Sour Milk by Paul Ilechko

 

Sour Milk Cat by Topher Seal

A message suggesting

a body covered in a white sheet

the contents of a stomach pumped

a dark shadow cracking open

* * * * *

the porch was painted white

the porch shadowed the entry way

“darkness visible”

* * * * *

milk was spilled only a puddle remained

the toast was burned

a sour smell lingered

behind the taste of charcoal

* * * * *

remembering the feel of skin

remembering the weight in hands

* * * * *

steps were taken hesitant

messages could have been lost

* * * * *

the porch crumbled into time

the milk was gone.

 

*****

Paul Ilechko is the author of the chapbooks “Bartok in Winter” (Flutter Press) and “Graph of Life” (Finishing Line Press). His work has appeared in a variety of journals, including Juxtaprose, As It Ought To Be, Cathexis Northwest Press, Inklette and Pithead Chapel. He lives with his partner in Lambertville, NJ.

 

Out In the Country by Jack D. Harvey

 

Forest Road by Kevin Dooley

All my fantaisies
have fled the old homestead;
the hacienda’s as empty of heat
as winter’s candles.
Still as a painting
the moon hangs
in the snoring night;
twice-pale she looks,
Diana
surprised by the hunter.
Hounds skate down moonbeams
like avenging furies;
the stag, a shadow, a ghost,
runs over the meadows.

Running far from my native shores
I let the wonderful cooler native women
play with me, titillate me, adulate me,
until my weary head
rests at last
on the anvil.
At night,
satiate and subdued,
I walk on the beach,
lonely stars above
the encompassing sea.
Lonely, I look at the night;
to my fallible mirror of self
Prince Hamlet or Nial
at the least,
stalking, brooding on the strand;
to rutting teens,
more like an apparition,
an old fool
doddering in the moonlight.

Well, even Athens looked
like a heap of stone
to a seagull flying
high
as Hitler’s arm once was;
we souls below
swoop close,
try to embrace
in tortures measured
to the goose-stepping firmament.

Saint Lawrence,
well done over the coals,
put up a reckless good front
besieged;
passus est or assus est,
died or fried,
it was over;
this fire, his life,
burnt out.

For us a lesson;
a thousand enemies gnaw at
brains and bones alike,
defy them all,
at the crack of doom defy;
it’s soon enough
the stinting grass
grows over our heads.

*****

Jack D. Harvey’s poetry has appeared in Scrivener, Urtica Lit Blog, The Comstock Review, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Bay Area Poets’ Coalition, The Antioch Review, The Piedmont Poetry Journal and elsewhere. The author has been a Pushcart nominee and over the years has been published in a few anthologies. The author has been writing poetry since he was sixteen and lives in a small town near Albany, New York. He is retired from doing whatever he was doing before he retired. His book, Mark the Dwarf is available on Kindle. https://www.amazon.com/Mark-Dwarf-Jack-D-Harvey-ebook/dp/B019KGW0F2

People Just Get Uglier by John Tustin

 

ballpoint pen 12x18 cms june 3- 19
by Norman J. Olson

As the years pass me by
And lie died beside the road
I long to lie down with them
But something makes me walk on.

Sometimes
I make an effort.
I open the blinds,
I comb my hair,
I take a walk while the sun is lit,
I have a drink with coworkers,
I call a friend and have a talk,
But mostly I do not.

Night after night
I think about things
And I see into my heart.
I see
People just get uglier.
Even me.
Nothing satisfies.
All that is wanted is a purpose
And the ones I love.
I have none of that.

Knowing where she is.
Knowing her unwillingness
And her unhappiness.
Knowing there would never be a day
Our kisses became rote.

There is an emptiness so vast inside
That I try to shovel whatever I can
With this teaspoon
And just feel sickness
At the sound of the echo
When the sad little spoonfuls
Hit the bottom.

The years keep passing
And I want to just stay with a few
Of the good nights back there,
Close my eyes and remain.

Sleep comes and I don’t fight it –
It is escape from thought
Yet the promise of waking up
To another day the same

Until I don’t wake up,
Finally.

Most suicides are reported otherwise.

 

*****

fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to John Tustin's published poetry online.

Fancy Woman by Jack D. Harvey

 

Mosaic of Theodora - Basilica of San Vitale
by Petar Milošević

 

Naked, the hatcheck girl
brings us
beyond haberdashery
to new coatrooms
of delight.
Against the boom boom
of thunder we
see the catacombs
of ancient sin
brought to perfection.

Theodora, you whore;
even the geese were
overpaid, pecking the
grain off your privates,
while generals watched.

That day the Hippodrome
was quiet:
the pantomime mocked
the glorious noisy chariots,
the noisy birds in cages.

Theodora, rant and rave:
your singing voice
nothing but your
stupid skin
shown off in broad daylight.

But the nightingale
is not much
on daylight;
the darker, the better
he sings.

*****

Jack D. Harvey’s poetry has appeared in Scrivener, The Comstock Review, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Bay Area Poets’ Coalition, The Antioch Review, The Piedmont Poetry Journal and elsewhere. The author has been a Pushcart nominee and over the years has been published in a few anthologies. The author has been writing poetry since he was sixteen and lives in a small town near Albany, New York. He is retired from doing whatever he was doing before he retired. His book, Mark the Dwarf is available on Kindle. https://www.amazon.com/Mark-Dwarf-Jack-D-Harvey-ebook/dp/B019KGW0F2