FOUR FEATHERS PRESS ONLINE EDITION: BITTER SWEET Send up to three poems on the subject of or at least mentioning the words bitter and/or sweet, totaling up to 150 lines in length, in the body of an email message or attached in a Word file to donkingfishercampbell@gmail.com by 11:59 PM PST on September 20th. No PDF's please. Color artwork is also desired. Please send in JPG form. No late submissions accepted. Poets and artists published in Four Feathers Press Online Edition: Bitter Sweet will be published online and invited to read at the Saturday Afternoon Poetry Zoom meeting on Saturday, September 21st between 3 and 5 pm PST.

Saturday, September 21, 2024

Marvinlouis Dorsey


What

has

happened 

to my

sha-

dow


how

many

colors


are

in eyes 

of

the 

foolish 


some-

one


has

us

in

this 


place

time


where

no one 

knows


how

ta

care

 




Sit-

ting

in room

of

echoes


who

knows

why

it

keeps

re-

peats

my-

self


could

it

be

open

space


fire truck

runs by


follo-

wing

what

she had 

been

sayin


i'm

sha-

ming

my-

self


no

one

comes

lookin

for me


be-

cause


its

hard

ta get

out

of

her

yellin






let me

stretch

my legs


his

head

has been

filled now


said

the

Muse


Michelle Smith


Freeze Frame Memories


A photo of frosted feathers

My car's window has captured

Freeze frame memories.

Elsa and Anna it's not your time.

Bitter fair weathered frenzy.

See the windshield wiper blade unmoved?

Brr. Snow art. Abstract or concrete?

Glass is it cracked or crystallized?

Amazed eyes behold the beauty

ice flowers patterned sweet.

Brr. Will Safelite repair, Safelite replace

Silver uniqueness of the winter's

Bitter bone chilling cold

Felt from a beanie covered head,

Rugged huge hooded parka,

with boot wearing feet and toes?

Freeze frame memories

may be a car carrying corpse

seated upright and ice laden

gloved hands possessing a cellphone.





Sea/See Poetry of Nature


The poetry of nature

or is it nature of poetry

Sea/See within my grasp?

Baked sunlight and sweet seasonal

time did not lapse.

Yes, we did enjoy the

intrigue of the land:

a clear blue-sky canvas,

the Sea of Cortez Ocean

tree leaves, limbs, and sticks

under my booted feet

a discovery of

a white small, shaped snail shell.

A tree trunk boasts

sea tree like moss

towering independently.

A green horseshoe and coiled brown

wooden sea snake or eel of wizardry

not hissing or hidden I recall.

Two five pale yellow pedaled buds

on a branch with ornamental gray dolphins.

The bittersweet biting wind taunts

my face. I want to envelop more

wishing to show and tell my late queen mom

about the floral green frond

from a childhood memory

and the yellow rays open it

a leafy starfish.

Winter leaves crack and crackle

clasped in my vintage and ample hands

becomes a 52-card pickup game

tossed and crispy nonedible salad

in the midst of fall.

Sea/See Poetry of Nature

is swimmingly having a ball.


PJ Swift

The Shadow Maker


Mr. X. lived his entire life in a shadow.  No matter where he was, what he was doing, or the time of day,  a shadow was always cast over him.  Mr. X. was accustomed to this shadow.  As a child, he tried numerous times to escape the shadow, but he never succeeded. No trick or quick movement on his part would suffice. The shadow prevailed.

Then one day, when he was well into middle-age, the all-covering shadow suddenly disappeared.  Mr. X. was instead shrouded by bright light.  Being used to the shadows, this light distressed him, both physically and emotionally.  Just as he had once had an urge to escape the shadow, now he wished to escape the light. But this too was impossible.  No matter where he was, Mr. X. was brightly lit.  He felt exposed, vulnerable and uncomfortable in his new role.   His distress grew greater than what he had ever known. 

But he learned to take comfort in his own shadow.  He had never cast one before, and now he had a constant companion, one that was always loyal and acting only his command.   After some time, Mr. X. realized that he would no longer be someone obscured or defined by a shadow, but that now he was the main actor, the one of influence, not the shadowed, but the shadow-maker.  


Friday, September 20, 2024

Patricia Murphy

BITTER


I am never bitter

But some people think they are

Better than me.

I disagree.

I speak my mind.


I am not one to be confronted

But camouflaged

Like a deer

In wait

For its mate.


Yet it's never too late

To take the bait

And smell your fate

Until it's a crate

Or a date.




SWEET


I can smell the sweet

Smell of success

Like a dress

Without a mess,

Or a fuss.


A sweet person

Is a lesson 

To be learned

When in turn

It is earned.


