Poetry #131

In this month’s issue we have poets (and at least one CIA agent) from far off places like The Eastern Republic of Florida, the Bay of the San Franciscans. Oh, and India.  All the poems herein taste salty.

Luis Rivas
Amber Bromer
Gloomy Poetry Editors that Edit Gloomy Poetry for Gloom Cupboard, which isn’t really that gloomy overall

by Vivekanand Jha 
Man, chief justice of animals,
To dictate stringent sentence
On their innocence
Punishment in all cases
And will be no less than death,
Only nature of death will differ
As per the belief
And religion of human beings.
In the name of religion,
Divide men themselves
Into different factions,
Scapegoat they their scriptures
For their own atrocious activities.
Even in sentencing slaughter
Some say we are kind
As we prefer to eat
The meat of those animals
Whose throats are
Chopped off in one go
Thus making their death
Only momentary painful.
Some say believe we in brutality
As we prefer to chew
The mutton of those animals
Whose throats are cut
Slowly and steadily
Thus arousing pain
And tantalizing them for death.
They take enjoyment
Of peculiar and bizarre
Song and music,
Emanating from the animals,
Gasping for death,
And thereby relish
Nibbling tallow and sucking the soup
Inside the shank of wholesome
And palatable flesh and bone.

BioVivekanand Jha is a poet and research scholar from Darbhanga, Bihar, India. He is Diploma in Electronics, Certificate in
Computer Hardware and Networking, MA in English, and is also doing Ph. D on the poetry of the noted Indian English poet Jayanta Mahapatra from Lalit Narayan Mithila University Darbhanga.

Babysitting My Older Brother
by Fallon Collins
Louie’s eyes meet like crows
scavenging over last night’s
burnt corn. I watch him
through the mirror,
towering popsicle
sticks into small  mobile homes
on the dining room table.
His feet are crossed
and he has forgotten
to tie his shoelaces.
When mother comes home
he will pretend to play the piano,
practicing the notes in silence
while she smokes a dozen
cigarettes. She has forgotten
his eager smile from the night before,
when he performed “Hallelujah”
for her birthday, pounding
each note as though she was
paying attention.

Bio: Fallon Collins lives outside of Jacksonville, Florida, and is currently a high school English teacher. She recently completed her second semester of study with Vermont College of Fine Art, where she is currently pursuing her MFA in poetry.

We Have Different Needs
A found poem from Cesar E. Chavez’s “The Mexican-American and the Church”
by Christopher Keller
When the strike started, the pressure built up was
Immense. The power of the body, tremendous;
But that is a poor excuse for needs which cannot
Be satisfied with baskets of food.
The place to begin is powerful by definition:
In a small way we have called to serve McDonald
In San Jose, Sacramento, Oakland, Los Angeles,
And the farm. 
                         It should be as natural and appealing
As grass. It behooves us to fight like hell; the pressure
Increases each day and hard workers grow tired. A lot
Of us were very suspicious, which cannot be ignored
By any movement. That only drives one to feel uncomfortable
And despair. Most of our friends forsook the powerful effect,
The terrible situation of farm and field. I don’t feel any such need.
I can get along.
                          The opposition raises a tremendous howl about this;
They don’t want us to have our food baskets. In a small way, we don’t
Ask for words. We ask for deeds. And for love. Finally, a matter
Of life or death, we ask for a nutshell. We have different needs.

Bio: Christopher Oie Keller earned his Master’s from Western Oregon University. A former Victoria’s Secret supervisor, he now guest teaches at Fir Ridge, an alternative school in Portland. His work has appeared in Gloom Cupboard, The Portland Alliance, The Northwest Passage, and Pointed Circle Magazine. He hopes you say hello to a stranger today.

January 28th
by James Babbs

I found this Time magazine
buried in a cardboard box
shoved into one of the corners
at the back of the garage
it was dated the 10th of February
showing the explosion of
the space shuttle on the cover and
there I was again
standing in my dorm room
watching the launch on TV
sitting there quietly on
the edge of my unmade bed and
I keep thinking about it
but can’t seem to recall
how I felt
at that exact moment
but I remember the crowd
that was there that day
watching the way the camera lingered
their disbelief
echoing across all of those faces and
I’ve come to understand
how they were transformed
in that single instant
from casual observers
into witnesses of history and
I remember
when my roommate returned
a few minutes later
how I asked him
if he’d heard what had happened and
when he shook his head no
I told him
but he just laughed
because he didn’t believe me
thinking it was just another
one of our sick jokes that
we played on each other
all the time
but after he sat down and
saw it on the TV
he knew
I wasn’t trying to be funny

Bio: James Babbs is not a real writer but he plays one on TV. He works for the government but doesn’t like to talk about it. He likes getting drunk and writing because both of them can be very intoxicating. James thinks poets should be treated more like rock stars and have swarms of beautiful groupies chasing them wherever they go. His books are available from www.xlibris.com, www.lulu.com & www.interiornoisepress.com.

by Vinodkumar Edachery

Don Quixote,
You live through
Myriads of births
Bask in the sunshine
Of immortality
Find fans
In hot youths
Staunch revolutionaries
Suicide bombs
Blind believers
Martyrs—all are you.
Your attack on windmill
Still thrill a lot
How awesome
Were your exploits
Still I can’t help
Telling one thing–
Always it is extremists
Your devout fans
Your spirit glows
In the zeal of terror.

Bio: Vinodkumar Edachery was born at Edachery, near Vatakara in Calicut district, Kerala, India. ALARM, ECLIPSE and FROGS IN THE WELL  are his poetry collections. He is presently working as an English Lecturer at RSM SNDP Yogam College, Koyilandy in Kerala, INDIA.

by Jeffrey Parker

The airplanes departed empty
into the clear blue overcast of the night sky,
lost on the verge of morning,
wandering like the forgotten messenger
       left to die.

The flowing white exhaust spreading into invisible
is a reminder of unwoven flags, abandoned,
the last recession of waves sealed in the distant container,
the cost beyond the last worthless paper,
its symbol bleached by endless sun
and the desertion of hands and wanting.

There were last bodies floating
in baths of heat where the dry soil cracked
like dead skin, last bodies
scratching with soft nails
the memories of their names.

Bio: Jeffrey Parker was born in Warrington, Pennsylania in 1975.  He received his Bachelor’s Degree in Chemical Engineering from Drexel University, and has worked in the chemical and semiconductor industries for the past 12 years.  Jeff currently lives in the San Francisco Bay area and has also spent extensive time in the suburbs of Philadelphia and in the Midwest town of Kokomo, Indiana.  One of his poems will be published in the Fall 2011 issue of The Midwest Quarterly, and his first volume of poetry, Downturns, is currently in search of a publisher.


Published by peace is illegal

I am a writer of pornography, of politics and murder.

2 thoughts on “Poetry #131

  1. Fallon,

    A chilling piece! But not walk-in freezer cold; that cold that you don’t realize because of the lack of wind until your pinky fingers go numb.

    and James,

    I don’t believe I was around yet to witness that, but your short lines are reminiscent of how a lot of us felt on another, more recent American tragedy. It’s nice when forms informs content, no?

    Glad I got a chance to read everyone’s work here!

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