Plumbing lines should really be treated with or treated to video clips of Michael Jackson from the days of the Jackson 5. Except. The browser does
not currently recognize any of the video formats on offer since YouTube has **completely re- moved**its Flash player code from its site. I load up my boat
with pretzels & set sail for the Azores in the hope that hedge- rows of blue hydrangeas will recognize a kindred stranger. I Want YouBack propels me
along even though it’s on its last legs; but, at sea, it doesn’t matter all that much. A mael- strom beckons to me, but my pretzels kick in & minimize it
in the bottom left hand corner of the screen where it can whirl impotently. Finally I reach the outskirts of the harbour. A limo is waiting. It moonwalks me in.
axing proves
You do not have to settle for the town mahjong hero — here, let me take the keyboard. Lady- bug y Cat Noir have a past & revisionist views of events, but even the most skeptical analyst does not believe all the goodwill has been completely wiped out.
So, there is nothing to forgive. The protagonist enters a new world where early voting polling places are not yet available. She is still quite mobile but gets tired easily. Is three weeks of it too long?
A line from Lionel Ritchie
She hid behind a tree as a car drove past. Sometimes these things just happen, especially when antacids aren’t working
anymore. Nothing I could say would help. The surrounding landscape vanished as the latest sci-fi series was streamed, ad-
free, on to the quarry walls. The contextual translation could be anything you wanted, within or without your comfort zone. A
boy fell from the balcony. CCTV footage captured a group of neigh- bours coming to his rescue. This Pin was discovered by Prissy Duh.
Le Grand Siècle
Crazy parties at night in the gardens of the Summer Palace. Morning comes, & the crows come to pick over the remains. We go for a walk, compare notes on the paintings inside. The Fragonards. The Watteaux. Reminisce about that string quartet we heard playing in the small salon off the Rue des Brigands a few evenings ago. There your heels clicked against the cobblestones. Here on the lawn they are silent; but the crows pecking at the plates replicate the noise as I remember it. Robbers Street. What did I steal from you? What you from me? No demanding notes, though we paid the ransoms anyway.
Mark Young lives in a small town in North Queensland in Australia, & has been publishing poetry since 1959. He is the author of over fifty books, primarily text poetry but also including speculative fiction, vispo, & art history. His work has been widely anthologized, & his essays & poetry translated into a number of languages. His most recent books are a collection of visual pieces, The Comedians, from Stale Objects de Press; turning to drones, from Concrete Mist Press; & turpentine from Luna Bisonte Prods.
We filled the birdfeeders three weeks ago. Against the yellow wood We can see they have not gone down At all. We may wind up spreading the seed On the ground For the chipmunks and squirrels, Who will consider it their due. Forty degrees on the porch this morning. In town orange lights set out for Halloween, Evidence of lives that go on When we are not here. The somber beauty of leaves turning In the rain. Along the shore The water pipe lies atop the ground. The town will turn it off next week. The birdfeeders are still full. The birds have headed out And so will we.
Christmas 2019
Late December. We have gathered For a Christmas concert. The town band—amateurs, neighbours— Plays O Holy Night. A new generation has come To Golden Pines. They share greetings As though they knew each other well. Our crowd, in the ninth decade of life, Ranks thinned, Small signs of things not working well, Joints, numbness, This year more walkers leaned up Against the wall.
That they are amateurs is clear enough, Except for the first trumpet, The song they play once scorned by the church: Our hearts are gladdened, The room is made to glow At this particular Christmas In this particular year.
The Wrong Sweater
At stores this morning Long lines to exchange or return: Too large, too small, too green, too blue, Most simply inconvenienced By the innocent errors of loved ones. But the day after Christmas Also brings out the worst in us, Holds up to ridicule and contempt The kindness of others— What on earth made them think I would ever wear that, In every family distant kin You never see who still send the children Outgrown games they never play.
