My distaste for myself turned slowly to self-hatred
as the rich and powerful
kept shitting on me.
Poor me

Every time I stopped at a gas pump or a supermarket
and looked at the jacked-up prices as I filled my cart
or the tank of my beater
my stomach tightened
The rich got richer at my expense,
sucking the life out of me
My salary was always stretched, like an old industrial rubber band
always on the verge of snapping
I wondered why their greed was so justified
Some people have permission to do whatever they please
regardless of its effect on others
while I’ve got to get permission for a lot of things
from my wife
My world is negotiation and compromise—
that’s the work of marriage
Only the divorced escape it
and I don’t think I’d enjoy the loneliness
Very few people can stand loneliness

But greedy business owners
and the corporations who own them
and the corporations who own them
and the Jews behind it all
screw us over every day
(though the angry man tells us that
we’re not supposed to hate Jews anymore
even though they killed Our Lord)
But it’s ok to hate Palestinians

And one day our giant American bulldozers
will do their work, supervised by Israelis
and then the angry man
will put us all up for free
at the Grand Opening
of his Ultra-Luxury Gaza Riviera Resort
all the walls covered in gold
all the toilets made of gold
and me and my wife will have incredible sex
like we haven’t had since we were teens
on the most spacious bed and the most comfortable pillows ever made

And in the summer, we’ll float through the American Canal
and turn north to Greenland
where we’ll drink champagne and eat caviar
and enjoy fantastic spas
and be served by the darkest of Eskimos
and the Ukrainians will shower us with brilliant minerals
and Rare Earths

And where will the Palestinians be?
Dying of hunger and thirst and broken hearts,
they will wander in the same trackless desert
that the Israelites once crossed
until their God told them that they were His chosen people,
superior to all
and that they were free to smite everyone who stood in their way
Now the Jews, bloated with pride and revenge,
worship a mystical, powerful number: six million

So I held down my rage against all the exploiters,
and, in my favorite bar
drank my Budweiser from a Mason Jar
and waited for the glory days
when America would be great again
and I would be part of it

I smiled at my wife, I kissed her. She also found it hard to smile.
Her lips felt hard and chapped, and her cheap, peachy lipstick looked ugly
She’d been fired from her federal job
They’d sent her a letter saying that it was because of her lousy performance
but all her annual reviews had been as sparkly as diamonds and pearls
even the last one

Only later did I remember that the angry man
loved saying: You’re fired
It had been the core of his TV show

I’d voted for the angry man
the man who has as much hatred as me, including hatred of himself
Not everyone could see it, but I could
We were brothers
Mine was a mere trickle, but
his self-hatred was a flood

We’d surfed that flood together
yelling Beach Boys lyrics in each other’s faces
my face gross
pocked with teen acne scars
and the scars from my accident,
a face only a wife could love,
but he forgave me for my ugliness.
He was forgiving as Jesus,
his face as haughty as a king’s, eyes piercing
his orange face like a life-giving sun
We sang together
(I wish they all could be California girls)
until I was thrown off my surfboard
(he tried to catch me but failed)
and then I gripped branches
which tore my hands
as I tried to keep the current from sweeping me away

He’d told us that we were being screwed by the “woke,”
and by the Marxist elite
who controlled the deep state, which was an endless swamp
and that the last president was the devil,
always hiding in the brambles, devoted to doing us harm
and what the angry man said had made sense
Black and brown women
and men who’d turned into women
were the only ones who seemed to matter anymore
An avalanche of them
and another avalanche of illegal immigrants
It all crushed me

My dislike of myself turned to hate
like a slice of Wonder Bread
dropped into my malfunctioning toaster
popping out so black, it was untouchable, inedible
I think I’ll donate that shitty machine to Goodwill
and smile, thinking of some other asshole getting all frustrated
first thing in the morning

