By Amy Brunson
The thing about happiness is
It doesn’t exist in small secretive
Pockets of the world that you have to
Seek out and luck into
It exists in places that can’t be
Lived in or driven through
It exists in places that scare most people
So much that they never go even though
They have always been there and just haven’t looked.
The first three weeks of soulmatehood
— all monkey brains
and dopamine —
warm wet knots of want and need.
The intersection,
the crook of the heartplace,
where tomorrows hold such sudden promise;
As (oddly)
do our pasts.
My love has a smile
That could melt the sun.
His lips curl up,
Like Alice’s Cheshire,
Exposing teeth, perfect
In their imperfection.
Deep laugh lines score
His cheeks, dark eyes,
That spark with teasing.
He’s a happy guy
Think passersby,
Dazzled by his
Glittering charm.
My love has a smile
That could melt the sun,
Eclipse the stars,
Sear the hearts
Of a thousand women.
Yet, when he smiles
For me, I wonder …
What lies beneath?
Dianne Moritz’s poems have appeared in Earth’s Daughters, Long Island Quarterly and other journals, as well as online in Adelaide Literary, The Haiku Foundation and Haiku Universe.
By Goff James
Within the poisoned prison
Of my troubled mind
I lock myself away
Trying to forget
The fears of yesterday
Praying for tomorrow
That all will pass away
In a state of anxiety
Coping with today
Within the poisoned prison
Of my troubled mind
I lock myself away
By Dianne Moritz
Frank Lloyd Wright said:
Tip the world on edge and everything
Loose ends up in Los Angeles.
He didn’t consider the see-saw effect:
Precarious balance, sudden
Jar when things shift back.
You’d understand, after mind-numbing
Encounters on Long Island.
Surfer Joe, high on fiberglass,
Life in the curl; caregiver, Larry,
Living for poems in Mommy’s attic;
Alex, his teeth lost singing
Too close to a mic, rockstar fantasies
Floating in marijuana clouds.
Illusions choke on coke, booze,
Whatever’s your poison.
L.A. has no lock on locos or losers.
Dreams shatter, scatter, die,
While Mother Earth spins on …
oblivious.
By Paula Jay
In my dream
I had you pinned,
Sitting on you, pummeling your face
With my balled up fist.
Your ‘loved ones’ stood behind me
Saying, “Stop” and “Don’t do that” and “Oh, no,”
Lacking any conviction in their muttered words
While you uttered tiny hisses
But never resisted my sharp knuckles,
My hatred,
My anguish.
You knew you deserved it.
In my dream
It felt so good.
By Lynn White
I know what Poe said,
but can the raven
really call ‘nevermore.’
I have heard many a ‘caw’ from the crows
and ‘cacks’ from the jackdaws.
And I have heard many a raven call,
but never a
nevermore.
‘Never say never,’
maybe says Poe.
But ‘naw,’ say the crows.
‘Cack,’ say the jackdaws.
There’s
never a
never
more.
Lynn White’s work has appeared in anthologies and journals such as Vagabond Press, Apogee, Firewords, Indie Soleil, Pilcrow & Dagger and Snapdragon.
