Invention —a poem by JD DeHart

Invention

With cog and whir,

the invention began to love

until jealousy grew,

pulsing, and jealousy found

the off-switch.

_

JD DeHart is the author of The Truth About Snails, a chapbook. His main blog is jddehart.blogspot.com and he is a staff writer for Verse-Virtual.

_
Eleanor Leonne Bennett is a 16 year old internationally award winning photographer and artist who has won first places with National Geographic, The World Photography Organisation, Nature's Best Photography, Papworth Trust, Mencap, The Woodland trust and Postal Heritage. Her photography has been published in the Telegraph , The Guardian, BBC News Website and on the cover of books and magazines in the United states and Canada.

Colour Blind— a poem by Chelle Viegas

My eyes shielded

With cataracts of Mother’s opinion,

refused to allow my nanny to feed me

With fingers darker than mine,

the steel spoon on my lips

made me wonder

why did I choose cold over warmth?

Mother’s hands though white

Felt like hot tea gone cold

When I needed a re-assuring squeeze

And my whole being ached for my nanny’s

Overwhelming warmth

Like a hobo

On a winter night

Her latent talent in palmistry intrigued me

When Mother had no interest in my future

Grateful, I wanted to return the favour

But as I looked at those hands

I had refused all those years ago

Guilt consumed me like tongues of fire

And I held her palms under the light

As the dust from my eyes blew away

And I wished I had been born colour-blind

Her skin as human as mine

Twinkled like crystals

Her lines as natural as mine

Revealed paths to the depths of her soul

Her veins as green as mine

Only less prominent

Hinted at her undiscovered beauty,

An artist’s muse

Deprived of exposure

She then squeezed my fingers

And granted me the warmth I had longed for

Assuring me

I have a future

And the past was forgiven

___ 

The Poet: Chelle Viegas is the newly-adopted pseudonym of Michelle D’costa. Her Mom recently started calling herself Chelle and she is loving it. Viegas is her Mother’s maiden Chelle is paying reverence to it. 

The Artist: Eleanor Leonne Bennett is an internationally award-winning photographer and artist who has won first places with National Geographic, The World Photography Organisation, Nature's Best Photography, Papworth Trust, Mencap, The Woodland trust and Postal Heritage.   She was also the only person from the UK to have her work displayed in the National Geographic and Airbus run See The Bigger Picture global exhibition tour with the United Nations International Year Of Biodiversity 2010.

Courtyard— a poem by Wayne F. Burke

I was alone in the court yard
until a guy wearing red socks
and an army cap turned backwards
sat and rolled a cigarette and
started to read a paperback;
then some pigeons flitted down
from trees
and another guy walked through
reading text messages
and a girl on a bicycle
who looked like an Italian movie star
glided past
as a silver bird soared overhead
through a blue sky
and another girl, with jugs that moved
like a water bed,
pulled a dog past on a leash,
and then everything returned to normal:
trees stood
sun shined
earth turned
and I was alone.

___
The Poet: Wayne Burke's work has appeared in FORGE, miller's pond, and Northeast Corridor. He was poet-of-the-month in Bareback, 7-13.

The Artist: Eleanor Leonne Bennett is an internationally award winning photographer and artist who has won first places with National Geographic, The World Photography Organisation, Nature's Best Photography, Papworth Trust, Mencap, The Woodland trust and Postal Heritage.

Moving Out— a poem by Eric Dean

Whatever you were seems more than you have become,

but what you lost was dead weight.

A block of wood, hacked, hewn and beaten

carved and cut down smooth and lithe,

Fat from muscle, claw-torn and eaten.

Will tempered in a wicked womb, writhe

and kick, wander-sick and birth-zealous.

Curiosity choked, hand-bitten and fires

stoked, in a small heart, strong of beat and freedom-jealous.

A slow, scarred shell shed – an old voice retires.

A core burns closer to open air, eyes squint to sun,

nostrils flare and tears run,

blood flows, and you’re the only one

with your hands on the wheel now…

___

The Poet: Eric I. Dean (Tulsa, OK) writes because he enjoys it.

