A Poetry Showcase for Andrew Cyril Macdonald

Andrew Cyril Macdonald considers the role of inter-subjectivity in poetic encounter. He celebrates the confrontations between self and Other and the challenges that occur in moments of injustice. He is founding editor of Version (9) Magazine, a poetry journal that implicates all things theoretic. You can find his words in such places as A Long Story Short, Blaze VOX, Cavity Magazine, Fevers of the Mind, Green Ink Poetry, Lothlorien, Nauseated Drive,ODD Magazine, Synchronized Chaos, Unlikely Stories and more.  When not writing he is busy caring for seven rescued cats and teaching a next generation of poets.

Public housing demolition

We drew back time Truth squandered
and saw interest given 
to the vigour vision then need 

then missive made when a 
wrecking ball served as reminder.

It took on worlds reputations lagged in
— slots of what was left 

a dwindled youth
other crises awaited.

Now they wander what seems
better option choose of:

these building blocks torn down
and held in dreams of
walls their bricks and plasters.


Panic

Polar nexus tells truths 
life’s found

in groans
instance pictures.

One condition settles score:
lost cause stammering 

in stunt mouths pronounced them
their hyphenated pause.

Extremes of giving reassessant

under penumbrae proved wrong,
trite adventures clothe

these preserves representing
scrimmaged dreams 

mirrored light gloves
from refracting glass. 

And succumbs. Bellicose
entries dark rooms undone

dark tenements emptied

to scuttle plots encumbering sorts
of goods we respond

when misnomer of relief
retains in what

here now wayward 
bound ambition aggresses.

A questioned reality

Transmutation severs purpose, 
causes old impressions hold forms 
before onslaught happens.

It does and leaves tethered
lost heads compellent fostered contentions 
gathered in watches pressing forward 
composing the data
lost sides assemble 
before stoic pauses wisdom produces.

It makes them complacent the trials ambulating.
 
With kaleidoscopes that lose their focus 
among dead standings loose
are mirrored impressions 
that embrace and swallow
old conventions tendering veins 
of those who cannot face it—
that death pervading 
truths eternal if still obdurate.

We close up then, 
sequestering in the cause 
of all what’s bogus.

Pre-nuptial

A fought-for clause prevents enigma,
purveys trails that ought to follow
stipulations of grandeur.

No mystery then 
but what it is draws us 
together, making shape of fails 

set to happen for reasons here listed.

Now it’s written as intended condition
surveying spells got us betrothed to
intimations bending each as 

upright through 
distending conventions 
commerce what makes them 

if gains of partnership we lasted.


2 poems by Andrew Cyril Macdonald: “September burial” & “Out of night silence speaks”


3 Poems by Andrew Cyril MacDonald : Vegas chapel,  A quick forbiddance, In part disjoiner





Pandemic Poetry from E. Martin Pedersen

black textile on gray textile

photo from unsplash

2nd Quarantine

2nd Lockdown
today Oct 24, 2020
we go back indoors
like the 100 days of Spring
I am retired now
my only commitment
the gym which closed for a month
perhaps a year, 
so stock up and batter down
prepare for another 100 or however-many
the TV works, there's heat
I'm lucky, I have some-
one to hug, the one
I'm with to love
and I'm still angry
all those kids met in squares
at night and infected
the country -- why
can't you stay home?
voluntarily, I'll show
you how
to suffer and feel proud
to renounce human contact
to feel ambivalent
to watch films
you don't follow
feel guilty
feel afraid to die
die for something; die for nothing
but not die to go skiing
or get the fall fashions.

The Bug

It made so many remain in bed
so much sufferance
fever aches and diarrhea
boils and bloody eyes
the weak and old expired
it came over the winter holidays
ruining so many parties
driving some to desperation
on a spree of self-harm
the cemeteries have no room left
will it end soon like a storm
or continue like a season?

As if greed
had crawled in an ear
my children caught the bug
or the bug caught them
yet I knew they could not die
not before visiting Big Sur
watching ocean slam rocky shore
waiting for the next wave
knowing it will surely come
yes, we still know things
certainties, like machines
like information
except then we find,
to our chagrin 
a bug in the system.

