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Emancipation | Langley Shazor

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To whom it may concern
I tender my resignation
I will no longer fetch
For though lashings
Have lessened canines
There is still bite
In this old dog
My shoes are hard
And I shall dance for you
No longer
Whispers in the dark
Will gain decibels in the light
Your failed attempts
To cut my tongue
Has only removed
All the “yessahs” and “massuhs” from my vocabulary
My fate is my own
Stained posts
Bearing fathers, sons, daughters, mothers, sisters, brothers
On the verge of collapse
From the weight of injustice
Rope-worn limbs buckle
As I make my last knot
And exit these killing fields

The Skinny on Fatty’s Cafe | Donal Mahoney

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Here’s the skinny on Fatty’s Cafe,
a grubby diner on a snaky street
under the El in dark Chicago
where street lights flicker
and the hungry descend from
the flophouse above the store.

If you have a yen for a BLT
and Fatty is workin’ the grill,
the hungry say don’t go in,
be patient and wait outside
for Fatty’s brother, Skinny,
to wield the spatula.

Skinny has a way with BLTs,
piling bacon and tomato high
on a triple decker, with a hint
of lettuce and a swipe of mayo
on all three slices of bread.
No extra charge to toast it
when Skinny’s workin’ the grill.

Ignore the rain, sleet or snow
and wait outside with the hungry
till Skinny starts flippin’ the bacon.
He takes over at midnight when
Fatty flops into his Lincoln
and heads for his castle.
Then Skinny lays out the bacon
and the hungry outside march in.

More at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com and http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com.

Themistocles | JD DeHart

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My love, she studies
for a grand humanities
exam. I’m quizzing her
and for each answer she’s
not sure about, she says,
“Themistocles.”
We have a brief debate
about whether Themistocles
was a real person or just
a name she’s making up.
Turns out, like with most
topics, she’s in the right.
Now I wonder if, somewhere
out there, sons are still named
Themistocles. Is there a
Themistocles being born right
now, in another distant land?

Where Do We Go from Here? Ashley Morgan

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We’re at an impasse. Any decision is the wrong decision on some
level, even the easiest decision is probably the worst: doing nothing at all. Let everything stay the way it is. Keep living in the pretend reality that everything is okay. Keep letting the years go by without making a decision. Keep hoping things will change. You know you keep repeating that stupid quote in your head “The definition of insanity is repeating the same action and expecting different results.” And yet you keep doing it. Because the moment you stand on the precipice, the moment you look at the edge at what’s unknown at the bottom, you pull back. You recede into what’s known, what’s comfortable. Even though you know it’s irrational. Even though you know it’s holding you back from progress.

This year you have come the closest yet to making the jump. Have
faith. The therapist is right: you are immature. You are not mature enough to stand on your own. You are not mature enough to take what
you already know and put it into practice. That one statement twisted your reality so far backwards, that now you aren’t sure what to do with yourself. It really is your fault. You put yourself here and only you can bring yourself out.

So, I ask again, where do we go from here? Do we continue on this path through the fishbowl we have been pretending is the world? Knowing that eventually it will end, but allowing someone else to make that decision for us? Are we that weak? Maybe we are. Let’s fade back into our false reality for a bit longer. It’s comfortable here with the wool pulled over our eyes.

More at https://ashleyjmorgan.wordpress.com/2015/03/26/where-do-we-go-from-here-an-inner-dialogue/.

New Day – A Poem by Tokoni Uti

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It is the lot of man to count his winnings.
And the way of nature to usher new beginnings.
The man in his youth will do as he please.
And tree in its season will shed its leaves.
The revolution has returned to take its turn.
And has ignited a flame that will not always burn.
The simplicity of naiveté is adorned in flowers.
And the new day is here and ours.

Somatose Estates And The Skin Of My Teeth – A Poem by Richard William Kirkpatrick-Thorne

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It Is That Below,
SomeWhere My Shapelessness Directs InTo Form,
Arriveing At The Fringes Of Bent Light To Where Ten Seconds Break,
Behind Blood Pulsateing InTo Woven Lineage,
As Time Crafts A Fleshless Escape Towards Another Mother’s Tongue,
And It Clings With A Senseless Instinct For A Breath Beyond Taste,
Fraying The Cords That Suspend…
…
And Yet,
It Is That Belonging…
…
Somatose And Sculpted Precedeing A Possessive Nature,
Alive As An Offering InTo A Different Slight Of Forge-Wroughten
Conditions,
Before Bone Crushed And Ground For An Unraveling River,
As A Seed Of Archetype To Where I Was Once Only ALone To Speak,
And It Lingers While An EndLess Obsession For All That Gives And
Takes,
Knotting The Words That Settle…
…
And Yes…
…
…
It Is That.

More at http://rwkt.blogspot.ca.

Interim Report | Neil Creighton

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Unseen, we hovered above the planet.
It has retained much of its beauty:
grassed plains, high mountains, sky and cloud,
spectacular displays from land and sea.

However, we noted damage and scarring.
Floating islands of plastic and huge holes abound.
Grey smudges and stagnant water indicate
considerable pollution of air, water and ground.

We also noted the dominant species
has a limited, self-centred thinking.
Inequality and poverty are rife.
Egalitarian ideals appear to be shrinking.

Problems demand altered consciousness.
Poverty, resource plundering, increasing population,
primitive energy sources and climate warming
indicate a need for global cooperation.

Most of the wealth is controlled by a few.
To protect it they exploit a common flaw
which enables many to be easily manipulated
into the absurdity of destruction and war.

We believe they slumber in partial consciousness.
They are not yet fully awake.
Further development may require
an emotional and intellectual earthquake.

We will return in a millennium or two.
The species has potential for distinction.
We conclude with the hope that their folly
does not ultimately lead to their extinction.

Cannot – A Poem by JD DeHart

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upon entering
I feel my face flushing

this new face
taking on a challenge
wresting a myth

this myth was born
the first time someone
stopped and quit
the first time someone
hung their head,
meditating: I am not
good enough

so, the choice is
wading in cannot
or holding on to can

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