Robert Demaree is the author of four book-length collections of poems, including Other Ladders published in 2017 by Beech River Books. His poems have received first place in competitions sponsored by the Poetry Society of New Hampshire and the Burlington Writers Club. He is a retired school administrator with ties to North Carolina, Pennsylvania and New Hampshire. Bob’s poems have appeared in over 150 periodicals including Cold Mountain Review and Louisville Review.
If they were going to put me in the nuthouse
I was going to need my collection of Bertita Harding novels
They had power–
the stories of these heroes would keep me alive:
Karl and Zita of Hungary
Austria’s Franz Joseph and Elizabeth
the Mexicans Maximillian and Carlotta
Duse and Da, whose tale age cannot wither
and the glowing story of Clara Shumann
but my wife, a Lithuanian
whose hands were strong
from decades of milking cows
tore them from my grasp
and shoved them into the Fat Boy stove
where I heard them crackling in anguish
as she held me away
I would have burned my hands retrieving them
and not cared at all
All I could save was my favorite
the story of the Braganzas of Brazil
who created independence
from the Empire of Portugal
which I had hidden
in my patterned brocade vest
which I wore over my cummerbund
The hell with you all I was never cut out to be a farmer When they release me I’ll take Bertita on the open road and together we’ll find a green paradise something like Ireland
Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois has had over fourteen-hundred of his poems and fictions appear in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad. He has been nominated for numerous prizes, and was awarded the 2017 Booranga Writers’ Centre (Australia) Prize for Fiction. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, is based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for Kindle and Nook, or as a print edition. His new poetry collection was published in 2019, The Arrest of Mr Kissy Face. He lives in Denver, Colorado, USA.
don’t swing to and fro, stay steady, don’t hang like shoe laces on clothes line you can’t swing, you must go to someplace firm, at your centre is a hurricane, made of what? all that is felt, a cold gumbo of confusion, you want to go where everyone knows your name but, you get anxiety when everyone looks at you everything is wanted both ways, the sun and it’s opposite is needed and you try to stay firm on ornate cement but what’s under its hardness? i don’t know, but the bridge of your nose, sometimes catches vertigo. on a park bench you sit hard and alert, but you stare out of the window of your childhood, the one that keeps on falling into a myriad of pieces, yet fits perfectly when you compose them together in thought.
The Story
You tell yourself You walk around telling Yourself It’s your history The past The future You telling yourself The story dancing around In your skull The stuff people said to You The movies you Watched Television shows Music from radios Sounds. The stories changing For me Every few years. Then me believing in a story the story moves on What story of the page is next? it keeps turning, i spill hot coffee on it, or soda or water the story can be be bland or bold and spicy or usually having highs and lows and flatlands like Kansas no hills at all and sometimes you just want the moment to unfold without a story and forget next.
Wise Man
It would take years to become one Far beyond a mortal sixty Or eighty To know all the things I must Like not to go down a residential street doing seventy It would take 400 years to learn how sit another a tree in a lotus position 100 to not follow a parade in the plaza Fifty not to be aroused by cardboard model with synthetic lashes and teeth made by science Eighty not to be a able to lose your temper At some driving fool.
When You Lose
It’s as if you know You’re going to lose As if you’re just going Through motions And feel as if the machines Know that you wanna win That you’ll take another bet Because you’re sad depressed Or bored And you’ll just stay there and take the beating and watch It feels like they know Everyone knows while flashing all the lights
In the rain
watching this, being sits, the rains come downs hard, light, then hard this being sits, the winds pick up and lashes out, violently this being sits, waiting enduring seconds, then hours, holding on What is Time? the storm starts up again, furiously as if to snatch the air out of being the being holds, drifting is not a choice endure endure endure the storm changes its pitch, like a cello then rushes more, five years, ten years the being waits in the darkness, then light then darkness the objects and beings, images drift away, a baseball bat, a brown newspaper, a plastic cup drift drift, while holding place not one storm, but multitudes of storm hard light, and various in duration, light in sound, heavy pressing the being the being holds through.
