Friday, September 26, 2014

Two Poems by Stefanie Bennett

Myrrh and Misdemeanor

Outside the roadside chapel
The gaggle
Of constellations
In the lap
Of the chair
With three bowed legs
Is a hard-wired
Talking point for

The intrepid
Holy Ghost.

The wonky

The snowed upon

. . . And all.

Sharps -- Literalized

I call it my work!  Shelve your damnable
Generic compromise--
The shrinking metathesis
That morphs
The L.c.d.'s  *
Inauguration . . .

If there was a picket line
In think
I'd join it --

Wearing the boots of
A fisherwoman
I'd swear

The disposition of man
Is a god-fraught
                                     Killing maching
Aimed at
Machu Picchu.

I call it . . . my work.
This pale

* lowest common denominator

Stefanie Bennett has published eighteen books of poetry and one novel.  Of mixed ancestry (Italian, Irish, Paugussett-Shawnee) she was born in Townsville, Queensland, Australia in 1945.  Stefanie's latest poetry title 'The Vanishing' is due at year's end.  Publisher, Walleah Press.

Wednesday, September 24, 2014

Three Poems by Ken L. Jones

Incomplete Trajectory

On this dream of an underwater morning

That stretches and squashes like a wooden puppet
Who turns into impossible things
Everything seems as if I was born to it
And was in proper alignment and put here by diamond beings
And as I creep down this stairway of its final hours
I realize that I am but pages waiting to be filled at the bottom of a river
While my love she dreams like the teacup ride at Disneyland
Until suddenly her visions become an illuminated caravan
That brings forth an autumn more potent than ever
And one that can bend steel in its bare hands

There Is Nothing Quite As Stirring As Because We Can

Once in a head shop that was projected in random order

Mickey Mouse became as tragic as Guernica to me
A Buddy Holly lullaby that had gone and got its crayons
So as to alter me into a minotaur
Who in every Zen coffeehouse that I entered into after that
Was able to consult with the guru Ernie Kovacs
Who suggested that I get nude in print
And so I did just that
During decades that got worn down like drift wood on a churning beach
As I experienced years of getting things out of dumpsters
Like limestone quarries when worked by me
And then out of nowhere Hollywood suddenly lat at my feet for a time
That is now nothing but faded photographs that can never be banished
From the sandblasted recollections of my nimble and darting mind
Where they will always creek away like a wizened song in a reoccurring dream
Where all my toy soldiers turn into ink blots
In this my own private subatomic universe
That exists all around me in my living room where all is locked in a formation
That delights even as it scampers away to where I will be following someday maybe even today

The Summer After

On this intertwining seaside of an August evening

That is like the dreamscape of a video game
The radiant colors are like a carnival masked
As dappled light as dreamy as emerging from the fog of a deep dive
Into fantasy worlds lost and beguiling
And though my memories have become a dance floor
My true love has secretly deleted
Still as I watch the spiders in my backyard climb all the way to Asgard
Way past where the stars swirl about in a night sky
Now like an old photo album
I look forward to my hard-won two hours of sleep
In the thornless rose bed of my relaxer lounger
Where nothing spoils the abracadabra
Of the renowned puppeteer who is in reality
Nothing but Sisyphus laid low long ago
By his own personal Scheherazade in a bedroom very far from here

For the past thirty-five plus years Ken L. Jones has been a professionally published author who has done everything from writing Donald Duck Comic books to creating things for Freddy Krueger to say in some of his movies.  In the last six years he has concentrated on his lifelong ambition of becoming a published poet and he has published widely in all genres of that discipline in books, online, in chapbooks and in several solo collections of his poetry.  This volume held a great allure for him as he has long been an aficionado of such places of chance and fun.  His earliest memory almost six decades ago was of the well-known The Pike amusement park in Long Beach, California, which he lived very close to.  Later when he was in grade school his parents bought a house in Anaheim, California, that was only a skateboard's ride away from Disneyland where he often went and was lucky enough to become friendly with its creator Walt Disney which years later resulted in him being employed by Disney Studios doing various creative things there for a time.  Just prior to that when he was first married he worked full-time at Knott's Berry Farm where he met its founder Walter Knott.  To this day he remains fascinated by places like this and they often seep into both the poetry he writes and the many works of prose fiction that he has also concurrently published in the last decade.

