19-52.2



To His Coy Wordsmith

Had we but world enough and time
this coyness, poet, were no crime;
I would sit down and trawl each phrase
for hidden nuances and ways
in which it might relate
to concepts that you'll never state.
I'd listen for the quarter rhyme
that's buried somewhere in the line,
engrossed as you'd recite me all
your poetry in a tedious drawl.
Hellenic imagery would lead
through dusty alleys where I'd read
cryptic allusions into each
veiled reference hung just out of reach.
   But at my back I ever hear
life's siren sound bites scurrying near
and yonder all before us lie
deserts of vast obscurity.
   Now therefore, lest sales of your verse
decline from some to something worse,
sprinkle your page with dancing fires
and satisfy my base desires
with music that stays with me long
after I've put away your song.
Tell me of heron-priested shores;
of boughs more silent than before.
Once coyness free, it's not a crime
for poetry to scan or rhyme
and, if you do recite it, try
to give it wings and let it cry.

by John Wood

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John Wood would love to be a Philip Larkin or a Dylan Thomas but, as it turns out, is a distinctly unliterary sometime ferry skipper and small time farmer from Cornwall, England. Ah well, if you can't do it, just enjoy it or parody it!

19-52.1



The Formalist

I give you now Professor Fist,
A storied verbal pugilist.
Said linguists, "He's above the rabble.
He'll never stoop to common babble."
Fist listened to his colleagues preach
On misuse of the parts of speech.
"Them that for 'whom' would give us 'who,'"
Chimed one, "are quite without a clue."
Fist smiled in his familiar way.
"You mean," he said, "not 'them,' but 'they.'"

by Julian D. Woodruff

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Julian D. Woodruff came to literary invention while telling authorities in East Berlin how he lost his passport. His poetry appears on the websites of Carmina and The Society of Classical Poets. Reedsy and Frostfire Worlds have each issued a short story. He is a member of the Rochester, NY Area Children's Writers and Illustrators and SCBWI.

19-51.5



Death Responds to Mr. Donne

I have heard many silly taunts
in my extensive time,
and they are never more clever
just because they rhyme.
Ignorance should whisper
like a muffled chime.

I am not proud
though you are too proud to see
that the Grand Bungler
who created you also created me.

I am not mighty or dreadful—
do not overthrow.
Those are your birthmarks.
You are your foe.

Poison and war are a scaly brood
for which I have no need.
They hatched in the same nest as you,
and you are the fodder on which they feed.

Chance is a monkey
whose mischief ends at the tomb.
Fate and sickness are encrypted
when you're in the womb.

You are the slave
of desperate men and kings,
who look like lice to me—
or other insects without wings.

I am a lantern at the end of your day.
I am not the Magnificent Fumbler,
who gifted you with feeble DNA.

I bring peace after you have done your worst,
and while I may eventually die,
you will die first.

by James Reynolds

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James Reynolds lives in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia and is a member of Valley Writers in Roanoke. His work has been published in Ariel Chart and will also appear in upcoming editions of The Broadkill Review, Scarlet Leaf Review, and Lighten Up Online.

19-51.4



Thirteen ways of Looking at a Maltese

I
Among many cozy covers
I lost the little thing
Where the heck is that Maltese.

II
I'm losing my mind
can't you see
How can I chase three Maltese?

III
The Maltese wet in the autumn leaves
It was a small walk for that pal 'o mine.

IV
A man and a woman
have fun.
A man and a woman and a Maltese
watch TV.

V
I do not know which he prefers
a bowl of wet dog food
or the beauty of many kibbles—
The Maltese slurping
or just crunching.

VI
Faces small in the front window
with nostril stained glass
The bobbing of the Maltese
Crossing it, up and down
Their mood
traced to my footfalls
Are they waving their little paws?

VII
O you men of Main Street
Why do you maneuver giant dogs?
Do you not see how the Maltese
Walks around my feet
And hot women approach me?

VIII
I know comic accents
And stupid, inescapable limericks;
But I know, too,
That there are no Maltese jokes
In what I know.

IX
When the Maltese ran out of sight,
It marked the edge
of my neighbors hibernum.

X
At the sight of Maltese
playing in a green park
even the grouchiest of jerks
would forgo frowning.

XI
He flew over Connecticut
way back in coach.
Once he got nervous
but then he just hugged
his well behaved therapy dog
A Maltese.

XII
That daisy is moving.
The Maltese has gone pee pee.

XIII
It was pizza all afternoon.
It was football
And it was going too long.
The Maltese sat
In the La-Z-Boy.

by Phil Huffy

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Phil Huffy started writing poems in late 2017. He placed nearly two hundred pieces in journals since that time and is pleased to be eminently googleable. His moderate success may be due in part to his use of various styles of poetry, metrical and otherwise. He plans to release a book of limericks in 2020 (unless his wife finds out) written to the same high standards to which he customarily aspires.

19-51.3



Mr. Hopkins Considers Getting a Cat

Glory to the gods for feline things—
the lynx, the sphinx, the Manx, the ocelot,
the Himalayan, Persian, Siamese,
the paw that pats, the crescent claw that clings.
All things that hunt and hide and heed you not
derive from Egypt their divinities:
Bastet, benignant as the sun at noon,
mother of those who chitter, pounce, and purr,
who keeps the cosmic harmonies in tune
and makes your kitten's eyes change with the moon—
Feed Her.

by Gail White

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Gail White, a resident of Breaux Bridge, Louisiana, feeds stray cats on Bayou Teche. Her poetry is formal and often feline-oriented. On being nominated for a Pushcart prize this year, she had to lie down for two days to get over the shock.

19-51.2



The Cultivation of Christmas Trees

There are several attitudes towards trees,
Some of which are utilitarian,
Some ecological, some aesthetic,
Reverential, flatly symbolic
(And there are things a tree can symbolize
That might not immediately strike us),
But no attitude as circumscribing
As that which surrounds the Christmas Tree lot,
Where potential centuries meet cement
And farmed nature is gaily sifted through,
Measured against bright living room ceilings,
And tied down to the roofs of cars. Perhaps
We shoppers, scurrying in our festive rounds,
Should not be baffled by the sadness
Tinging the Christmas Joy of that rare child
For whom the needle-shedding, gilded tree,
Tinsel-boa'd and capped with an angel,
Is not only a symbol, but a tree.

by Max Gutmann

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Max Gutmann has contributed to dozens of publications, including New Statesman, The Spectator, and Cricket. His plays have appeared throughout the U.S. and have been well-reviewed (see maxgutmann.com). His book There Was a Young Girl from Verona sold several copies.

