My Voice
I am Deaf.
My fingers speak.
A coiffed paintbrush in my grasp,
my voice streaks turquoise and magenta
across a parched canvas.
Vowels coo through thirsty linen.
Click-clacking keys with my mother tongue,
I chew hard consonants
and spit them out.
Sour, a scathing sonnet can be at dusk.
Fingertips pave slick exclamations,
punctuated by nails sinking low into clamminess.
I sculpt hyperboles.
Kelly Sargent is an author and artist whose works, including a Best of the Net nominee, have appeared in more than forty literary publications. A poetry chapbook entitled Seeing Voices: Poetry in Motion is forthcoming (Kelsay Books, 2022). A book of modern haiku entitled Lilacs & Teacups is also forthcoming, and a haiku recently recognized in the international Golden Haiku contest is on display in Washington, D.C. She serves as the creative nonfiction and an assistant nonfiction editor for two literary journals. She also reviews for an organization whose mission is to make visible the artistic expression of sexual violence survivors.
You can find her at https://www.kellysargent.com/
it was not the arc of a star-
Boat tail grackles wove a river of possibilities
where each scar became eye, it was not a song
of our grandmothers from beyond pines,
buried in flesh, bone close, blade thin, what must be
carried, weight of singing, of the gone, an edge,
tasting of blood, navel oranges, pie lemons,
calamondin, an incandescence living
in my flesh, glyphs of their own light, their own
life, divination begins with my shoulder blade,
another bone tossed on the pile, a pyre
stacking itself into a ceremony of absences,
without moonlight desire floats with owls,
glide path of palms, asphalt, gravel, we are such,
an aggregate laid down for the passage of others,
so many carcasses trundled into pavement,
with the random divination of bird tracks,
as day burns, we burn, as ash reveals, stars
unfold, as stragglers croak their way out
to the rookery, we remain cindered, land bound,
a reliquary of unattained salvation, a singing
whittled down, stacked fatwood desiring flame,
all our dreams arrive here, shore of burning,
songs mangrove verdant, tangled in drifts of shell.
-Dog has a pumpkin head-
it was the season of rhymes,
pig killing, wood burning, whiskey,
you said your brother wouldn't care
who I was, true enough as he only spoke
to the dog and the stove, his back porch
navel oranges, kumquats,
cabbage palms, a bougainvillea blood
dark flowering, eating canned peaches
fished from a cooler of tall boys,
you said I was good enough for your bed,
the back of your bike, biscuits at your kitchen
table, second drawer in your dresser, ''Sit,
so listen, there's no redemption,
just atonement, and there's no end to that."
Sour gum flowering gathered
up into honey, we chewed the comb
as if adopted by bears, living off
saw palmetto berries and grubs,
or the other flesh,
thorn of my tongue, word pierced,
we are without, not of, not
within time, hinged sky, a mollusk
drying out between tides, barnacled
wind bent, current woven, taste skin,
taste wind, taste salt, how blade manifests
a dream life, tongue balanced, taut with lace
of scars, a sargassum float of entanglement,
small crabs, sea turtles, it was the season
of arrivals, no hint yet of the horizon
closing upon us, the other fruit
ripening on the tree, absence
overtaking, hand
over fist.
-Pithlachascotee River -
Some Sunday she said from the kitchen to the breezeway,
"Suffer not a witch", left before dinner,
walked to the landing, where possibilities
survive immersion, current relentlessly flowing,
took the skiff downriver, followed a creek
into the mangrove, abandoned habitation, learned
tide, names of wind, to thatch with palmetto
to polish the blade, circular motion of sharpening,
stone of susurration honing the heart, hatchet of tongue
riving chunks of fatwood to feed hands of flame, cupped
with each evening, there is a singing on the breeze,
a litany of pollination, a triumph of flowering,
night fills my ears as sparks of fireflies float
over the verdure of burning, praise laced
with woodsmoke, wave summoned tide
manifests this form, an expression of sea,
a liver of possibilities, a cloud filled lung,
breath of a thicker atmosphere, ponderous
flight as form reveals itself to sky.
