Monday, September 28, 2015

New Poetry by Bruce McRae

The Self’s Portrait

One portrait has no ears or hands.
In one portrait the eyes have gone
to wherever it is eyes go on autumn evenings.

Here’s a mouth that’s said too little too late.
Here’s a nose that ought to know better.
No beard. No scar. No symmetry.

An eyebrow’s lament. Light pooling on a chin.
That unfortunate hair lost in a forest.
And this portrait, of the self, of the self’s self.
Which resembles a heart-string and sings like a bird.

- Bruce McRae 2015

Pushcart nominee Bruce McRae is a Canadian musician with over 900 poems published internationally, including, Rattle and The North American Review. His first book, ‘The So-Called Sonnets’, is available via Silenced Press and Amazon. To see and hear more poems go to ‘BruceMcRaePoetry’ on YouTube.

Wednesday, September 23, 2015

New Poetry by Pijush Kanti Deb

I Have a Drum

I have a drum
grammatically well tuned
as per the universal norm of  sweetness,
a keen longing to beat it
dancing and singing
traversing each and every cavity of human sense
and unfortunately a weakness too
as I lack an ethically authorized hand to beat it
but in the process
my young heart permits me
to purchase the authorized hand
in exchange for
my beloved money and self-respect both
while my old soul restricts me
‘’No self respect --- no life in a life
so let your drum be beaten by others’’

Pijush Kanti Deb 2015

Pijush Kanti Deb is a new Indian poet with around 261 published or accepted poems and haiku in around 90 nos of national and international magazines and journals [,print and online] like Down in the dirt, Tajmahal Review, Pennine Ink, Hollow Publishing, Creativica Magazine, Muse India, Teeth Dream Magazine,Hermes Poetry Journal, Grey Borders, Dagda Publishing, Blognostic  Black Mirror Magazine, Dissident Voice Journal , Indiana Voice Journal Aji Magazine Calliope Magazine and many more. His best achievement so far is the publication of his first poetry collection,’’Beneath The Shadow Of A White Pigeon’’published by Hollow Publishing is available on AMAZON.

New Poetry by William G. Davies Jr.


The sun slants, avuncular;
warming that side
of your rib cage,
opening for a little while
the path through woods
where darkness gathers
on either side
with gold lapels.

- William G. Davies Jr. 2015

William will be appearing at The Writer's Nook at the Little Buffalo Arts Festival at Little Buffalo State Park for a reading October 3rd. He will also be signing copies of his collection, "Before There Were Bones" at The Perry County Council Of The Arts building in Newport, Pennsylvania October 10th.

Monday, September 21, 2015

New Poetry by C S Hughes

In The Tropics

A mystery and a revelation 
An orange sunset burns my fingers
Stars blazon the bruised night (words blazon like stars)
A Van Gogh or Gauguin join-the-dots
Spelling strange characters
To which
The poet humbly submits
They are so much bigger than this
Sharks beneath glass green seas
Savage rantum scantum 
The genius of turning back
And asking questions
And the chance again to taste
Your coconut flavoured skin

- C S Hughes 2015

C S Hughes grew up on both sides of the tracks in ochre towns and charcoal cities. When he was young he hoboed across the country by thumb and freight train, before spending several years in reading and study. He has lived in parks and palaces and worse places, publishes innovative poetry pieces illustrated with his own photography and digital artworks in iBooks, and has occasionally had a story or poem published on paper. He writes commentary on popular culture and edits at 
He says he is getting older but no more wise.

Friday, September 18, 2015

New Poetry by Donal Mahoney

Fast Food at Midnight

A drunk comes into McDonald’s
staggers to the counter
is waited on by a young lady 

who looks like his wife
years ago when he proposed.
Drunk says nothing, just stares,

mouth agape, until the 
manager hustles forward,
sensing a sale

leans over the counter 
says to the drunk,
“Want fries with her?”

