| 2001-2002 | 2002-2003 | 2003-2004 | 2004-2005 | 2005-2006 | 2006-2007 |
March
28, 2008
Dan Memmolo's
poetry
has appeared in Another Chicago
Magazine, New York Quarterly, Southern
Poetry Review, Sycamore Review, Controlled Burnand Lily. His chapbook, BEAT
SURRENDER, was selected as a finalist for Main Street Rag's
annual
chapbook contest and has been published as part of their Editor's
Choice Chapbook Series. |
Just
Like That
You
could see it coming
the
moment the big guy climbed on
stage and started banging his
head into something imaginary. When
he launched himself into
the crowd below—arms
extended like
a super hero, lips taut in
a grin of ecstasy—everyone scattered,
looking for cover. He
had to land somewhere and
the smallish girl sipping a
dollar beer and chatting with
her friend would provide just
enough cushion. And
the band played on, though
more subdued—demented rockabilly
subsiding into boozy elevator
music—as the
paramedics attended
to the girl and lifted her
body onto a stretcher. I
watched it all with my arm around
a girl who would not
become my wife, who
would not even become a
second date. I have trouble picturing
her now, her image drifting
through my consciousness as
if blown by a steady wind. I
confuse her with the girl on
the stretcher, motionless, her
head hitting the concrete with
a hard merciless slap. I
confuse her with the big guy, the
way he picked himself up and
darted through the crowd before
anyone realized what happened, (no stanza break) that
look of pure fright in his eyes before
he ducked his head and ran. I
confuse her with myself at the time, so
young and vigorous and hardly thinking, toward
something I could not have defined. |

Dave
Macpherson lives with his beautiful wife Heather in
Worcester. He is a
storyteller, performance poet and regular of the Central Massachusetts
Spoken
Word scene. He was on two National Slam Teams from Worcester, 2000 and
2003. He
was a featured performer at the 3 Apples Storytelling Festival in 2001.
He has
performed his pieces all over New England. He is a co-editor of Ballard
Street
Poetry Journal. He is the host of the monthly Worcester Storytellers
reading.
His work has appeared in The Worcester Review, Poets in the Galleries,
Tiny
Lights, The November 3rd Club, Everyday Fiction, Mud Luscious, LitBits,
among
others. He bounces when he performs, its kinda funny.
Wing Mending
The
cocktail
waitresses smile broadly, pat his hand, and no doubt water down his
next drink.
This time, a waitress takes me aside, “Is he for real,” she asks. “I
never
heard of anything like that before.”
I
tell her
that my grandfather would show me a worn, folded photograph of young
British
soldiers on a beach fixing large canvas wings. In the background looks
like men
flying in the air like kites. On the back, in my grandfather’s hand, is
written, “Me and the boys in Dover doing a spot of Wing Mending. 1944.”
She
asks,
“Can I see that picture.”
I
tell her I
don’t bring it. I don’t show it. That everyone who sees it tries to
find the
fault. Everyone explains about photo manipulation and what computers
can do,
even make something this fake look real. I tell her its just not worth
the
conversation or conjectures.
After
the
pension money is gone, Grandfather orders me to push his chair to the
boardwalk. To watch the breakers and see the pretty girls in bikinis.
He gets
out of his chair, leans on his cane and watches with avid attention.
But soon I
spy him looking at the seagulls dancing on the horizon. The drunk but
perfect
dips and circles. The navigation of air currents and want. And
grandfather shakes
his head dismissively at the distant birds.
