Poet's Ink Review

Love the aroma
of hickory logs
burning in the fire pit

Smoke curls around
thick sizzling steaks
and conspires to torment
the keen noses
of golden dogs
lying near

Friends gathered
under an ancient willow
babble louder
than the creek
running alongside

Wine flows freely
like the laughter
light and bubbly

Moonbeams cast
a magic spell
in my back yard
illuminating
my great fortune
no bank vault
could contain

Candice Geary

Candice is a retired litigation paralegal who resides in Ohio. Her poems have appeared in The Mused – Bella Online Literary Review, and she was the feature poet in Cold Coffee Magazine. Her article, “Images of Africa,” was recently published in The Medical Dealer magazine.


Summer

Sweet smells of purple and white Asters
fill my nose. I stroll through the Kalmia
gardens, sipping a glass of cold lemonade,
wondering how long this fantasy will last.

Sarita Bruce

Sarita is a Creative Writing student at Francis Marion University who enjoys writing both poetry and fiction. The poem “Summer” was inspired by a dream of being at the Kalmia Gardens back at home in Hartsville, SC.

fear is
nervous maneuvers of fork
spoon
napkins unfolded
folded
timid sips of water
clench the throat dry
pull the lips tight

father is in the kitchen
mixing his drink
ice thunders against glass
tiles howl and whisper
beneath unbalanced breath

my sister is always unaware
of the shy moan
buzzing past her tongue

my brother fixates
on the candle flame

my mother smiles
a resolve to wilt
and stutter
and obey

the refrigerator door closes
footsteps
the smell of whiskey
father appears
sits at the head of the table
cuts his steak mad
and deciding
which one

i caress the spokes
of the steak knife
hum old blues
dare myself to hold his stare

tonight, father
bruises are badges
scars are battle songs
i am the oldest

This poem previously appeared in MediaVirus, August 2009.

Derek Richards

After performing for years, as both a musician and poet, in and around the Boston area,
Derek Richards has recently decided to begin submitting his work for publication. So
far he has been accepted for publication in Ghoti Magazine, Lung, Word Riot, Right Hand Pointing, and Tinfoildresses, as well as other publications. His poetry aims to be direct and honest, brilliant and lucrative. He is currently residing in Gloucester, Mass., happily engaged and cleaning windows for a living.

Teen mother, carried high by the warmth
of the newborn clutched against her ribs.
Tall and straight, proud her father is taking the picture.
Confident in shiny blue floral print (no glasses yet),
blissfully hopeful. Wants three more -- already
has their names picked out. Then, a solid house
out of town, a place with a foundation, a home
with laughter and life. She'll greet him, feed him
and in return be cherished, just like it says.

The black suit hangs loose
on his slightly stooped shoulders.
Stares through his horn-rims into the middle distance.
Mouth open, half a word out, alternately thinking
of diapers, car races and college funds.
Glad it's a boy -- gives him a chance to be a dad,
one like he imagined. He'll make everything fun,
teach the kid to wheel, throw and deal. With luck
he'll someday have a buddy he can trust.

Shocked a bit when the bulb pops,
a question of whether he'll topple,
his feet confused by the loss of dry land.
Her green eyes catch all of the flash,
send it back, joyous. Neither noticing
the lack of an arm around a waist,
the appropriate distance they keep.

David H. Hassler

David has been a journalist for the past 15 years in Oregon and Washington and now also acts as a freelance editor. He studied poetry, literature and writing in the early 90s under Henry Carlisle at Portland State University, graduating in 1993. His most recent publication was a sports poem, "Raising the Moon," accepted by the All-American Girls Baseball Association website.

Meg Eden

Meg Eden

Meg is passionate about culture. She studies and writes about places including Japan, Vietnam, Russia, and India. She loves to explore cultural norms and go beyond them, telling the story of the person who is different than others. Meg has won various writing awards, including AACC’s Marjorie Flack Award, Scholastic Writing and Arts’ Gold Key Award, and Characters’ Fiction Writing Contest.

The priest's head bobbed in the tub like an oversized apple,
and I knew he was dead. The tainted water was perhaps
a cyanide cocktail, liquid laced with the scent of almonds.
No matter: we knew not to drink it. There was no place to go

in this town, this emptiness boarded up with plywood
marked mindlessly with spray paint. No cars, no neighbors,
no creak of porch swings in April breezes, no windy bird cry
curling into the ear; only sun strained down, glinting off every surface

as though anything were water. Wisps of heat rose from sidewalks
like steam. My group, strangers up till now, understood the problem:
even men of God were not delivered from this poison fate.
We had to venture into the streets, vast barren avenues absent

of people, of texture, of sound. As we, this postmodern tribe
driven by the most basic necessity, stepped into the vacuum,
I glimpsed a vision of paradise: a convenience store not far off, sale
signs still in the windows. "They must," I reasoned, "have water."

So we traveled, by foot, hands full of makeshift weapons: a tree
branch, a crowbar, a pewter-head putter held like a bat, a serrated
kitchen knife brandished at phantoms, the only noise the scuff
of our shoes on pavement, rocks skitting to asphalt's edge.

