Bruce E. Whitacre | The Foldout Couch

 

Jesalah Love Art Neon Sign
After Keith Haring

The Foldout Couch

 

His force thumps the entire divan

against the renter-white wall,

adding to the small dents.

These are the good years.

Galaxies revolve like the club door, powered

by magnetism and mystery.

Tossing cushions is foreplay,

though sometimes here the fizz goes flat.

A bicep in the red lava light,

an ass in the veil of blue smoke, its globes

green glitter-strewn and sweating. Heaving

planets and stars call

to the white light between the eyes,

the fire in the throat

as you take all he’s got.

The collapse, the caress, the clip

of the spring through the mattress.

Another notch in the floor.

Counting down the security deposit.

 

Previously published in RFD, Issue 190, Summer 2022, pp 55-57, with other poems from Whitacre’s forthcoming Good Housekeeping.

 

_____________________________

Bruce E. Whitacre’s recent publications include his debut poetry collection, The Elk in the Glade: The World of Pioneer and Painter Jennie Hicks (Crown Rock Media, 2022); Sky Island Journal; Poetry X Hunger; Dear Booze; Diane Lockward’s third volume on craft, The Strategic Poet; and the 2022 anthology I Want to Be Loved by You: Poems on Marilyn Monroe. Work here was nominated for Sundress Publications’ 2020 Best of the Net Anthology and the 2024 Pushcart Prize. A featured poetry reader at the Forest Hills Public Library, he has read his work at Poets House, the Zen Mountain Monastery Buddhist Poetry Festival, Kew Willow Books, Lunar Walk, and other venues. He holds an MFA in Dramatic Writing from NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts and has completed master workshops with Jericho Brown, Alex Dimitrov, Rowan Ricardo Phillips, and Mark Wunderlich. Bruce is a native of Nebraska and lives in Forest Hills, Queens, with his husband.

Susan Justiniano | Raspberry Kisses

 

 

 

Your kisses taste of raspberry

Tiny chills along lips swollen and red

slide down my throat

melt each nerve as they pass into me

 

the sexy — the want — I feel

hidden beneath lashes against flushed cheeks

pulse skips as your lips travel along my neck

 

our fingers slide

search to touch places

that make the sun jealous

 

threads of our clothes — prison bars! —

struggle to find escape

from liberated sensations

too inebriated to have names

 

sleeve pushed from shoulder

buttons undone by a nimble touch

raspberry kisses color of fire

brand bare flesh

 

hints of the enduring myth of heaven

paradise in your arms

give me rapture with each kiss

absorbed into layers

 

silhouettes dance under cotton covers

spread out on heated current

friction of flesh against flesh

 

our mouths explore one another

discovering delicacies uncommon to mortal man

 

there — that taste —

raspberry

tart

sweet

juicy

 

Elixir easily coaxed

Cherished fruit

To bear fruit

O wondrous raspberry kisses!

 

 

_____________________________

Susan Justiniano aka RescuePoetix is the first Puerto Rican and the first woman to serve as Poet Laureate of Jersey City, New Jersey. She is a self-taught, bilingual poet with a deep love for knowledge, music, coffee, food, dogs, and the color red (not always in that order). Words are embedded in her life. Her passion for them started at age nine with a dictionary, notebook, and the latest paperback she could get her hands on. Like a bad penny, you can find her everywhere: https://linktr.ee/rescuepoetix.

Carrie Magness Radna | The Thin Red Line

The Thin Red Line

 

 

You searched for oceans

while we lived in the desert.

The strawberries, now,

freeze-dried in my mouth.

 

The southern tip of the sun

glows beet red.

I saw that abnormality,

on a red-eye flight, alone.

 

Should I leave an apology

after the tone?

Red lipstick stains on coffee cups;

What else did I do wrong?

 

Did we go too far?

All I have left

are a few good pics,

of us, on my phone —

 

All I want is to fall

apart in your arms,

but you rode away

in your red Jaguar.

 

& I never saw

the thin red line,

that breakup line,

until it was too late.

__________________________________

Carrie Magness Radna is an audiovisual cataloger at New York Public Library, a choral singer and a poet who loves traveling. Her poems have previously appeared in The Oracular Tree, Mediterranean Poetry, Muddy River Poetry Review, Poetry Super Highway, Walt’s Corner, Polarity eMagazine, The Poetic Bond and First Literary Review-East. Her latest poetry collection, In the blue hour (Nirala Publications), was released in February 2021. Hurricanes never apologize (Luchador Press) was published in December 2019. Born in Norman, Oklahoma, Carrie lives with her husband in Manhattan.

Carrie Magness Radna | Studded Orange

Studded Orange

Why did ya pick dis man?
people used to ask me;
they thought I was still in play,

that his love & kindness
wasn’t enough —

but his skin,
on a good day,
smelled like an orange
studded with cloves

before the muddled wine
& cinnamon Red Hots
were added
to our winter-friendly
romantic recipe.


