{"id":2268,"date":"2016-11-07T18:08:48","date_gmt":"2016-11-07T23:08:48","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=2268"},"modified":"2026-02-04T17:12:16","modified_gmt":"2026-02-04T22:12:16","slug":"fallwinter-2016-issue","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=2268","title":{"rendered":"

Fall-Winter 2016 Issue<\/p><\/strong>"},"content":{"rendered":"

<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\n\"burke-helen-4-views-of-dylan\"<\/a>
\n 
\nHelen Burke is a poet turned artist; her work has exhibited in the UK and France; she currently has an exhibition in Leeds, England. Her art can be seen on krazyphils.com<\/a> and origamipoems.com<\/a>; she designs greeting cards and fabric and likes to work in acrylic, mixed-media, collagraph, and water colour. Helen’s new book, Roman Holiday, is just out this week and is available now from www.krazyphils.com<\/a>. You can check out Helen’s poem When I Was at Woodstock<\/i> here<\/a>.
\n<\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nVirginia Archer<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nOF BUTTERFLIES AND INKBLOTS
\n 
\nI am amazed
\nthat there are still words
\nof you
\ncaught in my ribs
\n 
\nthey flutter in my gut
\nlike trapped butterflies
\nbecoming moths,
\nand once in too many whiles
\nI catch them sitting in my throat
\nwith ink on their wings
\ndetermined to imprint inkblot insanity
\non another page of me
\nand call it love
\n 
\nI\u2019m too afraid
\nto leave it up to interpretation
\nand name it something
\nthat will make it even more weighty
\nthan it is.
\n 
\n 
\nVirginia Archer is the pen name of a very busy lady who has a BEng.Hons. Degree in Civil Engineering with Architecture from the University of Leeds, England. She was born in the UK, but has lived most of her life on the tropical island paradise of Saint Lucia, where she currently resides with her tween daughter. She has been writing poetry since she was 16 years old, and has always had the soul of an artist, though she didn’t know it. When she isn\u2019t doing her full time jobs as Engineer and Mother, Virginia can be found writing and painting in the small moments in between and treasuring those moments immensely. You can find more of her poetry at https:\/\/allpoetry.com\/Virginia_Archer<\/a>.<\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDevon Balwit<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nWHAT WOULDN\u2019T YOU GIVE IN RETURN?
\n 
\nI would give all metaphors
\nin return for one word
\ndrawn out of my breast like a rib
\n(“I Would Like to Describe,” Zbigniew Herbert)<\/i>
\n 
\nSentimentality: not jam on the bread, but jam on the face,
\nhe said. If only it were so easy to keep the jam where
\n 
\nit belongs. You plunge your hand into rushing water
\nhoping for an agate, but sometimes, you just get a stone.
\n 
\nYou know you should let the stone stay a stone if that\u2019s
\nwhat it wants, but still you squeeze, demanding a word.
\n 
\nThe word should be cut from your breast like a rib, and set
\nfree to organize its half of Eden, but you can\u2019t help interfering,
\n 
\nrenaming the animals and replanting trees where you think
\nthey should go. No wonder you end up naked and sticky,
\n 
\nthe snake flicking its long tongue in satisfaction at how it has
\ntricked you once again into clich\u00e9. Now you will be cast out
\n 
\nto wander and bring forth in pain. Fear not, this you can use.
\nThe trick is to make your pain your own and no one else\u2019s,
\n 
\nthe jam the bread\u2019s and no one else\u2019s, the rib the rib\u2019s and no
\none else\u2019s. Skip the stone and go right to the heart of the matter,
\n 
\nthe incision, the reaching into yourself, the hole where you are now
\nincomplete, the infinity which you can pack into your nothingness.
\n 
\n 
\nI MAY BE SOME TIME
\n 
\nNo matter how loudly I talk, I do not inspire.
\nMy hands flap like flags of countries taken
\nfrom the map. My pregnant pauses deliver
\nnothing. How naked one feels when passion
\nis not requited. Like a Vaudeville impresario,
\nI trot out act after act to a silent hall, the
\naudience too enervated even to heckle.
\nWhere can I go from here? A chalked circle
\non the street, upturned hat primed with a few
\ncoins? If I darken the room, press a button
\nand let the simulacra dance, they awaken,
\ninterested in inverse proportion to what is
\ndefined by living flesh. An image of me
\nwith a screen holding an image of me in
\ninfinite regress would garner more attention.
\nLike Oates, I should say I am going outside,
\nand I may be some time<\/i>\u2014everyone would
\nunderstand I wouldn\u2019t be back, that they
\ncould divvy up my rations, take my socks.
\nLike a madwoman, I continue to cradle
\nmy doll-baby, suckling it at flaccid breasts.
\n 
\n 
\nDevon Balwit is a poet and educator from Portland, Oregon. Her poetry has found many homes, among them: 3 elements, Anti-Heroin Chic, Birds Piled Loosely, Bonk!, drylandlit, Dying Dahlia Review, Ink Sweat & Tears, Leveler, MAW, Rattle, Red Paint Hill Publishing, The Fem, The Fog Machine, The Literary Nest, The NewVerse News, The Yellow Chair, txt objx, vox poetica<\/i>, and Vanilla Sex Magazine<\/i>. <\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nBen Banyard<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nOTIS BLUE
\n 
\nBooker’s chops
\nCropper slides on in
\nDunn funks the low end
\nJackson shuffles the rump.
\nAnd oh, here you come
\na grimace and Shake!<\/i>
\nYour sound
\nLike
\nno
\nother:
\nFa fa-fa fa-fa fa-fa faah-faah<\/i>
\nGotta gotta!<\/i>
\nHow did you
\ndo it,
\nMacon boy?
\n1960s vox
\ny’alled on tape
\nBeale Street’s dripping walls
\nmaking me<\/i> nod and shiver.
\nYou cut my<\/i> soundtrack.
\nCan there be a good scar?
\nAnd your support
\nmay come from
\nMessrs Wonder, Green, Hathaway
\nand Brother Toots,
\nbut top of the bill…
\nplease welcome…
\nthe one and only
\nMr Pitiful!<\/i>
\n 
\n 
\nBen Banyard lives and writes in Portishead, near Bristol, UK. His debut pamphlet, Communing<\/i>, was published by Indigo Dreams in February 2016. Ben edits Clear Poetry, an online journal publishing accessible work from newcomers and old hands alike: clearpoetry.wordpress.com<\/a>.<\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nIngrid Bruck<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nRED
\n 
\nRed. Small as a butterfly. But fatter. Butterflies glide on silent wing strokes. Not a butterfly. Not a single flutter. I hear a buzz. Do bees grow this big? Could this be a hummingbird moth? A red flash shoots from wild iris to wild iris, does an erratic air bounce and disappears.
\n 
\nRed. My mother\u2019s lipstick. She won\u2019t leave the house without it. Hurry up, dad says, and goes to wait in the car while mom gets pretty. We wait. She emerges, a ruby red smear adorns her lips. I ask her about the strange moth in the garden. She says it was a hummingbird. My first.
\n 
\nRed. My favorite color. Bold. Bright. Part of a Guatemalan rainbow. Fire feathers on a Quetzal bird. Hot lava burning. Primary color. No pastel. No pale pink or baby blue like mother’s faded eyes. Red. Crimson moon rises out of the ocean, twin to the sunset, color of lipstick and the brilliant throat of the hummingbird.
\n 
\n 
\nBEFORE WINTER SOLSTICE
\n 
\nIn the raven days before solstice,
\nI get out of bed,
\ngimp across the floor
\nas fast as frost forms on glass,
\nin step with this creaking old house.
\n 
\nI move as slowly as a draft,
\nice in my hands and feet,
\na dog bite of bone on bone in my knee,
\nand the weight of snow on my chest.
\n 
\nI will endure the discomforts of time
\nuntil winter claims me,
\nand they set my body aside
\nfor spring planting.
\n 
\nWinter, when it ends,
\nspring, the beginning.
\nFour seasons, complete.
\nRepeat.
\n 
\nI cycle the spirals,
\nseeds and roots in dark earth,
\npush above ground to light,
\ntime to dance and sing,
\na time to begin and end.
\n 
\n 
\nIngrid Bruck is a poet\/storyteller\/retired library director. She lives in Pennsylvania Amish country, a landscape that inhabits her poems. Recent work appears in Howl of Sorrow: A Collection of Poems Inspired by Hurricane Sandy, Yellow Chair, Unbroken Journal, RAR: Love & Ensuing Madness<\/i> and Quatrain.Fish<\/i>. For her published work, go to: ingridbruck.com<\/a>.<\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\n Giuseppi Martino Buonaiuto <\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nJACK: THE RIP RAPPER
\n 
\nNeighbors: they say good fences
\nMake good ones, unless, of course,
\nThe Hottie next door is fucking your wife.
\nOr your husband. Or both? And if<\/i> both,
\nWho the fuck are you?
\nStay with me now:
\nA Chinese Great Wall,
\nA Hadrian’s Wall,
\nA Berlin Wall,
\nA Mexican Border Wall,
\nPaid for, of course, by illegals
\nWho henceforth would pay Charon,
\nPay the ferryman to cross the Mersey,
\nThe wrong river but a huge hit for
\nGerry & The Pacemakers!<\/i><\/strong>,
\nThe key unlocking Music Box USA,
\nOpening it wide for Ringo & George,
\nPaul & John, listed in order of least pretense.
\nKnown collectively as The Insects<\/strong>,
\nOr something like that.
\nSnap outta it!<\/i><\/strong>
\nThe subject was Walls<\/i>.
\nImpenetrable barriers,
\nImpregnable fortresses.
\nBuilt by this self-selectee
\nCraving a bit of privacy,
\nPronounced: PRIV<\/strong><\/i>-acy
\nHere in Merry Olde England
\nTonight of all nights.
\n 
\n 
\nCRAZY JOE REVISITED
\n 
\nWe WOPs respect criminality,
\nParticularly when it\u2019s organized,
\nWhich explains why any of us
\nConcerned with the purity of our bloodline
\nHave such a difficult time
\nNavigating the river of respectability.
\nTo wit: JOEY GALLO<\/strong>.
\nWEB-BIO: (According to Bob Dylan)
\n\u201cBorn in Red Hook, Brooklyn in the year of who knows when,
\nOpened up his eyes to the tune of accordion.\u201d<\/i>
\n 
\n\u201cJoey\u201d Lyrics\/Send “Joey” Ringtone to your Cell
\n 
\nJoseph Gallo was a celebrated New York City gangster,
\nA made member of the Profaci crime family,
\nLater known as the Colombo crime family,
\nAlso known as “Joe the Blond.”
\nThat\u2019s right, CRAZY JOE!
\nOne time toward the end of a 10-year stretch,
\nAt three different state prisons,
\nIncluding Attica Correctional Facility in Attica, New York,
\nJoey was interviewed in his prison cell
\nBy a famous NY Daily News reporter named Joe McGinnis.
\nThe first thing the reporter sees?
\nOne complete wall of the cell is lined with books, a
\nGreen leather bound wall of Harvard Classics.
\nAfter a few hours mainly listening to Joey
\nWax eloquently about his life,
\nA narrative spiced up with elegant summaries,
\nOf classic Greek theory, Roman history,
\nNietzsche and other 19th Century German philosophers,
\nMcGinnis is completely blown away by Inmate Gallo,
\nBoth Joey\u2019s erudition and the power of his intellect,
\nThe reporter asks a question right outta
\nThe Discrete Charm of the Bourgeoisie:
\n\u201cMr. Gallo, I must say,
\nThe power of your erudition and intellect
\nIs simply overwhelming.
\nYou are a brilliant man.
\nYou could have been anything,
\nYour heart or ambition desired:
\nA doctor, a lawyer, an architect . . .
\nYet you became a criminal. Why?\u201d<\/i>
\nJoey Gallo: (turning his head sideways like Peter Falk or Vincent Donofrio, with a look on his face like Go Back to Nebraska, You Fucking Momo!)
\n\u201cUnderstand something, Sonny:
\nThose kids who grew up to be,
\nDoctors and lawyers and architects . . .
\nThey couldn\u2019t make it on the street.\u201d<\/i>
\n 
\nGallo later initiated one of the bloodiest mob conflicts,
\nSince the 1931 Castellammare War,
\nAnd was murdered as a result of it,
\nWhile quietly enjoying,
\nA plate of linguini with clam sauce,
\nAt a table, normally a serene table
\nAt Umberto\u2019s Clam House.
\nItalian Restaurant Little Italy – Umbertos Clam House (www.umbertosclamhouse.com)<\/a> In Little Italy New York City 132 Mulberry Street, New York City | 212-431-7545.
\nWhose current manager –in response to all restaurant critics–
\nHas this to say:
\n\u201cThey keep coming back, don\u2019t they?
\nThe joint is a holy shrine, for chrissakes!
\nI never claimed it was the food or the service.
\nGimme a fucking break, you momo!
\nI should ask my paisan, Joe Pesci
\nTo put your fucking head in a vise.\u201d<\/i>
\n 
\n 
\nGiuseppi Martino Buonaiuto is a former commissioned officer and veteran; employed later by one of the more obscure government clandestine services. He holds numerous graduate degrees including a Masters from the Kennedy School of Government, Harvard University. He is retired, splitting his time between two gated over-55 lunatic asylums, one in northern New Mexico and the other in southern California. He was born and raised in Brooklyn. His two children know him by another name. To read other work by Mr. Buonaiuto go here<\/a> and here<\/a> and here<\/a>.<\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nWendy Taylor Carlisle<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nIN THE\u2026
\n 
\nin the music room again\u2014
\nwe had a day today<\/i>, my father said\u2014
\nalthough this was a fact that altered nothing
\nand we always manage to cash in
\nsome of the other grandmother\u2019s stocks
\nand there\u2019s almost enough hot water
\nas we limp forward into next week.
\n 
\nIn the kitchen again\u2014
\nwe had a week this week<\/i>, he said
\nHe always chooses the one sure pain
\nto remark on so I concentrate
\non how to get rid of my unquiet toe
\nand my habits of stealing 7-11 necessities
\nand answering on the first chime.