Damion Hamilton is from St. Louis MO. His poems have appeared in Chiron Review, Poesy Magazine, Zygote In My Coffee, Red Fez, The Camel Saloon and many others. He writes poetry, stories and novels. He has written several books. Available here. He can be found on Twitter.
I finished the spinach and made a list of the apples
it’s a new world with food for the people
why is the pack of picky werewolves scrunched up at the bottom of the bed?
it’s a new ogre who sings in the sunshine
you can grow thru the wall like a houseplant
would you like to see the dragon?
wink another module
notice honeybees starting night for the colours in the mind
the leaping was enough to set off the alarms
versatile limbs and numb names
machines like it when
basic clouds for the prairie today
now for something exciting
to complain of the cloudiness
the antidote to the rock-slinging orcs
reaching me tonight for a two-moon soufflé
and that cracking voice – is that you?
boing said the high part
and that makes a nice worm
that sea is the talking salt of what now?
a shadow bat was lurking and now he’s drinking tea
speaking to the sky and that would include the sun
a packet of kool-aid the size of a mattress
a new earth language
a screwtape opera
the humble tiger
the redundant roofer
the nice wolf of the sleeping trees
now the release of the good doves
what is the colour of the sound in my head?
slink like that last leather leopard
a nice time in the clark universe not the work of the worried man
the clacking smasher was in line for the world would you like to fly?
see me in the dust bowl not working on my machine on a blue earth waiting for the curb monsters
when you were caught in the web did you think of the morning stars not working yet?
I’m here with the wolf and we’re cooking potatoes in a frying pan
would you like some?
earth is a miracle-gro planet
like the chant of the monks in the barn
no sound for the duration of the poem
mapping out now and then
with that morning fresh blend
the green magic the frog taught me
a spring blast of the clean energy
that famous earth
an eclipse burger
and now we have the news from the satellite station
hello from up here we can see everything haha
there won’t be a new world without some of the old
now in the sleep as one cooks a junk tire
keeping a baby koala fit would you like to see the breeze in real time?
let’s start with that old sun
the angel here on the mountain
a war on the warmth
wandering head is the roving reporter
a big kiddle of the good wet yes
charming a sentence near you for a dollar
on star day we will show up and clean the sun with scrub brushes
when the stubborn become raw
everything is made of chocolate
power elf gets the cooking done first
a little beaver dam in the creek
celery brain
time now for the walk
J. D. Nelson (b. 1971) experiments with words in his subterranean laboratory. More than 1,500 of his poems have appeared in many small press publications, in print and online. He is the author of several collections of poetry, including Cinderella City (The Red Ceilings Press, 2012). Visit Madverse for more information and links to his published work. Nelson lives in Colorado.
The poems in Charles W. Brice’s latest collection, An Accident of Blood, are heavily autobiographical and portray a sobering mix of strength and fragility.
The collection, presented in four sections, kicks off with poems focussed on the experience of growing up. The opening poem, The Fishes, is about keeping secrets, being in a gang, and being thrown out of a gang for not keeping the secret. The way this poem is delivered perfectly captures the young boys’ spirit, allowing readers to imagine similar antics from their own lives:
Okay, Joe said, you can join.
Great, I said, what’s it called.
The Fishes, Joe said,
but that’s a secret.
You can’t ever tell anyone
the name of our club.
Do you swear never to tell?
Yes, I said.
Then Joe taught me the handshake.
Olfactory senses are stirred in The Smell of Home in Wyoming with reminiscences of feeding a horse an oatcake, how to approach it from behind, and the smell of the barn: Warm horse fragrance, creek of leather / saddle, breath mist before us— / a synesthetic blast of beauty.
It is easy to empathise with poems that relate to the effect of his growing up with an alcoholic father, for example in the poem, Deal Me In, which relates the despair of how his father’s gambling debts all-but wiped out his mother’s household savings:
During a night of failure-to-grow-up
daddy, drunk and deluded, sat with hoodlums
at a poker table and said, “Deal me in.”