Thursday, September 4, 2014

A Poem by ayaz daryl nielsen

Lost in Twilight

these ragged
   moments mid

ebb and subtle
   flow as pastels
      loose essence

as earth colors
   shimmer and dim
      deepen into night

shadows seem
   ominous as their
      indecision fades

for a moment
    -i forget
   have forgotten-

      the way home

ayaz daryl nielsen, husband, father, veteran, x-roughneck (as on oil rigs), hospice nurse, editor of bear creek haiku (25+years/120+ issues), homes include Lilliput Review, Jellyfish Whispers, Writing the Whirlwind, Shamrock, and (translates as joie de vivre)

Tuesday, September 2, 2014

A Poem by John Pursch

Skinny Porch Kerplop

Signage loops to menthol hexagon retraction,
flitting football Corsicans to root pier prostitution specks
of poured Othello arias and aromatic favoritism's
nether dermal afro fiction why compendium mistake.

Coopers denote chancre hopping cobbler grottos
by an exiled exhalation's scarab, harrying wheeled arrowsmiths
with purchased proboscis scaffold census sensor dust,
polled several milliseconds into centigrade repulsion dreams.

Seven dregs decay in sparse entitlement
Rapunzel efforts gone frantically antique,
rubbing amphorae into sleepy sigh ballistic frenzy,
soiling prestidigitation's leitmotif with loincloth lotion legalese
and legerdemain's logistic porpoise whims.

Tinsel doves corrode in caustic flip card urges,
primping the paltry blitz incineration pool girl's
imitation sloth toupee with schoolhouse jail oregano coulisse,
delicious to the touch of sutured sober hammer gals
from fossil action college fee reduction igloo martyr gender photographs,
burnt yesterday for semi-swollen tundra deals gone virulent
in midway barn anthologies.

Covert rickshaws rise in scalding pawing fractions,
sobbing mental proctor staples of pedaling gas colonic pone,
elusive yet befriending pedometer guppies
in proud saline hosiery's ecstatic seamstress zoom.

Occasions orchestrate refracted flossing speech sagacity
within suburban mining stallion gall bone douche repair fee lossage twine,
imploring skeet petunia backers to berate anarchic logging thrivers
into maypole undulation rites and skinny porch disturbance pleas
of snowy loaf intent, her haystack's nebulous pomposity
turned quizzically to midnight pancake rescue gape
of turban flame from neutral fairies flown halfway
for drowning pleasure breech pad ballpark shamble
burping bleach kerplop extrusion mayhem.

John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona.  His work has been nominated for Best of the Net and has appeared in many literary journals.  A collection of his poetry, Intunesia, is available in paperback at  His experimental lit-rap video is at https:///  He's @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook.

Monday, August 25, 2014

A Poem by Duane Locke

Terrestrial Illumination (2014) No. 380


The garden ticket booth wet by rain.
Minute stone chips
Loosened from old asphalt
Rolled from roof

To fall on slabs of cement,
To fall on
A fallen world

As the world has been libeled for over two thousand years.

A string quartet was to play in gazebo postmodern music.


It was as if the downpour was a new flood to cleanse the world
Of its past fantasy enchantment and its false beliefs.
For over two thousand years the people had misled themselves
By mistakes, and lived by lies.
The had lived by illusions
Of the theological and the scientific circus and sideshows, and now
With the transvaluations of mostmodern people were on the threshold
Of salvation and finally, a relationship with reality.

The music would celebrate the new dispensation of postmodernism.


The rain was the heaviest of the year,
But the people not having read the program was to be postmodernism, set
As it dry, awaiting the usual trivial and petty amusements.
The old beliefs and living according to the old axiology
Had made the people obtuse
And the people could not feel any more natural sensations
Such as the wetness of rain.

But they were told by the TV set that it was raining.  The commentator
Read from a script that outside was a heavy downpour.
The report resulted in everyone putting on raincoats.
Over their unnoticed soaked tuxedoes and evening dresses.


For over two-thousand years the earth had been turned into an insane asylum.
Causation was the theological and the scientific minds
Echolalia was the normal way of communication,
Communication had ceased to exist under the old order before postmodernism.
The clean and distinct had failed to communicate,
Postmodernism discovered profound and meaningful communication
Came only from poetic opacity.


Now in raincoats, some started to pass the time by reading.

The scraps of paper turned from page to page
Are seen as graphic elementary designs, straight, cursive lines.
Blurred by false memories of their blue blood,
And the curls under the hoods of nuns.  Antic,
Their fingers whirl car keys.  Some have in bags
For gifts toy replicas of anorexic tiaraed royalties
Posed as the tiny white globes that roll over numbers
On roulette wheels.  All eyes spin as do slut machines.
What is there to be read is never read, content chased
Away by vague desires and inherited meta-narratives
Of angels painting their fingernails gold as tattooed
On hairy arms or shaven legs.  Books written to be destroyed.

From the shrubbery comes the song of the wren,
What is unconcealed by the wren's song is vaguely heard,
And quickly reheard as something else, as something
That was believed to exist but never existed.  And
The current fractured, fragmented, faked life
That began in ancient time with the original lie
And original sin still reigns, comforted by the thermostat.


