It's
no-
thing
but
a
game
that
fucks
me
up
ya
know
and
i
can't
take
a
pic-
ture
Saturday, February 15, 2025
Shih-Fang Wang
Nocturne
In the dark field
When moonlight and starlight
All hide away
A crisp sound drifts in the air
Like a melody
Of a hidden bug
With its mating call
Or sorrowful sob
With the unseen little life
My heart strings join
To accompany the nocturne
And orchestrate together
In the lonesome night
Michelle Smith
Heart flames fanned for me
My ticker unknowingly
is worn on my sleeve.
Wrapped up in clover.
Green and awe struck
no envy. He does not
even know me. Crushing
on a fantasy. Humming
Smokey's "Crusin'" song
a CD, cassette, or LP
Heart flames quell me.
Blushed plum on my face
with the mention of
his name. Cheek
to cheek in my
eyes mind, we sway
to the music. To each
others open arms
embracing not weary.
Heart flames I wish
that into each other
our auras are melting.
I am Aretha Franklin,
and you are the Temptations'
Dennis Edwards in the song,
"Day Dreaming", lyrics
"...and I'm thinking of you."
Love
is patient, love is kind. It
does not envy, it does not
boast, it is not proud.
1 Corinthians 13:4-8
"Were They of Hope?"
The fizzling of bubbles from
Coca Cola carbonation
rising to the liquidity
top. Floating flames
of my heart are bubbles
aged and called ma'am,
Respectfully. I'm
tiring of being called that
and my name isn't Sam.
Heart flames fanning
Godiva & Russell Stover
yummy chocolates. Ooh an
treats will be 50 percent off.
I'll celebrate cheaply. Heart
day officially will over.
My guy texted me:
"What are you doing today?"
It's the day of romance
or is it finance and
four-leaf clovers?
Head over heels in love
once were we? I asked
him back. Heart flames
burned out a while ago.
"Freedom's just another
for nothing else to do."
Janis Joplin's lyrics
sang. My fluff and stuff
Baby Boomer body from 30 to 62
isn't what it used to be.
Your Gen X from 26 to 58
Head & Shoulders hair mane
shows a comb over shiny
goose egg. Vintage into
our union of year 33.
"I've got myself to remind me of love."
Sang Frankie Beverly & Maze
So. Heart flames are the jeweled
amethyst in the SAP photo post.
A shiny glow on top,a sandy beach,
like our memories that
now ebb and flow.
Coca Cola bubbles cease rising
Were they of hope?
PJ Swift
How eternal is the broken heart?
How eternal is the broken heart?
She walks with labored, heavy steps
A lifetime of accumulated regrets
Sorrows burden her gait
through the floorboards
Her dull echoes reverberate.
Yet her years have been marbled too
with assorted joys—
as not to exaggerate.
And her fragile smile,
disarming, wise, often indicates
Still, none should claim her steps, those silent pains
have no worth.
Her private heartache remains tangible, sincere—
dozens of years
since she's left
this earth.
Identical papers
The paper had the exact same sizing, strength, grain and texture. The ink possessed the exact same viscosity and color. Indeed, to the milligram, the same amount was applied to the paper.
Materially, scientifically, the two written documents were virtually identical. But one was considered an exalted work of literary art; the other document, a mediocrity, little more than idle drivel.
And when the fires came, they both burned equally well.
Incineration
The moths all came to the light,
and the fires burned—
but their flames
danced only in minds,
frolicking in frenzied shadows,
warping wake and dream,
incinerating none
but the innocent.
Friday, February 14, 2025
Lori Wall-Holloway
Gentle Rain
A gentle rain falls on the earth
as heaven cries with those
who lost so much in the flames
of the wildfires
Nikolai Garcia
Let Me Tell You
--after The Zombies “She’s Not There”
Well let me tell you about the way
she looked sleeping next to me: Blue
hair, brown skin; a cartoon
doe in the forest of my bed.
Let me tell you about her
slumber: One pillow, no
blankets; her body warmed by
alcohol and summer’s night.
Moonlight and mezcal
inspired her to whisper
sonnets in her sleep.
Let me tell you that she’s gone:
a memory/a dream/an expired
touch. Everything half-forgotten,
washed away with coffee,
before work the next day.
And let me tell you about the way
I felt: Like a pile of
romance novels left unread. I didn’t
sleep at all the next night,
nor the hundred nights that followed.
gia civerolo
hurt heart *pomo haiku
She wears a hurt heart
a secret tattoo. No one
pretends to see her.
*pomo: post modern
paper dolls lives & x-lovers
She placed all her
Valentine Cards
from all her X-Lovers
on an altar
A diorama of
past paper doll lives
Binding herself freely
on iron heart train track
She set hearts on fire
Watching ashes fall
like dominos
All captured~ one take
Paper dolls don’t scream
Only little girls
Wolves and witches
Protected her
Crescent moon smiles
Smoke leaping off her
tongue burning baggage
and old loves down
She wasn't going to
settle for anything less
Gifts of constellations
Bouncing off her breath
Secret sparkling stars
For her to keep
Tucked in velvet night
as a secret Valentine
love potion #98
I feel all alone in bed
lying next to you
I conjure spirits seducing
them into sleeping séances
Beguiling more to help me
blend my witch’s brew
“Eye of newt and wool of
bat” swirling elixir around
my tongue
Bewitching winds dripping
with images of me for you
to dream
I create an altar of apparitions
along with my 98th attempt
at a love potion
Why do you still ignore me?
