Reading "A Fire Without Light" by Darren C.

Demaree
Poet's Bio:

Darren C. Demaree is from Mount Vernon, Ohio. He

is a graduate of The College of Wooster and Miami
University. He is the recipient of The Louis Bogan
Award from Trio House Press and The Nancy Dew
Taylor Prize from Emrys Journal. Outside of his own
poetry, Darren is the founding editor of Ovenbird
Poetry, as well the Managing Editor of the Best of the
Net Anthology. Currently, he is enrolled in Kent State
University’s M.L.I.S. program, and is living and writing
in Columbus, Ohio, with his wife and children. A Fire
Without Light is his seventh collection of poetry.

Order the collection here: nixesmate.pub/darren-c-demaree-a-fire-without-light/

A Fire Without Light is a collection of political poems written by poet and founder of Ovenbird Poetry, Darren
C. Demaree. These were written shortly after Trump’s election in an array of prose poems. The style choice
seems fitting, considering that these read like his own diary entries as he tries to navigate life in a state that
voted for a president he doesn’t believe in.

Since Darren sent me these poems, I have read them several times. I had the pleasure of reading them last
time while the Disney animated movie Pocahontas was on. I haven’t seen this movie since I was a child, but as
Pocahontas started singing “Colors of the Wind,” I noticed that some of the words were never truer to me.
“But still I cannot see / If the savage one is me / How can there be so much that you don’t know,” as well as,
“You think the only people who are people / Are the people who look and think like you / But if you walk in
the footsteps of a stranger / You’ll learn things you never knew you never knew.”

These lyrics were the perfect backdrop for Demaree’s poetry because they sound like an anthem for the
citizens who were and still are against Trump, including Demaree and me.

Trump made fun of a reporter with disabilities. My brother has disabilities and views Trump’s presidency as a
slap to him, which is probably how a lot of others in our country feel.

Trump was on trial for molesting a girl during one of the many pageants he oversaw. He was crude to Miss
Universe when she naturally gained some weight, which I feel just added to her beauty, but Trump only saw
dollars and decided to televise her forced work-out sessions. This is why I was afraid of Trump, not to
mention the fact that he was clearly racist and suspicious of everything our previous president did. Suspicion
can distract a man.

I, personally, didn’t think this would happen because I thought this was the purpose of the electoral college.
For once, I had believed in them, until they casted their votes and didn’t change a thing. A man who doesn’t
believe in the free press shouldn’t rule.

Which is why poems like Demaree’s are so important. They remind people there are other points of view,
fears, and the freedom to speak those.

Sometimes Demaree is angry at the state of Ohio, his state, in these prose poems / journal entries, but other
times he just wants show them what the issues at hand are. On page 5, he wrote “Will we be able to trust a
single intimacy while we live in the Midwest? I am expanding my intimacy. I want my bed to spill over the
neighbor’s yard,” and, “Will one look at my naked wife remind them that her body is not theirs?” These are
not the words of a man trying to pick a fight, but of a man who is worried about the things you can only learn
from walking in the footsteps of a stranger, or a neighbor.

On page 8, Demaree tries to figure out how Trump got elected. “We offered him the world. We know he wants
to consume the world. We offered him the world.” Poems like these are needed today to start a dialogue on
why a man we know hates “savages” and “strangers” could be given so much power.

Demaree is up against his own family, including his own father, which is mentioned later in the collection. He
uses metaphors to try to reason with a world that has gone a little haywire. To his father he calls “a feather on
the wing of a doomed bird.” How will we all get off the doomed bird before he comes crashing out of the sky?

And how can we handle family get-togethers until we can start addressing these issues? For Demaree, the
only way to get through Thanksgiving was to rehearse the nine things he allowed himself to say. “Thank you
for the pie. I’d love some more coffee. Could you turn up the game? Yes. No. No. I’m having a little trouble
breathing. I’ll go warm up the car. Thank you.”
The first Thanksgiving after the votes were in was no picnic for my family either. My mother viewed any vote
for Trump as a vote against her son, their nephew, cousin, grandson. And no one brought up the election, I
believe because those who voted for Trump knew that was how our family viewed their votes.

The world is just better with freedom of speech and trying to learn from each other. My favorite prose poem
in this collection is the one where Demaree states he is willing “to call him [Trump} the sun” if “he’s willing to
let Sandra Cisneros make all of his decisions.” Can you imagine if a poet were president? There would
probably be so much discussion, and so many exercises that made people walk in the footsteps of a stranger.

According to page 20, Demaree was averaging one poem every 6 hours during this time, but this collection
only provides us with a small sample. Makes you wonder what it would be like to read all of the poems he
wrote during this trying time for him?

No matter your political beliefs, read this poetry collection. And then find other poetry collections revolving
around politics. Things will be okay if we all just listen to each other.