At best

We are in a test.

We must let it rest

And not distress

To beat the nest.


Against my breast

And not be distressed

As a guest

In a Holiday Inn.

We win.


Rob Tannahill

Gray Man Blues


I’m a ghost inside a meat suit

dirty blonde and eyes of ice

no desire for a square job

I’m a hustler tossin’ dice

the birthplace of this bastard

was up above the looney tunes

momma worked a double

on the day that I was brewed

she burned both ends of the candle

keeping up with baby booms

eleven o’ one p.m., Rockford, Illi-Noose

I’m a spirit in a flesh pod

who never learned how to choose

now this bittersweet gray man

sings the blues

 

let me tell ya about a girl

I’d be remiss to slush her

she was made of fire and flax

emeralds and disorders

her heart pumped straight-up caramel

her loins dripped honey bee puke

she nailed my heart to another man

and took the light out of my truth

now I’m walking to the gas hut

crimson shirt drips on my shoes

I’ll throw it in the dumpster

and get a free twelve pack of booze

drunken with my nipples bare

dreaming up new forms of doom

Dianne’s boy, sweetly bitter

with the blues.


now I’m forty, lost in Houston

on the withdrawal walk down Fannin

everyone here loves that cherry wine

I’m try’na find that bag of phantom

can’t remember how I got here

does the bus run when it snows?

gotta hightail it to Aldine

find a plug, powder my nose

cut me slack, babe, show me favor

let me drink deep of your flavor

with a crushed can and a bunch of change

waiting by the corner store

When I looked up to the starlight

something said, “Rob—that’ll do!”

my life is like an abandoned car

that’s still fat with unburnt fuel

what you think now, Mr. Bruni?

of these demons that consume me?

of the decades in the poison place

and the nightshade in my well

you said my epic would outlive me

but tonight I’m not so sure

every bet I make is even

they will never call me pure

my sweet soul still craves the spotlight

I guess it hasn’t heard the news

another cliché gray man

sings the blues.


gia civerolo

bittersweet *pomo haiku


She savored the taste


Bitter and sweet together


Like hurt and anger



*pomo stands for post-modern





sea level


How do I swim?

Across the sea

Of possibilities

Through ocean blue

 

Where each breath

Breathes tranquility

Past the surfers

Waiting for waves

 

I nosedive under

Beginning foam

Flying in liquid to

Bathtub water calm  


Sprinkles of sunshine

Diamond sparkling on

Droplets of sweet skin

Dolphins racing me

 

I beg them 

Take me with you

Bitter sadness when

I can’t see them 

 

Anymore. I promise

Myself one day

My ashes will blend

With the sea

 

I will finally get to be

The mermaid 

I always wanted to be

Someday

 



adult dress up


So, what will you be?

Once upon a time

When the trauma train

Stops running through

Your veins?


So, what will you be?

You packed your

Bitterness in a 

Beat up suitcase. 

Maybe?


Can’t walk away

As it goes

Round and round

On the carousel

Once upon a time? 


Mary Poppins

Whisked you away

To chalk paintings

Dripping wet pavements.

Once upon a times?


So, what will you be?

The absence of you

Is slowly being filled

Velvet petals, sweet 

Smelling Lavender fields


Wisp of a cloud’s smile

How could I possibly

Be filling up the hole?

Words you weave 

Reach me. Can I be whole?


What will you be?

What will you be?

What will you be?

It’s simple~

Love


Ambika Talwar


Climber's Search for the Love Code


Lines that curve uphill weave
fortitude and irony keeping
polarities together and apart.
Could this grand design be
part of an old song somewhere
sung in half autumnal tones? 
Lying in wait, Climber hides 
a love that's a bit bitter-sweet.

Will Sky crack love's codes?
Will notes from valiant heavens
fall on all our simmering ears,
so hearts of mountains
break open as Hanuman reveals
inner core of pure devotion?

Doorway creaks open to infinite 
something as-yet-to-be but not
known...not even unknown.
Climber's steps fold-unfold
where bitterest road winds  
up slopes where he runs blindly.
Chaos herself chooses rougher
road until she arrives at
a standstill to gaze at Climber.

Meanwhile, sly Time slips away
a fugitive for love... smilingly
suckles sweet succulent berries.
from old bushes – blue berries.


Reference: Lord Hanuman is the monkey god who in utmost devotion to Lord Rama and Sita, tore open his chest to reveal his heart, where they reside. Hanuman himself is supreme divinity of grace, strength, protection.






Way of the Lost Muse 

A strange sweetness thrills 
my pores when your music breathes
magnificent chords.
Universe becalms eros breathing in-out
and I become an imaginary guitar
a landscape to explore.
Your fingers from afar pluck my strings. 
You name me wild woman – Once wise woman.
An eyebrow raised, I say wise women are wild.

