New Poems: John Grey

Carnival Dancer

 

She’s not so much a dancer 

as someone who grows lither,

less inhibited with the music.

It’s her gift to strangers,

on a street, intermittently lit,

in contrast to the deep black of her hair,

the eye-liner,

propped by lips blood-red as cherries,

waving her chrysanthemum,

castanets clicking like cash-registers

to the strum of fat guitars.

 

Crescent moon, warm evening,

from doorway lamp to doorway lamp,

then tracing, with dark fingernails,

the electric spark of the riverbank,

flaunting the knife strapped to her thigh,

lovingly retrieved from its hiding place,

the perfect prop for a move

as sinfully graceful as eleven at night, 

with occasional laughter, an odd trumpet,

all part of the costume.

 

Cat’s eyes, locks plastered down the middle,

cheeks powdered, from plaza to narrow street,

she can draw on public sex

she has never used in private,

eyes the families 

that come out once a year,

feel, in watching her,

the erotic shiver of the city.

Gutter Man

 

Nothing like pools of last night’s rain

for some breathtaking views of your reflection

and good times had by all

rippling in water.

 

And you live nearby with your mother

though you’ve forgot where exactly

and sleeping is sleeping 

whether on a bed or in the gutter,

 

though that’s no ceiling 

but a cop standing over you,

all in blue, with a face 

where the moon ought to be

 

in the first rays of daylight,

and his gun keeps materializing 

on his right hip – bang! bang! bang!

wait a minute…that’s your head. 

Getting Back There

 

You leave the city,

don't stop driving

until the land flattens out

and farms fall into view.

You're on course for the rural heart

of the country,

miles of straight white fences,

cornfields stringing gold from silo to silo,

town to town,

RD numbers and wooden mailboxes

carved with a family name.

Forget the droughts,

the miserable yields, the vampire bankers

and the unforgiving commodities market.

You sense something as pure

as a scrub clean in a porcelain tub

under a sloped ceiling,

a star-tippled skylight.

You reckon on a homeliness

as beckoning as a sit on a porch

in late afternoon, at the dimming of the sun,

cured by wind-borne farmyard smells.

You're geared to such delights

as early morning scouring a barn for eggs

or leaning on a fence,

watching a tractor work the land,

or crows hobnobbing on a power line.

You get here

just as farmers are down to their last dime,

can't wait to get out.

And wives, as bruised as the earth,

can no longer hold back.

And the backs of sons are bloodied

by the strap..

And a daughter,

looks out the window for city lights.

sees only stars,

those sparkling betrayers of distance.

It's how it's always been.

It's how it never was.

Congratulations, you've made it.

Congratulations, you can't tell the difference

Rainbow

 

It's up to you now, Laura.

I've suffered through the storm,

 

the nearest thing I know to divine judgment.

You promised rainbows. Show me.

 

No, not some of your buttermilk pancakes.

Or even that wine you've been saving.

 

I want my prism of droplets refracting and reflecting

the white light of the sun.

 

Don't screw up your face like that.

Stare out the window for me.

 

Find me that diaphanous spectrum.

There are colors out there surely

 

and brighter, lovelier than peacock feathers.

You think you're so clever bringing me food and drink.

 

But I can't taste my way clear. A forkful of that,

a sip of this - where's the awareness?

 

I've been bullied by the sky.

It's not up to you to make amends.

 

Just describe the brilliant hues of the rainbow to me.

And how they fill up time and space

 

Or float out ahead of the body, touching everything.

Let me know that they have our hearts, our souls.

 

And, oh yes, make sure

they're willing to defend them.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, Santa Fe Literary Review, and Lost Pilots. Latest books, ”Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and  “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the Seventh Quarry, La Presa and California Quarterly.

New poems: Richard LeDue

My Ten Count

My ten count sometimes lasted

two days, as I sweated defeat

through my underwear,

and heard counting in the voices

of co-workers, bus drivers, strangers

in love with the victory of silence.

The courage easier years ago

to fake, using a half empty bottle

of whisky to prop myself up,

until the hangover the next day

knocked me down like a left hook

turning my soul into glass.

Another Reluctant Spring

Your death comes back to life

to haunt me at 2 PM,

when the snow melts

just like it does every year,

and I want to say this is faith,

proving god believes in us,

but it leaves me feeling more alone,

more certain in my own uncertainty,

as my memory tries its damnedest

to unremember the cancer

stealing your voice away,

until it came back today

as ghostly footsteps

trapped

in the attic of my mind.

The Struggle Against Silence

Bach’s music is heavy with sadness,

like someone who has to believe in god

in order for the world to make sense,

while Beethoven is the thunder

from angels bowling away

another summer night,

and Bukowski the static stained radio,

relishing classical composers at 1 AM,

until the last wine bottle emptied.

