October 26, 2020

“Baba Yaga” — Poetry by Raquel Dionísio Abrantes

“Baba Yaga” — Poetry by Raquel Dionísio Abrantes

Baba Yaga    He needs to learn to respect your no;  He needs to learn to hear your yes.  If he does not let him go;   You do not want a vile head upon your chest.    Unleash your Baba Yaga, the one  Who leaves scars.  You will rise from red-hot sun  And no one can tear you apart.    Believe me;  You are ready to forge your throne.  In you there are the seven seas  Beneath your growing skin of stone      Your Perseus Face    Dream after dream you split my  Soul like a glass of rum.  I spend the night by the bed,  Restless seeing your Perseus face.  But I do not have Medusa’s head  Nor any body to offer you    You are a man in the shadow  Of a lost fire. How many times  Have you seen the blaze…

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October 19, 2020

“Unendurably Gentle” – The Poems of Alan Cohen

“Unendurably Gentle” – The Poems of Alan Cohen

Unendurably Gentle  From the upstairs  Room, one could not tell  Cloudy from clear  Until the sun was  Well up into the leafy  Metacoloring limbs of resolute  Trees; by that    Time, a skein of noise had  Cracked like a whip and lingered like  Sustained applause, up  Over the roof of the   Room, quite invisible, in its  Passage south–voices  Of the atmosphere calling  As, one suddenly  Imagines, voices may   Also call us from water or fire    It is only later, while  Digging shallow  Trenches for spring  Bulbs, that one looks    Up over one’s   Shoulder to seek the butterfly casting  That wavering  Shadow and is surprised to see  A single red leaf hovering  On the wind  Voiceless    A handful of bulbs,  Sunlight  And the leaf-swept air    Circadian Rhythm    Receptive to a fault  The mind composes an…

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October 11, 2020

“Tumours on My Chest” —Poems of Anindita Sarkar

“Tumours on My Chest” —Poems of Anindita Sarkar

   Tumours on my Chest    Tear drops, popcorn, kidney peas,   red ants collectively navigating  through a complex quarry,   a fable of sequins,   or say like the child   with knotted limbs  who couldn’t make it   till dawn break.   Is it vitriolic?  Not like the toothache that barges in  when we are mid-flight into our dirty deeds,   but like the cramps  on arcane purple mornings  when you are buried in deep sleep.  Will they appear again?   You mean like the hairs  on my bald terrain?   Theory says yes  like uneasy questions  searching for meaning  I hope this time they are photogenic.        Robot Mom     No girly time  but a relic of disenfranchised relationship.   She weaves the worn-out pillowcase  with my butchered dreams,   ignites the chipped tile fireplace   with paper-cuts from my Origamis   she wouldn’t let my art…

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October 5, 2020

“E T R A H” — The Poetry of Michael T. Smith

“E T R A H” — The Poetry of Michael T. Smith

E T R A H      During the moon landing I was on earth   But ever asked: how subjective is ‘here?’  At what point does famil’rity have birth?  In a dark side of the sun place a hearth.  Because a home of heart is without peer  During the moon landing I was on earth  Beg with a Styrofoam cup of such worth:  Spacemen in a fishbowl of walls not clear.  At what point does famil’rity have birth?  For space to be on a premium dearth   On a TV screen wide enough for cheer.  During the moon landing I was on earth  Hands held across a million miles in mirth  Static dances for grains of a soiled year  At what point does famil’rity have birth?  Our empty hands surround a riddling girth   A small doubloon of proximity ne’er near  During the moon landing I was on earth …

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September 24, 2020

“Love on the Road” — The Poetry of Irving Glassman

“Love on the Road” — The Poetry of Irving Glassman

               Love On The Road    We hug and kiss in the fast food parking area   From their SUV my family waves farewell to me  We are on the same road until they slow to approach their exit  For an instant we are side by side  Everyone turns in their seats and throws me an extra kiss  They look like any other family  Except they’re my family                   #   #  #                        Crossing Over               My daughter runs, hops, and skips        To the curb’s edge        For her ritual rite of passage               I assure her it’s safe to cross        She runs, hops and skips        To the opposite curb        “I’m a grown up now,” she yells           I yelled back, “Don’t grow up yet. You have time.” …

