Photo by: GARY INTRONE 

Poets of Issue Nine 

A. J. Huffman

Ace Boggess

Danny P. Barbare
Hem Raj Bastola

Holly Day

James G. Piatt

John Grey

Lee Evans

Michael Lee Johnson

Saloni Kaul

Tom Montag   

One poem by A. J. HUFFMAN

MOUNTAIN VISTA

Pine-crowned boulders,

blocks of gray and gold,

streaked white by winter’s hand,

melt into silver

showers. Broken and spitting,

they allow room

for two-horned sweaters

with hooves.

**

A.J. HUFFMAN has published twelve full-length poetry collections, thirteen solo poetry chapbooks and one joint poetry chapbook through various small presses. Her most recent releases, Degeneration (Pink Girl Ink), A Bizarre Burning of Bees (Transcendent Zero Press), and Familiar Illusions (Flutter Press) are now available from their respective publishers.  She is a five-time Pushcart Prize nominee, a two-time Best of Net nominee, and has published over 2500 poems in various national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, The Bookends Review, Bone Orchard, Corvus Review, EgoPHobia, and Kritya.  She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press.  www.kindofahurricanepress.com. 

One poem by ACE BOGGESS

'DO YOU SAVE FOR A RAINY DAY?'                                                                                               

                                   —advertisement

I work hard, pull in a little scratch, &

my laptop dabbles in seppuku,

leaps from a tall building,

overdoses on a googolplex of giga-biturates.

Some sort of protest, I think—against what,

I can’t say, too numb from isolation panic

of data loss & a bank statement

that reads like binary code for a closed door.

It happens often: money lands like a firefly in my palm,

then glitters off to someone else’s fairy tale.

What good is it trying to save

when already it rains over long grass & rooftops,

stacks of picnic paper plates,

the muddy mausoleum

where bodies of old raindrops rest?

I can’t even research statistics of loss

with computer in pieces down the road.

All I can do is run my hands

through the penny jar looking for a dime,

or collect quarters fallen

to the floorboards of my car

while telling myself it’s raining again,

it’s always raining somewhere in the world.

**

ACE BOGGESS is the author of two books of poetry: The Prisoners (Brick Road, 2014) and The Beautiful Girl Whose Wish Was Not Fulfilled (Highwire, 2003).  His writing has appeared in Harvard Review, Mid-American Review, RATTLE, River Styx, and many other journals. He lives in Charleston, West Virginia.

One poem by DANNY P. BARBARE

THE MIRROR 

Respect
is
a
lot
like
me

says
the
mirror

it
reflects

like
the
light
of
things.

**

DANNY P. BARBARE resides in the Upstate of the Carolinas. His poetry has appeared locally, nationally, and abroad. He lives in the Southern US.

One poem by HEM RAJ BASTOLA

WAITING FOR THE SUN 

Up in the hill
I climb before the sun
To catch the golden rays
I wait, and wait staring
Unnoticed it came.
Riding over the mountain
Climbing toward the sky
From a faint light
Into a dazzling ball
The earth receive
The heat.

I wait, and wait—
The same place,
Nothing is growing here
Nothing is showing here
Except the view.

Surreal sight
Force me to vocate
My words to give
A new life
Is coming
The sun is rising
To incubate
The embryo
Of the seed. 

**

HEM RAJ BASTOLA is currently working as a freelance local tour guide in and around Pokhara Valley, Nepal. He has worked as a Guest Service Agent at the Hotel Pokhara Grande, as a cave guide, inside the cave area for all tourists as well as office assistance in Guptshor Mahadev Cave, as a substitute representative for Sita Travels, as a freelance trekking guide for tourists to the surrounding Annapurna range and as a book salesman in Annapurna Stationary Center.

Hem also enjoys writing poetry, listening to music and collecting stamps.

Two poems by HOLLY DAY

AGAIN, UNDER THE SUN

flower bulbs and bright-colored beads

dead civilizations mark the path

crumble under our feet.

battered skyscrapers that loom like mausoleums

forgotten long before the end of the world.

take to the road. tilted blue street signs

sunlight glints through the hollowed-out eyes

we load up our post-apocalyptic fortunes

for headless mannequins wearing scant threads of fashions

streets built wide enough for ox-carts.

