Poetry # 139

The leaves are turning, the winds of fall blow colder and yet the protests in America are staying put despite eviction notices, arrests, one death and disagreeable weather. Poets who do not write poetry sometimes make better poets than the ones that write as if it were a career. The collection in this issue shows the vast range of the poet’s mind: from blunt, cold realism to soft and cushy surrealism.

Fuck the world.

Yours truly,

Luis Rivas
Henry Ajumeze
Amber Bromer

The Editors of Poetic Gloom

All that fall
By Richy Campbell

In the midst of the
puddle, where she had been pushed
Mary leaned forward

to face him, as moist
brown countries soak into her
legging cloth. She sits,

supporting self with
palms, eyes yellowing, serpent
like. Billy watched as

arms grew from her back
and purged down into her throat,
deeper, reaching for

her spine which crashed to
the puddle like a tower
into a lake; skin

floating above the
pave. In noon wind, skin-Mary
wraps around his small

head like a dispelled
shopping bag, and as shaking
recedes, arms going

limp, she lets go, and
her spine enters where left
to fill the floating

flesh-phantom. She stands
over him, thick sweat lacquers
the yellowing, air

deprived stripes on his
forehead; his hands on knees, spit
seeping through teeth on

the granite. She smiles
before leaning over close to
whisper in his ear

stands, leaving him, ropes
of phlegm swing and rattle in
his throat with wheezes.

Bio: Richy Campbell is writer and musician based in Staffordshire, England. He has been published in a few journals and works as a freelance indexer.


(For Charles)

By Keith C. Dovoric

This town around us

is collapsing


into droplets

one hydrant at a time

and all you and I

can do

is stay inside

and make love

When the town officials

come by

to evacuate us

you will not stir

and I’ll politely

answer the door

in my swath of modesty

thanks but no thanks

we aint goin

too much to do

right here

Let the immigrant bakers

have the island

& keep their ovens full

to feed the masses

Let commercial realtors

express their pain

on woebegone For Sale signs

& wonder tremulously

at the city gates

O why o why

does no one visit

our beloved town

any longer

We’ve not such discomfiting concerns

our plan is set

right here

in this home

its poor foundation

atrophied by tiny waves

that mirror the helicopters

which hang in the sad late-August sky

Let’s get down to business

though the power goes out

there’s still some day left

just enough light

to begin the ritual

& start the mission

to repopulate this city

But you are already pregnant

I touch your belly

it is heaving jumping swimming

a mystery lies beneath

my son being sculpted

and I wonder,

In which town will this child

take residence

perhaps no town,

perhaps all the towns

One day,

he will lie

in comfort, smiling

waiting to begin

a mission of his own

such as this.

Bio: Keith Charles Dovoric is always up to something. New Jersey born-and-based, he is/has been a writer, teacher, musician, songwriter, singer, would-be poet, dutiful husband, and expectant father. His credentials are solid: Poems published in national anthologies as well as on the internet.  Songs registered under Federal Copyright. A prize from the prestigious George A. Jones Writing Award for the poem, “Slaughterhouse Hooks.” CD recordings with local NJ rock ‘n’ roll bands such as the SUDs and Palomino. Countless videos of his works-in-progress on YouTube.

By Howie Good


you’re my catapult

my antibiotic

a barbwire camp

why not hold me

while I’m naked

just squeeze

& General Grant

lights a cigar

men charge

back & forth

across a field


in Union dead

& slowly you

me everything

goes oomph

Bio: Howie Good, a journalism professor at SUNY New Paltz, is the author of the full-length poetry collections Lovesick (Press Americana, 2009), Heart With a Dirty Windshield (BeWrite Books, 2010), and Everything Reminds Me of Me (Desperanto, 2011), as well as numerous print and digital poetry chapbooks, including most recently Love Dagger from Right Hand Pointing, To Shadowy Blue from Gold Wake Press, and Love in a Time of Paranoia from Diamond Point Press.

americans  we
By Elias Van Son

who rode the broad

shoulders of our fathers

and never learned to walk

who craved effects in excess

bones of white

hearts of gold

who sold our firstborn children

for the dream

it seems   has vanished

Bio: Elias Van Son is a young artist living in the Catskill mountains of New York.  His writing has appeared in Burning Word, ATOMICA, In Preparation, Punk Soul Poet, The Angle, IamaGM and in chapbooks.  His first full-length book of poems Little Feather was published in 2009 by Some Blaze Free Press, and an EP of his language-based music was recently released by Steak & Cake Records.  Elias lives and is willing to die for his ideas.

