Richard Levine: “Playing at Forever”

Playing at Forever

The ocean never stops its tug of war 
with beach sand.  Its great democratic voice 
consumes all the laughter and whispered vows 
vacationers make on blankets, spread out

under brightly striped umbrellas under 
the sun and our tans that end where our suits
begin.  We have come as far away from 
our careers as a tide of untimed time

could take us, yet we find there is something
naggingly familiar in the way native 
children smile at us.  They coax us to throw
coins they dive for, perhaps their only real

freedom.  Resurfacing, their faces glow 
brightly as their palms lined with silver.
Our minds float above us like jellyfish,
permeating our days with stinging

responsibilities.  But here we are 
untethered from time’s twins, and our bodies 
ache to be calmed, cooled and retuned to whim.
We swim under water, holding our breath, 

carefree as children playing at forever,
though we know we must come up for air.

About the Author: Richard Levine, a retired NYC teacher, is the author of Selected Poems, Contiguous States, and five chapbooks.  Now in Contest is forthcoming from Fernwood Press. An Advisory Editor of BigCityLit.com, he received the 2021 Connecticut Poetry Society Award, and co-edited “Invasion of Ukraine 2022: Poems.”  “The Spoils of War” is forthcoming in American Book Review. website: richardlevine107.com

Image Credit: Herman Hartwich “Cape Cod, Beach” (1894) Public domain image courtesy of Artvee

Jason Baldinger: “cold water glistens”

cold water glistens

we were raw souls
we didn't know it
sapling catalpas roam
subtropical summer sidewalks
desperate for a breath
inside the walls of swelter 

there would be this electric 
buzz rattling in the air
of our childhood bedrooms
our teeth would chatter simultaneous
then we would be in the streets
in our shorts, our underroos
 
the local fireman opened
the plugs, the water rushed 
torrents along neighborhood curbs
all the kids were there
between parked car rapids
some feet in, some ass in
some attempt to swim
some erode into
the debris of the city
 
these little catalpas
inebriated in perfect equation
cold water glistens 
meets summer afternoon
a still life in eternity

About the Author: Jason Baldinger was recently told he looks like a cross between a lumberjack and a genie. He’s also been told he’s not from Pittsburgh but is the physical manifestation of Pittsburgh. Although unsure of either, he does love wandering the country writing poems. He’s penned fifteen books of poetry the newest of which include: The Afterlife is a Hangover (Stubborn Mule Press) and A History of Backroads Misplaced: Selected Poems 2010-2020 (Kung Fu Treachery), and This Still Life with James Benger. His work has appeared across a wide variety of print journals and online. You can hear him read his work on Bandcamp and on lps by The Gotobeds and Theremonster.

Image Credit: Angelo Rizzuto “Young boy leaning on fire hydrant” The Library of Congress (public domain)

Mike James: “Code Names”

Code Names

There were only insulation dreams while we lived in the tar paper shack down by the old steel mill on the other side of the river. The river no longer burst into flame, but now and then wild roses along the river’s edge made us think of fire. Our fingers would rub the insides of our pockets looking for matches. We never thought to sell matches to the men who spent their days in alleys and empty lots beside upright oil drums. We gave away what we had when asked. There were no threats. Our code name was never apathy. This was true even at night when we prayed with a penny in our mouths. All our prayers lasted more than a minute. The trick was to keep the penny on the tip of your tongue.  

About the Author: Mike James makes his home outside Nashville, Tennessee. He has published in numerous magazines, large and small, throughout the country. His poetry collections include: Leftover Distances (Luchador), Parades (Alien Buddha), Jumping Drawbridges in Technicolor (Blue Horse), and Crows in the Jukebox (Bottom Dog.)  In April, Red Hawk published his 20th collection, Portable Light: Poems 1991-2021.

Image Credit: Chase Dimock “Klamath Falls” (2020)

John Dorsey: “Kiss The Chef”

Kiss the Chef
for greg edmondson

somewhere the 70s live forever
there’s always tequila overflowing
each story begins & ends at the mouth of a river
whether you’re a boy in the fields of tennessee
or the ghost of tennessee williams 
screaming into the night
at imaginary gods of rage

it doesn’t matter

nobody is going to get to eat
an overcooked pork chop 

until after you rid yourself 
of the past.

About the Author: John Dorsey lived for several years in Toledo, Ohio. He is the author of several collections of poetry, including Teaching the Dead to Sing: The Outlaw’s Prayer (Rose of Sharon Press, 2006), Sodomy is a City in New Jersey (American Mettle Books, 2010), Tombstone Factory, (Epic Rites Press, 2013), Appalachian Frankenstein (GTK Press, 2015) Being the Fire (Tangerine Press, 2016) and Shoot the Messenger (Red Flag Poetry, 2017),Your Daughter’s Country (Blue Horse Press, 2019), Which Way to the River: Selected Poems 2016-2020 (OAC Books, 2020), Afterlife Karaoke (Crisis Chronicles Press, 2021) and Sundown at the Redneck Carnival, (Spartan Press, 2022).. His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and the Stanley Hanks Memorial Poetry Prize. He was the winner of the 2019 Terri Award given out at the Poetry Rendezvous. He may be reached at archerevans@yahoo.com.