We arrived. The door was open. The golden-skinned owner,
pleased to have customers after such a long spell, presented
pastries trapped in cellophane, wrappered candies
jacketed in dust, overpriced ice creams crusted with sparkling beards

of frost. Others in my troupe groped for what he offered, but I, immune
to salesmen, walked directly to the glory bottled in jugs.
"Distilled, right?" He nodded. "I'll take 'em," I said. I don't remember
money exchanging hands, just the liquid weight, my arms drawn

toward the pavement as though the earth itself desired a drink. Dust
jumped at my knees like children. I looked and saw that no one
flanked my sides, so I uncapped the first gallon and poured cool wetness
into the bowl of my mouth, sure to let several drops stray down my chin.

And why not? My friends loitered at the golden man's side, eating
Twinkies and Almond Joys, coconut coating their tongues like snow,
sugar filling them with false laughter. On the street, alone, I aspersed my bounty;
I prepared the return of violets, of sparrows, of moss-colored spring.

Janann Dawkins

Janann’s work has been featured or is upcoming in Two Review, decomP, Poesia, Ouroboros Review, and MiPOesias, among others. Janann’s chapbook Micropleasure was published by Leadfoot Press in 2008. Janann resides in Ann Arbor, Michigan and assists in editing the eclectic literary journal Third Wednesday.

Midnight black blazing like a cold fire
gleaming darkness shining like rain

Wide river bedded below the tall hill
sea balancing on the edge of the land

Signature in smoke scrawled in the sky
long days, lonely nights

Paradise occupied by troubled thoughts
marching dust, comings and goings of life

Thread of a song quibbles with the mirror
over a fragment of a dream

Ronnie M. Lane

Ronnie has been active in the small press scene since the 70's, and has published several collections of poems and one of stories. He edited an anthology, Michigan Black Poets, and was in 10 Michigan Poets.

Where I live autumn has come to me
dropping the plank on which I stand.
Time to fall away and from. Hanging
mid point, but not between past and future.
Not between dog and wolf.
More like fanning the ringed book of swatch samples
from the paint store shelf. Each square not different
in color, but a shift in tone ––
a shade deeper down.

Where I live new shadows
fill the pitch pine grove where we walk today.
The angle of light as it was when the English poet
took to the footpaths overlooking Winchester.
But here tall limbless pines, some canopied,
others cut or broken, break the view.
We hear acorn woodpeckers call back and forth,
wireless Morse code. It is sound, not color, that holds us.
Like listening to a movie while knitting, looking down, not up.

Neal Whitman

Neal is a retired teacher; he loved his profession and now loves writing poetry. In past four years, Neal has had over 70 poems and haiku appear in more than 30 journals.

Lisa walked over to the park across the street,
carried a can in one hand and a brush in the other
and a hand cloth in her left hip pocket.

She painted a big, red X on the grass about half way
from the shortstop position and the bare spot
where the left fielder would stand.

Lisa left a note stating: My prophetic dream
marks this spot to be where a meteor
will strike in a fiery blaze of heavenly glory.

Even with the outfielders and infielders avoiding
the big, red X with the superstitious fastidiousness
of a player on a forty-nine game hitting streak,

William, Lisa’s bloop-hitting nephew, increased
his batting average by only four points
during the two weeks it took the grass to grow

tall enough for the park services lawn mower
to clip away all the foreboding.

Kenneth P. Gurney

Kenneth lives in Albuquerque, NM. His work appears mostly on the web, as he spends SASE and reading fee monies on flowers for his lover. To learn more about Kenneth, visit http://www.kpgurney.me/Poet/Welcome.html.

I did not know
all I was doing
when I suggested
we hold his funeral
on his birthday,
rounding up,
his seeming lifespan.

I robbed myself.
For live I to
one hundred years
from then all birthdays
weigh down with sorrow.

Murray Alfredson

Murray is a retired librarian and lecturer, and a former Buddhist Associate to the Multi-faith Chaplaincy at Flinders University. He graduated in German and History from the University of Melbourne and holds a research masters degree from the University of Wales. He began to write poetry in his undergraduate days and resumed in retirement. He has published poems and essays on Buddhism, spirituality and inter-faith matters in journals in Australia and the UK.

Late October, flecks of cold in the air,
a fluttering apprehension
to the boughs of the hemlock.
Five boys stalk the wood's edge.
Fifty yards away,
deer fur stands to fear's attention.
Who's mean enough to chase
these creatures from the ripe red apples?
The same ones who pushed the boy
with glasses into a ditch I suppose.

The deer leave anyhow.
They've sniffed us out.
We're kids now but they're certain
we'll return to this very spot
with rifles someday.

I've seen their carcasses
at just such a time as this,
the funeral march of late October
down the roads out of the woods,
strapped to the roof of a car
while their trophy antlers bounce
on the back seat with the beer.

I promise myself that if I ever do come back,
it will be with a pen
and not a weapon.
But they'll be no safer.
This poem has not yet ended
and already their blood's all over it.

John Grey