__________________________________

Carrie Magness Radna is an audiovisual cataloger at New York Public Library, a choral singer and a poet who loves traveling. Her poems have previously appeared in The Oracular Tree, Mediterranean Poetry, Muddy River Poetry Review, Poetry Super Highway, Walt’s Corner, Polarity eMagazine, The Poetic Bond and First Literary Review-East. Her latest poetry collection, Hurricanes never apologize (Luchador Press), was published in December 2019. In the blue hour (Nirala Publications) is expected to be released early 2021. Born in Norman, Oklahoma, Carrie lives with her husband in Manhattan.

Megha Sood | The Season of Fall

The Season of Fall

Warmth of a hug
Closeness under a blanket
Fingers warming to a cup of coffee
Calmness of listening to him
Endlessly

Falling leaves of the orange-tinged fall
Brings back all the warmth
Intertwining of fingers
Till the palms start sweating

Sharing earbuds 
Swaying to the same rhythm
Heart singing the same beat
The twinkle in your eyes

Fleeting smile on your face
Spoken words;
And unspoken vows

Tis the season
Each falling leaf is a bookmark
In the book of memories
This is the season,
The season of fall.



__________________________________

Megha Sood lives in Jersey City, New Jersey, USA. She is Assistant Poetry Editor for the UK-based feminist zine MookyChick and is one of the editors of The Kali Project, an anthology of art and poetry by women of Indian heritage, to be published by CrossTree Press. Megha’s recent publication credits include several print anthologies, among them Adelaide Literary Award Poetry Anthology 2019 (Adelaine Books, 2020), Fallow Ground (Inwood Press, 2020), and She Speaks (Sierra Club Books, 2020), as well as Life in Quarantine: Witnessing Global Pandemic, a digital initiative of Stanford University.

Isabelle Lorion | Yellow Mood

 Thammapa Supamas’s Yellow Cat

Yellow Mood

A yellow cat is miaowing
He’s calling for the love of the stars
His yellow eyes are glimmering
Among the shadows of the night
He’s jumping in a meadow of daffodils
His growl turns into a song
You might hear him during hot summer nights
And never forget
Yellow is the color of the sun
When I rise in the morning
Yellow is the color of my mind
When I wonder
How do I fight
For my rights
He passes at the end of the streets
With a hat of melancholy
On his head
And a coat of solitude
He holds tight
Against his pale chest.
She gratifies him with a yellow smile
When he leaves her behind
The cat opens his maw
And yawns
He puts his paw on her cheek
And gently caresses it
To console her
For the loss of her lover
She holds him tight
In the silk of the night
And rocks his dreams
Singing softly an old lullaby
For yesterday and tomorrow
The young man dozes in the tenderness of her love
She borrows a yellow fish
At the market of miracles
And lets it swim
In the hollow of their secret garden
A young fellow is sleeping
In a rocking chair made of purple willow
His mouth is open
And his dreams are chaotic
His flesh is trembling
With the variation of his thought
And the weeping willow wobbles
Over his scared shaking face
When he opens his eyes
He draws a sad smile
On the yellow sand
Of the remote beach
And the light of the sun
Plays through the yellow foliage of the fall
After they’ve gone
Only yellow memories
Mark the places
Where they once loved each other
Mellow yellow memories
Melt in the shallows of lost hopes
He follows her again
And howls his sorrow
Through the window of the past
For yesterday and for tomorrow
He sews her a dress
With the golden thread of his love
She wears it
And she dances
In the shadows of the night
A yellow cat is miaowing
In the heart of the night
They borrow the marrow of happiness
For yesterday and for tomorrow
To follow the direction of their dreams
To grow
Toward the slow show of the cows
On desolation row


______________________________

I was born in the mid-1950s in the suburbs of Paris.
I ran away. I traveled. And I wrote and played music.
I love walking.
I’ve been working with children.
I go to poetry scenes.
I love horses. And all animals.
I am an anarchist.

David Dephy | Silent Afternoon

Silent Afternoon

 

 

They say nothing after sex.

 

Silence was yellow in that second.

 

“Silence is gold,” he thought.

 

“Indeed,” she said.

 

“You are reading my thoughts,” he closed his eyes.

 

It was the most mysterious second in their life,

 

when they felt the breath of each other, as their own.

 

“Love always wins,” he said after a century of silence,

 

and she replied: “If not, it won’t be love.”