19-51.1



The Modern White Supremacist's Song

Trump:
I am the very model of a modern white supremacist
With Nazi propaganda from my Jewish chief polemicist
I read no books, I've got no friends, I have no curiosity
No manners, and no character except my grandiosity;
No music, patience, empathy, no courage, and no loyalty
Except to brutal despots and hereditary royalty—
I like the rich and powerful, and all authoritarians
Korea, Russia, China, and the Muslim Saud vulgarians.

Self-Loathing Chorus:
He likes the rich and powerful, and all authoritarians:
Korea, Russia, China, and the Muslim Saud vulgarians.

Trump:
I haven't got integrity, compassion, nor normality,
No conscience, no respect, no shred of honor, no morality
I do not recognize the ancient truths nor modern verities
And cheat and steal from businesses and governments and charities.

Self-Loathing Chorus:
He does not recognize the ancient truths nor modern verities
He cheats and steals from businesses and governments and charities.

Trump:
I love the evangelicals because they're most defraudable
I love the left-wing liberals because they're very proddable
And often it's the same damned thing to which they are susceptible
Some happily accept what others deem as unacceptable.
When something that I do or say is widely hailed as horrible
The white-bread theologians all embrace it as adorable
At least they say in sermons my behavior is ignorable
And Protestant or Catholic they cheer themselves deplorable.

Self-Loathing Chorus:
At least they say in sermons his behavior is ignorable
And Protestant or Catholic we cheer themselves deplorable.

Trump:
They say "I'm not a racist, but"—and then they say a racist thing,
And if they have a choice of two they always say the basest thing.
I let them wave their Bibles and believe what they have guessed I meant
Although there's not a person who is white in either testament.

Self-Loathing Chorus:
He lets us wave our Bibles and believe what we have guessed he meant
Although there's not a person who is white in either testyment.

Trump:
When everybody's outraged and the internet is simmering
That's when my trollish ego is most Freudianly shimmering
I love it when the Democrats are shocked dismayed and scandalized
By yet some other of their sacred cows that I have vandalized.
I call you people names because when you are most antagonized
That's when my basest base is most excitedly band-wagonized.
There's really nothing to it—why the more that I'm notorious
The better chance my white folks have to finally be victorious.

Self-Loathing Chorus:
There's really nothing to it—why the more that he's notorious
The better chance we white folks have to finally be victorious.

Trump:
I'm President because I lied and cheated electorally
And nothing you can do can touch me legally or morally.
With Nazi propaganda from my Jewish chief polemicist
I am the very model of a modern white supremacist.

Self-Loathing Chorus:
With Nazi propaganda from his Jewish chief polemicist
He is the very model of a modern white supremacist.

by Marcus Bales

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Not much is known about Marcus Bales except he lives in Cleveland, Ohio, and his work has not appeared in The New Yorker nor Poetry Magazine.

19-50



Kisses

Rain kissed,
sun kissed,
the final kiss of death.
A send-off kiss,
a come-home kiss,
kisses stealing breath.

Kiss the princess;
kiss the frog;
a Judas kiss of truth.
Blow a kiss,
Eskimo kiss,
kisses in a booth.

Kiss and tell,
kiss the dust,
kiss the pain away.
Steal a kiss,
kiss my grits;
a kiss to make him stay.

by Arvilla Fee

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Arvilla Fee has been married for 17 years and has four children (two grown, two at home). They live in Dayton, Ohio, where Arvilla teaches English Composition for Clark State Community College. Writing has been a passion of hers since she was just a kid. She often poured childhood angst into poems about getting dragged along to yard sale after yard sale after yard sale! She's been published in numerous magazines, including several college campus magazines while obtaining her Bachelor's and two Master's degrees. What she loves most about writing, though, is the sheer power of words—the ability to make people feel joy, sadness, strength or anger. Finding the right word for a poem or story is like finding the five dollars you didn't know you had in your pocket! It's glorious! (so says Arvilla).

19-49



If

If you can fake a 4-F due to "bone spurs,"
With a podiatrist who rents from Dad,
And never go to war and win your own spurs,
But boast of dodging STDs instead;

If you can mock a Muslim Gold Star family
And decorated heroes like McCain,
And brag of "knowing" ISIS, oh so hammily,
But what you know, you never quite explain;

If you can tweet the soldiers out of Syria,
Betray the Kurds and leave our allies flat,
Till neither men nor mad dogs can be near ya,
But you've still got a tweet worth two of that;

If you can try to save your reputation
With a quick stop for selfies in Iraq,
Call the troops "suckers," give out their location,
Insult the country's leaders–to their back;

If you can dress in costumes and play Army
While getting every single detail wrong–
Your name is Drumpf. The whole world knows you're barmy,
And playing Chief Commander. Not for long.

by Cheryl Caesar

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Cheryl Caesar lived in Paris, Tuscany, and Sligo for 25 years. She studied at the Sorbonne and taught literature, phonetics and "civilization." She teaches writing at Michigan State University in East Lansing, demonstrates, reads and publishes protest poems in the U.S., Germany, India, Bangladesh, Yemen, and Zimbabwe. facebook.com/bindiwankatterpi

19-48



Blue Girls Revisited

Styling in your leggings, wildly designed,
Strutting to classes in your modern schools—
While texting. Roll your eyes at those old fools
Who think they're so refined.

Toss back the pink extensions in your hair,
And think no more of SATs at all.
But plan to meet BFFs at the mall
To shop for earrings there.

Make duck face selfies while guys who watch dream
about your lovely, well-toned flesh so tight.
It will sag some day, bringing no delight—
in spite of firming creams.

You think I don't know beauty, but I do!
I know a woman with a poison tongue
and beady eyes that used to be bright-blue.
She turned heads near and far when she was young
and surely knocked the shine off all of you.

by Janice Canerdy

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Janice Canerdy is a retired high school English teacher from Potts Camp, Mississippi. She has been writing poetry for over fifty years. She especially enjoys rhymed, metered poetry and gets a real charge out of parodying the famous poems she once shoved down her students' throats (while  assuring them that studying such noble literature would greatly enhance their lives).

19-47



Murray's Loss, Morrie's Gain
or, The Silent Treatment

Murray lost his little clam
one day along the beach.
He feared it had been swept away
by surf, beyond his reach.

He searched the shore, both high and low,
combed every grain of sand.
He called to it. It answered not:
clams are a silent band.

Morrie found that little clam
amid the tide's debris.
He talked to it, but mute the clam
remained as in the sea.

He took it off to school one day.
The clam broke not a rule:
the best behaved in class it was—
no doubt in all the school.

by Julian D. Woodruff

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Julian D. Woodruff came to literary invention while telling authorities in East Berlin how he lost his passport. His poetry appears on the websites of Carmina and The Society of Classical Poets. Reedsy and Frostfire Worlds have each issued a short story. He is a member of the Rochester, NY Area Children's Writers and Illustrators and SCBWI.