Sane as an Egg

chewed with an open mouth in the morning,

while in the garbage can,

the broken shell sits;

any sound it had made lost

to the same silence we let say goodnight to us

or mumble the alarm clock’s noise

after hitting snooze for the third or fourth time.

Yesterday’s deja vu easily forgotten,

until the shower sings the same song

and the coffee left to cool too long again,

making a desire for madness, that our ancestors

perfected by letting it stay unspoken,

the best satisfaction we can have.

Any Corpse Could be a Genius

A dead name might find life

on a tombstone,

like a street people remember

because there was a brothel

or a house famous enough

to have ghosts,

if they’re lucky.

Of course, there’s grey hair

first, sore backs

that mean nothing, doctors

lecturing about blood pressure,

and empty bottles

filled without anyone noticing

pieces of a soul.

A Morning Person Lazarus

The sunlight at 7:34 AM is

potent as the first glass of whisky,

except it’s been six months

since my last drink,

and the ice in my freezer

more frozen than ever,

but no one seems to care

about how I don’t squint

at the morning sun now;

a cloudy confirmation

that life has meaning beyond

a hangover hanging from another,

or that god might be

one more set of eyes

who believed my smile never died.

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.

Find more of his work on Bold Monkey Review here: 

https://georgedanderson.blogspot.com/2024/05/featuring-richard-ledue.html

New poems: Jack Phillips Lowe

FRED WOULD UNDERSTAND

 

I was sitting in the break room, 

looking at my phone,

when the news popped up

on my Facebook feed:

the poet Fred Voss had died.

 

Fred Voss was a unique 

and distinctly American writer.

Using experiences he’d gleaned

from years of toiling as a machinist

in a California aircraft factory,

Voss’s poems portrayed 

the blue-collar laborer’s world

with sensitivity and compassion 

rarely seen in poetry since Bukowski—

minus the “tough guy” bullshit

that marred much of Buk’s writing.

 

Voss’s poetry was, for me,

a school of possibilities. 

Poets, Voss taught me, 

didn’t glow in the dark. 

They weren’t required to be born

with blue-blooded pedigrees.

They didn’t need diplomas

from Ivy League universities.

 

Poets, Voss taught me, 

worked 9-5 jobs. 

They wrestled with mortgages

and insurance, asshole bosses

and douchebag coworkers.

They endured heartbreaks dealt  

by family, friends and lovers.

 

The difference, Voss taught me,

was that poets—each in 

their own singular way—

heard music in the rat race

that bypassed everyone else.

 

Sitting in the break room,

I felt compelled to post 

something on Facebook 

in memory of Fred Voss. 

Something, beyond the usual R.I.P.,

that would convey how much 

and for how long Voss’s words

had enriched my life. 

Try as I did, nothing came.

 

I glanced at my watch;

time to get back to work. 

Company policy stated that 

clocking in late from a break 

earned you a half-point penalty. 

I was already at 4 ½ points;

5 points meant termination. 

 

I pocketed my phone,

hurried up the hall 

to the time clock 

and punched back in. 

Somehow, I knew

Fred would understand.

 

 

OKAY, THEN

 

I don’t care 

that you once met

Tupac Shakur.

Okay, then.

He’s still alive,

you know.

 

I don’t care 

that Bukowski

once told you

to write a book

about your life. 

Okay, then.

He said that 

to many women. . .

who, sadly, listened. 

 

I don’t care

that you dived

off Navy Pier.

In your underwear.

In broad daylight.

Okay, then. 

I hope that 

you chose

the deep end.

 

I don’t care

that you once 

knocked out

Ronda Rousey

in a bar fight.

Okay, then. 

You used 

a beer bottle, 

didn’t you?

 

I don’t care

that your ex-boyfriend 

once dared you to 

put your cell phone 

on vibrate and 

shove it into 

your crotch, 

while he 

speed-dialed you

on his cell phone.

Okay, then.

Some people 

are just bored. 

 

I don’t care 

about anything 

that happened

with anybody

before tonight,

outside of 

this room.

 

Can you just 

sit here with me,

without talking?

And help me

drink this 

twelve-pack of beer?

 

Okay, then.

You can stay.

 

 

WELL-CHOSEN WORDS

 

He fell in love with her

that day. 

He loved her long dark hair. 

He loved her smooth olive skin.

He loved her dancing brown eyes. 

Her full lips, even when forming

the most mundane words,

gave him a boner that could 

pound gravel to dust. 

 

He knew he wanted to spend

the rest of his life with her. 

All he had to do was

say some well-chosen words

that would make his dream reality. 

 

He opened his mouth and spoke:

"Thanks for shopping with us.