I become a changeling in the
ancient emerald forest
Enchanting fairies
Stealing their pixie dust
Sprinkling it into the sea
of all our possibilities
I am Macbeth’s witches
A coven of one
“Fire burn and caldron bubble”
until the prophecy
becomes perfectly clear
Fuck you!
I am voodooing you out of
my head and out of my bed
I am creating this alchemy
with my beating heart which
will not bleed for you to feast
Conjuring this potion to
free me of all our mesmerizing
made up memories
This love poem is now just for me
Happy Valentine’s Day💖
Charles Harmon
Heart Flames
Valentines Day massacre
three pounds of Sees
gone in an hour
his Purple Heart
he doesn't talk about
shot in the butt
Red Cross blood drive
at the IRS office
already gave
Valentine's balloons
deflated in the gutter
broken hearts
with gloved hands
forming a heart
ICU nurse
finally
that heart to heart with Dad
make that soul to soul
Chad Parenteau
Hurdle, Part 14
Every pen
new tale
tells you.
Run takes
all pens’
solution.
Regulate camp
fire’s flames
bodies easy burn.
Keep coal hot
throw feed’s sticks
who writes "help?"
Shaman buys
bullshit’s own
initial magic.
Stat
Cause lost
in translation
from world
to view.
Heart broker
casket open
case closed.
Would have
died anyway
days before
next birthday.
Priest maskless
collarless
body count drab.
All numbers
are crunched
into one,
process sped up.
cause of death
blacked out
burnt after read.
Magic bullet
slight of handed
blown back
into air.
No Poem
On the train
room for thought
only after six.
must leave now.
Don't know why
no one likes you late.
No one knows
what to do
when you're early.
But they sure hate
when you stay
writing poems.
Fold your lobster claws
gripping archaic
pad and paper.
until you stab heart
with no way
to make record.
Next stop. You're there.
No poem. Get back
to work. Thanks.
Mark A. Fisher
aflame
the western sky all tinged in flame, while bright
dying embers flicker in the night sky
as crystal stars dance in some sacred rite
with fluttering white moths drawn in to die
upon pyres of orange dressed pretty
whispering seductive dark promises
of prayers to be answered right and quickly
just merely be the flame’s accomplices
yet the flames compassion drifts as ashes
down upon the moths this fate to abide
the free skies taken away in batches
never once realizing the flame had lied
until the final moth wing cinders fall
and the flame exalted now owns it all
fifteenth prime
heart-
lessness
factory
churns out outrage
♥♥♥♥♥
manufactured from
insecurity and pain
making insanity sane
morality wrong
♥♥♥♥♥
and the country’s
ideals dust
within
emp-
ty prom-
ises of
being great again
♥♥♥♥♥
just never ever
intended for everyone
only for those with the funds
ignoring ashes
♥♥♥♥♥
of the long arc
bending in
tangled
knots
twisted
past breaking
waiting for time
♥♥♥♥♥
to heal ugly wounds
and historians to play
doctor once again and stay
to vaccinate us
♥♥♥♥♥
countering the
virus still
plaguing
us
Jeffry Jensen
SOAKING UP THE FLAMES
The biofeedback boy has been preparing to steal a kiss
from the redhead who lives in the burned-out house on the next block.
It was all OUR GANG on the TV backlot soaking up secondhand flames
before my prurient impulses could dredge up my masquerade sketches.
One of the remaining boomer bungalows left in the Valley
has become no more than a trap for marauding footnote poets.
I can talk up a storm of noxious dust with the best erratic librarians.
A fresh possibility for paranoid shut-ins has left the station of dreams.
Pluto is still a planet for me no matter what the gummy scientists say.
For some unknown reason, there are fish guts floating in my polkadot sink.
ROUTE 66 comes on at midnight just for all the handlebar preachers from hell.
If necessary, I can do a great hormonal poet and do a barefooted backflip
into the melancholy of iridescent bliss with a twist of heartburn.
Thursday, February 13, 2025
R A Ruadh
What’s at stake
how long does it take
for a heart to burn
not with love or devotion
nor passion undying
how long does it take
for a heart to burn
if it did not wish to
turn to ashes among embers
how long does it take
for a heart to burn
is it different between
a wildfire or a crematorium
how long does it take
for a heart to burn
to be alive enough
to resist its own death
how long does it take
for a heart to burn
when flames become
the only option
how long does it take
for a heart to burn
Fire and ice
If I am coming into
my winter years
how is it that
I feel the sun more
than before
Perhaps my naked limbs
freed of leaves and fruit
sparkling with snow and ice
are dying and aching
to reach those last warm rays
On the other hand
it could be that I am
at last able to reach high enough
to touch the sky
calling bolts of lightening
inviting in a blaze of glory
jf giraffe
A PERFECT AIM (Haiku)
His heart felt the flames.
Cupid's arrow hit its mark.
Love is ignited.
A PAINFUL LOSS (Haiku)
Trees went up in flames.
Nothing left as houses burned.
Hearts cried out in shock.
Wednesday, February 12, 2025
Jack G Bowman
Fire, Smoke and Wild Love
Blood flows faster through each organ as it pulses to a flagrant rhythm
knee deep in red orange
flames that consume, dance
embrace
burn
naked, save the smoke which pours from every pore
only exhaustion or death will put them out as the background drums crescendo
into a climax of wild touch, sex,
memories.