| Lay
Me Down by Robert W. Gill This is the harmony of the night Seven notes playing for tomorrow Written against a backdrop of snowfall Lifting dreams to glory. Sing on morning dove Of blessed wholeness and sunset mornings Waylaid beauty run amok Drawing us like a cliche. Tomorrow will offer up Shattered stained glass candy Framed prints of Nietzsche quotes Tequila bottles, half empty, swollen & wanting. Count off today's enigmas Number, inventory and catalog them Seize this precious moment Even while not realizing it's worth Forget not the ripening of grapes Late summer harvest, divine flotsam Dance music for an inner place There is a beat here waiting to be tapped. If sleep comes let it be fertile Filled with plowshares, gold dust and sweat Draw each breath as an anointing Each exhale as it if were the last Listen to the drawing of blood Each drop is life withdrawn Believe, savor, rejoice and receive Good night my love. |
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November 16, 2007 Dan
Provost is the Assistant Director of Graduate Services at
Assumption College. He has been published in numerous poetry
magazines and on-line publications. His fourth chapbook,"The
21'st Century Wretch" was published in April, 2007 by Scintillating
Press. He is also the Head Football Coach of Keefe Tech High School in
Framingham. |
Sleeping in the Park Nothing else matters but the clothes on your back and a chance to sense that somewhere…someone is enjoying the same sunrise as you are… I write these words at a frantic pace so I do not give myself an opportunity to think…All around me is unified panic—stares that foreshadow a blinding rage that builds and builds…until murmurs of death become screams from the precipice. Then I slowly dust off the remains of last night’s escape and look toward the east, Same sun…same life…different demise. |
| John Dorsey
is currently an Artist In Residence at the Collingwood Arts Center in Toledo, OH. He is the author of such books as "harvey keitel, harvey keitel, harvey keitel" with S.A. Griffin and Scott Wannberg, Butcher Shop Press/Rose of Sharon Press/Temple of Man, 2005 and "Teaching The Dead To Sing:The Outlaw's Prayer" Rose of Sharon Press, 2006. He can be reached at archerevans@yahoo.com ![]() |
blues
for a 9 millimeter
ghosttown on most days you will find them here detroit land of the casual werewolf they will sing you to sleep on magic ave. they say to drink dark milk wait for the commentary of shadows here even the ghosts carry 9 millimeters through streets of broken dreams tucked inside a book your language has yet to be written down you'll see the sun doesn't shine here god lost a coin toss and decided to build housing projects on the outskirts of heaven the earth was hand made a paradise of masturbation where the children tell stories in silence hungry the dead send their street sweepers through to collect your dreams and gather in a circle before eating their young |
|
The tail protrudes from the wheel well of my until I see its utter pinkness, glimpse of matted fur dark with blood. I’ve been unconsciously spinning away life. I’m afraid of that small corpse, can’t stand its weightlessness. And I wonder what to do with it. Bury it in the backyard or let it soften under leaves? What about the cat? I can’t bear thin bones snapping. I pretend I’m not a part of this drama. I was only doing thirty. Harsh, vital world. Lives catch under wheels. I must stop my rushing, these continuous murders. |
Lisa received her B.A. in English and M.A. in Counseling from University of Conn. She also holds an MFA in Creative Writing from the Stonecoast Writing Program (www.usm.maine.edu/stonecoastmfa) in Portland, Maine. Talking to Trees, published by Finishing Line Press (www.finishinglinepress.com) , a poetry publisher in Georgetown, Kentucky, is Lisa’s third collection of poetry. Her work has been widely published in journals, anthologies and literary magazines, most recently Birmingham Review, Pine Island Journal of New England Poetry, The Healing Muse, and Red Rock Review, and she has had poetry nominated for the Pushcart Prize. She has participated in readings all over New England including Hartford’s First Night, Willimantic’s Third Thursday streetfest and numerous cafes and bookstores. For more information about her writing, go to her web site www.lisactaylor.com. An Audio Book CD of this collection is available at readings and through her web site. About Talking to Trees, the poet and non-fiction writer, Baron Wormser has written: “At the core of
Lisa C. Taylor’s poetry resides an honesty of awe, a bittersweet
awareness of
how little we know and how much we care. Her
poems often seem like parables. Through
adroit, haunting images, she traces our
fraught, and at times
dire intersections. A poet of both depth
and gravity, she never averts her gaze yet her tone remains tender—a
heartfelt sagesse.”