19-46



To My Angry Partner

Go gentle into that good night.
Don't burn and rave. Don't slam the door,
And when you leave, please turn out the light.

Perhaps you're suffering some imagined slight,
Forked words that you just can't endure.
Go gentle into that good night.

I thought you were articulate and bright,
Not some grieving, grunting boor.
When you leave, please turn out the light.

How did we ever reach this plight
When no deed matters anymore?
When you leave, please turn out the light.

It's stupid, who was wrong or right,
Our quarrel as blind as some old metaphor.
Go gentle into that good night.

The two of us make one sad plight.
Raging's clearly not the cure.
Go gentle into that good night,
And when you leave, turn out the light.

by David Galef

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David Galef has published over two hundred poems in magazines ranging from Light and Measure to The Yale Review. He's also published two poetry volumes, Flaws and Kanji Poems, as well as two chapbooks, Lists and Apocalypses. In real life, he directs the creative writing program at Montclair State University.

19-45



They Grow Up From Me


They flee from me that sometime did me seek
with toddler foot, stalking our bedroom chamber.
I have seen them hilarious, giggling, full of cheek,
that now are detached and do not remember
that sometime I put them in their manger
to clean their poop with Luv's wipes; now they range,
busily hanging out with a bunch of strangers.

Thankéd be fortune it hath been otherwise.
Twenty times better; but once in special,
in Halloween costume, under dark November skies,
when their bags of candy from their hands did fall;
therewithal sweetly did they hiss,
"Daddy, you'll have none of this!"

It was no witchcraft: I lay broad waking.
But all is turned thorough my largesse
into a strange fashion of forsaking;
and I have shock at their apparent rudeness,
and they also love their growing adult sureness.
But since that I am so kindly burnéd
I would fain appreciate an email returnéd.

by Richard Cummins

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Richard Cummins lives in the Pacific Northwest with his wife, Meg. They have two successful kids who have grown up from them. One is a writer in NYC; the other is a writing student and a senior at a university a full mountain range away.

19-44



Saw
I never saw a Purple Cow,
I never hope to see one;
But I can tell you, anyhow,
I'd rather see than be one.
Gelett Burgess

I finally saw a purple cow.
I'd never hoped to see one
Nor dreamed that I'd be writing now
To tell you that to be one

Is not so fun. I know because
On seeing, I became
A purple cow! And nothing was
Ever again the same.

The boys all laughed, the mean girls sneered,
And grownups shrieked in fright.
I asked an old friend what they feared.
He said, The very sight

Of you! So, with a can of paint,
I sprayed my skin all green.
Thus ended everyone's complaint,
The world turned not-so-mean.

I've noticed how the world is full
of folks who will allow
and accept almost any bull
but not so much a cow.

While underneath, I know that I
Am really purple still,
I keep it to myself—and sigh,
As certain poets will.

by James B. Nicola

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James B. Nicola's poetry has garnered two Willow Review awards, a Dana Literary award, and six Pushcart nominations—including one from Parody! His full-length collections are Manhattan Plaza, Stage to Page, Wind in the Cave, Out of Nothing, and Quickening: Poems from Before and Beyond. His nonfiction book, Playing the Audience, won a Choice award.

19-43



"Fear" is the thing with dark fur—

"Fear" is the thing with dark fur—
That perches on the soul—
And snacks upon the winged beasts—
That may be resting there—

And growling—in the calm—is heard—
And Heavenly's the peace—
That could allay the mangy hound
Of which so many warned—

It found me in the silent night—
With naught for hope of sleep—
It gnawed on each extremity,
Left not a crumb of me.

-----------------


Mixed Drinks

You can change how the tea leaves land.
You're not required to close your eyes
and blindly swirl.

But don't let your reader know.
She'll just go on and on
and on. Something
about the mystery or upsetting the fates:
as if they're going to raise
their heads from the loom
for just any old mug.

So if it looks as if
the leaves are about to land
and hand you a cup of misfortune
just give it one last shake, or
perhaps, dump it on the table
upside down.

You're doomed anyway.


by Brian Garrison

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Brian Garrison doesn't frequently make a habit of shameless self-promotion, but you can read more of his poetry in his chapbook New Yesterdays, New Tomorrows.

19-42



The Gilded Cross

so much depended
upon

a gilded wooden
cross

glazed with human
blood

beside the silver
bullets.

by William Carrion Williams

and Tara Campbell

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Tara Campbell (www.taracampbell.com) is a writer, teacher, Kimbilio Fellow, and fiction editor at Barrelhouse. Prior publication credits include SmokeLong QuarterlyMasters ReviewJellyfish ReviewBooth, and McSweeney's Internet Tendency. She's also the author of a novel, TreeVolution, and two collections, Circe's Bicycle and Midnight at the Organporium. Tweet her up at @TaraCampbellCom

19-41



Whenas Undead My Julia Goes

Whenas undead my Julia goes,
then, then (methinks) how thickly flows
that putrefaction from her nose.

Next, when I cast mine eyes and see
that slick concoction each way free;
o how that glittering taketh me!

by Rotting Herrick

and Tara Campbell

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Tara Campbell (www.taracampbell.com) is a writer, teacher, Kimbilio Fellow, and fiction editor at Barrelhouse. Prior publication credits include SmokeLong Quarterly, Masters Review, Jellyfish Review, Booth, and McSweeney's Internet Tendency. She's also the author of a novel, TreeVolution, and two collections, Circe's Bicycle and Midnight at the Organporium. Tweet her up at @TaraCampbellCom

19-40



I Plodded Lonely as a Cloud

I plodded lonely as a cloud
That thumps outcast o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd
Of humans, armed unto the gills;
And when young Victor spotted me
They swarmed, and I could only flee.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle in the sky's expanse,
Their torches marched in shuddering lines
And marked the angry mob's advance:
The trembling flames, my desperate flight,
My darkest nightmare every night.

I see flames bob above their heads
And Victor marching at the fore,
Oh, had he only kept me dead!
Instead I crouch here, friendless, poor,
Imagining the fatal day
They find my craggy hideaway.