The Artist:  Eleanor Leonne Bennett is an internationally award winning photographer and artist who has won first places with National Geographic, The World Photography Organisation, Nature's Best Photography, Papworth Trust, Mencap, The Woodland trust and Postal Heritage. Her photography has been published in the Telegraph, The Guardian, BBC News Website and on the cover of books and magazines in the United states and Canada. Her art is globally exhibited, having shown work in London, Paris, Indonesia, Los Angeles, Florida, Washington, Scotland, Wales, Ireland, Canada, Spain, Germany, Japan, Australia and The Environmental Photographer of the year Exhibition (2011) amongst many other locations. She was also the only person from the UK to have her work displayed in the National Geographic and Airbus run See The Bigger Picture global exhibition tour with the United Nations International Year Of Biodiversity 2010.

Laundry and War— a poem by Lucile Barker

Old man’s dead over thirty years now,

but I remember him on laundry day,

how he’d always take off until the heavy stuff was ready for the line,

really preferred it when someone else did it,

paid to have the cleaning lady come in an extra day.

We lived in a Steeltown,

smog held in by the valley. 

Yellow wasn’t sunshine,

but pollution,

although we didn’t call it that,

named it “prosperity” as we visited the emergency

or the doctor came to give us a shot.

The old man hadn’t been that old in 1915,

lied about his age.

The old bachelor next door had lost a leg.

Sometimes they said a slow poem made of place names:

Ypres.

The Somme.

Passchendaele.

I thought it was Latin, some kind of prayer,

but those were curses.

He wheezed worse than me.

I learned to sing In Flanders Fields.  

He turned away,

never went to the Cenotaph in November,

sulked in late April.

The smell of washing like those yellow clouds

heading toward the trenches are a reminder of the day,

both the sight and sound, rolled toward him,

but he was so far back that he and a friend

grabbed messengers’ bikes and outpedalled it,

but still looked back like Lot’s wife

and saw their comrades in the front ranks

gasp and die.

I never use bleach, but some spring days

I pass the laundromat and remember the battlefield. 

___

The Poet: Lucile Barker is a Toronto poet, writer and activist. Since 1994, she has been the co-ordinator of the Joy of Writing, a weekly workshop at the Ralph Thornton Centre. Her recent poetry and prose publications include poems in The Big Scarborough Art Book, Linden Avenue, and Decades Review. Her poetry has appeared on posters and in the 2013 Digging to the Roots Calendar. Her recent fiction published in The Quotable, Memewar, and Green Briar Review. Upcoming work will be appearing in Paper Plates, Mixitini Matrix and Subterranean Blue Review.

The Photographer:  Eleanor Leonne Bennett is an nternationally award winning photographer and artist who has won first places with National Geographic, The World Photography Organisation, Nature's Best Photography, Papworth Trust, Mencap, The Woodland trust and Postal Heritage. Her photography has been published in the Telegraph , The Guardian, BBC News Website and on the cover of books and magazines in the United states and Canada.

Chapter Eight — an essay by Maurizio Turco

You walk to class and feel your head already spinning, as well as stomach beginning to turn. You know you have no control over this, but you have to try and shake it off; you have to think of something else to divert your mind from these annoying, constant thoughts. 

Things aren’t so bad.
It’s just class. Another, ordinary class.
Everything’s going to be fine. 
Fuck! This isn’t working.

You enter the room and sit near the back, hoping to God that you'll not be called on today. You take out some paper and a pen and jot down: Chapter 8 Anxiety Disorders; You realize it’s the day you learn about yourself. The turning in your stomach grows tighter, but you remain seated because you worry that you will miss something important.

Your professor begins to teach, while you begin to take notes. He says that the information presented is important when studying Abnormal Psychology; he then adds many college students are diagnosed with this treatable illness. He delves into Generalized Anxiety Disorder and lays out facts of which he pulls from the DSM-IV:   

“Now class, persons who suffer from G.A.D. struggle from excessive episodes of worry and anxiety. For instance, they have difficulty coping with their worry, and worrying about their worries causes them great amounts of stress,” he says as your palms become drenched with sweat and you find it hard to breathe.   

