“In the distance the ocean, call of blue, call of sky, ocean songs, sing, singing . . . the lighthouse by night,
blue into moonlight, the white walls, the desert heat, the ashes in early morning sunlight . . .”

“salmon sky
                       swims blue fish
                                                  dark and darkening
                                                                                  Summer heat

                                                                           the night calls . . .”


light heart Connecticut surcharge tax the day is getting long the night longer the heat the words sweet chariot San Miguel karyotes I am going to walk to Barbados wear the salted cloth of the earth a rounder of Singapore slings a fridge full of medicant trace elements sad junko birds he speaks she cocks her head to one side the cat he speaks she laughs like opening a book offers herself up the hook she said, “perhaps a propensity for crime?” he said, “and love is blue” and angels woebegone once you take away the desert climes ocean beaches strangers who are lovers lovers who are strangers unknown convictions on deserted beaches . . . somewhere an old stone villa by an ocean without winter . . . blue . . .

 

 

 

WHITE FLOWERS ON A WHITE FENCE

“If I had a flower for every time I thought of you...
I could walk through my garden forever...”
-Alfred Lord Tennyson

by John L. Stanizzi


There will be a house
swollen with sunlight
swaddled in a field of white flowers
where the breeze carries away the scent of departures
and fills the rooms with salt spray

you will wake
to the sound of the house settling
to footfalls slow and heavy on the stairs
and to the wind
encouraging the night to lie.









THE STORM

“When the storm rips you to pieces,
you get to decide how to put yourself
back together again.”
- from Simple Reminders
by Bryant H. McGill

by John L. Stanizzi


The rain is vertical
Chimes of bamboo swim in the wind
The road has vanished
beneath the coral of trees

*

I prefer the storm to unopened letters
and the muffled voices of words
to the moments we tried to save
the photo consuming itself
the brown ash left behind

*

Into the wet grass
is absorbed the siren and the pain
the silence of the moon after thunder
lightning’s stain
the dreams of the dog by the fireplace
the flames that encircle the wood and split the bark
releasing the wood’s orange voice
the marriage of the voice
to the words we slur in the wind

*

An aura rests in the branches
The window is open
and the room blooms with ice
A branch touches my face
Flutes empty their music on my pillow
The children sleep in the half-light of lightning

*

The storm is the mirror
which reflects the faces in the ground

The storm is the flowers
whose scent colors satin

The storm is the wind
suffering down the leaves
the voices
the echo of lost sound

The storm fills the empty room
the way the glass eyes
of the doll left in the road
fill with rain









SCARCITY

by John L. Stanizzi


Disastrous drought they’re calling it -
nothing more than a trace of rain in two months,
but yesterday’s rumor of showers
crackled over radios and televisions,
and in anticipation, the ordering of things began;
gather up the stray tools, put the tractor away,
tell the geraniums that soon, soon it will be all right,
and go to bed with one ear open, listening
for the sympathetic whisper of rain in the trees,
and the spirited sigh of the landscape
and everything hidden there.

________________

The pacific hiss of morning rain,
sun held down under clouds and fog,
and the rooms of the house soften with dusky shadows.

May it rain all day long, and never brighten, not even for a moment.
May the plants lift their faces,
streaked with dusty rainwater,
and like children running around the yard,
catch the drops in their open, smiling mouths.









POSTCARD TO NIGHT

G. H. Mosson


The keynote speaker the night before swoons and falls,
scoops up the cue cards from the floor,
and regroups his game face.

Outside the hotel murmurs the ocean,
the subject of his study
and podium of his good name.

In the end, his opinions float back from the ocean,
so he opens the door, steps onto the balcony,
and unwolfs an old loneliness.  

    Above the dark crumple and swoop
of wind and gulls, the stars blink 
like . . . unlike . . . like . . . a mosaic.









WHAT THE SEA WOULD SAY

by Bruce McRae


I talked to the sea
and I said to the sea
What drives you forward
through the centuries?
And the sea replied
Curiosity.