Your intense eyes embittered
try to make meaning of fractured wholes.
Your reckless laughter bridges gaps
between wry moments – and I?
I don’t know what to say. Imagine! – So I write.

Your cynical look gleams a sadness;
One can be anything, you might say.
In an universe of possibilities,
a pea fits in a pod, a silver tuning fork hums,
singing bowls refract light on geodesic domes.
A new landscape in each new moment.
The eye of a storm crescendos 
into heart of new birth.

If you cherish your dream – will your songs 
soar through steel? Worlds wait to be known.
Will you pleasure the world with bitter melons,
so sweeter fruit feed souls lingering...lost?

Mark A Fisher

arc


I watched a bitter orange moon

rise like fire over the mountain

to glow through smoky gray clouds

while the stars dance

between gaps in the clouds

as all the emptiness of space

compresses to mere firefly flights

between me

and you

and all the memories that fill up

between now

and then

when we watched meadows

be filled with moonlight

while dreaming different futures

we thought were the same

like the Venn diagram

of the shows we both liked

almost empty

like a universe

where insignificant dots

suck up all the meaning

like black holes

while what remains

is filled up by meaningless equations

that are true

like cosmic uncertainty

in the unopened box

awaiting its Pandora

to reveal unspoken of burdens

that weigh down

the tiny unnoticed lives

that look up

to see moons and stars

that no one else

notices


Thursday, September 19, 2024

Patrick Walters


i believe in

                     the way

she spends  

               her kiss

                       sometimes honey

sometimes vinegar



R A Ruadh

Bittersweet

They don’t really come
into their own until
everything else is past its prime

starting modestly enough
in pairs with one flowering
the other responding with
pale small berries

unassuming they blend in
with spring and summer bushes
stealing no one’s thunder

even as fall foliage
paints the woods in vivid hues
the berries turn a modest gold
playing a supportive role

after the trees shed
their colours all around
they step into the spotlight

against dark bare branches
the berries light tiny fires for solstice
capturing the sweet memory of sun
through the bitter winter

Jeffry Jensen


THE CATASTROPHE OF SWEETNESS


It all seemed so unspectacular on first glance.

What is a poet to do with a myriad of repressed fantasies?

As usual, rational thought went up in a blaze of incongruity.

Standing in a small dark space, I worked on my cheetah skills.

It dawned on me that there is no good reason for me to show

my possibly winning hand or any particular auditory slipups.

I got the feeling that something really powerful was messing

with my codes, with my sense of worth, with my soul.

This situation can bring on the most annoying bitterness,

can bring on a loss of balance, a loss of true governance.

The hallway was jam-packed with froufrou expressions

to twist in a Hammurabi moment into a ponderous fringe continent.

I strapped on a metal detector that has proven to find

all the sensory exotica that I can handle.

Maybe it comes down to the motion in the ocean,

I find the sparks are flying off the burning skillet of family phenomenology.

Coming around the corner on the dark side of my eyelids,

I frame a ritual ceremony in order to not surrender

to the elephant in the room that is the catastrophe of sweetness.


Radomir Vojtech Luza

Poetry, Chapter II


Poetry is not beautiful

Dutiful, bountiful or merciful 

Bitter or sweet


Or anywhere near as loud

As a coconut cloud

It is as large as the Pacific

And as deep as the specific


Poetry is a fading turquoise wall

Livid bathroom stall

Neutral hallway pall

Torpedoed suburban mall


Poetry tries

Yet lies

Gives to live

Dies to cry


Poetry bombards

Anchors lard

Cellophane stretching

Like NBA retching


Poetry murders

Silliness and slang

Sex and bling

T-Rex and a wedding ring


Poetry is an Iris

Nicknamed Cyrus

Growing like an unborn slut

Tearing in my eye

Like my mother's melting sigh




Missing Mercury


When the sun appears on Mercury

Rappers go inside

Idealists hide


Politicians burn

Pastors for a tranquil day yearn

Shadows stern

Rust turns


Mercury lost at a steep cost

Bitter moss

Planet number one

Does not get it done

Until moon dips its gun


Mercury chased

Gamma rays raped

Who tortures the weak

On this asteroid oblique


Tell me the truth

Why does Mercury weep

Never sleep

On its bed made of sheep?