For oft, whilst lying on the floor,
My only bedding piles of dust,
I brood and wonder, more and more,
What would have happened had I just
Not made that terrible mistake,
And tossed the girl into the lake.

by Chilliam Wordsworth

and Tara Campbell

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Tara Campbell (www.taracampbell.com) is a writer, teacher, Kimbilio Fellow, and fiction editor at Barrelhouse. Prior publication credits include SmokeLong Quarterly, Masters Review, Jellyfish Review, Booth, and McSweeney's Internet Tendency. She's also the author of a novel, TreeVolution, and two collections, Circe's Bicycle and Midnight at the Organporium. Tweet her up at @TaraCampbellCom

19-39



Little Miss Muffet


What kind of lunch is this?
Curds and whey? Is this
what they call cottage cheese?
And what the heck's a tuffet?
Why am I in this stupid picture—
this snapshot of my life,
when I am not happy at all about it!?
Why can't I have hot dogs
or potato chips or cake like most kids?
My parents push it to the limits
with this "wholesome" mush stuff I'm forced to eat.
And you know what? I've now a stain on my tushy
from this tuffet that has me roughing it
out here in this beast-infested Bush.
I'll never come back here again.
No way! A spider, eek! How dare
he sit beside me, or is it a she?
Hey, I'm outta here.
This place is creepy!

by Lynne Goldsmith

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Lynne Goldsmith can be found roaming the beautiful Sierra Nevada mountains with a dog or two. Her upcoming book-length manuscript won the Halcyon Poetry Book Contest and will be published by Middle Creek Publishing. Check her out at lynneagoldsmith.com.

19-38



Dirge Wailed Against the Music on the Car Radio

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving cats in the loud car.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the hard case we go, the wise and the lovely. Barred
From pedals and traffic, I know; but I am not resigned.

Kneaders and prowlers, into the box with you.
Be one with the thrum, the car's jarring and thrust.
A fragment of what you chased, of what you chewed,
A scratchpad, a treat remains—but travel you must.

The pounces quick and keen, the blinking look, the purring, the love—
They are gone. They are gone into the carrier. Elegant and curled
Are the tails of the mice where I go. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious were the mice in this house than all the mice in that world.

Down, down, down into the darkness of the car
Clutching I go, the beautiful, the furry, the kind;
Yowling I go. She says I'm supposed to be brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

by Elise Morse-Gagné

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Elise Morse-Gagné has been employed as a bakery salesperson, proofreader & copy editor, index-maker, translator, cobbler's assistant, researcher, lactation consultant, linguistics professor, and substitute teacher. She is a writer and photographer. She has lived in New Hampshire, Pennsylvania, Massachusetts, Norway, Indiana, and Mississippi. She likes lists. She also likes old things: old books, old furniture, old pottery, and rocks. Even her cell phone dates back to 2012.

Elise is a widow with two grown children. In 2018 she moved from Mississippi back to Massachusetts. The three-day truck drive appalled her hitherto strictly non-automotive cat, who remains horrified by road trips (though nowadays sedation dials the volume down from 11 to 7 on a scale of 10). Elise, too, is vociferously unreconciled to the unacceptable. This particular list includes put-downs, consumerism, condescension, white-think, complacency, boxes, potassium sorbate in cider, professorial hazing, Nestlé, authoritarianism, error loops in online forms, the school-to-prison pipeline, grammar sneers, cliques, bombast, shut doors that ought to be open, and open doors that ought to be shut (closet doors: there be monsters). Honorable mention goes to fakery: fake wood, powdered creamer, fenugreek masquerading as maple, inaccurate Olde Englisshe, ignorance posturing as expertise in any field, and scams aimed at the vulnerable. Occasionally she lightens up enough to write a funny poem.

19-37



Better Be

A part-time amateur spirit reader told me,
in her unsolicited opinion,
my work will be published soon.

I sit,
wait
and hope,
for her sake,
that is true
so I won't have to write
a scathing Yelp review.

by Douglas S. Malan

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Douglas S. Malan is a writer who lives. A devilish risk-taker, he signs contracts and checks in pencil and refers to hashtags as pound signs.

19-36



The Traffic

Traffic!  Traffic!  Burning gas,
On the highways nose to ass,
What deranged, sadistic mind
Would jam commuters to this grind?

In what deepest darkest hells
Burns the poisons thou expels?
On what tires dare He roll?
What the wheel that lost control?

And what tolls, what breakdown lanes,
Could speed the neurons of thy brain?
And when thy brain should overheat,
What dread voice?  On what dread street?

What the road rage?  What the gun?
In whose brain should I put one?
What the horn?  What baseball bat
Dares the driver to combat?

When the drivers shout their jeers
And ram the others, sides and rears,
Did He smile his work to see?
Does He run the DMV?

Traffic!  Traffic!  Burning gas,
On the highways nose to ass,
What deranged sadistic mind
Would jam commuters to this grind?

by Bob Lorentson

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Despite not having an MFA, Bob Lorentson persists in writing. When not writing he likes to indulge in his passion for wondering. He is a wonderful wonderer who wonders about nearly everything, including why he would write this silly bio when he could be wondering why he can't find a publisher for his novels. Recent stories and poems however have found homes or are in the adoption process at Sleet, Praxis, Better Than Starbucks, Leaves of Ink, and Quinnehtukqut. He lives in rural Connecticut.

19-35



Calling in Sick

"I cannot go to work today,"
Said middle manager Peg McKay.
"I've had enough of bullshit meetings,
Mindless tasks and smarmy greetings.
My inbox fills me up with dread—
Two thousand emails still unread.
So many deadlines I could cry,
My blood pressure is crazy high.
My jaws are clenched, it's hard to speak,
My headache's pounded for a week.
My nails are chewed to bloody nubs.
My ego's bruised by boss's snubs.
Carpal tunnel wrecked my wrists—
I cannot type more to-do lists.
My shoulders hunch, my back is sore,
There is no strength left in my core.
My pants are tight, I chafe and groan,
I've gained ten pounds this month alone
From being chained to my desk chair.
I want to rip out all my hair.
Then I'd be bald as well as stressed.
I might be clinically depressed.
My head keeps bumping ceiling glass,
My lips are chapped from kissing ass.
My tongue is raw from licking boots.
Do I enjoy my labor's fruits?
No raise, promotion—not one perk.
My sole reward is tons more work.
I've lost all hope, my heart is—what?
What's that? What's that you say?
You say today is... Saturday?
I'm off to yoga, Namaste!"

by E.A. Cockle

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E.A. Cockle is as dedicated to writing as she is to being a good cat mommy. She lives in Toronto, ON, where she is a member of CITADEL. Her work has appeared in Hello Writer, Poetry Atlas, Bonsai Journal, and 2Elizabeths. You can find her on Instagram @ej_colling.

19-33



Blake Visits the Aquarium

Octopus, octopus, sticking tight,
Though I pull with all my might;
What slimy, squishy deity
Could frame thy eight-fold symmetry?

Who coulda thunk, much less devise,
The ghoulish glimmer of thine eyes?
What ugly mood was he evoking?
When he made you, what was he smoking?

What's with the suckers?  What's with the ink?
Why change colors—do you think
You look any better red than yellow?
You're still essentially wet jello!

Octopus, octopus, flee in fright,
To some dark hole, and well you might;
Your maker must have thought of thee,
While suffering gastrointestinally.

by Tom Schmidt

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After decades spent launching academic paper airplanes from ivory tower windows, Tom Schmidt now composes poems from the tree house he built above his bee-loud glade in central Vermont. His outlook is much improved. Now and then an editor likes his work, but more often his family and friends do, and that's a deeper satisfaction. His grandsons are more impressed that he can make authentic noises for eight different kinds of construction vehicles. And they love the tree house.

