Poem

Bed. A Poem by Martin Foroz

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      It was not
      the same bed
      Your spirit,
      somewhere else
      But the flesh
      familiar

 
mf-pic
 
BIO
Mohammad Forouzani (Martin Foroz) is an Assistant Professor of English
Language and Literature. He is originally Iranian, and is now living and teaching
at university in Oman. His poems were recently published in Voice of Monarch
Butterflieies: Middle Eastern anthology by Ten Poets from Ganges to Nile (2016-
Editor: S. Saeidnia), Tuck Magazine (August 2016), and Raven Cage Ezine (2016, 3rd issue).
http://martinforoz.wordpress.com
https://www.linkedin.com/in/mohammad-forouzani-5b330572
 
 
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WHAT THE METAL HOLDS TOO LONG IS CONSUMED BY FIRE #34#35#36. Poem by Darren C. Demaree

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WHAT THE METAL HOLDS TOO LONG IS CONSUMED BY FIRE #34
 
The small, repeatable
actions
 
that go wrong one time
always snatch
 
your throat
& divide it up
 
into a tributary
of failure
 
that dumps fire
into more fire, spreads
 
until the harbor
becomes a deep hell.
 
 
WHAT THE METAL HOLDS TOO LONG IS CONSUMED BY FIRE #35
 
Throw the remaining eggs
at the ashes of the silo. Eat
 
what cooks there. Enjoy
the plenty that is nothing
 
left to burn. If the house
goes up too, your fingers
 
will substitute for the silver
that can never be saved.
 
WHAT THE METAL HOLDS TOO LONG IS CONSUMED BY FIRE #36
 
Wear the crisping.
Wear it into town.
Pick a bar, rural
superhero, the silo
smoking on your chest
is worth a month
of free Wild Turkey.
 
 
 
 
Darren C. Demaree
 
“Darren is a dangerous dreamer, concocting love poems to his home state, and pastorals to his true love. But there’s always something more beneath the surface: sex and violence, villainy, mutilation, uneasy redemption and troubled ecstasy. These poems are pins pressed deep in the disfigured heart of America. They work a dark magic on the reader — they’re unsettling in necessary ways.” Christopher Michel
 
Darren-C.-Demaree
 
My poems have appeared, or are scheduled to appear in numerous magazines/journals, including the South Dakota Review, Meridian, The Louisville Review, Diagram, and the Colorado Review.
 
I am the author of “As We Refer To Our Bodies” (2013, 8th House), “Temporary Champions” (2014, Main Street Rag), “The Pony Governor” (2015, After the Pause Press), and “Not For Art Nor Prayer” (2015, 8th House). I am the Managing Editor of the Best of the Net Anthology.
 
I am currently living and writing in Columbus, Ohio with my wife and children.
 
 
 
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SWIMMING TO THE MOON. A Poem by Steve De France

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Tonight my fingers stiffly stumble across
my keyboard as my mind is repulsed,
as I am frightened of this task, as I am afraid
of the pain of thought., as my spirit fills & trembles
with the mystery in words.
Words that once flashed
in the eyes of the dying,
words that fade into a wet cough,
words brushing past the living
with silken lips as cold as marble,
their frightened gasps merge into darkness.
Ancient images tumble into my mind, I pass the
rough tips of my short fingers across my
damp forehead—very carefully as I
rehearse for my passage to the moon,
knowing all of us will have to make this swim
through skin and blood and memories.
 
 

steve-defrance
 
 
Steve DeFrance is a widely published poet, playwright and essayist both in America and in Great Britain. His work has appeared in literary publications in America, England, Canada, France, Ireland, Wales, Scotland, India, Australia, and New Zealand. He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize in Poetry in both 2002 and 2003. Recent publications include The Wallace Stevens Journal, The Mid-American Poetry Review, Ambit, Atlantic, Clean Sheets, Poetrybay, Yellow Mama and The Sun. In England he won a Reader’s Award in Orbis Magazine for his poem “Hawks.” In the United States he won the Josh Samuels’ Annual Poetry Competition (2003) for his poem: “The Man Who Loved Mermaids.” His play THE KILLER had it’s world premier at the GARAGE THEATRE in Long Beach, California (Sept-October 2006). He has received the Distinguished Alumnus Award from Chapman University for his writing. Most recently his poem “Gregor’s Wings” has been nominated for The Best of The Net by Poetic Diversity. for further poems by Steve De France see www.artvilla.com & www.motherbird.com
 
 
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Let me go. A Poem by Robin Wyatt Dunn

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Let me go;
I am drawn.