Image Credit: Harris & Ewing “Ernest Zahn, chef” (1938) Public Domain Image courtesy of The Library of Congress

Lara Dolphin: “Smashing A Spotted Lanternfly At The 35th Annual Fall Festival”

Smashing A Spotted Lanternfly At The 35th Annual Fall Festival

On a clear, hall-of-fame day
somewhere between the Yo-Yo swing ride
and Crazy Mouse coaster
under the canopy of the carousel
while calliope music mixed with
a thousand bustling patrons and peddlers,
I found myself in the shade on a bench
eating flash frozen ice cream pebbles
when an unmistakably stylish bug landed at my feet.
Just then, The Swinging Squares took to The Midway Stage.
Women dressed in five-tiered, earth-toned calico skirts
began to twirl as their partners circled them round.
Bright red petticoats flashed.
With deadly intent, I stomped the invasive pest
with the toe of my sneaker.
I felt satisfied, even, one might say, good.
I had killed to protect the harvest,
and I would do it again. 

About the Author: A native of Pennsylvania, Lara Dolphin is an attorney, nurse, wife and mom of four amazing kids. Her first chapbook, In Search Of The Wondrous Whole, was published by Alien Buddha Press. Her most recent chapbook, Chronicle Of Lost Moments, is available from Dancing Girl Press. 

Image Credit: Arthur Rothstein “Brownsville, Texas. Carnival ride” (1942) The Library of Congress

Damian Rucci: “Here’s Looking At You Kid”

Here's Looking At You Kid

of all the beer joints in all the towns
in all the world you walked into mine 

here’s looking at you kid
here’s to walled gardens left to rot
here’s to sigils on the napkins of 
dirty bars on the jersey shore 

here’s to Cemetery Drive muffled
from the wind of an eclipse at 90 m-p-h
here’s to a setting sun on the backs
of the wanderers waiting outside the hotel drunk 

here’s to two bottle of patron nights
here’s to backseat minutiae
here’s to punk rock shows in sheds
in the woods of Flemington, New Jersey

here’s to missing work, to misunderstandings
to half truths, to stumble under sinister moons
here’s to you’ve never seen me sober before

here’s to everyone in Long Branch has problems
you may be the one to sort yours out
here’s to I may be the only cause I’m interested in
I never know which lines to cross or which to sniff

here’s to the boardwalk, the arcade, howling 
in the basements of New Brunswick, church 
is in session and the priest has smashed his guitar 
here's to new beginnings and swan songs 

here's to I've heard your poems, I raise you 
a bible of circumstance and clever words 

here's to friends and long nights 
here's to we may never have Paris 
but we will have the basement
the Eiffel tower is an obelisk 
at the center of our pounding hearts
here's to next time, kid

About the Author: Damian Rucci is the author of 8 books of poetry including Poets Ruin Everything (Honeybee Gazette) & Corrupt the Youth (Between Shadows Press). He is the founder of the NJ Poetry Renaissance and host of nine poetry series. His email is damian.rucci@gmail.com 

Image Credit: John Margolies “Boardwalk, Long Branch, New Jersey” (1978) The Library of Congress

Kathleen Hellen: “W-D 40™”

W-D 40™


can of handy 
man-

thing 
lubricating zippers

awfully 
fishy

loosening gears 
loosening

sockets and prosthetic 
missiles

removing 
lipstick 

from sticky 
indiscretions

About the Author: Kathleen Hellen’s collection Meet Me at the Bottom is forthcoming from Main Street Rag. Her credits include The Only Country Was the Color of My Skin, her award-winning collection Umberto’s Night, published by Washington Writers’ Publishing House, and two chapbooks, The Girl Who Loved Mothra and Pentimento. Featured on Poetry Daily and Verse Daily, her work has appeared in Arts & Letters, The Carolina QuarterlyCimarron ReviewColorado Review, Massachusetts ReviewNew LettersNimrodNorth American Review, Prairie SchoonerSalamander, The Sewanee ReviewSouthern Humanities Review, SubtropicsThe Sycamore ReviewTampa Review OnlineWest Branch, and Witness, among others. Hellen’s awards include the Thomas Merton poetry prize and prizes from the H.O.W. Journal and Washington Square Review, as well as individual artist awards from the Maryland State Arts Council and the Baltimore Office of Promotion & the Arts.

Image Credit: Chase Dimock “Zipper” (2022)

Tim Peeler: “Sturm and Drang”

Sturm and Drang
 
You start a poem the same way
My father-in-law lit the grill.
Fill a brown paper grocery bag
With a whole measure of briquettes.
Soak the bag and contents
With a liberal amount
Of lawnmower gas.
Set the bag in the middle
Of the round grill top.
From daringly close distance
Toss a lit wooden match
Onto the gas-soaked bag.
 
My oldest son at four
Watched the explosion
From a guarded distance:
Frightened, thrilled,
Fighting back tears.
It was the first time
He’d seen poetry.