\n 
\nIn the ballroom again\u2014
\nWe had a year this year<\/i>, dad said.
\nwe were only seldom hungry and
\nwe danced with the devil,
\na tall figure in a wool all-in-one
\nand every human need was just
\nan interrupted sneeze
\n 
\n 
\nBLOSSOM
\n 
\n\u201c\u2026old in a blossoming earth\u201d Robert Creeley
\n 
\nIn the south of my childhood, time passed
\nlike a plate of fried chicken. Grandmamma made
\nlard biscuits, cooked rashers of bacon, fried
\nlamb chops, presided over the hugging and sassing
\nand eating and telling and pulling of sticker burrs.
\nI looked to her for solace and solutions. She delivered
\naxioms and injunctions and was indifferent to the one
\nstrong chin hair that grew and then when plucked
\ngrew back, unkillable as a cockroach. How and why
\ndo someone\u2019s eyebrows grow both thin and wild?
\nIn the south of my childhood we knew our place
\nAnd kept it until, like grandmamma\u2019s, our strength of hand
\ndevolved to loss of grip as cans and silverware dropped
\naway from us like petals from a blossoming branch.
\n 
\n 
\nWendy Taylor Carlisle lives and writes in the Arkansas Ozarks. She is the author of two books, Reading Berryman to the Dog<\/i> and Discount Fireworks<\/i> (both Jacaranda Books.) Her most recent publication is Persephone on the Metro<\/i> (Mad Hat Books, 2014.) Her work is widely available on line and has been anthologized. For more information, check her website at wendytaylorcarlisle.com<\/a><\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRachel Caruso-Bryant<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nAL-BALAD
\n 
\nYou walk beside me in the
\nblack and white crowd.
\nWe keep our distance,
\nhands just brushing,
\nlike a first date,
\nsending tingles
\ndown my spine and beyond.
\nYou breathe a joke into my ear
\nand I want to kiss you
\n(on your mouth, chest, back, neck, forehead, hand) \u2013
\nthankful for the smile
\nyou gave me.
\nSo natural, instinctive,
\na kiss for a smile.
\nInstead I give you warmth
\nthat tingles and hums.
\nYour name
\nwet on my lips,
\nthe stroke of my right hand
\nsilently tracing your shoulder blade,
\nas I point to a date cart with my left.
\nWe match stride and move through
\nthobes<\/i>, sandals,
\nfruits, miswak<\/i>,
\nperfumes, gum Arabic.
\nClouds of oud<\/i>
\nenvelope us\u2014
\nbitter smoky sweet.
\nMy own black dress,
\nabaya<\/i>,
\nbillows around me,
\nfilled with the heat
\nI\u2019ve made for you.
\n 
\n 
\nRachel Caruso-Bryant is originally from Florida and is now an English language lecturer at a university in Saudi Arabia. She lives with her husband and three cats and travels the world whenever she gets the chance. Her poems have appeared in A Lonely Riot<\/i> and the Stark Poetry Journal<\/i>.<\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nAlan Catlin<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHE MAN FROM WORLD WAR ZERO
\n 
\n\u201cIt\u2019s not easy to simply lose a month.
\nBut I had experience. One way or another,
\nI\u2019d been losing bits of myself all my life.
\nIn increments….\u201d<\/i> Jack Taylor, The Emerald Lie
\n 
\nSlumped in the shadows of a no-license
\ndive, he was like an out of order jukebox,
\nthe lights still working but the machine
\nnot taking coins or dollar bills. Was a
\nmagnet for opiates, always one pill from
\nTrue North. Struck blind as Milton and Bach,
\nwithout the poetry or the fugues, and granted
\none last day of sight before the bombs fell,
\nhe focused on an event horizon presaging
\na nuclear winter in his mind. Reflexively
\nsought company among the dead souls
\ninside the Lower Depths, a juice bar for
\naddicts whose drink of choice killed mammals
\ntwice his size with a weaker constitution.
\nLeaning against the counter, he did not have
\nto place an order; they know what he needs.
\n 
\n 
\nAlan Catlin has been publishing for five decades, from the mimeos to the Internet. His latest full length book is American Odyssey from Future Cycle Press. He is a two finger typist; he is fast but prone to exasperating errors. <\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJan Chronister<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nASHES TO ASHES
\n 
\nMorphine clouded her last days.
\nShe bloated, lost her hair
\nrefused to discuss an obituary
\nhad a co-worker with a boat
\nagree to scatter her ashes
\non Lake Superior. I wear
\n 
\nthe pewter barrette she gave me.
\nIt may be in my hair when
\nI die, melt in the heat,
\nfuse with gold crowns, silver fillings
\nform a marble-size lump
\nin grainy gray ash. My son
\n 
\nas instructed, climbs the Brule
\nfire tower, tosses me downwind.
\nHe keeps the metal ball, welds it
\nto the backyard sculpture
\ncast by his friend who walked
\ninto water at Munising
\nand never came out.
\n 
\nThe sun filters through trees
\nbehind his house
\nglints off bronze waves
\nsurrounds me with sparks.
\n 
\n 
\nJan Chronister lives and writes in the woods near Maple, Wisconsin. Her chapbook Target Practice<\/i> was published in 2009 by Parallel Press at the University of Wisconsin. <\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nArs Cogitanda<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nYOUR NOW-EX-WOMAN’S BATHROOM MIRROR
\n 
\nSo you had a woman you were too stupid to stay nice to
\nyou end up on the couch after telling your dreams
\nof goth girls, black boots and eye goo, how you’d
\nlove to hump one, and you wonder why that now
\nex-woman-of-yours disparaged your nerdy IQ?
\n 
\nleave her alone, she don\u2019t want you back
\ntry the furby crowd you dickless wonder
\nyou could hide inside the skin of another
\nyou could pretend to be something you’re not
\npretend to be that inbetweener you imagine
\n 
\ngoth girls be like, with their kettle and black
\ndoorway to wonder. jeez, you are one stupid
\nmutherfucker. not realizing that you only want
\ngoth girls to ride, clomp-footed over their disdain
\nfor you, not realizing that you only want
\n 
\nblack leather and steel rings in noses
\nbecause you think your camus in french
\nis better than their attention to nerdcore.
\nyou hate them so much? Or just what
\nyou see in your now-ex-woman’s bathroom
\n 
\nmirror? Grow some gonads. Get a place
\nof your own and hammer the glass in your own house.
\nFind out what you really look like. And next time
\nyou get a woman to see you, try being in your own skin
\nand leave other people\u2019s the fuck alone.
\n 
\n 
\nWritten to \u201cgoth girls\u201d McFrontalot
\n 
\n 
\nBad-tempered and well educated with a sharp-edged, dry sense of humour, this misanthrope takes offense at overt signs of many of the \u2013isms and \u2013ities \u2013 even in love and sex. As such, performance poetry (spoken word) delights, because so much of it is about social justice in its manifold forms \u2013 even in sex and love. Also, in spoken word there is a good deal of room for a rude joke and an honest complaint. <\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nCorey D. Cook<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nINPATIENT
\n 
\nThe trees outside the window
\nare as familiar to me now
\n 
\nas the lean and weathered figures
\nin the black and white photo
\n 
\non my roommate\u2019s crowded hospital tray.
\nHis father, mother, uncles and aunts
\n 
\nin the summer of 1927.
\nImmigrants new to the country.
\n 
\nPosing on a grassy knoll.
\nHands behind their backs.
\n 
\nThe sun high above them.
\nShadows just starting to take root.
\n 
\n 
\nCorey D. Cook’s most recent chapbook, White Flag Raised, was published by Kattywompus Press in 2015 and is available for purchase online at kattywompuspress.com<\/a>. His work has recently appeared in Dime Show Review, Muddy River Poetry Review<\/i> and Yellow Chair Review<\/i>. New work is forthcoming in Chiron Review<\/i>. Corey edits Red Eft Review<\/i> and lives in Vermont. <\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJoe Cottonwood<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nRICH PEOPLE NEVER GET WET
\n 
\nThe weather report
\nhas one hitch:
\nIt never rains
\non the rich
\n 
\nYour water balloon will always miss
\nTheir lips are dry when they kiss
\nIn a flood they float yachts
\nIn the nose, no snots
\n 
\nWhen huddled masses lose all
\nslammed by tsunami
\nThe rich on high ground
\ndonate salami
\nPoint a hose at a rich woman,
\nshe will point you to jail
\n(and you will go there
\nwithout fail)
\n 
\nTheir roof never leaks
\nTheir grass has no dew
\nThe toilet won\u2019t clog
\nwith their poo
\n 
\nThe rich man is one lucky fella
\nA poor man like me
\nwill hold his umbrella
\n 
\n 
\nPOETRY WORKSHOP, NAPA STATE HOSPITAL
\n 
\nMe, a teacher of poetry, the idea is insane.
\nYet I\u2019m here once a week at the nuthouse. Oops. Hospital.
\nA lunch conversation with a nurse.
\n\u201cThat old guy, Russell, he seems so gentle,\u201d I say. \u201cSo normal.\u201d
\nRussell writes about hummingbirds.
\n\u201cIt\u2019s either here or prison,\u201d the nurse says.
\n\u201cOh,\u201d I say.
\nActually I\u2019m not allowed to ask about patients.
\n 
\nBut the nurse, now she\u2019s worked up.
\n\u201cRussell had custody of his granddaughter,\u201d the nurse says.
\n\u201cOh,\u201d I say.
\n\u201cThe mom died,\u201d the nurse says, \u201cwhen the baby was six months.\u201d
\nI say nothing.
\n\u201cTo call him a \u2018sex offender\u2019 sounds too clinical,\u201d the nurse says.
\n\u201cUm\u2026\u201d I say.
\n\u201cHe must\u2019ve bought Vaseline by the bucket,\u201d the nurse says.
\n\u201cHe fucked that baby every day,\u201d the nurse says.
\n\u201cThree hundred and sixty-four days a year,\u201d the nurse says.
\n\u201cChristmas, she got a holiday,\u201d the nurse says.
\n\u201cOh,\u201d I say, and I push my plate away.
\n 
\n\u201cSorry,\u201d the nurse says, \u201cI ruined your appetite.\u201d
\n\u201cNot your fault,\u201d I say.
\n\u201cI hate hummingbirds,\u201d the nurse says. \u201cI hate poetry.\u201d
\nI say nothing.
\n\u201cCan a poem be ugly?\u201d the nurse asks.
\nI reach for a fresh napkin, slide it across the tabletop.
\n\u201cIf a poem could kill,\u201d the nurse says, \u201cI\u2019d write one.\u201d
\nFrom my pocket, I hand her a pen.
\n 
\n 
\nJoe Cottonwood has worked most of his life as a carpenter, plumber, electrician. Nights, he writes. Published a bunch of novels, some for adults, some for children, did all right but never hit it big. To quote a Goodreads reviewer, \u201cHis writing is not mediocre.\u201d One book of poetry: Son of a Poet<\/i>. Also he\u2019s a podcaster \u2014 again, not mediocre. He lives in La Honda, California just a stone\u2019s throw from Ken Kesey\u2019s old cabin. <\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nPat Edwards<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nSAD TO MY DYING BONES
\n 
\nI did not want to become this woman
\nthe one who always jokes about it being
\neasy to get down to sit on the floor but
\nso much harder to get back up again<\/i>
\n(How they laughed)
\nI did not want to become this woman
\nthe one who people think won\u2019t get the joke
\nToo many modern references for her<\/i>
\n(How they laughed as she fell silent)
\nI did not want to become this woman
\nthe one who sweats and cries and forgets
\nI did not want to become this woman
\nthe one who cries and sweats (oh, and forgets)
\nI did not want to become this woman
\nthe one some respect and others ignore
\nI did not want to become this woman
\nthe one who dare not burst into a run
\ncannot climb or ski or jump or balance
\n(You sit this one out)
\nI did not want to become this woman
\nthe one who repeats the same old tales
\nthe one who moans about everything
\nthe one who watches other people kiss
\nI did not want to become this woman
\n 
\n 
\nPat Edwards is a writer, teacher and performer from Mid Wales. She has had work published on line and in anthologies, including in the Wenlock Poetry Festival Anthology 2016. Pat runs Verbatim open mic and the young writers’ group Off the Page. <\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMonica Flegg<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nNEW COLOR
\n 
\nHow tiresome highbrow reviews are
\nwith their perfect bindings and
\nblinding white mastheads.
\n 
\nMy mind doesn’t need to
\nwade through rivers of thick syllabled
\nsentences trying to sell me
\n 
\non simple ideas like:
\nwork affects our self esteem,
\nand expectation breeds
\n 
\nsuccess. I already have faith in
\nthose grains of mustard seed. Sell
\nme truth painted a new
\n 
\ncolor, like musky tangerine. Tell
\nme about quirky people; naked
\nand brawling in murky water.
\n 
\n 
\nINNER STATE
\n 
\nTomorrow
\nmy son turns
\n16.
\n 
\nI sleep
\nfitfully.
\nI nightmare
\nI’m driving, but
\nmy car operates
\nby
\nremote control.
\n 
\nFrantically
\nspinning the wheel,
\nI maneuver
\nnowhere.
\nI depress the
\nbrake; the
\ncar accelerates;
\n 
\nspasming
\nleft, then right, lunging
\nover rumble strips,
\ngrazing orange cones-
\na spandexed
\ncyclist. It
\njerks back
\non the pavement,
\nmy pulse is on crack.
\n 
\nI lurch awake
\nto the
\ninterstate
\nof reality, wet
\nwith sweat
\nsheets tangled
\naround me like a
\ncrumple zone.
\n 
\n 
\nMonica Flegg lives on Nantucket Island where she walks dogs of various breeds and reads poetry of all creeds. Her passions are words and water; she spends a lot of time submerged in both. Her writing has been published in numerous publications including; Ruminate, Unbroken<\/i> and the Yellow Chair Review<\/i>.<\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRobert Ford<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nWHY WE ARE NOT BIRDS YET
\n 
\nIt is not solely the weight of our bones,
\nand the seriousness of the marrow crowding
\ntheir cavities, leaving no room for air.