Mercury rejected

Sun requested

Bile digested

Robert Frost bested


Mercury vaped Venus away

Earth another day

Equator to stay


Hot birds in May

Open the play

Picasso in clay

Mercury does not pray

Replay ballet




Sugar, Sugar


Sweet as a brand-new train seat

Not losing your head when sky is red

Bullet made of lead


Bloody day

Bitter gray

South of May

My soul is never here to stay


Fashioning clay

Made of a subtle stay

During this cursed malaise


Why won't my younger sister's bones break

For the lines she crossed

Lives she lost

Love she tossed


Sculpted raptor by the sea

Solving puzzles three by three

Take me through the Autumn breeze

Where only children learn to breathe


Wednesday, September 18, 2024

Lorelei Kay


Guarder of the Nectar


The red-throated hummingbird

perches on a branch near the patio

feeder, providing daily company 

as I peruse my morning paper.


As other hummers fly close,

they are quickly chased 

away in a blur of flight

by the defending sentinel.


Hour after hour, day after day,

he guards his territory, bolting

after any intruder who might

threaten his personal supply. 


Until—the day she flies by— 

the only one to make his manly

heart beat faster. Only his lady love

is allowed to hover, drink her fill.


Is her chirp a sweeter tone?

Her feathers a deeper sheen?

Her wing span more alluring?

Her beak tilt a touch more dainty?


Pushing aside my newspaper filled

with ongoing articles of the worldwide

pandemic, I consider the wiles

that won his heart.

Pondering such fragile ideas, 

my thoughts take

wing, and 

fly away.





My Toe


I have a sexy toe, 

a very sexy toe.

You will not believe 

how very sexy 

is my toe.

 

It wasn’t always so

that I’ve had a sexy toe. 

It had a little hump

and I tried to shave that bump

until red began to show.

 

Infection grew below

and around my saddened toe.

I took antibiotic,

but sepsis waged chaotic—

with pain my poor toe glowed.

 

To hospital to and fro

I took my weepy toe.

Doctor said “You must heal faster.

A skin graft I can master!

With a needle I will sew.”


I asked, “You will fix my toe,

in its sorry state of woe

with the skin from a cadaver?”

He said, “No, I would rather

not use cadaver for your toe.”

 

“I need soft skin for your toe.

Skin sweet as a Beauty rose.

I’ll use a baby’s foreskin,

yes, I said a little foreskin!

which on your toe will grow.”

 

I have a foreskin on my toe,

a fucking foreskin on my toe!

If you’ve never seen one,

maybe you can get one.

It’s a very sexy toe.

 

And it’s the big one . . .


László Aranyi


 (the message of sour taste…)


                                             drowned

                                             in salt

                                             water

                                                    the meat is sweet

  bitter shadow





(a savanyú üzeni…)


                                              sós 

                                              vízbe

                                              fulladt

                                                     húsa édes

                                       Ã¡rnyéka keserű


Tuesday, September 17, 2024

Shih-Fang Wang

The Distance


They had different opinions 

And quarreled over a matter 

End up turning their backs 

Against each other

And did not talk for days


It was about small things 

But they insisted on their stances

To safeguard their own dignities


The cold war persisted  

Gradually her heart softened

As she thought about his good


She gave him a warm smile

That was all needed 

To solve their impasse


Sometimes the distance 

Between bitter and sweet 

Is just a smile away


Tim Tipton

Chocolate Cake


A house late at night that lays

somewhere between today and

tomorrow holds a certain

quiet and aloneness that

attracts me

I look for comfort in the

kitchen to the only thing

still awake, the refrigerator

It doesn't not disappoint, it

has in store for me a forgotten

piece of chocolate cake

I sit at the kitchen table

with the cake, accompanied by

a tall glass of milk

the stars are shining bright through

the kitchen window

I break off a piece, bring it to

my mouth

The pastry sinks within my taste buds,

moist and sweet

The moment, simple and delicious

satisfies me

I fork the cake in and tell myself

I want to feel this way again and again




It’s crisp October and the high ocean air

Has a sweet scent of sapphire tinge.

Lights have just mislaid their color

outlying the five o’clock skyline

Car headlights come one, owls test the field

late sun striking tops of trees

Illuminating the poplar leaves

Sky transformed swiftly from warm to cold

A chill breeze urged past me

I heard wind chimes play a vigorous tune

As the crisp October night folded in.




The Arrival of Spring


A long winter has ended

The arrival of Spring pleases me

It’s sweet light is in full flourish

It fills my garden

Robins and sparrows and a pair of blue jays

fluttered through the trees with renewal

I pick up a garden hose and scatter a stream

of cold water on the begonias, calla lilies,

Bird of paradise and on the hollyhocks

After that on the ivy bed, the steps of the

front porch and the windows too

Everything in sight was bathed in a damp,

fresh glow.

