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Poehemians Poetry Anthology Issue I

Edited by Eva Xanthopoulos

Copyright Š 2012 – Poehemian Press Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the publisher. All rights reserved.

Publisher E-mail: Website: Currently Accepting Poetry and Art Submissions for Issue II (2013) Submit Here:

Poe路he路mi路an: a poet who does not adhere to the norm; a bohemian of poetry; a poet who is quite possibly inspired by the great Edgar Allan Poe.

CONTENTS Luke Aditsan



An Open Wound


Michael Bernstein

Three Haiku


Edward Brown

Out of Silence


Kanchan Chatterjee

On The Beach


A Layover and November 22


Of the Child


Transcendentalist of Seventy Seven


Tim Elliott

Giving It My All


Neil Ellman



Ryan Feltner

Liks Glabs Under Privilege


A Glimpse That Troubled Me


Rain Bucket


Allison Grayhurst

A Way To Survive


Samantha Guss

The Almost-Dark


Dain Hurley

Styrofoam Blues


Chuck Joy

Country Girl


Arvey Kane

I Own The Streets


John Kowite

Bill Hicks


Phillip Larrea

TriCube Poems


My Wild Hunger


Red Giants


Showing The House


G.R. Melvin

Long Bare Trees Swing Around and Stop


Afzal Moola

West eats Meat


Anthony Arnott

William G. Davies Jr. Holly Day Moinak Dutta

Jason Constantine Ford Zachary Frisch

Paula Lietz Marc Mannheimer Bruce McRae

Mark Murphy

Towards the Visible and Indivisible


Let the Buzz Be Love


Morning Solace


When We Work Together


Summer Lovedreams of My Youth


Two Haiku


From: Tree, To: Leaf




Molten Lead in a Spoon


Small Comforts


The Luthiers Weep




A Sonnet to the Master of Sonnets


August Rain


Maxwell Shell

A Po M For N E One


Emily Strauss

White Heat, White Cold


Big Blue Ball


David Thornbrough

Only the Ugly Endures


Amanda Townsend



Spring Tide


Don't Disturb the Dead Bird


Gail Wolper

Moment Capture XXXX


T. Zanahary

Dusk Cloaked Inscriptions


Alyssa Neptune JoyAnne O'Donnell Manasi Pabrekar Michael Pendragon Siddartha Beth Pierce Kaitlyn Pijanowski Rogerio Prado Reem Rashash-ShaaBan Matthias Regan Seymour Roth Alexander Russo Paul Andrew Ryan Tom Sagramola

Brandon Stroud

Christine Tsen Jeremiah Walton

Issue I – 2012

Minnow By Luke Aditsan darting within a puny puddle oh mighty minnow lost at sea with memories of yonder pond pulled apart by the heat of the day. why, silvery one did you linger at the edge of your universe where shallow temptations whisper? fear of the deep I suppose where large-jawed demons lurk beyond waving fronds. but now alone in a cringing pocket of fiery water stranded as an abandoned child. are bitty minnows heard when they cry to the skies hoping fearing as they lap with pulsing gills? heavy clouds array for battle steaming across the heavens as if the tiniest prayer summoned. -1-

across the earth rainfall spatters here and there like the dancing shadow of a butterfly free. rivulets link as worlds grow and the cool oceans full of demons seem not so ominous.


Issue I – 2012

An Open Wound Anthony Arnott No value and genuine skulduggery, one’s dirty little secret is made to look older than it is. Still causing trouble, this sorcery on the naked eye, with original second to forgery, appreciated for the arrogance behind it. Craft and art, twisted, his version props him up for his last laugh.


Three Haiku By Michael Bernstein 1. yr regretful eyes mirror dusk's geometries squadrons of nightbirds 2. night's hair-trigger winds magnolias electric stars repeating stars 3. my hands in yr hair beneath blinking satellites drunk as the fat moon


Issue I – 2012

Out of Silence Edward Brown Vibration of wood. Rapture of the spirit. Coldness of brass. Warmth of a tear. Striking of a hammer. Evocation of time long gone. A gasp of air. A glimpse of paradise. The ring of a bell. Calls me home. The world of form. Melds into the formless. The angels do not speak. They know not how. But, if we are silent enough, If we bow down low enough, We may hear them softly sing.