Leukemia is a particularly powerful poem of lives and deaths, in which the sister of his best friend dies yet he survives, and the death of his dog, ‘the same morning that my dad, / rumpled and red-eyed, arrived / home after a night of drinking and whoring.’ The statement, ‘I lived.’ separating the death of his friend and that of his dog, says all that needs to be said but the poem isn’t done yet … ‘He mocked my cries rather than face his embarrassment. / He made fun of my grief while my mother / railed at him for his drunken infidelity. / I knew then that, / in the family I called mine, / there was no place for me, / no place for me on this earth.’
The intensity of the personal poems eases up with a scattering of more whimsical subject matter. In The First Time, the title hoodwinking the reader into expecting a poem about loss of virginity, is rewarded with a poem about the creation of a perfect Italian pasta sauce — rhyme augmenting the lines like herbs enriching the sauce.
Was his name Luigi, or Antonio, or Amedio—
who first threw garlic into olive oil? Did
he slice it thin, inhale its pungent fragrance
on his thumb and think, maybe a little oil?
Did Maria, or Beatrice, or Sofia, one of his
lovers, dip a soft digit into the mix, exude bliss,
kiss his lips, prance the room, dance and swoon?
There are four ekphrastic poems that take inspiration from famous artworks. The Land of Cockaigne is a wonderfully succinct example, after the 1567 painting of the same name by Peter Bruegel the Elder. Cockaigne, being a mythical land of plenty, the brevity of the poem perfectly captures Bruegel’s unflattering imagery. The ten-line poem includes the observance that, ‘Memory and desire silence / the squeals of the slaughtered— / never spoil our appetites’. In a manner akin to the cow that approaches the table in Douglas Adams’ The Restaurant at the End of the Universe, urging diners to enjoy, “Something off the shoulder perhaps … braised in a white wine sauce?”, in Brice’s version of Cockaigne, ‘Even boars come / with knives attached.’
Pork Chops in Raspberry Vinegar Reduction is a decidedly insightful take on the ingredients for a successful relationship. Beginning with the sprinkling of herbs over two thick pork chops dredged in olive oil:
Let them marinate for an hour or two.
Tell him it takes many ingredients and time
to make a relationship work.
… continuing with:
While the chops are browning
marry a quarter cup of water
to a quarter cup of raspberry vinegar.
Tell him that the recipe for a good relationship
means always putting the relationship first
before the wise culmination:
Serve immediately. Tell him that
nothing of importance can be solved
after 11 PM. Always kiss each other goodnight,
you might not get another chance.
The politically-charged Section III features poems addressing topics including the Vietnam war, Hilary Clinton and, in the craftily-titled poem, The Trumpet Shall Sound, the Trumps.
Melania appears in stiletto heels, Hurricane or not, you can still make deals. Commerce revolves on a gigantic wheel, And Trump sits atop it.
Charlie Brice is the author of Flashcuts Out of Chaos (2016), Mnemosyne’s Hand (2018), and An Accident of Blood(2019), all from WordTech Editions. His poetry has been nominated for the Best of Net anthology and twice for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in The Atlanta Review, The Sunlight Press, Chiron Review, Plainsongs, I-70 Review, Mudfish 12, The Paterson Literary Review,and elsewhere.
After the book “Midlife Action Figure” (2019) by Chris Banks.
It starts with a close call,
the wiener dog’s
weaponized hindquarters
shimmying on the rug.
Our hero escapes
under the sofa,
waits until it’s safe
to make his way
to the laundry room.
He finds refuge
in a clean pile
of sheets.
The rumble of the dishwasher
lulls the weary warrior
to sleep.
*
The next morning,
he wakes to the sound
of a gouged mouse
screeching from a rattrap.
Can’t save squeaky now.
Sitting up, he counts
the bees buzzing
around his head,
feels dizzy, decompresses
back into the basket.
Mutant boy idles,
replete in the linens
until the housekeeper
shuffles over, lifts the lid
in full Yoda mode.
