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Friday, June 14, 2024

Featuring Jake Sheff




A Duplex Only Turns 45 Twice

 

The era was not convinced that I could read

When I signed a check “Jakub Sheph” on Monday 

 

And a contract “Jehcup Cheffe” on Tuesday. Us

Artists get ahead by knowing what to change

 

And how. In exchange for more austerity,

I chose this psychosis. You grow to love

 

A tool the more you use it. With growing things

Familiarity’s effect is different. 

 

Hence, they’re not tools. The father of diseases

Was the scapegoat for my natural teenaged angst. 

 

No cap! Teste testy me. Against rage,

A fire burns politely. Each separate 

 

Karate agreement I signed with a match

Convinced the era that I could not read. 




##


A Duplex Only Turns 48 Twice

 

He lived a hundred years and never ate

The prices paupers pay for acres, nor did

 

He the pressures papers put on races. 

He’d email the BBC from his “teepee

 

2.0” and put “Love” after “bcc:”;

The kindest kind of rude. An obstinate

 

Buttinsky, but no obstructionist, each day’s

Dynamism turns every avenue paved

 

With hope into a macadam of diamonds.

Men are born popular and love robs you blind;

 

The spoliated evil underdog’s

Lawyer says, “Groups must decide: distinction or

 

Extinction?” To reach for lower layers,

He lived a hundred years and never ate. 




##


The Seagull’s 409th Seguidilla 

 

Between the politician 

And sincerity,

The poet stands, a grown-ass

Breath. For adyta,

His eskrima sticks

Talk. He tells reckless freckles 

That eczema sucks.




##


The Seagull’s 101st Seguidilla

 

With friendship gules, what sieges

Seagulls do! So false

It’s true, what rattles the bones

Of chaos enthralls. 

A late adopter 

Of dissembling, now that cloud’s

A helicopter.




##


Death Song 7: Beneath a Thixotropic Sky

 

“The air was more than ever like a blue forest, with the moon releasing soft currents of yellow.” 

-       Saul Bellow, Henderson the Rain King 

 


I map the hollow bones of Hell

And bid the time of day farewell.

Farewell to cranreuchs, morning’s smell!

Farewell to meekness overpriced!

 

A motivated moat could swell

The Nile, 

But that would get it sliced and diced. 

Make pruinose all Sainte-Chapelle, 

My belle

Will scream that I’m the anti-Christ. 

 

Like aspens sharing roots, they yell;

My enemies. They serve a bowl

Of thunder’s thumbs to all who crawl

Before them when their days are lysed. 

 

I map the hollow bones of Hell

And bid the time of day farewell.

Farewell to cranreuchs, morning’s smell!

Farewell to meekness overpriced!

 

“Where cheekbones age like checkbooks, sell

Your soul”

No flower-bringing song advised. 

O Death, you lack the seguidill-

A’s skill!

My blue guitar’s a catalyst!

 

The seagull’s seguidilla kills

My heart. To cast another spell,

The ocean takes your form so well,

Paleozoic poltergeist. 

 

I map the hollow bones of Hell

And bid the time of day farewell.

Farewell to cranreuchs, morning’s smell!

Farewell to meekness overpriced!

 

With copypasta’s crocodile,

You rule

The sky, that watermelon sliced

And dripping light. The commonweal’s

White hill

Has gold-implanted eyelids closed

 

At last. The craziest bells peal.

It doesn’t faze the shopper’s zeal

Or fortune’s prosecutor; he’ll

Be shopping till the truth is iced. 

 

I map the hollow bones of Hell

And bid the time of day farewell.

Farewell to cranreuchs, morning’s smell!

Farewell to meekness overpriced!





Bio: Jake Sheff is a paediatrician and US Air Force veteran. He's published a full-length collection of formal poetry A Kiss to Betray the Universe (White Violet Press), along with two chapbooks 'Looting Versailles' (Alabaster Leaves Publishing) and 'The Rites of Tires' (SurVision). 

Tuesday, June 4, 2024

More New Poems: Sushant Thapa



 

1. Rising and Falling


There are times 

Seeking whole of you. 

You are supposed to 

Know the fun in the game. 

Take a stroll 

To know the way. 

Stray a few miles 

To know where you 

Have come to. 

