Eleven Minutes (by J.E. Stanley)

J.E. Stanley at Jim’s Coffeehouse & Diner in Elyria, Ohio — photo by JB 

 

Eleven Minutes

 

Eleven minutes
of silence — and then
her breath.

 

* * * * *

“Eleven Minutes” comes from the chapbook Rapid Eye Movement — (c) 2011 by J.E. Stanley — published by Crisis Chronicles Press.  The poem originally appeared in microcosms.

J.E. Stanley is an accountant and on again/off again guitarist from the grayscale suburban wilderness of Northeastern Ohio where he is lucky enough to hang out with the Deep Cleveland Poets and the Cleveland Speculators. His other books include Selected Regions of the Moon (NightBallet Press), Dark Intervals (vanZeno Press), Dissonance (Deep Cleveland Press) and, co-authored with Joshua Gage, Intrinsic Night (Sam’s Dot Publishing). His work has appeared in Amaze, Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, Cinema Spec, the Deep Cleveland Junkmail Oracle, Paper Crow, The Rhysling Anthology, Scifaikuest, Sein und Werden, Star*Line, Sybil’s Garage and numerous other mainstream and genre publications. He continues to assert that, winged or not, Man was always meant to fly; the moon and stars were just put there as incentives.

 

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John Peter Altgeld (by Michael Ceraolo)

Michael Ceraolo, poet [photo by Jesus Crisis]

John Peter Altgeld
 
“Government must defend itself; 
life and property must be protected, 
and law and order must be maintained; 
murder must be punished, 
                                       and 
if the defendants are guilty of murder, 
either committed by their own hands 
or by some one else acting on their advice, 
then if they have had a fair trial, 
there should be in this case no executive interference” 
 
Pretty much the words one would expect 
from a tycoon who spent $100,000 
of his own money on the campaign 
that elected him Governor of Illinois; 
he would be another in the line of elected officials 
who had done and would do nothing 
for the remaining three inmates 
convicted in the Haymarket case 
(George Bernard Shaw on some of those officials: 
“If seven men must die for the Haymarket explosion, 
civilization can better afford to lose 
the seven members of the Illinois Supreme Court”) 
 
                                                                               But 
this official was John Peter Altgeld: 
 
“no man has the right to allow his ambition 
to stand in the way of the performance 
of a simple act of justice” 
                                                     (something 
never even thought by Kennedy) 
                                                  and 
“If I decide they are innocent 
I will pardon them if I never hold office another day” 
 
And so: 
 
                “The record of the trial 
shows that the jury in this case was not drawn 
in the manner juries usually are drawn” 
that bailiff Henry Ryce had been appointed 
as a special bailiff to summon prospective jurors, 
that Ryce had successfully impaneled 
“a prejudiced jury which he believed would hang the defendants” 
 
and findings of fact: 
 
                                 “until 
the State proves from whose hand the bomb came, 
it is impossible to show any connection 
between the man who threw it and these defendants” 
                                                                                and 
“It is further shown here  
that much of the evidence given at trial 
was a pure fabrication; 
                                   that 
some of the prominent police officials in their zeal, 
not only terrorized ignorant men by throwing them into prison 
and threatening them with torture 
if they refused to swear to anything desired, 
                                                                 but 
that they offered money and employment 
to those who would consent to do this” 
 
And thus: 
 
“I am convinced that it is clearly my duty 
to act in this case for the reasons already given, 
and I, 
         therefore, 
                         grant an absolute pardon to 
Samuel Fieldin, 
                        Oscar Neebe, 
                                               and Michael Schwab 
this 26th day of June,1893″ 
 
                                              And 
then the attacks began, 
                                   by 
those stern guardians of right and wrong, 
                                                             the press, 
                                                                            all 
having little to do with the substance of the message: 
 
“an alien himself” 
                              who 
“does not reason like an American, 
does not feel like one, 
                       &nb
sp;          and 
consequently does not behave like one” 
                                                           who 
“has encouraged anarchy, rapine and 
the overthrow of civilizations” 
 
                                                  And 
for those who think nastiness and name-calling 
are recent phenomena in politics, 
                                                 these statements 
from the re-election campaign in 1896, 
                                                          uttered 
by a future President 
(who will remain deservedly nameless in this poem), 
Altgeld was: 
 