Enjoy the rest of your afternoon."

 

He handed her the receipt.

The woman smiled and walked away.

He never saw her again. 

Find more of Jack's work on BMR here: https://georgedanderson.blogspot.com/2024/02/featuring-jack-phillips-lowe.html

 

 

Featuring John Chinaka Onyeche

FRAGMENTS OF INNOCENCE 

 

You sat on that chair,

With eyes full of innocence,

Longing for a hand to hold,

With arms stretched,

Waving at shadows of a father.

A pose only readable within

Those who went through the same

Unfamiliar road to their becoming.

I wonder what life has given you—

A load so heavy that it drenches

Your tender heart.

Even when you let out

Those sweet smiles on your face,

They speak thousands

Of unspoken words that seek love

In a creation you never decried of coming.

Here, life hands you over

To brokenness and totems,

To toss and live with each day,

Longing and wishing to fix

A family's broken portrait:

A boy, a man, and a child surviving,

Home that calls your name

In a broken map, and says that you are a man.

 

 

 

 

 

PEEP IN A SHARD HOME 

 

Today, I took a stroll in their gardens—

With a lens of knowledge,

With one who, in the time past, was one

With home, and its broken apartment,

Where nothing else is holding home,

But I, Mine, Me, and yours alone.

These words that leave homes,

In shards without knowing—

How every experience of these are shaped.

Here, I am taking a glimpse of, and glance

At their broken hearts saying:

What is home? 

And what is a family who takes only—

But I, Mine, Me, and yours alone,

To hold every child here in bondage,

Saying that they are victims of parenting,

Separating kids from home and family—

Still, calling themselves parents in all.

 

 

 

 

 

DISCOMFORTING HOME 

 

Now, I know that this life I am living is not mine. The  man of language said that it is a cliché – but I know, the message that I wanted him to know about me has been delivered. In any use of language he wanted me to do this, today, I failed him. I said: that I am living, but this life is not my own. I desire outside home frequent than home; how is this life my own and I run outside more than I run inside, and the comfort of outside is not satisfying even the shadows it offers me; alas! Am I now lost in the midst of the world? How else should I live to gather my life again? The last time I saw the light, the heavens blinked and everything became dark again where once God said: let there be light, but here we kiss goodnight to our dreams of home, of its discomfort, and the comforts of the outside home. 

 

 

 

 

3.50AM, 04/10/2024 

 

Dear Son, 

I will not lose you.

 

Some nights,

seeing you in my dreams are like;

holding a knife, cutting off

the better part of my life.

 

Where I don’t wish

the coming of another morning—

because in one night,

 

I lost and found you,

I found and lost you

in an innumerable buildings.

 

Your smile, your fears,

your agony and tender body—

maltreatment by your mother

at the mention of my name.

 

It cuts and kills me,

nights and days,

day and night alike.

 

 

 

 

 

LETTERS TO A CHILD

 

My daughter is 3-years-old, and I’m still

not sure if I’m a good father

-       Rudy Francisco

for: Chisimdiri, my Muse.

 

Dear Child,

I am writing to you

in the clasp of waters.

Listen to the voice

of atonements—

If it be 25,

born on the 27th,

or the 10th or 22nd,

heed the account.

 

Ask for the mouth

that beautifies your earthly form,

as casks of joy,

and as a gift from my ancestors.

 

There's Amina, Abasiama—

so there's Zaynaab,

and I will speak of Damilola,

perhaps Roseline and Sarah.

Seek them and learn letters.

To be loved means to love letters.

 

Here, I hang my garb—

waiting to curl my longings

in your wits.

UNNAMED 

 

This petal fell

As the flowers grew

In a troubled earth.

 

Though we wanted flowers,

Two were already planted:

 

One in love, and the other

In what took the semblance of chaos.

 

Where prayers are offered now and then,

For safe earthly arrivals.

 

But the rain never falls

On the petals nor the flowers.

 

Yet even the unnamed would know,

That nature’s ways are different.

 

 

 

 

 

Bio:

John Chinaka Onyeche is a Nigerian writer of colour (BIPOC) and historian from Etche in Rivers State. A graduate of history and diplomatic studies. He serves as a poetry curator with Port Harcourt Literary Review. He is dedicated to ensuring that the full scope of history is accurately represented poetically. His writing can be found in various journals, including; Charles University, Prague, Rio Grande Valley International Poetry Festival, Akpata Review, Rigorous, Ebedi Review, Overtly Lit, Middlebury Institute of International Studies, McNeese University, Pier Review University of Brighton, Tilted House Journal, Akewi Magazine, and Brittle Paper. Best of Net, 2022, Pushcart, 2023. 

Connect with him on Twitter @Apostlejohnchin or https://linker.ee/RememberAjc