On The Beach By Kanchan Chatterjee I'm on the beach the old fisherman is frying some fish on a stove have ordered for some prawns and crabs and sipping some local broth there's a butterfly hovering around Sun is setting fast... the drunk old fisherman looks at me: “it's a full moon night the waves would rise almost ten feet, you know� I sip my drink slowly...


Issue I – 2012

Two Poems By William G. Davies Jr. A Layover The first snow arrives like so much baggage piled on the grass waiting for the next flight only more has landed but in the sun of the next day it slowly departs. November 22 Frost on the grapevines is whiskery tracing tangled laugh lines, creating a sort of dementia, tendrils and shoots white with anxiety.


Transcendentalist of Seventy Seven By Moinak Dutta Now the knowledge has dawned on him even He had been a transcendentalist of seventy seven... the year of flood and artificial famine was his year of birth and will always remain... otherwise why this confusion? this unrest? why this ritual of afternoon embrace? why this tumult so unnerving? why this search rising within? He thought and closed his eyes Standing still amidst blood and lies and the city by him impalpably passed Lousy generic codes filled fibre optics just... A flash here...there a lightning struck A halogen yellow went sudden dark... A red Ducatti double exhaust dream Like a supernova burnt his outer melanin And he became so colorless white A statue of God that fell just in sight Standing amidst confusion so so quiet... Madness in shape of blaring horns black glassed kisses in cabs covered- unblown... Vendors selling cheap spaghetti tops Carts with apples freshened by rain drops... Police guards hanging bellied pressing palms... Quotes so godly straight from psalms... All by him fleetingly passed but him the transcendentalist they never touched... He just chose to stand upright eyes clasped closed...unopened tight...


Issue I – 2012

Of the Child By Holly Day the material of imagination is washed clean resembles a boat half-submerged in the dark. the white stone walk down the streetfist your dark, drop it in the depths anchor it in my world. I love the shadowy of your eyes as we fight this slow surrender. I wait, sad, tousled, watch you lick your lips in hope for just (shiver) It had been a Sunday type of summer flocks of geese flew overhead we stood in awe of wild things you are as I remember.


Giving It My All By Tim Elliott I need to put all my hallowed yesterdays into my hollow tomorrow. Maybe then Cupid's arrow will hit its mark directly, and everyday will begin with hello and not goodbye.


Issue I – 2012

Lebanon By Neil Ellman (named after the painting by John Hoyland.)

I am the God Particle my essence and my dream distilled to a perfect tincture of my universe nothing more fragrant nor less nothing more sonorous nor less nothing more visible more tangible nor less I am that which creates and propagates the particularities of myself and then the universe now yours as much as mine more particular more omnipotent more alive than I have ever been I stand aside.


Liks Glabs Under Privilege By Ryan Feltner Consider what you are Unnatural giver or a taker You can swim but you cannot drown You can hold your breath but you need to breath So you're bleeding and treating it like fine wine So delusional yet you know your constructs can fail That is what keeps you from madness That is when you will grow gills You're a programmed savior And you are programmed to be right And when you are wrong you lose yourself Existential reality creeps in Nothing mystical behind that veil When the shaman is dead there is just an animal And it's always waiting Recalling what you put in a cage When it is free what will it let you be Pieces Dribbled over madness Or a fantasy But that is reality What is in you and me


Issue I – 2012

A Glimpse That Troubled Me By Jason Constantine Ford That split second in which I saw A hand firmly holding what it tore Inside a bag filled with several leaks. The way that hand swiftly separated Itself from virtues only now abated, Gave it the strength of one who speaks. Whenever things look to be vague or dull, The hand reaches out to begin its cull Of fauna who appear not able to adapt. When that time comes with malcontent, The hand is encompassing in full extent Over those eyes it desires to be wrapped.