Featured Poet: Ken Allan Dronsfield

The Poet: Ken Allan Dronsfield
Ken Allan Dronsfield is a disabled veteran and poet who was nominated for 2 Best of the
Net and 3 Pushcart Prize Awards for Poetry. His poems have been published world-wide in
various publications throughout North and South America, Europe, Asia, Australia and Africa.
He has been published in The Burningword Journal, Belle Reve Journal, SETU Magazine, Blue
Heron, The Literary Hatchet, The Stray Branch, Now/Then Manchester Magazine UK,
Bewildering Stories, Scarlet Leaf Review, EMBOSS Magazine, and many more. Ken loves
thunderstorms, walking in the woods at night, and spending time with his cats Willa, Hemi and
Turbo. His book, "The Cellaring", a collection of haunting, paranormal, weird and wonderful
poems, has been released and is available through Amazon.com. He is the co-editor of two
poetry anthologies, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze and Dandelion in a Vase of Roses also
available at Amazon.com.

Ken's Life and Thoughts About Poetry:

I spent many years working a full time job, whether in the military or driving long haul trucks
throughout the United States and Canada for many years. After retiring in 2004, I began writing
full time. I began writing inspiration work for several Animal Rights websites and Native
American pages on Facebook as well. I love the work of Edgar Allan Poe, Leonard Cohen,
Sylvia Plath, William Butler Yeats, Shakespeare and Seamus Heaney. I began reaching out to get
my work published in 2015, and since that time I have 914 published poems world-wide the
United States, Canada, South America, Asia, Africa and Australia. I enjoy writing rhyming
poetry, but the market is very thin now, so I work primarily in free-verse imagery filled pieces. I
love writing about Nature, the seasons and animals. But horror, the weird and wonderfully odd is
a great joy to write. I've recently begun to work with Sonnets, Pantoum and Villanelle poetry
forms and have had several published, and in addition, have started writing short stories, mostly
flash fiction, and find it an extreme challenge, but rewarding as well. So basically, to put it all in
a nutshell, I love to write, explore different genres and share my work with any whom enjoy
reading it. To new writers I can only say, have a thick skin, you will be rejected by different
publications, but keep submitting, never take rejections personally. ALL editors and publishers
look at the work and are subjective selecting what they think their readers will enjoy. It doesn't
mean your work is bad, it's just not what they may be looking for at that time. Wait for a time
and resubmit new work....keep writing and good luck!

The Poet's Bookshelf

1. Edgar Allan Poe. I have, as well as millions of others, been stunned by many of Poe's works,
"The Raven" is a special piece as well as "The Telltale Heart."
I must admit, his quotes, "Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror
of their reality" and "I became insane with long intervals or horrible sanity", have always been
favorites of mine.

2. William Butler Yeats. One of his quotes, "Come fairies take me out of this dull world, for I
would ride with you upon the wind and dance upon the
mountains like a flame." One of my favorites! One of his poems, "A Prayer for My Daughter" is
just magnificent.

3. Leonard Cohen. His poems are iconic at the end of the Flower Child era in American, but his
song, "Hallelujah" was and is top shelf all the way.

4. Sylvia Plath. The heart and mind of a true poet. Her poems, "Daddy" and "Lady Lazarus"
were wonderful but I especially loved some of her quotes, such as: "Dying is an art, like
everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I
guess you could say I've a call". and "I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my
heart. I am. I am. I am."

5. Seamus Heaney. His epic, "Sweeney Astray" and so many other wonderful poems. His book,
Heaney, Poems 1965-1975 is a must have. his quote, "History says, Don’t hope On this side of
the grave. But then, once in a lifetime The longed-for tidal wave Of justice can rise up And hope
and history rhyme.

6. William Shakespeare. What can one say here. I was so entranced by his writings, I kept a
book of his work near me all through High School. Checked out of the Library at School, and
finally gave it back my Senior year....LOVED that book!! His works consist of about 38 plays,
154 sonnets, two long narrative poems, etc. He is considered the preeminent greatest writer of
the English Language. One of his quotes has always stayed with me, "Love is a smoke made
with a fume of sighs".

Others on my list of favorite reads would be:

7. Robert Frost, an American Poet, 1874-1963.

8. Pablo Neruda, Nobel Prize winning Chilean Poet, 1904-1973.

9. Maya Angelou, African-American Poet, 1928-2014.

10. Walt Whitman, American Poet, 1819-1892

Torrent of Tears

Yet another vestige of love lost

whetted cheeks and swollen eyes
life's cruel moments wreak havoc
within the softness of one's heart.
Blasphemous tides slap ruby lips
take a soul with an innocuous glee
in a moment you're smiling wide
blood stained teeth devour again.
a heart stops beating with malice
the breath gone in a rattle and hum
final whispers and the brain quivers
dormant pulse and a bluish pallor.
the tempest roars insatiably loud
a body can be lost, never to be found
great ships disintegrate upon granite
lives are left, penned on parchment.
the Reaper watches jubilant on rocks
as a grand lighthouse loses once more
clothing and splintered wood float by
as rubble and rabble left on the shore.
in a stormy gale, glows a freakish orb
slapped by the tail of an iced stingray
harbinger doomed in a soulless sky
tears in the torrent beget a dark light.