And I said to the sea
and I said to the sea
Have you ever read
much poetry?
And the sea replied
Most certainly.

The sea then smiled
and said the tide
is wide and wider than
the wildest mile.

But what of love?
I questioned the sea.
Which was when she
turned her back to me,
while mumbling
in anxiety –
I have never forgiven.
the river.









ROSSKNOWLAGH DONEGAL

by Pd Lyons


Just to say,
Writing by the sea
I am
About you
Writing by the sea
Out on the veranda
Across the bed
You are
I am
Should we go for dinner soon?









ST. MARGARET’S HOPE

by Winston P.


On the North side in September
where hope shrinks awake
there’s a street lost in its daily routine.

Everyone wears layers of brown
and bright sweet wrappers hide under oiled
tarpaulins.

Footsteps quicken past the last vibrations of life
from mackerel slapping the smooth stone of the
pier.

And all the time
the diary of the vicar
filling with tallly charts
made with a thick bllllack nib.









SURFACING WATCHING

by Winston P.


Holed up in this box
as night falls onto day.
My slotted horizon
split into sky and sea.

And a mark growing into the dusk
as their join where there’s conflict off the bay.

This blemish, nearly four miles out’s
the only sign to the naked eye
to echo what the radars heard.

But it can’t tell Captain Robinson
who’s resting below decks.
That a Heinkel has just dropped its bombs
and explosions will come next.

That the wound that’s in his starboard side
Will let the North Sea through.
That the bombs came on too heavy
and the ladders were too few.

That his crew are in the water
and some won’t be pulled out.
That the Lerwick’s going under
and that’s what war’s about.

The radar station and lookout post at Bent Rigg, Ravenscar formed part of a chain of such posts that detected the presence of enemy aircraft flying low out to sea which threatened our naval fleet. In Jan 1942 SS. Lerwick was bombed and sunk off the coast here. Capt. Robinson lost 5 of his crew when his ship went down.

FEATURED POET: HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

THE LIGHTHOUSE

by

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The rocky ledge runs far into the sea,
    And on its outer point, some miles away,
The Lighthouse lifts its massive masonry,
    A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day. 

Even at this distance I can see the tides,
    Upheaving, break unheard along its base,
A speechless wrath, that rises and subsides
    In the white lip and tremor of the face. 

And as the evening darkens, lo! how bright,
    Through the deep purple of the twilight air,
Beams forth the sudden radiance of its light
    With strange, unearthly splendor in the glare! 

Not one alone; from each projecting cape
    And perilous reef along the ocean’s verge,
Starts into life a dim, gigantic shape,
    Holding its lantern o’er the restless surge. 

Like the great giant Christopher it stands
    Upon the brink of the tempestuous wave,
Wading far out among the rocks and sands,
    The night-o’ertaken mariner to save. 

And the great ships sail outward and return,
    Bending and bowing o’er the billowy swells,
And ever joyful, as they see it burn,
    They wave their silent welcomes and farewells. 

They come forth from the darkness, and their sails
    Gleam for a moment only in the blaze,
And eager faces, as the light unveils,
    Gaze at the tower, and vanish while they gaze. 

The mariner remembers when a child,
    On his first voyage, he saw it fade and sink;
And when, returning from adventures wild,
    He saw it rise again o’er ocean’s brink. 

Steadfast, serene, immovable, the same
    Year after year, through all the silent night
Burns on forevermore that quenchless flame,
    Shines on that inextinguishable light! 

It sees the ocean to its bosom clasp
    The rocks and sea-sand with the kiss of peace;
It sees the wild winds lift it in their grasp,
    And hold it up, and shake it like a fleece. 

The startled waves leap over it; the storm
    Smites it with all the scourges of the rain,
And steadily against its solid form
    Press the great shoulders of the hurricane. 

The sea-bird wheeling round it, with the din
    Of wings and winds and solitary cries,
Blinded and maddened by the light within,
    Dashes himself against the glare, and dies. 

