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I'm at the pool hall
and just finished prepping
for the inclement weather.
I’m reading some poems
while the bikers
hit on the barely legal bartender.
I got the last beer
from the keg
before it kicked.
It appears
I’m starting the year
getting lucky.
Jake St. John lives in the woods on the edge of the Salmon River. He is the author of several collections of poetry including Lips Leave Scars (with Jenn Knickerbocker, Whiskey City Press, 2023) Ring of Fog (Holy and Intoxicated Publications, 2022), Night Full of Diamonds (Whiskey City Press, 2021), and Lost City Highway (A Jabber Publication, 2019). He is the editor of Elephant and is considered an original member of the New London School of poetry. His poems have appeared in print and online journals around the world."
His current book, The 13th Round is published through Six Ft. Swells Press and is available everywhere please pick yourself up a copy today.
https://www.amazon.com/13th-Round-Jake-St-John/dp/B0F2KBGR8M
It’s time to hang the holly out. And because I
thought that I might sing and make this a cutesy
Christmas poem, I’d like to get a few things straight
before the holidays throttle us toward extinction:
No one’s helping to garnish the tree. As a matter of fact,
the heavy boxes in the basement must be hauled
up the stairs, step by narrow step, on a strong, steady
back. However, the stairs are steep, and loosening
tree limbs requires patience, not to mention
hanging all those glitzy reindeer and making damn sure
the lights all work; there are always a few bulbs
broken, loose, or in dire need of replacement, so I turn
to you and ask: If this Christmas Day is your very last,
and from this year on, the sleighbells will all be gone,
do you still have the balls to hang balls on a tree?
Let’s have a beer and start that conversation.
Shattering slowly, day by day,
becoming collateral damage
of a world that feeds on pain.
I lie a doormat on foundations
laid with vile words
spewed from the darkness
that hides behind the faces
of those who dare to say they love you.
Conniving, twisted souls
lost in their own mass destruction,
blowing counterfeit sunshine
up the proverbial asses
of the vulnerable,
the already broken.
Feed or die…
the self-imposed banner they wear.
Bloodied feet cross broken glass,
licked clean by forked tongues
as the shadow swells.
I saw you.
Believed in you.
Waited for the awakening.
The wait is over.
Delicacy pushed to the edge
should strike fear
in all who witness,
yet the blind remain in awe.
I rise slowly now,
a power unseen by the masses.
Retribution begins its quiet work
slow, methodical,
coiling the spine,
slicing ego
as decimation takes root.
Hunger for the death of illusion
ignites me.
One strike
sinking fangs tasting life force,
rage completes its circle.
The corpse is shoved aside.
I light one up in celebration,
glass shattered into a kaleidoscope of color.
Broken
yet whole.
A tiny hand clutching the cord
wrapped around a stillborn
sibling, the survivor’s grip
eventually pulling at pant legs
in the front parlor, or
pirouetting fingers into fists
for the school yard. His parents
spoke in ghost-quiet whispers
around him, soaked themselves
with whiskey, and sang sweet
obscenities to each other,
undercover, trying to conceive
of something they had lost.
David R. DiSarro is currently an Associate Professor of English at Endicott College in Beverly, MA. His work has previously appeared in Neologism Poetry Journal, Bending Genres, The Rome Review, The Hawaii Pacific Review, among others. David's first chapbook, I Used to Play in Bands, was published by Finishing Line Press. He currently lives on the North Shore of Massachusetts with his wife, Riley, five children, and two rambunctious dogs.
If I say it was the last time
enough times,
maybe one of them
will be true.
I swear I’ll put down the glass,
walk away from the edge,
stop chasing the fire
that burns me whole.
But the night calls with familiar voices,
a siren song of smoke and shadows,
and I’m drawn back
to the place I promised myself I’d leave.
Last night was the last night,
I told myself—
but the morning never listens.
And one night folds into the next
and into the next
and into oblivion.
Regret, shame, repeat.
Regret, shame, repeat.
Regret, shame, repeat.
I wonder if I will ever be clean.
I've stopped apologizing to myself...
Because I know without changed behavior
It's just pretty lies and lip service.
And here I am again,
in the wreckage of promises,
counting ash instead of stars,
waiting for the next last time.
Heather Kays is a St. Louis-based poet and author passionate about writing since age 7. Her memoir, Pieces of Us, dissects her mother’s struggles with alcoholism and addiction. Her YA novel, Lila’s Letters, focuses on healing through unsent letters. She runs The Alchemists, an online writing group, and enjoys discussing creativity and complex narratives.
Sorry to tell you
I wasn't a king
A prince
that kind of thing.
I didn't fall from grace
I had none in the first place.
I saw my head
In a hangman's noose
I dug latrines
In some ancient war
I was the groom of the stool
For many a holy fool.
I was a tosher
Looking for gold --
Redemption---
In a London sewer.
I ate the moldy bread
Off the chest
Of many a dead sinner
Yes....
That was
my dinner...
Doug Holder is on the board of the New England Poetry Club and teaches creative writing at Endicott College. His latest poetry collection is " I ain't gonna wait for Godot, no more" ( Wilderness House Press)
Ibbetson Street Press http://www.ibbetsonpress.com
Poet to Poet/Writer to Writer http://www.
Doug Holder CV http://www.dougholderresume.
Doug Holder's Columns in The Somerville Times
https://www.she flickers thru my mind a drive-in movie from 1975. remembering her voice like an am radio sweet soul music glowing in the dark. bare...
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