Rain Bucket By Zachary Frisch The child shirked the clothed claws, chin up. Her eyes blown up, broken eggs, her hands high kites - and they soar, swaying and crashing into power-lines. Her smile broad, her Mother thunder-scared. The world is melting into wire frames, changing seasons in color photo moments, but Mother fears for that shaking sickness; tells the girl to drop her gaze, fly her feet, and make her way inside. Tiny steps turn melodies and wet windows write glass harmony, the monster halo flipped it's wire - called the wind within it's arms, broke out her finger prison and flew miles and miles and miles; to the lightning tip, to sky teeth, to that open mouth to a white, waxing eye. Now she shakes like mountain ash; like aged, arthritic bone awaiting storm-worn gardenias on coffin tops, nearly breaking blood bonds every time the sky cries out in seizing, pulse-work rhythm and births chaotic, cerulean webs and ruptured cloud arachnids that break through emptiness and bleed torrents into veins. The girl stuck like a summer thorn; keeping her heavy heels above ground, her Mother tenting weathered fingers and whispering soliloquies in a corner. -14-

Issue I – 2012

In time, she bettered in thick blanket hives and paled in painted sunset rooms; doctors drawing down shades and letting real seasons discretely disappear behind an ugly curtain; until she could shuffle her feet on corkwood and survive being brought back home. (A week later) She found that monster devouring dead grass, metal-bent, an electric, woeful grin carved upon it's face. It had lost it's arms - been burned half to hell and from it's mangled jaw, taught the girl a lesson. Not to fly too high, too fast, too far and to listen to worried voices from the window.


A Way To Survive By Allison Grayhurst A butcher's knife wielding at living flesh to accommodate someone's feast, is like a quarrel behind a condemned man’s eyes and the ingratitude of those born beautiful. Rise from the stone, out of the slumber of guilt and inadequacy, rise as the lilies between the weeds and know that nothing matters but the flame. The debris and mud and labour of our hours spent motionless, defeated in the dream, is just an exile from the necessary drink, is part of the sea that takes us in under its waves of chaotic waters. Often I have stood naked and have seen nothing more than my shadow. Often I return to the window, bearing my memories like armour. The sky is my witness. Let me fall in love all over again, let my head be turned, and let the world outside be my saved translucent spider.


Issue I – 2012

The Almost-Dark Emily Guss It is twilight and below on the street multitudes of to-and-fro-ers muddle and muck about In the thick of a tremendous and precarious prior An upside-down moon smiles from its perch in the sun-spent almost-dark Lolling in its concavity Holding its secrets like a bowl resting atop the nightfall A cradle for the heavens And a paradox for the down-below Indulging in an awarity that it won’t even divulge to the stars


Styrofoam Blues By Dain Hurley Jealously is like teeth Gnashed against a plate Foam teeth cutouts pepper The ground of the kitchen Jealousy is like porous cups Of styrofoam, littered with holes Straining out the life, that is Coffee, good to the last drop Jealousy is never like, Fine china of delicate prints flowered with beauty


Issue I – 2012

Country Girl By Chuck Joy country girl wallowing in mountains the valley, family life, simple pleasures the music of the river far from any stage television, the bright lights, the West Village except the stage in the front yard riverside, a gazebo country girl her back to the window her dad inside, what a character urging her forward like he would the dog she liked imagining herself a special agent, slender intemperate clever an international operator turning corners in Istanbul, Mother Ireland we watch her cavort like a colt cloud shadows on the valley wall across the river a football there on the green lawn Wanna play catch? I ask her dad country girl, plucking at her clothing black turtleneck, long sleeves busy framing a solution to the problem presented by the cake-white sternwheeler riverboat coming around the bend calliope music


I Own The Streets By Arvey Kane When I awoke, my legs trembled like earth moving. My bench, no longer covered with newspapers, groaned as I stood, and my last blanket blew away. Yesterday's funnies and my horoscope promising better days. It said nothing about the nights, filled with looters and street washing machines flinging mud and filth. The streets were cleaner than me, but I could walk and they were still. I was their master. I owned the street, and it gave up its treasures to me. Coins, ribbons, little cardboard boxes smelling of noodles and soy. Hundreds stacked and nestled in my shopping cart, waiting for the right purpose, waiting for an answer. Playing the waiting game. My eyes are wide open, squinting into the bright sunlight, making tears that feather my cheeks, but no-one that passes by can see. They have no pupils, not that I can tell. Of course I could well be invisible, yet I cast shadow so how could that be? I am torn and tattered against brick, against marble, against glass that mirrors someone else. Pennies in my pocket, jingle their copper tones like the wind chimes above the doors of the Chinese bistro. I have money. I have power. I own the streets.


