Thursday, August 21, 2025

Tim Tipton

Metropolitan Tide


The strange fragrance of modern buildings

Hot street lights dazzle larger than most stars

Purple silent moon looms over jungle traffic

Sounds of strong edges of people and urban clamor

To be in beautiful soft neighborhoods at night

The city in my hand

The night will leave at dawn but

the feeling won’t

Casual pain of anxious thought of longing to be

Out there with you in the dark.




Love Parade


I remember my first time making love

to a girl I liked.


The feel in her thighs, ripe to the touch.

The quickness of my hand across her back,

her goose pimples tickled like salt from

the sea air just after a storm. Eyes the

light of a full spring moon.


We threw each other against the wall and

climbed on each other like a ladder.


My feelings for her were big and alive.

I felt like a creature. She was quiet like

her mother’s garden with very little to say.


When we said goodbye I came to kiss her,

but she turned her cheek to me. My last sight of her was

as she left, her mouth soft, wide, and affectionate.


Outside a parade marched through a city

street consuming my feelings of

longing and loss.




Black on Black


Outside my sleeping house,

Between the black asphalt street

and the deep black starry night

A late comer

To Mr. Sandman’s sleep-over,

Drags in at 3 am

Singing:

I have a crush on you, sweetie pie.


jf giraffe 🦒

DECISIONS (Haiku) 


Streetwise innocent

Not sure how to handle life

Misjudged everything 




CURIOSITY (Haiku) 


Crack in a sidewalk

Child looks down and takes a peek

Treasures to be found




SLOW MOVING (Haiku) 


The streets are narrow

like minds of politicians 

Tough to get somewhere 


Ellyn Maybe

Kaleidoscopic (Haiku)


Magical moment

The street has its own wishes

Stars shimmered above




 Wisdom (Haiku)


Leonard Cohen wrote

about the crack in it all

how the light gets in




Endless Whirl (Haiku)


The street is teeming

with all it never forgets

civilizations


Wednesday, August 20, 2025

Tim G Young

NEW TAR


Sometimes men come to splash

Black tar across the cracks in the macadam

Of the street in front of my house

I never see them

Has to be a very early gig

The new tar always reminds me

Of a painter’s brush strokes

Heavy and fat, delicate and thin

However not something

I’d hang on my wall.




CROSS COUNTRY


I’ve driven my car cross the country

Over smooth roads and cracked

So many roads going to

So many places

It can be very confusing

And high speed racer drivers

Can sneak up from behind

And pass

After a lengthy tailgate

Makes me angry

Makes me wish my car as like

One in a cartoon

So when I pressed a red button

It would rise up off the ground

Jump over the tailgater

And deposit me at the nearest exit

I would have a mile long laugh


Edward S Gault


FINDING PENNIES


My wife is lucky.

She always finds pennies

When she looks down.

She’ll see them on the sidewalk,

Sometimes wedged in the crack.

We’d be crossing the street,

And just as cars are gunning their engines,

She would bend over, and pick it up.

Not just pennies,

But also, nickels, dimes, and quarters.

Once she even found a twenty-dollar bill.

That doesn’t count, though.

It was the twenty dollars she found in my pocket

As she was doing the wash.

The universe picks my pocket

Then gives the change to my wife.

This adds up enough to get the laundry done,

But never enough to pay the landlord.

And the guys from the utility companies

Always want more.

The landlord and the gas guy have a contest 

with each other to see

who can get more out me.

Instead of sending me their measly bills,

They should just start looking for pennies on the ground.


Mike Turner

Enemy’s Embrace


‘Tis not the thief in the night

Which is the enemy

Nor even night itself

But time

Rising as a mist from the streets

Deep, chilling, relentless

Oozing up through chinks and cracks

Of what is left of the present

Subsuming all

Swallowing the last rays of sunshine

Dimming to hazy twilight

Until the final mote of day is winked out

Leaving only blackness

And eternity itself becomes without meaning

Because when no more change is to come

No more future beckons

When light and hope and memory are all taken from us

Even “now” becomes without form

Ceasing relevance

And time bares the menace of the infinite

As we sink in its embrace

Entombed

In an instant




(Untitled haiku)


Cracked mirror’s image

Reflects different perspectives

Of a central truth




Poetry Cracks


“Poetry”

Is the crack

In our armor

That allow our souls

To shine forth


(After Leonard Cohen)