Adorno observed how faith in logic and reason by
The Enlighment's white wigs, bows on knee pants,
And white stockings prepares for Auschwitz
And the Marquis De Sade.  But the Enlightment
Was already corrupted by attitudes and habits
Implanted from the Middle Ages.  Logic and reason
Were the clowns whose acts took the peoples' minds
Off the fact that there were truths.


The musicians have not arrived, a nightclub comedian is substitute.
Champagne is distributed and the audience is in ecstasy.

The applauded comic weeps as the audience laughs.
The comic has sensed the responses to his stolen jokes
And how these responses will lead to the destruction of humanity.
He knows that the inferior quality
Of his jokes is what makes them such an outstanding success.


The wet chairs in the park await the musicians
To play the music that celebrates the return of enchantment
And the return of truth that postmodernism will bring to the world.

The musicians' instruments rest on the chairs,
The musicians have refused to play.
The musicians refused to play
When the musicians learned they were to play a composition
That celebrates postmodernism.


The comedian was informed, so he had to tell more dirty jokes.

Duane Locke lives in Tampa, Florida near anhinga, gallinules, raccoons, alligators, etc.  He has published 6,763 poems, including 31 books of poems.  His latest book publications:  April 2012, DUANE LOCKE, THE FIRST DECADE,  1968-1978 (Bitter Oleander Press).  This book is a republication of his first eleven books, contains 333 pages.   Available at or on Amazon.

Monday, July 14, 2014

A Poem by Ken L. Jones

The Neon Koan

(A Suicide Note For The Sixties)


Behold a green skinned monster
With a brain the size of a walnut
A hot fleshed green skinned dinosaur
So large that he needs another brain in his tail
Just to act as a guiding apparatus
A green fleshed behemoth whose emerald oaths rip the primeval air
Causing the lesser monstrosities to scurry in terror
Behold this thing driven by a passion
Which engulfs him like a vortex
This unholy fool is the last of his kind
No more will he taste warm red flesh and armored platings
No more will he be a fourth horseman in a time when horses are the size of rats
No more will he topple trees and rock the food chain
For the strange bony faced primates who cling to the branches will soon stand upright
Someday these insignificant creatures will only remember
This terrible green skinned one as a legend
An aphrodisiac, a side show curiosity, thirty feet of white bone abstraction
Suspended on piano wire like George Reeve’s Superman was in my daguerreotype youth
The green skin now spews from Texas oil rigs
The hot blood is now the minerals of Africa
The savage razor teeth now line the coal shafts of Wales
Now the emerald king is nothing but an illustration in a children’s book
Nothing but a Japanese movie monster
Now nothing more than a symbol for things that can’t adapt
And refuse to function in the all too real present state of affairs


This is my tribal chant
My ghost dance to scare up feelings in an effort to catch hold
Of any submerged fragments that rise to the surface
My fingers now drum in the dust of ruined civilizations
How my fingers long to make dust of my present bloated situation
Oh why must I be dust again
Oh dust to be reborn
To be dust to be reborn again
Reborn again and again
Spinning in a cyclic sickness
Until the final sewing shut
Of infinity’s eyelids


These words like a team of horses strain beneath my whip
While a musette playing free form mocks my word imprisoned lips
Oh stumbling straining existence you woman never tamed by man
Still my pen, amputate my arms, atomize my soul beyond remembering
I am weary of life and cringe at the dawning of each new day
Street worn things beyond my grasp
Not within my range of caring


This is the end of my pink flesh age
This is the beginning of gray hair
Flaccid thoughts, coughed up words
And all of the empty dreams that come near the end

“What sign are you?”
 They ask as they stitch up your life like   
An ancient whale bone corset
 “What sign are you?”
They ask and when you tell them
They know who you are
They’ve seen you coming a mile off
You’re as recognizable as the punch line
To a traveling salesman joke
What sign are you they ask and I answer
“I am a sign of decay and folly a mass of hacking fat
A Pandora’s Box of complexes
I am the Mayan Codex decoded in Camarillo
An immaculate deception
I am a vaudeville nativity
A tangible infinity
I am the instant anything machine
That puts you on Easy Street
And never asks “Where would you be without me?”
I am a Frosty the Snowman
Who never melts in the summer
I am a mystic and a libertine
I am the rhyme that does not vamperize inspiration
The poetic voice that matches any saxophone
The Sphinx that asks no riddles
In short I am paradox and enlightenment
Nonsense and common sense
Mysticism and reason
An irreconcilable set of opposites
Whose tension keeps the world spinning
In the middle of the teeter-totter
With no time off for bad behavior


Such bitter wine I taste
Bitter to my dilated taste buds
Bitter to my phlegmed lungs
Bitter to my corrosive spirit
Which lays crumbling
Like a sheet of steel
Which has resided in a vacant lot for months
And now sparkles in autumn hues
In the pale cold sunlight of afternoon
Oh what a cold ashen fireplace
It is the morning after youth
So like stale jazz heard through a worn needle
So sadly stagnant like a river damned
And happy in its green death
And in its inability to quench thirst
I have lost the only love that I have ever desired
Since desire first did bloom
And I prayed to God to free me from this flesh
And pleaded unto him for release from this world
Of singular beds and barren wombs
And I was denied
Yes I was denied
Is death such sweet succor that God would deny me its pleasure?