He continues,  “For people to be officially diagnosed with G.A.D., these episodes must last on and off for at least six months. It’s more common in young adults, since they are constantly faced with stressful situation in the workplace, as well as in their education.” 

You look down at what you've written so far and feel uneasy. You only wish that the first six months would have been the end. 

Is there something wrong with me?
Am I abnormal?

Your hand rises without intention and when called upon, you ask what happens if these episodes last years. Your professor says that most people in those cases seek out treatment and are put on anti-anxiety medication. After he asks if anyone has any more questions he continues on with the lecture:   “People are diagnosed with having G.A.D if their worry and anxiety includes at least three of the following symptoms:   

- easily fatigued                   

 - irritability                 

 - feeling on edge       

 - difficulty concentrating

 - muscle tension                   

 - sleep disturbance.”

Jax

  You haven't slept well for two weeks, and you're currently going on thirty hours without sleep. You can't sit any longer as your stomach has turned its final time. You walk out in the middle of class and head back to your dorm. 

Why Now?!
This happens in the worst times.
Almost there…
…Fuck

Fighting the urge not to, you vomit anyway. You crawl into bed and helplessly shake. These compulsions continue for over an hour and you want to disappear. You ask yourself why this happens and why it has to be you.    You recall what your professor said in class:

“The anxiety, worry, or physical symptoms can cause extreme distress especially in work, social situations and other important areas of daily functioning.”

After these thoughts race through your head you remember what was said when class began. You recall that this is treatable and "many college students" have this illness. You begin to realize you're not alone and you can beat this. For the first time in years you have hope. For the first time in months, you feel determined. For the first time in weeks, you feel stronger. For the first time in days, you fall asleep.


___
The Essayist: Maurizio Turco is a senior at Emmanuel College in Boston, MA. He is an English Writing and Literature major. He is anxiety ridden and has been for a few years now. He writes mostly pieces about relationships, his father, and more recently: anxiety. He is a runner who competes in road and track races. He is also a musician and frequently incorporates music into his writing.

The Photographer:  Eleanor Leonne Bennett is a 16 year old internationally award winning photographer and artist who has won first places with National Geographic, The World Photography Organisation, Nature's Best Photography, Papworth Trust, Mencap, The Woodland trust and Postal Heritage. Her photography has been published in the Telegraph , The Guardian, BBC News Website and on the cover of books and magazines in the United states and Canada. Her art is globally exhibited

Worry Play— a poem by Joseph Robert

A pocket watch, found in ditch, on constitutional stroll,

T’was old-fashioned, tacky, electro-plated(?) gold,

Sterling silver or high-carat d’or, would have kept it sound,

No inscription, nothing, it was done-busted junk, a toy,

Always down on myself for never having taken apart and played,

With mechanisms, like I’d heard gifted boys did,

Never too late, I pried it apart with a kitchen knife,

Slicing open a chronometer-pinching digit, spilling blood,

On lockjaw little gears, shocked still, in total annoyance,

Visions of juggling shiny bits back together, making them tic,

Rudely usurped by trying to remember, were there any plasters,

And where,

And I yelled, “Fuck”, set knife in sink, dropped watch in bin,

My butchered hand twisting, in the loose waist of my T-shirt,

I kicked the bin over,

Spilling coffee grounds over rented, carpeted floor,

“Fuck!” I yelled again, louder this time,

And maybe this wasn’t about the watch anymore.

Punishment

___

The Poet: Joseph Robert was born and raised in the Midwest. However, he has always been partial to Hawaiian beaches. Nevertheless: Go Badgers! After living and working for several years in rural Japan, he now resides in London with his wife, writer and poet Leilanie Stewart. In his spare time, you can find him at the British Museum trying to teach himself how to read Sumerian cuneiform. Don't worry, yes, he has seen Evil Dead, so doesn't read any of it out loud.