\n 
\nNor is it the sorry failure of our shoulders,
\ntoo pre-occupied with the burdens of
\nreason, guilt and all those things we\u2019d
\n 
\nprefer not to know, to ever operate wings.
\nWe may grow flight feathers, and knit them with
\nwax strong enough for orbiting the sun, because
\n 
\nwe are amazing, after all, especially to ourselves,
\nyet still we cannot circulate comfortably in
\nthree dimensions, even through the fine skin
\n 
\nof our atmosphere. Our attempts to do so will
\nultimately be the death of us. The only choice
\nwe have, if any, is how quickly to fall.
\n 
\n 
\nSON
\n 
\nIn my dreams last night he was cutting my hair for the first time,
\nas I sat bare-chested on a wooden stool at the centre of the kitchen.
\nHe floated tight orbits around me, circling like a welterweight,
\n 
\nfixed with raw concentration. The insect buzz of the electric clippers
\ntailed my ears as divots of grey thatch tumbled over my shoulders
\nand rolled to the floor. Either he was trying to make me look like him,
\n 
\nor the other way round. I couldn\u2019t know, and didn\u2019t dare leave my
\nuntethered hope alone \u2013 that he wouldn\u2019t simply make a fuck-up
\nof it all; my hair, his life, and every tiny detail in between.
\n 
\n 
\nRobert Ford lives on the east coast of Scotland. His poetry has appeared in both print and online publications in the UK and US, including Antiphon, Clear Poetry, Eunoia Review<\/i> and Gyroscope Review<\/i>. More of his work can be found at wezzlehead.wordpress.com<\/a>.<\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nAdele Fraser<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nFRESHMAN
\n 
\nThey’ll find her out soon enough,
\ndiscover she’s only a kid
\nand should not be taken seriously,
\nlet alone permitted to wander
\nthrough this unfamiliar city
\nwithout her parents by her side.
\n 
\nWhen the man stops her,
\nstepping in front of her,
\nblocking the pavement,
\nhe seems like her own invention,
\na projection of her imagination,
\nexternalising something
\nwhich she cannot find a name for.
\n 
\nShe does not see the cigarette
\nhe’s holding; she’s too caught up
\nin how young her reflection appears
\nin his eyes, as he demands
\nher submission to interrogation,
\nrequires a satisfactory answer
\nto a very pressing question:
\n‘Have you got a right?’
\n 
\n 
\nAdele Fraser lives and writes in the mountains of Snowdonia, Wales, UK. Her work has been published widely, both online and in-print. <\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nBill Frayer<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nSTRESS CONNECTION
\n 
\nI walk to the back of my empty classroom. I come upon a blue ball point pen, chewed at the top, carelessly forgotten on the table by some student who chomped on it to relieve the stress of returning to college despite the cold stares of an abusive husband who expects his dinner cooked every night, his life just as always, except he has lost his job working in the wire factory which closed because a Chinese woman will work for smaller wages to manufacture similar wire even though she struggles to find rice and some meat to put into the bowls for her children and her father who still remembers Mao\u2019s reeducation camps where he was not allowed to read Balzac or Tolstoy so now he is happy to live in a dry house and help his grandson, who has a learning disability and has trouble with his homework. His mother finds his pen, chewed relentlessly, on the kitchen table after he has gone to bed.
\n 
\n 
\nDETRITUS
\n 
\nWalking down the windswept street
\non an early-morning walk with my little dog
\nhe stops to smell a used condom on the sidewalk.
\nI wonder how it arrived at this spot.
\nWas it tossed from a car window
\nafter a late-night rendezvous in the back seat?
\nProbably too young to have an available bedroom
\nbut responsible enough to use protection
\nbut careless enough to leave it here
\nwhere a child might find it.
\n 
\nLater I find the tissue lightly stained with blood
\nleft in an antique dresser\u2026
\n 
\nThe next day, I examine the graffiti love note
\nleft in red paint under the bridge by the river\u2026
\n 
\nI remember one old shoe dangling by a lace
\nfrom the jacaranda tree
\non a cobblestone street in Mexico\u2026
\n 
\nCreating stories to fill the blank spaces
\nbetween the small bits of life
\ncluttering lonesome spaces.
\nSo easy to ignore each piece of flotsam left
\nby the shipwreck of an anonymous life,
\nmissing, perhaps,
\na dim window into a vivid untold story?
\n 
\n 
\nBill Frayer is a retired community college English instructor. He divides his time between Maine and Mexico. He is an active member of the Maine Poets Society and is actively involved in a number of expat writers groups in the Guadalajara area. Since 2008, he has written a regular column for the Mexican English language monthly, El Ojo del Lago<\/i>. He has published four volumes of poetry and has had his poems published in Magnapoets, The Haiku News, El Ojo del Lago, the Lake Chapala Review, Stanza<\/i>, and in the Spirit First anthology, Moments of the Soul<\/i>.<\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMajda Gama<\/strong>
\n 
\nAVATARS
\nYour cat came out of the moist
\nMiddle Eastern night, it walked
\nyou up to my feet and sat.
\n 
\nI held his oil black body
\narms wrapped, murmured \u201cbaby\u201d
\nwhispered more words.
\n 
\nMy cat ran to the door every
\nmorning to eat with him, to catch
\nthe time of cool heat over tiles.
\n 
\nMy cat listened to him call
\nat night, his howls scraping
\nthe marble walls of our villa.
\n 
\nMy cat wanted out.
\n 
\nMy cat sought yours
\nin the acceptable twilight
\nof prayer calls and night markets.
\n 
\nYour cat could be found
\nwhen he wanted to be found,
\nmy cat sprawled at his feet.
\n 
\n 
\nMajda Gama is a Saudi-American poet based near Washington, DC where she has roots as a DJ and activist. Her poems have appeared in Beloit Poetry Journal, Gargoyle, Hunger Mountain, Mizna<\/i> and are forthcoming from Duende, The Fairy Tale Review<\/i> and Rising Phoenix Press<\/i>. <\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nPatricia Goodman<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHE HIGH PRICE OF SPERM
\n 
\nWe saw them every day; the women
\ncarrying water on their heads, firewood
\non their backs, a child in one arm,
\na child in hand and one trailing
\nbehind. The men carried
\nnothing but a spear.
\n 
\nWhen I asked our Zimbabwe hunting guide,
\nWhat\u2019s up with that?<\/i>
\nhe replied, The man needs his hands free
\nto carry the spear\u2014to defend his family. That\u2019s
\nhis most important job.<\/i>
\n 
\nI thought, Really! A man couldn\u2019t drop the damned
\nfirewood if he needed his hands?<\/i>
\nAnd the women ask nothing else of them;
\ndon\u2019t care if they sit on their haunches
\nbrushing their teeth with fraying sticks
\ninstead of helping gather corn, feed dogs,
\nwatch the kids.
\n 
\nThis became a family joke. When my husband
\nsat reading, waiting for dinner,
\nI accused him of
\ncarrying the spear.<\/i>
\n 
\nAnd now there is a robin that all day, all season
\nflies at my windows, trying to scare off
\nimagined intruders, while his mate
\nbuilds the nest, warms the eggs,
\nfeeds the chicks.
\n 
\nAnd I bet he leaves the seat up.
\n 
\n 
\nHALLELUJAH
\nafter Leonard Cohen<\/i>
\n 
\nI don\u2019t believe in a god
\nwho\u2019s up there pressing
\nlike<\/i> or dislike<\/i> on a computer,
\nbut I believe in doves,
\nholy or not, their wings
\nwhistling as they commute
\nfrom tree to lawn. I believe
\nthe creek is cold and lonely
\nbut its current will carry me
\nto sea, and I believe
\nin the power of music
\nto lift me through the
\nmarble arch, to bathe me
\nin the beauty of moonlight,
\nto help me find
\nthat secret chord.
\n 
\n 
\nPatricia L. Goodman is a widowed mother and grandmother and a graduate of Wells College with a degree in Biology and membership in Phi Beta Kappa. She spent her career raising, training and showing horses with her orthodontist husband, on their farm in Chadds Ford, Pennsylvania. She now lives in northern Delaware, where she enjoys writing, singing, birding, gardening and spending time with her family. Many of her poems have been published in both print and online journals, and anthologies and she was the 2013 and 2014 winner of Delaware Press Association\u2019s Communications Contest in poetry. Her first full-length book of poetry Closer to the Ground<\/i>, was a finalist in the Dogfish Head Poetry Contest, and was published in August, 2014 by Main Street Rag Publishing Company. In 2015 she received her first Pushcart nomination. Much of her inspiration comes from the natural world she loves. For more of Patricia\u2019s work in Rat\u2019s Ass Review, check out the Love & Ensuing Madness collection. <\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nBeverley Harvey<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nNIGHT FEEDING
\n 
\nIn an airless room
\nshe sits holding
\nthe weight of obligation
\nwhile the burden of love
\ncarries her through
\n 
\nParasite and blessing, both
\na bed that has been made
\nand now must be lain upon
\nshe remembers who she used to be
\nbut cannot be who she was before
\n 
\nNo one else can feel the way
\nshe feels about the tiny scrap
\nof mewling damp and need
\nher island in the dark
\na jail without a key
\n 
\n 
\nBeverley Harvey is a corporate copywriter, aspiring author and former Public Relations professional. Living south of London, England, Beverley has written one novel; a work of contemporary fiction: Seeking Eden<\/a> which will publish in June 2017. She has written numerous poems on love, sex, flora and fauna, because what else is there? Philosophy: taste every art form \u2013 it\u2019s all that separates us from ants. More about Beverley Harvey here <\/a>.<\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nGeorge Held<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nA SIDE-ARM
\n 
\nAfter the Colt .45 and the .357 Magnum
\nhad knocked me on my ass, and even the snub-
\nnosed Smith & Wesson .38 had made my hand
\nwaver like a pussy willow in a breeze
\nand my shots had hit far from the bull\u2019s-eye,
\nmy dad gave me a .22 target pistol
\nto practice with at the far end of the shooting
\nrange, where his son wouldn\u2019t embarrass him.
\n 
\nFor Christmas I received a festively-wrapped gift
\nheavy as a brick but big as a Whitman sampler,
\nand with my parents raptly watching, I unwrapped
\nand opened the box and felt my heart throb.
\nLying there in a bed of cotton was a gorgeous
\nMauser .25 automatic pistol,
\nits barrel gleaming, the inlaid wood handle
\na rich brown contrast to the cool blued steel.
\n 
\nOn the firing range we consummated our union:
\nI steadied the gun and placed the whole clip
\ninside the third circle. At night I slept on my left
\nside, my right hand enclosing the hard metal.
\nOn hot summer nights, it cooled my touch;
\nin winter, my hand slowly warmed the barrel.
\nYears later I recalled this infatuation
\nafter I\u2019d found my dad dead, his snub-nosed
\n 
\n.38 hanging from his hand.
\nThough my father fumed,
\nmy afternoons at the range gave way to
\nrehearsals for school plays and baseball practice.
\nSoon I\u2019d abandoned the madness of target practice,
\nstowing the knowledge I could handily deal
\ndeath with a side-arm.
\nYears later, investigating
\nthe suicide, detectives found my Mauser
\nin Dad\u2019s shoebox and consigned it
\n 
\nto the precinct gun locker. I\u2019d need a permit
\nto own that faded pistol. But a simpatico
\ndetective told me how to fill out
\nan application for a permit to retrieve
\nthe Mauser, which now lies inside a box
\nin my lower desk drawer.
\n 
\n 
\nGeorge Held’s work appears regularly both online and in print, in such places as Home Planet News Online, Lummox, Spring: The Journal of the E.E. Cummings Society<\/i>, and Right Hand Pointing<\/i>. He’s received 8 Pushcart nominations but no prizes. His recent chapbook is Bleak Splendor<\/i> (Muddy River Books, 2016). <\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRobin Helweg-Larsen<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nHOBO
\n 
\nCome you young gunsel and sit by my fire of old skids.
\nThey don\u2019t like you in school, not the teachers and not other kids.
\nYou\u2019re different, I know it, you\u2019re wise in that body of yours
\nthat has grown past their rules and your parents\u2019 commandments and chores.
\nHave a smoke, have a drink, you can tell me of pills that are new.
\nHere you\u2019re safe in the open, I\u2019m staying a night, maybe two.
\nWe can share all you want, for the sadness you know I have known,
\nand the paths that you fear are the strictures that I have outgrown
\nand the dreams in your mind I now live on the paths that I roam,
\nfor the life that I live is a life where the world is my home.
\nSo go home, go to school, and come back in the evening again.
\nI\u2019ll be here for a while, until I get on the next train
\nand you\u2019ll stay, more mature, and experienced in a new world –
\nor you\u2019ll come on that train, and you\u2019ll see the whole country unfurled –
\nand you\u2019ll end up like me, and your friends will be such as you were.
\n 
\n 
\nRobin Helweg-Larsen’s poetry has mostly been published in the UK, but also in Love & Ensuing Madness, 14 by 14, The Lyric, Unsplendid, The Hypertexts, The Rotary Dial, the Phoenix Rising sonnet anthology<\/i>, etc. British-born but Caribbean-raised, he is retiring from business in the US to his home town of Governor’s Harbour on Eleuthera, Bahamas. For more of Robin\u2019s work in Rat\u2019s Ass Review, check out the Spring\/Summer 2016 issue, and the Love & Ensuing Madness collection. <\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJustin Hilliard<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nACCIDENT REPORT #649
\n 
\nMy vision is cloudy and I can\u2019t seem to
\nfind the words for this poem
\ni\u2019m not high, nor drunk
\nbut feel it
\nI\u2019m not catatonic,
\nbut
\nfeel it
\nI do my job
\nand run to the bank with
\na paycheck to
\npay the cable bill
\n 
\nI\u2019m not involved in a car accident
\nbut
\nfeel it
\n 
\ncarrie cries on the phone
\nI understand it\u2019s awful I say
\n 
\nBut now being asked to recount
\nWhat she said
\nI can\u2019t,
\ni can\u2019t
\nfeel it
\n 
\nI probably loved her but 20 years passed
\nand I can\u2019t remember her face
\nand when they ask me to recount
\nwhat she said
\nthat night
\nwhile she wept, and I listened
\nand paid the cable bill online
\n 
\ndad, did you actually know carrie? My son
\nwill say
\nand I will respond, I think so
\nisn\u2019t she the girl
\nwho took her dad\u2019s sedan
\nand, he said
\nbut I stopped listening
\n 
\nI can\u2019t
\ni can\u2019t
\nfeel it
\n 
\n 
\nJustin Hilliard reads and writes along the beaches of his native sunshine state, where he also edits his literary journal The Chaotic Review. You can find his recently published or forthcoming poetry in Dime Show Review, Eunoia Review, Amaryllis,<\/i> among others.<\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nOliver Hutton<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nSIFNOS
\n 
\nTeresa, bare-breasted, sits over me
\nand peels grapes and places them on my tongue;
\nI lie on a chaise longue, robe spilt around my modesty,
\nand chew and swallow them one by one.