Waltz of a Firefly

You can steal away with my sun;

but never take the night sky from me.
Green the grass with gentle rains
and inspire adventures in soft breezes.

Keep me warm as autumn arrives

humming, "Fly me to the Moon" while
kissing stars in a twinkling flourish
my light will touch a child's memory.

Allow me life for this moment in time

cherish me as I’ll be gone very soon.
But, I’ll touch your heart again next July,
the lovely luminescent waltz of a firefly.

A Turning of the Sea Grass

I turn slightly to the left to enjoy

the warm sunshine kiss my face.
I still don't know who my mother or
father were but that doesn't matter.
I think about it from time to time, but
I always find myself with only thoughts
of birds, insects and harsh winds.
I rejoice as the tides rise and watch
with amazement as the little crabs
scurry about like shoppers during
Christmas eve buying one last gift.
The cat-o-nine tails are changing
color now, from bright green to a
light brown. Looking down, I see
even now I'm slowly feeling the
effects of Autumn; soon I'll fall
away as salt grass turns to hay.
As days of the fall season pass by;
colors turn along the tidal pools,
ducks and minnows now disappear
and large flocks of bird’s head south.
Winter's gift of frost and snow shall
finally pass and once again we'll return
next spring as sweet green sea grass.

That Tinge of Winter

The old barn moans and groans

my bones creak on this coolish day.
Stepping outside into fields of corn
now cut leaving an apocalyptic view.
I watched the winds conspire with
shafts of wheat tickling the sunset.
From a dark cloud drifting above,
a lone snowflake floats down and
stings the tip of my cold red nose.
I'm feeling a tinge of winter as the
warm summer dreams disappear,
replaced by frost on windows and
cold floors greet bare feet each day.
Twilight time chases away the sun
near the dead crab apple trees on
the old farm where I once roamed.

I Died Today

I think I died today.

Staring at the bare walls;
a knife, a fork, a bottle and
red candle lay before me.
The sounds of blaring horns,
screeching brakes and shouting;
echo from a sweltering street
through a shaded open window.
The smells and hell of the city
permeate the entire room and
the fan in the corner just quit;
but...... I think I died today.
I laid there, on the old mattress,
sweat running down my face.
I dozed off for a bit, and awoke
in lovely fields of green grass,
with white crosses all about.
I watched friends of old
tossing roses of red into
the hole of eternal darkness,
landing upon a shiny casket.
I think I'm there, tucked inside
wearing my dark gray suit,
white shirt and my hated tie...
Oh yes, I think I died today,
can someone tell me why?

(First Published, Rasputin Poetry Thread)

Mountain Spirit

An albino raven preached

to an alabaster moon.
Shadows reached from darkness
to grasp a throat.
Hideous cries echoed in valley’s
of the mystical mountains.
Ghosts from another time appeared
as swirling mists in canyons.
Magpies jousted upon the old roof
of a decrepit burial mausoleum.
Hooded ones chanted to a lesser being
who fulfilled their twisted dreams.
The encrusted scabbards were empty as
white flames expanded.
Cactus blossoms scattered in the grip of
the heartless tempest.
Meteors impacted the golden mountain;
the stark truths were finally told.
Food was scarce in the old miner's day,
a pantry stored nothing but memories.
The water from the pump was a hazy red
with the taste of rusted sulfur.
Within the golden fantasy of dreams
where screams invaded the senses.
Descry a path with shovel and pickaxe
as flames rose higher, ash fell like snow.

Breath of the Sandhill Crane

A morning hush along the great Platte River as

wing beats rush.
The Sand Hill's awaken, grand birds now rising
in unison heading south.
Feathers float about the air like gently falling
snowflakes.
They twist and dance like orange rinds in a shaken
iced tequila sunrise.
Autumn mornings bring a crisp to the inhale as
we walk the worn path.
Rising higher in a circular hover, the flock
slowly moves away into the haze.
Red-winged blackbirds sit resting on branches
preening and are now ready for the day.
Along the winding Platte River, Canadian Geese
whisper au revoir to the Sandhill Crane.

Medley Upon the Boughs

Keeper of the trees, au pair of the great forests

please tell me why you leave bare stark branches
until the spring arrives?

Where is the beauty of the majestic oak leaves always

shading me from the sun? I hope the Maples are well
and keeping their sweetness.

I remember the lovely sparkling beauty of the Alders

as their leaves shimmer in the breezes of the cool
late summer sunshine.

Each day, as snowflakes drift down, like leaves during the

autumns calling; we remember the beauty of our green forest
and wait patiently for warm days.