I looked at the dripping trees, flooded front

porch, the sparkling flowers, the pools of water

on the lawn and the saturated driveway

I felt pleasingly rejuvenated and reborn


jf giraffe

MY FAVORITE TREAT (HAIKU)


Chocolate is sweet. 

At times it can be bitter. 

Still, it tastes so good. 




FEELINGS LOST FOREVER (HAIKU) 


Innocent and sweet.

Followed by cynicism. 

So hard to go back.


Ellyn Maybe

JEWELED MELODY (HAIKU) 


Neil Diamond Song

Sweet Caroline deeply rocks

Memory tugs heart




DISPLAY OF SADNESS (HAIKU) 


Life can be bitter

We live in a gallery

Heavy with ruin


Gerda Govine Ituarte

Harlem Summer


Summer program teach writing reading

seniors 70’s 80’s born in south

worked cotton fields migrate north

army of maids janitors raise families 


work hard eager to write spell their names

eyes wide open let themselves out me in

they call me baby honey sugar sweetie 

serious determined grateful


smile laugh clap their hands

spell out loud birth smiles laughter 

love to tell jokes

single men rare women plentiful


flirt bake homemade cakes pies cookies

daily fashion show

graduation day family members present 


every one wear Sunday best

whirlwind of colorful dresses

handsome men wear suits 


family friends celebrate

sing tell childhood stories

bow heads say prayer

moment of silence those departed 

 

ask who knows how to read write

response We do  We do

memories present hold hands

Lift Every Voice and Sing 


tears slide down our cheeks

happy cheers bear hugs cheers happy hugs

ask who knows how to read write

chorus respond We do!  We do!




Wordless Warrior


Fighting was her calling card

one she proudly claimed

tough  dare on two feet

foul mouth  hand gestures

sweet sixteen smile detoured

eyes hunt for prey

flash “don’t mess with me”




Poster Boy


Twelve-year-old boy soldier was asked 

what he missed the most after he was rescued

He said When I had a gun I never had to worry about food


Sweet faced boy with a green bandanna

Hair in his face shield eyes  


His fingers clutch ice cream cone

Pistachio.  A strawberry on top


AK 47 leans into him

He leans into camera

The ice cream melting


Dean Okamura


A few sweet morning poems

 

I believe one good poem 

can rescue a book of poetry 

in this world where luminous poems are few 

and most are great efforts. 


We listen with two ears. 

One low to the ground, 

hearing rumbles of buried hearts; 

the other is quite deaf, 

trained to ignore minor indiscretions. 


Our world deals us, 

without concern or lecture, poetry 

in season or out of season, 

ripe or decaying or developing. 

We fly across fields. 


While over the next hill, 

bright mists cover 

today's surprise, reason to smile. 

A solitary poem 

making its way through brambles of the vale, 

sweet journey of the fastidious bee. 





Rest, weary traveler

 

Rest, weary traveler 

Lay your burdens, down 

You were once a small child 

Innocence without plans 

Heart beats unburdened 

World troubles unchecked 


Rest, weary traveler 

Let your soul settle 

Take your needed rest 

Bathe in the peace of silence 

Emotions have their limits 

Quit striving to know 


Sweet lullaby rest 


You run and ran and then 

Relax, relaxation 


Harbor of temporary stay 

Rest, weary traveler 

Tomorrow, you will sail away 





Teshuvah
(Return)

Remember also your Creator in the days of your youth, before the evil days come and the years draw near of which you will say, "I have no pleasure in them."

— Ecclesiastes 12:1 (ESV)

 

In clarity, remember the Creator's grace,
the stars and moon, before they fade.
Before the strong men bend and break,
and shadows claim the paths we made.

 

The golden bowl, it gleams then fades,
a fragile thing, like all we hold.
I grasp its weight with trembling hands,
confessing now, I long for God.

 

After the gold bowl crumbles again,
I seek a quiet place, an embrace.
With repentance, I find my way,
and in this truth, sweet home.

 

 

Teshuvah, literally meaning “return," is a central theme of the High Holidays in Judaism, focusing on repentance and returning to God, moral purity, or community, through introspection, confession, and genuine transformation. Teshuvah is both a personal process and a cosmic force, restoring balance.

 


Carl Stilwell AKA CaLokie

mt-Eve 

COM LIT 250 SEMINAR IN CRITICAL BIBLE STUDIES: 

Loki: Around 200,000 years ago, later part of the Pleistocene Period, 

the first humans emerged in the region around Lake Victoria. The 

lake's area is divided among three countries: Kenya, Uganda, and 

Tanzania. Lake Victoria is Africa's largest lake by area, the world's 

largest tropical lake, and the world's second largest freshwater lake 

by surface area after Lake Superior in North America. The waters 

from Lake Victoria flow into the Mediterranean Sea through the Nile 

River. Mitochondrial Eve, also known as mt-Eve was born and lived in 

this region of Africa.