“one who would connive at wholesale murder” 
a man who 
                   “would substitute 
for the government of Washington and Lincoln 
a red welter of lawlessness and dishonesty 
as fantastic and vicious as the Paris Commune: 
(red-baiting never goes out of style, 
sadly) 
 
                 And 
such attacks worked, 
as they usually do: 
Altgeld was defeated, 
                                 his courage  
not rewarded in the short run, 
                                              and 
in constant danger of being forgotten 
in the long run

* * * * *
This poem comes from Michael Ceraolo’s work-in-progress Profiles in Courage: An Alternate Array.  We also recommend these Michael Ceraolo poetry collections:
 
Euclid Creek – available from Deep Cleveland Books
Cleveland Scores Early – from Kendra Steiner Editions
Cleveland Haiku – from Green Panda Press

The Psychological Entanglements of Two Warped Souls (by A.J. Huffman)

 

The Psychological Entanglements of Two Warped Souls

Spin whispers around
my mind.
Blink.
Twist.
It-me-in
blind gossamers of
misdirected belief.
Deny.
My eyes
their glimmer
and knowledge.
Turn
them all [over].
Paint
them back. Black. (K)not
them into a fine blanket.
Unfinished.
I will fall through
my own holes.
Strained
[and] understanding will form
from my form
                     er resurrection.
Go. Glow. Grow
wind.
From the shapely shadows
of our segregated kiss.

* * * * *

“The Psychological Entanglements of Two Warped Souls” (c) 2013 by A.J. Huffman

A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida.  Her chapbook Inside the Walls of a Blackened Book, was published in 2013 by The Poet’s Haven.  She has six previously published collections of poetry available on Amazon.com.  She has also published her work in numerous national and international literary journals.  She is currently the editor for six online poetry journals for Kind of a Hurricane Press.  Find more about A.J. Huffman, including additional information and links to her work on Facebook and Twitter.

Names I am considering for my future literary magazine (by Kelley White)

Names I am considering for my future literary magazine
(with apologies if they already exist)

Adipose Tissue
Borborygmi
Crepuscular
Divine Decadence
Electric City
Fever
Gratuitous Teeth
Hidden Laynx
Image & Conceit
Jeremiad
Kleine Nacht
Lemon Tree
Magnetic Field
Neonate
Omen
Piecrust
Quiver
Rogue Sheep
Stiletto
Tightrope
Under Arrest
Vernacular Hinges
Wombat
Xenophon
Yung Blud
Z-Bra



* * * * * *

Pediatrician Kelley White worked in inner-city Philadelphia and now works in rural New Hampshire. Her poems have appeared in journals including Exquisite Corpse, Rattle and JAMA. Her most recent books are TOXIC ENVIRONMENT (Boston Poet Press) and TWO BIRDS IN FLAME (Beech River Books.) She received a 2008 Pennsylvania Council on the Arts grant.

A Line-Storm Song (by Robert Frost)

A Line-Storm Song
by Robert Frost
[from A Boy’s Will (1913)]

The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift,
     The road is forlorn all day,
Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift, 
     And the hoofprints vanish away.
The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee, 
     Expend their bloom in vain.
Come over the hills and far with me, 
     And be my love in the rain.

The birds have less to say for themselves 
     In the wood-world’s torn despair
Than now these numberless years the elves, 
     Although they are no less there:
All song of the woods is crushed like some 
     Wild, easily shattered rose.
Come, be my love in the wet woods, come, 
     Where the boughs rain when it blows.

There is the gale to urge behind 
     And bruit our singing down,
And the shallow waters aflutter with wind 
     From which to gather your gown.
What matter if we go clear to the west, 
     And come not through dry-shod?
For wilding brooch, shall wet your breast 
     The rain-fresh goldenrod.

Oh, never this whelming east wind swells 
     But it seems like the sea’s return
To the ancient lands where it left the shells 
     Before the age of the fern;
And it seems like the time when after doubt 
     Our love came back amain.
Oh, come forth into the storm and rout 
     And be my love in the rain.


*

Lunch Break – Chicago (by Sparkplug O’Shea)

Sparkplug O’Shea 

Lunch Break – Chicago

“Can I ask you a question? Can I have lunch with you?” 
          “No!”
“It’s cause I’m black, isn’t it? If I was a white man you’d say ‘Sure! Sit down.’” 
         “Nope.”
“You got a man?” 
         “That’s none of your business.”
“Where he at then? Letting you sit here by yourself.” 
         “I’m gay.”
“WHAT!? How long have you been gay?” 
         “What kind of a question is that?”
“You just let me know when you’re ready to switch
cause I would LOVE to tackle that.”