 
Hereout the maids hinder my suffering;
The maids are buildings, and faces.
The asphalt itself. They seem to care for me;
to prevent my exit from the city’s gravity.

 
All my wishes are spent on the mornings here;
And even the nights tell me I am growing.

 
I want to shrink, under the sun,
Away from all this history.
 
 
mugshot
Bio:
 
Robin Wyatt Dunn lives in Los Angeles.
 

—
“Agitate. Agitate. Agitate.”
— Frederick Douglass
 
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Out of Time. A Poem by Soodabeh Saeidnia

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Years have passed and that slim cider plant

is now a strong tree

The mesmerizing highway’s been constructed

across the mysterious sea

Wars started and presumed

to be ended soon

My senses have deadened, whereas my body

promoted to defend
 

I wonder why in this time

I’m not feeling good, I’m not fine
 

Days have come and nights have gone

without a sign of evolution in our genes

Climate smirks at our greenhouse dreams

Through once in a while, monsoons of disease

cyclones of death

Men are digging the earth at a furious pace

but I’ve always known that there are planets, in which

rains are diamond, snows emerald
 

Along this ephemeral wasting of time

I’m not feeling good, I’m not fine
 

The spider web’s connected all the people

Some are trapped like butterflies,

Some are tearing off the net, though cannot fly away

I heard their wings have hurt

and needed a century of rest

Galaxies have been expanding through the Dark Energy

I know that the chance of dropping in a Black Hole

is less than becoming human for some men

We are now safe living in the Milky Way!
 

But I’m running out of time

I’m not good, I’m not fine
 
 
Untitled
 
 
Biography:
Soodabeh Saeidnia lives in NYC but originally is Persian. She got her Pharm D and Ph.D. of Pharmacognosy and has worked as a researcher, assistant and associate professor in the Kyoto University (Japan), TUMS (Iran) and University of Saskatchewan (Canada). She is interested in English literature and poetry, and has published a collection of her poems, Words for myself, in Farsi. Her poems have been published (or a head of publishing) in the American magazines and literary journals including Squawk Back, Sisyphus Quarterly, Paradox, TimBookTu, Bobbling of the Irrational, SPINE, American Writers Journal, Tuck Magazine, La Libertad, Tiny Poetry, Indiana Voice Journal, The Pen, 352 degrees and the Great Weather for Media. A number of her poems have been printed in the books Where the Mind Dwells and American Poet by Eber & Wein Publishing as well as Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze by Johnson Publications and Artistic. Her newest book, Street of the Ginkgo Trees is now available online on Amazon.
 
 
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Oslo. A Poem by Christie-Luke Jones

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A solitary orange for breakfast; she delivers it with her unmistakably virginal smile,

kneels by my bed in thanks.

My body fizzes with polarising urges strong enough to kill us both.

Her apartment is beyond all comprehension; I feel undeserving of its pine-scented

air, the only discordant note in an otherwise harmonious melody.

She dresses in furs and heavy knits.

Her glowing skin and lithe body are untouched by the sweating guilt of midnight

trysts.

A nervous laugh rocks the vast drifts as our paths tentatively entwine across the

blank expanse of canvas.

Our eyes devour in absence of trembling lips.

The inevitability is palpable.

A joyful expression of unspoken lust; her hands scream to be touched.

I debate the drop, survey the cliff edge with a melting restraint.

Hurtling forth; I find myself discussing pickled herring in her father’s slippers.

God-fearing Christians, no doubt afraid of this wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Such a charming sheep, though. I bleat and graze with impeccable timing, convince

even myself.

