Wine diamonds By Julian Thumm

I laze in the lees,

wallow in the wine-diamond silt

That blooms in dregs

At the bottom

Of the bottle

Decanting denied, 

The nutrient earth -- 

blood & bone

& oyster shell --

is where i take root

& send forth

my tremulous tendrils

to bud up the neck

& reach towards

the faintest streak

of blear morning sun

Julian is a fledgling poet from Melbourne, Australia. He studied literature and professional writing and now works as a corporate shill, selling his corrupted pen to the highest bidder. His poetry is an attempt to make sense of a lifetime of bad choices. 

The Boxer and the Ringmaster By Dr. Michael Anthony Ingram

Young man, your clenched fists hard and ready, Yet, you are still too short to box with gods. So listen to me carefully, the true struggle ain't against gods in heaven, it's here in the dust. Life, sly ringmaster that he is, he takes the hardest jabs. He weaves in and out, a ghost dodging every blow. He'll promise you victory, then deliver a sucker punch of desolation. He'll urge you from ringside, but leave you to the hardest rounds by yourself.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         

Twenty-four hours a day, twelve rounds of sweat and will. Every morning a bell, every evening a final gong. The world delivers haymakers, left hooks of grief, uppercuts of loss. Your face swells with tears, knuckles pop under the blows. You taste your own blood, feel the canvas slap your back. Every breath a grunt, every scream a wailing, like the legendary "No Mas!" that great sportscaster Howard Cosell bestowed upon boxer Roberto Duran, "No Mas!" I too wept, "No Mas!"

                                                                                                                       

You don't wear fancy gloves to absorb the blow, only knuckles rough as the storm. You choke on your fear, spit out desperation, but employ the spark of your own will to ignite your fire. Yet where is your cornerman, that cunning Life who lured you into this ring?

He's ridden with you into the wars, won the fights, calmed your wounds for losses. He was your boy, the fighter who fought your fights, spurred your spirit. Yet now the darkness closes and the arena bell screams, and he's gone. Only the wind-whispered apology, "No time to train, son, gotta get you to the next bout."

Here, you dance alone, with each new dawn, a new test. You are pushed into the ring by a world of unknowns, a whirlpool of chaos, to test how much you can withstand. Don't you remember the "harder, quicker, stronger" that Life used to whisper? They were commands, not taunts.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

Then battle, son, battle like the sun blasts forth in dawn, relentless and fierce. Life will be an unpredictable ringmaster, but you, you are the victor in your own ring. Every fall, every bruise, a badge of pride. With every sunrise, you rise again, battered but unbroken. For in this battle, the only enemy you ever conquer is yourself.

And one day, when the final bell tolls, you'll step out of the ring, battered but not conquered, head held high. And Life, that old thief, may even wink at you and say, "Not bad, son. Not bad at all."

Dr. Michael Anthony Ingram is the host and producer of the internationally recognized poetry podcast Quintessential Poetry: Online Radio, YouTube and Zoom. Through his work as a retired associate professor of Counselor Education and Supervision and as a noted poet and spoken word artist, Dr. Ingram also leverages the arts, especially poetry, to bring attention to the effects of power, privilege, and oppression in our society. He is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and his second poetry collection, Metaphorically Screaming, is eagerly anticipated. For more information about Dr. Ingram or the podcast, visit https://www.qporytz.

A New Deputy in Town By Jim Harrington

 

“Hey, Morgan.” He jumped at the sound of my voice. “Is that a real badge?”

Morgan hoisted himself off the stool, stood at attention and snapped a salute. I struggled to keep a straight face. The missing button on his flannel shirt, the glass of beer in his left hand and the Boy Scout salute didn’t exactly shout Deputy Morgan to the rescue.

 “That’s a ten-four, good buddy. The sheriff swore me in this morning. Good thing, too. Annie was threatening to have me arrested for loitering on the couch.” He took a sip of his beer. “It’s not my fault my job got outhoused to Asia.”

“Outsourced,” I said. I saw the empty look on Morgan’s face. “You mean your job was outsourced to Asia.”

“Whatever,” he said with a wave. “My job still went in the crapper.”

Morgan got back on the stool, finished his beer and signaled to Ernie for another. I waggled a finger, and Ernie poured me one, too.

“What happened to Jake?”

“Sheriff fired him for drinking on duty.”

I scratched a phantom itch on my wrist and glanced at my watch: four fifty-five. Close enough to quitting time for Morgan, I guess.

“You know something, Abe? I like the way this badge looks on me. I think I’m going to run for sheriff in the next election.”

I choked on my beer and couldn’t stop coughing. Morgan slid off his stool, knocking it over, slapped me on the back a couple of times and told me to hold my hands over my head.

“Thanks,” I said. I grabbed a napkin and wiped my eyes.

“No problem, Abe.” He picked up the stool and climbed back on. “It’s all part of being a deputy. You need to be ready to handle any situation that comes up.”

“Arrest anyone yet?”

Morgan sat at attention and said, “We are not aware of any perpetrators who have perpetrated a perpetration at this time.”

“Wow. Very official sounding there, deputy. You should be the spokesman for the department.”

“The sheriff mentioned part of my duties might include being the press lesson.”

I watched a fly wade through a puddle on the bar and let Morgan’s comment sink in.

“Oh, you mean liaison.”

Morgan’s head swiveled on a non-existent neck, and he gave me one of his what-did-you-think-I-said looks.

“Well, I think you’ll make a fine press lesson.” Anything would be an improvement over the sheriff’s vocabulary, which consisted of variations on a grunt. “So, you think you might run for sheriff.”