\nTeated fruit blocks my view to the sea,
\nbut the waves are ample invitation,
\nSounding with cicadas in backing symphony …
\nI rise and walk over to the balcony.
\n 
\nTerraced hillsides dotted with olive tree,
\ndrystone walls, a crumbling watch tower,
\nwhitewash cubes, a local donkey,
\nwhitewash chapels belling every hour;
\nfigs fermenting on paths with rosemary,
\nthyme, pine, fuchsia bougainvillea;
\na boat in the deep with a wake like a comet,
\nand infinite blue rising up to the summit.
\n 
\nA cock crows. Or is it a hen?
\nI think it time to lie down again.
\n 
\n 
\nOliver Hutton’s work has also appeared in Clementine Poetry Journal<\/i> and Clementine Unbound<\/i>. Otherwise, he is a UK-qualified shipping lawyer living and working in Greece. <\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nNancy Iannucci<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nDIGGUM
\nYou stood a fixed mountain
\nin Radagast\u2019s muddy coat & hat-
\nstone gusts struck your pockets black
\n& they bled, bled petals & sepals.
\nKids sneered as they aimed hitting your
\nhands while you dug in deep, digging to
\nfeel the flowers as sick perverts do.
\n 
\nThey called you Diggum<\/i>.
\n 
\nYou swayed like a willow dropping
\npetals from your pants at the intersection
\nof Maple & Post, just when school let out.
\nYou watched civilization in an Alice delirium
\nas cars rubbernecked to see your sideshow.
\nCrossing guards ushered children away
\nbut I broke free.
\nI followed you walking alongside
\nthe shadows that clawed the wood.
\nDid you see me, Diggum?
\nDid you hear tiny steps snap twigs?
\nO, how I wanted to know, wanted
\nto see & when I saw you swaying deep
\nin the wood I understood.
\n 
\nkneeling before a lone stone marker,
\ngroping a pocket for petals,
\nyou carried this load to your Beloved Son-<\/i>
\na vacant title etched & exposed- your
\nname lost under a moss\u2019s rug of green-
\nbut am I any better than the stone throwers?
\nIn telling your tale with dolor,
\n 
\nI call you Diggum<\/i>.
\n 
\n 
\nNancy Iannucci is a historian who teaches history and lives poetry in Troy, NY. Her work is forthcoming\/or published in numerous publications including Bop Dead City, Gargoyle, Amaryllis, Typehouse Literary Magazine, Rose Red Review, Love & Ensuing Madness (RAR), Three Drops from a Cauldron<\/i>, and her poem, HOWLING, won Yellow Chair Review\u2019s<\/i> Rock the Chair Challenge. <\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nCraig Knox<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nWORD
\nFor Marvin Day<\/i>
\n 
\nYou make sure your two-hour friends
\nfeel at home get something to eat
\nwater (no lemon) coffee light and sweet
\n 
\nAlways aim to please as you hustle
\nnever forget a customer\u2019s face
\nHandle drunks and wayward souls
\nsteady like your tray
\n 
\nYou took your apprenticeship seriously
\nstudied from the two legends
\nHarry who practically built the place
\nBat who was there 50 years
\n 
\nSlap the calories out of chocolate pecan pie
\neven when it\u2019s chilly in Gentilly
\nTell \u2018em about the chocolate freeze
\nChocolate shake on steroids but that don\u2019t do it justice
\n 
\nChili cheese omelette
\nspicy and savory and salty
\nyou just got to try it
\nMight as well eat the whole thing everyone here dying anyways
\n 
\nGive everyone a smile
\nlet them know you both on the same page
\nWord – the waiters say it to show a message is understood
\nNothing written down everything spoken
\n 
\nAfter Katrina someone left
\npen and Post-it pad outside
\nCome-back-soons covered windows exterior walls doors
\nMost of them for you
\n 
\nWord where are you
\nLaura says hi + word<\/i>
\nNow the Post-its are inside the Camellia
\nframed in the shape of Alabama\u2019s state flower
\n 
\nThere you are up on that wall too
\npainted next to Bat and Harry
\nbumping fists and saying hello
\nin art as in life
\n 
\nFood\u2019s been the subject of too many portraits already
\nArcimboldo, Fruit Basket<\/i>
\nCezanne, Un Coin de Table<\/i>
\nAertsen, Butcher\u2019s Stall with the Flight into Egypt<\/i>
\n 
\nAll of them need more fist bumping
\n 
\n 
\nDAILY
\nfor R.A.<\/i>
\n 
\nWe stand sorting for hours, side by side at long wooden tables
\ncolor-coded bags then boxes, toxic air punctuated only with
\ncomments on genitalia or yeah, that guy\u2019s a real asshole. <\/i>
\n 
\nAll that vocabularies are good for at this hour.
\n 
\nOur years of experience, professional skills,
\npersonal networks aren\u2019t worth shit. God fucks us daily.
\n 
\nLater tonight you will tell me about this strip club
\nnear Paterson, how we got to go one night. <\/i>
\n 
\nLater today or tomorrow I will drink from a 40
\nin gulps behind the shed, watch the sun rise or set,
\nmy equilibrium off. If I can be honest for a while
\nthis will happen daily. Later this summer
\nI will go to an Irish bar with an idiot, meet a girl
\nwho will want only to never speak to me again.
\n 
\nI won\u2019t know that yet. I will cover you after your
\naccident, protect your route so you don\u2019t lose
\nmoney you need, your last crumb of heritage, your property.
\n 
\nI will circle blocks at low speed four hours daily, thirty-seven godawful days,
\nmonotony soundtracked by hardcore, Gypsy jazz, black metal,
\nthe occasional satisfying thwap against a garage door.
\n 
\nAfter the accident, I will visit you at home. Your recliner will be
\nbandages, scars, overpriced pain meds you take three times
\ndaily. Sandi will cling to your side like a stupid blonde puppy.
\n 
\nYou will yell at her, Get the fuck out, my buddy\u2019s here,
\nwe\u2019re try\u2019na watch Everybody Loves Raymond. <\/i>
\nI will cringe and try to change the channel.
\n 
\nThis is where I will stop now. I re-read it again,
\ndied peacefully at home, <\/i> words I will remember
\nuntil I forget. How we all want to go when our bodies
\nfail, done in by our bad hearts, years of strip club drinking,
\novereating, bad luck, denial, the sea change of life.
\n 
\nOur past selves both dead a few years,
\nI miss us like hell but I am grateful daily.
\n 
\n 
\nCraig Knox is a former deliveryman and traveling pizza salesman who found poetry through Etheridge Knight’s “Hard Rock Returns to Prison from the Hospital for the Criminal Insane.” He is a New Jersey native and currently an MFA candidate at Rutgers-Camden. <\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRobert Krantz<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nAL\u2019S OLDS AND AN AMBULANCE
\n 
\ni.
\n 
\n\u201cWhen you are old
\nYou will stretch out your hands<\/i>
\n 
\nIf anyone loves
\nLeaves of Grass<\/i>
\nwritten on the silver foil
\nof the Camel’s soft pack
\nloves the lists and tongues
\ndraws it in entirely
\nand understands
\nthat sometimes
\nthe soft crinkled whisper
\nof your doctor-swiped
\nprescription pad
\nsounds like scurrying
\nwhite mice feet
\n 
\nii.
\n 
\nand someone else
\nwill dress you<\/i>
\n 
\nthen maybe this time your mother
\nwon’t get shitfaced on Jameson
\nand pig-nose her Kia
\ninto the furrow
\nthat runs along Saint Stephen\u2019s Drive
\nif we remember anything
\nif we can learn
\nor unlearn anything\u2014there is hope
\n 
\niii.
\n 
\nand lead you<\/i>
\n 
\nonly now I am driving Al\u2019s brown Oldsmobile
\nthrough town
\npast his childhood home
\nhe\u2019s at the door
\nshirtless, lean and bleeding
\nlike a Diaz brother
\nstanding with his cut-man mother
\n 
\niv.
\n 
\nwhere you do not want to go. <\/i>\u201d *
\n 
\nPeter\u2019s hands are
\ntwo leather catcher\u2019s mitts
\nbut they\u2019re warm butter against
\nmy milk toast shoulders
\nthis makes the barely perceptible steer
\ntowards the idling van
\nsomehow satisfactory
\neven bidden
\n 
\n*Jesus speaking to Peter
\n 
\n 
\nRobert T. Krantz graduated from the University of Akron, OH with a BA in English. His individual works have appeared in Gargoyle, Wilderness House Literary Review, Pittsburgh Poetry Review<\/i> and others. Bitterzoet Press recently published two chapbooks of Robert\u2019s work (Plus 4 and Hansel) and he is currently pursuing the MFA in Poetry at University of Arkansas-Monticello. He makes his living as an industrial sales engineer in the Midwest. <\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nSarah Krenicki<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nLEGACY
\n 
\ni.
\n 
\nHe took a plane to Vegas one night when everyone was asleep,
\ntumbled through the bright lights and shadows of his family\u2019s secrets,
\nmoney pouring from every orifice;
\nworthless paper spilling onto the floors of casinos
\nand racetracks into people’s greedy hands.
\n 
\nHe took the elevator to the 46th floor,
\nwhere you could see the entire world
\nthrough a haze of neon and rising heat;
\neverything rushing and rushing
\nthe lights the sounds the voices twisting into silence-
\nsilence just as beautiful as he\u2019d thought-
\n 
\nWhen they found him on the pavement
\nhalf his face wasn\u2019t recognizable-
\nbut the other half was curved into a smile.
\n 
\nii.
\n 
\nThey told her this when she was thirteen,
\nand she spent the next decade of her life
\nsitting under the shower, thinking about that smile-
\nA body tumbling in slow motion
\nthe idea of happiness.
\n 
\n 
\nSarah Krenicki works in marketing by day and is a writer by late evening. She has a BA in English and a BFA in creative writing from Green Mountain College and lives in the woods with her fiance and a particularly fluffy cat. Her work has appeared in Amygdala, Barking Sycamores<\/i>, and Gemini Magazine<\/i>.<\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nNadja Krylov<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHE CRANES ARE FLYING
\n 
\nThe city orchestra, forced into the role of marching band for an invading army, is blaring, the music and pounding feet vibrating her chest with irregular jolts. Eugenia struggles to keep up with the bodies, hundreds of young people jostling down the broad avenue toward the cattle cars.
\n 
\nEugenia is seventeen, light, fine-boned, graceful, with wavy chestnut hair. Her gray-blue eyes are concentrated on the red hair of the young man ahead. She is in the middle of the unsteady column of rows, fifteen bodies wide. The left heel of her brown lace-up shoes, what she was wearing when she was caught, is wobbling as she stumbles over the dirty ice, one shoelace beginning to loosen. With no gloves, she tries to keep her fists tucked into her sleeves.
\n 
\nMaria, her friend, is hanging on to Eugenia\u2019s elbow. Maria is short, pale and sickly, and pulls down so hard Eugenia fears for her shoulder, but her greater fear is slowing down, the row behind them pressing in. The gray-clad, helmeted soldiers in either side of the column shout at them over the din of the brass, waving them forward with gun barrels.
\n 
\nThe orchestra strikes up a popular song, adding march-like extra beats to the melody to cover their subversion. The song is about the cranes, the white birds, returning from the south after a long winter. They seem to be sending the marchers a wish, a hope that their young people return to the city someday. Hot tears stream down Eugenia\u2019s numb face. She fights to keep her vision clear. She risks stumbling to throw a glance back and cries \u201cOh God! We\u2019re being trampled!\u201d She means she and Maria will be trampled before they reach the cattle cars bound for mines, factories and farms of the invaders. She means that this street, with the pastry shop, the Theater Caf\u00e9 where they danced on the lantern-ringed verandas on warm summer evenings was being trampled. She means the green rolling hills, the gracious winding streets, the fruit stands and wrought iron balconies that overlook them, with their call-and-response of complex scents \u2013 of fruits and teas, of lilacs and bougainvillea, are being trampled. She also means the meadows, the apple, pear and peach orchards, the ponds, patrolled by snow-white, tangerine-footed geese, the dogs and children chasing them are being trampled.
\n 
\nReach out and comfort this child! And forgive her for trusting an old neighbor with the news that her parents had agreed, after she begged them to do this, to hide her teacher in their shed, the teacher of the wrong religion and the wrong ethnicity.
\n 
\n 
\nNadja Krylov was born in Germany a DP (displaced person) of a Russian forced laborer mother and Russian prisoner of war father. Her first language is Russian, second is German, but she considers English her native language. She has worked in politics, in business, as a trainer and workshop leader (moved to Russia for seventeen years, from 1992 until 2009) and now live with her husband in Iowa City, IA. Nadja has taken a number of courses from the Writers Studio in New York and at the Iowa Writers workshop. She likes to write just about anything, but has only been paid to write non-fiction. <\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nLouise Larchbourne<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nPETRIFIED
\nWritten in response to a detail from a relief of the army of the Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius sacking a German village. A Roman soldier grasps at the hair of a woman fleeing, who holds a child by the wrist.<\/i>
\n 
\nNo pastoral, this, but you are stone for now.
\nAnd still unravished by the Latin brute.
\nNor will the rough ground, yesterday your home,
\nbecome a weapon, bashing jaw and temples.