Most leaves left after winter, but in a moon's beam, I still

hold tightly in the grasp of ice joining a weeping willow's tear
lovingly left to fade, fade away.

An Absent of Present

Has anyone seen me?

I know I used to be here,
perhaps there, somewhere.
I feel so lost, gone like old
bones ground into nothing.
Dust in a strong breeze.

I once felt like a cat nine tail,

standing there, proud and tall
now, bent by marsh winds
waving to all lake side,
a lost fantasy skyward.
I once bloomed; life après.

Depth of a cranky shade

of listless yet excited bliss.
Blessed by the thoughts and
prayers of strangers, love
enhanced by a whisper.
But has anyone seen me?

Life is right; the veil left thins

muddle and prattle rambling
liars in power speak in tongue
decree of pious virtues iced
Hell opens; unveil the dybbuk.
absent of present, I'm right here.

Rêves de soie (Silk Dreams)

In the breath of a cascading waterfall...

I hear the voices of child spirits reciting sonnets,
fallen leaves that silently land upon brown grass
weaving a colorful quilt in the wood and meadow.

Trout cruise the pools along babbling brooks in

search of small meals of worms, grubs or flies.
I watch them feed, as a lone red leaf floats by
gathering speed then disappears downstream.

Chickadee's and Nuthatches flutter in the pines

as Blue Jay's squawk at me from higher branches.
Walking the path, I feel a sting below the ear,
the seasons last mosquito has found me out here.
In the breath of a cascading waterfall...je rêve. (1)
Snow white sails billowing in the warm trade winds,
rolling seas of a turquoise blue, reflect silken clouds,
terns and gulls from the tropical islands hover above.
Flying fish leap and glide as dolphins follow behind.
In the breath of a cascading waterfall... je me réveille. (2)

A thermos of hot tea sits next to me under the great

oak, sparse of leaves now, but splendid and regal.
I slowly sip my cup as a flock of geese fly over,
I smile, close my eyes and find myself by the lake.
In the breath of a cascading waterfall... Je pars. (3)

(1)…je rêve – I dream.

(2)…je me réveille – I wake.
(3)…Je pars – I depart.

Interested in being our next Featured Poet?

When you submit for the next issue, make sure to submit ten poems and tell us a little about
yourself. Your work might be picked for our featured poet section, or as a featured collection.
However, only one poet and one collection will be chosen each issue, so only one or a few of a
poet's work sent together might be published in the journal. The Basil O' Flaherty requests the
right to only publish one featured poet and one featured collection, and to consider all collections
of poetry submitted for each issue as also part of the general submissions (i.e. we can pick and
choose the poems we like if your work is not selected as the featured collection.)

Two Poems by Nicholas Abanavas

After the Wash

The early moon

on Bleeker shades
streets piled
high. Way off-
white crystal mud
packs beneath toes
of leather.
Why is it
every time
I say
you laugh?

She wants to know.

I cannot drop
the bludgeon
from my mouth

and say
Autumn follows
Spring

as
lips are lonely
servants.

Beasts

You've looked before and

turned away

to fix your secondhand smirk. Only

this time you see

swollen ankles crawl over tops

no longer hand-me-down shoes. This time

you see
over-ripe faces with gum-soft smiles

drown in gutter rivers; human flotsam

insufficient worlds

stuffed like tasteless groceries in double-strength

bags. And the bags stronger than beasts

who shuffle beside their burdens

carrying it from red to red, stopping

to adjust afternoon light

through pale eyes.

This time
you see animals that lack lemming sense
any cents, innocence; de-
generations left to fill cracks in gray fog.

Nicholas Abanavas received his M. Ed. in Teaching At-Risk Students in 2008. He recently
retired from a career in public education. He has written two books: Scissors, Cardboard &
Paint-The Art of At-Risk Teaching and Lemnos-An Artist and His Island. He is currently working
on a book about gargoyles and grotesques. Born and raised in New York City and he is an avid
fan of jazz music. His work has recently appeared in The Basil O'Flaherty, Wayne Literary
Review and Lime Hawkmagazines. His poetry has also appeared as Poet of the Week on
the Poetry Super Highway.

Three Poems by Steve Brightman

On The Weekends, My Back Is Turned To The Sun

Thursday was not as easy

as it normally is.
Thursday normally sits upon
the bridge of my nose,
keeping my eyes from straining
too hard to see the sun fall,
quiet and mostly red.

The Center Of Anything

In the days of birds,

food and water
were plentiful.
Blankets and automobiles
were centuries away.
Sun still circled the earth,
hoping to one day be
the center of anything.
In the days of birds,
canopies were lush.
Electricity and gravity
had no place in
the garden.

Moon Is Hiding Behind Every Locked Door

Up the steps
into a carpeted
blue infinity,
ripe fruits and

honey await you.

Mimicry is less

vital than
you think.

