ubterranean Blue Poetry
Volume IX Issue III

The Masthead:

"The Covid Diaries: Cat on the Piazza"

San Georgio, Venice. 1955

by Rudy Buckhardt

“Poetry writings created during the Covid epidemic, stories of alone, stories of family and friends,
stories of love affairs, stories of abuse, stories of struggling with disease, stories of loss,
stories of survival, stories of walls and ceilings and sky . . .”

"Nigel the black cat under the dark sky slips through the fence . . ."

"on a good day, lipstick, rouge et rose et rose on a bad day the rain hold a funeral peace of the angels to you running gun tag it is raining, raining flowers from heaven tea soak branches that flower the silence haunted spaces places my heart goes and something like ammacord heat and light ammacord night ammacord shades of London Bixby the cat in the moonlight lost . . . this could go on all night the white of poetry the dress of poetry (Emily Dickinson in her garden) o' blue sweeter said sweet hallway movie your love affair is a political event tandem movies porn is an aesthetic deep in the night in a church basement fashioning clay push, push the bounds tears fall, falling down streets falling down the dark rain "I am not the war, I am the peace" king Roby, king Roby permissions movies they all look so young secret caches of language of permissions of poetry of meaning of place an entire routine of carefully placed people an antique chair an antique table where the servants ate . . . the war games the plague in the moonlight and the ghost of Friday the cat on a Monday day holiday cats waiting for the last train . . ."

Subterranean Blue Poetry
Volume IX Issue III
(March 2021)

Subterranean Blue Poetry

© 2021


by Louise Carson

A late night meditation,
musing not fretting,

warm in my bed on soft sheets,
my skin the perfect temperature,

rain falls a few drops per second,
old names drip into my head,

people who danced at my wedding,
divorce meant I didn't hear the end of their stories,

plotting a parallel existence - what if? -
but knowing I enjoy the rain more alone,

alone, alone, singing the sound,
the rain falls so slowly its imprints almost miss.


by Louise Carson

Children's pictures: drawings
          with a sun
                    in the upper right hand corner

Mommy and Daddy
          holding hands
                    Mommy in her dress

That reliable icon announces
          you may pee here
                    if you are a little girl

Next door is where your brother goes
                    once he has become efficient

And the blue sky and green grass
          maybe flowers
                    maybe your pets

Any other image
          war excepted
                    (war is always accepted)

Any other image: the sun underground
          flowers in the sky
                    raining down

Is - difficult -
          is - strangeness -


by Louise Carson

The clock face shines a moony glow,
floats from the shelf, inserts its ticks
between those of the kitchen clock.

                                                            And the beat
of the arrhythmic heart, valves stuttering,
is steadied by a cough.

The light clicks on and the clock face warms,
blends with book and ornament,
another object to line the nest
where rest is sometimes not an option.

Tick tock tick.
Imagine what you wish.

The moon on the snow
or the snow on the moon.


by Neha Maqsood

Stewed in the ground to reap a mineralised tongue,
in this glitch in time. mill's
turn countless revolutions

traversing Revolutions, as wildlife stays wild. insom-
niacs project the craters of the moon. the
clock rewinds

to mend the disc in his back and grease the joints in her

knees. rusted coins flake off in a coat pocket, fashioning

specks of copper dust illumi- nating a tedious task. life is

now deliberately lead as the silence of noise mingles

in an apocalyptic standstill.


by Tom Barlow

This fortune cookie is as stale as the fortune,
for now that I rarely leave my sun room
and no one comes to the door any more
but the delivery drone, the probability of
any promised chance meeting is nil.
Unless it perhaps refers to a paramedic,
with his ax and defibrillator.

Thankfully, I can still count on
this container of kung pao chicken. Indeed,
my days are best measured by the variety of meals,
nations taking turns marching down my throat
and declaring war through the evening.

I wish for a fortune that would remind me
that carryout food is the manna of the forlorn,
that at my age every breath I take is a gift,
that I dare not ignore the next knock on the door.
It could be the visitor I've been expecting,
a new pal who will make sure I'm never lonely again.


by Carol Casey

I never knew how much of touch defined me
till disinfectant became the new border.
No more warm, fuzzy welcome to the land
of me,
no hope you enjoyed your stay, come again

I'm turning into a ghost, not scary, just
unsubstantial as the layers built for/by others
peel off, fade away. This garment's slipping
now, red, ragged, stinky. I look in the mirror
and see not even a vampire's invisibility,
just the ordinary flicker of a fleeting flame.
Some days I feel too old for destiny, or
All the decrees that chop, shred, divide are
hunting down small birds to trap, taunt,
This forest is full of predators formed from
the contorted mirrors of those who've gained
entrance through the wounds they inflicted.
Every day I must get past them, knowing
they feed on fear. Each time I walk through,
they dissipate like fog, bide their time.