Rebeca Thomas

Luberon Ètude


Wild thyme, wild thyme

Always looking for some

Wild thyme


Searching for growth

In the street cracks

On this dusky road

In Bonnieux 


Provence presents

The calls of peacocks

And tree frog songs

As the moon rises 


Wild thyme, wild thyme

Always looking for some

Wild thyme


In silver light

My fingertips are kissed

By starry saxifrage

Thriving betwixt cool limestone


Almost home now

The crunch of cedar twigs

Beneath my feet

I see the porch light glow


Wild thyme, wild thyme

In the south of France

I finally found

My wild thyme 


Mary Mayer Shapiro

BORN DIFFERENT 


What makes a male characterlike  

What makes a female characterlike 

Females can feel more 

Masculine 

Males can feel more 

Feminine 

Mind not in right body 

Comes naturally 

More comfortable 

True self 

Do not think 

About it 

More natural 

True self 

Felt from the beginning 

As a young child 

Born into a wrong body 

Born different 

Who to say what 

Is right or wrong 

Who is to judge 

The little fertile egg 

With all DNA 

Inherited from 

Mother and father 

By chance 

No choice  

Accept the difference 

In me 

It is what makes the person 

Who you are 

No need for judgement 

Cracks, jokes 

Afraid you cannot cope 

Born in the wrong body 

Just making it right 

Why label me 

Transgender 




ANGRY EARTH 


Take care of me 

Please 

Do not poison my soil 

Drill into my crust 

Causing tremors 

Shakes, eruptions 

Turmoil 

Disruptions of turbulences 

In oceans, seas 

Provoking waves 

Invading the land 

Hurricanes, downpours 

Disorder  

Throughout the earth 

Landslides 

Volcanic explosions 

Glacier liquefying 

Factories, autos, fires 

Pollution in the air 

Earthquakes 

Cracking land 

Falling buildings 

Bridges dismantle  

People trapped  

Please take care 

Of me 

Or 

Father time will 

Do us in 




DEAD END STREET


Street you grew

up on

Family

Not by blood

Everyone looked

Out for each other

Summer parties

All bringing a dish

Barbecues

Kids were like

Cousins

Many grandmas

Aunts and uncles

Time passes

Grow up. move on

Come back

Grandparents move

To nursing homes

Or died

Parents retired or

Go South

Cousins, grew up

Moved, jobs

Families

Only strangers 

Remain

Street you grew up

Houses, lawn

Stationary

All that was left

Just

Memories that

Once was

Strangers, not

Family

Houses, not

Homes

Not by choice

All is changed

There is no

Going back


Tuesday, August 19, 2025

David Fewster


NORTH BEACH IN THE 21ST CENTURY


Sitting in Caffe Trieste

on a Saturday afternoon,

where I never go

because it's always so damn crowded

and as it is I'm crammed between

the ATM machine & the restrooms.

Plus, I have to keep going outside

every 10 minutes to smoke

standing on the sidewalk 25 feet

from the entrance per regulations,

which you never had to do in the day of

Bob Kaufman, Gregory Corso, and Jack Micheline,

because then you could

bloody well smoke anywhere,

even in surgery.

And it occurs to me that

back in 1982 when I lived here,

I could've actually seen

those 3 guys, and maybe even

talked to them, or been insulted by 'em

right before they asked me for 5 bucks.

But I was not a POET then,

and thought North Beach incredibly corny,

and to be frank, by then those guys

were nasty shuddering wet brain alcoholics

(fight me--I've seen the pictures &

read the memoirs.)

Mind you, some folks my age

did seek these geezers out

and chronicled their ravings,

and some of them even parlayed

their obsession into careers, becoming

respected editors and historians of

the San Francisco Renaissance. 


Not me, I just sip my cappuccino grande

and sit ostentatiously writing this poem

(the only person in the joint doing this)

and ruminate on the blown chances

of yet another Golden Age

I lived thru but

didn't appreciate.


Joe Grieco

RELAY


I will shade you dressed in the bark of a mountain oak

I will float you: you’ll think I’m a summer river

I will pretend to be a Cadillac, I’ll drive you to the border while you sleep in the back seat

I will be grass and you will go barefoot

We will sidestep sidewalks, avoiding the pavement, the cracks, the checkpoints

This is the hand-off

Reach for the baton

Don’t drop it


Heather Romero-Kornblum

Roadside Unassist


I almost left you by the side of the road, earlier this week


I didn’t because I’m pathetic


because I wanted to look my son in the eye, after


because I don’t forget as easily as you do what I inflict on others 


Because all I could do was scream – 

my throat the only part of me that worked in that moment


The next day, I took my son to an appointment in a building I remember well,

on a street that made up so much of our past life and memories;

some of the ‘happy times,’ as I euphemistically refer to many years of our marriage


‘Honesty or out!’ I screamed as we careened up the 5


I did not leave you by the side of the road

I completed the drive with you and put you in an Uber


Those happy times, while happy with dinners, movies, dancing had tinges of sleights of hand

sideswiped and screaming for honesty


These days, I usually know better than to scream for honesty


I didn’t know that 9 years into our relationship, you would laugh in the background on a 911 call 

    (or maybe it was a triage nurse who then called 911) 

        saying you can revive me with CPR you learned in one high school hour 

            and you wouldn't epi me till full throat closure and me being unconscious 

                for at least 2 minutes while the operator screamed on speaker 

                    Don't listen to him ma'am – you must epi yourself now!’