Issue I – 2012

Bill Hicks By John Kowite What is the sound of one hand clapping? A favorite comedian once said "fuck that" And aptly began clapping, fingers to palm To the response of hysterical laughter The same man who always recommended A healthy dose of psilocybin to Squeegee the third eye clean So, the single hand claps As belly laughs fill the auditorium Comedic tirade continues Bellowing arbitrary sounds, while Salivary mist drizzles the mic As he softly croons a familiar tune... Merely rowing down the stream Time escapes without us ever knowing The value of the present moment That sound of one hand clapping.


TriCube Poems By Phillip Larrea 1. Come winter, we come home. Where it's warm. Or gone cold. As a hearth smoldering. Blood thicker than water. Dried hard- stone. 2. My hat says, "Marry me!" Serious. Commitment. With this band I am wed To hat hair. Worse for wear. Still- I do. 3. I confess. Without hope. We need faith. No such thing as forgive. Pshaw! Whose God? Charitya mirage. Faith. Blind sight. -22-

Issue I – 2012

My Wild Hunger By Paula Lietz I hungered for a white horse the same way some coveted a house with a white picket fence very young, I knew paint peeled liked scabs refusing to heal I would not be confined I could not be constricted I ran with the white stallion outside the boundaries placed by society perpetual forward motion direction did not matter horseshoes striking the ground life lived with passion, setting cold flint and hearts on fire the dream - a solitary dream the life - a solitary life on the very edge of the margins of which you tried to rein me in I ran with a stallion white


Red Giants By Marc Mannheimer thought it would be a cool idea to draw her asleep in her bed after the stroke this soon turned into -an unflattering portrait of my mother I finished it before throwing it out, the wispy, white and charcoal gray hair the narrow nose with the long nostrils drawn in red ink, the only kind of pen the nurse had and what I found here were memories -of the things we had done the ways she cared for me how we played our game together the whole time never realizing we were actually stars, red giants from a Universe nested in this one solar best friends, asleep dreaming ourselves mother and son


Issue I – 2012

Showing The House By Bruce McRae Under a mat is the key to the Earth. Behind a picture frame is God’s money. Beside the kettle, tired steam, having just returned from the Old Country. Three blind cockroaches battle a jar in what once promised to be the conservatory, the man who built this house nothing more, and nothing less, than a child sleeping, his wife a bee in a buttercup, his children her honey. The camera is a housefly stitching the air, going room to room, a flitting symbol for a dark quintessence. The eye is a fishbowl, the last angelfish in the world dreaming of higher ground, dreaming of a door between what’s secular and sacred. There’s always an empty cup. Isn’t there? An indiscriminate newspaper. A pen straight out of the last good war. There’s always evening and a coat hung in the hall. There’s always a sense of the impending. A quiet house on a proud hill . . . It’s what’s in the letterbox we don’t talk about. It’s the thing in the cellar that refuses a mention. Nobody hears the rain knocking on the back door. Something is coming, and there’s no one to let it in. There’s no one to speak of. Just a ghost-cat and mouse’s whisker. The dust of planets. -25-

A moonbeam reading in a rocking-chair. Like that voice on the lawn, the source of indeterminate whispers. A voice that’s singing in the high church of reason.


