Paris, m'attend

Paris, Paris
how those words sound so sweet to me,
no bitter taste of memory- only lust and longing.
My curious feet have caressed your long, sleek pavements tenderly,
while searching your ins and outs, I have discovered myself.
At the cafe, smoked curled from my lips slowly, tracing your outline
making me aware of your receptive beauty.

Now I see you from a far, from a land I consider strange to me now,
Paris, you have captured mon esprit, you took it from me, while I
naively wandered les rues like a vagabond dreaming of restless
possibilities.

When can I retrieve what you have taken so swiftly from me? You
hold it captive and haunt and taunt me in my dreams, an ever present
reminder that one day I should return to you.
Viens, Viens, is whispered in my mind when I see your alluring
image, it seems to be everywhere to me now.
If only I could respond Je viens, and you could entends.

The Poet of La Mancha

I set astride my ass with big lance in hand, It is pointed at the white domed windmill afar; I am challenged by all of its inanity and frivolity. Sancho is by my side. We are eating pears and apples, as if they were going to assuage the hungry-anger that rots the insides of our malox-lined stomachs.

PACHUCO Y JUANITO
 
Pachuco has brought to the cantina
his glorified version of a pellet gun,
a sawn-off muzzle-loading blunderbuss
able to shoot todas tipos las cosas.
He tells the barkeep he will use it
to keep a scavenging gallina out
of his novia's casa de pollo.
Juanito pales and stares at his
huevos, wondering if
el jefe del barrio knows.
 
Then the sound of a muffled discharge,
Juanito feels the stings of a dozen wasps,
and gasps, small metal pieces lodging
in his skin. Raul darkens,
drops wrinkled bills on the vinyl
cloth, murmurs, "Vamanos,"
and leaves quickly, but Juanito,
picking a BB from his earlobe,
approaches Pachuco at the brass rail,
and puts the projectile on the bar,
mumbling, "Necessita tengar mas cuidado,"
to which el jefe, his eyes narrowing,
replies, "Y tu tambien."
 
Raul ha desaparecido, the sidewalk empty save
Pachuco's cadre de guerreros. Juanito ambles down
the paseo, followed, but once he passes
el estacion de policia, he is left alone
to pick shrapnel from his wounds.
His sternum is burning; probing
a cut, he extracts a medallion
of La Virgen. He turns it over in
wonder, revealing la marca 925,
significa plata.
 
Juanito crosses to the pawn shop,
as La Virgen will bring dinero for
tomorrow. Inside the door,
he considers his situation;
it might be mejor to spend
his last saved pesos on
a matching silver chain.


BIO
John Lambremont, Sr. is a Pushcart Prize-nominated poet who lives with his wife, their Jack Russell terrier runt, and their fat gray tabby cat in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. He has a B.A. in English-Creative Writing and a J.D. from Louisiana State University, where he studied writing under William 'Kit' Hathaway, Warren Eyster, and Jim Bennett, and his major focus was poetry. During the last year, John's work has been published or accepted for future publication in Boston Literary Magazine, A Hudson View (2009 Pushcart nomination), Flutter Poetry Journal, Bear Creek Haiku, Breadcrumb Sins, Pattaya Poetry Review, Jerry Jazz Musician, Shenom Magazine, The Fib Review, and Lilliput Review. His collected volume of retrospective poems, 'Whiskey, Whimsy, & Rhymes', is available on Amazon.com and Google Books. John enjoys modern jazz, writing country songs, and adult baseball.

Here is a shirt to wear.
It looks like grandma's
from the funeral.
Cheap.
How do you buy a shirt
for your dead mother?
Green, like flowers hanging
upside down.
There is a pit opening up on the front
lawn, and with all this barbell sorrow,
I could jump in and sink
into history.
Archetypes sit there
wearing polyester, humming.
Everyone looks blurry behind
my eyes and my heart
is on fire.

Cesar's Coffee
Cesar says it through the hovering ring,
that I am nothing but a dumb gringa
waiting for Quetzalcoatl to come. He is
sitting outside my little place
on a plastic white chair stained with
cigarette holes.

He hands me a can of El Pico when he comes,
tells me to make it strong, not the
way Americans make it.

I grind lemons on the counter while
the coffee falls into the pot, because lemons
cure heartache. I watch him through the window,
the curtains are the color of paize.

He has big knuckles tapping
on the table, he is blowing the smoke
at me, making my hair smell like
cheap cigars, the kind he keeps in
his sweaty, wet jean pockets
all day outside the stupid
pelicula place.