Drugs, entertainment, professional sports,
my team moving up in the playoffs,
almost getting the trophy and those big gold rings
none of that eased my pain
and hangovers made work worse
Too much fucking noise, metal grinding against metal
I wore a grimace all day
I could see it reflected in my buddies’ faces
I vowed to quit drinking, but knew I wouldn’t
I needed the brotherhood and the hilarity of our bar,
drunk and laughing until I was bent over double, helpless to stop,
tears falling from my eyes, unable to breathe
As Toby Keith’s beautiful, simple song goes, It ain’t too far
                                                                                come as you are
                                                                                I love this bar

Get this—
my wife says I’m an optimist
That’s a hoot, but I can see me through her eyes
and there’s a little something there
She holds onto me like a life raft
which is also funny, as the angry man’s flood already swept me away
leaving my hands bloodied and temporarily deformed
making it even harder to work
But we do the best we can, helping each other survive
That’s marriage too

I still have hope that life on Earth can be different,
that when we finally meet the aliens,
they’ll envy us

Anyway, someday I’ll wake up
and I’ll be in Heaven,
trading high fives with Jesus

Mitch Grabois has been married for almost fifty years to a woman half Sicilian, half Midwest American farmer. They have three granddaughters. They live in the high desert adjoining the Colorado Rocky Mountains. They often miss the ocean. Mitch practices Zen Buddhism, which is not a religion, but a science of mind (according to the Dalai Lama). He has books available on Amazon.

You can find more of Mitch’s work here on Ink Pantry.

Without the Red
For Lady Canada

Before she laid with me under the sun,
we dreamt awake our dine. Rapt.
Together. Penning to die Lady September
in Red October. Guess how we eloped without you?
two toasts froth with endlessness. Birds above the outside
mire seem to sing as we will. In oblong red woods-
where we end pretence and exchange it.
until I leave like November did.
Waving brown bearing red
Canada without Paris.

And to the newly, for many, for some-
there you have it. Matrimonies
calling Carrol,
four seasons
without
the red.

Let Us Eat Again

Afterwards. This is what is there-
Baker’s bread warmed served
With steamed asparagus tips
Draped in a raspberry puree the smell
loftier than head lice; my love, my darling.
let us eat again. as the main dish comes
to the fore. an empty one, whales a wine glass
The waitress, Kathy has it. Ghostly, red-tented eyes
two hundred pounds over
a hundred and two
dirty finger nails a seeable
must and stash.
a watered bluish wooden cross hanging
from her neck. Above the bread.
I was looking forward to dinner too.
The Famous number 5. A ribeye steak
with mashed white potato. It never came.
But Kathy in loud scream and bear red fingers
loves me. So says the chef
on the big screen.
beforehand.

Because of the Train
In memory of Bloke Porter

We have twenty minutes till dawn.
For at least twenty and twenty years
I have worked in night.
all the night. In all the nights.
Even though no one knows
or knew about it.

Nearly now
 we can go
 like many things
 Go away. Shrills cuss words in utterances.
 Mean letters coldly aligned
 shutter then lie down.
Though we pant in grey resultant.

  Because of the train.

  ennui in we in soaked silence
  who smile
  with wisdom of the fish bolts.
  As Romance and Old Visions of Rome
  land
  In our seats.
  We know nothing of these people.

Because of the train.

  Iced auburn rails against the rails.

 All of them so sweetly. I cannot begin to count
 the burns. our assumed words
  burned into our ears because we wasted not
 our time. In hour’s midnight.

     Because of the train.

 Soon birches will bend for
 in smile of us, even when lights
  release glitter ash
  minus
  moment
  plus, my soul.

  blessed is thy soul.


 Because of the train.
        in spite of no solace. We worked.
        and this too. this is what
        I too remembered.


                        Because.

Dr. Ernest Williamson has published creative work in over six hundred journals. His poetry has appeared in numerous journals including The Roanoke Review, Pinyon Review, Review Americana, Aroostook Review, and Yellow Medicine Review. Ernest’s work has been nominated three time Best of the Net nominee and currently, he lives in Tennessee.

Rus Khomutoff is a neo surrealist language poet from Brooklyn.