One time, I struggled to remember how to use the EpiPen and the operator begged you to help me. 


When the paramedics showed up, you pretended not to know what was wrong.


In the ambulance, I mentioned to one paramedic that you said you could revive me with that high school CPR, and he said not to trust your judgment, as his eyes widened 


The next day, taking my son to the appointment,


I couldn't stop shaking


I couldn't stop shaking


Breathe




Kintsugi as Perpetuated Grief


I imagined us like Kintsugi 

beautiful because of the cracks,

better because of the cracks;

highlighted, gilded, 

stronger at the seams


There were so many cracks

gold filler consumed the original vessel


It must have value, I thought about the gold,

as I continued to sink cost




Unreality


The first time I touched someone else’s penis

I didn’t want it anymore


There was nothing wrong with it


I found myself dissociating as he rubbed my nipples


It was everything from your doctor trying to give me your driver’s license,

to your sister and her stories of how she thought – a misunderstanding – that I said you would kill her


How do I explain this to my son?

I asked, my voice, my body, my all cracking


Then, you ghosting again

‘Not in his right mind,’ your doctor tried to explain about the situation, previously


Alone again cleaning out more remnants of our life from the storage unit

you promised not to stick me with, this time


This morning, I explained to my new pulmonologist that yes,

I survived anaphylactic shock on a 17-hour epi drip – 

and POTS, pulmonary emboli and cousins, a heart attack, adrenal insufficiencies,

hypo- and hyper- glycemias, a bleeding and clotting disorder, something autoimmune, 

and after ten years, you leaving (mostly) permanently two days after a liver biopsy


None of that matched the smell of the other penis owner’s cologne on my arm


When is grief too much?


Carlos Ornelas

Street Cracks


I am born out of from street cracks,

like grass that escapes.

dandelion peeking through broken sidewalks.


A journey of nature against pavement. Mental enslavement.

You may hear my story yet you will not believe it. but let it serve you as inspiration if needed.

you can tell by my grammar i'm miseducated. 

for even in freedom, i'm incarcerated. 

my struggle and truth seem exaggerated. 

my words and my proof are highly debated.


regardless, I flourish through cracks on the street. kicked and got stepped on by thousands of feet.


dont celebrate wins but proud of defeats.

a product of mishap, I bloom through concrete.

the weed that persisted and sprung through the cracks.

A world full of lies, embarrased by facts.

I'm birthed from the asphalt, dressed in defeats,

a flower that bloomed through the cracks in the streets.


Shih-Fang Wang

Release


The weather is warming up

wisteria seed pods 

dried and twisted 

holding tight

await the moment of release


Then one day in spring 

comes the destined moment

I hear the first cracking sound

then a cascade of popping 

like small explosions

echoing for days


The force from within 

casts the seeds afar 

to land on a suitable earth

to germinate into a new life


It is the same

in a mother’s way

to release her children

into independence




Scene


The street is deep in slumber    

silence hovers everywhere          

lamp posts lining up on sides

emit a yellow light glowing

into a foggy night                                    


A lone figure emerges from the dark

dragging his weary legs 

hunger and age carved on his face 

he scans the sleeping roadway


His hands reach into a garbage can   

searching and fumbling for a while 

at last he finds what he needs             

opens his mouth eagerly 

he devours it 

as if a king enjoying 

a royal feast   


As I walk by that man

I whisper thanks for blessings   

for without them  

that soul could be me 


Wayne F Burke

Karen


"The Carpenter's" singing inside my

head

LONE  LI  ness is such

sad

music, makes me feel soft, mushy

I think of Karen's smile and

sensitivity, her

fragility even

as I walk the hard streets

of a granite-headed city

sadly lacking

aesthetically

don't you remember

I told you I loved you

bay

bee

yea, I do--

the slightly crooked mouth

who has

only just begun

to walk

then learned to run--

my feelings begin to

leak onto the

crooked street

until a pickup truck

blasts some country-fried 

whah whah

and I snap back

to the indifferent

reality

of where I am.




Poor


the O'Ryan's across the

street in their sway-backed

shackle ranch; nothing fit--

crooked stairs and lives;

the old lady a harridan

screaming at trespassers from

a window; chickens loose

in yard and barn; six kids,

a father who worked in the

lime kiln, and sat in the

backyard after work

drinking beer and looking

like an escaped convict...

They gave apples on

Halloween not candy.




Flattop


tiny gros beaks in the

tree outside

with flattop haircuts

like guys who did not want crew-cuts

back in the early 1960's

in the old neighborhood

in the old hometown

in a narrow valley

between two mountain ranges

that squeezed the houses and

streets closer together

each year.


Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

Dementia


Who will stand with me?

Who will remember

the things I have forgotten?

 

All the beautiful and terrible things?

 

The city frightens me.

I feel the harsh light

 

when I go outside.  I live in fear,

quite the opposite from my


daring days when

I was a different person.