A new Prometheus, chained upon the rock,
    Still grasping in his hand the fire of Jove,
It does not hear the cry, nor heed the shock,
    But hails the mariner with words of love. 

“Sail on!” it says, “sail on, ye stately ships!
    And with your floating bridge the ocean span;
Be mine to guard this light from all eclipse,
    Be yours to bring man nearer unto man!”

MISSED CONNECTIONS

Craigslist New York – Missed Connections – June 22nd, 2019 – Anonymous


Bay ridge av mermaids going to parade (Bay ridge avenue near 4th Avenue)

Blue-haired mermaid. I hope you see this... get back to your merman....


(N.B.: “get back, get back . . .” - a note from the Editor

“get back to where you once belonged” – a note from the other Editor

“and everyone was sea creatures . . .” - say Reform School Girls

“walking around downtown by the beach . . .” - says Madame X

“with big blue beach towels, big blue sunglasses, big blue hair and . . .” - say Reform School Girls

“those sea creatures look too happy . . .” - says Machiavelli

“let’s take away their ice cream . . .” - says Machiavelli Jr.

“and their cake . . .” - says Machiavelli

“we are protesting . . .” - says the cat

“we think Machiavelli and Machiavelli Jr. should have their ice cream and cake taken away instead . . .” - says the other cat

“dinner is served” - says mum)

BOOK REVIEWS



SIMULTANEOUS REVOLUTIONS:
DOWNTOWN STORIES, DOWNTOWN BLUES

Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry

Title of Book: Simultaneous Revolutions

Author: Marcus Colasurdo and G.H. Mosson

Publisher: PM Press

Date of Publication: 2021

Pages: 42


“. . . collect my pay, pay my debts, buy a bottle of wine and drink it by the Skagit in the afternoon, and leave next morning for Seattle” – and on, down to Frisco, then L.A., then Nogales, then Guadalajara, then Mexico City -”
- from Desolation Angels
by Jack Kerouac

A Beat inspired celebration in New Age Poetics, at once a protest and at the same time an event in dancing man, a Chapbook, Simultaneous Revolutions by Marcus Colasurdo, G.H. Mosson, and PM Press. G.H. Mosson, is an American attorney and writer. He is the author of five chapbooks and books of poetry, he has been widely published and received 4 Pushcart Prize Nominations. Marcus Colasurdo has worked numerous and eclectic jobs traveling America far and wide, hitchhiking. He has founded Gimme Shelter Productions, a non-profit organization of artists and Soul Kitchens, Baltimore, Maryland, and Hazelton, Pennsylvania providing free meals to those in need. He has authored eleven books with G.H. Mosson at PM Press.

A well-crafted series of downtown stories, “bobby rafter blues” in free verse, Beat progressions with original juxtapositions of words that paint pictures of people and places, when really riveting the Imagist pictures roll in Neoclassical layers. A real street edge in blues and images of the technocracy, the wired world. Some of the poems celebrate the theme of music, also include references to Allen Ginsberg and the greats of rock n’ roll, Bob Dylan, Sex Pistols, The Cranberries (Dolores O’Riordan), Chuck Berry, The Clash, and Jerry Garcia.

From “Enter Through If”

“Let’s inhabit this music, alone
and not alone, dancing in society’s clothes
rearranged from a thrift store, and blur
through the lustful longing of Grimes
on the stage behind her console of giddy electronica
together with us in an abandoned warehouse . . .”

From “Magnificent Rumor”

“Listen, if your minutes
belong to my hours
we’ll meet near the street
where all that graffiti
wonderlands the wounded.”

Simultaneous Revolutions raises questions about what gives people place? Other people, art, a calling for work, an arts calling, giving to the Community, creating mythologies, telling people’s stories, all of the above. And sometimes telling stories of homelessness and the hope of love. A riveting story of downtown America in New Age poetics, Simultaneous Revolutions by G.H. Mosson and Marcus Colasurdo.

Available from PM Press and www.ghmosson.com.

OF POETIC INTEREST . . .