Steve Brightman lives in Akron OH with his wife and their parrot. He firmly believes that there
are only two seasons: winter and baseball.

Four Poems by Partha Chatterjee

Danger

Transforming rider's
Helmet into a skull
The road runs as usual.

Crossing the road

Father,
Don't let me hold
Thy finger.
It may slip
My mind may distract
By colourful balloons.
Rather, you hold my finger
within thy firm grasp
And help me crossing the road.

union

Soul is trying to penetrate soul

Body is a barrier.

Father

honeycombed shirt,
Decreasing shoe-sole,
Blurred spectacles
Cannot suppress your
Smile in days of festival.

your neck always bears

the sign of a yoke.

on the eve of festival

Counting each and every
Member of the family
You present them new dresses
but never buy for yourself

Father, You are like a thumb who

never counts itself while touching
each and every knuckle of the remaining fingers.

Being questioned about your new dress

You reply with a smile, "I don't want to cover my soul with a second skin."

Partha Chatterjee lives in India with his wife papia and an adoring daughter princia. He loves
music, painting, poetry and cricket. He believes what Paramananda says :we need not more
religions, we need humanity.

Two Poems by Linda M. Crate

impatient for spring
the silent hills of winter
draw breaths
of white
like the snow falling around me,
and i sometimes hear
the birds
more than see them;
the sun seems so very far away
winter seems endless
just want spring to stretch her warm palm
light the land with all her flowers
from the crocus to the daffodil
enjoy the fragrance
of the flowering trees and the tulips
hanging in the air--
everyone tells you to be grateful
for each moment,
and i hate to seem as if i'm not;
but i don't like winter and his coldness
the way he ices over roads and takes the life
of flowers
how people can be buried in the snow
weak and hoarse whispering 'help me' and if found
too late can be left there dead--
don't like how
everything is muted in her colors
until winter pirouettes away,
and spring comes rushing in with all her life and flowers
nesting birdsong in our ears.

a more welcome sight

the man hobbled

out of the bar
calling for shirley,
and then insisted i wasn't
she;
but i told him i wasn't
when he called me by that name--
he's the same man
that came into work twice
a year apart asking
if my name were jessica,
and each time i told him no;
don't know these women he keeps
seeing semblances of in me
but i am happier when he keeps
his distance--
every time i see him
i wonder who i'll get mistaken for,
but fortunately i rarely see
his face but once in a blue moon
though i think a blue moon would be
a much more welcome sight.

Linda M. Crate is a writer born in Pittsburgh, yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville, whose works
have been published in numerous anthologies and magazines online and in print. She is a two-time push
cart nominee and has a Bachelors of the Arts in English-Literature. She has four published chapbooks, A
Mermaid Crashing Into Dawn (Fowlpox Press - June 2013), Less Than A Man (The Camel Saloon - January
2014), If Tomorrow Never Comes (Scars Publications, August 2016), and My Wings Were Made To Fly (Flutter
Press, September 2017).

One Poem by Chinua Ezenwa-Ohaeto

LOVERS WITH LOVERS
(Inspired by Kang-Kang)

Before supper, they needed to be in their homes.

It was blissful for them that very evening in a hotel as they lay on the same bed. The society,
distance and responsibilities had separated them for a long time now. It had been a year when
they last saw each other. The day Chinedu's car broke in the middle of an expressway was when
they met. Since that day, they had shared a bond that was like the food you ate, like the water
you drank, and like those feelings you had for that special person and nothing else matters.

Chinedu smiled often and his lover felt much secured. They chatted, drank, laughed and soon re-
knew happiness. But somehow, they knew that this kind of happiness was an enemy; it
weakened one, created doubts in one's mind that something was to be lost.

Chinedu shifted his lover's leg and arm aside and settled the head gently upon his chest. Then,
they kissed. The past they had shared soon started trooping into their heads like pictures
displayed in a phone's gallery especially Lenovo.

"I really have missed you," his lover confessed. Chinedu smiled. They caressed and felt each
other skin to skin. And soon, they made love throughout the evening and slept off in each other's
arms.

Chinedu awoke first, turned and looked at his lover's peaceful face. He stared at a distance and
then crept out of the bed. He checked the time on his BVLGARI wristwatch and started to get
dressed. He tapped his lover who soon woke and got dressed too.

They had wives and children waiting for them.

Chinua Ezenwa-Ohaeto (@ChinuaEzenwa) is a Nigerian and a lover of literature. His works

have won the Association Of Nigerian Author’s Literary Award for Mazariyya Ana Teen Poetry
Prize, 2009; National Association Of Students Of English Language and Literary Studies
Certificate of Honour as the Best Student Poet, 2012, Delsu Chapter. He became a runner-up in
Etisalat Prize For Literature, Flash fiction, 2014 with "I Saved My Marriage." And some of his
works have appeared in Lunaris Review, AFREADA, KALAHARI REVIEW and Elsewhere.