There are cracks in my foundation

and my voice lacks strength.




Look and See Where You Walk


Watch it. Don’t step in it.

That crack will break your back.

Watch it. Don’t be like that.

Look and see where you walk.

 

Just forge ahead and go.

Don’t be a silly clown.

Everybody should know

that things are not as they

 

seem to be. Just take care.

Look and see where you walk.

Hear the birds sing their songs.

Write the book of your life.

 

Look and see where you walk.

Find your smile. Put your frown

away. What time is it?

 

Take a stroll down the street.

Start your day. Hear the beat.

Play the fool.  Tell the truth.

Surprise everybody.

 

Do the things that please you.

Just forge ahead and go.

Let your heart lead the way.




Dry 


Dry as a desert

my hand cracks

my lips crack

my eyes cannot

make tears.


Dry without your love

my heart cracks

my dreams crack

my mouth does not

water.


Dry as the dust bowl

my land cracks

my house cracks

my feet dance for

rain.


Dean Okamura


As the world cracks


I took a minute 

to pretend that Trump is not president 

I had to find a safe place 

far from the news 

away from the streets 

the quieting place on a summer’s day 


bark bark bark 

the barking dog 

who feels abandoned 

whine and whimper 

the rising crescendo on a summer’s day 


clap clap clap 

wake up the deities 

chase away the military police 

smile after farting 

the escaping monkeys on a summer’s day 


back back back 

you’ve gone too far 

what good comes from frivolity 

idle moments of insanity 

the tempting Calypso on a summer’s day 


     stay stay stay 

     do not leave Ogygia 

     for the nightmares in America 

     they’re rigging the system 

     the plundering thieves on a summer’s day 


It took years 

but finally the gods intervened 

breaking spells — near and far 

by heroes joined by others 

like an arrow shot through 12 axe heads 

restore our cities in peace 


——

Calypso, in Homer’s Odyssey, is the sea nymph who keeps Odysseus, the long-absent ruler of Ithaca, on her island, Ogygia, for seven years. By then, his crew is gone, his ship destroyed, and he spends his days yearning for home, sitting on the shore and gazing toward Ithaca. The “arrow shot through 12 axe heads” refers to the trial of the bow, where Odysseus, finally returned in disguise, proves his identity by sending an arrow cleanly through the aligned sockets of twelve axes — an almost impossible feat symbolizing skill, resolve, and the right to reclaim his throne and the life that was taken from him. 






I see a truck

 

he must think 

he is taking 

a victory lap 

through neighborhood 

streets 


because 

his side 

has won 


which was never fair 

because the majority 

always 

kept control 


there is no point 

in seeking 

a diverse 

equal society 


they’re all 

white haired men 

driving flags 

with trucks 





under pressure

 

          And love dares you to care for 

          The people on the (People on streets) edge of night 

           — David Bowie and Freddie Mercury, “Under Pressure” (1981) 


make an appointment 

take a seat and just relax 

your heart is racing 

swerving through crooked pothole streets 

to join you and hold your hand 


Marianne Szlyk

Ancestors on Wall Street, Worcester, MA, 1916


Then it was an unpaved path,

crooked, wooden houses almost

touching. Sober, one might’ve woven,

breathed heavy, dodged dogs and horse-drawn carts.


Drunk, my great-grandfather stumbled,

led by his daughter sent to bring

him home from bars on Grafton Street:

Malone’s, Flynn’s. Soon these would be gone.


Years before, my great-grandparents 

had their picture taken. They walked

downtown to hold still ten minutes 

in new clothes, new shoes pinching.


They sent copies of this portrait

to Lithuania, then kept

a few for children, grandchildren

who drove home on broad, tree-lined streets. 


And now here my ancestors are,

on the wall of an urban cottage.

Outside men bike up and down

our street, speak Spanish. Their daughters


also live here, walk up and down

this street. Some drive, but they do not dare 

dream of leaving this treeless place.


 

In the Boston Public Garden


We have gathered these specimen trees here,

not for shade but to be safe from axes,


safe from overhead wires, safe from tall cranes

that tear down, then build this city anew.


Once elms grew on the street. They gave us shade.

They gave their name to one street in each town.


Now, dizzy with sun and the absence of shade,

we walk these streets, carry water, buy Sprite.


I think of an elm I saw once at camp.

Teacher told us it wouldn’t live for long.


Poor tree, the class pest said. He even hugged

the spindly tree. I wonder if it still


lives alone in its woods crowded with oak,

maples, birch, and hemlock. Or if the woods


have survived this time of building anew.

Or what was once our camp is crowded with


treeless townhomes, asphalt, and SUVs.


 

Dreams of Lafayette


St. Boniface’s narrow, slate spire 

punctures the clouds in the sky. 

Inside these apartments grad students

read literary theory. Espresso machines 

rattle and Diet Coke chills.