* * * * *

Sparkplug O’Shea (also known as B. Preston Johnson) has recently been published in Cheap & Easy Magazine, The Weekenders journal, The Rusty Nail magazine, and is the newest Contributing Editor at Red Fez magazine.  She lives in Southeast Michigan and looks forward to taking in another beautiful Autumn.

To him who keeps an Orchis’ heart (by Emily Dickinson)

 

Emily Dickinson 

[1858]

To him who keeps an Orchis’ heart —
The swamps are pink with June.



*

Ballatetta (by Ezra Pound)

Ballatetta
by Ezra Pound

from Personae (published in 1909 by Faber & Faber Ltd.)

The light became her grace and dwelt among
Blind eyes and shadows that are formed as men;
Lo, how the light doth melt us into song:

The broken sunlight for a healm she beareth
Who has my heart in jurisdiction.
In wild-wood never fawn nor fallow fareth
So silent light; no gossamer is spun
So delicate as she is, when the sun
Drives the clear emeralds from the bended grasses
Lest they should parch too swiftly, where she passes. 
 

*

In Hardwood Groves (by Robert Frost)

In Hardwood Groves
by Robert Frost
[from A Boy’s Will (1913)]

The same leaves over and over again!
They fall from giving shade above
To make one texture of faded brown
And fit the earth like a leather glove.

Before the leaves can mount again
To fill the trees with another shade,
They must go down past things coming up.
They must go down into the dark decayed.

They must be pierced by flowers and put
Beneath the feet of dancing flowers.
However it is in some other world
I know that this is the way in ours.


*

Uncle Fat Elvis (by Justin Hamm)

photo of Justin Hamm by Mel Hamm 

Uncle Fat Elvis
by Justin Hamm

Petroleum-black hair gleaming,
pork chops thick and wide and meaty-meaty.
Thin wife in the trailer park,
fat wife uptown in public housing.

He Waddleswaggers through each day,
always hustling up a fresher method
for fitting his blimpy crookfingers
deep into somebody else’s pockets.

Tuesday: sells a stolen car stereo
that doesn’t even work
to a confused senior citizen
who doesn’t own a car.

Sunday: pretends himself a handyman,
agrees to build a small deck for the baker,
treats the materials deposit
with all the looseness of lottery money.

Hasn’t bathed in thirteen days
and hadn’t in seventeen before that.
But never forgets to run the comb
through every greasecaked lock of hair.

Considers himself philosophically astute
for pondering the time commitment
a third wife might require.

Can be heard whistling a mildly pleasing
rendition of “In the Ghetto”
while fingering his fake gold chain
and staring at the fifteen-year-old girls
who strut the streets of the aluminum village
with cigarettes dangling from their lips.

Uncle Fat Elvis is certainly not
by any measure a nice man,

but occasionally he lets loose fullscale
a “Love Me Tender,” a “Hound Dog,”
a “Blue Christmas” into the six-dollar recorder
kept always in the console of his creeper-style van—
and against all the odds, the sound of it
really is quite lovely.

Which is why in the quiet hours of night,
his woman of choice sheltered by sleep,
he can say to himself, “King, you’s the king.
You is truly the one king on earth,”
and the bed creaks meekly beneath his girth,
and the television hisses its snowy assent.



* * * * *

[“Uncle Fat Elvis” (c) 2013 by Justin Hamm, from his new chapbook The Everyday Parade / Alone With Turntable, Old Records (published by Crisis Chronicles Press).  The poem was first published (in a different version) in The Battered Suitcase.]

Originally from the flatlands of central Illinois, Justin Hamm now lives near Twain territory in Missouri. He is the founding editor of the museum of americana and the author of the chapbook Illinois, My Apologies (RockSaw Press, 2011). His work has appeared, or will soon appear, in Nimrod, The New York Quarterly, Cream City Review, Spoon River Poetry Review, Sugar House Review, and a host of other publications. Recent work has also won The Stanley Hanks Memorial Poetry Award from the St. Louis Poetry Center, been featured on the Indiefeed: Performance Poetry channel, and been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology and the Pushcart Prize. Justin earned his MFA from Southern Illinois University Carbondale in 2005. The Everyday Parade / Alone With Turntable, Old Records is his second chapbook.