March & April 2019
Vol IV No II
Not your ordinary poetry magazine!
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Published bi-monthly
Free Verse Poetry Page with Suzanne Robinson
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August Ending
Working down from Canada
silent nighthawks dive
through dusk and flutter
just above the rocky shore.
Later, in moonless night
off Wisconsin’s coast
incandescent stars float like
paper lanterns down a dark
river over Devils Island.
Recent poems by Raymond Byrnes have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies including Shot Glass Journal, All Roads Will Lead You Home, Panoply, and Typishly. He lives in Virginia.
The Thief of Solitude
Under a dimming sky
I arrive at my destination.
No longer anxious,
I become motionless
like the thief of solitude.
No longer frenetically thinking,
I listen to hear
a pin drop
with my soul.
I fall asleep with my eyes open.
No longer delirious,
my heart steadies.
In this room of silence
not a peep gets out.
No longer trembling,
I am immobile.
I lay down roots and catch my breath.
I Must Go
Twisting away
from the pale
figure at the edge
of the bed;
night falls,
forages
through my dream.
I escape
the arms of death
for a day
in this race my life
has entered.
Invisible hands
move across
my face, like dusty
smoke falling.
Slumbering, I
kick the dead
man out of my
dream. It’s me.
Life blazes on,
casts its spell.
It makes me sad that
I must go.
Evening Star
I have taken
a shine to
your new name
tattooed on
your left arm,
Evening Star.
You want to be
called Eve or
Star for short.
The sky would
not mind your
bright smile. I
have taken
a shine to
it myself.
This evening
I’m out with
a real star.
Take Your Words To Bed
You take your words
to bed and say
nothing you will
regret. Hurting
others is not
so hard with words.
Take them to bed.
Sleep on them and
let them find a
place to forget.
let them find a
place to forget.
Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal lives in California and works in the mental health field. His poems have been published by Kendra Steiner Editions, Mad Swirl, and Unlikely Stories. “I Must Go” was written after he was diagnosed with cancer. Fortunately, he is now cancer free.
Contours
I’ve long cherished the notion that
David’s sketch of Marie Antoinette
en route to death was traced with an
Etch-a-sketch.
Or like a high school art assignment
was made with one unbroken snaking
un-looked-at line. In both cases,
I wonder where the line starts and ends:
from the tip of her toes to the nape
exposed for the swift surgery awaiting her?
From the nadir of her cartoonish
frown to the nadir of her cartoonish frown —
a full tortured circle, the severing of
umbilical cord and head?
I’m writing now because —
either I was surprised by the resemblance
between this famous propaganda and
a drawing I made of you this morning —
or the resemblance was unconsciously
planned. In both cases,
I spent an hour debating where I
would begin and end my meditation.
You, fuzzy from a head cold, nose
dripping, wrapped in your heaviest blanket,
are not at your best. The queen’s ugly
bonnet is an obvious and political
allusion to the rococo hats of her heyday.
Your knit cap is part of you —
your head more faithfully guarded
than the head of the most orthodox Jew.
Conversely, Marie’s unrelenting posture
is part of her, part of her royalty,
the only remaining part — while your
stiff spine is ephemeral. Your
mother’s been nagging you again. The
great difference is — wanting always to
look you in the face, I have drawn you,
not in profile, but as though I were the TV
you squint at. The great similarity is:
David’s urge to humiliate and
mine to adore
are both power grabs.
First Published in Hanging Loose.
Timothy Robbins has been a regular contributor to Hanging Loose since 1978. His collection, Denny’s Arbor Vitae, was published in 2017, and Carrying Bodies in 2018. He lives in Kenosha, Wisconsin, with his husband of 21 years.
The Band Girlfriend
All the bars are the same.
They are dark,
and no one cares
about anyone but themselves.
The people think
I'm single, and they ask me
if I want to take a shot
or smoke a joint.
I always say no
because I don't want to
share anything
with anyone.
Not even my time
and not even my words,
but sometimes they persist.
I always say no.
One time this guy
asked me if I was married
to my boyfriend
and I said yes,
but that was a lie
and I think that is why
I was late for work
the next day.
Michelle Gardner was born and raised in Northern Virginia. She is currently a middle school English teacher and graduate student at George Mason University, where she studies the Teaching of Writing and Literature.
Talk Radio
It’s gotten late again
way down the AM radio dial
her voice so gentle
so sexy
she’s not speaking english
I don’t understand her
she talks all night
deep into my night
I fall asleep
only to wake hours later
to static
the universe speaks
Sugar Tobey was born in Coney Island, Brooklyn, received a degree from the School of Visual Art in Manhattan, and now lives in NYC above a pizza parlor.
Mother’s Day
My shampoo
Smelled of chamomile.
I remembered my mother.
I leaned against
The slippery tile wall,
Hoped for support,
Received none.
My bare skin blushed.
Sunlight longed to
Embrace me through
The shower curtain.
The water sprinkled
Across my skin
Like morning raindrops
On a Sunday in May.
A corner of the
Handcrafted window pane
Displayed a fragment of
My budding backyard.
How it grew and
Photosynthesized
With every touch of
Pigment that imitated
The soft sky above.
Azaleas and marigolds
Dominated the garden
Of glorious colors.
My first flower pot
Was a gift.
I remembered my mother.
Emily Chisholm is a writer from Toledo, Ohio. Her writing has a focus on fictional poetry. This is her first publication.
FOR LACK OF AN OPEN WINDOW HIGH ABOVE THE LANE
She came home with a present of matching mopeds—
What an interesting way for me to commit suicide, he said,
And once when she posted their photograph on his page,
She tagged it: He’s creepy, but I’m the cutie.
She had this way of weaving stretch marks across his brow.
At night after the music is put away, after the dinner plates
Are piled into the sink, after the pots are left to soak,
They lie in bed together, she reading the full account
Of Mandelstrom throwing himself away because he had to.
She does not know he has already recorded it,
It and the words aura, animosity, abyss, anthrax.
When she curls away from him because she has to, he kisses
The back of her neck, pulls his hands to himself
And whispers, “Sweet dreams, my Nadezhda,”
Every activity, every encounter another attempt at suicide.
Michael H. Brownstein’s work has appeared in American Letters and Commentary, Skidrow Penthouse, Meridian Anthology of Contemporary Poetry, The Pacific Review, The Big Window Review, poetrysuperhighway.com and others. He has published nine poetry chapbooks.