Featured Poems


by on April 26, 2015 :: 0 comments

I’m constantly looking forward to looking back,
Tired of falling awake.
Though it’s never for long.
I drift into it then find myself
Slipping back to slumber.
Sleep walking through life,
Remembering things while they’re happening.
The present in past tense.

editors note:

Sooner or later, we’ll all get around to this. Didn’t we? – mh clay

Star Light, Star Bright

by on April 25, 2015 :: 0 comments

no arms
to break my fall

I wait
for sleep

silent sentry
in the jungle night

I lie cemented
in self

counting black holes
in space

where once
there were stars
to wish on

editors note:

Darkness disables counting sheep, a starless night to steal one’s sleep. – mh clay


by on April 24, 2015 :: 0 comments

My last message may not be, “I love you”
It may not be the apology you need
There may not even be a last message.

I have thought about my last words
More than I have ever spoken any –
I may even leave you with what you have
Already seen or heard another day.

Maybe you do not even deserve my last word
Maybe I made a monument of you with smoke and hot air,
Laying you down on grimy mirrors.

You may even be a lily waiting to float
Like my flightless words on my concentrated tongue.

I like to imagine spending monsoons in a house made of salt
Crumbling marriages and a
Loaf of banana bread, raw in the middle.

My last message may be, “Where are you? Waiting.”
You will not see this message
You are a damsel trapped in the creases of your coat
As you drive to where you think I am, where you think
I want you to be –
Not where you are needed.

“Hold still, I’m on my way.”

editors note:

A place of need, waiting for words; the last could be the first. – mh clay


by on April 23, 2015 :: 0 comments

Peering at words that left a mouth so saintly,
Gleaming the conspicuous motive,
Breaking every ivory tint bone once carried,
Shaking a fist at the sky above, the faulty works
Who created such monsters dressed in skin so pure
Disguised from sickening smirks, poisonous touch
Uncover yourself, rip the veil preventing your true guise
Face the sky once more, breathing its ecstasy
Only human alive in this realm of disguises

– Mahabba Alhaushabi

editors note:

Acquiesce to constructs of convention, or risk nakedness for ecstasy; alive and true! – mh


by on April 22, 2015 :: 0 comments

Whales, like followers
of Jimmy Jones, give up,
drift, fall to shore,
some pregnant, some hungry,
all weak. On the beach
they show teeth, death’s
ghastly rictus, a grimace,
victims of some evil joke.
Those still alive emit
heart-wrenching sounds, a parody
of mating songs. No one knows why.

Like a tsunami, from earth’s
ruptured core, a wave rises,
and calm, order, peace, and purpose
are no more.

– Joseph Lisowski

editors note:

Jimmy’s falsetto, not a lullaby; but, a cetacean cry. Wake up or suffer sleep eternal. – mh

Annual Physical

by on April 21, 2015 :: 0 comments

You go to the doctor
at 21, no problems.
Maybe a flu shot.
That’s it.

You go to him
at 40, and you
need a pill or two
and he says
watch your weight.

You go to him
at 60, and you’re
now a fixer-upper.
You need more pills,
he says, and
watch your weight.

You go to him
at 70, and he finds
plumbing problems
and asks questions
to verify that all
your lights are on.
Doesn’t mention
your weight.

You go to him
at 80, and he says
you’re doing well,
all things considered,
but it wouldn’t hurt
to put your affairs
in order.

You tell him
you can’t remember
any affairs but he
can ask your wife.
She’s still raising hell
about someone
named Mildred,
if that was her name.

editors note:

Not a bad idea; a yearly check on the state of your affairs, memory withstanding. (Another mad missive from Donal on his page; creative cuisine served as comeuppance – check it out.) – mh


by on April 20, 2015 :: 0 comments

I am resting my head on the cold window of a night bus that is crawling its way through the wet streets of North London.

Pints of creamy dark Ale, talking shit with a drunk guy about why the Oscars are always wrong, eating spicy wings that are not spicy, talking to a voluptuous lady about a tattoo of a wizard she has on her shoulder, smoking a cigarette outside a dingy pub, playing a game of pool on a wonky table, drinking cold flat lager that tastes of rotten eggs, speaking to a stranger about who is going to win the champions league, putting a woman’s number into my phone knowing I will be deleting it later, complaining about the music that is playing, smoking another cigarette while crossing a busy street and finally talking to an old homeless man about his impressive beard.

The bus doors open and I am greeted with the sound of the howling wind. I get off and I am walking down a lonesome suburban street when I freeze, I see a fox looking at me from across the street. I wink at the fox and its mystic eyes just gaze back at me.

I then hiccup and I am left alone with only the sound of the wind for company.

editors note:

Encounters condensed as fog on a night bus window, or winked away in the mystic eye of a fox. – mh clay