Joe Grieco
Job Performance Review By Dog: To Mom
Just do your job
It's not like I'm asking you to go to cooking school or even follow a recipe
Just scoop some kibble in the big bowl
Splash a little water on top
I like it kinda gravy-soft
If you could get my dinner before I starve, that would be fun
Before you fall asleep on the sofa
And you should take me dog-park more often,
Where you throw the tennis ball real far
And I’ll bring it back to you
You’re supposed to throw the tennis ball again and again and again
I’ll always bring it back to you
And you say Drop It but I only pretend to drop it, and then I really drop it
Can you take those things out of your ears when we go walkies?
That podcast will still be there when we get back to our house
You need to work on sniffing. Seriously
You're not smelling how dangerous walkies are:
Squirrels, coyotes, kitty cats, what’s that smell?
No, that one. Pay attention, mom
Pick up my poop
Just do your job
Tell me Good Dog
So our hearts can be grateful, together, forever
Mike Turner
Nostalgia
Pictures
Soft and indistinct
Knife-sharp edges sanded smooth
Remembrances
Long past, yet linked
Whispers voiced in other rooms
Memories
Different, yet same
Subtly altered so’s to fool
Nostalgia
Flickering candle’s flame
Pretty
But just a costume jewel
This poem originally appeared in my poetry collection, Visitons and Memories, published in 2021 by Sweetycat Press. I have retained all rights.
Silent Echo
Night
I lie awake
Listening to the silent echo
Of your absent
Heart
The Patient Heart Waits (Haiku Suite)
Icy winter winds
Barren as hollowed-out hearts
Blow across our souls
Such is mystery:
Love cannot be seen or held
Yet may break our hearts
The patient heart waits
As a dormant Winter’s seed:
Blossoming in Spring
Dean Okamura
Fire Season
a house divided against itself cannot stand.
— Abraham Lincoln, quoting the Bible
I'm a recent immigrant
I don't know who to trust
Sirens wail through sleepless nights
My heart watches America in flames
I'm a baby boomer
Spent my life building this land
It took years for change to come
My heart watches America in flames
I'm an American watching the news
Scrolling past the warnings now
Too much noise, too much to bear
My heart watches America in flames
I'm an elected official
They tell me, Get with the program
I want to be re-elected again
My heart watches America in flames
I'm a Conservative Evangelical leader
We want to see all Satanic strongholds brought down
We pray for our President
My heart watches America in flames
I'm one who voted for Trump
I want the woke world torn apart
I sip my drink and smile at their ruin
My heart watches America in flames
I'm a chaos agent
Push the limits, widen all cracks
Let it fall, let it burn
My heart watches America in flames
I'm Donald Trump
I love a fire sale
Burn, baby, burn
My heart watches America in flames
I'm the earth
Can you stop?
Can you stop?
My heart watches America in flames
Hearts flame resistant
We were told to fight,
but not how to lose.
They forgot truth,
hired consultants,
sold us on cool,
social fundraising.
The world burns,
but profits rise.
They want our votes,
but not our voices.
We studied past movements,
tried to find shortcuts,
tried to build inclusion
without wisdom made new.
It's not about fighting Trump.
It's not about fighting our neighbors.
So, what now?
Not fists, not fire,
but something else,
something steady,
something strong.
Not for them,
for us.
Together,
let's make
our hearts
flame resistant.
Trish Saunders
Everyone Still Alive Is Young
No one ever called this city the Big Easy when
we lived here a couple of hurricanes ago,
on some street long forgotten.
Life wasn’t then and still isn’t easy.
We had a deal: I ignore any stains
on your shirt, you pretend to look away
if our waiter approaches, Visa card
in hand and hesitates before speaking.
Were we laughing a little too coarsely?
I would ask, as she collected plates in silence.
But didn’t our chandeliers burn bright red
before the storm extinguished it all,
and chairs swung away
at your approach,
like a chorus line,
the rat-a-tat-tat of
of long red nails tapping
disapproval on the countertop.
I hope I wasn’t one of them.
These gifts I leave you:
A warmed-up glass.
Pair of candles for the next storm.
Softly, Louisiana rain.
Marie C Lecrivain
The Salamander Heart
salamander heart,
cold and untouched
amidst these sacred fires - Bulfinch’s Mythology
I watched the carnage with a million
other lookie-loos curious to see
the jihadists cloaked in reptilian
splendor. And I heard the desperate plea
of the bard, an orison to a god
no more genuine than the virgin birth
or St. Nick. I didn’t cry as he clawed
off his flesh and collapsed into the earth
with a sigh of relief. It was their eyes,
the unified look of satisfaction
that stayed with me. Listen! We’d be unwise
to count this as a minor infraction
on the world stage. For now, nurse your ire.
In the end we may survive the fire.
Khem
I watched Khem light the fire.
The first spark leapt from his eyes
& onto the woodpile,
which kindled into being.
Soon, the flames ascended
into the indigo sky
as he fed one item
after another into the blaze;
the handmade cradle,
her wedding dress, their photo
albums, the Ikea furniture,
& then, his beloved
volumes of Shakespeare;
through his fingers clutched
at the collection of sonnets
a nano-second longer
than the previous tomes.
Lastly, he pulled off
his wedding ring,
held it up to the light,
the gold band glinting
a final, agonized plea
before my amazed eyes.
He cast the ring into the fire,
turned to me, smiled,
& whispered, Ut supra, ut infra,
as he became one with the dark.
