I remember the exact moment.
1979. Latin Convention. Santa Monica.
The girls’ restroom before the dance.
You turned to me, asked,
“How do you apply mascara
to your lower lashes?”
and in a blur
four girls crowded me away
from the mirror,
pulled out their wands
like guns in the Wild West.
Took over my role
as best friend.
I knew it then.
gymnasiums rocking Fleetwood Mac,
and boys with sweaty palms
would claim you.
I wouldn’t have a chance.
Carol Ayer’s poetry has been published by flashquake, Poetry Quarterly, Poesia, and previously at Every Day Poets.
Tell me the first thing you remember…
Stars pitting against a fiery Moon,
Luckless lottery of blind swarming contestants
Just one, deserving?
To end it, pushes, breaks her O-!
Now He, can just float
Moon, called on
Abiding bird’s first winter
They start down
Sharing as reluctant travelers, taking like unwatched siblings
Here, in the place where a billion others lost out
Rust colored vines reach for their coveted pick
Moon and He now two in One
Planted to grow and regrow in an infinte phrase
Prolific now as ever
Racing the clock
Docked fisherman, certain of a storm
I can see myself as a newly dead writer,
Sitting down, red pencil in hand,
To revise the chapters of my biography describing
Needless dwelling in the past,
Pointless worrying about the future,
Unnecessary stewing over past insults and
Thinking of clever things I could have said,
I wouldn’t worry about simple edits,
The inevitable typos and misspellings.
But I would worry about revisions for content
Or ..and this really scares me…
Revisions for lack of content.
When done, I’d follow normal protocol,
Writing to the Editor-in-Charge-of- Newly-Dead-Writers
Asking “When are revisions due and who should I send them to?”
Only to receive back a form letter, ‘Dear Sir or Madame,
“The deadline was yesterday. Please keep them to yourself.”
Carl M. Berkowitz has been a poetry addict since high school but only with retirement has he finally got up the nerve to share his own writings. He owes much to Jane’s poetry group that meets in the Richland Public Library for reviewing his poems and pushing him to finally submit!
In the tunnel, children point and shout
as the giant ray steals past the glass–
the skirts of its fins ripple black to white,
a priest’s surplice caught in a summer breeze.
To squeals of delight, it soars above us.
I take a photo and examine my catch–
a blurred underbelly in UFO livery,
two spaced-out gills, mildly surprised,
either side of an alien mouth, aghast.
Lise Colas writes poems and short stories and is currently writing a novel: ‘a wreck of a perfect work of chick-lit’. She has a BA Hons in Fine Art and worked in the archive at Punch Magazine as dogsbody, picture researcher then library manager (after a brief period of acting). She sketches a lot and enjoys bracing walks along the promenade in Hove, on the south coast of England.
to the phone
the pill stuck
in my throat
there is water
i popped it
Abe Link- a loose thread in a worn out scarf.
Shafts of spring sunlight
highlight bent golden heads
Mary C Casey lives in the wilds of the Blue Ridge Mountains in Virginia where she is inspired by her surroundings.
slakes her thirst
in the ripples
Máire Morrissey-Cummins enjoys the freedom of expression through the mediums of poetry and art. She has lived in Holland for many years and now lives between her home in Greystones, Co. Wicklow, Ireland and Trier, Germany. She is married with two adult children.
Have you been feeling quite scatterbrained lately. Whether it’s work, school, or kids, we all can feel like that from time to time. We’ve found that making lists helps us keep everything in order. Try writing a poem in the form of a list. It can be in bullet point, or even look like a week night grocery list. Try to convey a message that is deeper than the items on the list would otherwise indicate.
A secret street performer,
Without coin-inviting cap or sign.
You can’t see me. You don’t know yet
That I’m here, the balancer in your life.
Zephyr amongst the crowd, I launch
Soap bubbles which float unseen
To pop their good luck on you.
Did you feel that touch on your arm?
When all your traffic lights were green
And your phone calls went through –
That was due to my juggling with
The junction boxes of your days.
Soon you’ll spot me in your thoughts:
No longer an act, I’ll be risking it all.
There’s danger in the next steps on the line.
Hold tight that line. Don’t let me fall.
Stuart Larner is a chartered psychologist. As Mental Health Expert, he ran an advice column for XL for Men Magazine. He has published international articles and poems in magazines and newspapers, as well as in scientific journals. He has been involved in scriptwriting and directing productions at the Edinburgh Fringe. Stuart published Scarborough Modern Sea Songs; an ebook in verse “Jack Daw and the Cat”; and a novel about cricket entitled “Guile and Spin”. Stuart is currently working on a non-fiction sports psychology book. http://stuartlarner.blogspot.com/
He’s searching for a pair of
sea-green eyes, a strand of
streaked blond hair, the full lips
he hungrily kissed by the lake in
Central Park some fifty years ago.
It all comes back,
impromptu concerts on the A-Train,
grimy stations with “Bird Lives”
sprayed on every wall,
Marianna playing Debussy
on her shiny Baby Grand
while her cross-eyed zayda
makes strudel in the kitchen,
the large hands of the pretzel man
who shouts “getemwhyltherhot,”
petitioners for world peace
jogging in place to keep warm.
He listens for a Magyar accent,
he watches for a handkerchief
held in a moist palm.
The women’s hips are broader now,
the men’s backs slightly bent,
their faces marked by tiny lines
like the drypoint etchings
they used to do in art class.
Without their plastic tags,
he’d be hard-pressed
to recall their names.
For the umpteenth time, he’s telling
the nickel version of his life
when he hears her voice.
He turns and half a century
collapses like kindling in a fire.
He’s seventeen again and
love is flaring up so strongly
he fails to hear her husband’s name.
Art Heifetz teaches ESL in Richmond, Va. He has had over 100 poems published in 10 countries. In 2012 his work was highly recommended in Cyclamen and Sword’s annual contest. In 2013 he was nominated for the Pushcart Prize and won second place in the Reuben Rose poetry competition in Israel. See polishedbrasspoems.com for more of his work.