this bouillabaisse--now brought to a slow boil.

For good measure, the undersized fish will not be thrown back,

but will be wrung out and allowed to steep in the broth.

A cigarette butt tossed in carelessly, somewhat like a bouillon

but more in the manner of Belmondo--for presentation alone--

and no sign yet of a change in taste,

cool is still so hot, and as yet no answer to the occasional but insistent query,

what's to become of the lungs of the world?

Our own reflection on the surface distorts everything below,

as it has since the beginning

when we were a tiny piece of sludge, magically delivered,

which managed, improbably, to hold on, though barely,

and take dominion everywhere.

We were born of pot luck--

twigs, lichen, limbs, nail clippings, a communion of spare parts,

on occasion, whole carcasses of creatures

lit by the lightning of our wildest dreams,

and then stirred by time and the current we could never control.

Oh, this is ours--and must announce it for the world to hear

every chance we get.

Now it's just us and the trout--

this year the cutthroat, a beauty stocked by our benefactor

who, it seems, cannot bear the loneliness,

and, we're certain, will always give us one more chance.

Alan Walowitz is a Contributing Editor at Verse-Virtual, an Online Community Journal of Poetry.  His chapbook, Exactly Like Love, comes from Osedax Press.  The full-length, The Story of the Milkman and Other Poems, is available from Truth Serum Press.  Most recently, from Arroyo Seco Press, is the chapbook, In the Middle of the Night, written with poet Betsy Mars.

Two Poems by J.B. Hogan

 

Falling Back

Down any road, back country or town,

grass pushes at concrete,

trees form lush canopies,

taking back what had been

surrendered unwillingly,

reverting, decaying, letting go

order, structure, seeking

primal existence, wild,

unbound, untamed,

before thought or reason,

before plan or hope,

before vision or design.

Nairobi to Amboseli

Down Highway 104, narrow blacktop road,

Nairobi to Mombasa through

semi-arid land of grazing animals,

tribal herdsmen tending cattle

one, tall, thin Masai cow tender

jogging toward the road from far afield

playful, aggressive, spear launched

at passive vehicle, laughing

waiving, scaring up a dik-dik

hiding in the bush.

On to Kajiado through Arizona-like terrain and

toward the Tanzania border;

Namanga, Mt. Meru in the distance hovering,

tourist town, turn off for Amboseli,

long dirt road to lodge, a dry land,

dust devils in the distance, 

whirlwinds rising into the sky,

half-filled lodges below Kilimanjaro,

its peaks under foggy shroud,

animals on the plains, tourist vehicles

clogging roads, lion kills,

bright sun slowly burning clouds

to reveal the great mountain's Kenyan peaks:

mighty Kibo, the lesser Mawenzi,

towering over the plain, their dual power

awesome, majestic, image seared in

eye and forever sight.

J.B. Hogan has published over 290 stories and poems in eleven books, including Bary Harbor, Bounty Riders, Time and Time Again, Mexican Skies, Tin Hollows Living Behind Time, Losing Cotton, The Rubicon, Fallen, The Apostate, and Angels in the Ozarks (nonfiction, local professional baseball history).  He lives in Fayetteville, Arkansas.

Three Poems by Paul Tristram

 

Transitional Fledglings

. . . and somewhere, just a little further,

down this strange pathway of life.

When the day is so full of self-esteem

that the top button keeps popping open,

and it's hard to speak for smiling

I'll remind you of back when we met,

a couple of nest-leaving fledglings

all fresh with hope and adventure-ready . . . 

Aerial Combat (Using The Page As Platform, Medium, Stage)

Bloodied underbelly-feathers,

I talon-scratch

an upside-down arc, perfectly.

SPIN, momentarily

(Nailed to the exact same Spot),

like a heart attack,

a bulleted-target . . .

then, I wing-cut,

at an impossible angle,

all rapid momentum

and focused-motion.

My Reaper-eyes

are The Old Testament.

There should be Screeches

and Ripping audio-tears

trailing in my wake . . .

but, I'm shifting muscle

and sinew gears so fast,

whilst mentally-balancing

acceleration and murder . . .

that there's no time for anything

other than approaching IMPACT!