\nDid you ask,
\n\u2018Can I be turned to stone, oh, all you gods?\u2019,
\nthose German high-ups who\u2019d deserted you,
\nleft their posts, bored, maybe, or made a deal
\nwith others, more grandiloquent, for whom
\nyour people\u2019s agony was a shoulder\u2019s twitch,
\ngrim smile as cup was drained.
\nNow, there you are,
\nimmortal, yes, and fostered by what silences;
\nguilty, complicit, simply ennuyeux?
\n 
\nThe time you laughed so hard the men stared round.
\nYou sitting in the sun, the other women
\nlaughing as well, or grinning and then later
\nspeaking about it to their families.
\nOr that first night, the newness of his thighs,
\nskin hard as sea grass on them, between yours;
\nhis mineral chest
\npressing your breasts at last;
\na solid angel.
\nOr the way you\u2019ve run
\nfaster as Karl\u2019s grown older; hiding, laughing from the grass;
\nmaking days heavens for your son,
\nuntil the day he\u2019d be with you no more.
\n 
\nThat day has come
\nand it is only this.
\nThe hair the brute will never yank right back,
\nthe blade he doesn\u2019t show.
\nYour child\u2019s small hands;
\nand that\u2019s the most, your son remains
\nunhurt for ever, next to you for ever.
\n 
\nIt is this agony of dread,
\nthe hell pit buried in a mother\u2019s mind \u2013
\nall that\u2019s forever pulsing in this stone
\nand ricocheting at the rubberneckers
\nlike me, remembering when my son was new,
\nthe calculation
\nwhat I should do if I was attacked with him.
\nHow would I save him and preserve myself?
\nWho could I throw him to? There were no gods
\nin Tufnell Park\u2026
\n 
\nYour ecstasy, your stand beyond yourself,
\nthe moment when the everything you\u2019ve lived
\nclenches together in a fierce cold fist,
\npunches you down and opens empty,
\ngrey and empty. There is just the boy \u2013
\nThis lyre, your heart, echoes beyond the stone.
\n <\/p>\n

\"larchbourne-louise-sack-of-german-town\"<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

(image by Louise Larchbourne)<\/center>
\n 
\n 
\nEARTHWASH
\n 
\nThe family is coming through this green,
\nlight from a copper moon, it bathes the woman,
\nwho bends a little, watchful of the boy,
\nher face attentive, sensuous; she knows him
\nalready. He\u2019s still small, but won\u2019t be held,
\neven by her, in earthy ways his maker.
\n 
\nThis comes so beautifully from its maker
\nto me; I notice firstly all that green,
\nfor which a poplar fell. Buonarroti held
\na brush freighted with soot, to trace this woman
\nwhose youth, intelligence, leap to us from him.
\nThe man, much fainter, bends to restrain the boy.
\n 
\nBut she has him, and John, the elder boy,
\ngripped by the wrist, watching the troublemaker,
\nperhaps a bit jealous \u2013 \u201cI can\u2019t be like him.\u201d
\nHe too, though, growing fast \u2013 not really green
\nin any sense \u2013 he shares with the young woman
\ncare, pride \u2013 responsibility well held.
\n 
\nWhat sense in this quick sketch is keenly held?
\nMust all surrender to this tiny boy?
\nI keep returning to the tall sweet woman
\nwho holds it all, no everyday homemaker,
\ndressed as in smoke, in Venus\u2019s colour, green \u2013
\nshe is the key, through her people pour to him.
\n 
\nIs that what the painter meant, that we reach him
\nthrough looking at these marks, an illusion held?
\nWas there a reason why you selected green,
\nthis earth wash, emphasizing the brand new boy
\nwhose energy promised a new kind of maker?
\nYet whose earth pattern came straight from a woman?
\n 
\nI look at her and love her, sexy woman
\nand serious, funny too, firm holding him.
\nHe must have known her well, this picture\u2019s maker,
\nfor her to be so deeply, dearly held
\nas human, powerful, strong enough for this boy,
\npainted with woodsmoke on poplar wood, all green.
\n 
\nThe family group in green, around this woman,
\nfollows the straining boy, all focused on him,
\nbecause he held the world, really its maker.
\n 
\nOn The Virgin and Child with Saint Joseph and the young Saint John the Baptist<\/i>, attributed to Michelangelo Buonarroti<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nLouise Larchbourne is also an actor, an editor, and a sometime lexicographer. First published a long time ago in the West Midlands, as a \u2018local poet\u2019 in Birmingham she explored the distinctions between poetry for reading and poetry for performance. She was one of the poets invited to contribute to the new anthology For Jeremy Corbyn<\/i>. One of her poems is included in the collection The Very Best of 52<\/i> and another in the newly published Oxford Backroom Poets\u2019 anthology, Infinite Riches<\/i>. She is on the editorial team of The Fat Damsel<\/i>, and runs \u2018Ekphrasis Poetry at the Museum\u2019, a series of themed readings in situ of selected work inspired by exhibits at the Ashmolean in Oxford. She has a trullo in Puglia. <\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMary Leonard<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nANATOMY OF BERLIN
\n 
\nI wander through streets of Mitte:
\nOranienberg Strasse\u2003\u2003Grosse Hamburger
\nStrasse and find Berlin’s soul in a Vietnamese
\ncafe\u2003\u2003incense and Jasmine tea
\n 
\nNirvana for my angst<\/i>
\n 
\nThe young waiter tells me his life story
\nwithout speaking English. I tell mine
\nwithout speaking German. We point to maps,
\nto calendars on the wall, to each other
\n 
\nCome visit\u2003\u2003bring lemongrass\u2003Buddha<\/i>
\n 
\nI find the heart of Berlin in Caf\u00e9 Oren,
\nnext to the Neue Synagogue, the old destroyed
\non Kristallnacht. Escape into my coffee mitt schlag,
\nstare at the German police parading up and down
\n 
\nProtecting the Jews today<\/i>
\n 
\nI stroll along the River Speer, the sky grey
\nthe city black with white towers, a mix of steel and glass
\nlooming like replaced hips and thighs. I want to dig
\nunder the corners of these streets, to unearth
\n 
\nLayers of bones<\/i>
\n 
\nI find an art gallery in an abandoned factory,
\nimagine the whirr of sewing machines, see thousands
\nof SS uniforms sewn like steel. Hear Nazi boots
\nstamping like gun shots. I button my coat, pull up my hood
\n 
\nShiver from fear<\/i>
\n 
\nWander in and out of exhibits of young
\nartists who swagger videos of East and West.
\nI trip over a sculpture of arranged chips
\nof the Wall on the worn wood floor
\n 
\nTechno sound sizzles<\/i>
\n 
\nI hold out my hands, raise my shoulders,
\n“Krautrock,<\/i>” The young artist then asks,
\n“You are from? <\/i>” “Ich bin ein Berliner.”
\nHe laughs. “Come here tonight. <\/i>”
\n <\/p>\n

Berghain A Weekend Party A place of Wonder<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

Edited by Roderick Bates<\/p>\n<\/h5>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n

RAT’S ASS REVIEW FALL-WINTER ISSUE 2016 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED<\/p>\n<\/h4>\n

 
\n 
\n 
\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

      Helen Burke is a poet turned artist; her work has exhibited in the UK and France; she currently has an exhibition in Leeds, England. Her art can be seen on krazyphils.com and origamipoems.com; she designs greeting cards and fabric and likes to work in acrylic, mixed-media, collagraph, and water colour. Helen’s new […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":2269,"parent":0,"menu_order":27,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-2268","page","type-page","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry"],"yoast_head":"\nFall-Winter 2016 Issue -<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=2268\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Fall-Winter 2016 Issue -\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"      Helen Burke is a poet turned artist; her work has exhibited in the UK and France; she currently has an exhibition in Leeds, England. Her art can be seen on krazyphils.com and origamipoems.com; she designs greeting cards and fabric and likes to work in acrylic, mixed-media, collagraph, and water colour. 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Her art can be seen on krazyphils.com and origamipoems.com; she designs greeting cards and fabric and likes to work in acrylic, mixed-media, collagraph, and water colour. Helen’s new […]","og_url":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=2268","article_publisher":"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/groups\/82218108785","article_modified_time":"2026-02-04T22:12:16+00:00","og_image":[{"width":768,"height":1024,"url":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/11\/Burke-Helen-4-views-of-Dylan-768x1024.jpg","type":"image\/jpeg"}],"twitter_misc":{"Est. reading time":"88 minutes"},"schema":{"@context":"https:\/\/schema.org","@graph":[{"@type":"WebPage","@id":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=2268","url":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=2268","name":"Fall-Winter 2016 Issue -","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/#website"},"primaryImageOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=2268#primaryimage"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=2268#primaryimage"},"thumbnailUrl":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/11\/Burke-Helen-4-views-of-Dylan.jpg","datePublished":"2016-11-07T23:08:48+00:00","dateModified":"2026-02-04T22:12:16+00:00","breadcrumb":{"@id":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=2268#breadcrumb"},"inLanguage":"en-US","potentialAction":[{"@type":"ReadAction","target":["https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=2268"]}]},{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=2268#primaryimage","url":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/11\/Burke-Helen-4-views-of-Dylan.jpg","contentUrl":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/11\/Burke-Helen-4-views-of-Dylan.jpg","width":2448,"height":3264},{"@type":"BreadcrumbList","@id":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=2268#breadcrumb","itemListElement":[{"@type":"ListItem","position":1,"name":"Home","item":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/"},{"@type":"ListItem","position":2,"name":"Fall-Winter 2016 Issue"}]},{"@type":"WebSite","@id":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/#website","url":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/","name":"Rat's Ass Review","description":"","publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/#organization"},"potentialAction":[{"@type":"SearchAction","target":{"@type":"EntryPoint","urlTemplate":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?s={search_term_string}"},"query-input":{"@type":"PropertyValueSpecification","valueRequired":true,"valueName":"search_term_string"}}],"inLanguage":"en-US"},{"@type":"Organization","@id":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/#organization","name":"Rat's Ass Review","url":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/","logo":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/","url":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/02\/Rat-No-Hat-Smaller.jpg","contentUrl":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/02\/Rat-No-Hat-Smaller.jpg","width":2460,"height":1968,"caption":"Rat's Ass Review"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/"},"sameAs":["https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/groups\/82218108785"]}]}},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/2268","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=2268"}],"version-history":[{"count":63,"href":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/2268\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3328,"href":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/2268\/revisions\/3328"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/2269"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=2268"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}

a vampire club\u2003\u2003dystopian utopian\u2003\u2003a sense of wildness<\/i>
\n 
\nThe guts of Berlin\u2003\u2003not the heart\u2003soul\u2003arteries\u2003bones
\nEven with a blue dragon tattoo, I’m too old to be wild
\nI flag a cab, go home alone, to my Airbnb
\n 
\n 
\nMary Leonard has published chapbooks at 2River, Pudding House, Antrim House Press<\/i> and RedOchreLit<\/i>. Her poetry has appeared in The Naugatuck Review, Hubbub, Cloudbank, The Chronogram<\/i> and most recently in Red River<\/i> and Ilya\u2019s Honey<\/i>, and she just recently published “Love Letters” in the fall issue of Compose<\/i>. She lives in an old school house overlooking the Rondout Creek in Kingston, NY. Away from her own personal blackboard, she teaches writing workshops for all ages through Bard College. <\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nLaura Lovic-Lindsay<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTROUTMAS
\n 
\nSpring pours across a Saturday morning creek, wind-lined
\nin this dandelion time of year. The tribes are restored: tents
\npop up like international flags, countries and clans joined
\n 
\nby colors, by flames of bonfire and sunrise laughter,
\npan-seared. This is the first day of Trout, hooks and lines
\ntossed like banners down the centre. Men, women,
\n 
\nolder children coach the younger until distraction leads
\nthose away. No matter. Community will guard them
\nas they play the banks, quietly picking clover, grasses
\n 
\nand learning the joke of skunk-cabbage. Joy detonates like
\na firework display–\u201dLook what my son just landed!\u201d–for these
\nfishermen also hold a license to carry shooting stars.
\n 
\n 
\nDANCERS OF THE WILD HUNT
\n 
\nOne summer’s night, I chance on a display:
\na shepherd snaking people through a town.
\nClad in white shifts shoulder-to-ground, all sway
\nto the piping ethereal. I drown
\n 
\nin wanting to weave with this starlit wave.
\nThe first few wear antlers. They speak no word
\nin my hearing, and he holding the stave
\nat back shows but scant sign of having heard
\n 
\nmy inquiring, “Good man, why do they dance
\nhere through the mists, in midnight’s swirling breeze?
\nAre they celebrating comets, perchance?”
\nHe shakes his head, gives my hand a small squeeze.
\n 
\n“Know, child, I am a man who speaks no boasts.
\nWhat is’t you see?” He bends and whispers, “Ghosts.”
\n 
\n 
\nLaura Lovic-Lindsay left Penn State University with a literature degree in hand in 1993, having written no more than a few poems at that point. She has won poetry and fiction contests (Pennwriters Poetry Contest, Brilliant Flash Fiction<\/i>, writersweekly.com<\/a>, Gemini Magazine<\/i>), had pieces published both online and in print (Fireside Fiction, Fine Linen Magazine, Pittsburgh Poetry Review<\/i>). Laura lives and writes in an old farmhouse in a small Western Pennsylvania town, but her heart roams realms both real and imaginary. <\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nSean Lynch<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nBRIDGE OF BONES
\n 
\nWe cross the river
\non a bridge of bones
\neach crack filled
\nby a sea of thoughts.
\nWe cross the river
\nby forgetting grievances
\neach sin still recorded
\non a microchip.
\nWe cross the river
\non our death day
\neach life remembered
\nby an unknowable force.
\nWe cross the river
\nby and by
\neach according to each
\non an instant flash.
\n 
\n 
\nSean Lynch is a poet and editor who lives in Camden, NJ. Lynch’s poetry has appeared in Hamilton Stone Review, Poetry Quarterly, the Philadelphia Inquirer<\/i>, and elsewhere online and in print. His work can also be found at swlynch.com<\/a>.<\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMaggie Mackay<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nGHAZAL
\n 
\nI\u2019ve not been schooled in how to wait, precious mother,
\nto grasp your three simple words I\u2019ll be waiting<\/i>, precious mother.
