|Argleton, view from Bold Lane|
Saturday, 3 December 2016
No cows to look at
I hear the truck traffic
Everything changes like clouds
The page this poem is on burns
Coming from the funeral with friends
Talking on the telephone
No trucks to grind their gears
I hear the minute hand moving
Birds and people inhabit the earth
A black bear inhabits the earth, too
A rock in the sun
In a mind there is apocalypse
No one can hear it
Robert Ronnow's most recent poetry collections are New & Selected Poems: 1975-2005 (Barnwood Press, 2007) and Communicating the Bird (Broken Publications, 2012). Visit his web site at www.ronnowpoetry.com.
Sunday, 6 November 2016
Yours is the first email I opened this morning. I was surprised to see your name since I had forgotten about the piece I had submitted a year ago. Time does fly.
I appreciate your suggested revisions and invitation to re-submit the work once I have made the revisions. I can tell that you spent a lot of time analyzing my efforts.
I'm afraid, however, that I can't make the changes you suggest. Nevertheless I feel obligated to compensate you for your time.
It is to that end that I took your name to Rebecca. I showed her your suggestions and she said that your name would be introduced at the next gathering of her coven. She asked if I had any suggestions for revisions to your life. I said I did and that she might want to take notes.
I said I thought it might be best to have your organs rot one organ at a time. I added, however, that while your organs rot slowly in series, your heart should remain strong so you can die at a leisurely pace. We don't want to rush this.
She said that could be arranged although it was an unusual request. In similar cases in dispatching someone who has grievously insulted another, usually the insulted party wants the insulter eliminated immediately. I'm unusual, she said, in that respect.
I told her I didn't want to be heartless and have you die before you have a chance to put your affairs in order. And I reminded her not to inflict cancer on your pancreas too early because medicine has no certain cure for that. In short order, cancer of the pancreas usually means lights out.
I suggested she start with your gall bladder and move on to your kidneys and then your lungs and then your brain. That will keep the doctors busy while you waste away. I suggested she save your pancreas for last.
I also asked her to let me know when your pancreas becomes involved so I can make plane reservations to come and say good-bye.
In the meantime, may your next issue be stillborn. No reason to make it different from the last.
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri. He has had work published in various countries. Among them are Bluepepper (Australia), Ink Sweat and Tears (England), Beakful (France), The Galway Review (Ireland), The Osprey Journal (Wales), Public Republic (Bulgaria), and The Istanbul Literary Review (Turkey). Some of his work can be found at http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html#sthash.OSYzpgmQ.dpbs=
Saturday, 5 November 2016
|Mr. Panda Half Fizz|
falls in the water'
(and "Ah-ha!"-afterthought from Flash ensues)
in the water
it is- Panda on land
Lies like a woman in a surrealist flick
Panda in mud-camouflage:
-she thinks there's a Predator somewhere
watching, waiting for the right moment.
So she's hiding hard. keeping herself quiet, breathing slowly...
Even if the only one who'd falled was the Panda.
- gotta believe in something...)
(Even if there is a predator
the only thing he watches is the sky
Because he is inspired by GAFF-C-BC-A-AE
which sounds all over the place for some reason)
all over the sudden - a fit of utter battlecry!
close-up of Pandas mouth -
lips are painted by a chocolate bar
mixed with blood from bitten lips
Panda runs through the jungle
and then she falls on an empty spot.
(dramatic brass stab)
- that was a part of her plan,
which was - to make a cloud of dust and make her go up
for whatever reason
And so - it goes up
and Panda blows hard
Her cheeks looks awful and then funny
- and so the cloud goes in a right direction,
maybe, it's not quite visible...
Panda sees a silhouette on the horizon
And she goes there --
for a very long time -
she's exhausted, near collapsing,
- she witnesses a sunrise,
she's bored, but still - somewhat excited.
and so - somewhere down her path -
she finds a turtle
- sleeping in chuckhole - giving no damn about anything.
And she chuckles in her sleep
the way it sounds like a thunder.
And it's utterly irritating...
And then a thought strikes Panda
And she suffers from a nosebleed
- she gets it - she needs the turtles shells.
And she says - "i need your shell!"
But her accent is so thick
it's abracadabra for the turtle
- Panda says "come on"
(and it still sounds like thunder)
while turtle replies "huh? what?"
and then the Terminator situation ensues -
with a little bit of close quarter combat
(But there's no John Workman around to Ono' this,
so we'll leave it to your imagination,
after all - there's a lot of potential)
there's no turtle.
Panda tries on the shell.
And she looks ridiculuously awkward
but somewhat cool -
panda in a shell... panda in a shell...
Sounds like a magic spell.
(Somebody - draw me a sigil!)