19-32



Brake, Brake, Brake
with a nod to Alfred, Lord Tennyson and the morning commuters


Brake, brake, brake!
     For a chat and a snack and a coffee.
What's all the rush and the bustle and fuss?
     You look like a bunch of zombies.

As your whizzing cars go by
     To your jobs O-so-far away,
I wish for you a day by the sea
     And the sight of your children at play.

While your metal ships sail down
     To the bottom of my long hill
I wish you good luck with your busy day
     And hope that it gives you a thrill.

Brake, brake, brake!
     On flat black tarmac, O Please!
Stop—right now—your wheels from spinning
     For just one moment and breathe!

by Elizabeth Boquet

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Elizabeth Boquet teaches English and chairs The Pernessy Poets in Lausanne, Switzerland. Her poems have appeared in Crab Orchard Review, Snapdragon, Stoneboat, Necessary Fiction, Offshoots and other literary journals. Naomi Shihab Nye awarded her a Geneva Writers' Group Literary Prize (2nd place) in 2017. www.elizabethboquet.com

19-31



I Cannot Tell

I cannot tell the difference
between my grandparents.

I've never seen them apart.
I've never seen them argue.

They've had 65 years
to work everything out.

Neither one will vacuum or iron
but both are happy to cook and dust.

They talk at the same time
and repeat the same stories.

I'm not sure they even know
The difference between them.

They clipper cut each other's hair and
have taken to sporting each other's underwear.

When I arrived with groceries this morning,
I found them in front of the bathroom mirror;

Grandma was shaving her face. Grandpa was
rubbing a nub of her favorite lipstick on his lips.

Maybe they're losing it.
Maybe they're lost in each other.

Or, maybe, this is what Ruth, in the Bible means by
...and the two shall become one.

by Elizabeth Boquet

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Elizabeth Boquet teaches English and chairs The Pernessy Poets in Lausanne, Switzerland. Her poems have appeared in Crab Orchard Review, Snapdragon, Stoneboat, Necessary Fiction, Offshoots and other literary journals. Naomi Shihab Nye awarded her a Geneva Writers' Group Literary Prize (2nd place) in 2017. www.elizabethboquet.com

19-30



A Summer Sonnet

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
With due respect to Shakespeare, I shall not.
After all, spring's the season who bears May
And "darling buds" won't last a day that hot.

Maybe the bard lived in a different time
When summers were still "temperate" and nice:
No global warming and no blazing clime.
The earth, then, must have been a paradise.

Sitting here with sweat drops on my forehead,
Let me compare you to an autumn night.
A cool breeze and a cold drink in my bed,
No scorching sun but a gentle moonlight.

   So long as the sun burns the earth away
   I shan't compare you to a summer's day.

by Niloufar Behrooz

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Niloufar Behrooz is a PhD candidate of English Literature at the University of Isfahan, Iran. She is a poet, writer, self-taught musician, university lecturer and night owl. Her work has appeared in Classical Poets Society, Lighten Up Online, Loch Raven Review, Literary Hatchet, Litro, Haiku Presence, World Haiku Review and elsewhere. Her most recent nonfiction will appear in an upcoming anthology. She is also an avid animal lover and she used to have a dozen rabbits who would've probably colonized the earth if her mom hadn't begged her to send them away. You can find her on Instagram @niloufarbehrooz

19-29



The Website of Innisfree

I will log on now and virtually visit Innisfree,
The builder says my second home there is almost complete:
Sub-zero fridge, home theater, garage for my RV,
And lake views from the master suite.

So now I have a piece of it; I had to buy in quick
When NAFTA dropped some whining farmer over the edge.
Of course, if values rise, well, it's just arithmetic,
And a Maui condo's a better hedge.

I will log off this site for now; Innisfree can wait:
I hear my smart phone ding, my Facebook's filling constantly,
And there's an episode of CSI on Channel 8—
I'll watch it in 4K Ultra HD.

by Tom Schmidt

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After decades spent launching academic paper airplanes from ivory tower windows, Tom Schmidt now composes poems from the tree house he built above his bee-loud glade in central Vermont. His outlook is much improved. Now and then an editor likes his work, but more often his family and friends do, and that's a deeper satisfaction. His grandsons are more impressed that he can make authentic noises for eight different kinds of construction vehicles. And they love the tree house.

19-28



Thirteen Ways of Looking at a French Fry Potato

I
Among fifty fast-food restaurants
the only touching thing was
a bag of fries.

II
Yo,
french fry potato.
The skinny is
you got no skin.

III
Add salt, ketchup,
melted cheese,
their essential function
is to please.

IV
French fries kill
more people than
guns and sharks,
but no one's afraid
of french fries.

V
When I met you
at McDonald's
I thought you were
an über tuber; fashionably
thin yet filled with fat.

VI
The French call it
a pomme frite,
c'est magnifique,
je ne sais quoi,
bon appétit.

VII
Do french fries really come
from France? Non non ma chère,
ils viennent de Belgique.

VIII
They say you're a "fast" food
but there are worse sins
than "going all the way"
at lunch or dinner.

IX
Oiled in and oiled up,
greased with goodness,
greased with greatness,
cholesterol killing
but Barkis is willing.

X
How 'bout we go to
the couch, potato,
or do you want to
go somewhere else.

XI
A man and a woman
are one.
A man and a woman and a french fry
are one.

XII
You may look like
a small fry
but taste wise
you're the big potato.

XIII
It was morning all afternoon.
It was raining
and it was going to snow.
The french fry sat
in a plastic tub.

by Martin H. Levinson

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Martin H. Levinson does not teach creative writing at Stanford. In 2017, he was not awarded a fellowship from the NEA. His poetry has not been published by The New Yorker or the Paris Review. Levinson lives with his wife in New York City. He is grateful for the recognition he has not sought or achieved and plans to continue to work in obscurity.

19-27



Stopping an Intrusion on a Summer Evening

Whose drone this is I'll never know.
It's right outside my window, though.
I'm sure it sees me lying here
In bed and naked head to toe.

My dog is freaked, and makes it clear
The awful thing must disappear.
It's getting late, for heaven's sake,
The lightest evening of the year.

He barks and howls without a break.
The only sounds he hears me make
Are words I seldom say, like "(bleep)!"
And now he knows I'm wide awake.   

The owner of this drone's a creep,
But I have shotguns in my keep,
And aim to get a good night's sleep,
And aim to get a good night's sleep.

by Alex Steelsmith

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A writer and fine artist, Alex Steelsmith has coauthored three nonfiction books and more than 200 articles that have appeared in numerous publications, including USA Today. In addition to Parody, his poems have appeared in Light, Lighten Up Online, and other venues. When not writing parodies and light poetry, he takes himself very seriously.

