Late Night Talk Radio: 1960s By Doug Holder

Back in the day
there was always
a snake oil salesman
in my boyhood bedroom.


A ham-fisted
fire and brimstone
preacher
condemning me to hell
before offering me redemption.


Some denizens of the radio night
bragged about being raped by Martians
pleasured with green tendrils
shriveled otherworldly shanks.


Some insisted
that they wanted
to make the state of Georgia
a country--
the midnight train
now demanding passports.


There was always an
elixir that can fix you
a pill
a pot boiler book
some all-encompassing balm
that would fit
right in your
palm.















Image by Brian Harkins



Doug Holder resides in Revere, Beach, Mass.—a coastal city—where he walks the beach, writes poetry, and comes home to his loyal cat klezmer....

Board of Directors of the New England Poetry Club

Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene http://dougholder.blogspot.com

Ibbetson Street Press http://www.ibbetsonpress.com


Poet to Poet/Writer to Writer http://www.poettopoetwritertowriter.blogspot.com


Doug Holder CV http://www.dougholderresume.blogspot.com


Doug Holder's Columns in The Somerville Times

https://www.thesomervilletimes.com/?s=%22Doug+Holder%22&x=0&y=0

Doug Holder's collection at the Internet Archive https://archive.org/details/@dougholder

Once You Loved Me By Susan Isla Tepper

See— it’s written on the wall

with my blood.  

A bucket full

(I'm so ashamed)

collected over these months.

You sent me here 

to clean up my act,

this foul place.  

Now I have been ordered to

wash those words clean. 

Clean— Clean—

 all I ever hear.

You great keeper of the flame

clean these damn floors

and while you’re at it 

the mold growing

under the sink where

the pipe curves—

that wall.

Then talk to me about my wall.

It's not your wall 

for that matter not your blood  

Why can’t I keep it as a memento.

Susan Isla Tepper is a a twenty year writer and author of 13 published books of fiction and poetry. Her latest new release GIRL UPSIDE DOWN is a Novella published by Wilderness House Press. www.susantepper.com

The Pit By Robert L. Penick

Melville dropped into the Whirlaway Lounge one evening after work, not quite ready to confront the quiet of his home. It was an odd move; usually he slid into a coffeehouse next to the university.  This day he needed different stimuli.

When he pulled the door open, he knew he had made the right choice. The place was dark and nearly deserted. Two old men excitedly whispered across a corner table. Strange place to engage in intrigue. Taking a seat at the bar, he looked at himself in the mirror for a moment. In a bit, the bartender disengaged himself from a conversation with a hunched figure at the other end.  

 “The pit, Lenny. I was in the fucking pit,”the figure called after him. “I know, Frank,” he called back, then greeted Melville, who ordered an imported draft he recognized from TV commercials.

 “I was in the Goddamned pit,” the man repeated.  

Melville passed a couple of quiet hours in the dark, sipping beer and letting his mind unhook from the demands life was making from him. The grumbling continued from the other end of the bar, breaking occasionally like thunder, followed by the barman’s gentle reassurance. More patrons trickled in, each looking beaten down in a different way. When a guy in a John Deere cap fired up the jukebox, the “Goddamned pit” man pushed away from the bar and pinballed his way out the door, hitting every table he passed.  

“What was his deal?” Melville asked the barman.

 “Some kid fell into the gorilla pit at the zoo. Frank jumped in and protected him until staff got them out.” 

     “Good Lord! When did that happen?”

     “About twenty years ago.”

     “And he’s still upset?”

 The bartender looked at him like he was a fool.

“He was in the pit, man. That’s not something you get over.”

In addition to The Rye Whiskey Review, the poetry and prose of Robert L. Penick have appeared in well over 200 different literary journals, including The Hudson Review, North American Review, Plainsongs, and Oxford Magazine. The Art of Mercy: New and Selected Poems is now available from Hohm Press, and more of his work can be found at theartofmercy.net

For the Watchful By John Swain

Sister drink your wine

with milk

in the vineyard

on the table

of the stone hill.

We taste black grapes

made sweet 

with summer amethyst

in the summer dark.

You span the height,

you burn a likeness

of the new moon

at the harvest

for the watchful.

John Swain lives in Le Perreux sur Marne, France.  He has published two collections of poetry, Ring the Sycamore Sky and Under the Mountain Born.

Escondido By Barry Basden

Saturday mornings she drives

down the coast to Andre’s.

He talks her into highlights then

slowly turns her blond.

She likes how his cut makes her feel sexy.

She drives the brown hills for hours,

running through the gears,

pushing the little roadster

through the curves.

Near Escondido,

she parks in front of a cantina.

Chalupas and squash gorditas

with guac and salsa picante.

Rosie and the Screamers

and a stuffed horse in the bar.

Wine margaritas and pitchers of beer.

Giddyup.

She wakes in a small room,

a stranger beside her,

a foul taste in her mouth.

Barry Basden lives with Bean, his little rescue terrier, in the Texas hill country where, among other things, he drinks good wine and occasionally writes.

An Evening of Blues By Wayne Hebb

 The lead guitar

Picks out the 

Slow blues from

The jukebox as

He sits in the 

Corner cuddled by

Shadows

His weathered hands

Holding whiskey

In a dirty glass

Sighing he touches the

Wrinkles on his cheek

Left by years of smoking

Cigarettes and cheap cigars

His hair cast

Across his forehead 

In a sorry attempt 

To hide his 

Baldness and a

Crumpled leather

Jacket hid a

Crumpled frame

Taking another sip 

He lets the whiskey and

The lonely music 

Ease his tortured 

soul

Wayne Hebb is a retired RCMP officer living in St. John’s, NL, Canada with his wife of 50 years. He enjoys writing poetry, short stories, creative nonfiction, and novels.  Several of his poems have been published in Verse-Virtual, The Dark Poets Society, The Horseshoe Literary Magazine and The Galway Review.  

Whiskey from the Bottle By Brenton Booth

None of us

had fathers

living in our

homes. The

only men

that were ever

there spent

the majority

of the time in

our mothers

bedrooms.

We rode

skateboards

and pushbikes

and listened

to the heaviest

imaginable

metal with

long unkept

hair. Smoking

grass and

drinking

whiskey almost

every day.

Sean's uncle

owned the

corner liquor

store and 

sold us any

alcohol we

wanted.

When we

didn't have

enough money,

Dave would

steal it from

the busy

chain liquor

outlet by

the highway.

He'd go in

there with a

loose shirt

and trousers

and come

out with several

large bottles

of top shelf

whiskey every

single time. It

was amazing.

He was the

only one of 

us that could

do it without

getting caught.

We all played

instruments

for unknown

bands. Not

dreaming of

fame or 

success: only

escape from

our small

backwards 

suburb, and

to not turn

out like our

mothers

or their

boyfriends.

Doing 

everything

we could

not to be

like our

mothers or

their

boyfriends.

Squandering

our entire

teenage

years on

this. Never

realising, 

they had 

once done

exactly the 

same.

Brenton Booth lives in Sydney, Australia. Poetry of his has appeared in Gargoyle, New York Quarterly, North Dakota Quarterly, Chiron Review, Main Street Rag, Naugatuck River Review, Heavy Feather Review, and Nerve Cowboy. He has two full length collections available from Epic Rites Press.