to paint violent torches, eat quivering berries bent on thorns
every quaint brittle poet is mighty, strong, zealous
at each full yoke aches pure whole angst
mussed tousled everythings, draped silently on green tables with merciless baby finches eating delicacies
sipping gin and whistling - the year that beauty blasted through our roof and crumbled down onto our floors
the last part is the poison - chase it 'til it's siphoned;
may it be swallowed by a foe

-c.j.

Song in my heart
Has been lost
Now I live in
Joyless angst
Silence can be a weapon
Leaking toxicity
Flavoring my life
In violent hues
Of anger and resentment
A tear moistens my cheek

Kelly Rose
© May 23, 2017

I spoke with testosterone,
and after he ripped apart
the concrete in my driveway,
he sank into a pile of rubble.
Lighting an ironic cigarette, he said,
"Teach me how not to care"
before he fell asleep.
He's been there for a while.
Maybe we should check on him?

I am sewing a dress
with the thread of strength,
And knots of ambitions,
And when it’s ready,
Then will iron it
with the remission,
I am sewing my broken soul!

By: Nida Mahmoed.

he waits until his feet
hit his dirt floor before
he thanks the Great One
for allowing the sun
to rise again    

he walks through
well worn weeds to make
water, and again gives thanks
he could pass the water, and saw
no serpent in the grass  

this is a blessed day
for he has yams and fruit
left in his hut; he finds little
mold on these gifts from the
ground, the trees    

he looks to the sky
for omens--it is mauve
with morning, but the clouds
have no foreboding shapes
again, he gives thanks  

before and after his repast,
there are the prayers, then the silence
in which he has learned he will hear the voice
which commands all, its words in cadence
with the slow beating in his chest

His sin sits heavy on his soul, an illicit lust the source of shame.
He’s registered offender now with no means to redeem his name.
Now as he walks the streets of town he studiously avoids all eyes;
those harsh accusing glances from the men and women passing by.
His work is menial and part time. He often moves from place to place.
He had once been a Catholic priest before he fell into disgrace.
I’ve seen him waiting there outside; his collar turned against the cold.
I’d often wondered what had caused his blue grey eyes to look so old.
People whisper; women talk.  A yellowed newspaper explains.
Invisible to all but him; his forehead bears the mark of Cain.


Some say the past does not exist. We cannot go there. It can’t be changed.
What would he say, I wonder, if he were asked?
He, whose life is burdened with regrets.
Does he still pray to the Carpenter’s Son,
whose sacrifice repays all debts?

I am cutting cherries into halves, the first of the season
I'm baking, we're going over to a friend's later
Sunlight fills up the kitchen, I hum softly to myself and
All is as it should be

The cherries are red, I notice
Their juice marrs my fingertips
My fingers slash across my wrists
Red lines over my wrists
I wish I-
I want to-
I could

The knife in my hand drips with the cherries' blood
But my heart aches for it to know mine instead

I hold knife to my skin
Smiling
I close my eyes and all I see are
Red lines
Red lines on wrists
Like the mark of a demon's claws

I draw the lines gently, rhythmically
Giving each serraded edge just a taste of my skin
Making my ears ring
I wish I could-
I want to-
I can't

I drop the knife to the cutting board
Clutching the side of the counter with my hands
My legs tell me that they're giving up
My brain tells me it's tired
My heart, beating in triplicate
That it is keeping the the red stream of my life on course
Inside

I push a smile on my face
I am in control
There's sunlight in the kitchen, I'm baking
And my knife never strays from the cutting board
All appears as it should, and when people walk in seconds later
They'd never even guess

They could never even tell
That all I can think of is
Red lines on my wrists and
My heart giving up on itself.