Thursday, December 28, 2017

Hugh Tribbey - Three Poems


Boom bring
Doses dromedary
Emerging every
Felt interface
Lacking latencies
Lifeboats linked
Made needed
Nucleus palace
Proud retake
Sermon shelves sidekick
Thread thumbnail
Untold warp
Well-fill’d works


Act armouries
Attempt cellars
Contentiously coughing dawn
Decanter decibels detective dogleg
Extinguish girlfriend horsewhip
Immortality infrastructures investor
Jesus leading lighter lighted
Listen live long
Mightily only polemic possess
Ready sequins Shank sidle
Soul’s strive swiftly
Talkative think tot
Versed virgin young


Flesual adesis ores
Cuba inishona proum itiuma
Xerm deadio alet ture
Isin molf emba
Pred unni presalen yrippo
Uodm heri eler
Gneiss lanchold coatessa crid
Aimp dola orou vven
Tund queboloor aled
Gonn iosten
Oiterraw enst coid
Crele arde glau impo
Jokeloto mons murn


Thursday, December 21, 2017

Jeff Bagato - Three poems

1. All You Can Eat

                     Curling around a plate of nachos,
         an elephant trunk flexes
                          and twists
                                     as huffing hot, hot cheese
                               he gets brain burn
                and then icy,
                        eye-watering cold

                       Stars and bars flap in a pollen cloud,
                                       so that feeding nozzle
      snurked and sneezed a velveeta
                           hand grenade
                                            upon ol’ Sarah
                  Palin’s tour de force,
                              a new coat of yellow
                                         lipstick for a well-read        

                                    Snouts and nozzles
       being the envy of the free world—
                    all stripped bare
                            of their martyrs and fingerprints,
             smiles gone all smiley
                                       with a prozac psalm—
                       there’s a feasting frenzy
                                folly á deus

                   Lunging at the trough
                                       for bacon bits, flap-
                               doodle, scrapple
                       and thighs

                           The arc of crumbs and grease,
            forms a fountain of self-love,
                                                    an orgy
                                   of the undone

2. Second Comings

                        Wood bees wrestle in midair,
                                             buzz bombing the benches
                                 with moves
              like loop-de-loop graduates
                                                  of a death wish
                                       flying school;

                                           brushing my arm
                        with feathered wings
                                   flicking air,
                 ‘cause some lady bee doing all the work
                              has started a tunnel
                                                   in the wood slat
                                         at my elbow,

                                    but it’s like
                                             he doesn’t know he
                         don’t have a stinger
                                         and can’t do

                             Roman centurions gear up
             under Andrew Jackson’s elevated sword;
                                                 Jesus stands at the ready,
                                    blood painted
                 on his cheeks to carry
                                       again the cross,

                       as the trees flower in the warm
                                                      beauty of girls
                                   in summer dresses
                                           passing by,

                                 sore temptations to disrobe,
                     frolic in loin cloth,
                                       and toss that crown
                                                   of thorns in the air,
                            cheering and slapping five
                                   with the centurions,

             modern romans
                            raising digital eyes,
                                    while sandwiches and soft drinks
                  rise to faces blank and calm,
                                                      black clothes
                            solemn in the green
                                           pollenscented air

                                 White crowned with dreads,
                     the Rasta Sufi holds high
                                                   his staff, his denim
                                       skirt ripped from jeans
                           leaving legs free,
                                            and in his eyes his joy
                                                        his own
                                A sign of spring—
                                        gathering the brother-
                           hood of man

                                            and bee

3. Remember the Meme

                  With my wizard wand ablaze—
                                  a trap apart from all my demons—
                         not a mystery,
                                           not a shelter,
                            not a grave,

                                          I am homeless and all at home
                         as that whispering wand
                                              beams bright thoughts
                                                        and snappy notions
                               to the brains of all who gleam
                  and glory in their time,
                                                like angels
                                     who light the world
                                                    with a quiet word;

                      on a pinpoint of this light,
                                  these angels cast sweet auras outward
                                                like luciferous diamonds
                         guaranteed to last forever
                                      curled around
              some finger in a dike surrounding this city
                             illuminated with lies,
                                                       sweet lies—

                                          Golden lies
                                                 that ring and shine
                                 like a liberty bell
                    with a halogen clapper,
                                            flinging music that slings
                the clanging knees of a flapper
                                    flatfooting petroleum frolics
                                                         while the flood waters

                                           The river flashes up
                              past the ankles, up
                                                up past the bra strap,
                  past the parlors and the roof tops,
                                    ‘til it dances on the peaks
                                                              and crenellations,
                                      keeping us fleet and afloat
                       and flopping on the fires,

                                                  on the seas

Monday, December 18, 2017

Sheila Murphy - Two poems

1. Comeuppance
River took too long to run
out of alternatives. Diagnosis
of the twitch in her low back:
feeling being unsupported.