You can find more of Rus’ work here on Ink Pantry.

The mango trees in the spring blow,
But without any vigour and glow.
Sadness hangs around the hollow house,
My sick heart finds no repose.

The stars hum a sorrowful tune,
The moonlight lurks mournfully,
The rivers look cold and motionless.
I feel weak like the stars and rivers.

Bundle of laughs, moments of joy,
Shared with you in the past,
Appeal to my senses like the surf and turf.
Flood of memories chokes the heart.

The sun rises after every dark night.
I will touch your tender hand,
Embrace your arrival with a band.
I know separation awaits reunion.

Bimal Kishore Shrivastwa, PhD, is an Assistant Professor of English at Degree Campus Tribhuvan University, Biratnagar, Nepal. An anthology of his poems is published from Litlight Publication, Pakistan. Other poems from Mr. Shrivastwa are published from the UK, the USA, Bangladesh, India, and Nepal. Besides teaching, Mr. Shrivastwa loves promoting anything creative.

You can find more of Bimal’s work here on Ink Pantry.

You dreamful, dreamy, moony and dreamed King of Elves!
You became in the most amazing ways:

A dazzling statue of Buddha, as if a ghost created it from the moony dreameries.
A parrot on the statue: the paradise-like birdie, awoken from stunning, meek, tender dawn.
A bonfire – the shimmer in the soft night with its warmth born from the muses of the tenderness.
A bewitchment-enchantment of a bliss, that brings amaranthine wind from paradise.
A poet worships the statue belonging to the dreamery of the Erlkings from the morns.
A pearlful inspiration in the wise mind, full of eternity of the Morningstar.
The poet who writes the most dazzling poesy like soul-softness of muses with tears.
The bonfire is being adored by the awoken bird of the melancholy of the times.
A daydreaming of the sylvan elves, bewitched in the dawns and the gorgeous Golden Fleece.
A whisper, that melancholy, for me and fancy of sempiternity, gives.

We praise, You most tender Erlking, and your treasure:
ontology, eschatology, epistemology, ethics, aesthetics, logic, metaphysics, epicureanism and stoicism, all of them, enchanted by tender Buddha in a most picturesque way.

Paweł Markiewicz was born 1983 in Siemiatycze in Poland. He is poet who lives in Bielsk Podlaski and writes tender poems, haiku as well as long poems. Paweł has published his poetries in many magazines. He writes in English and German.

You can find more of Paweł‘s work here on Ink Pantry.

there once lived a swan couple
devoted to each other as they cosily huddled
flying together across sapphire skies
seeing the golden dawn of a new sunrise

life sailed across a river of dreams
carrying echoes of songs that gleam
smiles shimmering on the shores of love
as they cooed like a pair of doves

life flew on the whispers of the breeze
a gentle, fleeting rustle of the leaves
in the hush of twilight’s solitude
they heard the symphony of the interlude

’til time, cruel time
snatched him in life’s prime
and she was left alone in the twilight
alone in the grief of her soul’s long, dark night

she cried and cried
copious tears on time’s tide
her heart breaking each time Facebook brought back her reveries
and mine breaking to see her memories

and then one day, she spotted Cygnus
the Swan constellation in the northern sky,
seeing her mate in the silver stardust,
she smiled, silver-haired, and tried to adjust
making peace with grief in her heart
while honouring love that would never depart

Avantika Vijay Singh is a communications professional wearing the hats of a writer, editor, poet, researcher, and photographer. She is the author of Flowing… in the River of Life and Dancing Motes of Starlight (ebook) and editor of five anthologies. A recipient of the Nissim International Award Runner Up 2023, WE Gifted Poet 2024, and WE Illumination Award 2024, she has been published in national and international journals. Nature’s beauty, sustainability, life, spirituality, and humanity are her muse, lending immense depth to her poems.

The Swan Couple poem can be found in Avantika’s new collection: Gold Dust on Sunbeams: An Anthology of Poems

You can find more of Avantika’s work here on Ink Pantry.