 

 

 

Georgian American writer David Dephy is the recipient of a 2019 Spillwords Press Poetry Award and a finalist for the 2019 Adelaide Literary Awards in the category of Best Poem. He’s been called “A Literature Luminary” by Bowery Poetry, New York, and “The Incomparable Poet” by STAT®REC. A prolific writer of essays, fiction, and poetry, the author of over thirty books, including ten novels, his work appears widely and has been published in translation and internationally. Eastern Star, a full-length collection of poems, in English, is due out this fall from Adelaide Books. Dephy was born Tbilisi, Georgia, and lives in New York.

Tantra Zawadi | Thirteen Yellow Haiku

Yellow Haiku

1.
Honeys, you look good
Brown and full in the middle
Sunflower faces

2.
Yellow taffeta
Dancing ’round and ’round
Twirling in its breadth

3.
Golden light through slat
Welcomes a new day!  I pray
For peace in this one . . .

4.
Buzzing ’round my bed
Because he thinks I’m honey — 
I’m just a stinger

5.
A promise of love
Naturally magical
Canary haiku

6.
When you look at me
The sun sings a vibrant tune
So hot, yet so cool

7.
Fresh corn on the cob
You, me, and hot barbecue
Lying on the grass

8.
Lemony sunrise
Streaming through my window pane
First hint of morning

9.
Gold on my finger
Spinning together with you
I do and I am

10.
Buttery patter
A song for my beating heart
I love you right there

11.
Turmeric and spice
Swirling in my deepest pot
I need this season

12.
Grits, cooked down gently
Salted, buttered, and well loved
Mom in the morning

13.
Graduation day
We were beautiful chaos
Giggling in straw hats

______________________________

   

Tantra-zawadi, Brooklyn-born performance poet and international recording artist, is a 2020 Brooklyn Arts Fund grantee!
She is the author of three books of poetry, alifepoeminprogress (Chuma Spirit Books), Gathered at Her Sky, and Bubbles: One Conscious Breath (Poets Wear Prada). A passionate educator and instigator, she has collaborated with The Senegal-America Project, Betti Makoni’s Girl Child Network Worldwide, and Black Art in America. To learn more, or to hear her latest house music releases, please visit: https://www.traxsource.com/artist/29323/tantra-zawadi or http://tantrazawadi.com/.

Carrie Magness Radna | Two Poems

Heart of Gold 

I saw you in the light,
gold-glittering skin & hair;
I stood steady in the night,
starstruck & kind with care —

But I’m too scared to speak;
my tongue lies dead in your world,
but in my solitude,
my mouth never stops running.

& my heart starts to dance
when streets turn to gold,
when I see you again & again.

I go into the world,
carrying all my hopes with me,
searching for a heart of gold
to share my life with —

& will you be the one to hold
when the years grow cold?

Will these golden dreams
be minted, or will they
simply blow away
during our first shared words?

__________________________________

Golden

 
I came like there was no tomorrow last night
My mind was fixed on yellow leaves falling
Outside in the New York streets, fan-like
I didn’t recall the type of trees, but they grew
Into a forest of golden leaves

Then my skin grew golden and the stripes worn raw
Grunting and growling like a newlywed tiger
My mate grinned and said I was letting go of inhibitions
He was the catalyst, not the tiger but the hunger
His sweat mixed with my own

Suddenly all the world was golden tipped
The night was hot and our eyes glowed like candles
He called me his lioness — we both do the work
Loving and living … intertwined love knots
We made with our fingers and our hair

We slept for the thousand years after
The stupid light conversation as the trees disappeared
The golden leaves blew away and my hunger dissipated
Now flesh is milky again and sounds are quiet

And we are happy and warm and tired.

__________________________________

Carrie Magness Radna is an audiovisual cataloger at New York Public Library, a choral singer and a poet who loves traveling. Her poems have previously appeared in The Oracular Tree, Mediterranean Poetry, Muddy River Poetry Review, Poetry Super Highway, Walt’s Corner, Polarity eMagazine, The Poetic Bond and First Literary Review-East. Her latest poetry collection, Hurricanes never apologize (Luchador Press), was published in December 2019. In the blue hour (Nirala Publications) is expected to be released early 2021. Born in Norman, Oklahoma, Carrie lives with her husband in Manhattan.

Madeline Artenberg | The Blind Man and Poet

The Blind Man and Poet

He’d never seen a woman.
Sight is one color in her palette.
The way she says his name
sounds like seersucker,
terry cloth, old blues.

They question what is green,
verde, vert.
“It’s cucumber,” she says.
“Envy’s green,” he says.

He removes her fine silk blouse.
She closes her eyes.
When he slides fingers down
her silky arm, each inch
announces itself. He traces
the rest of her outline, hangs it
on his mind.

Their breathing’s bumpy now.
They empty, smell
like cucumbers, like
new beginnings.

_______________________________________________

Madeline Artenberg’s poetry appears in many publications, including Absinthe Literary Review and Rattle.  In 2020, two of her poems were included in the world-wide anthology The Poet: War & Battle.