At the Ceiling (by John Swain)

At the Ceiling

Moon of lights
on the dark walk
in the tall grass.
A girl in furs
with black flowers
in blonde hair.
I secured balance
in tree movement,
stars dripping.
The dogs bay
in rage at silence
and a trespass
into the fearing.
I struck with fist
at the ceiling
of this red dirt.

 

* * * *

“At the Ceiling” (c) 2013 by John Swain, from his book Rain and Gravestones (published by Crisis Chronicles Press).

John Swain of Louisville, Kentucky, is the author of several acclaimed books including White Vases (2012, Crisis Chronicles) and Ring the Sycamore Sky (2014, Red Paint Hill).

Miming (by Martin Burke)

Miming

Show me red by pointing to not-red

direct me north without a compass

Blind up my eyes and show me pure light

use every word to speak silent

Point at the wood to show me a road

Talk of snow at mid-summer solstice

Summon the living and summon the dead

describe one to the other

 

Bypass one and two and count to three

where musicians are miming their parts

Show me by shadows the hand on a page

writing what the page requires

 

* * * * *

This poem is a selection from Martin Burke’s 2014 Crisis Chronicles Press chapbook, YES, but…..

Martin Burke was born in Ireland (Limerick) but lives now in Flanders (the northern Flemish speaking area of Belgium).  He has published a number of books in Ireland, the UK, USA, and Belgium.

Texas City (by Michael Ceraolo)

Michael Ceraolo [photo by John Burroughs]

Texas City

 

April 16, 1947

“This is a day of synthetic living”

                                                 a day

of better living through chemistry,

and,

        at the same time,

of better death through chemistry too,

the paradox of a petrochemical product

                                                           Specifically:

the miracle fertilizer,

                              the deadly explosive,

ammonium nitrate

                               On this day

over five million pounds had been loaded on ships

that would then leave port and set sail,

                                                         delivering

the miracle fertilizer to war-ravaged countries

who would use it to feed themselves

                                                        But

the deadly explosive intervened first

A hundred eves of destruction had passed

uncelebrated,

                     unnoticed even,

                                             until

the ship carrying the load caught on fire just after 8 AM

The fire department rushed to fight the fire

(there was no longer a fire boat in the port town:

the corporatized waterfront lay outside

the part of the town that paid taxes,

                                                     and

the corporations wouldn’t pay for it out of the goodness of their hearts)

The sight of the sea boiling,

mixed with the pretty smoke from the fire,

drew a crowd of spectators

9:12 AM

                  Explosion,

powerful enough to register on a seismograph

hundreds of miles from the scene,

powerful enough to toss one-ton chunks of metal

two-and-a-half miles,

incinerating almost the whole town,

                                                     killing

the entire twenty-seven-member Fire Department

and more than five hundred others;

the exact death toll would never be known

The town would win a lawsuit against the federal government

for failing to warn the town of the dangers

of ammonium nitrate

The case would make its way all the way

to the Supreme Court:

“Defendant did know”

“it was dangerous to manufacture,

                                                 dangerous to ship,

                                                                            and dangerous to use”

Unfortunately,

this was a dissenting opinion;

the majority voted to reverse

on the shakiest of grounds (if that),

that the government had the “discretion”

to not warn its citizens of danger

if it served some higher purpose

(as defined by the government)

More from the dissent:

“This was a man-made disaster”
“the disaster was caused by forces

set in motion by the Government,

completely controlled or controllable by it”

“The Government was liable

                                            If not,

the ancient and discredited doctrine

that ‘The King Can Do No Wrong’

has not been uprooted”

                                   As,

                                         to this day,

                                                           it has not—

 

* * * * *

This piece is an excerpt from Michael Ceraolo‘s ongoing project The De-Greening of America, an environmental history poem.

We also recommend:

Euclid Creek – available from Deep Cleveland Books
Cleveland Scores Early – from Kendra Steiner Editions
Cleveland Haiku – from Green Panda Press

Click here to follow Michael Ceraolo on Twitter.

Blood is Thick (by Alexis-Rueal)

Blood is Thick

Blood is thick
Like honey,
Or your Mom’s Halston perfume,
Or your favorite wool coat.
Dive into it, you will know you are caught

In its permanence.
Sap in your veins, growing you from

The roots up, your heart pumps it
Hot and sickly sweet, the residue of family
Imbuing the shadow you
Cast on the here and now. You
Know with each thrum that you are bound.