Issue I – 2012

Loud Bare Trees Swing Around and Stop By G.R. Melvin I must discuss A dark circus is in town A boy in a spin, and trees swing around He drops, and the swing stops New dewfrost falls, he’s lost In all the bare trees . A heavy disguise Could be of use here So cover your eyes, please Your lover’s indecent And trying on lies His heart’s denying hard here It’s a fact; Abstract lies . Squeezebox hymns seem To squish by inbetween Aligned treebark Lighted & Loudened by a fullmooncloud Lions let free/ Dark Circus tonight and if I might Mix in that crowd A heavy disguise could Be of some use


West eats Meat By Afzal Moola (Inspired by Pandit Ravi Shankar's composition "West eats Meat")

Silently, slicing the sky, a Predator on the prowl. Searching, through human eyes, miles away at HQ. Picking up the signs fresh meat on the ground, scanning heat signatures, confirmation reaches the bird, sixteen high-value targets, on the move, in the cool desert night. An order is given, the Predator banks left, steadies itself, while sharpening its claws. With a whoosh, the Predator belches, its payload strikes the HVT's. "Target destroyed", a cheer goes up, miles away at HQ.


Issue I – 2012

The smoke clears, silence returning, while, 5 men, 4 women, 7 children, stir no more, late for the feast, as the bride lies cold, and dead, on the dunes. "mission accomplished"


Towards the Visible and Indivisible By Mark Murphy I write late into the night, the early morning. My woman is drifting endlessly towards a deathly sleep. An owl hoots noisily in the rhododendrons, the sky is sightless, no stars to keep vigil with me. My woman is drifting into oblivion, she is sure I am writing her but she is falling into a maelstrom of shadows. I pray for the recently bereaved, for my woman who is losing herself on beer and hypnotics. The dead are waking in their graves, my woman is exhausted, they are near her now, demanding she join herself unto them, imploring her to take the barrel of the gun into her delicate mouth. I hear the sound of owl's wings. It swoops outside my window for the kill, a timorous beastie cries. My woman is drifting into oblivion. She wears a black veil and funeral dress like a timid assassin bent on self-annihilation. Now a heavy rain begins to fall


Issue I – 2012

bending back the leaves of the rhododendrons, the rain drops quench the owls thirst. My woman is drifting, craving oblivion – a retreat from too much knowledge, seeing too much sadness, the crack whores, the black amputees, the war veterans, the Godless, the deceased. I write late into the night, the early morning. The poet in me wants to imbue the rain sodden streets with some sense, but the pain and neglect of senseless centuries resides in the brain like an embolism eating at the soul of man. Now the old ghosts bray at my door in the dark sepulchered night, crying the names of their long departed malevolent lovers, as if I could assuage their woes. I write late into the night, the early morning. My woman is finally drifting into sleep. She is safe now. I whisper across the Atlantic into her girlish ear – ‘rest thee always, my darling, in your dreams on the tough backs of my poems.’


Let the Buzz Be Love By Alyssa Neptune so quick with your sharp-tongue quips. high-strung stinger stung down too deep. busy bees droning in the hives wasting their lives burning the honey made so sweet. pretty little bees bred with blindfolds for eyes. drone on, little bees, drown out your thoughts and fears and flow with the masses under your masks. the hive thrives on a one-track train, no room for strays but I will fight ‘til they strip my wings so let the war rage, let the wind knock down the honeycombs in waves and let the brave fly away.


Issue I – 2012

Morning Solace By JoAnne O'Donnell I was out walking enjoying the cool mist of solitude lifting in the breeze watching roses do dainty poses I raised my eyes the clouds looked above like white princesses dressed in satin dresses with angels praying. I saw the sun rise above the green hill across the way blowing together wishes time of silk gardens arm Mother natures ancient charm the boss of all that grows with florists time. A botanical sauna life's new channel of gold with silver everlasting embrace.


When We Work Together Manasi Pabrekar Grinding your teeth, You flip the pages of my articles, Sipping that unapologetic coffee your cook made, I look at your eyes, Which are buried in pages, Of my exhibition of words, You fall in love with my work, And I start falling like a dew drop, In a feeling called 'love' And start muddling it with reverence, Cater to this, Or else let me die admiring you.