Sun folded away in its blue coverlet, you cannot drink
from this broken cup of sky spilling moon, skillet on the fire, clouds stack on the horizon,
spoonbill stretching wing
into shade, egrets lifting over mangrove, we lived
for a while on black coffee and bacon, shouldering
a river door wind walks through, trailing night and a glory
of stars, we gathered the taste of names, memory is flesh,
trees speak of it, questioned which half holds the spoon,
which half lifts the bowl, which eye is on the horizon,
weather coiling beyond curve of sea.
As fireflies are shards of air cracked by lightning,
we name ourselves that sea may know us,
salt tasting salt, coiled into wave of remembrance,
the whistle and click each song must pass through
to reach open water where emerald shimmers
into cobalt, lifting such light as we can from all this
broken, edges balanced on fingertips, a divide between
what glitters and what sinks quietly, some days my dress
is burlap, sometimes a hank of sea borrowed
from wave, tide uncoiled from one hand the other dipped
into river, filtering a current of unintended sorrow,
where the gone has lifted onto breeze, silence feathers
its nest beneath tongue, magnolia opening slowly
with morning or question swallowing word, sometimes
I am spoonbill, head down wading, a roseate flowering
in an unnamed forest striding into darkness, sometimes
there is a face in the mirrored waters, sometimes
it is mine, sometimes a voice, wave lifted, sometimes
we speak but the voice is never mine, face of water,
voice of wind, a sound from the edge of all things.
Peach Delphine is a queer poet from Tampa, Florida. Former cook infatuated with what remains of the undeveloped Gulf coast and blackwater rivers.
Steps
These days,
sequential in their order,
random in their events.
Yet,
I am supposed to come through
every 24 hours
With some sort of understanding,
a plan for the next day,
and the same every day after.
What am I supposed to do?
Control the guessing…
Suppress the panic…
It’d be more human
to be a lab rat
or a lamb
in a Chicago slaughterhouse.
I am stupid with my intelligence.
I sequence,
Collate,
Numerate,
Alphabetize,
Chronicle,
Dewey Decimal,
Periodic Table,
even square root…
All fucking useless.
More importantly,
it all misses the fucking point.
Inventory
I am the poet,
a disaster in stanza,
the upside-down verse,
enjoying one good mistake
after the next.
Turn in each ugly line
sloppier than the last.
The pen is a weak sword
against suicidal woes.
I scribble nothings across
scraps of paper.
Really anything I can get
my hands on,
then lose before I get home.
My attempts at bringing
the dark side to the outside.
Double-Checking the Inventory
No shine.
No polish.
No pretense.
I am dirty and unkempt.
I from when I should smile.
I am a disaster in every
human way.
Lacking popular respectability,
I revel in my ill-repute.
My style is blue jeans and t-shirts.
My attitude is to smirk
with a hint of alcohol.
I am the question mark
and the exclamation point.
The means without an end.
Final Inventory
As a sane man,
I am a catastrophe.
As an insane man,
I have it rather tied together.
Bio
Okey is a forty-four-year-old bakery employee. He has written poetry since he was a teenager. It was during the pandemic that he finally decided to publish his work. A novel, This Here Night Life…, and a poetry collection, Back to Masturbating Monkeys and God’s Plan, are available on Amazon. These poems are reprints from his poetry collection.
A fucked up life
living in Zurich to work in a small town
working in a small town to live in Zurich
everything for
a small retirement benefit
everything for
tomorrow´s future
every single morning the alarm o´clock
the train leaves at 6.09
the train leaves at 6.09
teaching three modules when the rest of teachers
teach two
wishing to change that
and as the cuckoo, open your beak,
open your beak, but nothing changes
getting up again
taking the same seat at 6.05
sleeping on the same train seat
on the way to work
sleeping standing
on your way back
to yawn at the wrong timing
to yawn at the wrong timing
getting to the small town exhausted
getting back to Zurich more than exhausted
knowing that today is a piece of gold for
the retirement benefit, the retirement benefit
the precious golden retirement benefit
cooking not so much ´cos the lack of sleeping
DON´T DREAM
DON´T DREAM much
DON´T DREAM
DON´T DREAM much
a fucked up life
a fucked up life
living in Zurich to work in a small town
working in a small town to live in Zurich
having a reduced future for
a little retirement benefit in Switzerland
having a reduced morning
to sleep or not to sleep
to sleep or not to sleep
never dreams, never dreams
sleeping on a train, sleeping on a train
but never do it, but never do it in class
Can´t- get - out, can´t get out, can´t get out
from the clock, from the cow,
from the knife, from the cheese
from the Swiss fucking snow,
fucking snow,
can´t get out
from fucking Switzerland
from fucking Swiss
white clean tyranny.
