Michelle Smith

Unearthed bodies

beautiful minds
traveling souls
Route 66
of Chicago and Los Angeles
March and December births of 1966
It bites that I can't celebrate you both
the big C took you away
deferred because toxicology report
are still pending up to 180 days
Pisces and Sagittarius
Water and Fire
are the tears I cry fervently
blazing with my ire
It bites that we can no longer do

the things that we used to
and what a difference that would make
I'd celebrate you both with birthstone

jewelry for aquamarine and zircon are blue
His favorite color LA Dodger Blue
a bouquet of flowers, 

why can't a woman give them to a man,
you gifted me them on birthdays,
last Thanksgiving, or just because you can
M & M's melt in your mouth and 

not in your hand
one of your favorite chocolate sweets

and devil's food cake was hers
I'm happy to remember that
Thank God for you both
I'll see those treats sweet bites in 

a new way
Sailing in the next Ensenada cruise
or on Halloween
My ofrenda of El dia Los muertos
a new addition of these two would
Reality Bites for they are

the subjects of Frost's poem,
The Road Less Taken on Route 66
I don't know where it started from
it ends In California, where your lives did. 

Friendships of 

11 years and 34 years 

you both loved me and my son

we pray for you both
happy we Carnival Cruise Lined

to Ensenada

and once to Catalina round trip

heartful memories, 

resting on my shoulder,
as if warmth from the sun
Necked hickeys  on my neck
our bodies close and intertwine
bites of strawberries on the pillow 
Memories of you both are

now bite size pieces

seasons and photos 

myriads to describe.
Lord thank you for

these indelible souls of my life. 

Missing You Bites

Making the bed isn't fun anymore 
In our lives you have gone
September has no joy
Sunken places are a pillow crease
I hold it as if you were near
Nearly 35 years ago we met
God took you home under his care

You, my son, and I
Opening and closing of our lives
United we were sage, season, and strong

Beginning a new journey without you
Ignites an enivitable invite of lifetime 
Test, trial, tears, and triumph to
Embolden each day into night
Sunshine and sunset

God help us through this loss

the toughest of our lives yet 

Mark L Levinson

 

The Mosquito Bill

In a limp hairpin fold, in yesterday’s

mailbox sat the mosquito bill for

April/May.  I admit I checked the neighbors’

because ours seemed so high.  But, itemized,

the charges tallied:  hoveration fee,

sonar fee, lunar fee, bite rights, discounts,

up to here no miscounts; retroactive

charges and interest accrued, buzzage.

“How did we use so much mosquito

buzzage, April Mae?” I asked at dinnertime.

Maybe some downed mosquito in distress?

“Mosquitoes can’t be wounded, only killed,”

she answered, but let’s crawl along the floor

tiles, listen at the backs of the warned robes.

R A Ruadh

My lina

You may laugh
I call her lina

Why not use the
Words we all do

The clinical vagina
Whose properties are
Known and measurable

Call it a cunt
Like men do
Hard small tight unattached
To be taken rent asunder

No

My lina is mine

Layered with intimate discovery
Subtle and tender
Deep with mystery she and I
(Legends even say she has teeth)

We must be wooed 
To be won

EVElution

So much knowledge
it’s heady and exhilarating
as she dances away
seeding ideas and change
in the wake of her
overflowing arms

Life and death suddenly
have deeper meaning
neither can exist
without the other
now that she knows
what lurks inside each fruit

They become her
a hundred breasts of
food flowing through
her belly to nurture
the earth and birth children
she is goddess and guardian

The jealous god disapproves
poisoning bark and root
he will punish her life force
the violence of manhood
hidden under skin and 
dying to the bone

For a brief moment
ecstasy was within reach
balance achieved
until hounded forever
pursued for existing
without permission

PsychodeliCat

the package mentions that silvervine  
is stronger than catnip

shopping bag still at the front door
he wildly claws his way in
while I desperately try to get the toy off the card
nearly losing a finger 
to his drug induced mania

he pounces wrestles scrambles
tears across the room and back again 
whipping the silvervine at me

next he frenzies around the house
under couch and table
over the bookshelves
sliding into chairs
ambushing me around corners

suddenly he slides to a halt
eyes wide and pupils impossibly large and dark
whiskers wide and fur undecided
he sits
sways to the left
tilts to the right
explodes with a frantic leap
into a box of recycled cardboard
landing belly up

panting

doesn’t seem to notice 
I am doubled over laughing at him
yup he’s stoned

a series of thumps from his bowl
as he frantically scarfs down food
in a classic case of munchies
followed by a truly spectacular barf 
across the entire hallway

he won’t look me in the eye
walks somewhat gingerly
at a slight slant
to the cat penthouse tower
where he hides in the lowest box
peering out at the world
with dreary suspicion

two weeks later
he approaches the silvervine again

carefully

Douglas Richardson

I Fed the Pigeon 

I fed the pigeon 

a french fry

in the month of June 

portly pigeon 

flew down 

from an angel's view 

into the Jack in the Box 

parking lot 

to receive the boon 

of salt and grease 

on an early summer afternoon 

Marieta Maglas

Acquiescence

Your tongue becomes

an echo of your anguish,

an extension of your lament.

It is, in truth, a mendacious tongue,

which whittles profound truths until

they are reduced to simple understandings,

in the same way the hours are bitten,

scattered into wild fragments,

and rewoven into fresh, dreamlike time.

Our restless thoughts writhe within

our darkness and our acquiescence.

Our domains flow into a shared space.