The clothesline 

Of saddest colors 

Mean you have always known 

How the morn is mournful 

Under the color changing heaven. 

Even when you are alone 

Your solitude misbehaves 

And remembers someone 

Who is faraway; 

There is a we in solitude. 

The longings are like gates of 

Ajar memories. 

The kite has fallen, 

There is still rising wind 

Waking the sensibilities. 

Have you thought how

The wind carries a message 

In you? 

 

 

2. Permanent Sojourn 

 

Carry me away 

To the permanent

Sojourn of art,

Where rain is an expression 

That never truly 

Drenches you to make you 

Feel wet. 

A flowing river 

And falling raindrops 

Are not the same. 

A flowing river 

Teaches you continuity, 

But raindrops only 

Make you wet. 

Choice is an equanimity 

Of life, 

The chaotic decipher 

Isn't its character. 

I would build 

A temple of art

And worship 

The aura of living a life, 

To write it well. 

There is a saying by someone, 

If you cannot become a poet, 

Be the poem. 

Living a life in a proper way 

Is itself a poetic celebration;

Life is poetry. 

 

3. How it Works 

 

The ways have lied, 

Or you did not want to 

Walk the truthful path? 

Hiding the envelope 

Is misreading the prize. 

Life is all social, 

Library isn't seclusion. 

There will be songs about 

Hard times, 

When the tide gets high. 

The age is a newly decorated 

Empire. 

We mix, we draw the nearness. 

In isolation, no book is devoid 

Of the audiences

While it is written. 

In the mind, the world 

Gets read, 

Like the morning newspaper. 

There is an awakening 

In mingling of cultures, 

Obliterating the boundaries, 

Of knowledge.

 

©Sushant Thapa 

Biratnagar-13, Nepal  

 

 

Bio: Sushant Thapa (born 26 February 1993) is a Nepalese poet from Biratnagar-13, Nepal who holds an M.A. in English literature from Jawaharlal Nehru University (JNU) New Delhi, India. He has published five books of English poetry. His sixth book is ready and about to go to press. Sushant's poetry is also taught in Grade 6 in school book in Nepal. Debut poetry book by Sushant entitled "The Poetic Burden and Other Poems" has been awarded Indology Best Poet Award 2022 from West Bengal, India and his third poetry book entitled "Minutes of Merit" has won Yashaswi Book Awards 2079. The award was presented to him in Kaling Literary Festival, Kathmandu 2023 (2nd edition). Sushant has also been awarded Sahitto International Award for Literature 2023 under "Jury Award" Category from Bangladesh. Sushant received Kamala-Raj Bahadur Kunwar Literature Award 2080 B.S. (Nepali Year) in his hometown in Biratnagar, Nepal recently.     

Wednesday, May 29, 2024

New poems: Jon Bennett




The Bullshit Artist
 
The kid came down
from a fine arts school in NYC
thought he was hot shit
“What are you trying to accomplish,
ultimately?” he asked
I bent over the wheelbarrow
and mixed in orange juice
“Why, ‘ultimately,’ Carlos?” I asked
“My name’s Elton,” he said
“Is it really?”
My hand-blender blocked
further ancillary conversation,
I needed time to formulate
an appropriate response
This procedure completed
I got out the paintbrushes
No dainty strokes here
I began slathering on
the shiny, brown slurry
starting with my head
so the excess
could travel down my body
something I learned
from the Saddhus of Calcutta
when faced with limited water
“Always start with the head, Carlos!”
I said, “But, to answer your question,”
I paused, used a practiced index finger
to wipe the slime from my lips,
“I wish to seem, that is
to appear to be making
a bold, political statement.”
“About what?” he asked
“Oh,” I said,
“anything really.”

--

Lee Came Down
 
“Lee! Come down please!”
Every day the woman arrives
in her best clothes
“Lee! You don’t come down
I’m not giving you this money,
don’t play with me now!”
I’ve never seen
love like this
outside of the movies
“Lee got a new girlfriend!”
someone shouts one day
“He did, huh?” she says
not believing the asshole
and she shouldn’t
Finally, Lee does come down
I see it from my window
tall, lean, and handsome
“Lee! There you are!” she says
“I don’t like you!” says Lee
in the big man’s voice
the neighbors have been hoping for
“Stop coming around here!”
“Some son you are!” 
she yells, voice cracking,
“I don’t have time
for your ragged ass anyhow!”
And I stand corrected
we all do.

