December 30, 2019 – January 5, 2020: Poetry from Ellen Kaywin and Kashiana Singh

Ellen Kaywin and Kashiana Singh

Send us your poetry for POET OF THE WEEK consideration.
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Ellen Kaywin
ekaywin@bellsouth.net

Bio (auto)

Ellen Kaywin is a former reading specialist turned emerging poet. She has a B.A. in education and an M.ED in reading from Boston University. After retiring from her tutoring practice, she decided to get back to her love of writing poetry. She attends an ongoing writing workshop at the University of Miami and has enrolled in online writing classes through Gotham Writing Workshops, New York. Her poems touch upon many topics: family, childhood, the passing of time, nature, loss, memories and more. Some of her favorite poets are: Emily Dickinson, William Carlos Williams, Walt Whitman, Wendy Cope, Mary Oliver and Linda Gregg. Ms. Kaywin lives in Miami, Fl with her husband. They have two adult children.

The following work is Copyright © 2019, and owned by Ellen Kaywin and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


A Bench in the Shade

Our first date a stroll in the park
a quiet path to a bench in the shade ––
sun low on the horizon –– air still and
humid –– warm thighs touch ––
we talk about nothing, we giggle
as we inhale sweet cannabis ––
a welcome distraction from Spring 1970
campus riots –– graduation cancelled ––
a wooden recorder brushes his lips
he blows softly –– Greensleeves echoes ––
it begins to rain ––
our hands join in a dewy clasp
as we run to the car ––

 

 

 


Kashiana Singh
kashiana.singh@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

Kashiana Singh is a management professional by job classification and a work practitioner by personal preference. Kashiana’s TEDx talk was dedicated to Work as Worship. Her poetry collection, Shelling Peanuts and Stringing Words presents her voice as a participant and an observer. She dips into very vulnerable and personal contexts but also explores the shifting tectonic plates of the world around her. She is from India, now lives in Chicago. She is a regular contributor to different poetry platforms like OnMogul, Literary Yard, Best Poems, Narrow Mag, Modern Literature, SikhNet, Women’s Web, Tuck Magazine, Spillwords, Visual Verse, Oddball Magazine. She is in the process of gathering her second collection of poems. Visit Kashiana on the web here.

The following work is Copyright © 2019, and owned by Kashiana Singh and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Absent neighbors

Last night, I became a taboo woman, tantric veins breaking into unencumbered branches of witched trees that fell, nearly fell. They hung in limp moaning slumber, fulfilled after the thunder had hit them like an orgasm last night. The bird feeder, still quivered beneath, on a rusted hook. Inside its trellis walls, I floated, fragile, flailing, urgently fabricating myself for another ordinary day.
Across the fence, absent neighbors show up at their patio hand in hand.
Their hearts seem full. Like a well-edited photograph.

December 23-29, 2019: Poetry from Howie Good and Alex M. Frankel

Howie Good and Alex M. Frankel

Send us your poetry for POET OF THE WEEK consideration.
Click here for submission guidelines.


Howie Good
goodh51@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

Howie Good is the author most recently of Stick Figure Opera: 99 100-word Prose Poems from Cajun Mutt Press. He co-edits the online journals Unbroken and UnLost. Visit Howie on the web here.

The following work is Copyright © 2019, and owned by Howie Good and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


A Simple Prayer

My mom went
into the hospital
13 years ago today
and never came out.

Lord, protect me,
so every morning
I can sit by the window
and start a poem.

There’s a beauty
in inventing things
that serve no purpose.

 

 

 


Alex M. Frankel
alexmfrankel@hotmail.com

Bio (auto)

Alex M. Frankel’s first full-length poetry collection, Birth Mother Mercy, appeared in 2013 with Lummox Press. He is currently working on a memoir, entitled Fallen David, about being given up for adoption. His play Revocable Trust, was recently produced in Hollywood. He writes short stories, blogs, reviews books, and helps edit poems for the Antioch Review. Visit Alex on the web here.

The following work is Copyright © 2019, and owned by Alex M. Frankel and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Around the Necropolis

After they were killed, they were killed
a second time.
I stayed through the night to make sure.

All rats remained rats
until they died the second time.
The necropolis belonged half to the sea
which brought all its deep-sea toxicities.

In the back room of the Lovers’ Museum and Gift Shop
we drank what we could find.

Would the rats reawaken?
Was it sinful to kill them?
Inside my heart was a heart
and inside that little heart
a rat baby woke up
to its own grandeur of will.