\n 
\nThe grey-green of your eyes holds me fast.
\nThe squeeze of your hand gives me strength, precious mother
\n 
\nMy prayers return you as a swallow to the telephone wire tightrope
\nbut you grow restless with the harvest moon, precious mother.
\n 
\nMy wee heart is a fledgling boom under the fluff of feather.
\nI hear you tut-cheep at my impatience, precious mother
\n 
\nI might be a jilted lover, bride footsteps\u2019 echo on ancient stone
\nwaiting for this broken heart to mend, precious mother
\n 
\nIn my dreams you wait for me to grow like a perfumed June rose,
\nbudding in early morning sunshine, precious mother
\n 
\nYou plant seeds of longing on my path, cornflower and love in a mist,
\nas your hands dance to a jig piped from a village hall, precious mother
\n 
\nYour smile urges me forward, no more waiting.
\nYou call from the edge of my bed, fly to me, Margaret<\/i>.
\n 
\n 
\nMaggie Mackay, a lover of malt and jazz, lives on the east coast of Scotland and is enjoying life in her final year as a Masters Creative Writing student at Manchester Metropolitan University. She has work in various print and online publications, including A New Manchester Alphabet, The Everyday Poet, Bare Fiction, Ink, Sweat and Tears, The Interpreter\u2019s House, Prole. Indigo Dreams Publishing<\/i>, in several Three Drops Press<\/i> anthologies and forthcoming with Beautiful Dragons<\/i>.<\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nE.V. McLoughlin<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nSNOW WISH
\n 
\nThe snow you wished for so hard,
\nall year, every Thursday morning
\nhas arrived \u2013
\nJanuary the 9th<\/sup>, 10pm.
\n 
\nYou are fast asleep on the top bunk
\nfacing the window:
\nwhite flakes rushing orange
\nin the light of the street lamps,
\nblurring the motorway in the distance.
\n 
\nFor a moment, I imagine waking you,
\npointing out of the window,
\nhow we\u2019d hurriedly dress in the dark
\nrun outside to catch the first flakes
\nwith our faces, embrace in the orange glow.
\nThen, when we\u2019ve had enough,
\nstumble back into the house
\nfor wishes-come-true chocolates
\nand climb into bed, watching the snow fall
\nas you fall back asleep.
\n 
\nBut I do the right thing<\/i> –
\nschool starts soon \u2013
\nin the morning there is no trace,
\nas if it had never happened.
\n 
\n 
\nE.V. McLoughlin lives in Northern Ireland and likes coffee, books and city lights. Her poems were published in Community Arts Partnership anthologies “Making Memories” and \u201cConnections,\u201d Shalom\/Crescent writers\u2019 anthology “Between light and half light” and in Pannning for Poems<\/i> micropoetry journal. One of her poems was longlisted for Seamus Heaney Award for New Writing 2016. <\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nCorey Mesler<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nAFTER THE VANDALS SACKED ROME
\n 
\nMischief! cried one man on horseback,
\nhis tunic stained with either paint
\nor blood. They must be drunk,
\nsaid the priest, watching as his altar
\nwas adorned with a Nash Rambler
\ngrill. One woman, shirtless, reveler
\nor victim, kept shouting obscene slogans
\nin Latin, while her boyfriend decorated
\nthe Coliseum walls with phony gang tags.
\nAfter the Vandals sacked Rome they
\nrode slowly home, their horses still wearing
\nabsurdities: a nightgown, a toilet seat,
\nthe golden crown of a Nobleman. Some
\nstayed behind for the wine and outdoor
\ncopulation. Some later became Romans them-
\nselves. Most went home to a life too ordinary.
\nEverything seemed pale and lackluster. Oh, for
\nthe days of pillage! they cried over their
\nbeer. Had someone known to tell them that
\ntheir very names would become synonymous
\nwith recklessness and abandonment it
\nprobably would not have helped. The post-coital
\nblues are like a tapeworm, sickly and nearly eternal.
\n 
\n 
\nFATHER, SON
\n 
\nIn five years you would have been
\none hundred, but Father,
\nyou barely made eighty. I
\ndon\u2019t know about souls, but
\nif you could return, there is much
\nstill to discuss. I need you
\ncorporeal. I need the strength of your
\nhands and the calm of your stillness.
\nI am not strong or still. I am
\nfretful and loud sometimes, which
\nyou never were. I brood and
\nI am small. Father, in five years
\nyou will be one hundred and, if
\nI make it on this plane, I will be
\nsixty seven. My son will be older, too,
\nand sometimes I see you in him. In his
\nquiet grace and his strength and his
\nloyalty. Father, son, the tree grows upward
\nand in the dark its branches look like a
\nladder. In the morning there is only bird
\nsong, and light, and I am looking, looking up.
\n 
\n 
\nCorey Mesler has been published in numerous anthologies and journals including Poetry, Gargoyle, Five Points, Good Poems American Places<\/i>, and Esquire\/Narrative<\/i>. He has published 8 novels, 4 short story collections, and 5 full-length poetry collections. His most recent novel, Memphis Movie<\/i>, is from Soft Skull Press. He\u2019s been nominated for the Pushcart many times, and 2 of his poems were chosen for Garrison Keillor\u2019s Writer\u2019s Almanac. With his wife he runs a 140 year-old bookstore in Memphis. He can be found at https:\/\/coreymesler.wordpress.com<\/a>.<\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJBMulligan<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nRIPPER
\n 
\nWind has wiped the blood from the London air.
\nWars have ripped the various worlds apart.
\nThe Juwes are blamed and blameless in each bar
\nand flat, for need of some scrawny spirit.
\nThe heated headlines sweat. They always have.
\nThe poor are present, who will never leave.
\nThe coal-eyed burn, who ever will believe
\ntheir justice… theirs. And then of course, there’s love
\nat any price. As peace and science march
\nin bland belief that they must someday reach
\ntheir dim, shared goal, some bright and minor search
\nproduces a brittle gem that we can touch
\nand call the truth, while blades are at their work
\nexplaining the sky to an outstretched, pumping neck.
\n 
\n 
\nJBMulligan has had poems and stories in well over one hundred magazines over the past 35 years, has had two chapbooks published: The Stations of the Cross and THIS WAY TO THE EGRESS, as well as 2 e-books, The City Of Now And Then, and A Book of Psalms. He has appeared in several anthologies, including Inside\/Out: A Gathering Of Poets; The Irreal Reader (Cafe Irreal)<\/i>; and multiple volumes of Reflections on a Blue Planet<\/i>. <\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nTerri Muuss<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nFROG SEX THROAT
\n 
\nwe are wild
\neyes, tall cliffs starved
\n 
\nfor plunging, water
\ndivided, surface tension licking
\n 
\nthe junction of body, rip into
\nalmost death. Rain comes
\n 
\nover stone, crackling sheets\u2014
\nblue sparks. our breath burning
\n 
\norange, polished and swollen.
\nthe frog of our sex throat pulsing
\n 
\nthe stem of jonquil, feet spread,
\ngreener than the grass it came from.
\n 
\n 
\nTerri Muuss, whose poetry has appeared in numerous journals including Paterson Literary Review, Apercus Quarterly, Atticus Review, Stirring, Long Island Quarterly, <\/i> and Red River Review<\/i>, and three anthologies, has been nominated for two Pushcart Prizes in poetry. She is the author of Over Exposed<\/i> (JB Stillwater, 2013) and the one-woman show, Anatomy of a Doll. Anatomy of a Doll<\/i> was named \u201cBest Theatre: Critics\u2019 Pick of the Week\u201d by the New York Daily News<\/i> and has been performed throughout the US and Canada since 1998. As a licensed social worker, Muuss specializes in the use of the arts as a healing mechanism for trauma survivors. She is married to writer Matt Pasca and her two ginger-haired boys, Rainer and Atticus were former Ellen Show \u201cPresidential Experts.\u201d terrimuuss.com<\/a><\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDion O\u2019Reilly<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nLEARNING MY COLORS
\n 
\nI was small enough to be washed,
\nlike a dish, in the sink.
\nEverything a soft yellow\u2014
\nMy grandmother\u2019s Orlon sweater,
\nthe light through checkered curtains,
\nthe plastic-marbled table top.
\nIn the fifties, the world was yellow.
\nThe walls, like the heart
\nof a daisy. Yellow Bel Airs, Ford Sunliners,
\ntwo-toned, finned. Yellow.
\n 
\nI loved my skin
\nin warm bubbles and my Mum
\nand Nana, happy with my splashing,
\nthe flannel washcloth on my neck,
\nand around my ears. I didn\u2019t notice
\nmy own little hand reaching
\nbelow my belly button
\nuntil my grandmother screamed
\nLook where she has her fingers<\/i>.
\n 
\nMy mother said, Oh my God
\nNow watch, she\u2019ll sniff them<\/i>,
\nso I did, and how red the smell,
\na greenhouse of begonias,
\nred coals in ash, the cotoneaster berries
\non the backyard bush and the ruby-
\nbreasted thrushes frenzied from eating them.
\n 
\nOh my God<\/i>, they roared again, my mother\u2019s lips
\nsickened. Her nostrils dilated.
\nBut I liked smelling red
\nmeant for soft tips
\nof fingers, for water, for air.
\nRedness unfurled under me.
\nI knew they were wrong
\nabout it: the opposite of sweet,
\nbut still sweet.
\n 
\n 
\nDion O\u2019Reilly has spent much of her life on a farm in the Santa Cruz Mountains. She studies with poets Ellen Bass and Danusha Lem\u00e9ris and attends an MFA program in Creative Writing at Pacific University. A retired high school English teacher, she workshops poetry with her ex-students. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Atlanta Review, Porter Gulch Review, Bellingham Review, Caesura, The Sun, Redwood Coast Review, Existere Journal, Marin Poetry Center Anthology, Cerise Press<\/i>, and a variety of other journals. Her essay on the death of Michael Jackson was anthologized in the text Goodbye Billie Jean<\/i>. She is the creator and publisher of the PMS Coloring Book<\/i> and is currently working on the sequel. <\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nAl Ortolani<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nUNDER THE DOWNSPOUT
\n 
\nThe school building is only
\na decade old, its glass and steel
\na perfectly squared redoubt under
\nthe prairie sky. The splash block
\nbelow the back downspout
\nis a rectangle of rough rock, sandstone
\ntugged out of the fill dirt
\nfrom the road cut. Someone, tired
\nof the mud, the jolt of the mower,
\nthe rain hole by the rear door,
\ntook an hour one afternoon
\nto correct a concrete oversight.
\nIt\u2019s like that you know, a person
\ntakes it upon themselves to fix
\nwhat others have ignored.
\nIt\u2019s not an easy move
\nto add to a day\u2019s labor\u2014a flat rock,
\na forgotten nail, a kind word.
\n 
\n 
\nAl Ortolani\u2019s newest collection of poems, Paper Birds Don\u2019t Fly, was released in 2016 from New York Quarterly Books. His poetry and reviews have appeared in journals such as Rattle, Prairie Schooner<\/i>, and New Letters<\/i>. His poems been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, and he has recently been featured on Writer’s Almanac. <\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDonald Paris<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nPOSTCARD TO OUROBOROS
\n 
\nI’ve been ripping the pages out
\nof my journal, folding them
\nin half, drawing smudged lines
\ndown center of them. I pretend
\neach section is the back of a postcard
\nfrom a place I’ve never been.
\nI think about who I would write,
\n 
\nfamily or a friend, perhaps a lover
\nI’ve never met. I think about what
\nto write: \u201c Paris is really something\u201d,
\n\u201cThere’s a ton of corn in Nebraska\u201d,
\n\u201cTried alligator, not my favorite.\u201d
\nI close my eyes, tilt my head back,
\nto try to see anything in the blackness
\n 
\nof my eyelids. All I can ever make out
\nis myself standing in a gift shop, near
\nthe beach, in the middle of December,
\nspinning a wire rack with shelves that curl
\nlike a dying spider’s legs, watching
\nthe foam of the crashing surf drag
\nbits of beach back into the ocean.
\n 
\n 
\nDonald Paris graduated from Queens University of Charlotte’s Creative Writing MFA program. His work has appeared in The Other Journal, Sonic Boom,<\/i> and Eunoia Review<\/i>.<\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nSimon Perchik<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTWO UNTITLED POEMS
\n 
\nGoes first though once airborne
\nyour reflection changes shape
\ncorrects for turbulence, backs off
\n 
\nbreaking up between the mirror
\nand the faucet kept open
\nfor headwinds lifting the water
\n 
\nto fit with what\u2019s to come
\n\u2013you will never be generous again
\n\u2013one hand stays wet, the other
\n 
\nheld up to stop its likeness
\nbefore it rises to the surface
\nas stone longing to face you
\n 
\nfly into your mouth, breathe for her
\nsay to her the word after word
\nshe will recognize as her name
\n 
\nspreading out for a sea, wings
\nto put your hands into
\nand the broken teeth trying to hold on.
\n 
\n*
\n*
\n 
\nThis battered window box
\nhas found an opening
\n\u2013with a single flower
\n 
\nis taking on the sun
\nthough you use well water
\nfitting it into its shadow
\n 
\nas if madness needs a corner
\nfor its darkness reaching out
\nthe way your heart was filled
\n 
\nwith river noise
\nthat has nothing left to give
\n\u2013what you hear is the sun
\n 
\nswallowing ice as the antidote
\nto flower after flower and the mist
\nfrom someone breathing.
\n 
\n 
\nSimon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, Forge, Poetry, Osiris, The New Yorker<\/i> and elsewhere. His most recent collection is Almost Rain<\/i>, published by River Otter Press (2013). For more information, including free e-books, his essay titled \u201cMagic, Illusion and Other Realities\u201d please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com<\/a>.<\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJustin Rogers<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nAFTER THE BENEDICTION
\n 
\nThe congregation
\nfloods America
\nlike melanin.
\nOnce you go black
\nyou will know God
\nis a trap–
\na bloody bando,
\nmiles of empty lots,
\nsketchy saints who
\nuse bible as ebonics.