FIVE YEARS OLD IS TOO YOUNG TO SEE THIS WORD

I hear radio reports reporting, television shows broadcasting

school janitors with secret torture chambers

and I wonder how they can ask me

the trusted neighbor caught trafficking child pornography

children bringing weapons to school and I

papal heads arrested for raping boys, daycare providers hiding the dead

underground cannibal cults exposed by undercover agents exposing

drunk driving accidents involving dozens of dead

wonder when it’s safe to send him out the door, and to school

**

HOLLY DAY has taught writing classes at the Loft Literary Center in Minnesota, since 2000. Her published books include Music Theory for Dummies, Music Composition for Dummies, Guitar All-in-One for Dummies, Piano All-in-One for Dummies, Walking Twin Cities, Insider’s Guide to the Twin Cities, Nordeast Minneapolis: A History, and The Book Of, while her poetry has recently appeared in Oyez Review, SLAB, and Gargoyle. Her newest poetry book, Ugly Girl, just came out from Shoe Music Press.

Two poems by JAMES G. PIATT

THE LONE FROG

The lone frog outside my window
Croaks its somniferous song into
My dreaming ears; its guttural
Voice unfastens pleasant memories
In the locked caches in my mind.
How I love to hear that old frog’s
Jingle in the night as I coast
On soft clouds in my mind’s sky.


OH SOFT AND BALMY SPRING BREEZE


The breath of the renewing soul,
Send your tender healing presence
To cover my lonely heart’s gaping hole,
And dear garden’s soft and loamy bed,
Cover me with sweet aromas of roses
Pink, yellow, white, and red; and
Reaching to the sky above, so blue,
Are the beautiful Blue Bells, and Iris so true:
The geraniums maroon color is vivid, and bright,
The hue of the Berry Punch is glowing just right:

I see soft clouds climbing over the mountains afar,
The foothills below, yellow as the afternoon star,
Sweet melodies of song birds in the Sycamore trees,
The soft buzzing hum of the tenacious honeybees,
All give me a special calmness during this time, and
A newness begins in the pulse of a poet’s rhyme.

**

Dr. Piatt's poems have been nominated for Pushcart and Best of Web awards, and his poems were published in The 100 Best Poems of 2015 & 2014 Anthologies. He has published 2 poetry books “The Silent Pond” (2012), and “Ancient Rhythms,” (2014), and over 665 poems in over 90 different magazine, anthologies, and poetry books. His third poetry book is scheduled for release in January. His books are available on Amazon, and Barnes and Noble.

Two poems by JOHN GREY

ON THE DAWN HIKE

The path is steep

like morning scrambling over

the rocky bones of night.

Haze hisses from the hemlocks.

Pines plait the dawning pallor.

Antelope brush

like the hands of drowning men

waves from the ridges.

With deft footwork,

a scarlet tanager

leaps from branch to branch.

a twisting, seeping drop of blood

on a still-life canvas.

On every leaf and needle,

dew photographs the shards of sun.

The chill wind that flecks my skin

is soon usurped by a dark

underbrush warm.

In a small clearing, a bold shaft of light

partners with my face,

the nascent altar blooms of wildflowers.

This world's complete without me

And yet I'm in the frame.

                  

FROG CHORUS

So what is it a song of?

The rain stopping?

More wild-flowers breathless to bloom?

An added lushness to the grass

that trims their pond?

The dusk's laced with

plucked strings of frog throats

No other sound is so insistent.

Bird songs dither with their sense.

Animal noises waver between food and fear.

Only the amphibious chorus

is unrelenting in its tone, its volume.

So what is it a song of?

Rain or flower or grass?

The pleasure that perceives these things?

The duty that knows nothing but to tell?

**

JOHN GREY is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Perceptions and Sanskrit with work upcoming in Big Muddy Review, Gargoyle, Coal City Review and the Coe Review.

