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Rich Sep 2018
Alice Coltrane, your music brings something out of me,
Something nameless
something I keep buried.
As I lay on this bare mattress, humming along to “Turiya And Ramakrishna”
I ponder if you knew your legacy.
If during those last days in 2007, you ever thought your work could inspire poets of the next generation
or was that even a question lingering between your tempels?
Perhaps not.

Well as this pen dances to the melodies you wrote,
I think, and think
and blink
and sink
I wonder if my last hours will happen a year from now or a decade
or a month
or a week
And what will remain of my creations
Have I touched enough lives
Have I loved enough souls
Have I danced enough
Gave enough
Laughed enough?

I envy the sand devoured by oceans
because it’s simply moving on to its next life
I envy photographs because their moments last forever
I envy the tortoise’s shell
I envy the hourglass because its fate is no mystery
I envy those who do not envy
I envy the days before sundials
when days simply couldn’t fit onto paper squares

I...don’t want you to worry.
I am a spark
Finite but furious
bright, unstable, contagious
and capable of lighting your way before I fade

At least I hope.
Styles 12 Aug 2018

secrets at dusk
tasted vigorous as
Coltrane blues

in a smokey nightclub
under mysterious saxophone seas

this style is not my own
but it helps me swim better

I decided to adopt it
curious why it tugs ruthless
on spit fire sleeves

deliciously drowning me free.

forest moons at night

help you drop it all
bags of unwanted programs
flung from broken chimneys

violet threads pass perfect
through kitchen chipped glass

moth wings burning summer up
like her eyelash fluttering innocently on some other guy's cheek

shattering divisions snag
on moonlight betrayal dance

enormous sea hooks chop in
helpless lips seduced
mad quicksilver rush

reserve this room for my only friend

we have private letters to write
on a future night when
god dreams come true.

This is for you.

My only friend.

What weighs heavy is certain light
how it pierces
through troubled waters.

A million traces of faces
lit up in every beam.

One night I felt it bleed through me
using rivers of sun-fire screams.

Volcanic poetry spoke without a sound.

Jim Morrison breaking through doors
under spells of hypnotic waves
wild vibrant shimmering
on multi-colored sheets.

This style is not my own
but it helped me lava streak
across bitter shores.


my voice strays away.

Gone hunting

a broken well voice
picked up by an old cracked bucket
leaking simple worded wishes

deciding to voluntarily borrow her
stolen forest eyes.

I heard them speak translucent leaf
on a summer day
when clairvoyant kids
heard God speak

on pathways of brilliant blue lake

when sunshine
whispered us
in scintillating ripples

right before our astounded,
washed feet.

I am dripping funeral summer sweat
under tombstone studded trees

smiling while choking in
liquid clouded dark.

Alone but not alone.

Mighty Ghosts of heaven
holding my head up

making sure the Nile
doesn't gush out while
I still cannot even write or speak

turn my notebooks into confetti
nothing describes this mysterious sea

a new species of saxophone waves
has belted its killer wonderland
sound out across an entire broken stage.


I can picture us
walking barefoot
on star contacted sand

gazing out
under champion chandelier wonders

walking on Texas Lightning storm colors
bellies full on Rumi soul food

our secret flames
burning up
plastic playgrounds

violating propriety
on some nuclear guarded beach

schools of fish cut
by saxophone hooked seas

blasted by vaults of unwrapped poems
someone else wrote perfect
in our dreams

we hope one day
the unpredictable silence
of simple worded wishes

will help us

extravagantly bloom
new spring leaves
rain stamped on tender delicious works

after winter is done
savagely wishing us dead
we are touched by other worlds.

For Drew
MJL Mar 3
It's spandex
It's flannel
It's all the same
Grunge took over metal
Get back to jazz
Viper baby
Not on display
Not a novelty
No sneaking
Sneak out...
Louis Jordan
Cab Calloway
Robert Johnson
Howlin’ Wolf
30’s speak nasty
Melody Room
Dolls and The Doors
Feel it
Something wild
Johnny Cash
Whiskey Sam
Drive on
Rainbow baby
Donall Dempsey Sep 2018

Walt Whitman
walks by me
somewhere in 1891

I nod to him...he nods to me
lost in himself
Clinton is being inaugurated

Brooklyn Bridge
saunters by
dressed in the summer of '67

the subway
wears its best graffiti
the music of trains and Coltrane

the Flatiron Building is jaywalking
the Empire State
chats him up

a child's hopscotch
almost washed away
a moment's masterpiece

Robert Moses
looks across Long Island
longs to build the city only he sees

he gazes into my future
I look into his past
I pass Robert Mapplethorpe

a man in a white suit
nailed to the darkness
by so many stars

an old saxophone player
busks Rogers and Hart in Central Park
"...I didn't know what time it was..."

two obese Chinese
take up most of the sidewalk
both speaking fluent - Irish

Leaves of Grass
lies scattered across the road
read now by the wind

a car caught in traffic
blares out Joel's
"New York State of Mind"

I laugh at such
a happenstance
a walk-on-part in my own movie

escaping the borders
of the body
I walk through times

I am all the times
of the world
they intersect in self

Walt and I
sitting on a park bench
waiting to go somewhere else

an 1990's rain
falls on an 1870's NY
they are beginning Brooklyn Bridge

I meet my self
coming and going
an older and a younger me

time held prisoner on the wrist
I turn and walk away
into this the newest of centuries
JB Claywell Mar 29
There was egg salad in the fridge,
half a container of that store bought,
neon-green guacamole that nobody else
likes but me,
tortilla chips too.