\n 
\nThe congregation
\nfloods America & becomes
\na bad memory; a relic–
\na memorial of broken.
\n 
\nAmerica is the devil,
\noffers a wealthy life,
\na wealthy death.
\nMelanin is of God,
\nis pulverized and hung.
\nWhat passageways must
\nmelanin underground railroad
\nto dodge crucifixion?
\nWhat kiss does the country need
\nto know it needs black,
\nneeds congregation,
\nneeds God
\nto be saved?
\n 
\n 
\nJustin Rogers is a poet, educator, coach and venue owner from the city of Detroit, Michigan. Rogers is an advocate for literacy among inner-city youth, and the amplification of Black voices. Still performing around the Mid-West and teaching poetry with InsideOut Literary Arts, Rogers actively shares poems surrounding living and growing as a Black man in America. Rogers most recently has work published or forthcoming in APIARY Magazine, Mobius Magazine, Radius Poetry, 3 Elements Review<\/i>, and Tinderbox Poetry Journal<\/i>.<\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nG.B. Ryan<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nON FIRST HEARING MARGARET BARRY
\n 
\nThey slept eight hours, worked eight hours, drank four hours,
\ntook buses in between, from rooming house
\n 
\nto building site to noisy Irish pub
\nin Camden Town, and did so every day.
\n 
\nThey saw themselves as country lads who did
\nthe heavy work the English could not do.
\n 
\nNoise in the pub died when a small woman
\nwith a bottle of stout, an empty glass
\n 
\nand a banjo made her way to a chair
\non a foot-high platform next to a wall.
\n 
\nSome exchanged words with her as she passed by,
\nmost only smiled in anticipation.
\n 
\nShe was a Traveler woman and might
\nhave sung at many a rowdy camp fire.
\n 
\nMargaret quieted discordant men
\nwith loud dissonant chords on the banjo.
\n 
\nThey might once have heard a voice like hers from
\na ring fort or a tumbledown graveyard.
\n 
\nWith tattered old songs from another time
\nher sly rawness brought them back to the fields.
\n 
\n 
\nG.B. Ryan was born in Ireland and graduated from University College Dublin. He is a ghostwriter in New York City. Elkhound published his SURPRISED BY GULLS in May 2015. He has work in current or recent issues of eleven publications. <\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nR.A. Samuel<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nI WALK NAKED
\n 
\nNights like this I walk naked in darkness.
\nNo really this is not some deep fancy metaphor
\nthat means I\u2019m Faust and I bare my soul for the devil.
\n(As if he\u2019d take a rot like me.)
\n 
\nOf course not. But you see the road to my house
\nis a line of sand slithering between grotesque bushes
\nthat gives asylum to mad effusive crickets.
\n 
\nOn nights like this when the trees are consumed
\nin darkness and only those crickets sing; when the
\nonly sources of light are the insects who carry
\nthe burden of light on their backs like priggish monks;
\non nights like this I pull down my drawers,
\nand tear off my shirt.
\n 
\nI scream of what you did for me,
\nand I, to you. I scream for\u2014and to\u2014you.
\n 
\nI walk naked in darkness,
\nexposing all my secrets in secret.
\n 
\n 
\nSHIELD FROM THE SUN
\n 
\nFinally he gave up his shield from the sun.
\nHis postmortem came out \u2013 he died of goodbyes.
\nOr rather they made him kick the bucket,
\nliterally at first, then figuratively in the literal process.
\nThe poor sailor kicked the bucket!
\n 
\nWe say kick the bucket<\/i> to give the dead some power.
\nLife is the bucket then, I suppose?
\nKicked by the bucket<\/i> is more like it.
\nI mean, it\u2019s not like we leave on our own accord;
\ncruel earth, making us cruel ourselves.
\n 
\nOr maybe we\u2019re the bucket. So it is we who kick ourselves.
\nMakes more sense, I suppose.
\nSamuel kicked the Samuel. A soul kicked the body.
\nHis soul kicked his senses.
\nRotten soul \u2013 rotten rotten soul.
\n 
\nI know these walls and these walls know me.
\nI remember this air and this air remembers me.
\nHome, my brother, is where the rat is
\n 
\n 
\nR.A Samuel is a writer of prose and poetry from Ibadan, Nigeria. Find him on twitter @rasamuelng<\/a> or @rajiasamuel<\/a>.<\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nE.B. Schnepp<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nWHERE IS THE LAMB?
\n 
\nI\u2019m carving mona lisa man
\ninto wooden benches, wanting to leave you,
\nyour impression somewhere new.
\nOne snowy day in April I want you to stumble
\nupon it, want you to know
\n 
\nbelief won\u2019t fix bruised rope wrists
\nor the way I know tonight I\u2019ll see your face,
\nthe knife in the shadows of a crescent moon curl,
\nwonder when spring will pop from slush piles and find you.
\n 
\nMy tongue tastes like sacrifice,
\nwill you question where this came from,
\nor will you recognize me? The unconscious signature,
\nthe familiar scrape of metal on wood\u2014
\n 
\nit\u2019s not like you haven\u2019t seen it before,
\nscrawls you taught me to make
\nin the middle of dive bars, walls held together
\nby sharpie marker calligraphy; but
\n 
\nI never asked to be a miracle,
\nfor a stone and blade ablution\u2014how
\ncan I make offerings now that I\u2019ve been the beast
\nstruggling against altar ties, even
\nas you command me\u2014be still<\/i>.
\n 
\n 
\nE.B. Schnepp is a poet hailing from rural Mid Michigan who currently finds herself in the flatlands of Ohio with an MFA in Creative Writing from Bowling Green State University and a bad procrasti-baking habit. Her work can also be found in Crab Fat, the pacificREVIEW<\/i>, and Paper Nautilus<\/i>, among others. <\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nSharon Scholl<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nLOVE SONG
\n 
\nYou speak in masks,
\nI in veils,
\nmeaning, faceless
\nrising here between us.
\n 
\nYou speak in silence,
\nI in bells.
\nWe link in one
\nreverberating stillness.
\n 
\nYou speak in stones,
\nI in birds,
\ntethered and anchored
\nin our coupled hovering.
\n 
\nYou speak in darkness,
\nI in light,
\ngray washing through us
\nlike a dawn.
\n 
\nYou speak in someday,
\nI in now.
\nWe dance upon the threshold
\nof tomorrow.
\n 
\nYou speak in substance,
\nI in guess.
\nLove sprouts in the crevices
\nof words.
\n 
\n 
\nSharon Scholl is the usual retired professor who finally has time to write. She has the usual publications (Clementine, Cahaba River Literary Journal, Heron Tree<\/i>) with several collections: Message on a Branch<\/i> (yellow jacket Press) All Points Bulletin<\/i> (Closet Books). A practicing musician, she maintains an extensive website that gives away music free to small, financially struggling groups. Otherwise, she serves on too many committees and boards and has a growing allergy to meetings. <\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nFinola Scott<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nMATRIX
\n(after Firmament<\/i><\/a> by Antony Gormley)
\n 
\nHold fast
\nget a grip
\neach hollow cell grasps each
\nfears the gaps, the confined
\nspaces
\nthat can\u2019t be bridged, clutch
\nat top
\nsoil
\nMetal filaments shine
\nFragments take strength
\nfrom neighbours
\n 
\nAll angles, different faces,
\nfind their core
\ndeep
\nDistance defines
\nbreast to mouth to mouth
\nkneeling to suck
\nearth
\nconnected and separate
\nThe sum greater
\n 
\n 
\nMATRIX was previously published at Jupiter Artland<\/i><\/a>.
\n 
\n 
\nGlaswegian Finola Scott’s poems and short stories are widely published in anthologies and magazines including The Ofi Press, Hark, The Lake<\/i>. She is pleased to be mentored this year on the Clydebuilt Scheme by Liz Lochead, Scotland’s Makar. A performance poet, she is chuffed to be a slam-winning granny. <\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDavid Spicer<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nBOILERMAKERS & SQUASH
\n 
\nHitchhiking, I met Charlotte Lincoln,
\na blonde beautician, waitress, and owner
\nof the coffee shop The Blue Riddle<\/i>,
\nwho rode a Harley and yelled, Climb on,
\ncowboy<\/i>, reminding me to bite
\nmy lip after road bumps if I didn\u2019t
\nwant a tickle of my ankle by her
\nboot. In The Blue Riddle<\/i>, wearing
\na black satin kimono with seashells,
\ngiraffes, and butterflies, she joked
\nwith truck drivers and lawyers
\nthat she, a picky virgin of 39, wouldn\u2019t
\ndate just any mongrel. This alcoholic
\nangel assigned me to the push broom
\nbefore I could loll around too much,
\nlet me rent an upstairs room as long
\nas I shaved every day without cutting
\nmyself, and each morning I emerged
\nwithout a scratch, mumble, or whine.
\nI hummed as I swept the sidewalk,
\nworked until closing time when Charlotte
\nand I guzzled boilermakers, collapsing
\nafter we discussed the virtues of butternut
\nversus crookneck squash, the concept
\nof God as colored gravel, the knowledge
\nthat we were the other\u2019s asylum.
\n 
\n 
\nDavid Spicer has had poems in The American Poetry Review, Gargoyle, Mad Swirl, Reed Magazine, Slim Volume, The Laughing Dog, In Between Hangovers, Easy Street, Ploughshares, Bad Acid Laboratories, Inc., Dead Snakes<\/i>, and in the anthologies Silent Voices: Recent American Poems on Nature<\/i> (Ally Press, 1978), Perfect in Their Art: Poems on Boxing From Homer to Ali<\/i> (Southern Illinois University Press, 2003), and A Galaxy of Starfish: An Anthology of Modern Surrealism<\/i> (Salo Press, 2016). He has been nominated for a Pushcart and a Best of the Net, is the author of one full-length collection of poems, Everybody Has a Story <\/i> (St. Luke’s Press, 1987), and four chapbooks. He is also the former editor of Raccoon, Outlaw<\/i>, and Ion Books. He lives in Memphis, Tennessee. <\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nSusan Castillo Street<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTARANTELLA
\n 
\nWe walk down to the village
\nand into a different world,
\nsix ladies of a certain age,
\n 
\nstroll through a rainbow arch of neon light.
\nCrowds swirl. A circle forms.
\nThe men and women grab our hands
\n 
\nand sweep us in. We whirl
\nin tarantella wheel,
\nfeel the percussion in our bones,
\n 
\nthrow caution to the winds,
\nbare pale white necks to grinning moon,
\nreach avid for bright bursts of stars.
\n 
\n 
\nSusan Castillo Street is Harriet Beecher Stowe Professor Emerita, King\u2019s College, University of London. She has published three collections of poems, The Candlewoman’s Trade<\/i> (Diehard Press, 2003), Abiding Chemistry,<\/i> (Aldrich Press, 2015), and Constellations<\/i> (Three Drops Press, 2016), as well as several scholarly monographs and edited anthologies. Her work has appeared in Southern Quarterly, Prole, The High Window, Ink Sweat & Tears, Messages in a Bottle, The Missing Slate, Clear Poetry, Three Drops from a Cauldron, Foliate Oak, The Yellow Chair Review<\/i>, and other journals and anthologies. <\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nSimona Su\u0161ec<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHIS SEASON’S PARIS WEEK OF FASHION POLICE MUST HAVE A DRESS CODE
\n 
\nYou wear your tattoos as clothes
\nyou won’t have to shower naked ever again
\nyou have your sunburn to hide the raw
\ntoo fleshy not enough picturesque
\nyou lose weight
\nbut then you gain weight to hide the veins
\n 
\nyou bodybuild just like you build your wardrobe
\nyou wear makeup
\nlike a lady at the counter wears an evening dress
\npowder is a matter of manner for a lady
\njust like dust is a manner of a tramp
\nyou say you wouldn’t give money to a rich classy tramp
\n 
\nsurgery is a uniform
\nmeaning is a clothing
\nrace is a dress you wouldn’t borrow from anyone
\nlike a white man wearing a black skin shirt
\nor a black man wearing a blacker skin shirt
\nas elderly lady drizzles in the rain
\nthe older she gets the more timeless her skin
\na fossil in a jar of gelatinous lotions
\n 
\nher soul screams machines
\nshe locks the jar on the inside
\nyou do it too during sex to cover the sounds of flesh splashing around
\nremember how you stepped away from the car to avoid the crash
\npainfully shy
\nyou didn’t want to unveil your bones
\nfull of dresses we dress up for you to teach us
\n 
\nsolidarity with the afflicted
\nwith those who prefer to speak than to show
\nwho wear caskets
\nwho only have one god
\nwhose god is good but weakened
\nas if not fertile enough to make himself a stylist
\n 
\n 
\nSimona Su\u0161ec is a PhD student of philosophy in Ljubljana, Slovenia. She is taking her first steps in writing poetry in English. <\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nSharon Svendsen<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nI LOOK UP AND SEE RIPE RED FRUIT
\n 
\nAs I reach up to pick
\nfinches scatter, fly
\nfrom my mother\u2019s
\ndead voice:
\nThose are mine<\/i>.
\n 
\nNo.
\nI own my own roots.
\n 
\nMy tree has more apples
\nthan she ever dreamed of,
\nand songbirds pluck
\nhairs from my hairbrush,
\nweave them, crown-like,
\ninto golden nests.
\n 
\n 
\nSharon Svendsen\u2019s work has been published in Feathertale, Descap, Spank the Carp, Bellowing Ark, The Long Story, Atrocity<\/i>, and many other periodicals and anthologies. In the past, she ran two reading series, and until she ran out of funds, she was publisher and poetry editor of HA!<\/i> a humor magazine, and head of Writers\u2019 Haven Press which published two poetry collections and several booklets of winners from Writers\u2019 Haven contests. <\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJosette Torres<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nAUBADE FOR OUR ISLAND, THREE HOURS WIDE
\n 
\nWe lie on sand of Egyptian cotton, the sea before
\nus lust colored. The beaches are cupped in our hands,
\nswells of my hips traced by our fingers slowly drying
\nin the air. We lie across this sand in parallel to our lives,
\nhovering in neutral space. Your shore leave ends
\nin the afternoon, while I have days to go in this storyline.