The Artist:  Eleanor Leonne Bennett is an internationally award winning photographer and artist who has won first places with National Geographic, The World Photography Organisation, Nature's Best Photography, Papworth Trust, Mencap, The Woodland trust and Postal Heritage. Her photography has been published in the Telegraph , The Guardian, BBC News Website and on the cover of books and magazines in the United states and Canada. Her art is globally exhibited.

Welcome Home— a poem by Jocelyn Edelstein‏

I’m driving in the rain on Saturday

My eyes scan skies and look for a sign of your loud, thoughtful YES
I slept last night shackled with dreams the size of whales
I rocked in my sleep,
back and forth like a great blue,
caught in the net

This motion is not ordinary
It is not safe even when it is contained
It is rattling up from the bases of spines in creatures
who no longer know what it means to trust the rhythm of a wave
returning

This sing-song pattern of restlessness is your storybook and it has no ending
It is only a passage pressed to pages on a shelf by your bed



Jax12

You will wander and remember the way the creature that was also you
used to be
before you knew how to be crazy
Before you knew how to be vulnerable
Before you knew how to be free
Find me
I’m the one that wrote a sign and posted it 10 feet up a telephone pole on the
corner of 33rd and Broadway last week
Welcome home space cowboy


___
The Poet: Jocelyn Edelstein is a writer, filmmaker and dance teacher based in Portland, Oregon. Her previous writing has been published in Best Women's Travel Writing 2011 and Best Women's Travel Writing Vol. 8. Her feature length documentary, Believe The Beat, which follows a group of dancers on the streets of Rio de Janeiro, can be previewed at www.urbanbodyproject.com

The Artist:  Eleanor Leonne Bennett is a 16 year old internationally award winning photographer and artist who has won first places with National Geographic, The World Photography Organisation, Nature's Best Photography, and many others. She was also the only person from the UK to have her work displayed in the National Geographic and Airbus run See The Bigger Picture global exhibition tour with the United Nations International Year Of Biodiversity 2010.

Cantos of the Faithful — a poem by Terry Wall

#1 - Excerpts from the Book of Bob

“Tell us, what do you think?
Is it lawful to give shortening unto
Caesar, or not?”

“Render unto Caesar
That salad which is Caesar's
(Including a big red hothouse tomato)
For he is the king of comedy and does not eat shortening,
And unto god, the things that are god's:
Perhaps a new Hawaiian shirt
Of ample breadth with enlarged borders,
For he owns daytime radio and is therefore spirit
And thus can not digest lard.”

And when they heard it
They got up and went to the movies
And ordered buttered popcorn.

Bob 22:24-27 (or, see the film)

Ye publicans and harlots believe me in this:
You may repent yourselves
After the eating
Of the fried cheese balls.

Bob 22:32

And as he sat on the Mount of Olives
There by the River of Palm Oil
He sang unto them:
“Mama's little baby loves shortnin, shortnin;
Mama's little baby loves shortnin bread.”

Bob 22:37

Nutrition Facts - Shortening
Serving Size 1 tablespoon (12.8 g)
==============================================================
Calories 120 Calories from fat 120
==============================================================
Amount per serving
--------------------------------------------------------------
% Daily Value*
Total fat 15g 3%
Saturated Fat 1.5g 3.75%
Cholesterol 5mg 1%
Sodium 0mg 0%
Total Carbohydrate 0g 0%
Dietary Fiber 0g 0%
==============================================================
Sugar free
Excellent source of fat
All dietary fiber removed
No artificial colors or flavors
100% free of B vitamins, iron and zinc
Absolutely no Red Folate
Not a significant source of anything good for you

*Percent daily values are based on a 4,000 calorie all-fat diet.
Your daily values may be higher or lower depending on your fat needs.
==============================================================

Bob 22:44-48

And he saith unto them,
“You need to eat right or you will perish.”
But the people said,
“We have nothing.”And so he went away,
And when he returned he said to them,
“Behold, I have made ready the French Fries.
Now that's eatin' right!
And at an affordable price!”

