Can you hear the sleighbells ring? By Keith Gorman

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. 

Keith Gorman is a retired Appalachian poet who resides with his two cats, Iggy and Ozzy, near the foothills of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park in Eastern Tennessee. He is a scholarship recipient and graduate of The Sherwood Conservatory of Music in Chicago, Illinois. Currently, he divides his time between writing and hiking the slopes. His poetry appears in various journals, including I-70 Review, Chiron Review, Slipstream, Broadriver Review, Delta Poetry Review, Salvation South, and Naugatuck River Review.

Broken Yet Whole By Lily Mae

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.

Lily Mae 

Is a northern Michigan poet and writer who's work can be read at Hello Poetry, Writers Café and also at Facebook under Lily Mae Poetry .

Grip By David R. DiSarro

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.

Last Night, Again By Heather Kays

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.

Past Life Regression By Doug Holder

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)

Co-President 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

Interrogated being__ By Merritt Waldon

Interrogated thoughts pop out

Becoming pop noise like

Vending and slot machines

Interrogated feelings flood

Out through pores hungry

For comfort jettisoned in a sea

If rage

Interrogated longings

Worship the idol of her eyes

Starry and penetrating

To the core

Of this interrogated being

Merritt Waldon is Southern Indiana poet who has been published in Road Dawgz, Sun Poetic Times,

The Brooklyn Rail, Be About It Zine, River Dog #1, Sparring with Beatnik Ghosts, Americans & others anthology fourth edition, Crisis Chronicles, Cajun Mutt Press, Thye Rye Whiskey Review, and Fearless!.

At midnight Christmas night 2020, cajun mutt press released Oracles from a Strange Fire by Ron Whitehead & Merritt. He lives in Austin, Indiana.

Same Shit By Gabriel Bates

I just got the news—

two of my family members

are back in jail. 

It's always been this way, 

ever since I can remember. 

I sit down on the couch

and stare at the bouquet

of flowers

in the middle

of my coffee table. 

A couple petals fall,

and I'm the only one

who notices.

Gabriel Bates is a poet living in Pittsburg, Kansas. His work has appeared in several publications, both online and in print. Keep up with him at facebook.com/gabrieljbates.