A couple calmly speaks French.  

His blue bike waits outside. 

It is ready for him 

to leave this Hoosier city 

for someplace on the coast.  


Trains shook our wooden house 

on Ferry Street every night.

I would dream of earthquakes  

cracking windows and ceilings crumbling  

in apartments I once lived in. 


When we couldn’t get back 

to sleep, we graded papers. 

We drove to the all-night Village 

Pantry across Sixth Street’s tracks. 


Now the trains are gone, 

rerouted beyond the highway and 

strip malls. The Village Pantry 

closes at ten. I dream 

of Lafayette, living in these 

sturdy buildings, strong enough to 

protect us and our child.   


The bike, the one color, 

the metallic shimmer of sky

in this black and white 

world, is yours.


Originally published in Eos: The Creative Context.


Joan McNerney

 I Want A Writer's Block


A real writer's block. After I'm finished 

writing, I could run and skip down streets 

with all the other writers on the block.

Compare notes, exaggerate and have fun.


Another good one would be a crystal block

where those great master works live.

Stick it in a pocket and read it with my 

fingertips. Why strain my vision?


How about this? A big block of ice cream

oozing pass throat filled with inspiration.

Or a chocolate block of creamy images.


I want a writer's block. Any or all of the above.


Radomir Vojtech Luza

Mother Mirror


Emancipated eyebrows, momma

Independent lips

Electric fingertips

Skin like down

Breasts like icons


Where are the resistance fighters

Marching without hips

Dancing with dips

Sprinting without sips


Street cracks

Lab rats

Sun black

Blue bats


Abducted librettos

Red like wine

Tanning on the Jersey shore

Long like time

Shopping at the super store

With one thin dime


Just like you

My hair licorice and new

Soul fragile

Made of bamboo

Heart agile too


Losing it all

This late in life

Pushing the invisible knife

Testing boundaries

With no one in sight


Ovarian Cancer the official diagnosis

Loneliness the dark van

Frustration the also ran


Mother, your light burrowed a hole into my sight

No cataclysmic blight


Like you

I am part Jewish


Witness of a witness of Nazis 

Who shuttered your dramatic conservatory

Massacred your countrymen, women and children

Occupied your beloved Czechoslovakia


Of the confusion and suffering wars bring

Leaving us with absolutely nothing

But hell in heaven's sling

Plastic bling




Street Cracks


In concrete and cement

Streets and avenues pour from the vent

Vomit the smoothness like an open tent


In asphalt or tar

Medicine or car

Comet or star

Megadoppler scar


On the Hollywood Walk of Fame

Stars circle same

Like the Grand ole Opry's member game


Street cracks beneath soiled racks

Tennis shoes and bare feet

Skipping on parted lacks


Bicycles and cars

Motorcycles and pars

Much too far

Wheels in the stars


Rusted land

Alabaster sand

Without licorice hand

No mirth

Ship to Perth


Merely you and I

On a trip to birth

Leaving envy behind

On this strange, insane earth




Say Yes


To everything

Therefore nothing

Over street cracks and bridges


Through walls and halls

Like slithering rattlers

Breaking stalls


Say yes to it all

Do not stall

In the neighborhood mall

Bending to fall


Affirmative action

Instinctual reaction

Superficial subtraction

Internal refraction


Positive concoction

Serious explosion

Manipulated mansion

Pickpocketed palace


Say yes to life

Say yes to reality

Say yes to your dreams

Say yes to your aspirations


Say yes to now

Say yes to wow

Say yes to how

Never say yes to Mao


Lynn White

Death of Empathy


When empathy died

the soldiers could dance

in the streets they’d cracked

wearing the underwear of the women

whose homes they had destroyed.

And dance they did with pride.


When empathy was dead 

the soldiers could take children’s toys

from the rubble of their bombed homes

and repurpose them as tank trophies

mascots to be flaunted with pride

while the street cracked

under the weight.


When they had killed empathy 

the soldiers could shoot babies

in the head or gut - they chose,

and someone’s daughter 200 times, 

or 300 - they could choose.

And they filmed it with pride

from the street’s rubble and cracks.


When empathy was murdered

the soldiers could capture children

and imprison them in cages,

one metre square,

or whatever they chose

until they told them 

what they did not know

and then laugh with pride

in the smooth Israeli streets.


When empathy was dead and buried

deep down below the streets’ cracks

and only silence could be heard

Israel was supreme,

a supreme being, 

godlike in its power.

Human rights were dead,

humans would follow

any of them

even all 

would fall

through the streets of cracks

until the un-cracked power and pride

was cracked.




Cracked


I’d walked down the street many times

and not noticed the cracks.

I’d driven down there many times

in both day-time and night-time

and not noticed them.


But something seen so often 

may become unseen

so that night I climbed higher

to see the street from above.

A mosaic lay below me, 

a city of cracked squares.

Streets cracking 

where there

were no cracks

before.