Issue I – 2012

Summer Lovedreams of My Youth By Michael Pendragon Accept my hand and let me take you back To seaswept sands and sprigs of ocean foam Where seagulls shriek and roaring breakers crack Like liquid thunder 'round my island home Let's walk along the sun-baked pinewood boards Where salt air seasons pizza oven smells Past carnies hawking plastic pirate swords Or hordes of hermit crabs in painted shells Lost in an Oceanic Wonderland -High in the Sky Tower, watching from above Two summer lovers strolling hand in hand To swan boats headed for the land of love Too young for romance, filled with amber dreams Of smiling postcard girls and sunset skies Coppertone models clad in oils or creams With starry sunbursts tattooed on their eyes More boardwalk ambling late into the night When moonbeams stir the waves with streaks of chrome Two silhouettes embrace love's ancient rite And count the stars lost in the rolling foam Toy gods atop a lifeguard's borrowed throne I made a secret wish someday to steal That thrill my fellow culprits called their own To feel what mysteries the seas reveal In ebbing whispers from starry brine But boyhood dreams in adult veins congeal And it's no longer 1969


Two Haiku By Siddartha Beth Pierce 1. The Abyss The smoky air fills my lungs and leaves me with thoughts of you swallowed whole. 2. Drenched in Yellow The goldfinch cries out a tune while the sun dances conniptions off breasts.


Issue I – 2012

From: Tree, To: Leaf By Kaitlyn Pijanowski From: Tree, To: Leaf When the leaf falls off the tree, Do you think the tree remembers the betrayal? Reliving the moment the stem snapped And it fluttered to the ground, gloating in its freedom. Does the tree believe leaf’s promise that another will take his place next year? Or do you think winter becomes tree’s only friend, A punishment for believing it could prolong the spring? Do you think the tree replays in its mind the Things it should have done to hold leaf’s interest – Ways it could have leaned to share more sunlight Or compliments it should have given to leaf’s rosy hue? Do you think the tree remembers the betrayal? I’d compare you to the leaf if you were worthy, The tree and I now lovers left to grieve. From: Leaf, To: Tree Cliché as it sounds, Tree, it’s not you - it’s me. Fall came to remind us that a love like ours was never meant to last. Weep not at our parting, but remember How we were in months of spring. I clung to you and aged upon your limbs, And whispered you my secrets in the summer. We laughed in rain and shivered in the chill, And together welcomed birds that came to call. But as the sun began to shorten day, Our silences grew long and a warning wind began to red my cheek. I won’t resent September for the change it brought I’d gladly take the blame for our goodbye. But know that while I may have flown to freedom, From you, I never had the dream to fly. -37-

Nightmare By Rogerio Prado She smiled and passed by him, beautiful and distant, like a photo of an iceberg in the National Geographic He shivered and woke up scared. He felt old and wanted to be young again Wanted to be loved again by girls of twentysomething who pass and smile. He sighed, his wife in bed beside him, as old as he is old, purred in sleep Moving away the sheet, he admired her body, so beautifully familiar with the passage of time. He remembered how the promises of the girls in their twenties are fragile and tightly hugging his wife, fell asleep again.


Issue I – 2012

Molten Lead in a Spoon By Reem Rashash-ShaaBan The molten lead In the spoon Spits and hisses Over the fire Bubbling And changing color The spoon does not move The hand waits patiently Till every drop of Lead sizzles its Presence and Turns into a silver lake. The hand raises the Spoon above the Bowl that has been Placed over his Head. The contents are emptied. A small blast when Heat meets water And turns it solid The piece of lead Takes shape. It’s still too Compact. We need To do it again. Either three, five or Seven times until The piece shatters. If you look closely You can see the Face Of the person His evil eye will crown His head. -39-

The melted lead takes Four more times to Explode. Each time the Hand whispers the name of God and Dips the contents into the Water. The hand smiles. It’s done. It’s been smashed, Scattered, dispersed. Now take this lead she says And tie a piece of Cloth around it. Have your son wear It around his Neck. Take the water and walk Until you see The joining of three Roads. Whisper the Prayer and throw The water so it too May diffuseThree ways, three Roads-never to Join again. The power diluted The power overcome Sight dispersed, Evil gone.


Issue I – 2012

Small Comforts By Matthias Regan You're stuck in the house & you've partied all night; now, the next day all is drab & gray. It's like a lake – attention lapping lightly along the stony shore, gray clouds & just the two of them – making it through a self-imposed hazy post-party moment by watching birds & walking lock-step faking it down the road faster & faster until its time to dance again & how incredible is that!


