In Memoriam

Sunday, you’ll have been dead a week. I sit at the kitchen table, laptop open in front of me, doing what I think you’d be doing in my place, writing something. You were a poet, a real one, a soldier with a flower in his helmet. I’m hunting and pecking when I suddenly hear the tinkling of Tibetan prayer bells. Five seconds – 10 max – pass before I realize it’s the new ringtone on my phone. A prim female voice announces, “Unknown caller.” I always just assumed Death would have the surly demeanor of the lunch ladies in a school cafeteria.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's newest poetry collection, Frowny Face, a mix of his prose poems and collages, is now available from Redhawk Publications He co-edits the online journal UnLost, dedicated to found poetry.

Dead Flowers

I was still in my twenties. A woman at the bar grabbed my arm and asked for my help. But I also would have rather done the tying than be the one tied up. Faraway in time, my doctor was phoning me with the results of the biopsy. I had what he called “an oddball cancer.” Of course, I did. What other kind would a poet have? The woman, her back now to me, was singing along with the jukebox about all the lonely people, a small, crumpled sound like foul dead flower water at the bottom of a vase.From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's newest poetry collection, Heart-Shaped Hole, is available from Laughing Ronin Press. He co-edits the online journal UnLost, dedicated to found poetry.

Legacy

Every moment, Tom aspires to be like the stars in the sky, shining and bright. But laziness strikes over and it’s always a procrastination. But there are life changing moments, aren't there?

Tom’s life changed when Ann, a poet, entered his life. Their friendship made Tom reach heights--he became a novel writer cum dancer. Years went by with huge success until the tragedy hit their lives.

Tom passed away. Today Ann runs a cancer treatment hospital in his name. She started writing poetry, especially about diseases. Ann helped Tom, so now wasn’t it Tom’s turn to help Ann from above?

From Guest Contributor Jesna Maria Jose

In Which I Confront Name Regret

The sun was just a faint red ember in an ashen sky when I stepped onto the swaying boat. “A poet,” as Paul Celan observed before his second suicide attempt, “is a pirate.” I felt a kind of guilty freedom to be maneuvering the boat above the rush-hour streets. If only I had had a Jolly Roger! Behind the boat, I pulled a net that was soon full of strange new words for things. My pursuers cursed and cried and complained bitterly of fatigue and stress and vast distances. “Oh yeah?” I said. “Try going through life as a Howard.”From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of more than a dozen poetry collections, including most recently Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing).

The Jigsaw Man

He would have been handsome if it weren’t for the cheeks left pitted by adolescent acne. In what seemed an attempt to distract from the scars, he dressed with obvious expense. He also carried a small black satchel everywhere. There was talk that under another name he had once been a backstreet abortionist or a doctor in a concentration camp. When he died and the satchel was opened, it was found to contain a ski mask such as stickup men wear, a Florida orange, and a book of 105 poems, all of them about the death of the poet’s child.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's most recent poetry collection is Gunmetal Sky, available from Thirty West Publishing.

Reign Of Terror

When the reign of terror begins in earnest, a street corner poet with hollow cheeks and large feverish eyes will sit at the anchor desk delivering the news in a toothless mumble and then ignore increasingly frantic signals and pleas to go to commercial break and instead recite between pulls on a bottle a long, rambling, incendiary poem, his voice rising and falling like a medieval executioner’s double-sided axe, until all the baskets are filled with the heads of our namesakes and the only sound that is still worth heeding is the disputatious sound of the children’s orchestra tuning up.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's latest full-length poetry collection, Gun Metal Sky, is due in early 2021 from Thirty West Publishing.

Hurt

“We’re joined today by the great Cuban émigré slugger Robinson Falco Villegas, Jr.”

“Hola.”

“Robby, rather than talk about your recent injury, why don’t you tell us why you and your father were named after Jackie Robinson?”

“I wasn’t named after him. I was named after the great irascible poet, Robinson Jeffers. I learned English so I could read his poems.”

“I didn’t know that. Can you quote your favorite lines?”

“I’d prefer to paraphrase.”

“If it makes you more comfortable, go right ahead.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, go for it.”

“Were it not for penalties, you’d be dead now.”

From Guest Contributor Clyde Liffey

Dust To Dust

NATURE SUBMISSION:

The dust swirls through the late evening sun, catching the light just so. Growing up, people used to say the dust was your dead skin. A few of my more morbid friends even said it was the skin of dead people. Dust to dust after all.

I wonder if that's true. The poet in me wants to believe it is, that we're surrounded by our ancestors at all times, that their spirits live for eternity on the winds.

The claims adjuster in me turns back to my computer screen. Perhaps if I concentrated a bit more I'd be home already.

From Guest Contributor Angie Thrush

Failed Poet Theater

You stared out at our radiant world with an intense, even belligerent, expression. A ratty top hat, at least half a size too small, sat on your head at a treacherous angle. Your gaunt, wrinkled cheeks might have come from having lived on the street or being tortured in some foreign jail for political crimes, but didn’t. These were the years you renamed yourself, smoked a white clay pipe, worked in a carnival of night sweats and empty thought bubbles. Sometimes the stock market cratered. Other times you just wished we each could experience the irony of posthumous cult status.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of What It Is and How to Use It (2019) from Grey Book Press, among other poetry collections.

Requiem For The Unappreciated

“Did’ya hear blah died?” the barman had imparted, rather than asked, punctuation notwithstanding.

“Names don’t stay with me,” I’d admitted, and lifted my pint – eyes pointedly on the telly.

“Used to be regular – face all scarred.” Hint not taken.

I’d shrugged and adjusted my angle to him.

“You know him.” It was a slow day ­– the other customers had wisely chosen not to sit at the counter.

“Probably,” I’d ceded, thrusting my annoyance deep beneath a façade of affability.

It must have leaked, for the subject was dropped.

Two weeks later I noticed that an acclaimed local poet had died.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid