Schedule of Exposé Poetry

All Those Little Things — Joe Bruzzese

Gaucha Berlin Houses

Agnoiology

Art: Gaucha Berlin — “Houses”
By PETER BURZYNSKI

Speak, good poet, otherwise
the night will eat you alive.

Break the bonds of your own
importance. Import wisdom

for we have none here. I hear
myself sleep so unsoundly

and argue with unseen guests
in many languages. Most of them

I know. I break. I confess tabernacles
full of the rapturous dreaming ruptures

in between my seams. I’ve sewn
my pants back together. I’m ready

to keep wading through swamps
and streams. I am not conscious

of objections. I will not awake
for seven years. Tell me what will happen

when I become death’s dream kingdom.
I will be king again. Crown me.
__________________________

Peter Burzynski is a second-year PhD student in Creative Writing-Poetry at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. He holds a B.A. from the University of Wisconsin-Madison, a M.F.A. in Poetry from The New School University, and a M.A. in Polish Literature from Columbia University.

In between studies, he has worked as a Sous-Chef in New York City and Milwaukee. His poetry has appeared in The Best American Poetry Blog, Your Impossible Voice, the Unrorean, BORT Quarterly, Hobo Pancakes, The Great Lakes Review, Kritya, Bar None Group, Zombie Logic Review, and Fuck Poems Anthology. He has poems forthcoming from RHINO, Thrush Poetry Review, Prick of the Spindle, Souvenir Lit Journal, White Stag Journal, Yes Poetry, and Forklift Ohio.

.

dawn-lake p

Night Unfolding Ever Into Night

By ALEXANDER ASHLAND

Es
..tre
….ma
…..doyro—
is that how you said it when first you began
to notice it, when it first dawned on you
that physiognomy is now just
again becoming revolutionary?
Es
..tre
….ma
…..doyro—
is that how you said it when you first felt
her pelt-like skirt refuse that milk that we mistake for skin,
wondering how Duval had kept it in, staid so sane when
even da Vinci and Dalí dealt in multiplicity.
Es
..tre
….ma
…..doyro—
How impatient you do wait for night unfolding ever into night,
as if an interstice or caesura could shed some light as you do faces,
growing sick at how you will appear when once again
we sew you neatly up—
yo
..seré
….tar
…..de
esta noche.

_________________________________

Alexander Ashland is a native of Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and currently a PhD student at the University of Iowa.

Mary-Lee---Stylist

Three

Photo: The work of Mary Lee, Stylist

Poem By:
ROBERT WILSON

An alluring statue of
delicate flesh and
goddess allure
came to me through a
green haze one night
while I was grasping at
sharpened straws in the dark
and with her
three heads
with her
six arms
she kissed my every
scar and smothered the
chemicals that crawled down
my cheeks
Yet
I found myself
suffocating in that
green haze
and that is when she
opened my mouth
and into my lungs
she breathed
God itself

0-H_Link2-2-FP_Star
_________________________

Robert Wilson was born and raised in Morgantown, WV. His writings tend to veer towards the darker side of life that most other writers fear to tread and he uses surrealism and dark humor to convey his message. His influences include Marcel Proust, Charles Bukowski, Henry Rollins, and D. Harlan Wilson.

© Dale Collins -- "Forgotten Place"

Trinity

Painting: © Dale Collins — “Forgotten Place”

Poem by BOBBI S. RUDIN

Your mother longing stirs when Divinity’s inspired hand
emits an ethereal whirlwind. Its vapors coalescing
around you, form a tiny shadow of her face that impregnates
your mind, then seeps even deeper into your ready womb.

Your daughter gestates, births, curls in your hand, then leaves the picture,
separates, fading forward into a different scene, unseen.

You seem to know that you have limited control
over your daughter’s leaving because
you sit so patiently. It appears that
you never move from your silken-cushioned throne,

the presence of daughter always with you, although she is gone.
Your memory touches her fresh, fragrant rose-like skin and hair.
Is her separation their thorns that pierce your heart and hands?
No blood drips from the one that rests so serenely on your

blue-black skirt. You sit on your silken-cushioned throne
whose hues are like a ripening peach,

color of your daughter’s flesh unfolding, while her womb prepares
to drip blood on her young thighs, her mind opening to desire.

