Darken My Doorstep, Never My Grave By John Patrick Robbins

Because the drinks will be far better shared than spent speaking to shadows out of the madness that is isolation.

I was sad, but you were something so significantly worse.

A false friendship in hopes of gaining what I would have gratefully have given away.

The bourbon contained fire where I had long since lost all true passion.

But my companionship was real, as fake was your true character.

It seems I was alone even amongst your company.

So I guess I was fucked from the start.

Truth never wavers as the pavement does not give an inch.

I was miles ahead and lost from the start.

John Patrick Robbins, is a Southern Gothic writer, whose work has appeared in Schlock Magazine, Horror Sleaze Trash, Lucifers Retreat, Fearless Poetry Zine, Lothlorian Journal Of Poetry, Impspired Magazine, Fixator Press and Disturb The Universe.

His current book is Midnight Masochism and is published by Black Circle Publishing and available on Amazon.

His work is always unfiltered.

https://www.amazon.com/Midnight-Masochism-John-Patrick-Robbins/dp/B0CRQD523K

Radiant Sun Splashed By Susan Isla Tepper

   (In Loving Memory of Karen Friedland)

Another death has come 

to call

despite the trees abloom

and daffodils riotous in the grass.

Her house looks so pretty

in the pictures.

The front porch rejuvenated

sparkles—

and the neat backyard’s  

brick pathway, 

flowering beds along the fence.

Inside, every little corner. 

Tucked with cuttings 

the bright pots painted 

by some brave hand

in some land.

When I saw the picture

of her new kitchen floor—

radiant sun splashed

I felt a positivity

come ringing at her door.

Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty year writer in all genres. Her stage play "Crooked Heart" will be featured in Origin Theatre Company 'May Play Festival', NYC.

OLD CAFE By Strider Marcus Jones

a rest, from swinging bar

and animals in the abattoir-

to smoke in mental thinks

spoken holding cooling drinks.

counting out old coppers to be fed

in the set squares of blue and red

plastic tablecloth-

just enough to break up bread in thick barley broth.

Jesus is late

after saying he was coming

back to share the wealth and real estate

of capitalist cunning.

maybe. just maybe.

put another song on the jukebox baby:

no more heroes anymore.

what are we fighting for-

he's hiding in hymns and chants,

in those Monty Python underpants,

from this coalition of new McCarthy's

and it's institutions of Moriarty's.

some shepherd’s sheep will do this dance

in hypothermic trance,

for one pound an hour

like a shamed flower,

watched by sinister sentinels-

while scratched tubular bells,

summon all to Sunday service

where invisible myths exist-

to a shamed flower

with supernatural power

come the hour.

Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry  https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

  

His poetry has been published in numerous publications including: The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine;The Lampeter Review and Dissident Voice.

Meaty Words By Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

I struggle in my search for meaty words.

I know no confabulatory myths.

The words slip like rain through my mind.

I am groping in darkness where my heart

is permanently living in the night.

I cannot conjure magic or clever tricks of

the craft. I turned over tables and throw

chairs searching for answers. Day turns

to twilight and I have nothing of substance.

I offer flowers to the drunken muse.

I go back to the beginning and start 

from scratch. This is where it will end.

Born in Mexico, Luis lives in California and works in the mental health field in Los Ángeles. His poems have appeared in Ariel Chart, Fearless, Mad Swirl, The Rye Whiskey Review, and Unlikely Stories.

Tomorrow Night, And The Night After That By Trish Saunders

I hear the band warming up. 

A ‘40s jazz tune is what we need right now.

Think of the bars and cafes we loved,

friends who stood us a drink—

surely some are still living, somewhere.

For every despot, 

there must be thousands 

of kind-faced nurses

 waiting in tents  

bandages in hand, 

and a mother will kiss

every child’s bloodied knee. 

Listen to that wind 

trying to find a way in here.

Anticipatory anxiety, it's called. 

Your fingers give mine a squeeze.  

I'll take that for reassurance, 

for calm just before.

Strange, how the street outside has gone quiet.

Want more tonic in your cocktail?

Raise your hand, the flower-sellers

will approach, a smile at the ready. 

Trish Saunders lives in Seattle, formerly Honolulu, formerly Snohomish, a small town on a big river in Washington state. Her poems are published or forthcoming in Right Hand Pointing, Off The Coast, The Rye Whiskey Review, Medusa’s Kitchen, Open Arts, and the late, lamented Fat Damsel Press. 

Sound Bites By Susan Isla Tepper

Who are we, 

all of us— who

gaze across oceans

and vast desert lands

that pop up 

on the constant news

Who are we 

to cast aspersions,

wave flags and signs

screaming our opinions 

while never inhabiting

those places—

Comfortable 

in our elected Chambers,

drinking wine on the deck

with friends while debating 

the cost of lives vs lives

Who the hell are we

— never shelled or tortured.

We are billions of sound bites

lost to the moment.

Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty year writer in all genres. Her stage play "Crooked Heart" will be featured in Origin Theatre Company 'May Play Festival', NYC.

Nice Shot, Jimmy By John Doyle

1975

Janus stayed a long long year down by Marseilles,

his sunlight surged on nubile sirens playing volleyball sea-side,

his Id painted piece by piece that side-street Hades, grey, his choice of visage,

most fires choose the latter for their tryst,

the filth oozing on the former, avoiding earthly judgment;

it was here I heard them say "Nice shot Jimmy", 

Monsieur Charnier drowning in sanguine penance,

Marseilles' face turned no brighter that day, 

no freer of its boiled-egg acne, its mud-veined mysteries -

"Nice shot, Jimmy" they said back home, 

his lone and single face taken suddenly by a shade of brittle stone

Half man, half creature of very odd habit, John Doyle dabbles in poetry when other forms of alchemy and whatnot just don't meet his creative needs. From County Kildare in Ireland, he is (let's just politely say) closer to 50 than 21.