Overexposure

It could happen to anyone, what emotions
do to undo us.
Reveal the unexpected.
In such abrupt instances is it each other we really feel?
Consider this fort of a man.
He’s some cool-headed professor.
Hasn’t his authority been resented, so
stern, so robotic? Here he is now
projecting slides of his Nicaraguan humanitarian trips,
all the peasant women & children, their hunger & his own.
The lectern cracks with some savage gentleness,
& his is a surprise.
Looking back down the road, years & poems on,
where’s a snapshot of this,
& where in the whole world is the wiser revealed?

Jealousy

These glimpses are just beyond nonchalance,
this demeanor of civility. They are ready to flare
Pompeian, jet like lava from the blood.

We don’t make love to each other.
A third party intervenes, its green gaze mirroring the hidden,
a sudden fit enlarging a moment of tenderness
for grown children reduced to shrewish slithering Medusas.

One look and be now stone-turned stolid.
What shines the length of our flesh?
Heated, greased lightning with the fervor of alcohol?
Lust incites possession, fears the urge, loathes the irrational
while passion sips tea and hands us our heads
as salted meat on the breakfast tray.

(Poetry-art hybrid available)

Workers Backs

Rope-made, the knots, the ties tight between
what lifts & goes & pulls & pushes
hour after hour with or without
any breaks at all.

Any breaks?
All loads are shouldered & found
as a squeeze between boulders,
breathing to go home

Wouldn’t you want to go home
by placing hands there on these muscles
that could steam like horses
watered down after a race
& then go further, give them all
a blanket & a day & a night
where their backs could be

just touch for themselves?

Try This One On

The fender’s impact shrieks.
These wheels, teeth, eat
whatever flesh gets in the way.
Oh you can have that world,
brutality a past-time,
the predator sizing up
the diamond miners’ worth,
so useful unless they get out of line.

Human resources, commodities:
the ghetto boxer’s survival
dependent on beating fists.
Bets from the screaming crowd
are only part of the packaging.

Pal, they’ll call you.
Pal, play your hand.
It’s a shell game.

Later, if lucky, shrewd,
demand top price while the ring,

the ring still takes toll.

Laughter

The good guru—–
wisdom/innocence,
a rush as if from rocks,
water gushing through.
Give air, a gasp, a snort,
innards/spirit, a spray
of baby’s breath, soft rustles
now, hush hush fingers, clap,
cover the whispering
lips, eyes reflecting the sound,
eyes only, squinting & maybe
a few trickles, (lick, trace, let fall),
carrying further what spirits know
living in the torn forth sound.

Stephen Mead is the resident artist/curator for The Chroma Museum, artistic renderings of LGBTQI historical figures, organizations and allies predominantly before Stonewall: https://thestephenmeadchromamuseum.weebly.com/ 

Stephen is a retiree whom, throughout all his pretty non-glamorous jobs still found time for writing poetry/essays and creating art.  Occasionally he even got paid of this. Currently he is trying to sell his 40-year backlog of unsold art before he pops his cogs:  https://www.artworkarchive.com/profile/stephen-mead

You can find more of Stephen’s work here on Ink Pantry.

Wrought inside a cherry centre, made-up from love-bound wind
Just while shit razors cry, I bend up for inexplicable owls whose spind skin
Gets woofing after dizzy eyes and pained breads and haloers for xmas wind?
O, you appear now to ask
All about the Ides of midmarch and devilries and abaddons and kicked limb
And we will starve for a slit as we gabble after
Domed dragglers that must come forever home to a mod casementer for failure
(And if I could have just one cool dreamtime, perhaps dead buckrabbits will
Beget bereft hair from huge mares and sea-sanders that render holy pets from
liveliness and pure Love).

Jim Bellamy was born in a storm in 1972. He studied hard and sat entrance exams for Oxford University. Jim has won three full awards for his poems. Jim has a fine frenzy for poetry and has written in excess of 22,000 poems. Jim adores the art of poetry. He lives for prosody.

You can find more of Jim’s work here on Ink Pantry.