Barbaric Sympathy & North Node Unfolding

Un-connecting from the Countryside

around you . . . 

as your Footsteps regain Steadiness

. . . and your Mind

holograms Back

to partial Grounded-ness . . . for now.

It is time to stop [absently] talking

to the Watchers of your Walk

. . . as you Emerge once more,

to mingle [Lost] amongst

the [Heavy Drudge of] Regular Fold.

So, 'Madness' is a Portal

if Persevered through the Sickness

. . . and a 'Scald' or 'Burn'

upon Memory differs to actual Flesh

. . . as 'Adversity' gives 'Strength' . . . 

'Insanity" brings 'Self-Honesty',

"Clarity' and 'Shamanic-Detachment'

. . . Crucial in Soul-Development

past 'Normal Boundary Restrictions'.

'Mediumship' and 'Clairvoyancy'

are simply 2 more 'Feathers' . . . 

in the 'Cap' that you have Earned.

Your [Freshly] 'Blossomed Brain'

will never fit back inside that 'Box'

. . . which your Inner Travelling

took it [Rupturing] out of . . .

you have become an entire Universe

roaming around [inside] a New World.

Paul Tristram is a widely published, Welsh writer, who's currently up to his elbows in Magic, and long mat it remain this way.

 

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and send us your best work!

Three Poems from James B. Nicola

The Ceiling Slathers

When you go to Central Park
lie down on some lawn or bench
awhile.  Check out the ceiling, all
the cherubs of the Renaissance
surpassed, not two-dimentional
but four, Michelangelo
himself just a little bit
jealous.



A Sandy Beach

It goes like wind and flows
                                             like
                                                     time . . .
                                                                    Stand
or lie on any over-trafficked strand

or vacant one
                       and note the patterned sand
shifting while staying
                                        as unplanned as planned.



The Moon, Still

The moon, still, tries to lure the salt-spiked sea
for a quick unnoticed kiss if not a bath
but the ocean's heavy and the face is far
so gives up in awhile--but tries again

as I with you who, like the ocean, rise
each day to challenge an apparent lowness
and, failing, spread a wetness o'er the earth:

The side effect of such relentless love
is life--not everywhere, but just about.

And when we kissed, that one time, after tears,
we tasted in the moistness of soft lips
the soupcon of a saltiness, and shone.

James B. Nicola's poems have appeared in such publications as The Antioch, Southwest, and Atlanta Review and several KOAH anthologies.  His collections are Manhattan Plaza (2014), Stage to Page (2016), Wind in the Cave (2017), and Out of Nothing:  Poems of Art and Artists (2018).  He has received a Dana Literary Award, two Willow Review awards, four Pushcart Prize nominations, and a People's Choice award from Storyteller Magazine.  His nonfiction book, Playing the Audience, won a Choice Magazine award.

A Poem from Andrew M. Bowen

In Green

In green, there is peace
and stillness deeper than the seas.
The leaves filter the sun's fierceness
and damp the rains into
softly falling motes of life.

In green, there is love:
A man must kiss a maid
and the child will grow--a human acorn.
The birds and bees and trees and tigers mate
in splendid strength.

In green, there is wisdom
of peoples and of butterflies,
of the Voice that sings in all,
and of distinct songs that sum
into a chorus of the many.

In green, there is strength.
The futile wars will come and go
and none but tenured professors
remember the dates and names.
The trees outlive the cannons
and feed the birds and squirrels and wasps
after generations feed the worms.

In green, there is solitude,
a place to stand aside and feel
the roots of Earth give birth
to coal and cucumbers, to deserts and daffodils,
to martyrs and maggots, to cats and cretins.

In green, there is God
and His hand traces the veins of maple leaves
and shakes the foundations of mountains.
His breath blesses the baby robin
and births hurricanes to vex the cities.

Andrew M. Bowen works as an insurance salesman in Bloomington, IN.  He has published 71 poems and recently submitted his first two novels for publication.  He is also an actor who has appeared in eight independent films, seven stage productions, and two radio teleplays.