By Joseph M. Gant

the spider came to see

my friend–

tobacco stains on finger bones

hammered into something like

the rivets,

oh the silken rivets driven

hard into the everything of this,

the beds of our audacity. clouds

and whispers in a Winter’s rain,

scratches on our leather hands,

timpani beneath the pits . . .

we pull the legs from feathered dreams

like flies that wish we never loved them.

spiders came to see my friend,

lit a dying cigarette and disappeared again.

: Joseph M. Gant is a scientific glassblower by trade and education and is a writer by everything else that matters. His work has appeared modestly in small press and academic journals. Gant is Poetry Editor for SAM Publishing and recently authored a full-length collection of poetry, Zero Division, which is published through Rebel Satori Press.

In the absence of your love here comes the science

By Laura McKee

All kinds of things

Make the sound of the sea

All kinds of things

Take on

The shape of a heart

And I am thinking about you touching me

But I know it can never really happen

For scientific reasons

Since your fingertips here

Are just these whorls of atoms

A random fling of iron filings

Lingering as if something is meant

And between us


Intangible things

We think we can feel

But we’re pushing each other away

There’s this heat

Called transference

And that buzz

Because everything’s a little bit radioactive

By Allison Grayhurst

I go to the crosswalk

and leave my bread crumbs on the other side.

I am waiting for motivation, for a clarity of purpose

that I once owned like a beautiful stone

I sunk under the St. Lawrence rapids. When I was a child,

I watched those rapids without fear,

stood close to the edge and never wondered about the slippery underfoot,

never worried about the shadflies arriving like a plague of river insects

or about my loneliness that turned into a ghost companion

comforting me in those grey Quebec afternoons. But here, in this riverless realm,

I cannot place my hands down. I cannot stretch wide enough

to feel whole. I go to the corner store and hear answers that only I

and the birds

can hear.


Bio: Over the past twenty years Allison Grayhurst’s poems have been published in journals throughout the United States, Canada, and in the United Kingdom, including The Antigonish Review, Dalhousie Review, The New Quarterly, Wascana Review, Poetry Nottingham International, The Cape Rock and White Wall Review. Her work was also included in the Insomniac Press anthology Written In The Skin. Her book Somewhere Falling was published by Beach Holme Publishers, a Porcepic Book, in Vancouver in 1995. She lives in Toronto with her husband, two children, two cats, and a dog. She also sculpts, working with clay.


My Important Words
By Joseph Wade


The dull metal pressed against his forehead,

his finger tightroped the trigger,

I ran below, positioning safety words to stop death.
I missed.
His finger fell.
Words are so important now.

Sulfur in an earthen basement,
mixed with grey and white chunks
stuck to the wall,
it all tasted so metallic—


The hum of a lawnmower,
and the laughing sun
waving like a neighbor:
these were at peace
beyond the six-foot basement.

Then the sirens cried,
I didn’t.
Not even when I told his son.

Bio: Joseph Wade is a writer because he went to Harrisburg Area Community College where he received excellent instruction from Professors, Weaver, Damato-Beamesderfer, Cockeram, Simmons and Stumphy. His strong core of creative friends have been invaluable too, they include Josiah Koppenhaver, Dan Buffenmeyer, Hope Kambakis, Deborah Joyner, Annette Russel (who is publishing a book of poetry). Without the people in his life, Joseph never would have discovered what his love (Jamie) calls the other woman, writing.

Published by peace is illegal

I am a writer of pornography, of politics and murder.

One thought on “Poetry # 139

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: