Category Archives: New Poetry

‘Intent And Emptiness’ by Andrew Bradford

New Poetry

Passion alone was not much

Yes, we longed to know more than could be known about that which is unknowable

How we clung to the drops as they were scooped up and shot forth

Leaving us warm warm warm inside but so cold when we would so much as smile

In my opinion, the death is very much suspect, despite the note

Dreamed a few minutes last night and saw my life moved forward 10,000 years

Nothing had changed

Nothing

Not a damn thing

So I do hereby declare and prepare to change it all so radically you will never suspect

That I ever existed in my current form

Safe journey, old friend, may you travel at lightspeed

Until you are spat out upon the surface of some distant moon

I believe everything and nothing now, have learned to be a skeptic

What a cursed place, God it did stink of death

No, it was not death, it was worse, it was

Despair

Settle in, darling, settle quietly into the charms

As I warm the metal once more and pull the nectar into the pipe

Close your eyes and tell me when you finally see

The other side of what was once a perfect soul

Cold, cold, like the coldest of ice

Then we float, then we fly, then we will transcend

Then we will achieve

All that is promised by the Holy Book of Nothingness

First verse reads:

This is the last of the day, this is the last of it all

Huzzah and goodbye

Copyright 2016 by Andrew Bradford. All rights belong to the author and material may not be copied without the author’s express permission.

‘Into Exile’ by Paul Jamesson

New Poetry

Yes I certainly did know of her deep despair and could sense the end was near

But how exactly does one rush into another’s life and rearrange the furniture?

She had been deprived of all human love for many years

She had imagined what lay beyond so often she had intricate maps of the place

If only we could shelter for a short while the pains of those we seek to reach

But all lights must eventually dim and vanish into the black

How silent nights are in simple repose

As we dance to tunes only we can hope to claim

She longed to resist the final siege, but when it came, she yielded to its charms

God, it took so long to go, so long to finish, so long to enter the contented place

I suppose I changed as she did, suppose I can see glimmers of what lies ahead for us all

For now I long to see another winter, to feel the chill upon my skin

And know once more that I will never make it home

Copyright 2016 by Paul Jamesson. All rights belong to the author and material may not be copied without the author’s express permission.

‘The Severed Head’ by Andrew Bradford

New Poetry

My darling, how long it has been since I last wrote you

He smiled his triumphant grin and held his head aloft, as if a king entering a parade

Having seen it completed, it filled her with such glee

A long golden streak had formed along the last edge of early evening sky

Suddenly the notion struck him that he might end the whole affair here and now with one long

Exclamation that would sever her to the core

Strange how so little passion can be drained from our inner beings

When all that remains is the memory of what was once so much

His voice was deep and earnest, yet painful to the touch

Suppose I should recover the past and try to bring it forward

Awaiting another prompting, I felt around and took a long swig of my drink

If it could all be so clear, so perfect, so crystalline fine and serene

Instead of stilted, suffering, sorrowful, superfluous, sickened

Shall we hold the knife here and dissect the deepest pains of our love?

Or merely use that same blade to sever the heads of our spirit bodies and

Cast them aside into

the dark abyss?

Copyright 2016 by Andrew Bradford. All rights belong to the author and material may not be copied without the author’s express permission.

 

‘Amsterdam’ by Andrew Bradford

New Poetry

Heart still beating from the insanity of the frenzied moment,

I drove faster still until I could no longer breathe

He clears the books and papers from the bed, dreamily watching

as she motions for him to move closer

Dibs on the last patient for the day, the old man proclaimed as he drank

All too suddenly it was Thursday again, we faced our deadline

Joking of our youthful humiliations at the hands of the cruelest crop yet spawned

Each exchange with the pipe a floating, dissolving vapor of purest pungency

Hangover lasted all weekend because I abjectly refused to return to that place

Perhaps we will just sit here all evening and drink ourselves beyond all help

Voices crying out in pain, chattering in torrid fleshly rantings

We agreed to travel back a few years if we finally found time for ourselves

Suppose there should be some reminder that we passed this way

Before the minutes end and we are left dangling in terror

The schedule is due, they are calling for it now

One last inhale as we cross from night to darkest dawn

Then out the door and past the sleepy canals

Good to see you here, my friend; little did I know you still cared

Nodding gently, he assured me,

Not all of us are gone. Not all of us are

Vanishing as the liquid fills our lives

Instead

We learn

to float

Copyright 2016 by Andrew Bradford. All rights belong to the author and material may not be copied without the author’s express permission.

 

‘Johnny Is Dead Today’ by Brad Thaxton

New Poetry

Tell the boys to lower the flag,

because Johnny is dead today.

He died in battle–alone,

but brave, and without his combat pay.

His wife in the States sits and waits,

for news that he’s all right.

But as the telegram said, now he’s dead–

killed in the thick of the fight.

So tell the boys to lower the flag,

because Johnny is dead today.

He’s buried somewhere overseas on a beach,

where the tide rushes in and away.

All the medals and speeches probably won’t reach

to where his soul’s fighting now.

But at least he died proud,

with his honor aloud,

and it’s over for him anyway.

Yes tell the boys to lower the flag,

because Johnny is dead today.

And although he’s gone, life will go on;

he’s a hero on this special day.

Copyright 2016 by Brad Thaxton. All rights belong to the author and material may not be copied without the author’s express permission.