But you are much more at home in the water; you
Understand the pulling tide of friendship better
Than the thick lineage caught in your pulse. You

Wade through late night phone calls
And coffee, poker night, pizza–
The oceans of small
Events that make life whole.
Rare is the day, you don’t long to

Swim with those
Who would not spit you out for
All of your faults.
Linger in calm pools of
Laughter, drift onward,
Onward on gentle
Waves of acceptance and
Support.

Better for you to
Accept the thickness of your blood, but
Carry in you the lightness of water.
Know your friends would swallow you back.

 

* * * * *

Alexis-Rueal is a 37 year old Columbus, Ohio poet. Her work has appeared in many online and print journals throughout Ohio, and her first chapbook, Letter to 20, was published in 2013 by Poet’s Haven Press. She was a member of the 2013 Writers’ Block National Poetry Slam team, and recently had her third go around at the Columbus Arts Festival. When she isn’t poeting, she’s running her own online business, enjoying married-life, and keeping the cat and dog out of trouble.

Red Dust (by Ryn Cricket)

Red Dust

“A rooster can eat a snake, you know.” Li told the older boy in the school yard.

“No, it can’t.” The boy countered. “The snake would kill it before it could even try.”

“Each animal has its own strength.” She insisted. “And if the rooster were provoked, it would kill a snake.”

“I don’t believe you.” The boy taunted.

“Alright, you go get a snake, and I’ll get my rooster.”

The boy ran off into the trees behind the school and Li crossed the dry, red, dirt road to her house on the other side. Her parents weren’t home, so they wouldn’t know that she had taken “Sawan,” her father’s prized rooster. She had to be right.

They met back up in the dusty school yard within minutes. “Alright,” the boy said. “When I count to three, we will both drop them in front of us. Ready? One…two…three.” And the boy almost threw the snake on the ground and it started to slither until Li released Sawan.

Sawan started squawking as if he had already been caught. He ruffled his feathers and flapped his wings in a frenzy. The snake just watched quietly and hissed; watching and waiting. Sawan almost caused himself a heart attack in his noisy display, but he must have known that if he ran away, he could be swiftly attacked.

“Come on, Sawan! Eat him!” Li half-cheered and half-pleaded. Sawan started to calm down. The snake was not attacking him. Maybe he was safe. And in that very moment, the snake lunged, biting Sawan perfectly on the neck. The rooster collapsed almost immediately into a mound of flesh and feathers.

Li fell on her knees in the dry dirt next to the bird and her little mind began to connect the dots.

They found her body floating in the river hours later because she understood that she would always be the victim of snakes.

 

* * * * *

“Red Dust” comes from Ryn Cricket’s chapbook In Circles, published in 2012 by Crisis Chronicles Press.

Ryn Cricket is a poet, teacher and mother raised in Ohio and now living in China.  For more information, please visit ryncricket.com.

Cahallahan Visits the Ocean (by Chuck Joy)

Chuck Joy at the Literary Cafe – photo by Chandra Alderman

Cahallahan Visits the Ocean

1.
the music you can’t hear
we’re in New England
it’s a cold spring

when you read these words
how many years from now
you will appreciate our success
limiting global warming
strengths-based

today my work
is take a walk,
I’ve dressed the part
and approach my task with all the dread and eagerness
of a short shift in the clinic
where everything I fear is me

2.
we’re in the land of cedar shake shingle
Rick’s Fresh Seafood
a tumbledown cannery replaced by condos
and empty cathedrals
say hello to the Atlantic coast

taste the salt on the sea breeze
watch the glass on the sidewalk
enjoy the locals, their accent
just don’t stop, we’re here to walk

visioning Cody, from a parking lot
hey man, you’re a sight for sore eyes!
this is us, we’re here for a short time
all this sweetness gone in one heartbeat
these feet, their sneakers
the opportunity to make straight one more path

3.
the music we can’t hear
plays on, still playing, all dramatic screeches
or dolorous sonorities soon returned
to the beat, the big beat

a little love and affection
in everything you do
will make the world a better place
with or without you

our parking space left empty for a suitable interval
like Carmichael’s in Greendale, one year
our consciousness limitless now, nowhere, everywhere
we are the music you can’t hear

* * * * *

Chuck Joy of Erie, Pennsyl;vania, has authored All Smooth (Destitute Press) and Key West Quartet (Edinboro Book Art Collective).  He has read at every Snoetry, the Confluence, two International Festivals, The Erie Book Store, Poets’ Hall, Mac’s Backs, and Woodlawn Diner. His new chapbook, Every Tiger Wants To Sing, is now available from Poets’ Hall Press.