Amiri: (Plays his guitar while singing. Loki draws an African mask with 

marker on classroom whiteboard)

Rivers I have seen and rivers I have known

Ancient as the world and older than the blood

I’ve known rivers: 

All through Africa and North America

South America and Australia

I’ve known rivers:

I’ve known rivers 

in the North and South

I’ve known rivers 

in the East and West

I’ve known rivers all over this world

I’ve sailed some and seen the rest

I’ve known rivers

I’ve known rivers

Ancient, dusky rivers.

And my soul has grown deep 

Like the rivers

Like the rivers 

Like the rivers of my soul (1)

Wiki Lin: In human genetics, the Mitochondrial Eve, sometimes 

shortened to mt-Eve is the matrilineal most recent common ancestor 

of all living humans. In other words, she is defined as the most recent 

woman from whom all living humans descend in an unbroken line 

purely through their mothers and through the mothers of those 

mothers, back until all lines converge on one woman. (Loki finishes 

drawing and lays marker on tray.)

Loki: So honored to have the mother of all humans living today, 

Mitochondrial Eve. May I call you mt-Eve for short.

mt-Eve: No problem, Honey.

Maggie: Omigod! Black like Amiri and me. LOVE YOU, MAMA EVE!

mt-Eve: Love you back, baby!

Loki: In Genesis 3:20 Adam calls your name Eve because you are the 

mother of all living which according to the World Clock is over 8 

billion people who live on our planet today and counting.

mt-Eve: Mercy! Mercy! In my times we could wonder days without 

end in our forager-hunter bands without seeing anyone who looked 

like us. 

Okie: Wow! That’s a lot of birthdays to remember.

mt-Eve: No problem, honey. I’m in everybody born; everybody born 

is in me.

Blake: If you are mt-Eve, then where is mt-Adam?

mt-Eve: You must be thinking of the "Y-chromosomal member of 

Homo sapiens  

from whom all living humans are descended 

Patri lineally.  As to where this “Adam” is, your guess is as good as 

mine. You know how men are.  (Laughs)

Wiki Lin: Y-chromosomal Adam’ is thought to have walked the Earth 

between 120,000 and 156,000 years ago. But the researchers say it is 

‘extremely unlikely’ they were exact contemporaries.

 Cal: Have you encountered any Mitochondrial talking snakes who 

walk instead of crawling by any chance?

mt-Eve: Well, around campfires, my grandmother would tell a lot of 

stories about animals who spoke. The speaking and walking serpent 

in your Bible sounds like a trickster we’d often hear about in one of 

her stories.

Irene: Your grandmother? You weren’t the first woman on earth like in 

Genesis?”

mt-Eve: No, Honey, just the only one you can trace descent to 

everybody living today.

Cal: Like you said, Mama Eve, Genesis is a story, not history. All 

people have not been damned to burn in hell forever because Adam 

and Eve ate some goddamned apple. Ergo there’s no need to grovel 

before some preacher to get right with some old, bearded sky-god. 

Barry: Well then how do you account for all this wicked shit in the 

world that keeps happening like crime and war? My Presbyterian 

pastor says Adam and Eve fell into history.

mt-Eve: What is crime and war?

Loki: Some bad habits many of your descendants picked up along 

the way. Well, Mama Eve, it’s been a real pleasure visiting the African 

mother of us all.

mt-Eve: The pleasure is all mine, Sweet cakes.

Maggie: Sweet cakes? Where’d she pick that up?

Blake: From Kaylin Haught’s poem, “God Says Yes to Me”

 

(1) Gary Bartz’s Jazz rendition of Langston Hughes poem, “I’ve known Rivers”

CLS Sandoval

Bittersweet

Whenever I get bitterly lonesome for you at night,
I am compelled to hold my own body tight.
Deep within me, your sweet, sweet scent lingers,
And remnants of your body’s dew coat my trembling fingers.
My mind is simply consumed with this litter,
Because time without you is so very bitter.
Finally, my soul is able to find its retreat,
In memories of you, which are so very sweet.
Beneath my hardened surface, oh so tough,
Of you, I really cannot get enough.
Our sweet time together, for now, we must borrow,
And this thought alone fills my heart with bitter sorrow.
As I give in to my internal monologue,
I pray that we never see our love’s epilogue.
Your sweet scent always makes me so sure,
And it has become bitterness’s only cure.
Before I go so far away, I will see you just once more,
Walking away from you will leave me bitter and sore.
I do not know if I have the strength to turn around,
Because I revel in this sweet love that we have found.