19-26



Pees

I think I shall never see
A poem as welcome as a pee.

A pee whose easy time is quit
Will not eject from its cockpit.

A pee that begs of God all day
Oh let me sprinkle, let me spray.

A pee that's hard to personify
Hiding his Truth in old one-eye.

Under whose torrent bark has flown
Back when my wild oats were sown.

Parodies are made by fools like me
But only Flomax can make me pee.

by Thomas L. Wiseman

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Thomas L. Wiseman is a poet, literature and writing teacher, and punster. He earned PhD and MA degrees from Tulane University and a bachelor's from Penn State. He retired from full time teaching in 2007 but was back at it in 2008. He is now a part-time instructor at Portland Community College-Rock Creek Campus in Oregon. He reads anything he can get his hands on but prefers Parody, The Onion, and Mad Magazine. The only news he watches is The Daily Show with Trevor Noah.

19-25



Guidelines For Meditators



Appendix A
List of Approved Reasons For Interrupting A Sitting

Introduction
The beginning meditator may find it difficult to commit to sitting without giving in to distractions. While it is ideal to sit without interruption for the prescribed period, there are a few situations in which a brief interruption or suspension of the session may be permitted. In order to relieve the beginner of the burden of attempting to determine which situations qualify, a list has been compiled and is included here. Review of this list is recommended immediately prior to one's first twenty (20) sittings, after which one should keep this page available for easy reference.

1. Fire

2. Flood
    A. waters 3" or higher, and rising
    B. your cushion is on the floor, in which case you may move it to a bench

3. Earthquake
    A. you may relocate your cushion under a doorway
       (1) in the event your doorway has collapsed, you may attempt to leave

4. Tornado, hurricane, or tsunami
    A. you may pause to:
       (1) close the window
       (2) hammer plywood across the window
       (3) run

5. Someone nearby calls for help
    A. at least twice, if you're not sure the first time

6. You left a burner on (see 1. Fire, above)

7. You left the water running (see 2. Flood, above)

8. You forgot to put your phone on vibrate

9. It's possible you've left the door unlocked all night

10. An insect you find impossible to ignore is buzzing at the window
   A. if the insect is inside the room, you may capture it in your bowl and release it outside
   B. if the insect is outside, you may close the window, taking care not to trap it between the glass
           and the screen

11. The dog will not stop whining until you let it out

12. Come to think of it, you have to go, and it really can't wait

13. A text notification sounds
    A. only if you're pretty sure it's from someone you really miss

14. You remember an email you actually really do have to send right now
    A. or a text

15. You can't stop thinking about the last piece of cake in the kitchen
    A. have you had cake yet today?
    B. how likely is it someone will take it if you don't get it first?

16. It would probably be good to make the shopping list now, before you forget

17. You notice the bedspread is hanging longer on one side

18. A "Kung Fu" rerun is on
    A. only if you haven't seen the episode they're showing
        (1) or not within the last six months

19. A really insistent poem
    A. extreme caution is advised: some days, everything sounds like a poem.


by Andrea Wolper

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Widely known as a singer and songwriter working in jazz and experimental music, Andrea Wolper is also a writer whose published work includes journalism, poetry, and two non-fiction books (Routledge; Watson-Guptill). www.AndreaWolper.com

19-24



The Charge of the Lycra Brigade

I
One summit, two summits
Three summits upward
Up the Sierra mountains
   Rode the thirty hundred.
"Forward, the Lycra Brigade!
Charge for the passes!" they said.
Up five Death Ride summits
   Rode the spandex warriors.

II
"Forward, the Lycra Brigade!"
All so garishly array'd
Not tho' the cyclists knew
   Whose fashion sense had blunder'd.
   Their's not to whine or cry,
   Their's not to reason why,
   (But you might say I'd rather die)
   Their's to finish th' Ride of Death)
   Kilometers two hundred.

III
Cannondale a brand du jour
Campagnolo derailleurs
Carbon fiber de rigueur
   (De-lu-si-ons of gran-de-ur?)
Steamin' hot with sweat and smell
Boldly over hill and dell,
Pedaling on though out of breath
Sucking thin air not so well
   Gasped the spandex warriors.

IV
Flash'd all their shaved legs bare,
Flash'd not a hint of hair
Savoring bright jerseys' flair,
Charging downhill fast they dare,
   (But falls could be atrocities).
Sculpted glutes and bulging quads
Proud they are about their bods
Chafing where in shorts too tight?
Butt-butter there for bottoms' plight
   Those ischial tuberosities.
Then many quit, yet most rode on, but
   Not all thirty hundred.

V
Clouds to right of them,
Clouds to left of them,
Tempest atop of them
   Lightning'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with rain and hail,
While gumption sagged and spirits fell,
Cramps caused some to face defeat
(And others de agony of de feet)
Tired and sore they hurt like hell
All body parts but 'specially
   Those ischial tuberosities.

VI
When can their bragging fade?
O the wild boasts they made!
   All spectators wonder'd.
"Here's to us the charge we made!
Here's to us the Lycra Brigade!
   (Vain)glorious spandex warriors!"

by Richard Drace

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Richard Drace is a lapsed academic living in Grass Valley, CA. Retired from a variety of careers in architecture and education, he has resumed his literary interests writing poetry—sometimes frivolous, sometimes serious, and non-fiction—sometimes serious. When his art muse is indolent, he works wood, cooks, keeps bees, skis, fishes, and cycles. This poem is his third contribution to Parody, but his first venture into self-parody.

19-23



Rapunzel Sets the Record Straight

No one ever talked about
the hairs I lost or times
my prince slipped and fell
two stories to hit hard the hay below.
You should have heard him yell!
The bruises and scrapes he took,
the elbow he fractured once.
I never heard the last of that one.
For three months he stopped calling.
Too much risk, the clambering
up my slippery ropes of hair.
I changed my shampoo,
worked the split ends,
all to help him improve his grip.
I practiced my operatic songs
and the balancing of my nest
of hair curled atop my head
as I circled in my room
over and over so many times
bored out of my mind
day after day
waiting for his return
to yank me into headaches.
Point is: Don't grow your hair miles long!

by Lynne Goldsmith

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Lynne Goldsmith can be found roaming the beautiful Sierra Nevada mountains with a dog or two. Her upcoming book-length manuscript won the Halcyon Poetry Book Contest and will be published by Middle Creek Publishing. Check her out at lynneagoldsmith.com.