See and hear Chuck this July 7th 2014 during the Monday at Mahall’s Poetry & Prose series in Lakewood, Ohio.

Dionysus (by Ryan Sagert)

Dionysus

She said that she wanted to make love to Dionysus
And so she stroked her luminous hair and danced
Under the pale moonlight until the music
Matched the moment and Dionysus arrived
Drunk and bare chested, caressing her slender hips
Then she gave into his brutish desire
And for a moment her entire universe was perfect

* * * * *

Ryan Sagert is a poet from Lorain, Ohio. He has been published in the North Coast Review and Word Salad. He studied poetry under Bruce Weigl at LCCC, worked as an extra in The Avengers, and had a small part in Freedom’s Light: A Stop Along the Underground Railroad.

Not to Be Ignored (by Frank C. Praeger)

Not to Be Ignored

Lace and a razor strap,
brimstone,
potash, brochures,
and faded newspaper clippings
fomented further than lastly; then, yes, away.

The lesser of superfluous,
something other than degraded,
not to cease, to be gnawed at,

Not to let it not be,

Ignored the trains that never halted;
so satisfied as to pray for the skewered birds,
or fetishes for parallels,
composites for pedigrees.
A patch of vetch, redemptive blue
as solace quickens
surrounded by the faintest green,
bumblebees, the fall of rain.

 

* * * * *

Frank C. Praeger is a retired research biologist who has had poetry published in various journals in the UK and the USA.

6th Floor (by Joan Colby)

 

6th Floor

Every time one goes in or out
they shut the door despite
your saying leave it open.

You hate feeling jailed.
The only view the heli-pad
where people sicker than you

are airlifted in or out.
It’s hygiene, I say, this door
question. Keeping germs contained.

On this floor, infectious patients
are quarantined, some with blue
or yellow placards on their doors.

Acceptable practice: aqua gloves,
hand sanitizers, an occasional mask.
You want to see who staggers

past gripping an IV pole
like a bishop with his crosier.
The girls in scrubs

chattering in Tagalog,
Swinging their lanyards
Like scapulars.

Hospitalists in white
lab coats. Specialists important
in suits and ties like businessmen.

The laundry carts, the carts of food
you order, then disdain, a liquid
diet of broth or tasteless jello.

Leave the door open is your refrain
against closure. The codes
that mystify the corridors.

 

* * * * * *

Joan Colby has published widely in journals such as Poetry, Atlanta Review, South Dakota Review, The Spoon River Poetry Review, New York Quarterly, the new renaissance, Grand Street, Epoch and Prairie Schooner. Awards include two Illinois Arts Council Literary Awards, Rhino Poetry Award, the new renaissance Award for Poetry, and an Illinois Arts Council Fellowship in Literature. She was a finalist in the GSU Poetry Contest (2007), Nimrod International Pablo Neruda Prize (2009, 2012), and received honorable mentions in the North American Review‘s James Hearst Poetry Contest (2008, 2010). She is the editor of Illinois Racing News,and lives on a small horse farm in Northern Illinois. She has published 11 books including The Lonely Hearts Killers, The Atrocity Book and her newest book from Future Cycle Press—Dead Horses. FutureCycle has just published her Selected Poems. A chapbook, Bittersweet, is forthcoming from Main Street Rag Press next winter.

Subconsciously Self-Restrained (by Johny Godace)

Johny Godace

Subconsciously Self-Restrained

Death and despair embed in the air
With questioning glares and embarrassing stares
Some empathy here, more sympathy there
The vision is dreadful and simply unfair
More hesitant glances and halted advances
The irony stance is now plainly aware
That follicles fail and comparisons pale for a male
The thought of him losing his hair

 

* * *

About Johny Godace:

I’ve always enjoyed poetry and I started on Shel Silverstein when I was young. Poe became a huge inspiration later on. Other inspirations include Alvin Schwartz (writer) and Stephen Gammell (illustrator) who worked on the Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark book series. Various Hip-hop artists played an integral part as well as Kevin Smith: screenwriter, actor, film producer, and director, as well as a popular comic book writer, author, and podcaster. I always loved good wordplay and appreciated intricate ways words can make the reader feel and give them a visual for what the writer is communicating to the reader.