We two hug more often these days. Just to
verify ourselves, I think. We face-time
with grandchildren, growing up fast on the
planet Jupiter, shed tears for the storage bins
of hugs and kisses moldering past their
expiration date;

Although I am in favour of descent in
general there is a flip of the mind switch
that needs not so much to be explored
as seeded with creation, made green,
then possibly pruned a bit to let sunlight in.
I quiver with imperfect knowledge of good
and evil. An apple of a prize. Being woman,

perhaps I'm touchier about this, want to
get the snake right. My backyard is sanctuary.

all slithery reptiles welcome, for we both
have been pornographically demonized
for form alone, both feel the need to hide
from predators. Both must shed our skins.
I crave love, connection, not sure if the snake
or whether she is happier in solitude,
longing only for sunshine and a full belly.

I commune with disembodied voices,
talking heads, printed words and visions
from cyber space. How can you tell what's

Over-sanitized, under-washed,
my ragged fragments toss about in each wind.

Eventually the garment will blow away.
Time to spin something new, stronger.
Out of what? Some soggy anger mats,
a huge black fear-of-abandonment shroud,
some silver threads of intensity
following their needle of ambition,
a wide expanse of pride, some polyester guilt,

a few colourful yarns of creativity.
Some stained satin sheets of love say
why make another costume? Now is the
when nobody's looking, to work what is.
Keep on sorting, mixing until it makes sense
then sleep on it and see what dreams will

I walk on grass, watch geese raise their
on the pond out back, envy their disregard
for social distancing. Within this pupa stage,
I sleep, spinning dreams around a fathomless


by Marvyne Jenoff

Down the windy tree-lined street my flimsy mask blew off:
my fault, I wore it under my nose,
protecting no one.

As the wind propelled me home to get another mask
a hat flew past me,
old woman’s hat, gnarled flowers

and a child’s doll flew past
then the doll house
then one of those fat plastic tricycles

Safely up the elevator to my unit
--mad winds out there, and purple clouds--
I searched not for another flimsy mask
but the means to make a proper one:
tight-woven fabric from an extra pillowcase
and a filter: tissue, dryer sheet?

I like to make things. As I was peacefully sewing
enough masks to save everyone in my building
a branch flew up to my 12th-floor window and crashed through,
a rat sprang out from among the glass-torn leaves

But I am in the other room embroidering the masks
with stiff but pretty cross-stitch flowers no wind would ever covet.
Ten masks a day I’ll make
till everyone on my street is rescued, even their dogs

and I, too, am saved, forgiven,
nay, heroic.


by Edilson Ferreira

We found ourselves in the deserted streets,
and twinned in the challenge and fearlessness
to the enacted isolation.
Compelled by the oddity of the moment,
we delighted in such a privacy,
fruit and reward for our boldness.
Our love blossomed, suddenly and calmly,
honest, pure and original,
- secluded inhabitants, entrusted by destiny -
to start a new world.
Let time stop, give this dream a lot of rope,
like the new toy we get for Christmas.
Don't be lost the magic, take root in the ground,
bathe in the water that blesses, baptizes and revives.
Let it be heir to the best of our stories,
the best of our hopes.


by James Croal Jackson

I don't know how to help.
I have been in my house,
mouth shut, for months and

when I speak, it is the wrong
thing, so I apologize
for everything. Mostly I am sorry
I didn't burn the station





Tim Dlugos

when I no longer
feel it breathing down
my neck it's just around
the corner (hi neighbor)


San Francisco Craigslist - Missed Connections - June 13th, 2020 - v.

quarantine blues (richmond/seacliff)

I'm a guy in my thirties, you're a woman

lets hang out, i'm tired of the covid life, this
loneliness feels like it could last forever and I want
to reach out and touch someone.
My name is V.

i'll ride to you on my motorcycle, maybe you like
those, or maybe not, its ok.


(N.B.: "where is my beautiful coffee shop?" - a note from the Editor

"where is my beautiful YMCA?" - a note from the other Editor

"where is my beautiful library?" - says the cat

"i'm thinking of adopting another cat, but the Rescues are closed" - says Madame X

"but you already have 12 cats" - says Machiavelli

"then i'll adopt a dog" - says Madame X)



Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry

Title of Book: Pixel Boy in Poetry World

Author: S.T. Cartledge

Publisher: CLASH Books

Date of Publication: 2019

Pages: 50

"Wishing you were next to me
You are my pixel girl . . ."
- from Pixel Girl by L33tStr33t Boys

"We're all swimming in a koi pond . . ."
- from Koi Pond by Matt Easton

Spellbound. Lost inside a Game Boy, some lost love song written from inside the machine, a generation "Y" write in New Gothic poetry progression, Pixel Boy in Poetry World by S.T. Cartledge and Clash Books. S.T. Cartledge has published three books of poetry with Eraserhead Press, Orphanarium, Cherry Blossom Eyes and Beautiful Madness. He lives in Australia, married with a child and numerous cats and dogs.