David Fewster
SCHOLARS
The Great Library of Alexandria
never revoked your card for
not returning that Bobby Darin tape in 1996,
the one that got shredded by your $19.95
Fred Meyer cassette player just as the final
"Mackie;s back in toowwwnnnnn" went swinging
to its final climax.
$1,643.50 in overdue fines?
Where do they get off with this stuff?
No, in Alexandria the Vestal Virgins of Knowledge
would bear figs and earthenware cups of
medium-priced merlot to the thirsty supplicants
at the altar of worldly wisdom,
a land where overdue fines were unheard of.
As well as tipping.
Today I'm pretending to be a Chinese poet
from the eighth century A.D.,
Tu Fu on his perennial peregrinations of exile,
as I bear my ragged backpack and my own
scrolls of supplication on the Long March from the Mission to the
Department of Social & Health Services,
trying to again convince the Confucian bureaucrats
armed with Microsoft Windows 2000 that I'm still not ready
to be a useful member of their society,
joining the other coolies in our banshee wail,
"But our check was supposed to be here yesterday!"
A clear autumn day.
As I descend the plateau, I can almost imagine
I'm coming down Stone Mountain to the Imperial City.
The effect is somewhat spoiled by the toxic smog
spewing from the smokestacks of the Tideflats.
Even squinting really hard cannot transform them
to ornate palaces shrouded in mist,
so I hurry to my refuge--
the Tacoma public library.
I decided I feel French this morning,
so I pulled a copy of Artaud, a biography of Balzac
from the shelves, along with a compilation of
Surrealist writers and painters
(those upper middle class frog bastards,
playing at disaster while their doctor and lawyer fathers
pay for their fashionable flats)
and sit at the table, knubby orange library pencil
poised in my fist over the 3 X 5 index cards
so generously provided,
tortured expression on my face,
in the vague hope that some trust fund college girl
from the University of Puget Sound
would mistake me for a Beat poet
in the midst of composition
and adopt me for the semester.
Meanwhile, my confederates from the mission have
wandered in, each focused on their own particular studies.
Some pull collections of Man Ray photographs
off the racks--no need for internet porn
when there's nude pictures of Kiki of Montparnasse
Circa 1925.
Some just pull stacks to the floor and construct
pup tent-like structures which they then crawl into,
evoking a sense of security and well-being
otherwise missing in their lives.
One guy can always be counted on to crouch in a corner,
Philip K. Dick anthology clutched in shaking hand,
and mutter loudly about a conspiracy theory involving
Hunter Biden, Taylor Swift, Vladimir Putin,
and a large buttered artichoke named Leon.
Some go to the bathroom never to come out,
bouncing back and forth off ceramic walls until
the guards escort them out a closing time.
The staff surveys all this
with thin, downturned mouths,
lips cracked from lack of saliva,
for all the moisture-inducing mechanisms
in their bodies have long since shut down
except for the production of bile,
which they have with abundance.
memories flash through embittered brains
generally along the lines of the excitement
they felt in the knowledge that they would be doing
a great service to civilization
when they proudly stood in the receiving line
to accept their Master of Library Science degrees
some 900 years ago.
I know--I used to work with them.
What is the use of all this
God damn literature, anyway?
Hell, I'm even nestled among them--
my six pages in a 500-page anthology
filled with the drivelings of a
hundred other losers who thought they were
Clever.
25 years in show business for that?
"I'm published by the same firm that does Bukowski,"
I used to say to women in bars--
Which goes a long way to explaining
my eight years of celibacy.
What a lying son of a bitch Chuck was.
And surveying the scene,
I think maybe the Visigoths
had it right when they put the entire shithouse
up in flames two thousand years ago.
After all, we'll still always have
Wikipedia.
Carl Stilwell AKA CaLokie
A SESTINA VIEW OF THE 2025 LOS ANGELES FIRES
Global heating causing more frequent and intense wildfires
Drought leaving reservoirs with low supply of water
Climate change-fueled wildfires rage from Palisades to Eaton Canyon
Felt house was “going to get blown off foundation” by hurricane force winds
Home after home along scenic Pacific Coast Highway—gone!
Only chimneys standing above countless charred foundations left
“Greetings from Altadena” mural on Lake Ave—left!
Home owned for 30 years destroyed in first hour of fire
Gale force gust won’t allow helicopters to fly and drop water
Long ago planning decisions placed homes inside brush-covered canyons
Hot embers blown rooftop to rooftop by brutal winds
Home of Doors’ guitarist, Robby Krieger, who wrote, “Light My Fire—gone!
“A lot of stuff that I love is gone”
A man’s body found holding garden hose after flames had left
“You could see the mountains were on fire”
In evacuated areas, it’s no longer safe to drink tap water
Firees jump over containment lines west of Mandeville Canyon
A “shower of sparks” spread by firestorm winds
Firefighters rush to contain blazes ahead of increasing high winds
The home where their child was born—gone!
A Buddha statue and small desert plant—left!
Three generations of family fled the Eaton fire
Residents in Altadena fire-impacted areas distributed bottled water
Flames threatening Mt. Wilson ascend from Eaton Canyon
Howling firestorm threatens residents of Topanga canyon
Trees and power line towers toppled by howling winds
More than 16,000 structures, including several homes gone
Buddha statue and small desert plant—left!
Disabled father and son left to die in the fire
California’s Agriculture receives 80 percent of state’s water
Firefighters attempt to turn on hydrants but no water
Wildfires rage on both sides of the canyon
Felt home was “going to be blown off foundation by violent winds
80-plus-year-old Altadena Community Church—gone!