Panda in a shell now thinks
she's that turtle that bears some whales that bear the rest of the world.
But there are no whales in this era.
Because it's plot convenient.
So she wreaks havoc upon land
and rans away -
Rans so fast she breaks the time-space continium
And lands into the time when whales still existed.
And so she tries to put herself under the whales,
but there a problem - they swim away when she's nearing
- after all - it's really scary when panda in a shell tries to go under you.
And so she digs a tunnel to the center of the earth
and puts it into the debug mode - ups the tempeture
and so all the water on the planet boils away.
And then - when nothing will interfere her idea-fix come true
She comes to boiled whale bodies
And puts them on her back.
And nothing happens - just panda in a shell with boiled whale bodies on her back under the hot sun - slowly decomposing, smelling bad.
Some scavengers fly around
But she scares them with her battle heavy breathing
Up until the point when she falls asleep
and dreams of a turtle being attacked by the swarm of bees
She hears a sound of stings tearing up the turtle skin
she sees how liquid fills the eyeholes
and puts the ladder on the cheeks
and goes down and falls in splashes, splashes, splashes...
Then she awakes and remembers - there are no land on whales!
And so she goes to the mountain
- and chops it with the edge of her hand
And while the mountain is up in the air
She puts her whales back on her back and waits 'till the mountain will fall on her.
And it falls
with purposeful shadow
and terrible sound
and then crumbles because of impact
Pan over the debris...looks fascinating...
Panda in a shell
battered, near broken,
sprinkles parfume on the damaged whale bodies
And whistles a lovesong.
then puts the whale bodies on her back again and waits for something
Elephants come around,
run her over,
stomp for some time...
We hear the crackle of the shell
We hear how whales bodies turn into the pulp...
Then the elephants go away - Panda gets up like nothing happened.
Drops off what's left of bodies.
Because while being stomped upon -
she found out that things must be upside down
and So she falls on the parfumed pulp of the whale bodies.
While the sun is slowly stakes her.
Panda in a shell floats in space, frozen
With her mouth opened wide and eyes shut.
Tuesday, 1 November 2016
|Albert Bierstadt - A Wild Stallion|
As free as the winda lone stallion gallops
across the prairie.
He stops to listen, ears alert.
Ancestors from another time,
pounding hoof beats
echo across the canyons of time.
Every pant and heartbeat
hammering against the walls
of his chest.
Somewhere other warriors
thrive and he listens
because the only noise is the
breath of the wind,
rustling the leaves across his path.
This poem was published in the July/August issue of Oklahoma Today Magazine
Friday, 21 October 2016
|"Secret Hallway" (c) Kevin Dooley|
In these digital landscapes
we trickle and tickle with words
etched in glowing cursor
Sounds meet and merge
in bound affinity spaces,
one would hope packed
always with friends
Gathered around a literary
cause, assembled by love
of writ and lit, always
submerged in the latest story
Always drafting the next verse.
Previously published in Leaves of Ink
JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. He has recently been nominated for Best of the Net and his chapbook, The Truth About Snails, is available on Amazon.
Friday, 14 October 2016
& you've forgotten all that, & go up to the supermarket this Friday afternoon, & all the imprecations you'd forgotten you'd uttered last week come flooding back.
&, afterwards, you go & get petrol & have to wait for half an hour because the elderly have forgotten how to queue & park across the space between two bowsers so no one can get by them, & you, being courteous, see a clear space to park & slot into that, only to find that the elderly person two cars ahead of you who's just filled their car has forgotten where they've put their keys, & that the only station you can get on the car radio is one playing non-stop Phil Collins songs for half an hour....
& one of the things that short-term memory doesn't do is let you forget that you don't like Phil Collins. So, in penance for your intolerance, you force yourself to listen to him. & hope you forget who you're listening to.
Mark Young's most recent books are Mineral Terpsichore, from gradient books of Finland, & The Chorus of the Sphinxes, from Moria Books in Chicago. An e-book, The Holy Sonnets unDonne, came out earlier this year from Red Ceilings Press; another, a few geographies, will be out later this year from One Sentence Poems; & another, For the Witches of Romania, is scheduled for publication by Beard of Bees.
Tuesday, 11 October 2016
Impossible is nothing when Xbox live accounts and password recovery protocols are disabled for income tax purposes. How puberty impacts Western Union exchange rates. Extensive load-disabling cues determine basics card eligibility thru wavelength analysis plus the frequency of visually effeminate articles appearing in conversation as a indirect result of Get Smart. So check Defacebook, move on up and atomize. Solve radical equations with anagrams. Apply now adequately warm linguistic driftwood to the irrelevant literature over long distances indeed. No gravitas was eaten in the making of this erasure.
11:30ish pm 9th September 2016