Vera Moreno
from The broken bodies´ fitness center
César Simón Poetry Award 2019
Una vida jodida
vivir en Zurich para trabajar en un pequeño pueblo
trabajar para vivir en Zurich
tener una pequeña pensión,
para el día de mañana
cada mañana el despertador
el tren sale a las 6.09
impartir tres módulos cuando el resto imparte dos
querer cambiar,
y como el cuco, abrir la boca
levantarse de nuevo
sentarse a las 6.05 en ese tren
dormir sentada
dormir de pie
dormir en el tren de ida
dormir en el tren de vuelta
bostezar a destiempo
llegar al pueblo exhausta
llegar a Zurich exhausta
sabiendo que el día cotiza en bolsa o en la pensión
cocinar poco por el sueño
NO
soñar
una vida jodida
vivir en Zurich para trabajar en un pequeño pueblo
trabajar para vivir en Zurich
tener un mañana reducido
una pensión pequeña en Suiza
tener una mañana reducida
dormir o no dormir
dormir o no dormir
en el tren sí, en clase no
no-poder-salir
del reloj, la vaca, la navaja, el queso
la nieve
Vera Moreno
Poema procedente de el gimnasio de los rotos
Premio de Poesía César Simón 2019
Vera Moreno (Madrid, 1972). A multifaceted writer, teacher, rhapsodist, and cultural activist. She loves performance and videopoems.
She holds a Master Degree in Artistic, Literary and Cultural Studies from the Autonomous University of Madrid; and a Sociology and Political Sciences Degree from the Complutense University of Madrid. She also did Women´s studies at Utrecht University in NL.
In 2013 she was recognized as a New Voice by the feminist publishing House Torremozas (Madrid). Vera Moreno was published by Amargord publisher in a double poetry book called The whole orange (La naranja entera) in 2016. Three years later, she won the César Simón poetry reward at the University of Valencia with the poems book called The broken bodies´ fitness center (El gimnasio de los rotos). Next year a new book is coming.
Some of her texts and poems have been translated into Dutch, Esperanto and English.
As a cultural activist she created in 2001 a innovative cultural radio space of one minute lenght called Europe for Culture on Europe FM national radio station. In 2012 Vera Moreno designed and coordinated participative literary events called Literary Moondays (Lunes literarios) at the Rivas city hall – centro cultural del ayuntamiento de Rivas, and co-founder of the poetry channel on youtube Poesía a domicilio / Poetry delivery, with the great Dominican poet Rosa Silverio (2021).
LAKE TITICACAI.
The fuchsia-orange sun
is cresting the Eastern cordillera
Its colors seep through muslin clouds
& sheen upon the icy lake
II.
Across the altiplano between
maroon worn-ribbed mountains
& bright turquoise waters
Shaggy-roofed adobe homes
land parceled by stone walls
In swampy pastures graze
sheep & llama, cows &
long-haired donkeys
The weekly market at
Benemerita Zepita
Pollera-skirted women sit upon
dwarf grass, surrounded by
their herds of livestock
Beyond the distant shores
of Titicaca the snowy
Andes horizon
III.
