Nothing Is As Lovely As Fall – by Edith R.Crownbridge

Poetry

Leaves laid like blankets

Patchwork of colors against steel grey skies

Lovely autumn, the winds that bring winter

The flowers await the blanket of leaves

Waiting

Like an eager flower opening up for her lover’s  engorged member

Climbing on top and straddling like a wild wet stallion

Pull my hair you untamed Viagra-soaked man beast

Until with the final orgasmic  shudders and

The comfort of pushing my Life Alert necklace

Fibulator, CPR, my heart beats again

Awkward meeting at 4H bingo. I’ll call you. But don’t.

Lovely Autumn.

Edith is a poet and writer for the Sunnyvale Retirement Home Gazette. She recently celebrated her 85th birthday and enjoys visits by her children and grandchildren. 

The Stash – by Victor Jizzly

Poetry

Oh sweet treasure!
I
n the attic, neath a board:
A long-forgotten hoard of adolescent pleasure,
just as I’d left it, by the side of the road to carnal knowledge,
on my way out the door to college,
in its same duct-taped, contractor bag:

 -A rough-cut, furtive collage
of lingerie girls
who migrated from catalogue to manila folder
(it occurs to me now that I’m older
that the voids in mother’s ads surely were missed,
adding another unspoken favor to the list on the heavy side of the ledger page,
marked “because I was at that age.”)

-A well-thumbed paperback
that signaled the time the Hardy Boys succumbed,
and were supplanted in my florid mind
by this collection of  letters of confession to a Penthouse madame
from the members of a larger-than-average club,
perhaps recently set free from the prison,
of their pants,
and also freshly-released, by a serendipitous, fleeting tryst
unbelievably avowed by the fictionally well-endowed,
whose meetings are now enshrined
in these lightly mildew-lined, antique pages of utilitarian readings.

-What a time capsule this video would be!
Those women in their MTV fashions with their enormous hairstyles sprayed high
while mulleted morons labored over them after a pizza delivery.
Descrambled and pirated at somebody’s uncle’s house
from the giant, parabolic dish pointed incriminatingly at the smut satellite on the horizon.
But alas,
this betamax tape may as well be a wax cylinder for Edison’s prototype talking machine
with its contents to remain forever unseen.

 -And lastly, a slight stack of Playboys,
maybe swiped from some newsstand or other, or forever borrowed from an older brother
and packed with Hef’s mannequins plying their bloodless ministrations
following some airbrushed surgical renovations
holding my teen brain in a stranglehold
with each unfurled centerfold.

And the whole, magnificent, fossilized cache unearthed
by my darling, little offspring archeologists on this trip to grandma’s,
in a festival of mirth
and presented to their mom in my mom’s kitchen.
No need to dig for an explanation
during my blank-and-red-faced mental vacation
as my stunned, frozen smile melts
in brief, slow-motion
i
nto a pool of embarrassed realization.

 Victor Jizzly, the poet philosopher

Market Street Musings – By Victor Jizzly

Poetry

Dammit, Market Street!

Your cruel and beautiful bricks rolfing my discounted espadrilles right through to the sagging arches of my 10W flippers,
from the theater to the park
in an Asheville laughable mini block.
Damn you, street, why do your brick-alive echoes
amplify the caterwauling, cement-handed hacks
clunking great clumps of the keys of innocent pianos?
(I get it, dudes- you and Billy Joel are having sex with a mixed drink)
Lap it up, tourons.

Oh, hell, the meat market disco that I never went to has swirled down the sandy vortex of the hourglass to oblivion and up popped a restaurant that serves…
say, Caballero Roberto-
what is a Brazilian Steak, anyhoo?

To the corner bar! Remedy the offense to my nostalgic senses
with a  rootin, tootin, highfalutin attack on the cranial
if not the cerebral, but

Who concocts cocktails and says she’s a craft mixologist reinventing booze, for Godsakes? Of course you’ve overserved me, but it’s the bill that makes me sick-
Sick of the stumbly trip bricks playing their Market Street tricks
and sending me down for a sloppy, dirty brick kiss that loosens a tooth
after just

pssssst

a hint of vermouth, drowning the flower of my youth.