Four Poems by Becky Fawcett

Under a bridge

Lorries thunder and roar overhead

Noise echoes all around
The bridge shudders
A road held aloft by wires
A sprawling bridge with two towers
Metal grinds against metal
The ground vibrates underfoot
Green slime drips down concrete supports
Where pigeons nest, fight and splatter
A split, brown sack spills its contents down a grassy bank
That gives way to scrubland
Full of bottles, cans, used nappies and dog shit.
A green light beams from the base of the tower
A beacon for ships
It rotates hypnotically
And casts out an eerie glow
On to the river.

Road

There’s the road. A long road

Long, straight road
Slate grey tarmac road
Single file road
Lined by hedges road
Disappear into the distance road
Cars fly along road
Spray mud on passers-by road
Delivery vans speed and swerve road
Wheels lift up off the ground road
Keeping to the clock road
This pot hole and skid marks road
No markings no cat’s eyes road
No signs or symbols, no clue no warning road
This nowhere patched-up lumpen road
This scratch mark on the earth road
Asphalt carpet runner to oblivion road
Bottles of stale orange urine and fast food road
Soiled nappies and pants in the verges road
Get me off this broken glass and dead rats road!

She loved the sun

She loved the sun

She would lay out and worship it
Shut her eyes and see that baked bean red
Cadmium red
Glorious red
Shun the claggy sun lotion
How she would burn and blister
Always on the beach,
In the Spanish heat, smoking fags
Soak up the rays and sip Pina Coladas
Toes wriggled in the baking hot sand
The sun had turned her into a brown, leather bag
That brilliant, yellow flaming ball
 Lashing her front and back
Now she can’t stand the light
The blinds are closed up tight
She turns her face away
Lost her tongue and her pride
Once portly limbs now mere spindles
Her bald head has a hole drilled in it
A nurse dabs her dry lips with a wet sponge
Dresses bedsores on her back
Checks the IV drips and the morphine machine
So many scars on her aged, cadaverous face
The catheter bag is filling up with blood
Years and years at that sun altar,
The drinking and the smoking
Was it worth it?
She suddenly lurched forwards
Coughed up black ooze
Eyes sunken and yellow
She points to the blinds
For them to be opened
So she can worship that brilliant, yellow flaming ball
One last time.

Star Certificate

In grief she bought a star for her

A star in her name
There soon arrived a certificate
And a set of coordinates
She typed them into a website
A black square appeared
Glitching and pixelating
Then scores of blurred, white stars came into view
A low-res, grainy snapshot
Of what?
Which was her star? Where was she?
She rang the helpline number
Number not recognised
She looked at the screen through teary eyes
Number not recognised
She needed her, desperately, to be a star
To still exist, to be somewhere
And shimmer over everyone
But now she could only cry
And in the corner of the room
A deflated, helium balloon
It had withered and drooped onto the floor
 Emblazoned with those hateful words,
‘BABY GIRL’.

Becky Fawcett is new to the medium of poetry. She took up writing a poem every day after a
stroke left her with reading and writing problems. Before that she had worked as an English
teacher. She writes mainly about everyday life in the Lincolnshire/ Yorkshire border where she
lives. She uses themes such as illness, isolation and the grittiness of northern England.

One Poem by Colin James

15 ILLUMINATED SEESAWS

I have an acquaintance
who has a friend who has
devised these ingenious little nets
for catching poems
usually on a summer night
but occasionally during
blustery winter gales.
She stores them in thick books
weighted to keep the edges crisp.
I inquired about nabbing a few
but was told, "No!"
There is a matter of rights
also bringing out the correct voice
or attempting to. So I've stopped
loitering in her garden
inappropriately wearing overalls
when shorts would do.
Indiscreetly escorted off the grounds
all sweaty, effective as ridicule.

Colin James has a book of poems Resisting Probability available from Sagging Meniscus
Press and a new book of poems forthcoming from Wondor Editions. He lives in
Massachusetts...........direct link to SMP titles

Three Poems by Steve Klepetar

Footbridge
So much of any year is flammable…

Naomi Shihab Nye

Sometimes our hands hold so little,

just light and a portion
of rain spilled from the sullen sky.

Maybe our eyes grow dark

and in our blindness we walk for miles
pushing against heavy air.

When clouds break with a wail

of wind, we turn away.
All night we sense lanterns burning,

shadows careening along the walls.

Our knees ache as we descend.
At last we reach the bottom land.

We know the place

by its tidal music and howling dogs.
The year leaps up again, rising

from flame, another mound of ash.

Across the footbridge we return
where white river swirls among stones.

Incognito

Dark all day, but rain holds off.

Out the window, yellow leaves
drift onto grass. The mail truck
passes, otherwise nothing seems

to move. Our eyes tremble

with the weight of silence
and thick air. Day’s heart beats
slowly, struggling against sleep.