Bob 22:52-53


#2 - She Wore a Yellow Diphthong

A good man
In a trench coat doing nothing,
A voice crying wolf
In the wilderness,
He calls for the linguist
Who wears a yellow diphthong
(Or the mauve monophthong
If he wants it Zulu style).
“Why do you dislike the musical question:
'Tell me [wät] Street
Compares with [mät] Street
In July?'”
She [sèz],
“Sorry, I'm afraid I am too diacritical.”

And so she must sit upyne his lappe
And jiggle and wiggle
Hither and yon,
O, hither and yon,
And aspirate upon the giant allophone
While he,
In his own dark grammar,
Tear-streaked syntax,
And club-footed morphology
Stumbles to a climax.

And when it is over
He pays her in shortening
As it says to do in the Book of Bob.

                                                                      Bring Me

#3 - All the Tired Horses

I have a bus pass,
Good for unlimited rides,
And I have a stuffed lunch box –
Hay mostly,
But sometimes
I find an oat or two.
I travel the city
From virgin morning
To slutty night
(I am no longer in stud work
And so am not tempted
By much I see here from the bus).

We pass an alley
Down which the Sociotrope Horses
Huddle like supplicants
Around their fire drum
Burning their dreams to stay warm.
I thrust my shaggy mane out the window
And call to them:
“Naaaay! Hrrrphrphroo! Naaaay!”
I see them smile –
The first time in weeks for most of them.
They give me an approval-seeking wave
And I think,
Goodbye, Sociotrope Horses,
Remember to live in the moment,
While Driver Bob presses the pedal
And leaves them
In a miasma of moments.

Further along, by the rendering plant,
I must flick my tail
At the young Blue-Bottle Flies
Who kamikaze into my face and haunches –
Too many of them,
More all the time.
“Douglas Bareflanks Jr!”
They taunt as they dive
Out of the cloud
Of my-words
And your-tubes
That hang in the thick city atmosphere
Like millions of camera lenses.
I close my eyes:
“Naaaay! Hrrrphrphroo! Naaaay!”

This day,
As most days,
I am powerless on the bus,
So I drop a pile
On the seats near the front,
The ones facing the aisle,
Opposite Driver Bob.
I am not sure what to do next
But I recall the words
Of my equine psychotherapist:
“Always ask yourself,
'What is my body telling me?'
Before deciding what to do.”
So I ask that question
And I realize I must
Plop another load
On the floor near the coin box,
But I also send a hot steamy stream
All over Driver Bob's right shoe,
by accident.

Driver Bob,
Now eager to get back to the terminal,
Does an allemande left at the corner
(Not the published route).
Then I cringe at what our wrong turn has brought us:
I hear the Horrible Hissing Hothouse Tomato
On the curb
And I see his full-fat-milk mustache and
Greasy drumstick jodhpurs.
His followers,
In bacon-wrapped-foie-gras shirts,
Step down the pavement
as though wired together
Leaving an oil slick
Of discontent
And intolerance.
They have put up signs:
“Eat right or die.”
Down the street I see
The man in the Hawaiian shirt
Walking briskly away.
I extend my trophy head
Out the window and
I implore him,
“Naaaay! Hrrrphrphroo! Naaaay!”
He tosses me a French Fry and smiles
As Driver Bob drives on.

___
The Poet: Terry Wall is just beginning his quest for publication. He thinks of
his work as offbeat and quirky, or perhaps, the work is normal but he is
offbeat and quirky. He lives in St. Louis and is sometimes heard playing
thirties and forties jazz standards around town.

The Artist: Eleanor Leonne Bennett is an internationally award winning photographer and artist who has won first places with National Geographic, The World Photography Organisation, Nature's Best Photography, Papworth Trust, Mencap, The Woodland trust and Postal Heritage. Her photography has been published in the Telegraph , The Guardian, BBC News Website and on the cover of books and magazines in the United states and Canada. Her art is globally exhibited , having shown work in London, Paris, Indonesia, Los Angeles ,Florida, Washington, Scotland,Wales, Ireland,Canada,Spain,Germany, Japan, Australia and The Environmental Photographer of the year Exhibition (2011) amongst many other locations. She was also the only person from the UK to have her work displayed in the National Geographic and Airbus run See The Bigger Picture global exhibition tour with the United Nations International Year Of Biodiversity 2010.

