Manic is the Dark Night
By Michael Lee Johnson
Deep into the forest
the trees have turned
black, and the sun
has disappeared in
the distance beneath
the earth line, leaving
the sky a palette of grays
sheltering the pine trees
with pitch-tar shadows.
It is here in this black
and sky gray the mind
turns psycho
tosses norms and pathos
into a ground cellar of hell,
tosses words out through the teeth.
“Don’t smile or act funny,
try to be cute with me;
how can I help you today
out of your depression?”
I feel jubilant, I feel over the moon
with euphoric gaiety.
Damn I just feel happy!
Back into the wood of somberness
back into the twigs,
sedated the psychiatrist
scribbles, notes, nonsense on a pad of yellow paper:
“mania, oh yes, mania, I prescribe
lithium, do I need to call the police?”
No sir, back into the dark woods I go.
Controlled, to get my meds. I
twist and rearrange my smile,
crooked, to fit the immediate need.
Deep in my forest
the trees have turned black again,
to satisfy the conveyer--
the Lord of the dark wood.
-2007-
Bio: Michael Lee Johnson is an internationally published poet. All of us have experienced "manic is the dark night" in our own way, at a point or multi-points in our lives.
The Balcony
By Steve Picotte
An old man sits on his balcony and watches
the comings and goings of other
sand their intermingling.
The cacophony of voices float to him
and uplift his loneliness with their chaos;
he sees two lovers meet with laughter
and he smiles to himself in remembrance of younger days.
For a time, he is complacent; for a time.
The intrusion of gaiety into his somber morning
speaks volumes of whispered images
and a solitary teardrop slips down the bed
of wrinkled softness to hang from his chin unnoticed.
I stand quietly, watching his reverie with empathy
and then slowly move to return his frail body
to the crumpled death-bed of loneliness
where once he shared passionate lifetimes
with the woman who was his wife.
For a time, he was complacent; for a time.
A small sigh escapes his lips and he stares
at the textured plaster ceiling where
shadow and light play duels in little pockets.
He whispers to me as I turn to go-
"I loved her so much, Alan, so much...
I miss her, each moment, every day."
I tuck the blanket around his neck,
and wipe the liquid trace of sorrow
away with a gentle palm.
A young man sits on his balcony and watches
the comings and goings of others
and their intermingling.
The cacophony of voices float to himand bring him
to loneliness with their chaos;
he sees two lovers meet with laughter
and he smiles to himself in acceptance of older days.
Bio: Steve Picotte currently resides and writes in Kansas while working in building maintenance and information technology. When he's not working or writing he spends time with his fiancée, who swears he loves computers more than he loves her.
Editorial Comment: I’m a sucker for poetry with a good story. Here you see the transgression and passing of an old man and his life; and the sense of renewal all over in the last paragraph.
Rhetorician Retires
By R. W. Haynes
Sometimes you have to roll the dice.
With my fairly faithful hell of a dog
Beside me, sound asleep, legs in the air,
Hardly the lion of Beatus Hieronymus,
Nor am I all that blessed, by the way,
And though aquila non capit murem
(The eagle will not mess with a mouse)
I seize the mouse and click as though
Mice themselves were the forelocks of opportunity.
Take that, forces of darkness, and that,
O blank screen of death, and may this magnetism
Galvanize the ages, patch broken hearts,
Pay a few bills, cause unmet faces
To remember my name, dismay my detractors
Et cetera. Wake up, Samuel. Time for bed.
Bio: R. W. Haynes, a professor by trade, has begun in his declining years to submit some of the poetry and fiction he has written. So far, he has had modest success, occasionally impressing his wife. He is fond of rivers, and, since he moved to Laredo in 1992, has drawn most of his poetic provocation from the Rio Grande, with some digressions generated by the Nueces. He grew up near the Alapaha, a Georgia river which, upon crossing into Florida, wisely disappears underground, and he has rejoiced in potamic gurgles from Bulgaria to Nayarit.
Editorial Comments: After wading through this poem and requesting clarification of a few phrases from the author-and only being and ex-social worker 20 years ago, not an academic, I came to a slow realization I liked this poem because I think I like his dog. Other than that, great poem!
LIFE AFTER POLITICS
By J. H. Johns
Hi!
I’m Eliot Spitzer
and
I’m here to tell you about
Trojans-
(holds up a condom in foil)
you know,
after a hard day
of governing in Albany-
or even when I’m kicking back
in my Park Avenue apartment-
there comes a time
when I think about slipping into a
Trojan-
yes, Trojans-
and even though I don’t use them-
they are the safest thing
between yesterday and tomorrow-
hey,
take it from me-
Client Number Nine-
try Trojans-
they won’t keep the Feds from getting you
but, they’re the best insurance you can buy-
this side of Wall Street-
so, whether you’re just having fun
or dropping a thousand dollars an hour-
use Trojans.
Bio: J.H. Johns lives and writes in New York City
Editorial Comments: How timely can we get,
And what is poetry but a sense of humor on occasion?
For 35 Cents
By Louie Crew
The paper smelled already parched
in the cheap drugstore version
of Giovanni's Room
which I sneaked home,
tucked between a McCall's and a Collier's,
to read for the first time
about real people
who had never been locked up,
excommunicated, or psychoanalyzed
even though they shared my kind of plumbing.
For seven years various guests located it
on a shelf of related titles,
and we knew.
Bio: Louie has edited special issues of College English and Margins. He has written four poetry volumes Sunspots (Lotus Press, Detroit, 1976) Midnight Lessons (Samisdat, 1987), Lutibelle's Pew (Dragon Disks, 1990), and Queers! for Christ's Sake! (Dragon Disks, 2003). He is also the dedicated "list manger" of the best source of poetry pubishers on the net: http://newark.rutgers.edu/~lcrew
As of today, editors have published 1,861 of his works.
Editorial Comments: Louie is one of my favorite people. He is a devoted person to poetry. Sometimes, with humor, and reality, we must read between the lines we are offered to find the real person we truly are: the above poem makes us think in those terms. Thank you Louie!
Trolls Beneath the Bridge
By Cathy McLain.
Cathy is an amateur photographer who lives in Houston, Texas with her husband and black lab Bailey. Over the years her love of photography has grown into a passion. Texas is known for everything big, but Cathy prefers to document and share the out of the way places her state has to offer.
Candlelight 
By Carol HollandsA lone flame enhances a scene
the softest glow of light
Ensues comfort and reassures
the hours of darkened night
Mesmerizing, hypnotizing,
with fascinating lure
A dance achieved precariously
so delicate, so pure
Painting walls with living vines
while silhouetted views,
conjure up imaginings
in shaded tints, and hues
Forms under a shrouded veil
set a moody romance,
and renders sightless gloominess
into a vibrant trance
The eye is blue in golden light
so heavenly divine
The candle, and the eye become
Entwined and genuine
-2007-
Bio: Carol Hollands is from Ontario, Canada,
Married, a mother of two wonderful teenagers!
“I only write in rhyme, and I’m just now starting
To get poems ‘out there’.”Editorial Comment: Carol inadvertently sent a non-rhyme
publisher a rhymed poem; but I don’t think Carol’s poem is trite.
Because I believe in her, I want her to see her poems do, in fact,
Have merit. Congrats!, Carol on a job well done.
