J.T. Whitehead

Interview with an American Writer

Q: “Could you name your biggest influences?”
A: “French artists
“& Indian gurus.
"German philosophers
“& Black blues.
“Irish poets
“& British rockers.
“Dutch brewers
“& Jamaican farmers.
“Hyperborean climates . . .
“& . . . naturally . . .
“American blood.

{J.T. Whitehead}

Samantha Seto

Relative End

The sidewalk etches the words
deep into the pavement.
I cower at the sight,
bury my face into my jacket,
only to realize that it’s an illusion.

In subway trains, the images blur together,
creating a nonsensical web.
Familiar bustle at the station in late afternoon
is restless and alerts surrounding traffic.

Music arises, light from outdoors,
Pedestrians dance in the streets,
as I drive past at walking speed.

The winds sway a swing at the park,
with sunbeams on its convex shape.
Rectangular blues and purples
reflect the water’s light from a nearby lake.

Downtown bus, unscheduled
stops a few meters away, rounds a curb.
The driver looks back at me,
I am forgotten.

Gravel beneath my feet erodes blisters,
hesitating to take me home.
I hold my breath for a second,
to take in fumes that only pollute me.

The silver maple tree drips water from its leaves,
clean dirt beneath rosebuds holds weariness,
I stand only a few meters away
from dreary weeds that grow.

Dusk in dark gray and blue shades in horizon,
signifies half-moon shadows.

{Samantha Seto}

C. David Hay

Wings

Oh, to catch the winds of flight
And soar where eagles go,
To leave the woes of troubled souls
Behind me far below.
I'd listen to the song of birds
And sail in endless flight,
Then chase the sun through cloudy paths
And play with stars at night.

The boundless heavens for my home,
The breeze to lift me high,
To rise above my mortal bonds
And never have to die;
Knowing I had found the way
To trails where angels trod,
And when my wings could fly no more -
I'd take the hand of God!

{C. David Hay}

Frank DeCanio

Gossamer Girl

Could artifice work such a toxic kiss
despite its guile? Demure, yet filled with grace,
she glares at me as if she might dismiss
me out of hand, and put me in my place.
She doesn’t play like novices who scowl
to snuff out flames of passion that they stoke.
But like some hungry spider on the prowl,
she’s poised to pounce on quarry with one stroke,
as soon as they’re entangled in her web.
Indeed. When I approach this stern cashier,
her sweet hello accelerates the ebb
and flow of my heart’s racing blood. And fear
in my glazed eyes assures her she holds sway
as her smile spins the silk that dooms her prey.

{Frank DeCanio}

Mackenzie Brown

What Are You

You are my pencil.
You carve charcoal tinted
graphite solidly onto the
page below; successfully
transporting images that
rest in my mind.

You are my tool.
Your sharply sawed edges
slice through the toughest
membranes; hoping that
what you discover exceeds
what you currently posses.

You are my weapon.
You represent the extent
of my fears; where reality and
fantasy converge. In exploring
the possibilities, I find
your infinite usefulness.

But I am the Author, the Creator.
I am the floor water spills over onto;
the ideas that are too extravagant
and many to stay in their cage. I use
you to express myself. I am your
beginning and end.

{Mackenzie Brown}

Michael Zadell

Interstitial

First light ignites the placid air
of a vaulted darkness
blown wide open

and from that arc
of sky in disrepair
the radiance of morning

rages
out of a spreading glare
of derelict clarity

and what cannot be penetrated
is shoved aside
to the margins

where our spirits
spend our days
already vindicated

wrapped in shadowed weather
leaning into our lives
like water

nudging us past those streams
that forever lead us toward
but never really get us here

to a reef of the heart’s own making
on an
interstitial ocean

awaiting our return to ourselves
until the interrupted night resumes
like a fever

finally broken.

{Michael Zadell}

Erren Geraud Kelly

Kenlynne

something was different about
her tonight
it was the clothes, the
hair
the hat that tried to hide her feminimity
but only enhanced it
it comes as natural as the way
she walks
the way she puffs her
cigarette
ever blase' to death
she can only take certain kinds
of crazy
otherwise, she just walks
away
and it's not going out of my
way
to follow behind her
some women would kill
for her curves
she thinks its no big deal
and doesn't work at it
at all
and i don't think god
is fair or unfair
god is just god
sometimes, i don't think we should
work at it at all
there should be some things
that just drop into our lives

{Erren Geraud Kelly}

Natalie Jeanne Champagne

Love

We are not in love
But, yes, we do love
We do not kiss
But instead read each other’s lips
He might draw me a bath
Scented like lavender

When the sun has fallen
We lay side by side
Though we do not touch
We are not in love
But, yes, we do love

Laughter can be intimate
A hand held sensual
Fervent passion
Explored with the mind
And not the body
We are not in love
But, yes, we do love

{Natalie Jeanne Champagne}

Michelle Macfarlane

Burning Clouds Before the Day Ends

A black crescent moon swallowed the sides of his head
which contained entire galaxies of complexities
and standards and measures of faith.
Soothing included a bedtime story and
helping move a grand piano down a
staircase for a neighbor. A massage
was merely an uncomfortable interaction
of strange intimacy.

The earth was merely a super glued rubber ball
that bounced around and shook the
inhabitants around and up and down.

It was the good, the bit of melted cheese in a sandwich
or the laughter of tickling a daughter’s knee which
mended the useless rubber ball into
a place worth existing.
He was not a man of only simple moments.
He drove an exotic Mercedes with brown leather
seats and heated cushions for long winter drives.

A man of his word, unless he merely forgot or changed
the terms and conditions of an arrangement.

Books on history collected no dust on his shelves
as he constantly swallowed the black ink
into every pore and surface of his being.

He did not ask to be remembered by the masses
He did not want his name to span the ages.
He would survive through unanswered questions

Their path destined by a need to understand
black crescent moons that burned
clouds during daylight.

{Michelle Mcfarlane}

Susan Marie Davniero

Legacy of Emily Dickinson

Lore of legend raise
Gifted poet’s praise
The creative source
For poetry’s course

Solitude inviting
Recluse for writing
Pinning away alone
Set the poet’s tone

Life of isolation
Denied recognition
The myth has last
Recluse of Amherst cast

Success later came
In posthumous fame
Her poetry is left
To speak for itself

As legends grow old
A story left untold
By the poetry creation
Legacy of Emily Dickinson

{Susan Marie Davniero}

Donal Mahoney

No Hypocrisy, No Cant

The lioness is wont
to practice no

hypocrisy, no cant.
The lioness

will topple her objective,
grapple with it till

all palpitation
finally is still.

The lioness then laps,
completely dry,

what unavoidably
may spill.


Before He Goes Bare

You'll never see him again, you say,
but what if he brings to your room
a midnight poem he says
he's written for you.

Will you read it together
a couple of times, out loud,
as you have in the past?
And what if he then

shoots like a rocket
into the forest, igniting the fire,
as he has in the past.
Will you see him again?

We have the children
to think about.
That's why I'm here.
We all need to know.

{Donal Mahoney}

Peter Layton

Sand

I've been taught to
sleep with my weapon
eat with it
feed it its shells
oiled, cleaned,
we are often as one
it grasps much I
hold deeper inside
you
sharing this space and not
hearing and feeling all I can't say
the late night hours tick
the hard closeness of them
saying my epistles to you
you seeming
the dust of morning
nearby, wishing everything away
I'll hold this
warm dark wood
inside like a candle flame
the deeper inside smoking cold shells
readying to do me harm
I'm always armed, night after night of same
the cold framed trees
the starklights
the cold
held in.

{Peter Layton}