We live for those who dare not
live for themselves. Canaries
sweep about the shuttered room.
As if to form a carnival.

One does not opt out of
the damages. One locates chance
procedures for the overtures
they capsize.

Fate bides its time,
once things come together.
And the record will reflect insouciance
where stigma used to be.

2. Safety
She warned me not to repurpose my affection.
Measures of music well accustomed
to their ritual advance toward rest
might soften to pianissimo.
I wonder how to keep from dying.
How perhaps to place my arms around
a confidence I carry like a talisman.
Some nights the muscles of my happiness
go still. I lie here making do
with what I remember of a channel
I can change.
I change into a single cell
repeating as the science books explain.
There is no energy that goes with keeping loss
in check. There is no melody for dying.
There is a moment when there is no moment
That will follow. That place where three tents
might be placed, but there is work to do.
Always the beautiful bedtime and the work.

Thursday, December 14, 2017

Lawrence Upton - Free Hums


Perhaps. But no perhaps; unless.

Oneness perhaps. Possibly. Perhaps duality. Fancy makes a threesome.

In the one hand out of the other. Hear and how! Shuffling on one foot to another iamb changing stress!

Neck. Knotted. Lack of nous. Choked when it's told. Perhaps.


Perhaps, mayhemmed, as happy as one am can be. Mayhap . Contained, trained, practised in art of being at pleasure. Feathered. Falling from great light a broken wing wacks the ground.


Off cause.

Monday, December 11, 2017

John Pursch - Nine Poems

1. Ad Lib

turn to water 
in public ad lib.

2. Gladiolas

Springing moot hind oiler saw, 
peachy oaken nuptials, 
orange in ipso catered seizure, 
orphaned gladiolas. 

3. Groceries in August
I see a gal, a sea,
an omnivalent census 
of groceries in August.

4. Illicit Hips

Drip a dollop, 
draft illicit hips a solid, 
foment auction open road 
gorilla motive amateur. 

5. Marzipan
Oats now 
snow white 
over marzipan! 

6. Mauve Ouches
Thinking mouth 
of crawlspace 
mutters lunacy 
in mauve ouches. 

7. Nomenclature
Fading out by radio, 
secondhand illusion
melts in iron 

8. Snow Knew What
Snow knew what 
to turn on mid-life 
faucet cut to 

9. Zoot Elan Kerplunk
Chi-squared prolapse 
inner freak 
dominates blue 

Thursday, December 7, 2017

Christopher Barnes - Five Poems

1. Utilize “Pharmaceutical Revival” ™

Our “Better Screens” placebo-inducing curtains
Are fortuitous in any infirmary.
  (He captures her smile in a Kodak.)
Loomed with strung-random aspirins
We dissolve thoughts of pain,

Supporting health by association.

2. Twinkles In Nightspot lights

For unsound bones.
  (Mirrorball, swing-dancing, tall, brimming glasses.)
Be the chitchat.
“Voguish Solutions” ™ introduce –
Plaster casts moulded from reprocessed vodka bottles,
Crunched to harmlessness.
  (Good cheer smiles.)
Issued with protective lining
Effortless to apply,

Dries in a flash.

3. Whisk Away Your Purchases…

In a “Mother Sweet”™ basket
Tastily woven from sugar cane fibres.
  (Pyramid of meringues.)
Cherry-pick a hood,
Butterscotch or marzipan.
  (Steaming Toffee Pudding.)
For gateau and roly-poly nibblers

Who unmistakably crave it all.

4. Permit Motivational Ltd. To Fit You Out…

In June’s essential textile –
Silicone-bobbled diet pills
On midnight lace.
  (Revealed in hotel window.)
Eternally waterproof in unruffled use,
Fadeless in blazing afternoons.
  (Reclining on plaited chaise.)
Overlook skulking in the half-light of a windbreak,
Thread our “Summer Love”™ bikinis with a flatter.

Be the favourite on the beach.

5. By “Surfacing Cosmetics”™

Kick-start the chores with a fragrance
The senses won’t begrudge.
  (Entrance-making white ball gown.)
Revives and valets
Spent, have-the-pip faces.
  (Monitor, keyboard, plugged-in desk.)
Tequila-lemon wipe pads

For the party’s aftertaste.