The Pen Is

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Contributor: R. Lee Ubicwedas

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"The pen is mightier than the word."
—Dic Asburee Wel


The pen is at one's dangling finger tips. One picks it up,
and writes where one is at, beside a roll or bowl or cup.
One grasps the barrel carefully. Flushed, one drinks in the ink.
The words come st)r(eaming out. The letters form right at the brink.
One flops down on the seat, and plops, positioning one's pants,
the beauty of the moment struggling to get out and dance.
It is breathtaking. O, penned up, it simply hangs, and bangs
against the clothing that contains the angle it constrains.
Turned over, wondered, sideways, down, the pen is moving now;
its sonnet sits upon the age; its words are whorled round.


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R. LEE UBICWEDAS is a poet interested in everything; his mind is as a fleeting dream that travels all about. His influences include eclecticists, like Aristotle, Vergil and Dante, among others.

Swimming the River

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Contributor: John Swain

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Swimming the river again
with the osprey, my sister,
as a bolt of deer fords the shallow.
The sun of summer light
belies the strength of the currents
turning me on a twisted line.
Delight of the water, her body
wet with mystery
before my giving surrender.
Longing of the formless
takes the shape of the drowned
in a blue confluence.
I want to be let go
freed to the indifferent deep,
knowing all she knows.


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John Swain lives in Louisville, Kentucky. Red Paint Hill published his collection, Ring the Sycamore Sky.

Veterans Cemetery

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Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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Families come
on Memorial Day
depending on the weather;
otherwise the Fourth of July,
if it’s not too hot.

You can hear them coming,
adults in the rear,
reminiscing and talking,
children who can read
announcing the names
on the stones until they
discover the right one.
Then they shout.

Adults bring flowers,
placing them softly
in front of the stones
near our heads.
Children stick little
flags from parades
in our waistlines.

Some ladies bring towels
and wipe down the stones;
others towelettes to remove
gunk from the lettering.

All mean well and we
appreciate the visit and wish
we could say something.
It’s a thrill to hear voices.
Otherwise it's lawn mowers,
leaf blowers, snow plows
the rest of the year.


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Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Maybe in the Next Age

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Contributor: Scott Thomas Outlar

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A woman
telling a
lovesick man
that she’s not right for him
but he’s a great guy
and he’ll certainly find
the right woman
one day
when the time is right
is like
Aquarius
coming down
from the stars
bearing his barrel
and meeting
a man
in the desert
who is dying of thirst
and telling him
he’s a really spiritual guy
and he definitely deserves a drink
but just not from this well
then pointing him
toward the next mirage


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Scott Thomas Outlar flows and fluxes with the ever changing tide of the Tao River, laughing all the while at life's existential nature. His debut chapbook "A Black Wave Cometh" will be released in April 2015 by Dink Press.

The Long-Ago Dreamt

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Contributor: Steve Isaak

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Does your female demon
still possess,
make your hands shake
& your sex dampen
with complex, wrecking desire?

You were stunning,
afterlife beautiful
in spring window light,
your brown eyes laughing,
teasing,
street brass band
soundtracking
our non-coital communion,
closure, forgiveness,
something transcendent
something troubling
in our temporal
womb-like warmth.


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Steve Isaak, a.k.a. Nikki Isaak and Chuck Lovepoe, is the author of several poetry anthologies.

So Fingertips Kiss

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Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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Five kids, eight years.
And then one day my wife
shouts to me on the tractor
roaring in the field:

“I’ve had enough.”
And like a ballerina,
she rises on one foot, sole
of the other foot firm

against her knee
and with arms overhead
so fingertips kiss,
she smiles,

pirouettes,
and then like a helicopter
lifts into the air,
whirls over the garage

and keeps rising.
I can do nothing now
but curse
and be proud.

As if at the ballet,
I applaud from the tractor
and blink at the inferno
as she hits the sun.


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Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Unhappy

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Contributor: Nikhil Nath

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I bury a cheque
to buy a carpenter,

watching a carpet
wobble in parenthesis,

imagining a rocket
will fold in my

pencil box full of
escape, written

in crystal clear
marbles, I have

put in the e-mail
of a marriage,

wishing the bride and groom
an unhappy honeymoon.


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Nikhil has been writing poetry for eighteen years. He has been published in various magazine in India, the USA and the UK. Nikhil Nath is his pen name.He lives and works from Kolkata, India. "Write rubbish, but write", said Virginia Woolf. This is Nikhil's maxim for writing.

Time’s Running Out

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Contributor: d0ll

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My eyes, my nose, my face
Lost in the outerspace
My eyes are absinthe
My face is absinthe
You’re hanging on the wall
You’re resting on my shoulder
No eyeliner left to smudge
The fire’s not burning but it smoulders

Broken is ugly
And ugly is broken
Kisses are out of fashion
Sex is fast and cheap
I am the living amongst the dead
But if I shake them
They will tell me
I’m just looking for attention

I will fall apart
No matter if you watch or not
Can you please hold my hand
Accelerate this chemical reaction
Because we have no time
To wait for days


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Student, post punk Djane and alt model, DIY enthusiast from Slovakia

For Sure

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Contributor: Gary Thomas Hubbard

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Mountains always have a top
Valleys go down until they stop
What goes up does come down
Make left turns, get turned around

*

Seasons change to start anew
The sky was orange and now it's blue
Moon comes up, the sun goes down
If it's made of thorns don't wear the crown

*

Love is like the woods on fire
If you add fuel the flames grow higher
I couldn't love you anymore
These are things I know for sure

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I am the father of two and a Papa. I was born and raised in Ohio and now live in Florida. There are several of my poems published on Leaves-of-Ink and I have one poem in the Storm Cloud Poets Anthology 2.

Saving Myself

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Contributor: Amanda Firefox

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"Do your own bit of saving, and if you drown, at least die knowing you were headed for shore.”
—Ray Bradbury


The rocks fell
The fire came
The ice covered everything

But I survived.
Without you,
I survived.
I thrived.

And you
You who left me
Here
You who left me
With nothing
You–

Didn't.


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Amanda Firefox is a fiery little brunette who spends as much time at the beach as she can manage. She doesn't write much, but when she writes, it's almost always about her favorite subject: boys.

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