I Can’t Let Go
Elephants carry their babies inside of their bodies longer than any other mammal for 22 months. I didn’t carry my babies in my body, but I keep bonded to them now.

Lionesses fiercely defend their young for more than a year, as to alligators, carrying their young from the nest to the water with the protection of their teeth. Like a lioness or alligator, I will defend my children to the death, and they may always take this for granted, as well they should. Sometimes I fear that I have taken my children for granted.

Chimpanzees stay bonded to their young well into adulthood and dolphins keep their babies on their breast for two or three years. I have never nursed my young, but I may have spoon-fed them too long.

Gray kangaroos carry their Joeys in their pouches after they are born and helicopter until they are finally independent. Sometimes I feel that I have kept my daughter in my pouch far too long and other times I feel I have allowed her to escape and hop away too soon.

Giraffes may, drop their babies from quite a height onto the ground at birth, but the females will travel with their mother often on until she dies. Many nights I fear that I stopped traveling with my mother for too soon. She’s still with me for now, but it feels like there’s far too much lost time.

Gazelles hide their babies in the grass and gorillas care for their young full-time until they are toddlers, and all mouth brutal fish keep their eggs safe in their jaws.  Orangutans wait seven or eight years between babies.  Their infants don’t lose physical contact with their mother for months and they nurse for over half a decade while orcas stay with their mothers for life. I may be an animal who is mothering too long. I know that I have never stopped needing my mother. Still I wonder if I am holding onto too tightly to my babies.




Poetry Club
He’s clad in tweed wrapped in burgundy
But I didn’t mean to notice
There’s a song in my heart in a duet with his soul
But we’ll never speak about it
The polls are in and you’d think I’d cry of defeat
But instead I’m sending another text
To ask how his day went
I’m still at the front of the room talking too loud, not meaning to hog the spotlight.
I’m still paying for that mistaken text I sent to the wrong man.
Perhaps I’m overselling him,
but I’ve never been so moved—maybe I just want to be liked.
They’ll never understand why I care so darn much.
I am that girl in the back of the room clad all in black who just tries not to be noticed, the blender after a spoon made a round, the tip of my Pointe shoe going for just one more pirouette, the crazy woman.

Karen Pierce Gonzalez




Jackie Chou

Bittersweet


I frequent fruit stands

for chopped mangoes

sprinkled with tajin powder


If they're crisp and sour

instead of soft and syrupy

I squint my eyes

wrinkle my nose

muttering "Bittersweet!"


The sandy wind

blows against my face

stings my eyes

blurs my view with tears

while ravens cry

"Bittersweet!"


The taste on my tongue

reminds me 

of adolescence 

my lips curled 

into a single word 

"Bittersweet"


Lynn White

Bury Me Deep


Bury me deep in the tall meadow grass

and bury me deep in your arms.

Lie with me here in the sun ripening flowers

where the blue of the sky hides the clouds.


Bury me deep in your cool white sheets

and kiss my eyes and my mouth.

And as the warmth of your body flows in to mine

I’ll bury you deep in my arms.


Oh, bury me deep beneath darkening skies

and hold me close to your heart.

And buried deep with our love complete

we’ll sleep covered over in stars.


But the future lies with us heavy and dark.

It has bitter sweet memories of now.

With the tastes of the past buried deep in our love

the tastes of the future are sharp.


I can see both the stars and the blackness of night,

the blindness and brightness of love.

The past and the future cast shadows of time

so bury me deep in your love.


And bury me deep in the tall meadow grass

and I’ll bury you deep in my arms.

And lie with me here in the sun ripened flowers

where the blue of the sky meets the clouds.


First published in Quail Bell, February 2017




The Last Word


It’s almost done.

We’re close to the end

of the sweet times

and into

the too wet

too dry

too bright

too hot

bitter

empty end

If I could turn back time

I’d see flocks of birds

flying into the sunset

migrating 

as they did for millennia.

I’d see the too loud gulls

swooping and diving

in raucous frenzy 

to fill the sea and the sky.


Now there’s just one.


I’ve nothing more

to say.




Picnic 


Gather round!

Who dares first will win the prize,

fly away with the sweetest bite,

the most crumbly crumb,

most fleshy fruit.

Gather round!

Wait till they look the other way.

There’s safety in numbers

and they’ll be feeling sleepy

from drinking the sweet wine,

and bitter beer from the bottles.

Gather round!

There’s enough to share.

No need to wait for them to go.

They’ll only leave the tiny morsels

and we’ll have to scavenge for them 

in the grass.

All together now!

Here we go!


David Fewster

AMBROSE BIERCE WRITES "MEXICO CITY BLUES"


1.

They call me bitter--

geez, who could blame me?