Polluted myths fell from the air.
Calmly, I put my extra kidney on the floor.
From his bunk, my partner laughed
and stroked himself.
Dust fell on my kidney
turned it into a dark rambunctious embryo
that didn’t have a chance.

Rat bones piled up so high
outside the Lovers’ Museum and Gift Shop
we called emergency to dig us out.
Emergency responded Give us seven years.
Beyond the last window
I made out a sun within the moon
and within that sun two hyenas
in a tug-of-war over my partner’s cadaver
and inside the cadaver
where the heart should have been: a rat
healthy, alert running on its wheel.

I knelt and kissed my embryo
so it humped my knee with a grin.

After I was killed, I remained almost myself
until I was killed a second time.

December 16-22, 2019: Poetry from Betsy Mars and Paul Lojeski

Betsy Mars and Paul Lojeski

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Betsy Mars
marsfish@aol.com

Bio (auto)

Betsy Mars is an early transplant to the LA area after spending her first 6 years in Connecticut, Wisconsin, and Rio de Janeiro. She wrote her first poem – an elegy to her cat – in Portuguese at age 5 or so. She is a poet, photographer, educator, and recently started Kingly Street Press, releasing Unsheathed:24 Contemporary Poets Take Up the Knife in October, 2019. Her work has been widely published, and her first chapbook, Alinea (Picture Show Press), came out in January, 2019. 2019 was a big year, obviously.

The following work is Copyright © 2019, and owned by Betsy Mars and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


To the car sales rep & service manager
who didn’t return my calls

May your tire pressure warning light
come on after a long day at work.
May you search for a gas station
with an air pump.
May you feed your last coins
into that pump
& find that it’s defective,
releasing air rather than filling

May you limp on your further deflated
tire to another station,
dig out your debit card,
fill your tire, try to align
the threads on the tiny cap
with your tired hands,
fumble it into the black hole
of the wheel well.

May you be on your way
to a doctor’s appointment
a mere week later
when that u-shaped light
pops up on the dashboard
like your nagging urethra,
so you repeat the above steps,
trying each tire
since your car is smart
but not smart enough
to indicate which is the problem.

You call for advice
and are told to come in.
You’ll get a call back
and maybe a loaner.
Neither occurs.

May you head out of town
to visit a friend,
put the tire behind you.
The little symbol lights up
to remind you.

Repeat steps above.

Call the dealer,
leave message,
no call back,
call again,
no reply.

Another week passes.
The little horseshoe light
comes on and goes off
with the changes in temperature
or in inverse sync with convenience.

May you take it in for inspection,
find the "customer care" manager,
complain. Disingenuous words,
condescension, disdain.
A nail is the culprit
in your two month old tire.
They can sell you a new one,
can’t fix it, location,

yet down the road
they can patch it
while you wait,
and wait,
and din-
ner gro
ws co
ld
and you’re grateful.

 

 

 


Paul Lojeski
paullojeski@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

Paul Lojesk’s poetry has appeared online and in print. He lives in Port Jefferson, NY.

The following work is Copyright © 2019, and owned by Paul Lojeski and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


inheritance

mother was a prodigious reader
and accomplished drinker, who, 
after hours of cleaning toilets,
vacuuming, making beds 
and food shopping at Kroger’s
would sink into the living room 
couch in late afternoon light, 
with a glass of scotch on the 
side table and a cigarette burning 
in the ashtray next to it. she’d
stare at the pages of her 
latest book, transfixed, moving
far, far away from the cruel 
ironies of a life poorly chosen.
and all those delusional beliefs
about the 2 of them that’d led 
her into this nameless nightmare
and the perfection of a viscous
bitterness as pure as the driven
snow. Her latest project completed; 
the affixing of a dead bolt lock on 
the inside of her bedroom door 
upon which the intoxicated father
would pound and pound and curse 
her and the universe in slurred 
invective, while the 3 children 
curled up under the covers on 
their beds, begging sleep to rescue 
them, to make it all disappear.

December 9-15, 2019: Poetry from Richard Leach and Richard Shavei-Tzion

Richard Leach and Richard Shavei-Tzion

Send us your poetry for POET OF THE WEEK consideration.
Click here for submission guidelines.


Richard Leach
richarddoleleach@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

Richard Leach is a poet and visual artist in Stamford, CT. The sacred poetry he began writing while serving as a United Church of Christ pastor has been set to music by many composers, and is widely published and sung. His secular poetry has appeared in print in Rattle and online in various publications. Find his self-published collections at lulu.com/rleach, as well as his book The Song Itself here.