The Luthiers Weep By Seymour Roth He stole the violins. A hair-greased-back Chanticleer struts in his barnyard without fret his seconds upon the stage the violins stacked in the coop. Worthy hens clucking lustily to play. Venom spilled from lips dipped in Goethe while Sonderstab Musik minions looted. The Cornish hens played tunes to a smiling Chanticleer, plucked Johann Straus waltzes for the wounded squeaking out tender blessings to all. Mahler, Mendelssohn and Martinu silenced, as they stroked the slender necks and bulbous hips keeping State secrets in their dancing bows. The Others shambled to cattle cars relegated to the ash heap, unworthy chickens musicking on only their anguish intact, long-playing sadness pecked out on discarded millet. Sounds devolved, disappeared into the thickness of hate. The luthiers weep.


Issue I – 2012

Revelation By Alexander Russo I’m walking on the beach on a sunny afternoon in June, looking at gulls gliding gusts of wind, some propped on the jetty like soldiers waiting for nature’s orders, a few beauties in bikinis, a sailboat on the horizon, and a few surfers past the breakers, waiting for the right wave, as I am waiting for a revelation — I’ve been meditating on the fleeting nature of life inhibiting other thoughts like a red light stopping traffic. But how does a revelation happen? Does it suddenly burst forth from a mere thought, a big question mark, an impenetrable void? Suddenly, as I look at sky, jetty, gulls— the entire panorama— I realize in a blazing vision everything I see is a reflection in the mirror of my self, a multiple portrait of who I am.


A Sonnet to the Master of Sonnets By Paul Andrew Ryan Oh my teacher how you've taught me great lessons, Although thou time hast come and passed, Your writings provide in depth sessions, To unlock a profound wisdom vanquished all too fast, And although some may thinketh me a fool, Thou hast inspired me to climb new heights, To utilize and embrace new and old tools, Despite some insecure frights, Thou art the greatness that hast fueled me from within, The magnets that piece word by word together, The ink that caresses the blank pages as they're pinned, One can only hope your teachings are sought after forever, Any such fame, fortune, or success, Will hereby be delivered directly to your rest.


Issue I – 2012

August Rain By Tom Sagramola Imagine taking a long, forlorn Sunday walk in the forest on a gloomy afternoon as pouring rain catches you by surprise. Imagine seeking shelter under the nearest birch tree as the sky darkens and you cannot help but savour the odour of wet soil and the orchestra of raindrops, falling on the leaves. Imagine nostalgia washing over you, taking you back to the time when you were young, when life was easy, innocent and without consequences. This is when you'd realize, that beauty is ever-present even in the most inconspicuous things in life.


A PO M For N E One Maxwell Shell America Esoterica InCumParable OperaEraOf UndisputedUnconditional Love is the only good music that i listen to Love is the only free will I'd be willing to Survive for Die for Cut my umbilical Under the umbrella Of love The sun shines A vintage view Sip the wine Straight from water What is offered is A miracle Indivisible individual Envision new Dimensions to Dip into Skinniest dipping of Infinite perfect fitting love Lion lamb living proof ImagineNation's Central Truth


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The heart of the forest The brain of A brilliant cool The soul of A vegetable Spirit of an Animal God Bless Every Mineral Pour US Another chance To dance with our gifted shoes All thee Attention in the World Worked for & played with CrimsonRhythm & StarLitBlues InnerPeace/\OuterSpaces


White Heat, White Cold By Emily Strauss at noon in a hot summer the gold-dry grass hills burn ashen under a blue white sky glare, without shadows blue white hot at night the cloudless sky shines with blue points, white glow washes the ground pale, visible without light, blue white cold between them the ocean and pelicans fly just offshore in line skimming the waves– when the surf crashes they rise a moment, floating on their own up-swell now following the back side silently scanning— open to all possibilities.