A spiral staircase in a Malibu home all that is left
Letters, photos, diaries and other precious documents gone
Santa Ana winds for centuries have whipped through the canyons
California drought and capitalist greed left little water to battle the blazes
Half of town gone due to "natural disaster" not climate change fires
Hedy Habra
The Upright Piano
After Piano on Fire by Andrew Ferez
I see myself out in the cold, draped in a silk nightgown, seated
barefoot on a stool by that upright piano, you know, the one my
mother bought when she thought I should take piano lessons, while
others played during recess, oh, how I first struggled striking notes
daily, practicing scales, then rehearsing Mozart’s “Rondo alla Turca”
till I’d play it in my mind relentlessly, tan tan tan . . . tan tan tan . . .
even when I knew I’d never learn another piece, and now, half a
century later, I am drawing with memory’s wavering lines that same
piano to make it the vessel of my heart’s message, of so much left
unsaid buried in a bitter well turning into notes that rise in tongues of
cold fire licking my insides with every key I touch, unharmed, I feel
the piano ablaze under my fingertips, twisted candles adorn its top
that grows into a tower and turrets spouting flames from windows,
a menace to the adjacent branches, my fingers wildly strike the
keyboard while the sky opens up like a stage filled with shimmering
damask memories dancing to the melody like maddened fireflies.
First published by Knot Magazine
From Under Brushstrokes (Press 53, 2015)
At the Violet Hour
After Starry Night by Vincent Van Gogh
Star-crossed lovers unite high above as the city slips into slumber. I
alone keep watch at the lighthouse, longing to be swept by the big
wave, feel it rolling me in its indigo fingers cooling me into a ball of
blue ice, a maddened dervish whirling layers and layers of sea and
sky in the ways of the Crazy Redhead who keeps the secret of every
stroke, I choose to ignore these black leaping flames springing out of
hatred and envy, a bonfire lit with rolled parchments filled with lost
dreams and rosemary, its sparks scattering yellow poppies in a
cerulean field. How I wish you could see how the timid evening
crescent nests inside its golden case.
First published by Parting Gifts
From Under Brushstrokes (Press 53, 2015)
Reading by Candlelight
Bent over the page, I watch the light of the candle cast fluid shadows,
the way the cypress pierces low clouds with its vertical green flame,
flaring will-o’-wisps spring from the spiral staircase of my
consciousness, ferns unfurl in slow motion, spread liquid color
at dawn as fronds fill spaces once covered with snow,
the hearth’s fiery tongues my cat and I watch flicker all night long,
the blue flame rising when I’d flambé cognac over crêpes suzettes,
the flicker of a match lighting a cigarette,
the infamous flames of a pyre or an auto da fe in a central square,
the flame of a candle I read about, lighting Camoens’ table,
his cat sitting on a pile of notes eyes gleaming at the waning wick,
the poet keeps writing in the dark under the light shed from the eyes
of his cat,
the tall flames casting a shadow-show of a couple’s encounter over
the walls of a cave,
flames rising from Beirut at night, as we watched from the mountains
during the civil war,
the flames of violence filtered by the TV screen, more virtual each day,
still color the news, images hiding the smell of blood and charred skin.
First published by Poeticdiversity: the litzine of Los Angeles
From The Taste of the Earth (Press 53, 2019)
Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
Lose the Stone
Lose the stone in your heart.
Don’t let it become a marble statue.
Keep it soft as a rose.
Turn the other cheek.
Take a stroll to the shore.
You will not regret a single step.
Is your heart a flower
or the worm that feeds?
Don’t keep your heart hidden.
Let the pain in. Let the pain out.
Master the blows and
lose the stone in your heart.
Sometimes Things Happen
Don’t pursue.
Give up.
Things won’t
work out.
Protect your
heart and
everything
will be fine.
Sometimes things
happen
like luck,
sometimes.
The Painter
He took something out of thin air
and filled it with fire and he watched
the flames fill his landscape
creating something of beauty.
He made the stones come alive
and chiseled them down with his brush.
All the gods claimed him as their pupil,
but he never acknowledged them.
So many gods became enraged
and they tossed stones at his work.
He was cursed and went blind.
All the gods laughed and rejoiced.
The blind painter continued his craft,
breaking the curse and shaping
images never seen in this world.
All the gods echoed their displeasure.
Jackie Chou
Flames
We act as if our hearts
will burn forever.
So why do people die,
snuffed out like cigarettes in the rain?
The one
who scratched a scab on his neck
while waiting in line for meds,
dragging his muddy pant legs.
How many times have we talked
about jaywalking?
Yet there he was,
run over like some insect
by a speeding car.
We moved in on the same day,
saying things like
“This is just a transitional place.”
It's been thirteen years,
and I guess he won't be moving
to his dream apartment.
I can't say I liked him,
or knew him very well.
I can only testify
I've not witnessed anything
that would bar him
from heaven's gates.
Ashton Cynthia Clarke
***
Dust glides on a breeze
Grief, let loose this volant soul
Tether not, with flame set free.
***
Carefully pressed petals of daring dreams folding secret longings fell dehydrated at his feet when he broke open her once hidden swollen diary he hated himself not able to stop himself as he read every flaming word each line never meant for his thirsty eyes.
***
Planting for the Harvest
She lives
a life
well tilled
her time
like spring boughs
laden heavy with faith
and family
harmony and heart
and memories . . .
loves
redolent of summer mamey
take root beside
acid limón of loss
they graft and grow
new fruit inseparable
un-till rich earth falls
fragrant brown black
reclaiming her bones
fertile with being
receiving her home
to lay fallow for only a time.
