Tag Archives: poetry

clarence wolfshohl | angel of dachau

Her eyes must be a cold sky blue, but on this grey mist day they are iron grey to fit the fix of her face amongst her ashen hair, the only looseness about her. She guides us through the chilled drizzle from barrack to bunker, across graveled yard flanked by watch tower and entry gate with its Nazi smirk of “Arbeit macht frei,” each place forcing her monologue of horrors, the speech sounding clear English with only a touch of Bavarian mountains flattened with the shame she knows with each word. Later, outside the barbed wire, she tells us she is an archaeologist, guides these tours only twice a month; she can do no more, she says, a tear allowed to fall.
SONY DSCClarence Wolfshohl is professor emeritus of English at William Woods University. He operated Timberline Press for thirty-five years until the end of 2010. His poetry and creative fiction have appeared in Concho River Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Colere, Rattlesnake Review, Cenizo Journal, San Pedro River Review, and Melic Review, Houston Literary Review, Right Hand Pointing and Red River Review online. He will be featured poet in the August 2013 Red River Review. A chapbook of poems about Brazil, Season of Mangos, was published by Adastra Press (2009) and a compilation of three earlier chapbooks, The First Three (2010) and Down Highway 281 (2011) were published by El Grito del Lobo Press. In Harm’s Way: Poems of Childhood in collaboration with Mark Vinz was published by El Grito del Lobo Press in early 2013. A native Texan, Wolfshohl now lives with his writing, two dogs and two cats in a nine-acre woods outside of Fulton, Missouri.
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mindaugas briedis | slow trees

Tėti, Medžiai lėti, bet balsuoja už vėją pirmi Mokosi lenktis, treniruojasi Dar jie laukia audros Griežtos vienišos mamos Ji užduos išmokt atsitiest iki aušros Nebuvo bėdos, šliaužiojom tarp tiesos ir sriubos Šūvio aidas parode- mes kalnuos Lygiagretus urvai susikirstu tikrai Jei turėtum kantrybės jais sekti iki kontūrams blėstant Bet nurimsta širdis, kai paviršium nuslysta akis, Pasaulis pradėtas žiemos įkarštyje jau vėsta Aš bijau kai prieina vaikai Tėti, tu juk viską žinai Kai aš mirsiu, ar aš mirsiu visai? Kažką atsakau, juk ne veltui barzdotas Tiek suvedžiota, neapžiotum Lygiagretus urvai susikirstu tikrai Jei turėtum kantrybės jais sekti iki kontūrams blėstant Bet nurimsta širdis, kai paviršium nuslysta akis, Pasaulis pradėtas žiemos įkarštyje jau vėsta
Mindaugas Briedis is a philosopher and song-writer from Vilnius, Lithuania. He works as a professor in several Vilnius universities. Also keeps alive bardic tradition which he understands as the oscillation between pure poetry and language/expression experiments. Similarly his music gravitates from traditional author’s songs genre, a la folk-rock arrangements to alternative acoustics. Mindaugas has recorded five albums and published a poetry collection titled Ice for Priapus. For more, visit briedismusic.com/

loretta diane walker | poetry’s assassination

Poetry’s assassination was not in the newspaper this morning nor did I see a script of its demise scrolling at the foot of CNN’s news broadcast. But I was told it is dead—dead as Latin. Could it have accidentally drowned in the small lake where poets fish? Could the media have missed its exhumation? I doubt if it was suicide. It would not hang itself with rhythmic phrases or overdose on syntax or imagery. I cannot imagine poetry cutting into its soft wrists until the blood of alliteration drained, leaving it lifeless. I could not find its multi-faceted face in an obituary anywhere. Wonder if there is an autopsy on record somewhere, waiting in a “to be filed” box before its official release. I don’t know the origin of this rumor, but I was told poetry is dead— dead as Latin. Poetry (poetica) is not dead (decessus)! It lives. I saw its round belly protruding through my neighbor’s red blouse; she thinks it is a boy, but it is poetry.
"Poetry's Assassination" was first published in The Poetry Society of Texas Book of the Year Prize Poems (2008) and also is published in Loretta’s book Word Ghetto (1st World Publishing, 2011).
LorettaDianeWalkerLoretta Diane Walker is a Pushcart nominee and an award winning poet. She has published two collections of poetry. Her manuscript Word Ghetto won the 2011 Bluelight Press Book Award, (1st World Publishing Press, 2011). Walker’s work has appeared in a number of publications including The Concho River Review, Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Illya’s Honey, Orbis International Journal, San Diego City Works Press, and most recently Lifting the Sky: Southwestern Haiku & Haiga and The Texas Observer. She teaches music at Reagan Magnet School in Odessa, Texas. Loretta received a BME from Texas Tech University and earned a MA from The University of Texas of the Permian Basin.

ken hada | a cocktail waitress

(whose name I fail to remember) Remember her eyes – they are pumas piercing a tangled mess pouncing, dumb boys sidle up to her. She ignores them as long as she can but her job requires a smile a kind touch on the arm or shoulder she passes holding drinks aloft to pacify children who never will man her. But somewhere – I need to believe – after the last superficial to-do has ended after tabs and tips are counted, somewhere she stands before a mirror – proud lioness that she is – slowly strokes her dark locks, her blackness, her white eyes burning holes through glass which could never hold her.
Ken Hada’s recent poetry collections include Western Heritage Award recipient Spare Parts, The River White: A Confluence of Brush & Quill, and a cd, Like Father, Like Son: A Narrative in Poetry & Guitar. He contributes regularly to “All Roads Will Lead You Home” – a poetry blog available at http://vacpoetry.org/three/. For more information see kenhada.org