 




SUNSHINE ON OUR LITTLE TOWNE

by

Rebecca Anne Banks


(Abridged)

“bobbalinks
two orange cats
by the fence
winter quiet . . .”


spring bo cat raining spring bo’s, young Johnny of toy cars and trucks “you don’t know how to play properly” “you’re supposed to imagine yourself behind the wheel of the truck” “’o” after giving away all my dolls . . . the dark he on the telephone . . . in the background he says “you are making her Gepetto” . . . Sunshine, “what does that mean?” silence . . . we would put vinegar on the chips in bags his dad the only happy Italian I ever met he gave out the first packages of flavoured chips ketchup, mustard, salt and vinegar to the neighbourhood kids, i missed the scrum, i got plain, so quietly refused . . . Johnny’s mum, Lily something sweet in an alabaster haze the long tulle curtains that fell over the floor like a dancer the silent one she made the best grilled cheese sandwiches with butter on both sides . . .

Sunshine sitting on their verandah for the first time, Johnny’s muther “heaven’s to Murgatroyd, where did this one come from?” . . .

Johnny’s birthday, Lily’s brother plays with us kids “doggy, doggy who’s got your bone? . . . somebody stole it from your home” . . . once i fell down the front stairs of their porch “run little girl run” his dad trying to catch me to make certain i was alright, Johnny fell sick, i wished him well and he was, they owned a pizza shop downtown, moved away, how the good things should never change, how things change, classic tea rail blues . . .

“giant teal skyclouds
against the bare winter trees
dark, darkening
in quiet,
move . . .”

UNTITLED

by

Rebecca Anne Banks

sky beneath wind small influences sea shells on the beach wind beneath sky an arrival a large gift an antique itself armoire itself capade the quiet beast the trees asleep . . . Kyoto birdsong a 200 year old tree that flowers honey sunshine flowers dreaming Summer prison didacto, paint your lips, flowering lips in a red heart, turn around . . . bitchin’ the cathedral the bad Eddy Sinclairs to hold onto the night that keeps moving to hold onto the night . . . harlequin tea the afternoon the blue cat asleep under the library . . . the ceci of Kingdom come . . .

BIOGRAPHY

Rebecca Anne Banks lives in the New Age Renaissance Republique of Poetry. She has been writing and producing artistic content for 38 years and is the author of over 30 books of poetry, guides to the Holy Spirit, a primer on marriage discernment, a familycookbook, a book of children's stories, a book of World Peace Newsletters, all available at Amazon Stations. She has produced 3 CDs of Folk/Rock music and has 17 CDs of music awaiting production. She won an IARA Award for Top 55 Internet Airplays for Angel Song (2010). She is an Associate Member of the League of Canadian Poets. She is also the Poetry Editor at Subterranean Blue Poetry (www.subterraneanbluepoetry.com), CEO/Artist at Tea at Tympani Lane Records (www.tympanilanerecords.com), the Book Reviewer at The Book Reviewer (www.thebookreviewer.ca), and the Quilt Artist at Kintsugi Art Quilts (www.kintsugiartquilts.com).

Marcus Colasurdo is from Pennsylvania. He has worked numerous and eclectic jobs (a bartender, waiter, taxicab driver, boom microphone operator, factory worker, job counselor, journalist, teacher, farm worker, amongst others) across America, hitchhiking. He has founded Gimme Shelter Productions, a non-profit organization of artists whose performances benefit charity. He has also founded Soul Kitchens, Baltimore, Maryland and Hazelton, Pennsylvania providing free meals to anyone who needs one. He has authored eleven books, including Angel City Taxi and Heart X-rays with G.H. Mosson and PM Press.