- Donal Mahoney 2015

Nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, Donal Mahoney has had poetry and fiction published in various publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his earliest work can be found at

Thursday, September 17, 2015

New Poetry by Joseph Reich

Getting through the daze

Recently been having this vision
of the whole Peanuts gang nodding
out on heroin, heads really hanging
perhaps around that poor crestfallen
Christmas tree where all the pine
needles have posthumously fallen
with the fizzling lights, droopy star
teetering on top, all messed-up around
the mound by that makeshift lemonade
psychiatrist stand, or that wall where Linus
and good ole Chuck Brown make their final
stand, bow their heads, grief-stricken, contemplative
and question, Socratic method, kind and compassionate
their existence, contented. watching days pass right
in front of them, and see both their perspectives, their
moods and behavior, then crash with elbows eternally
leaned-up, head in hand and earnestly, existentially
discuss dreams and goals, resolve conflicts and try
to figure out the futile, impossible problems of the
world, the pained and perplexing suffering soul
exchanging thoughts and ideas and future plans
right where the seasons change, but scene always
seems to remain the same, the trees and leaves
and tops of bleak twinkling roofs, steeples,
temples, mosques, mausoleums, streets
and lamplight sputtering with a pastel
sun falling, big bulge of breathtaking
moon rising, turning from day to evening
leaving simply those stray starlit stoops
with a whole wistful windswept village
swept up in blessed silhouetted geometric
forms and images of the sobering season
The hyperactive and psychotic and driven
Snoopy who I never  much cared for
his overconfident personality
Marcy and Peppermint Patty
finally finding each other
Pigpen misunderstood
Franklin the black
kid never taken in
Lucy the loud mouth
who just never shuts
the fuck up, but who
knows maybe I’m just
going through some sort
of mid-life crisis of sorts
most likely not and am just
trying to find ways to cope
and catch up on everything
I believe I missed out on
from a very complex
and competitive
and overwhelming
impossible Jewish culture
does that make sense at all?
And so thus maybe just prefer
seeing the whole Peanuts gang
strung-out on dope, not saying
a whole hell of a lot
a bunch of distant
disobedient dwarf
dope addicts
out of it
nodding out
to that brilliant
bee-bopping piano
and brush drums
of a mean and
moody magical
Vince Guaraldi solo
building up then fading
off in the background
all of them naturally
shuffling home
on their own
by their own
choice and
pace and
space and
time and
leisure in
a constant
state of flux
through the fading
glow and opaque
drizzly autumnal
leaf piles of some
divine dwindling
disappearing season.

- Joseph Reich 2015

Joseph Reich has been published in a wide variety of eclectic literary journals both here and abroad, been nominated five times for The Pushcart Prize, and his books in poetry and cultural studies include, "A Different  Sort Of Distance" (Skive Magazine Press) "If I Told You To Jump Off The Brooklyn Bridge" (Flutter Press) "Pain Diary: Working Methadone & The Life & Times Of The Man Sawed In Half" (Brick Road Poetry Press) "Drugstore Sushi" (Thunderclap Press) "The Derivation Of Cowboys & Indians" (Fomite Press) "The Housing Market: a comfortable place to jump off the end of the world" (Fomite Press) "The Hole That Runs Through Utopia" (Fomite Press)  "Taking The Fifth And Running With It: a psychological guide for the hard of hearing and blind" (Broadstone Books) "The Defense Mechanisms: your survival guide to the fragile mind" (Fomite Press)

Tuesday, September 15, 2015

New Poetry by James Walton


there’s a madman in the square
people are closing their windows
he’s crying out he’s found the code

of how the house smelled of oranges
when we made the almond flour cake
and the scent rained through every room

stirring in a wing flap heart beat
not the dull flat bottom skiff of ducks
slumbering off the scoria embankment

but the savage embrace of a hurtling beak
I stalled face on in mid air unafraid
as the rushing gust pierced and passed

the skins fall away in pulsing forensics
my nose is buried in the aromatic aftermath
of how the house smelled of oranges

- James Walton 2015

James Walton lives in South Gippsland. His collection, "The Leviathan's Apprentice" has just been released through Strzelecki's Lover Press.