albert degenova | thanksgiving poem

Young buck drags             his hindquarters – eyes wild for escape –             across the unlit road. The car ahead             had swerved, pulled         off the road our friends out of their car             shaking, pacing, Oh Jeez! Oh Jeez! in a field, behind             the struggling, the useless legs. Call the police. An accident.    Flashlight.    A shot. Heaving steamy breath. Second shot. To the head.    Silence.             Policeman pulls the carcass to the gravel shoulder.             Highway crew’s morning pick-up. Again the moonlight, white             frost, empty fields. Farther up the highway, a country tavern, our friend’s son, bartender and chef, serves us whiskey, no ice, no flourish – his friends go             for the carcass, the precious meat cannot be left             to spoil. Out back the buck is dressed. The tenderloin removed and fried with onions and carrots. A white plate is passed along the bar for sharing, thinly-sliced dark-colored venison, one communal fork. The plate             reaches us, we hesitate a moment. The taste is wild, it tastes             like running.
Albert DeGenova is a poet, writer, editor and publisher. He is the author of four books of poetry, and for the past 30-plus years has worked as a journalist, public relations practitioner, copywriter and marketing communications professional. From 1978 to 1980, he was an editor of the Oyez Review, published by Roosevelt University. In June of 2000 he launched the literary/arts journal, After Hours, for which he continues as publisher and editor. Albert holds an MFA in writing and is an adjunct professor at Concordia University in River Forest, Illinois. He is also a blues saxophonist and one-time contributing editor to Down Beat magazine. http://albertdegenova.outlawpoetry.com http://www.afterhourspress.com http://www.linkedin.com/in/aldegenova

ken hada | last night on the beach

Last night on the beach a curvy, dark-skinned lady whirls, tip-toes before soft-landing surf. The sun has set, but it is not yet dark. A candy-red top hangs loosely above modest white shorts, bare feet celebrating the discovery of sensuous waves. Her hair is tied up exposing her strong black neck. She glances a few times over her shoulder at the panoramic sea foaming behind her. She is aware she is being watched. Self-consciously she smiles but she’s no exhibitionist. She spins, then settles softly into sand just the way she feels it – just the way he wants it – her husband brings his camera close. She freezes before a blinding flash, then they look to see what image has been found, what beauty she reflects – then walk away. Unending waves pull them, caressing shore with tenderness I have rarely seen.
Ken Hada, from Ada, Oklahoma, is a poet and professor at East Central University where he directs the annual Scissortail Creative Writing Festival. Ken finds inspiration for writing in nature. Raised in the rural Ozarks, with close ties to his Hungarian ancestors in the gypsum hills of northwest Oklahoma, he finds the natural order a powerful presence for writing. His award-winning books include The Way of the Wind, Spare Parts and The River White: A Confluence of Brush & Quill. A popular reader of his work, Ken also contributes regularly to the poetry blog: All Roads Will Lead You Home. Visit his website at kenhada.org.

larry d thomas | san antonio zoo

The peacock faces us in a splay of lust, prompting the unconscious holding of our hands, blinding our eyes with iridescent blue collapsing our lungs with breathlessness. Hand in hand we enter the penguin exhibit, and we see them standing erect, motionless, their backs to the glass, their heads tilted upward among outcroppings of fake gray rocks rising to a concrete wall of painted Antarctic vistas. We stand for several minutes and not a penguin moves, each brooking the bitter cold, keeping its back to viewing humans, living with every bit of possible dignity the dire little fictions of its life.
Larry Head ShotLarry D. Thomas, a member of the Texas Institute of Letters and the 2008 Texas Poet Laureate, has published twenty collections of poetry, most recently Uncle Ernest (Virtual Artists Collective, Chicago, 2013). His Larry D. Thomas: New and Selected Poems (TCU Press, 2008) was short-listed for the National Book Award. Visit his website at LarryDThomas.com.

dana heifetz | there is no time

There is no time nor space for poetry, not here, where the air is so dense and the light - so violent. Language finds it hard to survive here. At times, people too. I miss poetry. I miss you.
Dana Heifetz is an Israeli fiction and poetry writer, who published so far short stories and poems (in Hebrew) in the Israeli journals Achshav, Moznayim, Iton 77, Gag, Hasadna, alongside a poem in the online anthology Blueberry Rain and Chocolate Snow (Edited by Steven Schroeder and Sou Vai Keng). She's also a philosopher, a human-rights lawyer and an editor of non-fiction books.

elizabeth raby | at the peak

Above smoldering caldera, from the rim of the volcano long gray slopes of cinders still hot and smoking, nothing alive but the fire inside. It’s hard to believe that this barren beginning will in time nourish so much green, so much life. The wildebeests graze on the richest grass on earth nourished by minerals forced out through fire. Our earth has done it again and again and so have we, I guess. Churned and ruined land at Verdun, bones of 600,000 bodies collected, piled in the grim hump of the ossuary, most of the bombs from that battlefield gathered too. Almost one hundred years later, although the ground is still prone to detonate from unexploded ordinance, trees have grown tall. How many times can we do it to each other and the earth? How much ruined land, corpse-littered, can regenerate? We wait for the super volcano, the asteroid, the force that will finish us. Perhaps if sentient life evolves again it will be better, finer, kinder, deserving this magnificent chance.
Elizabeth Raby is the author of 3 full-length poetry collections, This Woman (2012), Ink on Snow (2010), and The Year the Pears Bloomed Twice (2009), all published by Virtual Artists Collective and of four chapbooks. She worked as a poet-in-the-schools and taught poetry at Muhlenberg College.