Streets broken and fragmented

their cracks and splits

a metaphor

for a city cracking up,

for a world falling apart.




In That Space


Concrete and glass,

shiny stainless steel,

reflecting images

of distorted strollers,

shoppers

and coffee shoppers

passing each other by.


Walking purposefully 

or aimlessly 

footfalling

on the spotless tiles,

still damp

from their overnight

mechanical

wash and brush up.

Texting or talking

into phones

clamped to ears.


But then the street cracks open,

lifts its cheap veneer

so you see behind

the facades

and the cracks reveal

another place

and its people

living

in that space.


A glimpse of narrow streets

of tenements and courts

and terraces

with washing hanging

and children playing,

women gossiping.

Human sounds and smells,

and animal too, 

but working or wild,

not petted.


A different time

in that same space.

if you look through the cracks.


Susan Isla Tepper

Photo by Phoebe Wilcox

Color Bleeding


Who could deliver 

on such a promise

made at a different 

time and place


green things 

sprouting everywhere


leaves and stems 

wiggling up through 

a crack in rock

in many rocks 

so many plants


color bleeding into color.


You left me behind 

mind rot has infected you

in that godforsaken place

where nothing grows.


The pictures you send

send me to my bed shivering.


You say it calls to you

that dark landscape--

urging you 

whispering:

Make this place home. 


Robert Fleming

 







Veronica Hosking

walking down sidewalks

school children jump over cracks

protecting mom’s back





Nottingham Terrace 


I look back walking down the street in my old neighborhood.

I remember catching fireflies on warm summer nights.

Building forts in the woods behind our house now an ugly chartreuse.




Palm Lane Closure


I sit by my bedroom window and watch the world zoom past. 

Children ride their bikes down the street to meet friends at the park. 

The city sets out orange cones to begin patching up the cracks. 


Mike Maggio

STILL LIFE


What can the lonely gutter do

but embrace

a blue reclining nude

quenched

like a footpressed butt

mirrored in

the red-glazed wedges

of a restless beer bottle

and wait

for the swift tremulous cloud

to put out the sky.




Three Houses on Vineland Avenue


I

Three houses on Vineland Ave.

at 2 A.M. or so

the fog rolls in

three masses snuggled

in vast plush blankets

wheels roll

a red eye looms in the distance

wheels stop.

Home is where you happen to be at the moment.


II

At the tone the time will be

green

wheels roll

the radio strikes 2 at the triple intersection

eyes roll

walls in the clouded street

chimney floats like masts on sailing ships

wheels stop.

Believing is sight made sound.


III

Last call for alcohol

sounds and sights in twilight sleep

bottles roll

three nomads lost in the milky crossroads

doors roll

a roof eclipses the hands of time

welcome mats march by

footsteps stop.

What a mess of our lives we make.


EXPLANATION

A very bizarre experience occurred one night when I was going home in a very thick, LA fog.  I was stopped for a light at the intersection of Vineland Avenue and (God, it's been so long since I've left LA, I can't remember the other streets)! It's right in North Hollywood.  Anyhow, while I was waiting for the light to change, there appeared this ghostly image which actually frightened me because it was gigantic and indiscernible.  Soon, however, they emerged through the fog: three houses being transported, one behind the other, on these large trailers.

I had been toying sometime with the idea of writing cubist poetry: trying to apply the structure and vocabulary of cubist painting to poetic form.  I wanted to use light and shape, and I wanted to explore objects from various perspectives.  My experience that night on Vineland Avenue seemed to be the perfect vehicle for attempting this experiment.  That's how the poem came about.

I might also add it has been published in the NEW PRESS in New York, only after persistently arguing that ambiguity is an inherent part of the poem.


Andy Palasciano

Step Back


On base, there was a 

street I was walking down,

when, suddenly, I was told by

a group of men to stop.

Ahead, just a few steps from

where I was about to walk,

was a rattlesnake in the

crack of the road.  It was so

well camouflaged that I could

barely see it.  One Marine was

bold and walked close to it.

Another Marine said to him,

“Hey, Bayou Bob, step back.”

And they both laughed.  Minutes

later, The Game Warden showed up

and, with what looked like a trash

picker, snatched the snake in

one move, put it in a box and drove

off.  If I had stepped on that crack,

my mom would have been ok,

but not my back.




Refrain


There was a train

that ran in Disneyland.

It went through Prehistoric

Exhibits and through many

lands.  There was a crack in

the sidewalk near Tom Sawyer 

Island.  She told her husband

she wanted to eat at the

restaurant there.  She had never

been across the river to the

island.  But right there, I 

was told to remain.  The 

restaurant is not just a 

stop of the train but

a moment in eternity.  We 

will eat at this restaurant

and there will be no refrain.