Neither of us find sleep that night.

Impatience drives me to my annex room, whilst her mind is a dance of plush hearts

and handwritten love letters.

Another 12 hours to keep my mask from slipping.
 
 
Bio Photo
 
 
Christie-Luke Jones is a poet, fiction writer and actor from Oxfordshire, England. Christie-Luke’s writing is strongly influenced by the Gallic blood that courses through his veins, as well as his interest in the more macabre aspects of the human condition. To see more of his work, visit www.christielukejones.com.
 
 
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We Darkened Few Laugh With Needle-Sharp Joy. A poem by Joseph Armstead

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Laughing
with delight,
we thought we saw
a vision of blood
Turn to wine…
 
It’s a story told
in silence and pictures,
where everything we say
sounds like the spatter
of falling rain,
the sound of weariness
beating a drumbeat
on old concrete,
And its brittle beauty
makes the cracked
photographs
in our album of memories
dance
while we feel like children
at a tea party
with ghosts, pouring our hearts,
a piece at a time,
into empty porcelain cups.
 
Our timid smiles
are splintered
breaks
in the face
of a laughing clock.
“See how sharp,”
the timepiece said,
ticking.
 
A vision of light
at the tunnel’s end
fails to lead us
from the dark,
Saviors and Angel Wars,
Burning bushes
calling out numbers
at an endless game
of celestial Bingo,
And God’s reflection
looks out
from the fruit punch,
laughing from inside
the crystal serving bowl,
We can’t believe in such things,
because we feel like children
at a tea party
with ghosts, pouring our hearts,
a piece at a time,
into empty porcelain
demitasses.
 
“See how sharp,”
the timepiece said,
ticking.
 
And we darkened few
laugh with needle-sharp joy.
 
 
 
1196372998383oj4
 
BIO

Joseph Armstead is a suspense-thriller and horror author living in the United States’ San Francisco Bay Area. Author of a dozen short stories and ten novels, his poetry has been published in a wide range of online journals, webzines and print magazines. A mathematician, Futurist and computer technologist, Mr. Armstead’s poetry often defies easy description, but frequently includes neo-classical imagery, surrealist viewpoints and post-modern themes.
 
 
 
 
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America: The Rave. A Poem by Adam Levon Brown

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America
 
Of the store-bought
pizza dinners
 
Land of the flies
who scrape the paint
off of barnyard doors
with fingernails of lace
 
America
 
Camel cigarette
butts lining the crevices,
reminding us to
take pride in our
death
 
Land of the trees,
the oceans, and the
snow; covering us like
a whale song sung from
the bleachers of Wrigley field
in ’89
 
America
 
Scarface gangsterish
slang aimed at our throats
while revolutionaries paint
their stories on box trains
destined for the great beyond
 
Land of the stolen coffee bean
with all of its richness fueling
our neurotic skull contents in
the bleak December rains
 
America
 
Social injustice in the form
of Television, telling us a tale
as old as time; oppression
as an old, raggedy flag drenched
in the blood of sacrificial lambs
who never got to see the pasture
 
Land of the bombs, the guns,
and the assault rifle speeches
of sputtering, malignant hatred
 
America
 
Chain gang alamode
served with a slice
of adversity in the morning
 
Land of the Cinematic
bloodbath and violent
pornography with Twilight zone
on repeat
 
America
 
Crooked-nosed piety seekers
in rags on the streets who sleep
right outside the doors of the disillusioned youth
who partake in Molly until their ears
scream and their voices listen
 
Land of the freezing
Home of the Rave.
 
Adam Levon Brown
Adam Levon Brown (ii)

Adam Levon Brown is a poet and author residing in Eugene, Oregon. He has one published poetry book out, Musings of a Madman, which is a collection of poems made to enlighten and inspire the reader. Adam attributes his love of poetry to the many great poets he discovered in the school library during his formative years. He enjoys listening to political hip hop music and is a political activist himself.
 

—
Adam Levon Brown, Featured Writer Editor
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