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September 20, 2020

“Frank Olson” — The Poetry of Charles Rammelkamp

“Frank Olson” — The Poetry of Charles Rammelkamp

Frank Olson    “Webber,” my editor barked  when I walked into the office  that day just after Thanksgiving, 1953.   “I want you to look into this story  about the CIA guy who jumped  out of the tenth floor window   at the Statler, on Seventh Avenue.  Why did he do it?  Could he have been he pushed?”    My beat? CIA, MK-ULTRA, “mind-control” drugs.  Brainwashing.   I knew about Frank Olson already;  worked at Camp Dietrich in Maryland, Special Ops,   an aerosol expert, his specialty   “airborne distribution of biological germs.”   Worked on Operation Sea Spray a couple year earlier,   where they released a dust   that floated like anthrax, near San Francisco.   At Dietrich, he directed experiments  that involved gassing and poisoning lab animals.    “I’ll look right into it, sir,”   already booking a flight and hotel  in my mind, thinking,…

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September 13, 2020

“Leap of Faith” — An Ekphrasis Poem by Mark Blickley

“Leap of Faith” — An Ekphrasis Poem by Mark Blickley

Image by Mark Blickley  Leap of Faith  I’m a dead frog and I don’t say this with any pity or understanding or shame, it’s just an observation that people seem to like us, like us a bit too much because they like to push hooks through our jaws and cast us out to sea, as well as amputate us for fine dining and draw us as a cartoon shuffling cigar smoking smart ass, and they like to blame us when they choke on the phlegm in their throats, and they swear that some of us give them hideous skin infections while the evil ones enjoy tossing us into their steamy potions as the younger ones imitate us with a game of leaps and crashes, perhaps because we abandon our young and we larger ones like to…

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August 17, 2020

“The Leopard’s Good Idea,” Poetry by Mark A. Murphy

“The Leopard’s Good Idea,” Poetry by Mark A. Murphy

The Leopard’s Good Idea   or Costume Change    The pen is mightier than the sword. Behold  The arch-enchanters wand! – itself a nothing! –  Edward Bulwer-Lytton    1    One day the crafty leopard hit upon  the neat idea to turn out   his old wardrobe  in favour of a whole new look.    Out went last season’s winter warmers   as if a change of pelt might bring   about a change in personality.  Nonetheless, the inclination to swindle     outweighs any kindness.     So, the cheating and subterfuge runs  its course, until the cheat    and the cheated part company  in the face of wild promises and denials.    2    Now we journey to the end of time  to ascertain whether the pen   really is mightier than the sword,  only to find what we always suspected.   …

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August 9, 2020

“Meteor Shower,” Poetry by Mark Hammerschick

“Meteor Shower,” Poetry by Mark Hammerschick

Meteor Shower   Canvas black  the eternal oil spill galactic  dark matter  speckled waves of crystal  diamond sky  ruby, emerald, sapphire   lightspeed  silent night bright   terminal velocity  eyes focus  straining in the dark time  as seconds, minutes, eons  stretch galaxies  into small hands  that even rain cannot  feel  for in feeling  we begin to fall  headlong into night  riding the meteors  of our past   knowing the showers  of our future  will smother  those small hands  someday  not even the rain has such small hands  Smokestacks of oak, hickory and birch  lurch in the balance of sleet and snow  on a confused Sunday in early May  as my woods fill up with snow.  It’s a snowy evening  tucked away on this Highland Park cul de sac  hugging Lake Michigan’s shore  as the gales of this Spring day  recall the final…

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July 21, 2020

Kira Rice-Christianson — Six Poems

Kira Rice-Christianson — Six Poems

Little White Lies     I started carrying around   these little white lies;   they live here on my face.   Like when I ask you a question and   your answer seems ingenuine but   I smile at you softly, anyway.   Or when I fix you a plate  and you give me your thanks,  and I kiss the side of your head.   While inside I scold   the woman who does as she’s told,   though I lay with her each night in bed.   Or when you don’t come home  for three nights in a row  and I lay awake cracking my knuckles and toes.  I picture her holding your body, unclothed.  The thought leaves me paranoid,   and I look through your phone.   I shouldn’t have done that, now I can’t sleep.   My body is filled with anxiety and heat.   I…

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