You seem to know you have limited control
over these changes. You sit so patiently.
It appears that you never move from your
silken-cushioned throne as your thoughts keep

forming and taking form, that ethereal whirlwind breathing
its vapors that endlessly arise from and draw back into

the ever present hand of Divinity.
______________________________________________

Bobbi Rudin is a poet, writer, and holistic health educator & coach.

“In my learning about and yearning for health, I came to realize many years ago that it does not happen without healthy soul expression (or what ZO calls a healthy relationship with our “affective” natures). My soul expresses through poetry and movement art.

Bobbi’s poetry and poetic writings have appeared in Muse: An International Journal of Poetry Volume 1, Number 2, December 2013, online and print copy version; between Pacifica Graduate Institute Literary Review Journal; a chaos of angels poetry anthology and Kali’s Kites Essays from the Mythological Imagination. She published her first book of poems, “Testament: A Poetic Journey Thru the Cycles of Life” in June of 2013.

Foxglove

17

By AIMEE SEU

I was twelve when someone told me foxgloves will kill you
if consumed, so I lay in the garden among the towers of pink
and black speckled blooms, shredding the velveteen of their flesh,
flaying the opaque flowers to press the petals to
my lips and then toss them aside. Daring myself
in the dappled light of their stiff stalks, my matted hair in the dirt.
The dusk would be beginning
to murmur unfamiliar things when the screen door opened and called
me in for dinner.

Five years later when someone told me
your name, I was consumed. I would steal away to lay
among your luminous blossoming body, the sleepy pollen of your
lungs, the rich poison oils wilting in your hair.
Long after dark, when nothing called me
in for dinner, I was hungry and
deemed it an honorable death.

______________________________

We found Aimee Seu’s work to be very compelling and she simply wrote her bio as: “I am twenty and from Philadelphia, PA.”

AUGUST 2014 | © Nad Wolinska -- New Beginning

AGAIN

Artwork: Nad Wolinska — “New Beginning”

Poem By: BRENDAN McCORMACK

It will begin again back then
And in the future it will
Begin again

And you will see
And then see again

And it will be over
And you will
Begin again

Somewhere else.

.
___________________
Brendan McCormack is an Irish poet living in Inchydoney, Co. Cork, Ireland. He has two collections of poetry ‘Selling Heaven’ and ‘Phuckle’ available through Amazon.

Eagle-owl 7

while camping in the canyon, I awoke to hear an owl cry, then saw its silhouette against the full moon

Who
(whowhowhowhowhowhowhowho)
are
(areareareareareareareareareareareare)
you
(youyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyou)
?

(??????????????????????????????????)

— John Reinhart
_________________________________

John Reinhart lives in the Weird, between now and never, collecting and protecting discarded treasures, and whistling combinations of every tune he knows. He is a one-time beginner yo-yo champion, a state fiddle and guitar champion, a high school English teacher, a tinkerer, and certifiable eccentric. His poetry has recently been published in The Vocabula Review, Black Heart Magazine, Poetry Nook Magazine, FishFood Magazine, Apeiron Review, Star*Line, 94 Creations Journal, Silver Blade, Grievous Angel, Interfictions, Songs of Eretz, and Liquid Imagination.

Tiger

At the Circus

By AIMEE SEU

The coats of the tigers were the hue of the flames of waking stars and slashed by the black of enclosing void. By chance all the cats noticed at once how alone the man in the ring with them was. How his hand shook to hold the whip. The audience stopped their cheering, stopped their vacant laughter, stopped until the tamer’s body was opened up and they could see it. No one left the tent or looked away until they knew for sure that there is fire and there is black also, on the inside of a man.

Ruby Door

DOUBLED OVER

Artwork: Ruby Door

Poem By: MARY ROWIN

I fold bread in half
Maps in quarters
My hands in my lap.

Birds fold wings
Nomads fold their tents
Morning Glories fold at noon.

I slip an origami note
Into my billfold.

Then I cut.

Cut the letter in bits
Tear the note in half
Rip my hands apart.

The bird shoots
From its perch
Before the day ends.

But under a canopy
I fold myself around
The thing I love most.

Artwork By: Ruby Door

 

Mary Rowin’s poems have been published in Verse Wisconsin, Stoneboat, Solitary Plover and the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets Calendar and Museletter. She won second prize in the 2013 Science Fiction Poetry Association contest. Mary’s work also appears in Echolocations, Poets Map Madison published in 2014 by Cowfeather Press. Mary blogs at www.poeticpossibilities.wordpress.com

Sandra Vandelli

ALL THAT I AM

Artwork: Sandra Vandelli — “Spirito”

Poem By: KATHERINE NORLAND

On satin comfort I contemplate
Who I was and who I am.
Removing falsehoods,
I hold them close…

What I imagine I will become.

