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A Dish Served Cold – A Poem by Roy Pullam

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In the early hours
Of the morning
He faced his computer
Reading lines
On the local chat room
Hurtful things
Written by anonymous contributors
Words that stung
Harsher than a wasp sting
things that were added on
By other parties
In the dog pile
That often followed
Such postings
He thought of a longtime grudge
The toxins
Stored from his youth
The pain
His fist
Could not avenge
In the moment
He grasped his payback
His fingers assaulted the keys
Flashing a rumor
On the screen
Pressing send
Safe behind the shelter
Of a cute name
He had manufactured
For such an occasion
Reading with satisfaction
The half truth he had written
A black eye would heal
But this
Would be read
Would be remembered
And other trolls
Would add
Their own venom
Like hyenas
Gathering to finish
The kill

Birthday – A Poem by Rozann Kraus

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years ago you were in labor
maybe not yet
my birth was so easy
(as in ‘the last easy part of our relationship’)
there was just delivery
no L&D
just
me

there to continue to disappoint
ever after my painless entrance
worse, even, when my mind
was born

the pain denied at confinement
grew elsewhere
a thistle seeking little water or light
just a bristle spot
to be
protecting itself
hiding its flowers
filled cursive curses

forgive? no need
you never asked
though on I’ve moved
over and under
a hindered limp

from a small thorn
implanted
at birth

A Visit to the Veterans Rest Home – A Poem by Roy Pullam

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It had that smell
Of old men
Aged to helplessness
I checked the wall
The posting of room assignments
I passed several men
In wheelchairs
One called out to me
I did not stop
I felt uncomfortable
Not knowing
What to say
His voice followed me
Down the hall
I saw Arnold
Sitting in a chair
A sheet wrapped
Around his midriff
Anchoring him
In place
I noticed his beard
His thin hair
Like gray straw
Piled loosely
On his head
I spoke to him
“Arnold, do you know
Who I am?”
He smiled
“Sometimes I don’t know
who I am”
I forced the conversation
Hoping some form of recognition
Would follow
As we talked
His eyes not focused
His smile not quite right
I felt ill at ease
Like hollering
In a thunderstorm
Alzheimer’s is so cruel
Leaving the body
Just a shell
I left in frustration
With my heart broken

The Scout – A Poem by Roy Pullam

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He came
To all the games
Sitting high
In the stands
Hoping to not gather attention
Watching carefully
The kid’s moves
Without the ball
The grace
Of the seventeen year old boy
He followed
After practice
Deep into the inner city
Knowing the mother
Cleaned offices
In the gleaming towers
Downtown
No father
But four younger children
The apartment crowded
But empty
Of so many things
That mattered
The family’s only hope
The skills
That came
With the basketball
No other route
Lay beyond the drugs
Beyond the violence
She saw everyday
On her way to work
The scout
Not the only one
Sniffing around
Since the headlines
Men whose Gucci shoes
Normally never
Walked the halls
Of the tenement
Came visiting
With promises
Of bright future
Opportunities for her
For the children
Far beyond
This gray life
But she had seen others
Hustled off
Used up
And dropped down
Where they began
The promise ashes
The good life gone
He was a student
Reading and learning
He, unique
Not like the rest
Whose only shot
Was the rattle
Of the rim
And she would
Take no less
Than the life change
That came
With an education
She asked tough questions
Questions that eliminated
Sports factories
Questions that
Would involve
More personal hardship
But assure the future
Of her eldest child
Her sacrifice
So few
Were willing to make
She heard their offer
Then sent so many
On their way
Scouts find talent
Make promises
Get a paper signed
Then move on
To the next prospect
She wanted more
Poor but proud
A good mother
In the whirlwind
Of big time sports

Glass Half Empty – A Poem by Ian Fletcher

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Isn’t life a gift we must not squander
with every moment that we breathe
a precious chance for us to achieve
our worldly goals and dreams?

No, for with every breath we take
and with every choice we make
we merely wander further along
the well-trodden road to death.

Eating History – A Poem by J.K. Durick

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History 101 filled in the blanks, simpled us
a true or false, cooked up an essay or two

passed us whole platefuls, made it palatable,
tasty even, even those embarrassing wars

and bombs cooked up just right, spiced up,
mellowed down, adjusted to explain away

the aftertaste of body counts, of stalemates,
of losses, of collective guilt, platefuls, all

we could eat buffets of presidents and their
victories, of inedibles made edible, of years

we never get back, of time warmed, micro-
waved, left over leftovers, like foodies, even

back then, we prized what was on our plate,
ate it all, never uncomfortably full of it all.

Dawn Comes in the Berry Patch – A Poem by Roy Pullam

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She shook me awake
It was still dark
I could smell the biscuits
Baking in the oven
Of the coal stove
Dad sat at the table
His mug in his hand
Mother made sandwiches
We ate in haste
Taking our buckets
We hoped to get
At the briar patch
Right at dawn
Dad had found it
Lush veins
On a ditch bank
Larger fruit
Waiting for the picking
We hoped
To fill our buckets
Before the sun
Burned directly
Over us
The sweat
Pouring in the scratches
Burning my 9 year old body
We needed the money
Dad’s mine
Working three days a week
With no demand for coal
In the hot summer time
With bills to pay
Food for the table
That demand
Never stopped
Never slacked
Even when work did
Dad picked fast
Raking the berries
With practiced hands
I struggled to keep up
But my mind
Was on ball
On swimming
What other boys
Did Saturday mornings
But mine
Was a different life
One where the family
Struggled together
Finding any option
To survive
We filled our buckets
Beginning the long walk home
We would sell the berries
Seventy five cent a gallon
$7.50
For two hours work
How I looked forward
To the cool bath
The grape Kool-Aid
In the icebox
A Coke was better
But a package
Of the sweet powder
Was only a nickel
I would settle
For the cold
To wet my parched throat
To sit
Under the sugar maple
For awhile
Resting until evening
Cooled enough
For us to pick again

The First Death – A Poem by Roy Pullam

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I did not know cancer
The mystery
More than my 6 year old mind
Could grasp
Just that my playmate
My cousin
Was in a little white coffin
In the middle
Of the living room
Of her house
My mother
Held my hand
As I saw Mary last
Her little white dress
Her hair in pigtails
Her eyes closed tight
But I knew
She was not sleeping
The low moan
Of her mother
The streaming tears
Of her father
As we sat
In a semi-circle
During the funeral
I heard the preacher
Speak of heaven
A place
Where Mary was
A place as alien
As death to me
Mary was gone
And I
Did not understand

It's Divine – A Poem by Robin Wyatt Dunn

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it’s divine
headache and muesli
sharp cotton
the smell of the gas processor
and the smiles of the harsh women

manning the snack tables
watching for UFOs
tagging their friends in tweets

as we begin the shakedown
this much for March
your life
this much for eternity
your marled face

each man
wonders at the shape of his horizon
orbiting the whirling dervish
of this millenial prize

horror out of time:
we each know the worth of the other
written over our scarves

the mounting terror of the night
and the light over the mountains
demons under the ground
and the shape of the stars
like the shape of your eyes

we’re marching into the basement
to photograph celebrities

and I’ve seen god
over the cement

one two three
one two three

the 1970s religion
and Shel Silverstein
shake my body into itself.
I stand ready with the water bottles

watching my country collapse

More at http://www.robindunn.com.

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