Broken Time Piece | by Heidi Bellile

 

 

Frozen Portraits

 

 

 

Hands spiraling circles,

Missing clicks dropping drips

Like a leaky faucet.

The motionless moment is stopped.

The pocket watch’s pendulum swings

Back and forth on a chain

Slowly hypnotizing…waving in

Another dimension.

 

 

The moment swivels, tripping a

Skipping of seconds with a shining

Glimmer of silver lost in sequence,

A broken arm suspended

In suspense, a flash of mystery.

A hypnotic trance dances in dark.

Dark figured lines enumerating

A white emancipating bright light.

 

 

The center eye can’t think, blink or wink,

It stares into a blank empty face

That grasps for a clasp on when.

Dr. Who, What and Again longing

For the click of the missing skipped ticks,

A shell shocked out of a clock,

A tock knocked off the arrival dock

Only to stop at the Serling Zone.

 

Frozen in inertia it unlocks

A state of confusion.

The mind opens up to suggestion

And notches the bedpost on

The timeline continuum;

Old man Time without a face,

On the clock that lost face

In the Land of Punctuality.

 

 

___

The Poet: Heidi Bellile lives on a small farm in Southern Indiana, where she works in a psychiatric hospital. She has a Bachelor of Science in Child Development, a Special Education teaching certificate and is working towards a Masters in Mental Health counseling. Recently, she has started writing poetry. She has written over two hundred poems in the last three years.

 

The Artist: Eleanor Leonne Bennett is a 16 year old internationally award winning photographer and artist who has won first places with National Geographic, The World Photography Organisation, Nature's Best Photography, Papworth Trust, Mencap, The Woodland trust and Postal Heritage. Her photography has been published in the Telegraph , The Guardian, BBC News Website and on the cover of books and magazines in the United states and Canada. Her art is globally exhibited.

 

We All Know Nothing Lasts | by Mary Kay Metz

We all know nothing lasts.
The shoreline’s pulled under, out to sea.
Even this sentence will change by the time the period
comes around. I’d like to give you one thing to keep,
a sea shell or a t-shirt or a box of cracker jacks
though I’m not sure what good it’ll do. The old pick up
slipped through my hands, the one with the leaky roof
and mushrooms in the bed. What’s the point of a hope chest
anyway? The last time I visited Ohio creepers covered the trees,
killing off the very thing they need the most.
Some of us have an inkling that none of this is real.
If you sit still long enough you’ll notice a portal
in the back of your throat. Others get all jumpy horse.
Oh Jesus, during the worst of it my heart came unhinged.
Listen, every time you look in a mirror,
no matter what kind of smirk or wink, you have to admit
to a shard of brilliance coming out from between the arms
with a smiley face sneaking up from who knows where.
What was up with us kids anyway thinking that catching fire flies
in jars would save them? Maybe you can actually taste words,
the way under water, a muffled voice says, This is my life unleashed.

 

___
The Poet: Mary Kay Metz is studying writing at the Writers Studio in NYC online. She works a day job as a live in maid for some exceedingly wealthy people on the upper east side of Manhattan. She writes to keep from killing people.

The Photographer: Eleanor Leonne Bennett is a 16 year old internationally award winning photographer and artist who has won first places with National Geographic, The World Photography Organisation, Nature's Best Photography, Papworth Trust, Mencap, The Woodland trust and Postal Heritage. Her photography has been published in the Telegraph , The Guardian, BBC News Website and on the cover of books and magazines in the United states and Canada. Her art is globally exhibited , having shown work in London, Paris, Indonesia, Los Angeles,Florida, Washington, Scotland,Wales, Ireland,Canada,Spain,Germany, Japan, Australia and The Environmental Photographer of the year Exhibition (2011) amongst many other locations. She was also the only person from the UK to have her work displayed in the National Geographic and Airbus run See The Bigger Picture global exhibition tour with the United Nations International Year Of Biodiversity 2010.