19-22



The Unromantic Version of Kissing Sleeping Beauty

Frankly, she wasn't that healthy—
looking with her pale skin and crust
across closed eyelids, spittle
running down her cheek and neck,
and those nails so long and curled!
The room was stuffy too
with dust built up everywhere.
In fact, my asthma kicked in
with the air so bad, and I tripped along
Sleeping Beauty's rings of tress
that made trails across the floor
Her stomach growled too,
and while I stood there
she passed gas once, then twice.
But my girl had me mesmerized
as she snored away the hour...
before my one quick trip outside
to get my breathing back to normal.
I returned to her bedside with lungs better,
when I knelt down upon my sore knee,
ignored my dear Beauty's rancid breath,
dry skin, ripe body odor, and kissed her
gently on the lips—well,
really it was on the side of the mouth;
and I brushed her hair with my hand
down along her face.  She rubbed her eyes
and moved her head from side to side.
A moth flew out
from underneath her dated dress.
She smiled with yellow teeth
and we embraced.  With just one look
we knew we'd have a lot of work to do
on building a house, our relationship,
and with telling people what we were:
an ordinary peasant couple who dreamed big
with plans to shower three times a day
and always be on the lookout
for cobwebs, phobias we have to live with.

by Lynne Goldsmith

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Lynne Goldsmith can be found roaming the beautiful Sierra Nevada mountains with a dog or two. Her upcoming book-length manuscript won the Halcyon Poetry Book Contest and will be published by Middle Creek Publishing. Check her out at lynneagoldsmith.com.

19-20



I Gaze into My Glass

I gaze into my glass,
And view my perfect skin, 
And say, "No crease will come to pass
Injections can't fill in!"

For no one gets distressed
By mere mortality
Who always gets the very best
Cosmetic surgery.

That Time might make me grieve,
I simply can't abide;
And nothing shakes this frame at eve
That cannot be denied.

by Alex Steelsmith

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A writer and fine artist, Alex Steelsmith has coauthored three nonfiction books and more than 200 articles that have appeared in numerous publications, including USA Today. In addition to Parody, his poems have appeared in Light, Lighten Up Online, and other venues. When not writing parodies and light poetry, he takes himself very seriously.

19-19



Apollinaire Steals the Mona Lisa
On September 7, 1911, French police arrested poet Guillaume Apollinaire for stealing the Mona Lisa.

In that vast lamentable hall
nobility has abandoned,
her ancient suffering smile
innocent of rage
bestows a melancholy radiance
on Americans with museum maps.

A menacing harlequin
lectures on fatal dreams
as the guarded cortege of tourists
without a single vital tear
passes beneath her linen confinement
and time expires wingless.

She has ascended beyond
the violet adoration of crowds,
but I will climb sorrow like a ladder
and steal her perfect glory
to be that fevered mirror
I keep under my bed.

by Chris Bullard

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Chris Bullard lives in Philadelphia, PA. He received his B.A. in English from the University of Pennsylvania and his MFA from Wilkes University. Finishing Line Press published his poetry chapbook, Leviathan, in 2016. Kattywompus Press published High Pulp, a collection of his flash fiction, in 2017. His work has appeared in publications such as 32 Poems, Green Mountains Review, Rattle, Pleiades, River Styx, and Nimrod.

19-18



The Smells

  Sniff the odors and the smells—
     Galling smells.
What a world of allergies their prevalence foretells.
   Through the thickened air of night,
    How they scatter with delight.
   They can fly, fly, fly
   From the trash chute or the sky,
   From the dope the neighbor's smoking
    To the incense in the halls,
   Whether nicotine or bleach,
   They can bypass any walls.
  But no ventilation gives them an escape.
   They can travel sight unseen
    Through a window or a screen,
   Now a fragrance, now a whiff—
    Is it garbage?  Catch a sniff.
  Did the guy in 7R just buy an ape?
 Now they're painting all the bathrooms,
 Or they're spraying, killing pests,
 Or the tenants in the corner have invited teenage guests.
    And the odor never rests.
 Oh, the smells, smells, smells, smells,
       Smells, smells, smells.
All the pungent biting odors of the smells.

by Shawn Bayern

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Shawn Bayern is a law professor in Florida. He is allergic to many things.

19-17



After champagne, a fizzy feeling comes

After champagne, a fizzy feeling comes—
A closed Door opens, the mind succumbs
to Joy. Its sober Angel banished for the night—
High spirits burst forth in blazing light.

The Heart, released from care, takes flight—
in Volatility.
No Dirge, no Woe can bring it down.
No purpose, plan,
or dull Responsibility.

This is the Hour of Exhilaration—
Cherished Abandon, if regretted later.
For now, Time is suspended, so—
First—Chill—then Pop—then the letting go—

by Antonia Clark

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Antonia Clark, a medical writer and editor, has also taught creative writing and manages an online poetry workshop. Her full-length poetry collection, Chameleon Moon (2014) will be reissued in 2019 by Bellevue Books. Toni lives in Vermont, loves wine, travel, and French café music. Contact antoniaclarkpoetry@gmail.com or visit antoniaclark.com.

19-16



To a Corporation Dying Young
with a nod to A. E. Housman


The time your IPO sold well
We cheered you at the closing bell.
Traders on the floor cried "buy"
And sent you to a record high.

Today, a Judge impounds your stock
And puts your assets on the block,
As from your officers you slip
Received into receivership.

Smart play, admitting to defeat,
Now that your specs are obsolete.
For early though a tech may please
It withers briefer than CDs.

Lawsuits bankruptcy will close
Cannot offend the public nose,
And creditors cannot assail
Those behind the corporate veil.

Now you will not join the dreck
Of those delisted from NASDAQ,
Another former brand of fame
And the value died before the name.

So get, before the news is out,
Another app that you can tout,
And make new promises to us:
Puffery in your prospectus.

And round you just as before
Will flock the suckers who want more,
Gentle sheep begging to be shorn
As trusting as the newly born.

by Chris Bullard

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Chris Bullard lives in Philadelphia, PA. He received his B.A. in English from the University of Pennsylvania and his MFA from Wilkes University. Finishing Line Press published his poetry chapbook, Leviathan, in 2016. Kattywompus Press published High Pulp, a collection of his flash fiction, in 2017. His work has appeared in publications such as 32 Poems, Green Mountains Review, Rattle, Pleiades, River Styx, and Nimrod.

19-15



Dover Peach
with a thumb to the nose toward Matthew Arnold and Anthony Hecht

They never told you my name
when they invaded the anthologies.

Doing me such favors, those two:
a weekend trip to the coast,
a bottle of the wrong perfume.
A girl does her best,
but to go down in history invisibly,
without even a name, is too much.

There was never a question
of a fruitful relationship—
and all that complaining

about the world in general
and a few things in particular
war and suffering and all that
as though Matthew thought of them first.

Tony was no better, expecting me
to drop everything and start cooking
when he showed up like a dog on the doorstep
needing my life to juice his own ambition.