So, we sat together and ate
this hodgepodge lunch,
the dog and I.

She never once complained
that there were no crackers
or a few pieces of soft, white
or even dark, crusty
pumpernickel bread.

We thought about whatever
it was that we thought about
while we chewed thoughtfully.

I looked up the word: tincture
in the dictionary that I keep in my
right off the kitchen.

A friend of mine had used the word
in correspondence, and I was rather
embarrassed that I’d not known what
it meant.

I found that embarrassment wanes
when one is scraping the last few globs
of guacamole out of the container with
one’s finger and is saddened because
the accompanying tortilla chips have
been reduced to crumbs.

The dog wasn’t embarrassed of me.
She was busy cleaning the remnants
of egg salad from the inside of the
old butter dished I’d packed it away

I’d already packed what had been enough
for a decent sandwich away in my guts
using tortilla-chip spoons,
doing my best not to ***** more
silverware than I had to.

The hour was almost up;
I had to be back at the office
in about 15 minutes.

the dog and I,
took this small measure of time
as an opportunity to listen to a
couple of songs…

one by Iron Maiden.
the other by John Coltrane.

While the discs spun,
the dog wiped any excess
egg salad or tortilla chip crumbs
from her muzzle
the living room carpet,
by sliding around
on her face.

It was funny to watch.

I’ll have to be sure and not
tell Angela about it.

Soon enough,
it’s once more around the yard
dear doggie,
a Marlboro for me,
another few hours at the office,
little friend,
and I’ll sail back home
to thee.

© P&Z Publications 2019
* yes, I wrote a poem for my dog.
Grace E Mar 27
Sitting criss-cross on the floor
Of my small, urban apartment.
Furniture is unaffordable,
But I like the lack of clutter.

I find the sole patch of sunshine,
Beaming through my east facing window
And paint the shade “gypsy” onto my lips.
I gently press my mouth and blend in the
shade of melted, orangey red.

Playing low is, my favorites by John Coltrane.
Getting lost in the notes he blows out on his saxophone.
I get lost in the mellow jazz and the warm sunshine caressing my skin.

And as I close my eyes,
Still heavy from lack of sleep the night before. I see you in my minds eye
I see you and feel you in my room
I hum softly to you and smile
I sway and you smile back at me.
Then I open my eyes again...

And you’re gone...
Gone again
I'm a poet I love writing and putting words together it's a very simple but yet complex it's really all we have as humans...language

This I entitled "Geto CNNs Reportin'"

Im here to report the news ignitin' the fuse
To dim-witted crews feel these ghetto blues
Through my ****** flow Coltrane blow
Trainhorn born in the eyes of the storm
I calm nature it's an invocation
Of the creator you fools grimy players
In this industry how many died empty
Knowledge of the brains is real health
So *in' chasin' wealth stay in stealth
Enemies be on the look out lurk out
See the guns out another black out
See the lighted halos tuned into the radios cosmo so there goes
Another dead brother no other
Reporting the real feel the thrills
Knew i had a weak will once i saw bloodspill
TVs layin' the illusion it's an intrusion
On ya mental so it's bound to be confusin'
While you chasin' wastin' and pastin'
t on the internet with so many sharp threats
I take drama apart before starts to grit
From City to city i see the high rise of obituaries
tears stains of the ghost wonderin' through cemeteries
buried by guns evil flurry no need to
Since death has no patience it's waitin' chance
Pay close attention before ya be caught up in the glance

Since I was raised a street fighter passions of a raw writer
I'll body slam ya harder than Vega
Version two see me ghost you glue you
To the concrete couldn't beat ya feet cuz my heats
Too fast newsflash I'm leaving a **** so suckas cash
In all they checks mics i wrecks
More than effects check
one two
I got the spirit of Sun Tzu from red to blue
Them fools still gone smoke you
It's all a game see the lames see the fame
While the OGs remain the same from a broken grain It's a prison
reign pain
On this physical domain I broke the strain
I know a lotta brothers died for nothin'
While others died for somethin'
I got welts on my brain from the tight cuffin'
Stuffin' my mental with garbage bluffin'
Innerstand I'm just a common man like Ruffin
Left for dead since I first was bred
Competition eliminators blacks the originators
Soul invaders stashed away my papers
Not talkin' loot light a roach than shoot
Straight to the stars with no car look
a far
I'm gassed by Saturn's fuel who wanna duel
With the presence of Sittin' Bull a lone warrior
So don't think my techs will be ignorin' ya
Edward Coles Aug 2018
The coffee cups are *****
But it’s the cleanest way
To drink whiskey here.

The barman lost half his right fingers
To a wood chipper in his early 20’s
And spent the rest of his adult life
Flipping the world off.

He got it down to a fine art
By the time I showed up.
He didn’t smile when I ordered my drink.
He didn’t smile at all.

The jukebox hasn’t changed
For two stagnant decades
And most everyone but the regulars
Are too scared to use it.

It’s the same rotation
Of Elvis,
Muddy Waters,
BB King,
John Coltrane,
And early Bruce Springsteen.

Not a woman in sight
But every song is about them
And we are all here
Because of them.

Certain patches of carpet
Have not seen a crack of light
Since the Berlin Wall fell.

Nothing changes here but the customers-
And that change is incremental at best.
The same filthy etchings over
The same filthy cubicle doors.

The same Cherokee Indian
Smoking a Cuban Cigar
In the heartland of America.

I can’t find myself here
But there is no feeling of loss.
There is no profundity in anything here.
Just squalor

And enjoying one’s squalor.
I think that is what it means
To be truly happy.

— The End —