This book of poetry is in two parts, the first, begins with the surreal, someone inside a Game Boy, wandering, a distaff on the "matrix," lost and misconstrued bed rites in neo-classical images within images of the New Technology. The images of the video game are entwined with the love affair with poetry world, and the beautiful enigmatic Poetry Girl. A haunted meltdown with Poetry Girl, a sci-fi journey, on the edge of "The Mystery" in post-apocalypse nightmare.

"Right now, the homescreen exists without him.
It exists within him by proxy
like a shell taken from the beach
is a reminder of the beach.
The white noise waves call him back,
the bit-crushed ocean calls him back."

The second book is titled "It's Always Raining Bosho In My Mind", a poetic prose piece that dreams inside the imagine of Basho. A mythology of inside, the imago of Basho the Poet, the inside writing of haiku, the art of Cartledge bounds in ecstatic imagine, a mix of poetic prose, Beat and Haiku inspired verse. This offering is profound, enigmatic and flies on images of dragons in the sky. Truly inspired and inspiring. As if written in the memory of some lost Edo shrine, Pixel Boy in Poetry World by S.T. Cartledge, a brilliant write.

Available @ CLASH Books and Amazon.ca.




Rebecca Anne Banks

(A serialized long poem in cycles)

a silence descends over Troy the battlefield rings with silence "their ships! their ships! where are their ships?" "are they really gone?" in the morning they open the gates of the city the discovery . . . the very large statue or is it a sculpture? it looks like a horse . . . silence . . . and the ships are gone the soldiers are gone . . . the people of Summerkand gather . . . a single cry of sheer joy . . . they begin to dance dancing perhaps the rain the bloodletting will stop perhaps this is a gift a peace offering . . . their Spirits soar! the men gather bring the giant Trojan horse into the city . . . she is alone the good maid leaves a plate of food by her closed door in silence every night as for the past 10 years in silence she barely eats . . . concerned that she is alone, more concerned that she will escape with Ulysses, his mother has her moved to the castle main, the sun Le Roi finds his way to her he is carrying a large black tarp to hide her under she is surprised begins to smile he says "Paris is dead" she doesn't understand he says "Paris is dead" she is shocked no one had told her . . . Hecuba enters the room "Leave or I shall call the guards" hastily Ulysses departs . . . she confronts his mother Hecuba says "do you really think you deserve to know?" "his body was burnt in the towne square over 2 months ago". . . la rien becomes chagrined and begins to feel something like hatred for this woman . . . tears streaming down her face she careens out of hiding finds her way to the towne square . . .

the people are celebrating                             "The Horse"                              "The Horse"                          "The Giant Horse"
                                         the bees swarm                          at the entrance                          they swarm,

                                    the summer Le Roi                        in her thoughts                       she realizes
the intruder the wasp                                the drones                                    surround                           the Queen Bee

he may be inside                         the offering                         does not want to reveal him
                               she stirs                           she stirs                                                                  spins spins spins

heads back to the castle . . .                         the nightfalls                        quickly the soldiers
                                             the drones                             the wasps                                          stream through the entrance

unfasten the inner door                              careen on the sleeping guards                                surprised they wake
                                      the wasps swarm                                                      spins spins spins

                               are murdered                                    bedlam the soldiers open the gates
the drones sting                           the giant wasps sting                                                                roils the hive

the ships are back in the harbour                       the Fire King and his soldiers                                swing the swords the swords
                                                       the heat                                                                in the blood heat

                        makes way to the castle                        every last Trojan soldier down . . .                             he finds her
the blood                                                     the fever                                                                    the Queen bee                           stirs

he is winded goes to strike her                          the summer Le Roi raises his sword
                                                   moves moves                                                                      the Queen's drones move

against the Storm King, protects her                                             they fight, they stop
                                                                  into the antechamber                                    the wasps

the storm lowers his sword                   he shouts orders                                                          the women and girl children
                                             roil                                              the dark enlarged estrus bee                                         pushed

the cries, cast in chains                                   the boy children                                                        cast in chains
                                         towards the entrance                               the wasps sting her cotillion                             thrust at her

thrown from the cliff                         to the rocks below                                    "there will be no revenge"
                                    the poison                                 murders the Queen Bee                                         the wasps

the women are corralled                        down to the ships                          the cries, the crying
                                           le sombre                                      in darkness                                          the bodies grow cold . . .

(To be continued . . .)

"cito, longe, tarde"
"flee soon, go far, come back late"
- Popular saying during the Plague

"black cat in twilight skies walks . . ."