On this bank of the deep
cerulean lake edged with marshland
A woman, child to back
tends her sheep
Totora boats anchor
amidst golden-green reeds
A small boy beats
fresh-plowed earth
with a hoe
On the far side
dark copses speckle
parch hills
Ghostly into the clouds rises
that snow-capped range
Wandering troubadour Lorraine Caputo is a documentary poet, translator and travel writer. Her works appear in over 250 journals on six continents; and 18 collections of poetry – including On Galápagos Shores (dancing girl press, 2019) and Escape to the Sea (Origami Poems Project, 2021). She also authors travel narratives, articles and guidebooks. In 2011, the Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada honored her verse. Caputo has done literary readings from Alaska to the Patagonia. She journeys through Latin America with her faithful travel companion, Rocinante (that is, her knapsack), listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth. Follow her travels at: www.facebook.com/lorrainecaputo.wanderer or https://latinamericawanderer.wordpress.com.
Go Forward
The book I got for the first time was the Bible
"In the beginning was the word..."
I was attracted to this word
Adam and Eve met in this world and the human world began
Even if the stories of those two people are over, our life will not end
From yesterday to today
Connected like a horizon
I will move from today to tomorrow
Upon this heaviness…
O wind, go forward!
In the heart,
Let's change the darkness of the Bible
Into sparkling stars
Endlessly flowing, spreading
My words before it
Elephant Riding
I experienced elephant riding in Thailand for the first time
Raising his nose, the elephant opened the sweaty nose widely
Just before I was about to leave
I put the money in the nostrils at once.
The elephant took it and handed it to his master.
Obeying him, the elephant just carried the next customer
and started walking out
Held by the reins by his master
The elephant doesn’t think about running away from him
Goodbye
This is the first time I met him, and I should think I will not meet him again
But I don’t need any kiss from him
Goodbye
Maki Starfield
Poet, painter and translator.Born in Ehime, Japan, 1972. MA from Sophia University, studying International business management and TESOL in Canada. She recently has published in the second poetry collection, In Love A Sound. https://immaginepoesia.jimdofree.com
King Kong vs. the Green Witch
Shuttered in that arched ceiling house with oversized window eyes,
fear frozen as ten foot high Green Witch and King Kong square off
neath crabapple tree beside the scotch heavy station wagon.
Flared feminine nostrils bull out white choking smoke
as accented witch hurls broomstick spears at Brooklyn's hairy ape.
Uncertain who to root for
I cower neath my cottony get,
and pray for peace.
Even now
some nights that five-year-old boy revives
ever cowering neath warm get
as warbled voices of the long dead king and Green Witch,
throw rock centered snowballs
down from sad rooftops of this life.
Amplified through sterile echo chambers,
their cold white straitjackets bind me to safer letters,
as pained hourglass grains drift relentlessly south.
So I wake and puke up vanilla conformity
echoing art house dramas or MGM movie plots,
neutering unknown verses
till they sound like every mediocre show on thin air.
Whispering,
"Picture this... it's easier,"
in hope that peace will come to this mental house divided
if only I write as they want.
Bio:
Richard L Weissman has written fiction since 1987.
In 2000, his theatrical play, “The Healing” was selected by Abdingdon Theatre for a staged reading Off-Broadway.
Richard is the author of two Wiley Trading titles. His second book, Trade Like a Casino was selected as a Finalist for the 2012 Technical Analyst Book of the Year Award.
In 2016, Mr. Weissman completed his historical novel in the tradition of magical realism, “Generations”.
In 2020 his poem, “Mountain Bird and Loquat” was selected as the grand prize winner of the Florida Loquat Literary Festival.
In addition to hosting, “In Our Craft or Sullen Art” – a biweekly poetry radio talk show, Richard participates in live spoken word events throughout the U.S. https://richard-weissman.com/
on Facebook: @magicalrealismnovels
The vision is a smoke cloud
released from my pocket, wrapping
me with its smoky warmth, breaking chaos
at its backbone.
A thousand chains of fear and grief
swoop down from the once singing sky
to crash on my limbs and drown me
with their weight.
God as full as the sea, flushing through me,
flowing around me with the starfish and the stingrays,
with the minnow fish and the barnacles,
God outside me, inside of me, holding me
in this vision, breaking the vine.
Bio: is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. Three times nominated for Sundress Publications “Best of the Net” 2015, she has over 1050 poems published in over 425 international journals. She has sixteen published books of poetry, seven collections and nine chapbooks. She lives in Toronto with her family. She is a vegan. She also sculpts, working with clay; www.allisongrayhurst.com