The following work is Copyright © 2019, and owned by Richard Leach and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Purple Toe

Can I admit to anyone
that I sprained my left big toe
by catching it in my pant leg
pulling on my pants?
Of course not.
Forget you read this.


Noted

We began buying
organic bananas
instead of whatever bananas
and now sometimes
we have organic
fruit flies.


What the Wealthy Man Bought

A billion dollar house

A billion dollar car

A billion dollar yacht

A billion dollar art collection

A billion dollar trip to the moon and back

A billion dollar artificial heart

A billion dollar funeral

A billion dollar coffin

 

 

 


Richard Shavei-Tzion
rs-wcm@zahav.net.il

Bio (auto)

Richard Shavei-Tzion is an autodidact in all his avocations. He is the author of “Poetry in the Parasha” and his occasional articles on human interest have been published in news publications around the Jewish world. His “Prayer for the Preservation of the Environment” has been read in synagogues and venues from the Western Wall to New Zealand.  He is the director of the Ramatayim Men’s Choir, which over the past 25 years has performed extensively in Israel and across Europe and he has led High Holidays services for the past thirty-five years in South Africa, Israel, the U.S.A. and Canada. Richard’s photographic work has been displayed in solo and group exhibitions. An accountant by profession, he manages a property and medical management company.

The following work is Copyright © 2019, and owned by Richard Shavei-Tzion and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


The last thing my father did for me

After I got the call
A summons to go far away
To serve the ancestral community
I went to my father’s modest bed,
He was young and withered and eaten inside
I placed my dilemma squarely in his skeletal hands,
Gave him the yoke of my responsibility
And he said yes,
I will wait
He said yes knowing that one last time
He must defy the angels
Even when most would welcome them.

Before my journey
I placed my arms around his bony back
For fear that his body would defeat his will
I held his head in my shoulder
Then left.

From far
I asked who will live, who will die
Knowing the answer

It was the last thing my father did for me
He waited.
No, not like we wait for a casual rendezvous
Or an anticipated milestone,
Not for Abraham’s moment poised for sacrifice,
But through days of pain and nights of contemplation,
When there was no life left to live for
He tarried at the door of peace
Until after my return.

December 2-8, 2019: Poetry from Robert Wynne and Yvonne Morris

Robert Wynne and Yvonne Morris

Send us your poetry for POET OF THE WEEK consideration.
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Robert Wynne
robert.wynne@sbcglobal.net

Bio (auto)

Robert Wynne earned his MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University. A former co-editor of Cider Press Review, he has published 6 chapbooks, and 3 full-length books of poetry, the most recent being “Self-Portrait as Odysseus,” published in 2011 by Tebot Bach Press. He’s won numerous prizes, and his poetry has appeared in magazines and anthologies throughout North America. He lives in Burleson, TX with his wife and 3 rambunctious dogs. Visit Robert on the web here.

The following work is Copyright © 2019, and owned by Robert Wynne and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

 

Salvador Dali Prepares a Late Snack

– For Jaimes Palacio

The forgetful horizon peels like old wallpaper,
draping the buttery moon with blinking stars

until it’s winking even more coyly than usual.
A copy of the Beatles unreleased Beige album

melts into caramel over a bowl of white popcorn
as olive oil rains down like drunken applause

near the end of another wedding reception.
On the back of a burro with mile long legs

a thick piece of sharp cheddar is arguing
with a hunk of gouda, while what’s left of

a mini turkey sandwich folds itself awkwardly
over the edge of a jukebox like an apology.

Baby Carrots birth themselves bright orange
from open hands with teeth in each palm.

The artist’s face is reflected crimson
in a still pool of water with a dash of blood –

or perhaps cranberry juice, more bitter –
because this world’s not going to eat itself

despite the yawning pink tongue just waking
from dreams of clocks made entirely of ants,

faces hidden in plain sight, the hungry sun,
and words, always such useless words.

 

Belief

I have always questioned the existence
of dogs, so perfect at providing comfort
yet maddeningly impulsive, they seem

like a dream God might have had,
if there were a God. And maybe there is
reason to believe in mozzarella sticks

as they stretch so far from our lips
it’s like time travel in reverse.
The future welcomes us to wonder

what became of Brad Matson,
attic full of his father’s Playboys,
or Lester Sutton, wearing his anger

like a new Boy Scout badge. Childhood fails
to provide the context necessary
for us to understand the way

planes fall out of the sky every so often
no matter how much we wish
we could believe in anything

other than that which we can see:
bowling pins twirling their final dance,
the crescent moon obscured by clouds,

the cover of a Pink Floyd album
with no words, just black lines on white,
another theology waiting for us

to finally invent it.