Two poems by LEE EVANS

AERIAL MANEUVERS
 
 
Two distended dragonflies
Bound to one another
Circumnavigate the sky.
 
She soars with abdomen bent
Like a beckoning finger;
He soars, hot for her scent—
 
Clutches at her throat and coils
His tail about her tail.
They writhe and they toil,
 
Wheeling, coupling in mid-air:
Veins of transparent wings
Pulsating with despair!

LIGHT YEARS AWAY
 
 
Who was that masked man?
Must have been the Lone Ranger,
Galloping through space
At the speed of light or Mind—
Maybe everyone or no one.
 
He reached critical mass
And the universe exploded:
A spectacular sight.
But there was a downside—
The night sky lost one more star.

**

LEE EVANS lives in Bath, Maine and has never fallen from a very great height.

One poem by MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON

GRAYING IN MY LIFE

Graying in

my life

growing old

like a stagnant

bucket of

rain water with moss

floating on top-

Oh, it’s not such

a bad deal,

except when

loneliness

catches you

chilled in the

middle of a sentence

by yourself-

ticking away

like an old grandfather clock,

hands stretched straight in the air

striking midnight

like a final

prayer.

**

MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era: now known as the Illinois poet, from Itasca, IL. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, photographer who experiments with poetography (blending poetry with photography), and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois, who has been published in more than 875 small press magazines in 27 countries. He edits 10 poetry sites. Michael is the author of The Lost American: "From Exile to Freedom", several chapbooks of poetry, including "From Which Place the Morning Rises" and "Challenge of Night and Day", and "Chicago Poems". He also has over 74 poetry videos on YouTube.

One poem by SALONI KAUL

ULTIMATE ULTERIORS UNDIVULGED

Our revolutionary dreams clamped on tight

By poised embossers hard at work

Lest they should slip into oblivion

Gain visibility and permanence

In salient relief on the decorative fore.

The stately curve carved by the westward steering sun

Clean clear as a chalcographer’s chart canvas scroll

Has with the fleet concurrence of the sky

Plotted each move, sketched each movement illustrious

In these ultimate ulteriors undivulged,

The stamping ground of the intelligentsia.                                                                       

Beguiling as a climb that culminates

Then in the comprehensive survey broad worldview,

Idyllic the seat on the belvedere

With all the approbations of the starry skies

And close collecting clouds for a crowd.

**

SALONI KAUL, author and poet, was first published at the age of ten and has been in print since. As critic and columnist Saloni has enjoyed thirty seven years of being published. Saloni Kaul's first volume, a fifty poem collection was published in the USA in 2009. Subsequent volumes include Universal One and Essentials All. Most recent Saloni Kaul poetic production has been published in Poetry Quarterly, Eye On Life Magazine, Tipton Poetry Journal, The Horrorzine, Poetry And Paint Anthology, Misty Mountain Review, Inwood Indiana and Mad Swirl. Upcoming publication acceptances include Sentinel Quarterly and The Voices Project.                                             

Three poems by TOM MONTAG

STORM ON THE SPANISH PEAKS

Sky wishing for ocean

a long way from home.

THE DARK NIGHT

The monk-poet lies down

into the stinging darkness.

He does not choose the silence.

The silence chooses him.

The monk-poet does not sleep

but falls to his emptiness.

This is enough for now

as the dark night burns

his light down to nubbin.

He does not choose to rise again.

His rising chooses him.

THIS POEM, A PAINTING

the oil not yet dried.

All the things we promise,

some of them are lies.

Birds somewhere; somewhere

blue sky. From here you hear

morning sound in the house.

Outside the light flatters

the streets, the trees, the grass.

A bit of ground fog hangs

in the damp air. When it

dissipates, something

substantial remains,

lovely, yet not quite

cured, not yet dried.

**

TOM MONTAG is most recently the author of In This Place: Selected Poems 1982-2013. He is a contributing writer at Verse-Virtual. In 2015 he was the featured poet at Atticus Review (April) and Contemporary American Voices (August) and at year's end received Pushcart Prize nominations from Provo Canyon Reviewand Blue Heron Review. Other poems will be found in a variety of small journals.