Spin me a blue web
Play me some blues
Slide your fingers
And play me some blues
Play me the blues of the first born slayed in Egypt
Play me the blues of cheered slaughter in the Roman Coliseum
Play me the blues of The Children’s Crusades
Play me the blues of The Inquisition’s chambers
Play me the blues of Dachau, Nagasaki, and My Lai
Play me the blues of red skull fragments scattered on a street in Dallas
Play me the blues of a dead man on a mountain top
Play me the blues of a rosary of blood dripped on a kitchen floor in LA
Play me the blues of a pregnant butchered actress
Play me the blues of jungle death in steaming Indochina
Play me the starved to death lack of love drunk and drugged out aching souled blues


Two sweating tundra’s of sun pink flesh
Slam together in a secret death at night
Mastodonian grunts of pleasure issued through foaming teeth
A separate life force emerges unbidden
In squirms and screams and mindless motion and in the bargain
A teaspoon full of ectoplasm to carry on the madness!

Ken L. Jones has written everything from Donald Duck comic books to dialogue for the Freddy Krueger movies for the past thirty plus years.  In the last three years he has gained great notice for his vast publication of horror poetry which has appeared in many anthology books, blogs, magazines and websites and especially in his first solo book of poetry Bad Harvest and Other Poems.  He is also publishing recently in the many fine anthology poetry books that Kind of a Hurricane Press is putting out.


Monday, June 30, 2014

Three Poems by Martha Landman

Your Skin 
            You cannot travel within and stand still without.
-- James Allen
To be drunk from the colour of your skin
Wrapped around you in biscuity ash-white,
Flawless like a prayer-shawl
I think albatross, or even something bigger,
More severe, but I do not know why
My thoughts are analytical, like clear blue sky
The smell of wild animal, of wild
                                          of animal
The taste of you, reckless like chili
Con carne, travels inward along my spine
I pause — blue; like a sign of punctuation
Standing patiently on the bitumen’s edge,
The smell of your skin’s karri-tree aroma
Spreads faster than any train of thought
Tucked away in the shade
I think little leather miniskirt or naked flesh
The sacredness of spider’s silk, of spider
                                                       and of silk
Reassembled into a silhouette honest as
Skin on skin in the slit between dark and light.
Back Then
Just because it happened a long
time before my imagination’s
eyesight, my retina’s perfection,
Just because it now all seems blurry
and memorably impaired  .  .  .
When I relax the I and see the full
stop and let my mind loop from
thought to thought, I find symbolism
in the ulcers bursting in my stomach
feeding me organic wisdom.
My soul’s windows need a wash
to see my students in the balance
they offer me when they exercise
all the muscles of their mind even
though they don’t process the facts
I feed them day by day.  They are not
to blame for emotions triggered by
my hypnotic influence, my vision
training, my problem-solving approach
skilfully gazed upon their innocence.
Mother and child bonded on a clean slate
back then, but I’ve learnt to become scared
of dark material clouding my equilibrium.
My ears, my eyes, my orientation have
grown deaf, stress-inhibited, unrecovered.
My preference is to link sound, smell and
taste and indulge in a bowl of chocolate-flaked
ice-cream while I listen to Maria Callas’
frequencies even though some are missing.
It’s been a long time since my brain hungered
for otherworldly explorations: the ability to
communicate subtly through the electronic
ear, not shutting down at a baby’s cry or
closing my eyes when romantically kissed

 – my left stockinged calf elegantly uplifted.

Science of the Unknown
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes.
            T.S. Elliot
The moon a yellow night,
unscandalous as ivory,
your unframed shadow
grim, an echo without vision.
Smokeless, lifeless,
your opium pipe smelled
of seaweed as you withdrew into
yourself, your skin cool and dry.
Not unlike Othello you moored your
misery, handkerchiefed it in a heart
dark with weariness as smoke

eloped from the muzzle of your gun.
South African born Martha Landman writes in North Queensland, Australia. Her latest work has appeared in egg poetry, Beakful and Jellyfish Whispers.