Corona Virus, December 2019  (Covid-19)

You can't get the plague from drinking Corona beer
you can't get drunk either unless you really try
like those ladies in Mexico City
out in the streets so pretty
smashing and bashing the patriarchy

or wishing Uncle Joe could calm us down
tell us everything will be all right, good night
because if you're not spooked
to coin a phrase, without clichés
you're not paying attention

not to Master Chef on the primaries
or your personal ratings on your smart watch
can't see your friends, can't see your family
outside your own house where you can't bear
anyone anymore anywhere

when will the mall reopen, how can we go on without it
the Mall of America, hell, the Mall is America
shut us down
take away our identity
what's left? raging human animals

before I check into Intensive Care
with whatever nurses are left bending over me
I want -- what do I want?
to tell you I love you -- no;
to finish my autobiography -- no;
to drink fresh-squeezed orange juice -- no;
I want to go outside

radioactivity be damned
hear that annoying magpie caw one more time
feel the seabreeze on my cheeks one more time
step in a puddle -- splash
look at how the junipers grow straight and tall
the black and white cat on the car roof
look up -- the clouds are not keeping their distance
could be a big storm gathering, they're too close, infecting one another
-- I'd better go inside now and just remember these things.

A guy put his hand on my shoulder

in the just-opened gym, though it's normal
I cringed in Covid psychosis
tingled, warmed, and bristled
the first touch in seven months
	only touch can give you a buzz
a corona with lime and salt
chips and deadly virus salsa on the side
	one pat, Mom called them
love taps, one is enough
to kill.

Our spirit will recover or not
from lack of stimulation
through the laying on of hands
the sacred touch of trust, trust of touch
as in parents and grandparents
not scoutmasters or P.E. teachers
the good touch, the warm fuzzy
hug therapy nobody's getting anymore --
we will all be wrecked for the rest of our lives.

I walked seven miles without water once
in high mountains, dehyd-
ration affects the brain fluid so
your body remembers the panic
you drink whenever
you drink when you're not thirsty
you over-hydrate
you can, in the hazy future
will we cower away
or huddle for human warmth
once this is over
to go onwards?

-- please touch me / please
don't touch me --

It's a dark day*

I'm writing this in the dark
I'm in a dark room (the bathroom)
turn on the lights! I don't want to.
dark as in what happens to computers
and TVs when the juice goes out
maybe you had too much on: iron
oven, dishwasher, toaster, electric chair
dark like a COVID patient on several
machines on plenty of expensive drugs
then the doctors give up, the body
gives up, the curtain falls, the eyes
slowly close -- wish I could hug
my cat again, but she's gone too
she was black, the color no one wants.

Labyrinthitis

I feel like I'm falling in perpetuity
help me, backwards I stumble
hoping to reach out for a hold
I sit, that's no good
I lie down and feel like
I'm falling onto the ground
if I lied on the ground
I'd be diving back into another gravity di-
mension.

I deserve to fall because
so I know how
I've always tried to be good
always be good
never a scandal
never a transgression

bad only in my head
oh so bad
the Devil made me do it
maybe I’m practicing
for the big drop coming
when all is revealed.

I should stop resisting
let the force do its thing
slam against the marble
table top on the way down
head split open in two halves
sweet watermelon juice running
into the wood parquet
leaving a goodbye note as
quite a permanent stain.

bio:  E. Martin Pedersen, originally from San Francisco, has lived for over 40 years in eastern Sicily, where he taught English at the local university. His poetry appeared most recently in Ginosko, Metaworker, Triggerfish, Unlikely Stories Mark V, and Grey Sparrow Review among others. Martin is an alumnus of the Community of Writers. He has published two collections of haiku, Bitter Pills and Smart Pills, and a chapbook, Exile's Choice, just out from Kelsay Books. A full collection, Method & Madness, is forthcoming from Odyssey Press. Martin blogs at: https://emartinpedersenwriter.blogspot.com     







3 Poems from Ankita Sharma : “Pious Men” “Lockdown” “MAD”

red and black body of water during night time

photo from unsplash.