“Sunken treasure, you are!” she exclaims, and if the lionheart could, he would smile back.
Snowball Effect
The office pet eats butter
off the kitchen counter,
makes the rat jealous.
Mom calls, tells you
she’s getting a divorce.
The VP’s favourite
seduction tactic is limerick.
You’re already surfing
for a new job
in a stolen boat –
anyone asks,
you’re babysitting
for a friend.
Mrs. Berger changes
the report deadline
from a week
to three hours from now.
The kicker is that the research
must be typed blindfolded.
Another catch is
the building is under fire,
bulletproof trolls with Uzis.
Chunks of concrete
dislodge, crack
of the icecap.
Hide the penguin
under your desk.
Better to apply the adult diaper now, meet your maker later – but soon!
To think, last night
was spent eating
cheese puffs in front
of the TV, naked.
“Normal behaviour” is
training for a shootout,
*Tyler Durden sermons
blaring in the background.
Turn the lights off before closing the door, conservation before annihilation.
*Tyler Durden is the main character in the 1996 novel “Fight Club” by Chuck Palahniuk. He is a ringleader who brainwashed his club members to commit crimes across the city.
Samuel Strathman is a poet, author, educator, and editor at Cypress: A Poetry Journal. Some of his poems have appeared in Dreams Walking, Feed Magazine, and Mineral Lit Mag. His first chapbook, “In Flocks of Three to Five” will be released later this year by Anstruther Press.
I grabbed a can of wasp spray from my wife’s hand She was a farm girl and stronger than me She grabbed the can back and hit me in the head with it
Wasps had colonized the attic of our farmhouse
the one my granddad had built in 1918
and our love was being overwhelmed
by the difference in our reactions
I found the wasps’ buzzing comforting
consoling
I heard messages in their drone
messages designed for me alone
telling me about the true nature of the universe
My wife said that if the noise didn’t stop
she was going to fall off the wagon—
was I too stupid to understand?
Yet now that she’d hit me with the can of wasp spray
she couldn’t use it
She had created an inner barrier
that she didn’t understand
but was unable to surmount
She went outside without saying anything
got into her old Pontiac
and headed down the road
I knew she was going to the meth house
Whether she was going to do meth
or just fuck the meth maker
I didn’t know
But I couldn’t pursue her I was too engaged in listening to the wasps’ messages
Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois has had over fourteen-hundred of his poems and fictions appear in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad. He has been nominated for numerous prizes, and was awarded the 2017 Booranga Writers’ Centre (Australia) Prize for Fiction. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, is based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for Kindle and Nook, or as a print edition. His new poetry collection was published in 2019, The Arrest of Mr Kissy Face. He lives in Denver, Colorado, USA.
All those years ago, when I left my family home, I hugged many of the tall Scots Pines that ringed the gardens, towering in silent majesty over the crumbling edifices of human existence – the house, the outbuildings, the possessions now consigned to the skip. A year later, I passed by that house again. The new owner, with his different map of the world, his different understanding of value, had felled every one of them. I felt great pain – perhaps that of the trees, certainly my own.
This book (and talented author) both
remind me somewhat of the supermarket, ‘Aldi’. No, it’s okay,
I’m absolutely fine…please bear with me.
Every now and again I shall purchase a bottle of red wine from Aldi and, being a cagey spendthrift (no, not a miser, just careful), I shall usually plump for a nice £3 bottle which does the trick, because a) Aldi have excellent wine merchants and b) my taste buds have adapted nicely to their £3 range, which is comparable to the £20 range of wines at Tesco, or Sainsburys. Since becoming disabled, my eldest daughter occasionally goes shopping for us. She knows I like red wine, but she doesn’t drink a lot of it herself and therefore picks out something from the £10 to £15 range, because she thinks that is what I would choose also. So I get my wine and, naturally, my £3 taste buds are completely blown away by the difference in quality. Thus, I make the new bottle last twice as long, because every sip is utterly delicious and definitely not to be rushed. Which brings us neatly (via the scenic route, past the vineyards) to Michael Forester’s latest book, Forest Dawn – Reflections of the Rising Light.