Carl Stilwell AKA CaLokie

Nine-year-old Maryam Abdulaziz Mahmoud Davvas, who took shelter with her family at a displacement center in 
Gaza City due to ongoing Israeli attacks, has become unable to walk because of severe malnutrition. Maryam, who 
weighed 55 pounds before the escalation, has dropped to just 22 pounds. Her family is calling for medical 
evacuation and nutritional support to keep her alive. (Ahmed Jihad Ibrahim Al-arini Anadolu via Getty Images) 
This image is one in a series highlighting the suffering of children in Gaza, where a humanitarian disaster is 
escalating and civilians are starving. See the series at latimes.com/opinion/story/famines-toll-on-children-in-gaza .


A HOLOCAUST VILLANELLE 


Do not gaze into that demonic Gaza night. 

From the sight of starving skeletal kids look away. 

Deny, deny there's any dying of the light. 


Although international law says collective punishment is a war crime,  

keep killing innocents by bombing, gunfire and forced starvation everyday. 

Do not gaze into that demonic Gaza night. 


Granted, bombed building rubble on streets is a sore sight. ’ 

In defense against terrorism, insist it’s the only way. 

Deny, deny there's any dying of the light. 


Listen not to those calling Israel’s war against Gaza a genocide. 

On Hamas, the sufferings of Palestinians lay the blame. 

Do not gaze into that demonic Gaza night. 


Tell doubters to always look on the bright side. 

Assure winning war against Hamas will bring a better day.  

Deny, deny there's any dying of the light. 


Do not pay any attention to your lying eyes, 

Only believe what your government and mainstream media say. 

Do not not gaze into that demonic Gaza night. 

Deny, deny there's any dying of the light.


Barry Vitcov

Prayers for Empty Spaces


The park row has been denuded of trees

ornamental plums no longer litter the sidewalk

with their seasonal waste

pretty as they pleased.


Others labeled a nuisance

hacked away from their roots

with axes and grit who since

were forcibly wrestled and towed 

from their earth’s growing places

chipped and scattered

like unfulfilled curses.


Holes, voids, loss from disease

occluded branches like crooked 

tea-stained teeth:

excuses given 

for their growing to cease.


Shall we mourn winter’s skeletons

after a full life in summer?

Shall we replant in fall 

and celebrate new birth in spring?

Shall we say a prayer

full of hope and consequence? 


The emergence of emptiness

borne of struggle

invites gnarled hands to secure 

with water, wishes and aging compost

maples, tupelos and feathery birches

when meaning becomes something 

more than mere searches.


Soon new birds’ nests grace

street-side forests

like woven offerings

for hope and resolution:

Prayers for empty spaces.



Ducks and Demonstrations


two ducks bathing and preening

without pretense or other meaning

because it’s never necessary in cool water


is their activity any less important than mine

or that fallen limb across the creek

connected even in death 

to the wooded neighborhood

spread out like an inverse sky


streams move with repetition

like a numbing rondo or soothing lullaby

regardless of the time of day

or what anger is taken to the streets


beating noisy shouts

for justice and equality

it might be a long summer

after last fall and winter

and a deep breath in fragrant spring


starting hot with dry blisters

and a sense of languidness

before another odds-on prediction

for a call to arms


like knowing ducks will bob for seed

worms, water snails and pond weed

regardless if we’re paying attention

or not



Lessons Learned on a Morning Walk


A normal morning walk

Abbey at my side

sniffing messages left by other dogs.


I say hi to Michael and his corgi.

You look familiar he says…

with the question mark

we all share at a certain age…

the doubt that comes with 

recognition but no name.


I remind him with a gentleness

of understanding.


Oh, yes, your hat and sunglasses

caused uncertainty…

we are all enigmas before

we remove our disguises.


Abbey cocks her head as though

she is politely doffing a hat 

and we continue on our way.


There’s that familiar lady,

a fixture in the park,

with her floppy straw hat

and a look of constant wonderment,

an exploding world of joy

while in her invented community

voicing a barrage of happy birthday,

happy birthday, happy birthday

a gatling fun gun of fond wishes

to everyone she greets

along the park’s streets.

She’s an equal-opportunity

happiness machine

proving sanity might be overrated.


I wave and thank her

not sure thanks are enough

but feel the ease 

that enigmas have meaning

beyond our understanding.


Chad Parenteau

Street Smart


Glove river

long gutter


leads to every

busy window


voices break

on through


like sweat 

in faceguards


one of sixteen

wearing masks


uncovered

line up 


fight for first

place, final party.




Crack


Down to count

own fall

 

check shoulders

on the mat

 

yet you

just sit.

 

Junkie nod

sans junk

 

is easy

just wait 

 

and assess

where you are


days end

veins empty

 

fixless fade

to nothing.


Strung out

all legal


beware

life leads


to more drugs

if smart.




White Plight


Streets crack

from total 

accusations.


Every sidewalk

murder rows,

crow circles.


Be like small

towns, scream

proof windows.


Mom pleads 

never go out

and get killed.


Darknesses 

blend better in

urban shadow.