Pious Men

They steal, conspire and kill
Climb piles of massacred bodies 
To educate the rest from the top on how
Stealing, conspiring, killing, are such vile sins 
In their manicured hands, spotless clean white shirts, 
With those wide pious grins
Oh! Those Pious men

Lockdown

Struggling to move my tired limbs, 
I swim in a dark molasses beside debris of
Defunct clocks, lost appetites, unused outfits
Rusted accessories, unworn shoes, unread books
Shut shops, empty streets, famished dogs
Blaring TV, tired eyes, lounge-wear piles
Dull movies, unopened newspapers and stale air
“It’s only afternoon yet” A familiar voice murmurs.
Tired mind and heavy heart turn cheerleaders
My limbs still ache

MAD

I would tell the therapist how I could only watch my sick mother
Inch towards the Grim Reaper’s land quietly day after day
How her frail limbs stroked me in fits of semi-consciousness
How her chapped lips muttered my name in broken voice
How I stitched my pieces each day to drag myself to college
How I struggled to survive without any appetite every day
Bunking with pals you would stand in corridor near his room 
Munching on wafers while mocking pains you didn’t have
Sneering at my messy hair, dark-circles and swollen eyes 
Yes I know, with which three letter word your grins labeled me 

*In India, it is still very common to label the people who visit therapists/councilors as mentally disturbed or even mad. 



BIO: A writer and an artist, Ankita Sharma resides in India. She has authored five titles. Her poems and stories have been published in various anthologies and lit mags including 3moonmag, BRAG, Versification, Green Ink Poetry, Sunnyg (radio show) and others. Her artworks have appeared on the cover pages of a few Indian and international books.
Her latest book is 'One Day in the life of Javed Khan', published by Ukiyoto Publishing, Canada, was released in November 2021.

Instagram- ankita.s.26
Twitter- AnkitaSharma_26







Poem from Joe Kidd (inspired by Dylan) and photography of trees

Driving Rain

come over here
let us move together
through the light
through the smoke
we travel in circles
of friends in need
in heat

rolling down corridors, highways, and hallways
to our rooms, to our child
the one we left when we began to hear
transmissions, confessions
reflections in the mirror
who could predict the beauty of those nights

as tribes gather
so do souls
and ghosts, and poets
upon rocks, electric, metallic, organic
thunder and rain upon the rim
of this crater formed
on the brim of this elusive hat
a book, a gospel, the cry of the wild

we feed, we drink, we inhale and inject
here is the dance, here is the medicine
we seek the eye of the hurricane
and we fear not while we inhabit this song
(the remains of the magic tree)

Warhol/Factory Series: Joe Kidd: Warhol in Fact
Poem by Joe Kidd for “Before I Turn Into Gold Day” inspired by Leonard Cohen Poem A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Joe Kidd

Poem “Asking the Wind” by Gayle J Greenlea : influenced by Bob Dylan series

Bob Dylan Vector Illustration Drawing. September 11, 2017 royalty free illustration

Asking the Wind

How many roads led to this precipice?
Dylan told us where to look for answers.

I stand on the sea-whipped cliff, testing air,
Medusa hair holding the sky aloft
Eyes scan horizons for the surrendering dove
as boots breach borders in mid-winter snow
The Pale Moth flexes red wings, thrumming
menace, crumbling peace like a biscuit. 

The wind squalls, heavy with questions 

In another hemisphere, the land down under
blazes 50c and lets a virus rip. The PM has no eyes,
no ears. Who hears the suffocating
cries, the planetary reverberations, 
the eroding loss?
How many deaths will satisfy the gods?

The hot wind squalls, heavy with questions

I summon the Tambourine Man to quell the drums
of war. But answers blow lonely in the wind.

Poetry Showcase from Gayle J. Greenlea

2 poems by Gayle J. Greenlea about Going to Space (anniversary of the moonwalk)

A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Gayle J Greenlea

New poems from Gayle J. Greenlea : “Grey” & “Mapping the Long Haul”