Rebecca Anne Banks

can't sleep sing me a lullabye so quiet in the night she, who takes no prisoners my heart the women of Auschwitz series #56 my Vesuvius thanks you spin, spin spinning cell reels past the line of scrimmage pony girl pony boy kid Mahone Bay bone nuts stereo fomo I don't know why? muther knows "happy*happy*I*had*been*" f!cking up day covers the colour of Kingdom come blue skin and bones and touch and feel/no feel premium art Rosie, Rosie Kampala . . . Binky in blue twilight shadow scenes blue suspended blue to bed dear (k)night for the lost and lonely wrapped in dirty white sheets in the back of refrigerator trucks bracelets for names bang, bang the goodnight "T.S. Eliot is dead" bang, bang the goodnight "T.S. Eliot lives" take a daylights tour through the day hoods sing blue the inside of city streets sing welcome after the war . . . Vietnamese garden songs . . .


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 family cookbook, a book of children's stories, a book of World Peace Newsletters, all available at Amazon Stations. She has produced 3 CD's of Folk/Rock music and has 17 CD's 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.

Tom Barlow is an Ohio poet whose work has appeared in journals including The Stoneboat Literary, Ekphrastic Review, Voicemail Poetry, Hobart, Tenemos, Redivider, Harbinger Asylum, Heron Clan, The Remington Review, Your Daily Poem, and many more. See more at www.tombarlowauthor.com.

Louise Carson has published eleven books, her two latest - Dog Poems and The Cat Possessed (mystery) in 2020. She's recently been published in Grain, Queen's Quarterly, Prairie Fire and Event. And had a poem selected for The Best Canadian Poetry in English 2013. She also writes historical novels, one of which, In Which, was shortlisted for a Quebec Writers' Federation prize in 2019. Louise lives with her daughter and pets in St.-Lazare, Quebec.

S.T. Cartledge lives and works in Australia. He has published three books of poetry Orphanarium, Cherry Blossom Eyes, Beautiful Madness with Eraserhead Press and Pixel Boy in Poetry World with CLASH Books.

Carol Casey is a member of the Huron Poetry Collective and the League of Canadian Poets (Associate). Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and has appeared in Fresh Voices, Stanza, The Leaf, The Prairie Journal and Synaeresis as well as six anthologies, No Corners to Hide In, The Language of Dew and Sunsets, Women Who Care, Much Madness, Divinest Sense, Tending the Fire and i am what becomes of broken branch.

Tim Dlugo (Poet) born in Springfield, Massachusetts. Became a member of the Christian Brothers in 1968 and left in 1971 to become a political activist for peace, write poetry and persue a gay lifestyle. He fell ill with AIDS in 1989 and died in 1990. He is widely known for the poems he wrote while on the AIDS ward, G-9, Roosevelt Hospital, Manhattan. In his lifetime he wrote and published Je Suis Ein Americano (1979) and Entre Nous (1982). After his death, his friend David Trinidad edited his papers and published A Fast Life: The Collected Poems of Tim Dlugos which won a Lambda Literary Award. Artist Philip Monaghan painted a series of work inspired by Dlugos' poem Gilligan's Island the exhibition (2011) held at Fales Library, New York University, where his papers are archived.

Edilson Ferreira, 76 years, is a Brazilian poet who writes in English rather than in Portuguese. Widely published in international journals in print and online, he began writing at age 67, after retiring as a bank employee. Since then, he counts 148 poems published in 227 different publications, (all originally written in English), in 44 selected literary journals. He lives in a small country town, Formiga, Minas Gerais state, Brazil. Nominated for The Pushcart Prize 2017, his first poetry collection, Lonely Sailor, One Hundred Poems, was launched in London, November 2018. www.edilsonmeloferreira.com.

James Croal Jackson (he/him/his) is a Filipino-American poet. He has a chapbook, The Frayed Edge of Memory (Writing Knights Press, 2017), and recent poems in Sampsonia Way, San Antonio Review, and Pacifica. He edits The Mantle Poetry (www.themantlepoetry.com) and works in film production in Pittsburgh, PA. www.jamescroaljackson.com.

Marvyne Jenoff. In the Poet's words, "I have had four books published by Canadian literary presses, in addition to appearances in journals and anthologies. I live in Toronto." www.marvynejenoff.org.

Neha Maqsood is a Pakistani journalist whose writing on race, religion, Indo-Pak relations, and global feminism has been published in Metro UK, Express Tribune, Foreign Policy, Women Under Siege and other places. In 2019, she was the recipient of the Black Bough Readers Award for Poetry. Her poetry chapbook, Vulnerability is scheduled for publication by Hellebore Press for 2021 and was awarded the Hellebore Poetry Scholarship Award.