Poetry

MACHINE SHOPSby  Roger Singer MACHINE SHOPS  It’s a long whistleputting the handon men and womenas the earth tiltspulling them pastopen wooden doorsinto the mazeof machinerywhere generationsstood and countedhours and yearsuntil the nextbodies of youthreplaced nameson lockers...

BEES by Robin Ray Steepest of Hills Who can singwhen the water’s edged,mouths are paste dry,fruit trees stand barrenas virgin tides? Step after stepup that steepest of hills,hungry vampire stoneslive off the burst blistersof innocent seekers. Kippers in the...

OF THIS HOURby Korkut Onaran  ANOTHER BAR JOKE A deep sea creatureand a priest walk into a bar.Where? In a poem. In a highmountain town at a landlocked state,in a historic bar. The priest drinks red wineand talks...

HE PRETENDS TO BE A SENATORby O. Howard Winn   HE PRETENDS TO BE A SENATORbut it is clearhe is really a Mock turtlefrom Capitalist Wonderland andhis song is a serenade tothe Red Queen runningthe nation...

RE-READING ULYSSES …by Louis Gallo   RE-READING ULYSSES IN MEDIAS RESAFTER MANY DECADES WHILE STEERINGTHE “SANTA MARIA” WESTWARD INTO THE DYING SUNAs Leopold savors his kidney with relish, his eye also cockedon an advertisement for Plumtree’s...

LITTLE MAX MOUSE  by James Padgett  It was a warm, sunny day in Willowy Wood.Little Max Mouse ran as fast as he could.He had to get to the Oak by the stream.It was his turn to...

THE CROSS-TOWNby Eileen Valentino Flaxman    The Cross-Townmakes its way in fits and starts, dayin and day out, from the east side tothe west and the doors hiss and thebrakes screech and people get on andoff,...

A LOVE STORYby Gloria G. Murray    A LOVE STORY we kissed in the dark hallwaysof the Canarsie projectsbacks pressedagainst the concrete walllips sealedwith the grout of lustyour tongue swirling under mineyour ardent fingers curlinglike a sculptoraround...

BONDAGEThe intensity of your glarecould sear my fleshburn a hole right through me.I compress myself into the chair,use a book as a shield.I have done it again,rubbed sandpaper on your wounds.What did I say...

EMBODIED SOILby Sarah Conklin  You never loved me, I was just a body. I come home to dead flowers hanging on the wall, parched but aesthetically pleasingdry from humidity and a lack of loveThe eucalyptus has...