New York
poet and translator Laure-Anne Bosselaar writes: “Whether
recalling the ‘thistle and crash’ of her youth or capturing the ‘sweet
heat of
time and alchemy’, Lisa C. Taylor’s poems shift between internal and
external
landscapes with remarkable fluidity.” Annie Finch, poet, and writer and the director of the Stonecoast MFA writes: “Lisa C. Taylor’s poems are marked by their arresting combination of fertile, funky natural imagery with courageous and searching emotional honesty. As she writes, ‘in the eventual darkness/this will be what matters.’”
Lisa’s
poetry deals with the contemporary world and issues of grief, love, and
life
transitions. Lisa says, “Like dance,
poetry for me can be about the smallest movements.
A mouse caught in a hubcap, two estranged
lovers standing in front of a church with their children, an old woman
praying,
the first snow—these moments can be captured and preserved as a
necessary part
of our humanity. I strive to give a
voice to those who cannot or will not speak for themselves—both old and
young.” |
September 21, 2007
Stephen
Campiglio is a full descendant from the Italian region
of Abruzzo, from where his four grandparents emigrated as young men and
women.
He grew up in the Merrimack River Valley of northeastern MA. After
earning his
B.A. in English from Worcester State College, he led a transient life
for
several years, living in Boston, San Francisco, Missoula, MT (with one
year in
the University’s MFA program), and Portland, OR. He later became a
bookseller
and manager for Borders Book Shop in |
THE
HISTORICAL SOCIETY’S HOUSED IN A TRANSPORTED There is no history there anymore. The town bulldozed the oldest country store in the country for a grass lot. Groveland—land of groves, was once renowned for its Eastern Pine and also for its Pines Speedway. When I was youngster I remember on certain Saturday nights in summer being able to hear the race cars from a mile away and how the laps of my restless thought were driven to sleep. The conditional erasures in my life are like that grove of Eastern Pines which was cleared into a ghost grove for the whose phantom track now provides a horseshoe for municipal traffic and the park where I played ball with my son today. |
AJ Juarez My
mother told a
story about a wise man from her village, who said.“ I am from where
things go
well.” Aesthetically, I am from Folks
I met in Wormtown, like Michel Duncan
Merle, Esther
Heggie, Jean Lozoraitis, Jonathan Blake, Dave Nader, Michael
Lukaszeviczs, Alex
Ford (may he rest in peace), Sid Buxton, Stephen Campiglio, Susan
Lozoraotis, Jay
Rouleau, Marcela Uribe, Creed Dew, Chris
Gilbert, Brian, Chuck, and Chipper Mijka, and Sheri and Brian Jyringi,
helped
shaped, and continue to inform, how I see color, write, play my flutes,
and
sing. Many
of those folks have scattered,
literally, to the four winds. Yet, I know that the electric importance
of our
time in
On a personal note, I am the son of two exceptional Native
people, Pabla and Marcelino Juarez (Of the
Zuni and
Yaqui tribes). In my family unit, we place a high value on the power of
one's
mind and the chaos of possibilities. Their legacy of exploring the
chaos of
possibilities is my greatest asset. My parents’ guiding example has
shaped, and
continues to shape, my life. My family is an ancient family, and we can
retell the stories of ancestors long dead, dating back to the days
before we
(Natives) discovered Cristofo Colombo while he was looking for a
passage to I
keep memories of the generations;
therefore, I know that I belong in the family of world nations (the two
legged,
the winged ones, the water beings, etc.). They are all my relations. As a member of the human family, I walk in
the freedom of native people exemplified by the
words of the Chicano poet Alurista: 'Scars
of history
on my face, and the veins of my [it vomits blood and cries liberty]
I do not ask for
freedom. A.J.
ellis6065@charter.net or call me @ 413 204-4426 |
![]() (For my mother) GIFTS
The earth was tough and dry,
Now it is ready to give life.
Hard corners of my soul are made tender by
helping mother give away her gifts.
While planting the corn, the squash, and the
beans,
I heard the high pitched voices of my
ancestor's,
sing the song of
expected harvest. Ayy Toto sawi=sewa yuege
was sime
|
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Page last updated: April
17, 2008