Marieta Maglas
Memories
Our love mixes with seaweed,
a sweet memory,
sprinkled with salt. It grows
between the breeze
and the hurricane,
the fruit of an inner struggle.
The green waves crash
in a murmur that
cools the warm and
ancient sand; limits; perception.
New tides of change
cast our minds back;
the courage to exist.
In the space between
ancientness and nowness,
our perfect love is eternal,
a song for a dance,
an invisible one, and
a wave-like movement
on the shores of our hearts.
We can feel our holy angels,
wounded wings,
echoes of a distant cry.
In every salty breath, a prayer
and a promise.
Between freedom and serfdom,
we fathom our dodecahedral geodesic,
spiritual sphere out.
The reality is circumjacent;
contiguous eyesight.
The voice of God becomes an echo
to inhabit the twilight world.
Mirrored Nonet for Flamenco Dance
A juerga with flamenco guitars
with fire flames blooming like flowers,
folks dancing in the moonlight
the dance of wounded souls,
vibrant red dresses,
white shirts like birds,
falling shawls,
dancers,
sky,
claps,
cubic
movements of
color, music's
seeds, hands being wings,
shadows on the white wall,
from soul detaching passion,
lights, motion vibrating the strings,
resonance for a new dimension.
Complains about the Wind
The biting wind dances with
the flickering flame,
in a frigid rain
with tears that numb
the tender buds before they awaken.
With fervent gusts, the wind exhales softly,
caressing the timeless, cool grass,
in a sunless decline,
increasingly stirring the strife
of the garden's tale.
His veiled torment
always descends from the hilltop, while
he unravels his lips, his mouth,
that kind of mouth
resembling a cavern where echoes reside.
His sorrow flows,
untangling words that nobody knows
like those prayers to the void.
Swaying his visage with the willow trees,
he wildly rides the swelling clouds,
belting out his tempestuous,
thunderous songs,
striving to voice his selfish desires,
his dreams, and
the fleeting chances of tomorrow.
Laura Sermeño
Altadena
Don’t you love to be strangled into submission by the city you live in?
Reclaim your sense of home among ashes
Everywhere I know is gone
I memorized those streets
The winding road to the best school I could find for my son
The steep incline of Lake Ave
The wildlife that’s with me that breathes the same air as the crunchy moms
Where I’ve deemed perfect enough to raise my son
Nothing as irreplaceable to me as the sun
Except this place
I told y’all it was pedazo de Aztlán
Pedazo de cambio
A city of fictitious design
Why?
My paradise was all mine
a los mexicanos a mi me los vas a respetar
Who else do you think is going to rebuild this city?
Who you are & what you make of it
Where you’re from & what you make of it
If I could just get a taste of it
That first time I stepped foot into the Altadena foothills
In high school
I must’ve been 16
Half of my life ago
& I used to go to Pasadena from the poverty-stricken part of El Monte
A 30-minute drive
For a single mother
For the Whole Foods
My mother had EBT
She gave me $100 a month for food from Whole Foods because I was hung up on being vegetarian
And I’m hungry now
For Altadena
For he giveth and he taketh away
I have very little left to say
Build me all the way up
And break me all the way down
We will rebuild it
Some say we shouldn’t
But this is our land now
Our honor
Fictitiously, forward, onward
A new future
A life still worth living
Alex S. Johnson
Empire of the Lost
Raised head and paws curled over,
wiping sleepgrime from the eyes of centuries
A carpet of smoke rolls over fur,
hearts strain,
wet nose, close-up on bristles, fur, feathers
Animal awakes to flames.
Lynn White
A New Flame
I have put aside all past flames
for you, my new flame.
It’s you who lights up my heart
and makes me steam and sparkle.
I wonder if you will be
my eternal flame
to keep my fire bright
and make my heart shine
forever.
Those Sighs
There’s a space in me
where love has left
a hole in my heart
where a flame
once burned.
I sigh.
But still
the bird sings
even in the dark.
I sigh
waiting
for a song
to fill the space
love left.
I sigh
holding my heart.
Oh, those sighs.
At The Heart Of The Fire
Gather round
the hearth
it’s a cosy place
when the heart of the fire
flames hot and bright.
And we’ll keep it burning,
that home fire.
Watch
closely
let yourself
be hypnotised
bewitched
be mesmerised
by the flickering flames,
waving and dancing
around the heart.
Listen to them
as they crackle
and scream
as a living fire must.
Gather round,
never fear
only
feed the flames.
Wyatt Underwood
passion’s flames
they rush together
passionate mouth-to-mouth
bodies tightly twined
hands prowl backs
people nearby clear throats
some look away
a few tap their feet
the couple are oblivious
hearts in flames
a world of their own
immoderation
I control the temperature in my room
closing or opening the window by just so much
running the little space heater if I must
and think wryly now and then I have controlled
the temperature of my living similarly
cooling myself down when I heard me rage
warming myself up a bit when I felt my own frost
and shake my head, now that it is too late
whatever was I thinking? be more moderate?
is it not a poet's job to live immoderately?
love passionately if not wisely?
rage against injustice, unkindness, disdain?
Dylan Thomas thought so, so did Lord Byron
who even died trying to free Greece from Turkey
but not til after he swam the Hellespont
and racked up so much debt he had to flee
despite having the income of a baron
I'm pretty sure I'm not going to swim any strait
nor train troops for a revolution
and I suppose riding a Harley for twenty years
shows some immoderation, but damn I wish...