Melanie Flores is a Toronto-born writer, editor, and poet. She is the Copy Editor at Subterranean Blue Poetry. Her award-winning work has been described as provocative and has appeared online, in print journals, and in various international and national anthologies. Her poem “Nameless” appeared in the (M)othering Anthology published by Inanna Publications (Spring 2022). Melanie has been a member of the League of Canadian Poets since 2017. Visit her websites www.melanieflores.net and www.mdfcommsvcs.com to see her work and learn more.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (poet, teacher) born in Portland, Maine. He is known for writing lyrical poetry with stories of legends. He traveled Europe and then studied at Bowdain College becoming a professor there and later at Harvvard College. He had 2 wives, Mary Potter (died 1835) and Frances Appleton (died 1861). He translated Dante Alighieri's, Divine Comedy into English. He is best remembered for penning, Paul Revere's Ride, The Song of Hiawatha, Evangeline and the poetry collections, Voices of the Night, (1839) and Ballads and Other Poems, (1841).

Pd Lyons. Born and raised in the U.S.A. Travelled and lived abroad. Since 1998 residing in Ireland. PD Lyons begun writing long ago in the dream time and hopes to continue for even longer. Received The Mattatuck College Award for Outstanding Achievement in Poetry, U.S.A. Received Bachelor of Science with honours from Teikyo Post University, Connecticut, U.S.A. The work of PD Lyons has also appeared in many magazines and e-zines/blogs throughout the world. Poetry collections have been published by Lapwing Press, Belfast, and erbacce Press, Liverpool. Winner of 2019 erbacce press international poetry competition. www.pdlyons.wordpress.com/about/.

Bruce McRae, a Canadian musician currently residing on Salt Spring Island B.C., is a multiple Pushcart nominee with over 1,600 poems published internationally in magazines such as Poetry, Rattle and the North American Review. His books are The So-Called Sonnets (Silenced Press); An Unbecoming Fit Of Frenzy (Cawing Crow Press); Like As If (Pski’s Porch); Hearsay (The Poet’s Haven).

G.H. Mosson is the author of five books and chapbooks of poetry, including Family Snapshot as a Poem in Time  (Finishing Line, 2019), and coauthor of Simultaneous Revolutions (PM Press, 2021). His poetry and literary commentary have appeared in the U.S. in The Evening Street Review, The Tampa Review, Smartish Pace, Rattle, The Hollins Critic, and received four Pushcart Prize nominations. An attorney and writer, Mr. Mosson enjoys raising his children, hiking, and literary endeavors. For more, seek www.ghmosson.com.

John L. Stanizzi is author of the collections Ecstasy Among Ghosts (Antrim House), Sleepwalking (Antrim House), Dance Against the Wall (Antrim House), After the Bell (BigTable), Hallelujah Time! (Big Table), High Tide – Ebb Tide (Kelsay Books), Four Bits (Grayson Press), Chants (Cervena Barva), Sundowning Main Street Rag, POND (inspired – UK)), and The Tree That Lights The Way Home (Antrim House). Besides Adelaide, John’s poems have been widely published and have appeared in Prairie Schooner, The Cortland Review, American Life in Poetry, Praxis, The New York Quarterly, Paterson Literary Review, The Laurel Review, The Caribbean Writer, Blue Mountain Review, Rust + Moth, Tar River, Poetlore, Rattle, Hawk & Handsaw, Plainsongs, Potato Soup Journal, and many others. His work has been translated into Italian and appears widely in Italy, including in El Ghibli, The Journal of Italian Translations Bonafini, Poetarium, and others. His translator is the Italian poet, Angela D’Ambra. John is the Flash Fiction Editor of Abstract Magazine TV, and he has read at venues all over New England, including the Mystic Arts Café, the Sunken Garden Poetry Festival, Hartford Stage, and many others. He teaches literature at Manchester Community College in Manchester, Connecticut, and lives with his wife, Carol, in Coventry, CT. www.johnlstanizzi.com.

Winston P. In the Poet’s own words, “In the summer Winston’s a hare chasing bicycles and winning by miles, in the winter he talks to moths about art, categorises lost jigsaw pieces and tunes the family silver. Each night his word art returns to roost guided by starlight from the pages of journals published worldwide, back to his floating home in Calderdale U.K. where he lives with his seventeen-year-old cat, Sausage.” www.winstonplowes.co.uk.