‘The Loss Of A Thousand Autumns’ by Andrew Bradford

New Poetry

Where I was going that long night so far removed from me now

Emerging from the alley in the semi-darkness, she looked like a lost waif

We stood along the path, daring not approach the Deity

Awareness is a myth; understanding is only to be found in the memories of each muscle

Toward dusk that day she reached and touched her cherished distant star

Curled tight like a wounded bird, the old woman attempted to speak her last words

I am a fool, plain and simple–suppose it can be said of us all sooner or later

Trying so desperately to obey the rules of some force never felt this strong

He looks askance at the gathered tribe of men and turns on his heel

Would it be preferable if we merely suggested what we saw in our sleep?

I fear the sounds I most despise will be played

For all eternity or even beyond that fading moment

She was there once in the mirrored reflection of my hidden eye

I reached for her and found

The leaves golden and red; the world dying in early frost

Copyright 2016 by Andrew Bradford. All rights belong to the author and material may not be copied without the author’s express permission.

‘Late At Night’ by Brad Thaxton

New Fiction, New Poetry

When the silence blends with the darkness

And the wind stands still for the moon–

That’s when it’s late at night,

And the whole universe is in tune.

When the stars start to sparkle and glitter

Like a new coin reflecting light–

That’s when all troubles fade away,

In the peacefulness, late at night .

Many times I’ve stood alone in a courtyard

And stared up at heaven and space–

Wondering where it all began ,

While the blackness poured down on my face.

The mystery of all creation

Lies hidden in the sky–

As I look upon the glory,

Of a comet flying by.

Such a special time for dreaming

A dazzling vision in my sight–

That’s when my soul is safe and sound,

In the calmness, late at night.

Copyright 2016 by Brad Thaxton. All rights belong to the author and material may not be copied without the author’s express permission.

‘The Suicide Fair’ by Art Metzger

New Poetry

The wonderful weight of a rose, my boy,
on the back of a marble throne;
the sinister scratch of a thorn, my boy,
to open the red veins of home.

The red veins of home, they can lead you on
and on through gelatinous air.
The red veins of home, they can lead you down
to Hell, to the suicide fair.

The suicide fair, where a sputtering heart
taps its beat in a medicine chest,
where the steam trickles down tearing ribbons of flesh
from a visage where carnivores nest.

Your visage, your face, see it trickle away
in the glass where amphetimine tiers
hold razor blade toothpicks and capsules of dreams
and matches to trim ‘way your beard.

And hidden away, in a room with soft walls,
in the place where the needle tracks meet,
stretch crucifix highways of white powder fun
where small spoons stir a thorazine treat.

Round go the spoons, how they swirl you down
even deeper and faster than breath;
they swirl and spin till your mind’s left behind
in an eddy of lava-lamp death.

And then it all stops and you find yourself still
and alone on a quaint sylvan path
that leads to an oven where gas lies in wait
for your lungs to come breathe in their last.

The pale sylvan path, as it floats through the trees,
seeps with sadness in words that will rhyme
with powders and poisons and pills, my boy,
and a trigger that’s pulled just in time.

A trigger that’s weighted, a trigger that waits
at the end of a glistening gun
for the wonderful weight of a rose, my boy,
when the suicide fair has begun.

Copyright 2016 by Art Metzger. All rights belong to the author and material may not be copied without the author’s express permission.

‘Half Past The End Of Time’ by Andrew Bradford

New Poetry

I was shameless back then, unafraid of what I might say or do

Came across a butterfly and admired its beauty, only to realize it was

Dead

I awaken each night around five to ponder my own fate

Yet never find the time to properly prioritize my world

A broken acorn falls lightly to the lawn

The September storms made the days seem somehow more fragile

As the liar claims to heal all who present themselves for miracle working

Consider the hemlock and all it means

Beauty of a sort and deadly for the all-too inquisitive

Down past the hills there is a patch of virgin timber

The prattling voice of some far away river fails to calm the men who shiver in terror

I perfer to see us all as gardens in need of tending, of weeding, of watering, of care and love

Lasting here languidly until the stars at last fall to earth

And the sun bakes us all to ash

Copyright 2016 by Andrew Bradford. All rights belong to the author and material may not be copied without the author’s express permission.

‘Tests’ by Art Metzger

New Poetry

Here I sit,
newborn and old…
older than old…
a crone,
ugly and wrinkled as a gutter plum.
I sit, in this new old chair,
rickety and rocking,
in front of a hovel minutes old,
waiting.

Soon hoof-beats I’ll hear.
Far off,
then closer,
splashing across a stream,
closer,
until a white horse will appear
galloping through the gorse,
and, on his back,
a Hero, questing.
Mail glinting in the sun,
sword shining
(useless in the end,
though he knows it not, yet.)

I will beckon him then.
He will stop, dismount, and ask me, politely,
(though his quest calls to him)
what he can do for an old goody like me.
Three favors I’ll ask of him,
simple tasks.
Fetch me water from the well.
Build a fire in the old stove.
Catch me a fish.

All these he’ll do, and gladly,
asking nothing in return,
and when he turns to leave
I’ll stop him
and give to him three gifts:
a tortoise shell,
a stalk of wheat,
and a tiny, tiny cage.
I’ll tell him that, when the time comes,
he’ll know their use.
Then, thanking me, he’ll ride off,
hoof-beats fading in the distance,
and, when I hear them no longer
I will be gone…
hovel, well, stream, and crone,
gone in the blink of an eye,
leaving the land bleak and empty
as it had always been.
My task will be done,
and the ending will be well.

Copyright 2016 by Art Metzger. All rights belong to the author and material may not be copied without the author’s express permission.