I'm not quite sure what, something about love and rage
as I sit here in my reclining chair and listen
to rock songs from the sixties and jazz from Thelonius
maybe I'll open the window a little wider and turn the heater up
terminal punctuation
today I saw an old man in the mirror
stooped almost into a question mark
sad eyes, thin white hair
and almost had to laugh
so not the image I expect
me when I was eighteen
full of courage and optimism
and more ignorance than I imagined
so much to learn, so much to find out
and sure I was so prepared
ah, life! here I am, sixty-four years older
a little wary, not quite pessimistic,
and damn near as ignorant
no wonder my spine reflects the question mark!
Joan McNerney
blue your eyes
this edge of snow
in silent sky
brown eyes soft
tree bark patterns as
yellow flicks
sparkle in wintry sun
and now it seems
your eyes are green
green as spruce
turning to gray eyes
glancing across as if
from a mountainside
your eyes two violets
hidden beneath frost
close your eyes
as sleepless stars
glide through night
in aerial ballet
black coal eyes
glowing on fire
red flames leaping
out of eyes burning
blue your eyes
brightly burning star fish...
do you wonder where you swim?
wandering sky and ocean flying
floating now near shore line
many arms extended tugging
celestial weeds Irish moss
grasping glowing orange disc
climbing beds of coral coral
do you wonder where you swim
brightly burning star fish?
CLS Sandoval
Waiting for My Second Child
Sitting on my feet too long makes my feet fall asleep
I have waited so long for my second child that I feel my soul has fallen asleep
Maybe it’s my heart
Or my brain
I may never have a second child
One was coming
But never arrived
The last time I saw my second child was only in my mind
I am grateful that his mother changed her mind before
I introduced him in person to my first child as her little brother
I pray that my waiting for my second child
doesn’t ever tell my first child
that she isn’t enough
Rob Tannahill
Presently, A Dream
Of delicate hands
Working a flame
Climbing, burning
Between two X shapes
Constructed of fragrant wood
And there are
Sparks flashing
They give off
Fleshy clicks
Over a caramelized heart
Nice and toasty
Crying eat me
Crying now
God help us
Where are we?
At the end of a tunnel
Made of eyes
And all that can be heard
is fuckin' critics
Screech and scratch and claw
With dirty little words
Coming from their flaming mouths
And their caramelized hearts
Pumping, spurting
Hot challenges to your will
Straight to the hitch in your throat
Straight to the places we don't talk about
Straight to everywhere we ever
wanted to go
Or never
Or at least never wanted
Anyone to know
But we hide behind
What we want everyone else to see
And we hide behind
Anything we can read about integrity
And we crawl behind
The ever-present mother
Working the flame
With her caramelized heart
And it's a bloody day
Just for us
This is a rejoicing
This is love
This is a new hymn
An ode to joy
Sung by a desert serpent
With big hopes
And a hole full of
glass in his chest
Call it lovely
Call it true
Just don't let it be you
Lorelei Kay
Dadgum Dog
Dog’s Eyes
Frantic blue eyes looking anxious
Shaking in cage at town’s pound
Crouched down in corner in fear
Cowering quaking and trembling
Surrounded by barking canines
Signs of a miserable past
Dog’s Nose
Nervously sniffing new master
Ears flattened unable to trust
Shedding and drooling with dread
Petrified of shelter’s chaos
Yet scared half to death to depart
Won’t even budge must be dragged
Dog’s Tail
Not wagging just shivering in car ride
Still shuddering in fear once we’re home
Hightails to safety of drapes
Bolts if the doorbell starts ringing
Scared witless when grandkids come by
Hides under bed for three days
Dog’s Throat
On his first Jeep ride starts heaving
And throws up all over the seats
Shedding long strands of white hair
Feels panicked if I leave the house
Shreds porch mat to pieces in fright
Velcro’s himself to my side
Dog’s Snout
Fearful to stay outside and play
Uses his snout to push handle
Opens up patio door
Races inside door gaping wide
Furnace blows heat full blast outside
Making our heating bill soar
Dog’s Coat
Head circled in silky white fur
Between giant soft floppy ears
Now peacefully sleeps at my feet
Heedless of causing frustrations
Creating never-ending vexations
Stealing my incurable dadgum
Dog-Loving Heart
Mary Mayer Shapiro
HEARTH
Circle round
On a cold
Dark night
Inside your house
Place logs
Paper
Splinters of wood
Add a match
As the flames
Ignite
And grow
In a safe
Surrounding
Called
A fireplace
Just sit
Contently
Relax
Watch the
Blaze glow
Take time to think
Or empty brain
Embraced by
Friends or
Be in your
Own solitude
Circle round
On a cold
Dark night
Safely
Inside your Abode
SISTERLY LOVE
Heart that cares
Can be tormented
Heart that is concerned
Be emotional affected
Heart that makes
Decisions for others
Is compassionate and vulnerable
Since I am the only one
You have
Unable to care for
Yourself
Not competent to live alone
Not capable to service
Independently
Sickness cause
The problem
Memory is gone
From day to day
Lived a full life
With no regrets
Have two
Beautiful daughters