The nerve to claim my reality
without asking. You'll be glad to know
I've given up poets to buy
my own ticket, dance my dance,
walk past their erection, a fence

they built themselves. I wrote on it:
For a good time call Matt or Tony
555-3825.

by Sandra Soli

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Sandra Soli, writer/editor in Edmond, Oklahoma, enjoys wordplay and terrible puns. Her poems, articles, and short fiction have appeared widely in journals, humanities magazines, and anthologies that benefit the homeless. Author of two award-winning poetry chapbooks and teaching artist, Sandy survived childhood in a war zone and is completing a poetry collection based on that experience.

19-14



Comprehension Beyond Advanced Placement

To go, or not to go—that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The International Baccalaureate
Or to walk away damaged and even insane
And by opposing just live. IAs, EE—
No more—and by IAs to say we need
The struggle, and the thousand criteria
That students must make. 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be damned. IAs, EE—
EE—perchance to learn: ay, there's the rub,
For in that laissez faire what stress may come
When we have researched these four thousand words,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of the IB
For who would bear the whips and scorns of it,
Th' knowledge and care, the risks taken plus
The communication, the reflection,
The principles and thinking, inquiry
That open-minded balance might foster,
When they themselves might their loss of life make
With a heavy workload? That’d burdens bear,
To sweat and cry through these weary years,
But that the dread of something afterwards,
The life beyond the IB, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus IB does make fools of students,
And thus the native hue of intelligence
Is paled o'er with the darkness of despair,
And enterprise of great pitch and moment
With this thought their sanity turn awry
And lose the name of smart.—Oh my lord,
The University!—Beautiful, accept me
And make my suff'ring worth it.

*IB = International Baccalaureate
*IA - Internal Assessment
*EE - Extended Essay

by Tylyn K. Johnson

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Tylyn K. Johnson is a socially-conscious writer from Indianapolis, IN. A Dean's Scholar and social work major at UIndy, he's published stories with Severance Publications and the Preservation Foundation. His nonfiction appears in Rigorous Magazine, Indiana Voice Journal, and other publications. Find @TyKyWrites on Twitter, Instagram, and Medium.

19-13



Stopping by the Canal on a Hot Afternoon

Whose house is that I do not know.
I pass it when I'm cycling, though;
They will not see me stopping here.
I'll take a piss then on I go.

My little bike must think it queer
To stop without a toilet near
Between my home and sandy beach
The hottest day so far this year.

If my bike could ring its bell
It might do so to raise some hell,
Cause me to dribble on my jeans
Right here in this idyllic dell.

The bushes are lovely and water's flowing
But with people coming I must get going.
They see my bike; their pace is slowing
They'd see my tracks if it were snowing.

by Allan Lake

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Originally from Saskatchewan, Allan Lake has lived in Vancouver, Cape Breton Island, Ibiza/Spain, Tasmania, and now calls Melbourne home (with regular retreats to Sicily). He has published two collections: Tasmanian Tiger Breaks Silence (1988) and Sand in the Sole (2014). Lake won Elwood(Aus) Poetry Prize 2016, Lost Tower Publications(UK) Poetry Comp 2017, and Melbourne Spoken Word Poetry Festival Competition 2018. He fears shopping malls and freeways.

19-12



Solarcaine

I've found a joy.
There's a remedy I must employ.
Gotta tell you I'm a lucky boy
When I get my Solarcaine.

A pair of squirts
gets the pain out where the sunburn hurts,
and it hardly ever stains my shirts.
How I love my Solarcaine.

When it's raining, how I miss the sun,
but sunshine never misses me.
I try to cover up but hardly get it done.
Oh that sunburn misery.

Each night I pray
that nobody steals my can away.
Just can't beat that ever-lovin' spray.
How I love my Solarcaine.

by Phil Huffy

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Phil Huffy had a long career doing something other than writing. He was quite surprised to find his work accepted in a variety of print and online publications and loves to Google himself. He scribbles away at his kitchen table in Rochester, NY, and much prefers those little saltines they make to the regular size.

19-11



Roses are red
Clovers are green
Like the luck of the Irish
Whatever that means.
It's St. Patrick's day
You might get a pinch
If you don't like it
Just respond with a wrench
Hands to yourself
We are civilized here
Though incidents of pinching
Increase with green beer.

by Amanda Pearce

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Amanda Pearce is from Portland, Oregon. She enjoys playing Mad Libs, bothering strangers, and attempting stand up comedy. She spends her time traveling and overthinking minute life details. Her writing is inspired bad dates, cynicism, and middle child syndrome. For more of her delightful and outdated angst, please visit pdxpurge.blogspot.com

19-10



This Be The Glass

They fuck you up, both red and white,
but much more pleasantly than brew.
They fill you with a sense of right
and righteousness known but to few.

Grapes pressed in the traditional way
and slowly aged in old-world oak—
the crisp, the rich, the round bouquet,
a hint of citrus, cherry, smoke.

Without a glass, we may sink into
mournfulness, gloom, gravitas.
Surely, it is no great sin to
drink! In vino veritas!

by Antonia Clark

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Antonia Clark, a medical writer and editor, has also taught creative writing and manages an online poetry workshop. Her full-length poetry collection, Chameleon Moon (2014) will be reissued in 2019 by Bellevue Books. Toni lives in Vermont, loves wine, travel, and French café music. Contact antoniaclarkpoetry@gmail.com or visit antoniaclark.com.

19-9



École des Beaux Arts

About suffering you were never wrong,
Pale Icarus: how unformed, hardly conscious yet,
So young, you stuck the feathers on,
Compliant with the old magician's wish, faith in him strong;
Then flapped about to get the feel of your new wings,
Leapt finally from a peak, soared ecstatically
So near the sun you surfed the tides of superstrings;
Then felt the soft wax melt and run, thin rivulet,
Along each arm, an interesting feeling, drip from elbows,
Wrists, and fingers grasping through the heat to gather back
The scattered feathers, reveling as each new sensation grows,
Not sensible, as yet, you'd fall—There's no such thing as suffering—toward black
Inkwell, the canon of American and English poetry.

In Auden's Musée, for instance: where a reader learns
About the ploughman and the ship, not how it burns
To recognize the feathers held one up, and view
Abruptly, with new eyes, that suffering is sure as gravity,
As unrelenting as one's innocence had been,
And what an unenviable position one was in;
For this we'd have to go to school to you
Yourself, who made that splash so few would see.

by Dan Campion

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Dan Campion lives in Iowa City. His poetry has appeared previously in Parody and in Light, Poetry, Rolling Stone, and other journals. He is a co-editor of the anthology Walt Whitman: The Measure of His Song. A third edition will launch in Spring 2019 to honor Whitman's 200th birthday.