How much money did that

son-of-a-bitch Sammy Clemens

make?

And he lost it all, too--

what a fucking idiot.

At least they'll never make

one of MY books into

a movie starring

Bing Crosby.


2.

That Kerouac fellow is

on to something--

just write a bunch of gibberish

on a scrap of paper

and when the paper's full

call it a poem.

It doesn't even have to

make sense.

Man, all those years I wasted

writing long lines with big words

and rhymes and

plus I had to fill entire

newspaper columns.

Well, I won't be one of those geezers

who can't take a pointer

from the young'uns!


3.

I think the peyote

is helping with my asthma.

Gotta swill a lot of

tequila to keep that shit down,

tho.


4.

Pancho Villa came by today--

he wants me to ghost

his autobiography.

Exciting!

This is why I came here,

to bring the story of

the glorious Mexican Revolution

to my readers back home.

Fuck Huntington and

the rest of those

capitalist pigs.

Will start as soon as

we iron out the

screen rights details.

Pancho also said

that tequila undermines

the efficacy of peyote

in alleviating COPD,

and suggested instead

a concoction of goat's milk

and saltpeter.

Luckily, he had a dozen jars

of this in his saddlebags,

which he traded me for

my case of tequila.


5.

A miserable week.

The rancid goat's milk gave me

a debilitating case of

explosive diarrhea, while simultaneously

the saltpeter triggered a series

of huge, painful erections

that only served to remind me

of my disastrous marriage.

Also, since Villa left the other day,

I have been unable to

find my watch.

I've lost 10 pounds and

my remaining faith in mankind.


6.

I'm off to the Land

of the Tarahumara,

where I'm told there are

wild shamans who conduct

elaborate ceremonies with

psychotropic herbs that

reveal the key to the cosmos

or some such hippie shit.

Leaving first thing in the morning,

just me and a pack mule.

What the hell, I'm 72

and if I croak in the desert

it's all the same to me.

May the condors lick

the putrid flesh from my bones

and find it sweet.


Marie C Lecrivain

bittersweet symphony


raindrops scatter

along with a skirl of notes

from a mockingbird perched

on a barren tree branch


this abrasive duet

binds itself to the edge

of my slumber until

the shrill ping of the alarm

shatters the moment


& I arise from my bed

suspended in regret

with an earful

of staccato shards




The Anchor


My cat hooks his paw

into my hip while he sleeps,

a reminder I’m necessary 

for food and other matters.


This reminds me of when

we once shared a bed;

a bad idea from the start.


You, always wrecked with pain

and wrapped in nightmares, 

would loop an arm around my waist

and groan with relief, 

as I became an anchor 

to keep you from drifting away

to a place of which you feared

but never spoke 


What I never told you

was what you cost me;

the hours, the dreams,

and sleep I lost

as you relaxed into safety, 

and spread out in the bed.


Over time, I was pushed

little by little, to the edge.

I tried to talk about it

but was told to suck it up

by single bitter friends

who’d trade their lives 

for one night

of entangled limbs,

and a litany of snores.


I began to resent

your obstruction

of my comfort and rest,

until one evening,

when I was stricken

with a migraine,

and elected to sleep alone.


This was the moment

that through my own pain,

I breathed a sigh of relief

as I reclaimed my space

and sanity.


Alex S Johnson

Bitter Suites to Succubi

With a nod to William Blake and Jim Morrison 

And in the end you've 
got to
take 
the 
bitter pill
with the
sweet, sweet 
savor

Of breast, leg, 
throbbing v-shaped format fuzz

Just because you're 
born is not a 
guarantee
of

Anything.

There are no 
proprietary 

Rights to
sweet
sweet

Delight and

Some truly are

Born to endless

Night. 





Killing Hearts

Huffing reality
from a 
bottomless 
paper
bag

Saturated with
the glue that
binds
strange 
attractors to 
whatever 
matters

It's black 
it's white

It's sweet
it's sour

even, at times,
the bitter, the
bitterest of
dregs

Costumes sewn by death hags
cackling as they get their

Ghoul on.

The change in 
the electric charge of

Air 

Holds form like a 
lover's 
tender 

Hands of 
rain

The ability to feel

The ability to grow

The ability to acknowledge

The ability to 

Sever

Ties to 

Whatever makes up
things

Zips shut 
the pain like the
mouth of a 

Gimp
mask.

Bitter
Sweet
Sweet
Bitter 

An oroborus braid.

That takes a 
cue from

Broadway 
musicals and 
Greek 

Tragedy.


Marvinlouis Dorsey

What has happened  to my sha- dow how many colors are in eyes  of the  foolish  some- one has us in this  place time where no one  knows how...