Two beautiful
Grandchildren
Now it is my turn
To assist you
Need professional help
With a heavy heart
A choice was made
I know it was
Right
I will be there
For you always
My sister by choice
Someday, maybe
You will
Thank me
Luke (poem) and Mark Stilwell (graphics)
OPEN
OPEN UP OPEN WIDE
OPEN SEASON
OPEN the door
Open your heart
OPEN YOUR MOUTH
OPEN HEART SURGERY
OPEN SESAME
OPEN A CAN OF WHOOP ASS
OPEN THE DOORS TO PERCEPTION
OPEN THE GATES TO HELL
OPEN YOUR VEINS
OPEN DOOR POLICY OPEN FOR BUSINESS OPEN A RESTAURANT
OPEN A MOVIE OPEN HOUSE OPEN AND SHUT OPEN MARRIAGE…
COME OUT IN THE
OPEN WITH IT WHY DON’T YOU? YOU’RE AN
OPEN BOOK, YOU FROSTY MOTHERFUCKER BUT
YOU DON’T HAVE AN OPEN MIND, CRACK YOU
OPEN AND TRY... OH MAN, THINK I
OPENED A CAN OF WORMS ON THAT ONE... HE
OPENED A FUCKING PANDORA’S BOX ON ME
OPEN THE FLOODGATES OPEN SEASON ON ME
OPEN THE DOOR TO MY DOOM OPEN SECRET…SHUT IT PLEASE…
BUT WHEN ONE DOOR SHUTS, ANOTHER
OPENS... AN OPEN-ENDED QUESTION...I AM
NOT OPEN TO THIS SHIT
OPEN FIRE
OPEN MYSELF TO CRITICISM... I HAVE
OPENED THE WAY FOR SOMETHING
HORRIBLE... BUSTED WIDE
OPEN... BLOW WIDE
OPEN OLD WOUNDS
Open new wounds more
than likely
OPEN UP SOME DEEP TRAUMA
but you greet it with
OPEN arms... BE
OPEN TO LOVE…THE HEAVENS WILL
OPEN UP AND THE
ANGELS SING YOU THINK IT’S GOING TO
BE THAT EASY?
YES, YES
I DO
—From the graphic trilogy, THE DARK BACKWARDS by Luke and Mark Stilwell
Maria A Arana
Deep
there’s a certain strength
they don’t tell you when you’re born
one that reaches for the door
when things go wrong
or when life comes to an end
how it cuts the pores
and singles out the heart
left alone to deal with the pain
these are people you love
the care goes deep
the needs go deeper
and there is only one you
and there’s only one route
all this you inherit
when it comes to your family
The Breathing Sonnet
hope escapes with endless nights as tears shed
against my pillow siphon moonlit blood
an eternal fire breathing unsaid
hazarding wayward wind to drain the flood
the smells of northern elk ravage the mind
casting surly nets as wide as islands
leaving the heart unattended and blind
while frost echoes broken hearts in dreamland
such enraged sleep beckons sour thoughts inside
a body capable of tempest wanes
clutch the prowess from that hope horrified
for there is no shame in union bled stains
arid the touch left behind this downpour
like a vicious and blunt past swept ashore
Traveling
body adjusts
to the rhythm of speed
wind brushes hair
rain kisses cheek
flowers fill lungs with perfume
oh so deep
road curves
tires screech
trees swing-swaying
hands block sun
bright petal
heart sings
city sleeps
Guadalupe Salgado Partida
Fire (Here God Speaks Flames)
driving through the mountains, grey smoke emerges, and the road long
and wide is so small for the indomitable strength of a strip engulfed in fire
the wind’s gust ribbons that would often whip my window—quiet in reverence
and the habitual rhythms of the semi-trucks come to a complete halt lingering
in silence; everything quiets down, even the clamor of the people and from
a distance, I can see how the flames destroy everything on the hillside
and how fire, too is god of death and at the same time is god of life
Saturday, February 1, 2025
Don Kingfisher Campbell
Memory
Into my life a bird of remembrance has flown
And I recall glass breaking on that day
I had to wash dishes alone for the first time
I actually enjoyed soaking my hands in the soapy lake
Of soggy scraps and lemon yellow bubbles
But I guess I did too good a job of venting
My emotions madly massaged every plate
And one cup couldn't take it slicing my thumb
In the hot cleansing water I couldn't feel
Any physical pain I just pressed to stop
The strange bright red liquid from streaming
Over the seemingly ready for frying freshly cut digit
Now I have an eagle shaped scar that reminds me
Whenever I take a shower or go swimming
I have been on my own and I'm still here
I have persevered and found a new hand to hold
I Guess I Will Turn Into a Cloud
I guess I will turn into a cloud
Maybe then you'll notice I float
Over the present of your presence
Or possibly a painting for sale
Featuring the childlike colors
Of elementary love I offer
Even better I'll be a vase
So I can live close to you
Watch you go through your day
No, I've got it, nothing bests
Being your bed, for I may get to
Touch your soft skin every night
Responses to Us
The plants think
we spend so much
time moving around.
The walls know
too many secrets
to speak, only crack.
The blankets revel
in their memories,
stories told in threads.
The sky sings out
a constant revelation,
if we simply listen.
We are their favorites.
They enjoy our drama,
turning to our eyes,
Which tell the whole
truth inside dreams,
poetry through the hours.
There is no more to say,
just that clouds are related
to the electricity of looks.
Break Time
I close the laptop
walk to the back room
my wife's office
plop onto the swivel chair
next to her
and lean backward
feel the heat of the sun
from the window
she strokes my hair
and I become good good good
glad that the fire
inside my heart
still
lights
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