Our fingers push against grayness

of clouds, we ignite the sky.
Smoke pours through the yards.
There is a way of looking at things,

to stare until every surface burns.

That’s how you unmask the world.
To the Tree Line

Long silences don’t upset us.

We walk toward the tree line

as if our legs were made

of sand, just that heavy and slow.

It’s not because we can no longer

bound, frisky as fawns,

but because we’ve learned

to pay attention to the stones,

to wave patterns in the sky,

to the subtle motions of our blood.

Your hair floods down your back,

and your lips, pressed together

like that, are more beautiful

than I can say. All the way down

the road, I sneak looks at you,

and the air shimmers around

your face, silver and glowing

like a lantern in a limestone cave.

Steve Klepetar has recently relocated to the Berkshires in Massachusetts after 36 years in
Minnesota. His work has received several nominations for Best of the Net and the Pushcart
Prize, including three in 2017. Recent collections include A Landscape in Hell (Flutter
Press), How Fascism Comes to America (Locofo Chaps), and Why Glass Shatters (One Sentence
Chaps).

Two Poems by Liza Libes

Unchange

Vindications wild,
A melody she saw bursting through the trees,
Verdant sonnets of a springtime’s cheap caress.
Yet it is all the same,
The seasons turning round in vortices of sleek unchange,
A prospect of a new tomorrow beating,
Beating softly through her adolescent days.
Yet it is all the same,
Expectations flattened in bombardments of restraint
Accusations mirrored in a pair of eyes afraid.

Amendment Thirty-Six

You were imbibed with parsimony

In an amphitheatre redolent of coarse perfumes.
Perfunctory ambitions soaring worthless
In a train car bound towards New York.

You were a faultless parasite

Knocking doors and travelling hallways.
Studious in quantum physics
Bound up in a dream.

Threnodies of taxi cabs and tarpaulin

Pistachios and chocolate wafers
Warbling commission and obedience
Something something impecunious.

Caffeinated kisses and a lisp of alcoholic fumes.

You knew well to fumble with the snow.
Maestro Noam Chomsky
Do not teach me how to play with words.

You were a consternation who did not desist

Thundering in the simulation of a cabaret
Imitation of a reverie by Heraclitus
Fountains draining faster than the blood of Caesar.

Modernity refuses to depart.

You cried a basin of bucolic tears.
Smiles interspersed with wonderment aborted.
You composed a series of infinite regress.

You were a flawless paradise.

Now I recline and sip a cup of tea.
I do not remember how to burn for you.
Immolation devolves into felicity.

I cannot remember how to recreate

Your chirrup and its haunting scent.
I cannot pretend to know your novel placement
Fiddle through your spaces.
Tomorrow sends a blitz of fallen snow.
You shall see it through Manhattan windows.
I shall send my wishes through the windows.
I remember how you used to love the snow.

Previously published in former People, January 2018.

Liza Libes is an English major at Columbia University. She is originally from Chicago and does
not miss the freezing temperatures. You can find some of her poems on her
website, pensandpoison.com

Two Poems by Rose Aiello Morales

Something He Said

Air crackles with life,

grackles commence their explanations,
they are only crows with fragrant pedigrees.

Blue the color of something someone knows,

intangible, the bird cries forgotten remembrance,
cannot pronounce its vague misnomer.

A flower opens out of season,

reminding birds of paradise,
now that Fall is here, it doesn’t matter.

Broken

A woman gave me broken pieces,

shoes belonging to another,
I’d not accommodate nor reminisce.

Pendants missed their jewels,

gold sparks turned to brass,
green grew age and acid memories.

I could not be her feet and walk,

not fitting into flats and sharps,
my callouses were never hers, could not become her.

Thanks could do no more,

the devils of my better nature laughed,
but goodness knew I’d be there soon.

Rose Aiello Morales has been writing poetry almost as long as she's been able to write. And she's
still doing it at her home in Marrietta, Georgia, in the USA.

Two Poems by Jose Oseguera

RED AS A ROSE WAS SHE

She rose in early morning, the day

Of new hope, spring in January,
As the Sun thawed her heart
Blossoming red once more.

The silk of a man’s tenderness;

Lost in her rent memories of a husband--
Bruised petals at his feet,
A youth he strew about
Wildly as if love were a trinket to torture her with--
Violence on her scars.

Years plot in bad soil, her rose wilted, waiting for

No one, allowing her beauty to shame from the Sun:
Falling backwards into his empty embrace,
Gouging the double-edged thorns of his promise blind,
Learning that mistakes can’t teach you a thing until you make them;
That even so, you make them again and again.

The blood she shed for others

In tears and petals withered,
Rid her of the flower befuddled by masculinity,
Palming grit aimlessly for romance’s indecipherable leaves--
The charm of his eyes, the vow of his smile, the succor of his virility--
But rather for what love had deprived her of;
For what it still owed her.

