Esther Greenleaf Murer /3 Poems/

One potato

Our Father who art in the eye
of the beholder I make all things
newfangled wine in old ways
to skin a categorical imperativoli
garden path of righteous mome rath
outgrabing the graybeard lion
in his lares and piñadayadayada
so what ellis island and two if
by seahorse joust around the corner
drug kingpinafore he’s a jolly good
swagman overboard of directory
assistants required of thee but
to do justice to this fine poem
de terre?

__

A  neonate, none newer

A neonate, none newer,
ate an oaten entree
near a teeter-totter.

“Ow!
Waw!
Woe!”

Art wet? Want tea? Want water?
Want rennet? Naan?  Annatto?
Want a tater newton?  Taro?
Arrowroot? A two-ton torte?

“Ow!
Waw!
Woe!”

Roar not, O roar not!
We own error, we atone!
Neonate on teeter-totter now.

[Oligogram:  AEO NRTW]

__

The other shoe

Underlying the climate of dread and despair
is the great unspoken fear that plutonium
will be demoted to the status of dwarf element.
Americans, as famous for their ignorance of history
as for their knee-jerk affinity for buzzwords,
fail to recall that the plutonium bomb was Fat Man,
not Little Boy.  No, if you want a dwarf –
or for that matter a sprite – element,
go yell “Get a halflife!” at livermorium,
which measures its own in hundredths of a second,
whereas plutonium’s, at least in its top form,
is eighty million years.

 


 

Esther Greenleaf Murer is a relic of the 20th century who has given up trying to make sense of the 21st.  She has been writing poetry since the age of 6 and got serious about learning the craft when she turned 70.  She published her first collection, Unglobed Fruit, in 2011.  She has been featured poet in The Centrifugal Eye and Kin. She lives in Philadelphia.

Anum Sattar /Family Tables/

Family Tables

A ceramic bowl full of sugar. My sisters and I wore knee length skirts in the house. We were the unrefined, raw and loose crystals that needed to be poured into a bowl. My mother was another wild one my father had tamed. She was his sugar in a sachet. Bright, yellow bananas were also placed in a ceramic bowl, but without great fanfare or symbolism. My sisters were not allowed to see anyone at middle school. My father loathed peeling bananas. It was a bother to take the skins off, but he always checked whether we wore our undergarments before we left the house.
 


 

Anum Sattar is a sophomore studying English at the College of Wooster in Ohio, USA. Her poems have been published in the American Journal of Poetry (Margie,) Off the Coast, The Journal (i.e. The Journal of Contemporary Anglo-Scandinavian Poetry,) Wilderness House Literary Review, Poydras Review, The Wayne Literary Journal, Deltona Howl, The Ibis Head Review, Rabbit Catastrophe Press and Tipton Poetry Journal. She won the third Vonna Hicks Award at the college. Whenever possible, she reads out her work at Brooklyn Poets in New York City.  She would like to thank her parents and her professor, Daniel Bourne

Julia Mester /Schizophrenic Blues/

Schizophrenic blues

A howl
in
the
dark –
echoes
my
identity

No-one
can
claim
me
back
from
myself

except : me

Nor
can
anyone
take
what
I
have

In between
two
unfinished
sentences,
here
I
stand

 

 

 


 

I am a teacher and poet from the Netherlands. My work has been published in The Bastille, the literary magazine of SpokenWord Paris.

Mark Young / Russian as a second/third language /

Russian as a second/third language

I have made a patch for zombies
on the catwalk
. It is flat & matte
& chops up audio in real-time.

I want to try to make jungle. I
want a clean amen break. Reboot
is an abstract illustration of a

classic learning game, a lazy way
of not trying to call something an
obvious remake. Women who wear

glow in the dark lace lingerie love
fun! Shop the huge range online
now! My active lifestyle starts here.

 

 

Clay Thistleton /Two poems from ‘Never Mind the Saucers’/

This is a complex poem – and the challenge of posting online has possibly surpassed me – if you’d prefer, you can download the pdf of the poem by clicking here. Otherwise have fun exploring the images below.

 


 

Clay Thistleton has taught creative writing and literary studies in universities, community colleges and not-for-profit organisations for almost two decades. He is the author of Gef the Talking Mongoose and Other … Poems (Blart Books, in press): a collection of found poetry that investigates the phenomenon of ghosts and poltergeists that have the ability to speak or write.  His current project, Never Mind the Saucers, examines documented instances of alien-human sexual contact. Along with his son Dylan, Clay lives in New South Wales, Australia with a fluctuating number of feral cats.

Laurel Radzieski /V and I meet/

V and I meet

In aisle six amidst sandwich bags, bread, condiments and dressing. V’s aura reeks of blackened tin foil as she prices jams by sugar content (in grams).