 

 

 


Yvonne Morris
a.yvonne.morris@kctcs.edu

Bio (auto)

Yvonne Morris is the author of the chapbook Mother was a Sweater Girl (The Heartland Review Press, 2016). Her work has appeared in a variety of journals, most recently The Lake, and one of her poems is upcoming in Friday Poems. She has taught communication courses and tutored writing skills at Elizabethtown Community and Technical College for twenty-four years.

The following work is Copyright © 2019, and owned by Yvonne Morris and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

 

Mother was a Sweater Girl

Mother was a sweater girl who swore she’d seen Dillinger
standing on the running board of a coupe speeding down
the dirt road she lived next to outside Montpelier, Indiana—
a place she dreamed so hard of leaving that she ordered
herself a suitcase, and her mom and dad laughed, but she
colored her lips barn-red and found a man she couldn’t
get rid of, so she married him and made coffee and babies
and planted begonias, singing back to the birds and to me,
“Sweet, sweet, sweet.” By the time I was sixteen, mother
was ahead of her time at glamorizing men’s wear, making
all the wolves howl as she gardened in my father’s T-shirts
and growled to me, “Whoever gets you, girl, will have a tiger
by the tail” and warned me that I better learn to “nail my
pork chops down,” which I guess meant for me to be sensible,
but how could I be, being too much my mother’s kitten, and one
of the last times I saw her, she showed me a new pair of boots,
and I realized I’d bought a pair just like them. They were the kind,
we both could see, that would make the men wail Ahhhhooooh.

Previously published in the chapbook, Mother was a Sweater Girl
(Heartland Review Press, 2016)

 

 

November 25 – December 1, 2019: Poetry from John Zedolik and John F McMullen

John Zedolik and John F McMullen

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John Zedolik
jjzjr66@aol.com

Bio (auto)

For the past four years, John has been an adjunct English instructor at a number of universities in and around Pittsburgh. He has published poems in such journals as AriesThe Bangalore Review (IND), Commonweal, Orbis (UK), Paperplates (CAN), Poem, Pulsar Poetry Webzine (UK), Poetry Salzburg Review (AUT), Third Wednesday, Transom, and in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. He recently has published a full-length collection, entitled Salient Points and Sharp Angles (CW Books), which is available on Amazon. His iPhone is his primary poetry notebook, and he hopes his use of technology in regard to this ancient art form continues to be fruitful.

The following work is Copyright © 2019, and owned by John Zedolik and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

 

Arrhythmia

During break time, he told the guys at the warehouse
that he asked a stripper to breakfast
after her pole-shift, which must have ended

no earlier than two. So an early repast
indeed for the entertainer and her suitor
who didn’t care about the metabolism

of eggs even sunny-side up that couldn’t
hurry the dawn and a better time for starting
the day if not the relationship or hot-buttered

sex as he had hoped with that offering of hot cakes
and sweet syrup in the dim time better left for sleeping
clothed in the comfort of unseeing walls.

 

 


John F McMullen
johnmac13@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

John F. McMullen, “johnmac the bard”, is the Poet Laureate of the Town of Yorktown, NY, an adjunct professor at Westchester Community College, a graduate of Iona College, the holder of two Masters degrees from Marist College, a member of the American Academy of Poets and Poets & Writers, the author of over 2,500 columns and articles and nine books, seven of which are collections of poetry (all are available at Amazon in both paperback and Kindle formats), and a contributor to various journals and anthologies

The following work is Copyright © 2019, and owned by John F McMullen and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

 

November in the Northeast

Seduced by the Fall
Fucked by the Winter

 

 

November 18-24, 2019: Poetry from Tiffany Shaw-Diaz and B. J. Buckley

Tiffany Shaw-Diaz and B. J. Buckley

Send us your poetry for POET OF THE WEEK consideration.
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Tiffany Shaw-Diaz
shawdiaz@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

Tiffany Shaw-Diaz is a Pushcart Prize and Dwarf Stars Award nominee who also works as a professional visual artist. Her poetry has been featured in Modern Haiku, The Heron’s Nest, Bones, NHK World Haiku Masters, The Mainichi, and dozens of other publications. In addition, her poetry has been translated into German, Italian, and Chinese. Her first chapbook, says the rose, was published by Yavanika Press in 2019.