About the Author:  A past winner of the Jim Harrison Award for contributions to baseball literature, Tim Peeler has also twice been a Casey Award Finalist (baseball book of the year) and a finalist for the SIBA Award. He lives with his wife, Penny in Hickory, North Carolina, where he directs the academic assistance programs at Catawba Valley Community College. He has published close to a thousand poems, stories, essays, and reviews in magazines, journals, and anthologies and has written sixteen books and three chapbooks. He has five books in the permanent collection at the Baseball Hall of Fame Library in Cooperstown, NY. His recent books include Rough Beast, an Appalachian verse novel about a southern gangster named Larry Ledbetter, Henry River: An American Ruin, poems about an abandoned mill town and film site for The Hunger Games, and Wild in the Strike Zone: Baseball Poems, his third volume of baseball-related poems.

Image Credit: Giuseppe Arcimboldo “Fire” (1566)

Ruth Bavetta: “Stargazers”

Stargazers 

Lilies strain from the mouth 
of the vase by the window, open 

their throats to the sky, stretching
toward the accumulation of clouds,

furred stamens powdered red
as starling’s blood. The shadows

of the room, the scent of 
perfume heavy as tomorrow’s end

held in stasis for seven steady 
days as stems collapse in secret

and leaves transmute to slime. 
In this world of sorrow and of loss 

all things must fail, must come to moss
and murder, must disintegrate

in damp and dust. And we must 
open our throats, and swallow.

About the Author: Ruth Bavetta’s poems have appeared in North American Review, Nimrod, Rattle, Slant, American Journal of Poetry, and many other journals and anthologies. She likes the light on November afternoons, the music of Stravinsky, the smell of the ocean. She hates pretense, fundamentalism and sauerkraut.

Image Credit: Chase Dimock “Fire Lily” (2022)

A Review of Belated Mornings By John Macker

Lenora Rain-Lee Good Reviews

Belated Mornings

By John Macker

Turkey Buzzard Press

2022

ISBN: 978-0-945884-16-3

44 pages

$10.00 at time of this review

5 Stars

A small book, filled with large poems. I don’t mean the poems take up physical space, they take up brain space. Each one needs to be read, cogitated, chewed, swallowed, and digested, starting from the books’ epigraph, “That is my profession. / I am an archaeologist of morning.” —Charles Olson.

Our odyssey begins with Indian Summer, “Autumn as much a notion as it is / warm day, wind-drawn red crayon / moon above the canyon in slow motion, / a crisp yellow leaf afloat in its singularity / flows down a shadowed stream / into the Roaring Fork, is peace”

Macker takes us through mornings as night becoming light and mornings of memory. We are brought into the confessional in places, as he tells us about his first confession in the poem, St. Louis Blues. 

Every poem is a picture, every poem has language and lines that resonate, biophilia ends with, “or hosanna Greta Thunberg’s name / in the church of feral light” and solstice ends with “I fear the longest night of the year / will last until spring” Oh, how many times have I thought that, only without such simple beauty!

The title poem, Belated Morning is a showstopper.  “Last night starry-eyed blue whales / swimming over a yellowed desert appeared” and later, “…if you / don’t shine your morning light on the world / you aren’t listening, you aren’t breathing /”

These poems are musical, and accessible to anyone who wants a good story. One does not have to dig deep into hidden meaning and metaphor, one can simply read, and the best way to read any poem is to read it out loud! These poems stopped me several times, just for the sheer beauty of the words and the image they convey.

Stars Born Reaching begins “A rare hard rain at night on a flat / roof sounds like a jazz drummer’s / wet dream or palpitating steps late for / a flight…” I had to stop and remember all the times when it would rain and my grandfather and I would grab a book and go out to the travel trailer, stretch out and read until we went to sleep. And how many times I had to run to catch a connecting flight at the other end of the airport!

The book ends with the gentle hours. A gentle poem in Macker’s kitchen as he’s up and “shedding the shortened sleep” The last words, the words he leaves us with are words we can all hear in our minds, lean back in the chair with a cuppa, and cogitate, no matter our age. “…At my age I / become something I’m not all over again / and it fits me like a glove. Fate is a direction / that won’t let me lose my way.”

I recommend this book to any lover of poetry, as well as those who aren’t quite sure about poetry. Buy this book, it will be a treasure to read and a beacon on your bookshelf reminding you to live—and enjoy your mornings, no matter how you find them. 


To purchase this book, please contact the author, John Macker at mackerjohn@yahoo.com. The cost is $10.00 plus s/h of $3.50.

About the Author: Lenora Rain-Lee Good, a Vietnam-era veteran of the WAC was born & raised in Portland OR and now lives in Kennewick, WA. Lenora is the author of three and a third published books of poetry—Blood on the Ground (Redbat Books, 2016), Marking the Hours (Cyberwit.net 2020)and The Bride’s Gate and Other Assorted Writings (Cyberwit.net, 2021). She co-authored Reflections: Life, the River, and Beyond (KDP 2020),with Jim Bumgarner and Jim Thielman, hence “the third.” She may be reached through her website https://coffeebreakescapes.com