Issue I – 2012

Big Blue Ball By Brandon Stroud


Only the Ugly Endures By David Thornbrough Now that everything is ugly, beauty sighs. A relief to no longer be on display, no longer be the standard. Beauty made ugly possible and now ugly proves beauty never existed. Helen never launched a single rowboat, Susanna never seduced a single elder. Beersheba’s bath water never poisoned David, and the sea never decanted Venus from its foaming forehead like champagne shaken from the bottle of an entire demented planet. So long as the possibility of beauty existed, no one could ever know peace, especially the beautiful. What is beautiful passes, decays, fades like fresco colors proclaiming the promise of redemption, as even the truth of Judas (the most beautiful disciple) flakes and falls from the monastery wall. Only what is ugly endures, proliferates, educates the young that only matter matters, that transcendence is a fluke not worth pursuing. Ugly is entropy, the heat death of the universe come round at last.


Issue I – 2012

Marilyn By Amanda Townsend Keep it to yourself. Little child, small hands, Your secrets can't be held in palms. And you will never see magic or dust, The world sparkling, reflections off of silver wings, That flutter like heartbeats. Keep quiet, like you are still-Still here and there; Whether hiding behind curtains or Beneath kitchen chairs and holding your breath At the clicking of her footsteps. She will never find you. She is not in your world, where things only grow And are never destroyed, Over-watered or planted. She can't find the door behind the vines, That place where your sisters wait to hear That all is well, that all is easy. Little child, small hands. She burned you alive--hate in a reflective face, Flickering red and yellow in the flames. Your fingers, your twirling feet, Busy run, your color-filled dreams. But I think she would have wanted in, Would have banged palms on the door if She thought you'd ever answer. If she ever stopped burning enough to notice.


Spring Tide By Christine Tsen It’s Spring and she has planted fantasia variegated aromas of peppermint strawberry sage parsley essentials growing in summer night balm blooming amidst crisp green wafts of lilacs lavender chive with belvedere of mauve -Sweet rambling gardens nourished on the richness of primeval beds of ash elucidated by dangling stars in night air child's play of dreams buoyant in the sky blissfully unconcerned that autumn even exists -And yet a wintering breeze lurks as she kneels in irreverent dirt refusing to acknowledge its enervating voice that small muddy gnome in her own vernal café or an anonymous bespectacled star looking down suspended between time zones watching antiquity’s produce and the future’s looming autumnal beauty which may compensate for spring’s murder the flash and boom as love burst.


Issue I – 2012

Don't Disturb the Dead Bird By Jeremiah Walton Don't disturb the dead bird Its dry cry goes unheard Poked at by sticks broken off a nearby rotted tree Near its body underneath the marquee With young knuckles wrapped around its imagined hilt Its body tossed like a rag doll embossed With cheap black tattered imitation leather The slick tick of time on rain pattered feathers A charred cheap treasure With cracked wings amongst other small things Pulled joints, and ligaments, tied with bodily strings It will never be buried, only spat at Small children squeak "look at that!" And run off giggling with their swords Pretending to be ladies and lords


Moment Capture XXXX Gail Wolper today cleaning glasses i notice new visuals five shiny red cars all in a row on the other side silvers and grays the sun slivers through the clouds sparkles on a distant car. replacing glasses, it is the black one with broken windows.


Issue I – 2012

Dust Cloaked Inscriptions By T. Zanahary Once we were lost. We were gone to music we couldn't hear, dancing in tribal tones dust encircling us, draping us in secrecy these whispers keep feet grounded in time, hoping to hear tomorrow on a dying breath. When was nothing before and after an illusion but the secret's been sold. Found out, we must run, sweet baby, run in the darkness for it's the everyday trap we're about to fall into, wearing away this world the surface too weak for us to both continue on. I can't lose you to sin our earthly expression deemed demonic, concept without credence our revival's television gold for commercial advertising, but I can't lose you to a baptism. Being birthed from tainted water will strip that clay keeping you connected to me, water down these bonds until the weight turns them to shackles.


I can't lose you to the pyre, firing will strip you of your raw truth and transform us to tangibility, transform us from being to thing, a point where smiling shows naught but cracks in your face and breezes blowing through, stealing away that cloak of us. In their eyes, dust clinging to sweat, our yelps primal and joining primitive, we are filthy. In ours, emblazoned.


Poehemians - Issue I  
Poehemians - Issue I