Shrouded in silence
My smile belies.
You cannot guess my thoughts.
Which one of me will please you most?

Which face will I put forward?

In my mind I march toward you
One face in front of the other,
Timid, afraid, yet holding my own;
Hands prepared for what’s to come.

Can I expose myself to you,

Removing all facades?
You permeate my disguise;
All my personas crumble
Beneath your hungry gaze.

My true and naked self betrays;

I hold my breath and wait.
You caress my wanting face;
Your eyes drink deeply, thirsting for
All that I am,

All that I’m not.

© July 10, 2014 K. Norland
Katherine Norland is an actress in Los Angeles CA and author of “Poetic Prescriptions for Pesky Problems”

OROCHI -- Photo Copyright © 2008 - 2015 Hakkan Lye All rights reserved.

BEATINGS

Photo: “Orochi” by Hakkan Lye

Poem By: SANTOS VARGAS

Shhhh quiet they will hear you
Stifle your sobs
Take a deep breath
Settle your thoughts
Be strong the pain will pass
Courage, remember courage
Now clean your face
Wipe your nose and brush back your hair
Your pants are wet, change them
Fear does that to you
You didn’t die right
Survived another one
Did you see the rage in those eyes?
Must be more vigilant
Stay out of his way
This will happen again
Prepare yourself
There is another tomorrow
My image has spoken to me
Once more I rejoin them
____________________________

Santos was born in the Bronx and enjoys writing poetry and short stories. He has been published in the Literary Hatchet, Timepieces vol. 7, Latino Magazine first issue and other anthologies. His first book is called Ten years of feelings.

99 Beautiful Rest

ABOVE and BELOW

By: ARTHUR C. FORD

(Love of a Woman)

Six feet above you

spiritually lift me!

Release me down upon you,

Let me penetrate you

All the way through you

Absorbing all of you

Then,

I will eternally pine

for you

Six feet below you!!

Arthur C. Ford, Sr. was born and raised in New Orleans, LA. Acting in college, including a lead role in Ossie Davis’s “Purlie Victorious”, catapulted him to writing and presently publishing poetry. He received a B.S. from Southern University in New Orleans, has widely traveled in the U.S. (45 States), the country of India, and resided in Europe for two years (Belgium). He is published in many journals, magazines, etc. and presently lives in Pittsburgh, PA. Arthur can be reached at: wewuvpoetry@hotmail.com

00-Black Gown

THOUGHTS of GIDDY LOVE: FOR LUIS JOSÉ

By: MARY LOUISE EWING

.
Thoughts of giddy love
release
Youth
and Memory
as I quietly pose
in my black silk gown…
ever so proper
and
forever
so still.
.
________________________
.
“I am a little lady who lives in a little town on an incredibly beautiful little lake. I have been retired long enough to once again hear the birds sing and welcome the light of morning.” Mary Louise

Alexandra G "Moscow"

The LOVE-STRUCK HALLUCINATOR

Painting: “Moscow”
UK Artist, Alexandra G

Poem By: PAUL MURUFAS

I’m disoriented when I touch your face:
I searched for you so long,
travelling through mist and fog

you are still the same.
reclining in your luxuries
at these blasted lands
in the end of the world.

Like any pilgrim, I have changed
-a hallucinator, three-visioned like a drunk
your six cheeks
soft as snow
are lighter than ghosts
and I am grasping, grasping
ashen hand-fulls
of incinerated love for you

Paul Murufas is a writer and poet living in Long Beach, California. His first chapbook, _dystopian’s codependent syndrome_ was released by Mess Editions in Oakland earlier this year. His essays and poetry have appeared in Be Young and Shut Up, The Leaf Online, and Coalesce Poetry Magazine. He currently is a student of literature at Long Beach City College, and looks forward to continuing to refine his craft in poetry, prose, and journalism over the coming years.

Glowing Circle 2x

GLOBAL WELCOME | HOME | ART CONVERGENCE | POETRY | CREATIVE REGISTRY | GLOBAL MAP

“SPOKEN WORLD — the EVENT!”

ARTISTS | CONTRIBUTORS | MUSIC | POETS | WRITERS | ZO UNIVERSE

.

SCHEDULE OF POETS