The following work is Copyright © 2019, and owned by Tiffany Shaw-Diaz and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


handle with care

please
do not incinerate
my remains into useless ash
or mix my skeleton
with the endless fog of layered
earth upon earth
clean my bones with reverence
dust them
shine them like the fine china
families pass down
generation to generation
and then gently use my bones
to drum out
a rhythm only the sea and sky
could comprehend

 

 


B. J. Buckley
bjbuckley@earthlink.net

Bio (auto)

B.J. Buckley is a Montana poet and writer who has worked in Arts-in-Schools and Communities programs throughout the West and Midwest for over 45 years, including nearly a decade as Writer-in-Residence at Sanford Cancer Center in SD. Her poems and reviews have appeared or are forthcoming in About Place Journal, december, Sequestrum, Green Mountains Review, Sugar House Review, Coal Hill, and Sky Island Journal, among many others. She has received a number of national prizes and awards for her work. Her latest book of poems is Corvidae: Poems of Ravens, Crows, and Magpies, Lummox Press 2014. She lives in rural central Montana with her sweetheart, dogs, and cats.

The following work is Copyright © 2019, and owned by B. J. Buckley and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


September, Fairfield Bench

Early morning fog –
grouse pick stones on the highway
verge – one lonely car

Coyote, his wet
nose buried in the carcass
of a roadkilled deer

Green tractor silent –
fields of corn stubble and turned
earth, dark crows calling –

Why scarecrow, I too
have dressed myself in rags – we
must be relatives!

Young men hefting bales
of hay yellow as butter –
Atlas, Hercules

Autumn. Three ravens –
three ghost ships sailing. Even
this bright wind, haunted –

Wild geese, eat all my
corn! If I’m hungry this winter,
I’ll feast on stars

Who can say I have
no one? Look – the moon with her
white arms around me …

November 11-17, 2019: Poetry from Susan Herring and Anthony DiMatteo

Susan Herring and Anthony DiMatteo

Send us your poetry for POET OF THE WEEK consideration.
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Susan Herring
sdherring16@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

A retired academic librarian and long-time writer and editor, Susan D. Herring has published numerous professional publications and has now returned to her early love of poetry. She lives in north Alabama with two cats.

The following work is Copyright © 2019, and owned by Susan Herring and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Raspberry Jam

Mother stirring a simmering mash,
Pushing damp hair off her forehead.
Kitchen filled with thick steam
Rich with the sharp sweet scent
Of raspberry jam.

Setting out jars and lids,
My fingertips still tender
From yesterday’s berry picking.
Pulled gently from the thorny bush,
Dropped into the bucket.
Insistent buzz of mosquitoes,
Distant screams of terns,
Boots slippery with bear scat and dew.
Heady smell of moss and ripe berries,
Rich mud flats and sour fish.

Today I twist open a fresh jar.
The lid pops, memories surge,
Distilled in the sharp sweet scent
Of raspberry jam.


Kitchen Morning

Soft grunt, cat jumps into chair,
Claws pop upholstery,
Stretches out full length, head over the edge.
Background hum of fans
Fridge clicks, rumbling as the cooler kicks in.

 

 


Anthony DiMatteo
anthonydimatteo@hotmail.com

Bio (auto)

Anthony DiMatteo’s recent poems and reviews have sprouted in Clade SongThe Cortland ReviewHunger MountainLos Angeles ReviewUCity Review, and Verse Daily. His current book of poems In Defense of Puppets has been hailed as, “a rare collection, establishing a stunningly new poetic and challenging the traditions that DiMatteo (as Renaissance scholar) claims give the poet ‘the last word'”(Cider Press Review).

The following work is Copyright © 2019, and owned by Anthony DiMatteo and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Denouement

What we had not realized, we had to
live with, that gargantuan hump of stench,
mammoth of pure rot. Marriage and age
we knew about, how our parents labored
to keep the jingle in their bed, but that
monstrous landfill across the highway?
Nada. Paid no mind while we bought
the condo. We could blame the agent
who stressed the steal of a deal we got
but the daily odor strongly suggested
otherwise. Getting into bed we held
our noses. The lemon scent the city
sprayed only made the smell go weirder,
perfume on a corpse or stale wedding cake.