Monday, September 14, 2015

New Poetry by Rob Walker

sinister minister

the retired clergyman from the states ejaculates
a laugh of embarrassment  at everything

his philosophy as cut, dried & packaged as a tour

somewhere in the uk midlands he asks about australia 

what’s it like to live on the other side of the planet so
isolated                  & far from everything?

i reply that everything i need is quite close

it occurs to me that every one
thinks their hometown is
universe’s                                       singularity

- Rob Walker 2015

Monday, September 07, 2015

New Poetry by JD DeHart


Is this space we find
the quality of one mind
or co-created
by our observance of it

When we leave
and drive away into
separate dark places
does the space continue
(do we)?

- JD DeHart 2015

JD DeHart is a writer and teacher.  His chapbook, The Truth About Snails, is available from RedDashboard.

Wednesday, August 26, 2015

New Poetry (and introductory note) by Holly Day

After a full summer of not being able to sit comfortably at my desk and work, there’s nothing so wonderful as having the kids back in school and the house and time to myself. Perhaps in cooperation with my determined vision of staying glued to my computer for the day, the weather has turned nasty overnight, and I’m already wearing a sweater around the house and wondering how long I can put off turning on the heater for the season. Outside, sparrows and chickadees cover the lawn as thick as snow, a shifting, twitching carpet of brown and gray reminder that my beautiful summer is coming to a close.

The Anniversary

Years later, they will speak of this anniversary
as though it had happened to other people, neighbors, perhaps.
They will speak lightly of her hospitalization

gloss over the details, mention her minor head trauma
the problems he had had with his temper
back then, in the past.

Their children will glare pointedly at each other
over the heads of the assembled party guests
because one of them should have intervened

someone was supposed to have been here.

- Holly Day 2015

Holly Day has taught writing classes at the Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis, Minnesota, since 2000. Her poetry has recently appeared in Oyez Review, SLAB, and Gargoyle, while her recently published books include Music Theory for Dummies (3rd edition), Piano All-in-One for Dummies, The Book Of, and Nordeast Minneapolis: A History.  

New Words and Images by Wayne H. W Wolfson

I had to let her go on up the stairs ahead of me because of how she took them. Always, a jaunty dance of rapidly, three steps up then two back down.
The polished wooden floors amplified the sunlight, a golden glow of peace that I would always mistrust. I worried too that the angel was not real as I did not see how the vast expanse of wings could fit through the little slits in the back of the robe.
Her concern was enough to make the stairs gently creak. I do not speak. What was the point with only a few minutes to burn in heaven before falling back through.

Op 9, No 2
The sky is gray but in this drabness it makes the light from our place shine like a distant star or the blush of your cheeks during warmer months.
Inside the air is slightly smoky from wild boar sausage. It is not acrid but a heaviness which is a comfort.
The cool mineral notes of our drinks. Waiting for our meal, I start to tattoo the back of the card which announces the house drink specials. My pen bleeds from the neck and my hands echo in kind.

- Wayne H. W Wolfson 2015

Tuesday, August 25, 2015

New Poetry by Peter C. Venable


and bath-salted,

he aimed a corkscrew into his palm
and twisted and twisted

until it screwed through
the dorsal skin nearly an inch—

like a badly botched titanium screw surgery—

and he reached for a bottle of wine

and I waited for the next twist.

- Peter C. Venable 2015

The Rational

“The Rational is Real and the Real is Rational,”

A buttress of Hegel's Mind

and my mallet-and-chiseled Absolutes.
How my Easter Island idols are adorned
with gull droppings and scales!

Come, tourists, and meander
in our taxidermist's museum of stuffed Beliefs—
are they winking at us with their glassy eyes?

Come, and ponder
as we go spelunking in Plato's Cave,
and meet our flickering shadows.

Let’s ascend our ancestral stairs
to Reason's Tower and marvel
at Syllogism's sculptures.

What, then, are these Monuments
which assemble our Real minds?

- Peter C. Venable 2015

The writer has written both free and metric verse for over fifty years and been published in such humorous poetry journals as Parody, Word Riot, Laughing Dog, and Hobo Pancakes. He is a semi-retired clinician, volunteers at a prison camp and food pantry, leads vespers services for senior citizens, and is graced with a happy marriage, daughter and son-in-law, and Yeshua. Hagar the Horrible is a role model