Monthly Archives: April 2019

Extinction Easter, by Marc Woodward

I am not a silent poet

After this ’hottest Easter Monday’
I sit in my garden at night
hearing the roar of a motorbike
revving through the curves
way over on the coast road.
The noise shouldn’t carry this far
but tonight it stretches through the dry hills
drawn by the density of the air.
Rain is coming soon, I can feel it
in my nose, my ears, weighing on my skin.
The grass will suddenly remember,
the trees sit up and pay attention.
But now I’m sitting with a beer
and a chapbook of poems
sent to me by Stella in France.
Lovely as they are I can’t concentrate.
My shirt smells of old sweat,
the beer tastes like tin and her words
melt and run before my stale eyes.
Over the distant glow of town
a muffled helicopter churns
the gathering clouds like a milk whisk.
Thunder will burst this bubble tomorrow;

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Four poems by Dave Medd

I am not a silent poet


Draw me a laughing Word I can chuckle at.
Draw me a joke with halo and wings
I can cackle at. In your great witness,
draw me a holy guffaw from your boots
or the bile of my belly.

Draw me the rape of reverence. Draw me
a man with a beard, a cross and an ark
full of rainbows. Draw me pillars of good
intentions, columns of justice. Draw me
his engines of comic dominion.

Draw me a child whose head your pen
can explode like a diagram.
Draw me a Laugh
I can strap to my wheels like a butterfly.
Draw me a heretic smile whose punchline
squibs flame like Roman Candles.

Draw me a Laugh I can wear on my sleeve,
a Laugh I can crucify with ridiculous
nails. Draw me a Laugh
on the business end of a missile. Draw me
a landmine of obscene…

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Five poems by Alisa Velaj

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky


It’s so cold that breaths are freezing up,
pigeons are numb under roofs,                                                                                                          the mist o’er the snow mums in unbroken silence…

One bygone February, in Prague,
Hrabal had a vision of the most peaceful season,
while trying to feed the poor pigeons…
Then…cherubim simphonies blasted from heavens!

Hrabal     Hrabal     Hrabal                                                                                             …

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Wen da hurricane come, by Joe Balaz

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

Wen da hurricane come
you going look at yourself differently

and da image of wun ant
going be impressed in your head.

All da trees going be bald

along wit da shrubs
and da fruit trees too

so if you nevah share
wit neighbors or friends

da big wind going even tings out.

Wen da hurricane come
you going hope dat you no get hurt

cause all da stuff dat going be flying around

not going care if you live in wun nice house
or wun moa smaller one.

Da telephone poles and wires
going be wun tangled mess

and broken glass going be everywheah

as rooftops across da land
get peeled away in da stormy frenzy.

Wen da hurricane come
you going realize how fortunate you wuz

in da previous years of near misses
wen nutting wen hit.

Foa sure in da day aftah da disastah
you going be…

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Three poems by Jess White

I am not a silent poet

I listened to Halsey

I listened to Halsey’s speech at the women’s march.
I’ve played it at least a dozen times.
Thinking how every woman has a story just like hers, just like mine.

How I cannot think of a single woman who has; never been catcalled, never been touched by grubby hands.
I’m the biggest believer in equality, a daily advocate for all rights not just women’s rights.

Yet when I wake up after my drink was spiked, when I hold my best friend after she was raped walking home, when I read yet another story about a woman being assaulted, if feels like women have no value and no voice.
Like it really is a man’s world.

Every night I walk home with my keys in my hand.
My mum gave me my first rape alarm when I was twelve.
When the #metoo campaign began, so many women…

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Wen I Get to Heaven, by Joe Balaz

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

Wen I get to heaven

if I get to heaven

dey going give me
wun pair of wings.

Wen I have dem attached

I going soon find myself
in front of wun towering podium

wheah wun seraph
wit wun lawyer’s necktie

will begin to present
all of my devilish deeds.

On each reference

wun baldheaded cherub
smoking wun cigar

going come up behind me
and pluck out wun feather.

No doubt
wen my session is ovah

I’ll find myself

stuck on some isolated cloud
wit aerial nubs

watching everyone else
fly around in evahlasting bliss.

To make mattahs worse

even my harp strings
will be broken.

Wit such anticipated
good fortune

I would probably
be bettah off in hell

shooting craps
foa wun glass of watah.


Joe Balaz has created works in American English and Hawaiian Islands Pidgin (Hawai’i Creole English).
He presently lives in Cleveland, Ohio, and he…

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