November 4-10, 2019: Poetry from Patrick Erickson and Kevin Ridgeway

Patrick Erickson and Kevin Ridgeway

Send us your poetry for POET OF THE WEEK consideration.
Click here for submission guidelines.


Patrick Erickson
patricktheron4@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

Patrick Theron Erickson, a resident of Garland, Texas, a Tree City, just south of Duck Creek, is a retired parish pastor put out to pasture himself. His work has appeared in Poetry Super Highway, Grey Sparrow Journal, Tipton Poetry Journal, and The Main Street Rag, among other publications, and more recently in The Oddville Press, Vox Poetica, Adelaide Literary Magazine and Futures Trading.

The following work is Copyright © 2019, and owned by Patrick Erickson and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Canada Dry

Who ever heard
of a dry Canada

with its wetlands
and wetter ducks

Who ever heard
of a dry duck?

A dry duck
is a dead duck

A dry dock, yes

A dry dock
is for building ships
which are soon wet
when christened

like a dry baby
is wet when christened
and born again

though she sheds water
like a duck’s back

and treads water
like a duck

A dry martini is wet
even when dry

Vodka is wet
gin is wet
vermouth is wet
because alcohol is wet

Or it’s last call
for alcohol!

Drink up!

There are wet counties
and dry counties
(line break)

And dry counties
where no liquor is served
are really dry

Who ever heard
of a dry river

except in South Texas
where there is the Dry Frio

where George Strait
learned to swim?

 


Kevin Ridgeway
kevinridgeway82@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

Kevin Ridgeway lives and writes in Long Beach, CA. He is the author of the poetry collection “Too Young to Know” (Stubborn Mule Press). His work has appeared or is forthcoming in SlipstreamChiron ReviewNerve CowboySan Pedro River ReviewMain Street RagThe Cape RockPlainsongsSpillwayUp the RiverGhost City ReviewKYSO Flash, Gasconade ReviewCultural WeeklyBig HammerMisfit MagazineThe American Journal of Poetry and So it Goes: The Literary Journal of the Kurt Vonnegut Memorial Library.

The following work is Copyright © 2019, and owned by Kevin Ridgeway and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Electraburger

was a greasy spoon
Mom and Pop burger dive
just around the corner
from my grandma’s house,
and we went there most days
after school with the money
for the lunches we held out on
in order to scarf steak fries
and swill Seven Up, with a
few quarters left to play a game
of Super Mario Bros. that was
over when we got killed by a
monster turtle before we could
achieve Mushroom Power,
and Los Lobos sang La Bamba
on the radio for afternoons
when we felt like the grand
wizards of suburban nowhere,
long before we had an ounce
of grace or any pubes to
shampoo and call our own.

October 28 – November 3, 2019: Poetry from Lia Rayne and Cynthia Alby

Lia Rayne and Cynthia Alby

Send us your poetry for POET OF THE WEEK consideration.
Click here for submission guidelines.


Lia Rayne
JamieHoward8389@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

My pen name is Lia Rayne and I am a 30 year old genderfluid poet. I have been writing poetry for 13 years and I have been published 3 times so far. My life goal is to write my own book of poetry and have it published!

The following work is Copyright © 2019, and owned by Lia Rayne and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Bedroom Senryu

Time bombs explode at
nine- I exhale praying breaths
waiting for the creak.

 

 


Cynthia Alby
cynthia.alby@gcsu.edu

Bio (auto)

Cynthia Alby is a professor at Georgia College who is devoted to supporting others as they discover the power of teaching as a transformative activity. She writes and creates art on a farm called “Shangri-Baa” where she and her husband raise an endangered breed of sheep and share their home with a crew of rescued dogs.

The following work is Copyright © 2019, and owned by Cynthia Alby and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


I learn the word “Slurb”

Please, never lead
with a definition from Merriam-Webster
Trite incarnate

But I am a full stanza in now
And I warn you,
A definition is coming

You see, Jennifer –
Professional definition scribe –
Has
…..Despite her hard chair
And beige cubicle –
Slipped a hint of poetry
Into said dictionary
Hoping no one will notice
But Jennifer –
I see what you have done

“Slurb –
A suburb of wearisomelyuniformhouses”

My friend, Annica
Lived in an upscale slurb
Although I had no word for it at twelve
Row upon row of identical structures
Tidy yards
…..……I could not visit her there
…..……I made excuses

I could read it
Morse Code
All – dashes – no – dots
A slurb –
What happens
When SOS
Flat lines