\nYour hands have spread apart the unexplored territory
\nof white space, created an archipelago of marks on my arms
\nand breasts. Now we\u2019re in the falling action. Arrange your driftwood
\non my back. Dress me in pearls plucked from the waves.
\nI don\u2019t ask for souvenirs to take back with me. You rest next
\nto the trunks of my thighs as we return to ourselves,
\nas the conversation ebbs and speeds up, crashes over me
\ntoo quickly to grasp. We lie in a secret cove not on any maps
\nthey\u2019ll ever see. We\u2019re due in the port of the daily grind soon
\nbut not yet, not yet.
\n 
\nIn the cab to the mainland, the dawn\u2019s radio plays melodies
\nof a lover\u2019s lament at separation. I ask the driver to crank it.
\n 
\n 
\nJosette Torres received her MFA in Creative Writing from Virginia Tech. She also holds a BA in English and Creative Writing from Purdue University. Her work has previously appeared in Star 82 Review, escarp, The New Verse News<\/i>, and elsewhere, and is forthcoming in Poetry Breakfast<\/i>. She is currently a doctoral student in cultural thought in the ASPECT Program at Virginia Tech. <\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJerry Vilhotti<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nEAT THIS HOTDOG
\n 
\nOne dazzling piece of revenge \u2014 among many \u2014 The Great Fornicator Zeus displayed on the Red Sockers for trading the next great fornicator “The Babe” was the day he had Buckeye \u201cThe Pentagon Denter” hit a Homer over the “little league” pop up green monster to win the game and send the Yangees to the World Serious to face the other league\u2019s winner before the owners decided to water down the great pastime; allowing many many teams to qualify for playoff positions; perpetuating the long season to almost collide with Thanksforthegiving holiday known as national turkey day as fanatics kept shelling out their meager earnings – three dollars below what they deserved and no heath care if they became sick for God loved them making so many of the dying of hunger people keeping afloat raw capitalism eating Thanksgiving day all up except for the scraps that the unwashed masses could devour with their dirty dirty fingers. END
\n 
\n 
\nJerry Vilhotti jvilhotti@optimum.net<\/a> has had two collections of works accepted by a publisher: Gods Depicting Pastime<\/i> which has the Greek gods discovering a game once played by people – who plastered their bodies with empire blue to be one with the sky and tried to figure out what the tic infested thing was about, and the second collection, Specs in the Eyes of Seeing<\/i> that follows a little boy’s journey from childhood to manhood. <\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nGuinotte Wise<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nEMERGENCY LANDING
\n 
\nI waved them off, the balloonists
\nwith their zigzag rasta colors
\nmy horses are spooked even by
\numbrellas we found out by pasture
\nwalking in the rain. She wore yellow
\nboots like Christopher Robin
\nstamping in the puddles.
\n 
\nThey landed anyway, laughing
\nand shouting, waving a bottle
\nand clambering over the
\nwicker sides, one woman
\ndropping her shorts and peeing
\nthere, a man hosing down the
\nlespedeza and cactus weed
\ntwo others watched from
\nthe rasta machine, the
\nman zipped up said I
\njust can’t piss over the side
\nand he gestured back
\nthe woman looked around
\nsaid me neither and almost
\nfell, laughing, squeaking
\nnice to meetcha she
\ntried to say, went to laughing
\nagain, a man in the rastaball
\nsaid you’ll pee your pants
\nand she went to her knees
\nstill waving the bottle and
\nthe other man said here?
\nright here? and moved
\ntoward her and a dragon’s
\nroar of rastafire must have
\ncome from the basketed couple
\nand amid the noise the more
\nincontinent two climbed
\nawkwardly back in and rasta
\nrose. Shouting. Laughter.
\nthe rastaball grew small
\ndrifting to the quiet east.
\nMy horses watched from
\nthe treeline, eyeballs out
\non springs no doubt, and
\ntrembling like old motors
\n 
\n 
\nGuinotte Wise lives on a farm in Resume Speed, Kansas. His short story collection (Night Train, Cold Beer) won publication by a university press and not much acclaim. Two more books since. His wife has an honest job in the city and drives 100 miles a day to keep it. Books: here <\/a>Art: here<\/a><\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nCatherine G. Wolf<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nUPON MY DIAGNOSIS
\n 
\nThe Halloween hurricane took me by surprise,
\nupending sturdy oaks, their angry branches
\ngrabbing at me while I shivered on the phone.
\nThe blue spruce surrendered without a fight.
\n 
\nRivers welled up, overflowed their banks,
\nlapped at my furnace. Raindrops on my roof
\nsounded like God spitting bullets, no–
\nmore like an army of angels with chainsaws.
\n 
\nThe wind roared round my home like a tyrannosaurus
\non a rampage, gnashing its teeth looking
\nfor someone to eat.
\nIs it ironic that harm<\/i> is part of harmony?<\/i>
\n 
\nThe hurricane ate up power in wide swathes,
\nleaving me in a midday eclipse of
\nthe sun. My cell phone ceased its celestial
\nglow, and all went mute.
\n 
\nThe air acrid with ozonic fear. The ocean
\nwhipped into unrepentant meringue.
\nMother Nature became a whore.
\n 
\nWhen the blood-shot eye of the hurricane arrived,
\nI almost relaxed, but in the distance,
\nI heard the sound of children sobbing.
\n 
\n 
\nBUTTERFLIES
\n 
\nHe was 13 and did not step on cracks and sometimes
\ntalked to cats because cats did not demand
\nattention like dogs. He knew everything about
\nbutterflies, different species, what each one ate,
\nwhere they lived and their peculiar mating rituals
\nfor he was not to mate. He could tell a Monarch from
\na Painted Lady like other kids could tell Superman from
\nSpiderman. He would launch into long Lepidoptera
\nsoliloquies staring at his shoes unaware of the listener\u2019s wish to
\nfly away. He could recite all the palindrome dates of the
\ncentury. His classmates called him \u201cfreak\u201d and \u201cfaggot\u201d
\nand he was picked last for kickball for the ball seemed
\nunpredictable as a mosquito. How could he kick a mosquito?
\nSometimes he took his antidepressants, sometimes hid
\nthem in his socks; thinking, thinking of a future day.
\nHis bedroom window faced south and light bullets
\nwere too blinding for him so he moved to the
\nbasement, preferring moldy dark to light. There were
\nmoans and bangs for his tongue felt too big for his mouth,
\nand when he bit his tongue he had to bang his head
\nagainst the wall to make the pain stop, sometimes sobbing.
\nI don\u2019t know how the six live Monarchs with fire-orange
\nwings got on his silent chest or why a painting of a
\nblack butterfly with huge proboscis was on the ceiling.
\nOr what the words on the note on his desk meant:
\nBut did it matter?
\n 
\n 
\nCatherine G. Wolf studied language development in graduate school, and was fascinated by this unique human ability. In 1997, when she was stricken with ALS, also known as Lou Gehrig\u2019s disease, her ability to speak was taken away by this disease. She found poetry had a special capability to express her innermost feelings. By losing her physical voice, Catherine found her poetic voice. She always enjoyed dancing, and now dances with her eyes. Catherine has twelve published or to be published poems, including six in the 2016 Rat\u2019s Ass Review<\/i> edition of Love & Ensuing Madness<\/i>, one published in October 2016 in Front Porch Review<\/i> and one in the 2015 spring issue of the Bellevue Literary Review<\/i>. She writes blogs and articles about living with Lou Gehrig\u2019s disease. Now Catherine uses assistive technology to communicate, and raises her right eyebrow to type. She is studying poetry at the writerstudio.com<\/a>. For other work by Catherine in Rat\u2019s Ass Review, go here<\/a>.<\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRobin Wright<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nWHILE EATING BREAKFAST AT CRACKER BARREL
\n 
\nA bald man fastens a bib
\naround a woman\u2019s neck, smoothes
\n 
\nher white hair back into place.
\nThe long black bib covers her.
\n 
\nSmall white dots adorn it and remind me
\nof rosary beads I prayed with as a child.
\n 
\nHe sits down across the table, laces
\nhis hands in hers, bows his head.
\n 
\nI practiced that kind of religious gratitude
\nwhen nuns enforced folded hands and chapel caps.
\n 
\nThe man lifts his head but holds the woman\u2019s hands
\nuntil their server delivers food.
\n 
\nShe reaches for the plate, but he pulls
\nit away, cuts the omelet into small pieces.
\n 
\nShe nibbles without help. He watches,
\nwipes her face when food settles on her cheek.
\n 
\nHe breaks off a wafer of biscuit,
\nholds it to her mouth, places it on her tongue.
\n 
\nSister Mary Joyce would have approved
\nof this scene. Sister,
\n 
\nwhose job it was to teach
\nfirst graders to be holy.
\n 
\n 
\nRobin Wright\u2019s work has appeared in various literary journals, including Rat\u2019s Ass Review, Quatrain.Fish, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine<\/i>, and Amarillo Bay<\/i>. Two of her poems were published in the University of Southern Indiana\u2019s 50th anniversary anthology, Time Present, Time Past<\/i>. She has also co-written two novels with Maryanne Burkhard under the name B. W. Wrighthard, Ghost Orchid<\/i> and A Needle and a Haystack<\/i>. For more of Robin’s work, go here<\/a>.<\/a>
\n 
\nList of Poets<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nGareth Writer-Davies<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nYUKO’S BOOK
\n 
\nreading from right to left
\nwords are flags
\n 
\nturning the book
\ncharacters become skyscrapers
\n 
\nwhen I saw Yuko write her name
\nher hand
\n 
\nwas precise
\nlike a bird in a holly bush
\n 
\nI opened the book
\nand out came a receipt from a supermarket
\n 
\nwhich showed in great detail
\nthe foods that Yuko and her husband like to eat
\n 
\nI have made notes
\non the many blank pages and sent them to Yuko
\n 
\nshe says they are very interesting
\n 
\n 
\nASH
\n 
\nwhen it is time
\nfor my reduction, to a metal joint and a bucket
\n 
\nI shall be five pounds
\nand three ounces
\n 
\nthis is an average
\nbut I have small bones and fat is propulsive
\n 
\nnot too heavy
\nto be scattered upon the Teifi (measured, by the eye rather than a spoon)
\n 
\nand what is five pounds
\nwhen thrown upon the density of water
\n 
\nleaves
\nshaken by the east wind and drowned in the river
\n 
\na gesture
\nfor those gathered (not the attenuated)
\n 
\nso bury me
\nin the roots of the ash tree (amused by the apposition)
\n 
\nwater
\nis soon forgotten
\n 
\nbut a tree
\ngrows new, a canopy of three hundredweight
\n 
\n 
\nIN BED WITH GRAHAM GREENE
\n 
\nthough I have read many of his novels
\nand admire his prose
\n 
\nI did not suppose
\nthat I would end up in bed with Graham Greene
\n 
\nbetween the covers
\nhe is teaching me a thing or two
\n 
\nshort phrasing
\nthe cogent imagery of cocktails on a termite chomped verandah
\n 
\nI have to hand it to him
\nin an almost facsimile of modern manners
\n 
\nhe asks for nothing
\nthen ties me to the bedstead
\n 
\nI did not suppose
\nthat I would end up in bed with Graham Greene
\n 
\nand that
\n(as always) is the heart of the matter
\n 
\nseduction starts with words
\nends on white sheets of paper
\n 
\n 
\nGareth Writer-Davies was Commended in the Prole Laureate Competition in 2015, Specially Commended in the Welsh Poetry Competition and Highly Commended in the Sherborne Open Poetry Competition, shortlisted for the Bridport Prize and the Erbacce Prize in 2014. His pamphlet Bodies<\/i>, was published in 2015 through Indigo Dreams and his next pamphlet Cry Baby<\/i> will be published in 2017. See more by Gareth here<\/a>.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\n 
\n 
\nThe Poets<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nVirginia Archer<\/a>
\nDevon Balwit<\/a>
\nBen Banyard<\/a>
\nIngrid Bruck<\/a>
\nGiuseppe Martino Buonaiuto<\/a>
\nHelen Burke<\/a> Cover Art
\nWendy Taylor Carlisle<\/a>
\nRachel Caruso-Bryant<\/a>
\nAlan Catlin<\/a>
\nJan Chronister<\/a>
\nArs Cogitanda<\/a>
\nCorey D. Cook<\/a>
\nJoe Cottonwood<\/a>
\nPat Edwards<\/a>
\nMonica Flegg<\/a>
\nRobert Ford<\/a>
\nAdele Fraser<\/a>
\nBill Frayer<\/a>
\nMajda Gama<\/a>
\nPatricia L. Goodman<\/a>
\nBeverley Harvey<\/a>
\nGeorge Held<\/a>
\nRobin Helweg-Larsen<\/a>
\nJustin Hilliard<\/a>
\nOliver Hutton<\/a>
\nNancy Iannucci<\/a>
\nCraig Knox<\/a>
\nRobert T. Krantz<\/a>
\nSarah Krenicki<\/a>
\nNadja Krylov<\/a>
\nLouise Larchbourne<\/a>
\nMary Leonard<\/a>
\nLaura Lovic-Lindsay<\/a>
\nSean Lynch<\/a>
\nMaggie Mackay<\/a>
\nE.V. McLoughlin<\/a>
\nCorey Mesler<\/a>
\nJBMulligan<\/a>
\nTerri Muuss<\/a>
\nDion O\u2019Reilly<\/a>
\nAl Ortolani<\/a>
\nDonald Paris<\/a>
\nSimon Perchik<\/a>
\nJustin Rogers<\/a>
\nG.B. Ryan<\/a>
\nR.A. Samuel<\/a>
\nE.B. Schnepp<\/a>
\nSharon Scholl<\/a>
\nFinola Scott<\/a>
\nDavid Spicer<\/a>
\nSusan Castillo Street<\/a>
\nSimona Su\u0161ec<\/a>
\nSharon Svendsen<\/a>
\nJosette Torres<\/a>
\nJerry Vilhotti<\/a>
\nGuinotte Wise<\/a>
\nCatherine G. Wolf<\/a>
\nRobin Wright<\/a>
\nGareth Writer-Davies<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nBack to Top<\/a>
\n 
\n <\/p>\n