IN YOUR DARKEST HOUR, THERE IS A LIGHT By Dennis Montano

the sad man sits at the
wood carved bar top
head sunk
slowly stirring bourbon
trying to dissolve a memory
as the bartender with kind eyes approaches

she pours a shot for him
this one is on the house she says

he looks up at her
red eyes like a stop light
a leaky faucet of a nose
as she walks away

he sinks the shot down
releases a loud sigh
drowning the buzz of neon above him
there is no crowd tonight
just the two

she sets the lights low as
the stranger pulls out a few coins
lays them on the bar top

play something for us
his voice tired, beaten

clink, clink sounds the quarters
followed by a mechanical oscillation
the needle hits the vinyl

Three Little Birds - Bob Marley

she gives a warm smile
and winks to the sad man
a glimmer of hope
as if to say

everything's going to be
alright.

Dennis Montano is a Los Angeles–area poet and author of The War Is Long. His poetry draws from everyday life, working-class experiences, bars, streets, relationships, and the people and moments that often go unnoticed. His writing favors direct language, dark humor, honesty, and observations of ordinary life.

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.