This is Michael Forester’s new collection of essays and poetry, succeeding his awesome 2017 book, Forest Rain, which we were honoured to review here at Ink Pantry. The focus this time is for the author to ‘illuminate the profound that hides in the simple and the eternal that shines through the commonplace’. As such, the book begins in fine fashion with the inspirational essay, ‘A Pound of Peace’.
‘A pound of Peace, please, mate,’ said the man in front of me in the queue at the market stall. His shopping bag was packed full and I wondered how he was going to fit any more into it.
‘Beautiful bit of Peace this is,’ the stallholder commented, weighing out a pound on the scales. ‘You’ll not find better in the market today.’ The customer smiled his thanks and pressed the Peace down into his bag that was already bulging with Worry, Regret and Frustration. It looked precariously balanced as he walked away. I wasn’t surprised to see it topple out and splatter into the gutter.
‘And what can I do for you today, sir?’ The stallholder’s voice brought my attention back to the table. ‘How about some Pleasure for your supper? Just sprinkle a bit of Indolence on it and fry it in Indulgence – beautiful!’
Tempted, I checked my wallet. ‘Sorry,’ I replied, ‘I’m all out of Trust to pay you with.’
‘That don’t matter’ he retorted. ‘I take all the major cards – Gullibility, Foolishness, Ignorance. And if you’ve got that new one, Complacency, I can even give you a discount.’
Each carefully crafted essay and poem
carries a stream of messages via positive metaphors and symbolism.
The description of a dream leads to a lesson in forgiveness. A
childhood memory of a spider focuses on the myriad of choices we face
in this lifetime. The recollection of a faulty wire in a garage door
looks into angels and God’s sense of humour…and so on, throughout
the thirty-two chapters of the book.
The writing in all the essays and poetry is direct and thought-provoking. Michael’s sense of humour and skilful writing creates a steady platform between some of the harsher subjects covered (such as refugees fleeing from their war-torn homes), meaning at no point are we feeling that this is all part of a grand, egotistical speech and we are being lectured to. Michael’s talent as a writer is both simplistic and genius; he draws the reader in like a magnet. We’re never pulled in, but merely guided by Michael’s total command of the written word. Another bonus…we also learn from what is being presented to us.
I raced through this book’s wonderful predecessor, Forest Rain, as it is an utter joy to read. This time around, something seems different for me. The sheer joyousness is retained, but I found myself tackling this book in smaller chunks, as after each chapter my head was swimming with what I had just ingested. If Forest Rain captured the energy of an energetic teenager passionately exploring the world, Forest Dawn seems to me to be somehow maturer and worldly-wise in its approach.
Michael’s humour shines through his writing, as demonstrated in a short poem called ‘Oh My God!’, which immediately took me back to being a young 1970s choirboy; my 7-year old mind earnestly trying to make sense of the vicar’s authoritative sermon.
‘Repent!’ he shouted.
I didn’t know what penting was, but I promised there and then, I’d definitely re-do it more in future.
‘All ye like sheep have gone astray!’ he yelled.
I thought of new season’s lamb with mint sauce and some potatoes.
‘The kingdom of heaven is at hand,’ he snarled.
I looked at my hands. There was nothing on them, certainly not a kingdom.
‘I see you, sinner,’ he said.
I checked my flies.
The writing throughout the book is top
quality, in terms of pace, tone and depth. Every chapter leaves a
trail of fascinating, informative foam in its wake, along with the
knowledge that, as readers, we’ve been privileged to share in this
gentleman’s Earthly journey and what he has learned from it so far.
It’s a masterclass in creative writing and the author should be
extremely proud of what he has created here.
As I said at the end of the Ink Pantry review for Forest Rain, this is an excellent book and I sincerely wish that I had written it. Nothing has changed.
And we are but flying fish, breaking the surface for a moment, to bask in the reflected glory of a transient elevation.