--

Pen and Paper
 
She’s sitting on the sidewalk
magic markers, an
overworked Bic
drawing spirographs
reminds me of that toy
“They attach a string to a tree,
next thing there’s a tent,
they’re like spiders,”
says the building manager
who carries a razor
when he goes out to smoke
the tents fall like souffles
like collapsed parachutes
like dead soldiers
The homeless die
for different reasons
in the meantime
the girl with pen and paper
draws pyramids,
cat’s eyes, takes notes
on the odd things emergent
from the open closet
in her head
in the end the pen and paper
are mostly there
to keep her company.
I see her and
I write it down.



Bio:

 

Jon Bennett writes and plays music in San Francisco's Tenderloin neighborhood. You can find his work on most music streaming websites. A collection of his poems is available on Amazon at https://www.amazon.com/Leisure-Town-Jon-Bennett/dp/B09NRK1N79/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3LJF1VA7QW8O&keywords=jon+bennett+leisure+town+poetry.  


You can connect with him on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100067752415341.

Tuesday, May 21, 2024

Featuring Richard LeDue



Nice and Tidy


Minutes crawling by like ants,

who probably believe the bottom of your foot

is the devil and your kid's cookie crumbs

god, but eventually the floors will be barren,

well swept and clean enough

to fool the world

into thinking you never made a mess,

or maybe barely even existed.




The Writer's Dream


The truest gamble is getting out of bed

each morning, taking part in the slow death race

we call rush hour, only to find the finish line

is always changing,

until defeat arrives like fresh sheets

on a hospital bed,

but there are ways to win,

like refusing the surrender a Saturday night

to silence and allowing a dead singer

life again in between whisky coloured wagers

that are the safest bets

or chasing the writer's dream,

while others sleepwalk through Netflix,

sensible bed times, keeping track of fibre

in their diets, worrying about blue chip stocks,

succeeding at a job that will kick them

to retirement like they're a half deflated football

doomed to to a thrift store afterlife.




Art Among CGI Explosions


Hundreds of millions of dollars baptize

another Hollywood movie,

while I shortchange myself by being

on hold for an hour,

comparing tenants insurance

to save a couple of hundred of dollars,

and the hold music started to remind of death

breathing hard on the end of an unlisted number,

so I hung up.

My failure small next to a brilliant director,

who was important enough to sell out,

to talk of art among CGI explosions

as I lie in bed, blue as a grey sky,

knowing my own story

wouldn't even warrant practical effects.




Neither Sacred Nor Sacrilegious


Had a good night yesterday,

wrote three poems,

however, tonight I had an invasion of bugs,

tiny ones all over my kitchen floor.

They were small as worries

we forget years later,

yet as I squashed them,

I felt defeated

because I had surrendered my inspiration

to creatures who probably believe crumbs

god's favour and my hands heavenly wrath,

only to leave me in my own purgatory

searching for words, neither sacred nor sacrilegious,

but the closest I'll ever get to salvation.




Not Much of a Memory


Over twenty years ago,

we went to this party up the road

from my friend's house,

which was down the road from a cemetery,

and I drank enough beer

to safely say I don't remember being there,

but I never forgot the walk back at 5 AM.

My friend and I coated in dawn's light

like we were two drunk angels,

only to know for sure now

that I have no idea what we talked about

or why went at all.




The Beauty of It All


Crows atop of telephone lines

watch like angels who chose to leave heaven

and my fingers hide in pockets,

as if they were earthworms

waiting for the preacher's voice.


The twilight sky a rose always

just out of touch.


The beauty of it all a spiritual experience

akin to a heart attack kicking you

out of your body, only to hear your doctor

complain about his golf swing

before you meet dead relatives

who liven up brain death enough

to give you another twenty or thirty years,

wondering why dying felt so good

or if your doctor ever figured out his long game.




Richard LeDue lives in Norway House, Manitoba, Canada. He has published both online and in print. He is the author of ten books of poetry. His latest book, 'Sometimes, It Isn't Much' was released by Alien Buddha Books in February 2024.