David James

I Wouldn’t Be Afraid

if you
told me
that the end
would ease
me into
the afterlife
like a clock
winding down
quietly,
gently,
if you could
guarantee me
a sweet kiss
in that final
second before
my last
breath,
if I knew
you would
go on
and enjoy
your days
and memories,
revel in
the morning sun
with your cup
of Ahmad tea
and knitting,
our grandchildren
coming over
to visit
and swim,
their smiles
planted on
your full heart,
I’d close
my eyes
and let
my soul
go, let it
swirl
around you
and touch
your face
one more
time
before
climbing
the golden
stairs to
heaven where
I’d save a
cloud for you
and a perfect
set of wings,
waiting there
at the pearly gate
with hand-picked
flowers and a
glorious
smile.

David James’ third book, My Torn Dance Card, was a finalist in the 2016 Next Generation Indie book award. Along with publishing six chapbooks, more than thirty of his one-act plays have been produced. He teaches at Oakland Community College.

 

 

Judith Solano Mayer

I don’t know if entitlement is an intuitive lean in the right
direction, but
my guest is apoplectic
amid the meditative stillness surrounding the table:
gelded papayas in a mottled mix of light and shadows,
a splatter of mimosas,
an apple core with a honey bee
crawling over it, the blunt exhale
of my own startled breath as I consider
the arthropod click of his jaw
all the while mouthing, “This is Babylon.”

Other than being extremely introspective, Judith Solano Mayer does not have any degrees or certificates that would qualify her as a poet.

Kip Knott

Temporary Agnostic

For a moment I believe
in the possibility of something beyond this life
as I watch my son roll down the hill
past familial headstones, the tiny bones
of dandelions clinging to his hair.

Kip Knott peruses flea markets and antique stores for vintage paintings, which he then flips for righteous bucks on eBay.

Tim Brockett

Recycling Day

In a blue plastic bin at my curb, the thought
of his tongue in your mouth waits
to be sanitized and shredded,
then pressed into the image
of the loving, peaceful home
dreamed about
by a brokenhearted eight-year-old
at Sister Mary’s Orphanage.

Tim Brockett writes poetry and juggles flaming pianos, often simultaneously.

Tim Brockett

Failure

W. K. Kellogg, cereal magnate
from Michigan’s Bible Belt,
made only one corn flake
that looks exactly like Jesus.

Tim Brockett writes poetry and juggles flaming pianos, often simultaneously.

Howie Good

The Killers

Assassins and secret policemen,
just following protocol,
experiment on each other to relieve
their boredom or queasiness,

regularly say “Cool!” and “Awesome!”
and “Got it!” while meaning
something quite different,

wear only dark clothing sewn
by a half-dozen or so blind tailors,

perpetuate the ancient notion
that the wind can compose poems,

attend a Wednesday matinee
at The Theater of Disappearance,

wake up in a foreign city
the next morning feeling neither
hungover nor conspicuous,

smile crookedly at you with teeth
like the ovens at Auschwitz.

Howie Good‘s latest book is “Hitchhiking Through the Apocalypse” (Grey Book Press).

Neil Creighton

Sun Dance

If only I could
throw words
onto the page
like Jackson Pollock
threw paint onto the canvas,
a kind of divine anarchy,
beautiful chaos
celebrating nothing
but itself,
iridescent,
dripping molten stalactites
in fluro red, orange and green
descending
over the primordial world
aeons before
the red blaze cooled
and life emerged,
slowly,
laboriously,
from the cobalt blue.

The Australian poet, Neil Creighton, is ever the optimist. He blogs at windofflowers.blogspot.com.au.

Stephen Toft

Tanka Poem

The ocean
reclaims
the seashell,
reclaims the sound
of itself.

Stephen Toft is a poet and homelessness worker who lives with his girlfriend and their children in Lancaster, UK.