Killers wait

on every block

leading home. 


She stamps out

imagined dangers

from city spine.

 


Jackie Chou

Watching Where I'm Going 


I live amidst whooshing traffic 

and fragrant lantana bushes 

of an urban street


Here and there

cracks mark the detours to paths 

not conceived of before 


Their squiggly shapes 

remind me of the wayward lines

on my palms


These small crevices 

are like rivulets 

where dandelions sprout


Little yellow sisters

they sway side by side

in the summer breeze 


I too blossom 

through narrow chances

like the trembling florets


There is always broken glass

but my feet are too deft

to step on it


And I am wary of the sting

of prickly cacti 

and roads well-traveled


Lawrence R Berger

Beware of the Crack!


No dentists anywhere in sight

just street rats trying to get their next fix

Mothers ignore their children while sucking on glass dicks

that doesn’t even satisfy their lust for their souls.

Dried up raisins trying to be

strawberries on Hollywood Blvd.

emaciated chests and legs that once could stop traffic

too far gone to do more than inhale.

The journey was far

Many started out happy

successful

or desperate

They had real

but then they got a taste

and nothing else mattered

They give birth to children who are already addicts

and die by the millions

some of them still try and vote

I can think of no other explanation for this administration. 


Maria A. Arana

Winter Wind


like the cold coffee stirred awake

by the grinder

 

like the mutilated body preserved by the last snow fall

by the park oak tree

 

like the invisible air rustling the leaves for a dance

and making the paper roll on the street

 

only to stop near the sludge of trash after the rain

cold

 

a vision one swallows in heart and thought

the job must be done

 

the reason discovered

as the day he left you


 

 

First Car

 

indigo blue night

inner tan skin crush

revved horsepower

metal dashing winding streets

compliments revolution

remove the anonymous

ground you into idleness

bring freedom from work strain

until white marks stained 


 

 

Tango Dream

 

I’m not letting go

not for the hundredth time

this is the new wrap around

my finger

my leg

curled around your neck

keeping you locked in place

letting the years together

burn a hole through these binds

 

no

I’m not letting go

this is the new wrap around

sliding glutes

pressing joints

missing lips

this is the vault

my heart drums to its beat

tick tock

the years pass

and your neck

impression of a tire track

 

no

I’m not letting go

not for the hundredth time

I’ve watched you walk out

made my life a brittle landscape

now shaping your neck

this is the new wrap around

coiled phoenix serpent

made for memory’s brand

burning the cracks already present

legs changing position

arms extend away from warm hands

sweat covers the skin

like dew

after the wrapping

 

Connie Johnson

 







Saturday, August 2, 2025

Don Kingfisher Campbell


Cracks in the Concrete


paper piles on the desk

works of art


have enough knick knacks

to open a museum


a book carpet-strewn here

old cup there on the kitchen tile


even the glasses in the strainer

appear to be sculpture


just go out to the lawn

grab a few chunks

create Pandora in the living room


then maybe win

a medal


for best use of wrinkled magazines

and cardboard record covers






Sol
Street


The May gray was broken by the sun

White clouds danced in baby blue sky

Soaked trees reached up to feel warmth again

Even parked cars gleamed with absorption

But at night the walking people went inside

Changed out of their warmed clothes

Exuded a stored heat waiting to be released

Human butterflies fluttered in rooms

Seeking bountiful kisses to embrace

Fulfillment shared as freely as sunlight





A Street in Haikou


my love records

from her cellphone

a 15 second video

and pushes send


a blue shirted florist

sitting on a lime

green plastic stool


arranges his

just watered

plants for sale

on the sidewalk


where an orange

bucket sits full

of grouped flowers


his parked van

with an open

rear hatch fronts

a row of curbside

motorcycles


one cyclist

on this sunny palm

tree lined avenue


wears a yellow helmet

and sky blue soccer shirt

as he buzzes past


a multi-story tower

of residences

in the background


the unsurprising

power pole strings

overhead in a clear sky


cars, SUV’s, and vans

line the parking lot

of this mini-mall

where leaves catch sun


and green framed open

double glass doors

lead to a faux

marble tiled floor


a potted elephant

eared plant and a

waiting green desk


sports a bright

orange tray and

an empty black

high backed

swivel chair


under a row of

ceiling hung

cone shaped

white spotlights


her friend with a blue

mask on her chin and

fake fire and smoke dress


crouches over a printed

paper while a young short

cropped black haired man

looks across at her as


she signs the mortgage form

on a round glass table

with a wicker base


my fiancée is outside

waiting to walk with her

to the bus stop where

they travel through traffic

to blaring pop music


could be Long Beach

if I didn’t know she is

7000 miles away as we


wait for two governments

to agree on when she

can safely return to me



Tim Tipton

Metropolitan Tide The strange fragrance of modern buildings Hot street lights dazzle larger than most stars Purple silent moon looms over ju...