A church bell rings, and the coffee
is done. I feel stupid for being white.


BIO
Lisa Marie Basile is a writer and editor living in New York, though she would much prefer to be in the desert. Her full-length poetry collection, "A Decent Voodoo," will come out in 2012 by Červená Barva Press.

She is Editor-in-Chief of Caper Literary Journal, a monthly poetry and prose journal — and has published work in CommonLine, Aphros Literary Magazine, Vox Poetica, The Medulla Review, Melusine and Physiognomy in Letters, Feile-Festa and The Broome Street Review among others. A full page feature on her work, inspiration and background is also printed in Poets and Artists Magazine's February 2010 issue.

Daemon

I have become a daemon
In the caves of Hell
Once an angel
I fled from Heaven’s gate
Not fell or pushed--
Oh, Lord, how I could fly!

Wind

Not even the wind knows
What it knows--
There are no secrets
In the air
No places to hide
Among the storm-blown leaves.


BIO
I have been published (although several works are forthcoming) in numerous print and online journals from "A"  (Anastomoo) to "V"  (vox poetica),  and I am still hoping for a "Z" to complete the alphabet.  My chapbook, Illusions Delusions and Dreams:  Visions of the Surreal in Art, published by Naissance, is now out, and a second collection of poetry based on art will be published soon.

Fever pitch

She’s warm to the touch and has the scent
of a baby or a fresh biscuit, and we’ve argued
the night before. Alex wants to go out on the deck

 at 4 a.m. and the sky is strewn with stars,
but no moon. He turns his wise, sweet, unknowing head
to me as if to ask, “What are you doing,”

as I say to him when he misbehaves. I go back to see
if she needs Tylenol, if I can help her
feel less sick. I need to be my dog

 for this part of the journey, happy, intuitive,
less caught in thought and less than human,
more understanding. She’s warm to the touch

and outside the sky
is a moonless wire basket
empty of me but
brimful of stars


BIO
Harry Calhoun’s articles, literary essays, book reviews and poems have been published in magazines including Writer’s Digest and The National Enquirer. Recently, his online chapbook Dogwalking Poems and his trade paperback, I knew Bukowski like you knew a rare leaf, were published. The latter is now available from Trace Publications and on Amazon, Barnes and Noble and other online booksellers. He has had recent publications in Chiron Review, Still Crazy, SNReview, Orange Room Review, The Centfigugal Eye, Bird’s Eye reView, Abbey, Monongahela Review and many others. Recently, he was one of 12 poets invited to LiteraryMary’s anthology, Outstanding Men of the Small Press.

The Stars Are Eyes

"Te quiero, mi amor, quiero.
Escúchame, por favor, recuerdo, recuerdo."

You dream he steps down from shadow,
descienda a decir y tu murmuras, "Las estrellas."

He whispers, “Dígame, por favor.”
Shaking your head, you ask his meaning,

repeating, “Las estrellas."
Sad, he bows his head,

so you go to him, and holding his gaze,
susurras, "Tus ojos son estrellas."

Smiling, he gently begins to kiss you.
Suddenly you wake, hablas español.


Lagrimas

We were so young
all those years
the touch
of your hands
how beautiful
your hand
on the nape of my neck
a small gesture.

Hiding in a dream
asleep somewhere in Spain
I still long for the light
golden green like olives
ripe and full of precious oils
first pressing sweet in my mouth
the seeds and skins
nothing wasted.


BIO
I live and work in New York City. I’ve had poems in Agenda (UK), The New York Quarterly, the Long Island Quarterly, iota (UK), The Centrifugal Eye, MiPOesias, Rumble, and Orbis Quarterly International Literary Journal (UK). I’m enjoying reading and writing even more, now that I’ve finished my M.A. in Theology.

Lost Prodigal

The existence is drained in hysteria of self-absorption
Hyper spherical lad.
The day is spent in a frenzy of self-deprecation
Accidental civilization.
The price is calamitous,
A reasoned worm gnaws at the core
Of his assumptions
Twenty – Eighty.
He is a seasonable man
Has a Freudian skull
That in the day,
Blooms the insipid city’s tastelessness
And at night,
Smells of stale blood and whisky.
The constant impermanence of life
Is held together by its assortment of dependability.
He runs a suicide risk
Of a Metaphorical death.

BIO
Ana J, is a twenty-seven year old visual artist. She grew up in India and Europe and is now living in the sunny Southern California. She is a literary buff currently working on her first collection of poetry. Her desire to evoke a response is a dynamically strong influence on both her lifestyle and her work.