“Yep. Sheriff Riley ain’t going to do anything this year. Well, he’ll arrest someone if enough people complain. And if they complain he’s arresting too many people, he’ll stop. You know how they politicians are in election season.”

“I can see where that might upset a few people, especially all those malcontents, like the mayor and the city council.”

“Exactly,” Morgan said, pounding his fist on the bar.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll make a fine sheriff.” I raised my glass in a salute.

“Better than fine. I’m going to be the best damn sheriff this town’s ever had.”

I clinked his glass with mine and finally let my smile out of its dungeon. I planned on voting for Morgan. Heck, anyone would be better than the current sheriff.

Jim Harrington lives in Huntersville, NC, with his wife and two dogs. His stories have appeared in Short-Story.me, Ariel Chart, CommuterLit, Fewer Than 500, and others. More of his works can be found at https://jpharrington.blogspot.com. His series of editor interviews can be found at https://sixquestionsfor.blogspot.com.

Boring Chapter By Dan Provost

That blues

song you

forgot the words

too…Thirteen

beers into a Dive

Bar drunk—

All you remember is

that the lead guitarist

played the strings with a peso.

 

You mention this to nobody, as all

the fact finders have left to find their

own truths & the bartender is deep

into page six of the sports section.

Dan Provost’s poetry has been published both online and in print since 1993. He is the author of 17 books/chapbooks, including All in a Pretty Little Row, released by Roadside Press, in November 2023. Notes From the Other Side of the Bed will be published by A Thin Slice of Anxiety Press in early 2025. His work has been nominated for The Best of the Net three times and has read his poetry throughout the United States. He lives in Keene, New Hampshire with his wife Laura, and dog Bella.

 

Sunshine Daydream By PW Covington

(LIVE Collaboration with the Grateful Dead tribute band ‘The Deal’)

Songs about those

Golden shore

Troubadours

Return on trumpet bells

Shining seashells

Splendid flying serpents

Miscreants

Galactic streaming

Always missing

Missing

Spirit practice

Trance and cactus

On the Mother Road

All time has taught us

To be here tonight

Mountain sitting

Pickup truck winter

Swinging through San Berdoo

Rewind past to present

Present here, a gift

Dancing

As the walls come down

In Lobotown

Don’t you let

That deal go down

Wise women washed 

In New Mexican grooves

In all right 

Red light tonight

The magic swimming

The magic 

Spinning 

Soundtrack set to 

77

Degrees of integration

Among the alchemists

And warlocks, I write

Those golden shores

As lions roar

Esteemed and dipped in poetry

Returned, for all to be

In turquoise 

Mountain mystery

From the once and final glory

Eclipsing

Poems and little lights alit

Light up and share 

Life’s love and testament

Brilliant, beauty

Beauty

Beauty be

(Written and performed at the Lobo Theater, Abq, NM, Feb 26, 2023)

PW Covington is the NBPF's 2024-2026 New Mexico Beat Poet Laureate.

 Writing in the Beat tradition of the North American Highway, PW Covington has spent decades traveling in support of his writing, and encouraging the creativity of others.

 Covington's latest collection of poetry Vintage Denim is available from Alien Buddha Press.

  PW lives just south of Historic Route 66 in Albuquerque, NM, where he has worked on film and television productions such as Better Call Saul and The Cleaning Lady.

Beer Nuts By Bruce Morton

Salty by design. They are

Free, set out on, or at, the bar.

Intended to make you thirsty--

To keep you thirsty, to desire

To have another sip, one more pull.

Their crunch and grit punctuate,

Add substance to the stream

Of sad and bad--stories and jokes.

You cannot help reach and munch

When you lean forward on the rail

To support the weight of your day

And whatever it is you rail about.

Their natural oil lubricates your point.

You point, asking for another refill.

Bruce Morton divides his time between Montana and Arizona. He is the author of two poetry collections: Planet Mort (2024) and Simple Arithmetic & Other Artifices (2014). His poems have appeared in numerous online and print venues. He was formerly dean at the Montana State University library.

Crazy Train By Shannon O’Connor

I found myself on a crazy train –

I was surrounded on all sides by insane people,

one guy having a convo by himself, arguing about the contents

of his bag, scratching his arms and legs,

another asleep

with a blanket spread across four seats,

Two people talking about how much they loved drugs,

All during rush hour

How did I get on this crazy train?

Was it payback from when I used to drive that train?

The time I ran through Park Street Station screaming

for the Taco Bell on the moon, jumping and shrieking

because I believed God spoke to me?

Or the times I would wear a hat inside out,

talking to my imaginary friends,

until I got to my stop, and pretended I was sane?

I looked up Crazy Train

I knew it had to be a thing

It’s a song by Ozzy Osbourne

I was never a fan, not into metal,

but I knew the song,

from deep inside my psyche,

I lived on the Crazy Train

All those people that day,

They surrounded me,

All nuts like I used to be,

I wanted to yell at them to go to the doctor and get their meds,

I know it’s not easy,

But for the Grace of God, I have a job

with health insurance that allows me

medication

I work in Psychiatry –

but if I didn’t, I would be just another passenger

on the Crazy Train,

another lunatic

with no brain,

not anymore, not me,

last stop, get off the Train,

go home, take my pills, go to sleep,

dreaming of mountains and trees,

and a broken-down Orange Line,

call an Uber it’s faster, I’ll be alone,

sane,

instead of on the Crazy Train

surrounded

by people who are the way

I used to be.

Shannon O'Connor has an MFA in Writing and Literature from Bennington College. She has been published in Oddball Magazine, Wordgathering, 365 Tomorrows, and others. She is the chairperson of the Boston Chapter of the National Writers Union. She lives in the Boston area, and writes around working remotely.