Better Than Starbucks Poetry Magazine General Poetry Page Oct 2016

Poems

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Trees dropping

Trees dropping leaves in cooler weather,
dim echoes of trees budding into spring,
add nourishment to their roots beneath.

Take the map that unfolds in concertina,
look down the avenues, and you will see
, here, trees in full blossom , here,
branches bare-naked, raising in-between,
fruit and fruit-fall in the breeze.

Martin Porter

Martin Porter, born in Jersey, studied Astrophysics in London and Leeds, taught Physics in Jersey, before becoming a systems trainer in New Zealand. He is now retired in Whangarei. He has recently had work published in Printed Reality (NZ), Hobo Camp Review (USA), Envoi (UK), and Blue Fifth Review (International).
Trees Dropping was first published as Michelle Elvy’s Tuesday Poem choice in Glow Worm (2014).

MISCHIEF

Last Halloween Eve, you broke my last black heart,
the one sewn to vintage bone. The graceful untangling
of your breath from the trees was quite commanding,
the lunacy of your leer so alight. The jack o’ lantern
jetty jigsaw sky spun with helicopters and hellfire, devils,
dastard delights. You threatened to take back the tomboy
nights from my reckless veins. Your candied treasonous
good-bye melted, unsavored, into the marrow of my
shadow, became the incubus of every moonrise, the
ill-fated starlet in my soul. We always spoke of speaking
this way. We always believed in the possibility of morning
stars. But never again will we breathe in wind-smoked
willows side by side, or even face the delusions of our
scars. The volley of our youth has settled into the visage
of our mystery, where I will find you waging wars with
your eyes, forever breaking black stone angels.

Megan Mealor
Jacksonville, FL

Albuquerque, New Mexico

I took a left turn like
Bugs Bunny suggested
But i didnt run into
Him or any
Nerdy, passive agressive
Chemistry teachers , turned
Drug lords
I ended up at a coffeehouse
In the hipster part of town
I was halfway into
A cappucino
When i saw her,
My old biology professor
From many poems
Ago,
You know, the irish girl
With the black woman ass?

Back in college, she wore short
Skirts
When she taught lectures,
And the front
Row was almost always
Full of guys.
She was a girl straight out
Of a van halen song;
Lightning rarely strikes twice
So, i went up and reintroduced
Myself. This time, with every
Intention of getting her
Back into my life
Things were going smooth
And i was about to close
The deal
When bugs showed up
Out of the blue ( tranported ,maybe ? )
Bugs told me, that me and her
Were a good fit, but it takes more
Than game and moxie,
To score with a woman
I noticed earlier, my friend
Had a diamond on her hand
That had more carats than
Bugs bunny's lunch
But she said she was single
Bugs told me " you have to
Set yourself apart from
The pack
Give her something different
Other guys can't
And you also need some
Loot."
So Bugs pulled out a stack
Of C-notes
And gave it to me
It would be enough for
A good start
Me and the professor
Went to a bookstore
And stole kisses as
We browsed the stacks
Then we took a walk in
The desert, and she became
A perfect irish rose, in
Bloom

Translations of a Chinese poem to English (with Chinese between the lines), and a short piece on the philosophy of poetry written by by Dai Wangshu is temporarily replacing Free for All October Section

R.I.P. The Second Amendment

Never do we think of things

we can do together.

Innocent things, a picnic for example,

or maybe with handguns

take a break into a bank.

But however violent that

would be, we would at least

be doing something together.

Never do we let our heads

hover above our skulls.

If we did, we might come

apart like kites killed by

shotgun shells dispersed by a

mad man talking, really

blabbering, about them

second amendment rights.

Why don't we let the rhetoric

between ourselves grow past that.

Let's talk about things

in a concrete way,

like how we once stole from

that asshole – you know at the bar –

his NRA pin

he couldn't stop flashing.

Dying in the cold is a good

trick to make us shut up.

If we insist on talking,

just take our clothes,

and let us soliloquy away.

And as a feather lost in the desert night,

we just vanish forever,

never to be remembered.

R.I.P. The Second Amendment

is written by Joel Dittmer.

Dittmer teaches philosophy at Missouri University of Science & Technology. Formally trained in academic analytic philosophy, he cares about the relationship between language and experience. In his teaching, in particular in ethics, he works on incorporating the work of creative writers into the academic study of philosophy.

Albuquerque, New Mexico

is by Erren Geraud Kelly.

Kelly is a Pushcart nominated poet from Los Angeles and widely published. He is also the author of the book, " Disturbing The Peace," on Night Ballet Press and the chapbook, " The Rah Rah Girl," forthcoming from Barometric Press.
He studied writing at Louisiana State University.