We watched as if we saw her,

But witnessed what she no longer was.
Miraculously, as dead as plucked on asphalt, arid by the
Everyday, at its core, the bud entombed in petals, ever so
Crimson fluttering on her cheeks,
Bled love anew on the day of her wedding.
BEATLES SAUDADE

Saudade
A feeling of longing, melancholy, or nostalgia.

The thought came to me as I listened to Abbey Road apathetically,

Glancing up at a mirrored ceiling--
En vogue in the late ‘70s, tacky by the early '80s--
The more I stared into my eyes,
Pupils eclipsing their Milky-Way-brown irises,
The farther I felt from myself.

My past floated lazily like a striped, annular flotation device

On a pool of what I held in my mind up to that point:
Deep enough to drown in, but shallow enough to see the sun
Gleam past molten glass vitrines insulating the wet from the dry,
Dancing flames on the arabesque-tiled sphere.

I could see individual drops of water as clearly as pearl grains:

Each a moment in time--
Of pain, sorrow, joy, and fear,
Songs I loved, ones forgotten;
Canticles of undying youth, sung out of the mouth of babes and sucklings,
Their backbeat jangling crystalline out of sunburst hollow bodies--
Multiplied as tears wept awakening from a dream.
Their imperfect sphericality, thousands of moons
Glowing with feeling-light— the tumult of being— thrashed the once still pool
As tepid, calm breezes, unbeknownst to all, slowly morph into violent storms.

The lifesaver, exiled relic proving Pepperland’s existence,

Rapidly pinwheeled 33 1/3 revolutions per minute:
Candy cane, barber's pole, lollipop swirl,
Moptops, LP-black, questioning a world full of questions,
Their melodies detaching problems from their consequence, not their weight;
A galaxy of neumes traversing the entirety of my ears.

The blackness of the gyrating disc concaved into a singularity,

A spider knitting its web in the midst of the storm--
A translucent house filled with empty people--
Strong enough to balance a walrus, high enough to befuddle an eagle,
Yet it's frailty clear in the impending tide's stultifying massacre.

Seemingly vicious, the arachnid invoked a paralyzing spell on all who stared,
But the fortress built around herself,
To protect her from a world much bigger and dangerous,
One whose full extent she would never know existed,
Relied on the architecture of others--
Man-made or God-spoken creation— to secure her livelihood
For nourishment, binding her wounds, and hiding forever in her loneliness.

Oblivion of the lifelines she cast out, one after one,

By one swift, five-fingered strum, could bring
Heartache's wounding blow.

Jose Oseguera is an LA-based writer of poetry, short fiction and literary nonfiction. Having
grown up in a diverse environment, Jose has always been interested in the people and places
around him, and the stories that each of these has to share.

His work has been featured in Meat for Tea: The Valley Review, Rigorous, Sky Island Journal,
Jelly Bucket, OTHER. Magazine, and Authorship by The National Writers Association.

Two Poems by Judy Shepps Battle

The Best Laid Plans

Turning seventy-four is something

I never planned on doing

twenty is old enough

my college self declares

besides

death is certain to intercept

pleas and plans and abort hope

with razor sharp whim

producing belly-up goldfish

motionless parakeets and

silent canaries.

Twenty is as far as I can see

bachelor's degree in hand

graduate school an obligation

then the abyss reforms

but what else is there to do?

Surely not turn seventy-four.
Waiting For Elizabeth

Icy Baltimore breeze laps gentle

winter grey poses gruff and passive
pale clouds peek-a-boo with cobalt sky

Your scent lingers on wrinkled sheets

fiery essence endures as crisp
noon air mingles with stale musk

stretching across passion's still warm bed

empty fingers remember and reach
hungry for your trembling thighs

primordial energy, raw excitement

16th-notes steam as Sappho celebrates
two kindred minstrels.

Judy Shepps Battle has been writing essays and poems long before retiring from being a
psychotherapist and sociology professor. She is a New Jersey resident, addictions specialist,
consultant and freelance writer. Her poems have been accepted in a variety of publications
including Ascent Aspirations; Barnwood Press; Battered Suitcase; Caper Literary Journal;
Epiphany Magazine; Joyful; Message in a Bottle Poetry Magazine; Raleigh Review; Rusty
Truck; Short, Fast and Deadly; the Tishman Review, and Wilderness House Literary Press.

One Poem by Sravani singampalli

Life is a glass of coke

I sit with a glass of coke

I take small sips
And enjoy its refreshing taste.
Conversations with my friends press on
And after sometime
When I start taking another sip
It no longer tastes refreshing
No longer like coke
But like a tea decoction.
The coke lost its effervescence
Just like our extended conversations
Just like our cheeks and skin
Just like our behaviour.
The conversations become meaningless
Skin loses its elasticity
And we become forlorn citizens.

Sravani singampalli is a published writer and poet from India. She is presently pursuing doctor of
pharmacy at JNTU KAKINADA university in Andhra Pradesh, India.