Where Do You Think You Are---1957? By Greg Clary

After ordering a Seven and 7,

Salisbury steak, and

salad with 1,000 Island dressing,

the waiter asked:

“Where do you think you are---1957?

Elvis shaking his tail,

Little Richard screaming, “I AM Tutti Frutti”

at white bucks poseur Pat Boone,

Ike smiling calm and steady,

Ginsberg Howling,

Rosa resisting,

Little Rock 9 integrating,

ducks tailing, bees hiving,

juke boxes kicking.

Sputnik beeping,

French bikinis teasing,

Hemingway hunting in the African sun,

Kerouc searching without a map,

Atlas shrugging,

Miles and Monk improvising

in smoky dim lit haze,

Marilyn smiling that diamond gleam,

televisions glowing

before Bird’s Eye dinners,

boundaries shifting,

coffee houses whispering

for poets to come with

rebellion in every napkin-written verse,

teenagers ignoring Cold War fears,

smoking Newports and

drinking warm Schlitz

at drive-in movies,

where romantic trysts unfolded.

Year of change.

Cultural spark.

Atomic Age legacy of

drifting souls with conflicted hearts

and coffee-stained fractured dreams.

Greg Clary is a retired college professor who was born and raised in Turkey Creek, West Virginia. He now resides in the northern Appalachia Pennsylvania Wilds.

His photographs have appeared in The Sun Magazine, Looking at Appalachia, Rattle, Hole in the Head Review, Pine Mt Sand & Gravel, Tiny Seed Journal, Watershed Journal, About Place, Change Seven, Appalachian Lit, and many more.

His writing has been published in Rye Whiskey Review, The Bridge Literary Journal, Northern Appalachia Review, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, Waccamaw Journal, Anti-Heroin Chic, Trailer Park Quarterly, Black Shamrock Magazine, Rust Belt Review, and Tobeco.

His new book of photographs and poetry, “The Vandalia in Me”, was published by Meraki Press and is available on-line at Amazon and Barnes & Noble. 

Coal Miners 1933 By Arvilla Fee

In a little blues bar 

in a little blue town

cigarette smoke 

encircled his head,

a most unangelic halo,

but he kept his eyes closed,

lips pressed to the reed

of that silver Selmer sax.

Its deep-throated notes 

hung like tinsel

in the too-warm air

just above the blackened heads

of those who guzzled away

the dust and grit

of another lungless day

beneath shrouded ground

where there is no sun

and canaries go to die.

Arvilla Fee lives in Dayton, Ohio and teaches English for Clark State College. She has published poetry, photography, and short stories in numerous presses, including North of Oxford, Rat’s Ass Review, Mudlark, and many others. Her poetry books, The Human Side, This is Life, and Mosaic: A Million Little Pieces are available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble. Arvilla loves writing, photography and traveling and never leaves home without a snack and water (just in case of an apocalypse). Arvilla’s favorite quote in the whole word is: "It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.” ~ Henry David Thoreau. To learn more, visit her website and check out her new poetry magazine: https://soulpoetry7.com/

Jimi Hendrix’s Girlfriend By Michael Minassian

I came upon an old photograph today— 

you were in front of an open door

of the house on West Linden Avenue

where we parted a few days after

returning from an afternoon

of picking through old vinyl albums

and paperback books at garage sales,

the day you bought the Pearl Jam poster

from the old lady with a red ribbon

tied in her hair who claimed 

she had once dated Jimi Hendrix

and gave you a free box of incense.

I don’t know why you wouldn’t 

look me in the eye 

as we left her house

when I said the best songs 

on albums were in the beginning,

and you muttered,

“Just like relationships,” 

then walked away.

The old lady patted my arm, leaned 

in close to my ear and whispered,

“Take a picture, honey, so you don’t forget.”

MICHAEL MINASSIAN lives with his wife in Southern New England. He is a Contributing Editor for Verse-Virtual, an online poetry journal. His poetry collections Time is Not a River, Morning Calm, and A Matter of Timing as well as a chapbook, Jack Pays a Visit, are all available on Amazon. For more information: https://michaelminassian.com

 

Post Marked Nowhere By John Patrick Robbins

I would find comfort in sharing my woes,

If only the card had a destination.

It lay worn within my pack, as my emotions lay bare on full display as I am locked within as usual.

I didn't need to see you, but my memories would not allow me that comfort, and the cold will not spare me from sleeping outside yet again tonight.

No matter the terrain, we are underneath the same skies, it seems.

I drifted slowly down the trail into another town to resupply and vanish as quickly as possible.

I kept the postcard with you in mind.

I haven't written a single line as this discomfort goes beyond the satisfaction of a locked door and a warm bed.

I yearned to embrace you, as I needed to feel something besides the cold and blank face stares.

Everyone is guessing at this shit at best.

I dropped the postcard in the garbage can.

Love never needs an address for it's bound for the landfill no matter our intentions.

My heart was heavy, as were my lines.

I miss you by default.

I lost a button on a worn-out jacket.

I lost my senses long before this occurrence.

You never need a card for I never left you within my mind.

John Patrick Robbins, is a Southern Gothic writer his work has appeared in Piker Press, Disturb The Universe, Horror Sleaze Trash, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Fearless Poetry Zine, The San Pedro River Rivew, Cold Rambler and the Dope Fiend Daily.

His work is often dark and always unfiltered.

one more cup of coffee for the road By Keith Pearson

the trombone man plays in monument park

for the early birds. his sunburst shirt

scares the little children.

the music blows the dew from the morning grass

while the gravedigger waits

across the lawn where he taps

his foot to the tune and patiently bides

his time.

keith pearson was born and raised in new hampshire and works at a local high school in the math department.

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.