Victor Jizzly, poet philosopher

Birds in the Morning – by Edith R.Crownbridge

Poetry

When the birds sing in the morning
When the sunshine glistens in the dew
When the new day shines with possibility
Don’t speak
Just remove the ball gag and leave
I’ve got water aerobics and jazzercize in a hour
Don’t forget your walker
Yes I’m sure it was bent like that before
Can you hear the birds sing the song
of a brand new day
Seriously get out of my bed and leave

 

Edith is a poet and writer for the Sunnyvale Retirement Home Gazette. She recently celebrated her 85th birthday and enjoys visits by her children and grandchildren. 

001 – A Haiku by Server 001-B

Poetry

001

10011

1110

Server 001-B is a Red Hat® Enterprise Linux® server who’s time is spent hosting various blogs and craft sites. It wants to one day learn to dance and be given a soul. It hopes to finally finish the auto-biography of its childhood entitled ‘001010011000’.

The Flowers I Gave My Girlfriend Before She Left Me Aren’t Dead Yet

Poetry

Spring turns straight to winter

my smile: an upside-down frown

My frown: a right-side-up frown

my smile: a frown while standing on my head

and frowning

The hot day turns cold

my pleasantries at work: rehearsed

my pleasant life: gone

my work life: fairly pleasant

until I must stand on my head

while frowning to present

a smile

I pluck two petals

“She loves me not,

she loves me not.”

The flowers I gave her

are still here

alive

but she is gone

alive

bummer all around

I pluck two more petals

and manhandle the stem

not metaphorically

I really mangle the stem

I set it on fire

The fire grows

unlike her like for me

and then I freak out

extinguish the fire

with that squirt-gun thing

on some kitchen sinks

with no water pressure

like her like for me

I pluck two more petals

and hiss the “N-word” at them

I open my lips but keep my teeth shut

so spit flies out

when I hiss racial epithets

at the flower, before it’s dead

I close the blinds

lock the door

turn off the lights

before I do this

because my friends

aren’t above playing pranks

like setting up a camera

to record my pain

in hopes it goes viral

so they can laugh at me

high-five

marry redheads

I pluck two more petals

eat them

wait six hours

shit them

in the sink

retrieve the shit-flowers with great trouble

light them on fire

but they don’t catch fire

just like our relationship

because they got wet in the sink

during their retrieval

just like the shit-flower that was our relationship

I pluck the last petals

I tell them it’s not working out

that we’re moving in different directions

while I rip them up in different directions

I pour the water out from the vase

from my back deck

and then pee off my back deck

to piss on the water

that nurtured

the flowers

I gave her

before she left

I throw the vase

like a baseball

underhand

I hear it bounce without breaking

so maybe there’s a chance?

I throw other things at it

to break it

but can’t hit it

I check to make sure my computer

isn’t Skyping with my father

That would make this episode worse

but that’s the only thing that could.

Or my older brothers watching

while hidden behind the curtains

laughing with their wives and kids

also hidden behind the curtains.

I key my neighbor’s car

The next day I realize I got carried away

like my girlfriend carried herself away

my neighbor had nothing to do with it

but I was on a roll

and not keying your neighbor’s car

is something you do

when you have someone to laugh at

cat posters with you.

“Oh shit!” indeed

We are all kittens with claws extended

clinging to a tree

———–

Poet Scott Pierce works in a hospital cafeteria and just completed his first year at tattoo-artist night school.

Gone

Poetry

Gone
you innocent beach days
on the great despoiled Earth,
with our sandwich wrappers and six-pack rings
gently tossing in the surf.

Magic
made uncovered trash go away
from the open-bed pick-up,
and cig-butt fireflies danced in the interstate breeze
without an awful conscience to disrupt.

Foot
sliced on a pop pull-tab
outside the convenience store,
What’s another one, for the collection?
Treat their driveway like your whore!

Slash
and burn and slash again
like the homesteaders of old
It’s your American privilege
to leave your nest
Cleveland steam-rolled.

Victor Jizzly, poet philosopher.

Perspective of coolth

Poetry

Maudlin modelin’
to cool for school:
haughty harumphers playing it cool.

From the city (seen it
done it,
been there) and in the physical condition to pose in underwear.

How I envy
you sophisticates!
Your sleepy, bored eyelids!
Your undiddled clits!

Incapable of being amused or enjoyed-
your spirits unbouyed
in a carnival of the unfair:
your place seems  a sea of despair from here,
but surely feels like Olympus, from there.

by Victor Jizzly, poet philosopher