V beckons I to produce and their conversation is conducted by lettuce leaves.

“Did you know there’s a boat?” (asked V’s lettuce leaf). I knew.
“Did you know it doesn’t have sides?” the leaf pressed. I knew that too.

A disembodied head of cabbage muttered his discontent through the rest of this dialogue.
Anyone with information on these events, please make contact.

 


 

An MFA graduate of Goddard College, I spend my days working on nonprofit endeavors. My poetry has appeared in Down the Dog HoleinkscrawlReally System and others

Laurie Kolp /4 Poems/

Black-eyed Buckled Breath

Sooner than
greenish-blue
bamboos your
moonlit eyes

pittance muffs
my mood adjunct—
a junkyard palette
cuff-skewed love.

Found poem using newspaper crossword puzzle clues

Blanching Casual

O, wreck of feeling
icy setback, mystic hush—
swaddle mound of earth
to dotted craft and sour.

O, threadbare hope, dweller of
cashmere touch pixel crush
pink piñata— throw concern
without thinking of farewell.

Found poem using newspaper crossword puzzle clues

First Impression: How to Blow It

cross
(copacetic) conduct— martini extra, curled drop of glass
exploding star even out— red wine, curb, orchestra
fire full a sturdy look—linger— brood—go in search of blue
& pop

Found poem using newspaper crossword puzzle clues

The Overflow

Back when
curved earthen jars
were water holders
paddling through
pewter poor
doorways,
we watched
every breath
skip over
Venice
as if love
stayed.

 

Found poem using newspaper crossword puzzle clues

 


 

Laurie Kolp, author of Upon the Blue Couch and Hello, It’s Your Mother, lives in Southeast Texas. Learn more athttp://lauriekolp.com.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan /The Dog’s Meow/

The Dog’s Meow

The microphone is unplugged, no matter.
The audience is off currying favour in strange horizons,
the lights turned down for effect:

Do you think they call what you do “low art”
just because you are the bottom stair?

The bottom stair does not answer.

There is much confusion.
It is the dog’s meow all over again.
Fluorescent lamps shimmer in the putrid
jigsaw mind.

What about all you up in the winding nose
bleed universe?,
I raise the mic
as I stumble up the stairs
drunk on wine
in my girlfriend’s brown nylon
stockings.

Is it hard to stay grounded
when you’re the third stair from the top?
I imagine it can’t be easy.

The third stair from the top does not answer.
Nobody is talking.
I fear someone may have gotten to them.
Maybe the mob.

 


Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his other half and mounds of snow.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, strange POEtry, Word Riot, In Between Hangovers, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.

 

 

 

Paul Brookes /To Grasp/

To Grasp

hair of the snog
Paddle crevasses of the fog
Handle delights of worlds washbasin
Grapple sights of awful bootlacing.

Darken desperate ways wanton
Harken fenestrated days spoken
Loosen raids out into darkness
Gruesome braids entangle starkness.

Gargle the grimness of the day
Snaffle forgetfulness of yesterday
Hustle the heavenly toast buttered
Sisel roped fitness unfettered

Thimbleful of radiator love
Nimbleful of aviator dove
Hastle hungry heavy heads up
Castle chess players beds up

Delight in eyes of green and gold
Despite the sight of preen and mold
Alight the flight of mean and sold
A kite of might is lean and bold

Tucked behind the ear of a desk
rucked beyond the fear of a whelk
barrage ballooned beneficent bedlam
garaged consumed munificent headroom

Resistance is mobile
Subsistence is virile
Subsidence is active
Defiance is reactive

Pro plus days in delight
Ominous rays indelicate plight
Luminous phase conflagrate
Numinous ways profligate.

Allow broad canopies desperate energy
fall guarded heat intense jack knife
lilt motionless nervous oranges
permeate quietly rampant succumb
tremble under vernal wishes xeme your zest

 


 

Paul Brookes was shop assistant, security guard, postman, admin. assistant, lecturer, poetry performer, with “Rats for Love”, his work included in “Rats for Love: The Book”, Bristol Broadsides, 1990. First chapbook was “The Fabulous Invention Of Barnsley”, Dearne Community Arts, 1993. Read his work on BBC Radio Bristol, had a creative writing workshop for sixth formers broadcast on BBC Radio Five Live. Recently published in Blazevox, Nixes Mate, Live Nude Poems, The Bezine, The Bees Are Dead and others. Forthcoming this summer a chapbook called “The Spermbot Blues” published by OpPRESS, and tentatively in autumn “The Headpoke” illustrated chapbook published by Alien Buddha Press.