The light swirls upon our spent beings

in every shade of crimson.

We treasure one another in our slumber.

Appassionata

Nestled within, the piano preserves

Beethoven's Appassionata.

The piano keys are innocent teeth,

biting and tearing through the melody

into tones:

allegro assai,

andante con moto — attacca,

allegro, ma non troppo,

presto.

We absorb those resonances

while loving endlessly

in that stream of existence

flowing in torrents.

Sometimes, our sentiments are orchids,

and at other times, they are simply

command and dominion

of something

which captures

the discord

between radiance and menace.

Out of nowhere,

I love you,

and I have no need to redefine these words.

Edward S Gault

 

PJ Swift

Watermelon

Like all people who towered over them, the kids treated her as an adult.  Yet, she felt very young, maybe self-conscious that the kids did not immediately address her by first name and was not quite sure where she fit in as a new young girlfriend of one of the grad students.  Like the other adults at the picnic, she was at the counter preparing food.  Here you go kids: watermelon! What could be more exciting on a hot day?  But a soft glow of guilt transformed her face.  Even the kids could see her pink color, markedly.  Just as distinct as the flavor.  Tastes like onion, doesn't it?  She asked as if afraid to hear the answer.  The kids spit out their bites and tossed their slices.   I guess I should have cleaned that knife. She smiled benignly at the boys who were already racing away.  She looked on, her guilt tormenting her further, thinking, I am never going to make it at this adult thing.

gia civerolo

bite haiku

 

Spring awakening 

                                                             Winter warrior bite haunts

Braces, summer heat

You hurt my feelings

 

Tumbleweed thoughts

Crush with my red high heels

You go on like nothing

 

You hurt my feelings

 

Peeling off the aroma

Of your words that cling

To my skin

I can smell you

Always

 

You hurt my feelings

 

I broke so easily

Beautifully

No protest

I didn’t beg

On bended knee

 

You hurt my feelings

 

Darkness exploded

Still you mask 

Your intention

Revealing charm

Can taste so vile

 

You hurt my feelings

 

Break

Break 

Break

Unyielding

You hurt my feelings

 

Shatter images

Reveal

Twist hurt &

Anger til I can’t

Tell them apart

Bite

Bite

Bite

 

You hurt my feelings

 

 

Sultana Raza

Fusion Lunatique¹

 

Bubbling with elation,

at being picked by a chef with a

world famous temper, slivers of

almonds, coconut, gingerly

roasted with nostalgic

élan, rejoice by partying with

oats in a goji berried sauce.

 

Fried with patience, oriental dough yields

gilded stars crisp with

altruistic aspirations of nutmeg to be

grounded disdainfully with

asafoetida, black onion seeds,

caramelized cardamom, which

lead to an

over-abundance of flavors.

 

Yet, nuggets of wisdom abscond

eternally from chef's curried attempts

to create a unique fusion of

eastern piquant sauces toned down

by western blandness.

 

Meanwhile, guests search in vain

for delicious bites of oriental snacks

that could be partnered with trendy drinks.

 

¹Moody Fusion (cuisine) in French

 

Ophelia Whirling

 

Prologue

 

Didn’t go tamely to the nunnery,

But fueled her anger on his indifference,

cold unconcern for her needs,

till it spumed out in gigantic swirls of rage.

 

***

 

With her tears swelling up rivers,

she chomps off heads of frail hopes,

disregarding carefully laid plans of mice

too busy in the rat race,

(to stop and think of anything but the race)

she spits, hisses, spooks cars away.

 

Even her slight shudders shake shopping malls

so their core businesses melt with power cuts

shattering wi-fi to bits and bytes of nonsensical chatter

 

Shooting out winds that blast off concrete walls,

she claims lives, cruelly random,

haphazard injustice, so their relatives think.

 

Dancing furiously she continues to

mirror back stories of mistreatment

angry at the horrendous uprooting,

hacking of trees by puny human saws.

 

She’ll show them what it means to

destroy carelessly for the sake of

selfish, endless, gorging,

addictive, disjointed consumption.

 

So now she’s whirling her skirts,

spinning out tales of havoc wreaked

by wild nature, first scorned by man,

by the sacred feminine trampled over

for too long, by too many,

for too many shallow reasons.

 

Note: this poem was inspired by Hurricane Ophelia that hit Ireland on 17 Oct 2017.

http://www.bbc.com/news/uk-41627442

and the USA in September 2023

Ophelia wreaks havoc, causes washout in mid-Atlantic and Northeast

 

 

Singing Head, Photographic Collage, S. Raza

  

Enigmatic Melodies

 

Strange, even my feathered friends

can’t grasp my dialect,

though they’re able to whistle along

chirpily enough to my tunes.

 

At least this way, I’m able to leave

a trace of my thoughts

in this hot garden, though the mortals

don’t know why these koels sing in

a particular tune, or use a specific melody.

 

If only someone could comprehend

my lyrics in this verdant place,

heavy with lush humidity in the monsoon.

 

Perhaps, it’s just as well

they’ve been spared my tale of woe,

for can any statue recount another one?

 

I wish I could take a bite of these mangosteens, langsats,

star fruits, or guavas that sparrows are going on about.

That would be some compensation

for bearing the overpowering heat,

since in parched summer I feel like my

weathered face will crack soon.

 

Burn gently sun, or you’ll set my tunes aflame.

 

Note: inspired by my art-work, Singing Head.

Previously published in Blaze Vox Journal, in Fall 2024.