Mike Maggio

Arrangement in Reds and Grays

Nothing about my therapist says he’s trying to kill me, 
except slowly by incompetence, but here he is, 
softly cutting a diagonal through Hoppertown 
in a brick-noir haze,

and here I am, in his gray bright office huddling damp
behind a file cabinet I know he doesn’t have.
No Steelers flag, no dog art; this must be a dream.
Fortunately, there are women:

assistants, midwives of billing, the “gals” he says 
will schedule my next visit or fill my scripts. 
Dozens, perhaps hundreds of gals. 
As he enters, they pop into view 

in magic bubbles, one after another. They lie for me.
“She didn’t come in.” “Across the street, maybe.”
Watches tight, their sensible arms ever conducting.

He freezes with his knife.
This world is suddenly cardboard.
I might yet get out alive.

He moves again, but it’s a broken TV or stop-motion,
and the gals are faster in their bewildering deflection,
and me I’ve disappeared altogether.



Copyright 2024 by Pamela Murray Winters

Pamela Murray Winters lives and writes in Bowie, Maryland. She’s working on a second full-length poetry collection and several chapbooks, so she will soon embark on the sometimes daunting process of submission (to publishers and the cosmos). When she’s not writing, she’s watching TV with her husband, playing with her cats, and/or competing in several quiz leagues. (Please let her know if your team needs a pop culture aficionado.)

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BLACK FRIDAY

They say it’s darkest before dawn
but it don’t seem that way
Mama sits at table but this time
without coffee and cigarette
I don’t hear her
coughing or wheezing
It’s clear she’s gettin’ better
I call the undertaker
and cancel her funeral
It’s lighter now but still dark
Saturday after Black Friday--
the one following Thanksgiving
not the good one before Easter
I got some letters to mail
but before I do, I hug her
for the longest time
Death has given me back
my mama and I can’t
let go

Copyright 2024 Carl Stilwell

Carl Stilwell (aka CaLoki) was born during the depression in Oklahoma and came to California in 1959 and has lived here ever since. He is a retired teacher who taught for over 30 years in the
Los Angeles Unified school District and has published poems in Altadena Poetry
Review, Blue Collar Review, Four Feather’s Press, Lummox, Pearl, Prism, Revolutionary
Poets Brigade–Los Angeles, Rise Up, Sequoyah Cherokee River Jornal, The Sparring
Artists.

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The Armchairs I Liked to Wear in My Sleep


The armchairs I liked to wear in my sleep
to pretend I was a grownup
must have seemed childish, at that time.
I dreamed they were
no different than a folding chair of my father's, 
and also mom says
she likes to work on the chair under the biceps.

A bundle of dreams is a gift
but mine just took up space
that could have been used to write instead,
at the entrance to the hair of the vertebrae.
There are four open walls that don't like me
because my head is a ram's rope.
The sleepers could look inside
and see ready-made sheets on the old side of the poet,
as beds say.

I bow to the sidewalk between the folds of vocal chords.
I'm a monster: my hands are drawn like flowers
and my heart has bad breath so easily.
Today I'm holding a bench
on which a newspaper seller
protrudes from a centavo's mane.
He's carved in white, 
but on Sunday he'll disappear 
like writers do.

Poets are saints
and, since ceilings are a thing of the past, 
they think that the stars singing next to them
are feathers they can pet: 
poets could really do so, even if the stars are not outside of them.

Copyright 2024 by Angelo Colella

Angelo ‘NGE’ Colella was born in Italy where he still lives. He writes prose and poetry in Italian and English and also makes collages, asemic writing and DADA objects. Some of his works have appeared on Uut Poetry, Utsanga, The Ekphrastic Review, Il Cucchiaio nell’Orecchio, Il Mirino, Multiperso, Blogorilla, Word For/Word, Otoliths, La Morte per Acqua, and 22 Pensieri.

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Pontus

He invited me to sit with him in the small wheelhouse 
which was faintly lit by the computer screens of a few 
navigational devices. 

But, before the sun broke the horizon,
The silent calmness 
was rudely interrupted 
by everything that seemed to be alive.

The storm clouds,
the waves,
the shouts,
the accusations,
last rites and prayers,
waking God from a sound sleep.

I have always dreamed in years,
never hours or minutes,
never colors, always hues of purple.

Coming back to the emotion of my mind,
It seems incredible to live life twice.
In movies they do, screenplays and lyrics.

Although the assembly of the cast 
grows with each peak and cry of my life,
it wanes when truth warms the spice of the cast.

the plot stormed off stage,
dissolving in shifting motion, 
leaving the script and the words to fight it out.

waves of emotions strike us
as we sink into complete darkness.

Copyright 2024 by Dolores Hoffman

Dolores Hoffman has been a writer for South Jersey Mom Magazine and Northeast Metro Woman Magazine.  Her poems have been published in Poet’s Choice publication and Pen in Hand magazine.  She was a 2019 Selected Poet for Eastern Shore Voices during Salisbury Week.  Dolores started writing poetry at the age of 15 and her passion has led her to create a quarterly booklet called “Pick-Me-Up”.  These booklets have been delivered to local hospitals and cancer centers with the expressed purpose of exposing patients to poetry in a subtle way.

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"Leviathan (Dark Dreams) 


If you could see behind these eyes 
This is not some fairy tale 
About a man's mind  lost at  sea 
Outwitted by a great white whale  

A harpoon's line twisted the frail 
shattered leg above the knee 
he found himself (among the waves 
that bite was clean from that  muscled knave 

One hundred throws, decades would pass 
The ships would heave, men breathed their last 
The great leviathan would sound and breach 
that storied beast, beyond their bloody reach 

Sailing 'round Chilean grounds 
Their fears unsaid 
Ships forged a head 
and the sea turned red 
Filled their Yankee heads 
with dark dreams 

He'd sound and breach 
their wails and woes 
The captain pulled his three-draw glass
the man aloft cried "There she blows." 
Then a lucky wind would fill their masts 

Two points on the weather bow 
Three were seen, one with child 
A newborn calf, born just now 
the great white whale would stand his ground 

He'd seen it all before 
whaling boats and their frenzied speed 
 blooded oars swung high then deep 
he'd plunge below and rise the Beast

He weathered  nineteen blows 
His two loved ones safely below 
A crimson tide, foes traded blows 
The great white whale was slain, then stowed 
The men grew quiet for the seed they'd sown 

His body held in a hundred casks 
heading toward Nantucket Sound 
Sea rovers, soon home at last 
With oil aplenty to light their lamps 

Sailing 'round Chilean grounds 
Their fears unsaid 
Ships forged a head 
and the sea turned red 
Filled their Yankee heads 
with dark dreams 

So, if you could see behind these eyes
This is not some fairy tale
About a man's mind lost at sea 
Outwitted by a great white whale  


Copyright) Rick Landers 2021

Rick Landers is a multi-award winning singer-songwriter, author, and poet who publishes, Guitar International magazine (2004 – 2024). He and his band, Heartland, perform at house concerts, music festivals, and DMV venues. He holds a Bachelor of Science degree and a Masters degree in Public Administration. As a retired federal employee, he served as the Deputy Assistant Inspector General (Communications) with the Office of the Inspector General, Department of Defense.

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Truism

I am sleeping lightly
on a Sunday afternoon
vague jazz on the radio
with a world drum beat.

I drift, in content calm
into deepening darkness
A low voice beckons me
"What is your name?"

"I'm Kunta Kinte, an
American from The Bronx" I say.

I sense a looming circle
around me of others, intent
in stare, grim in outlook.

"No," the voice warns "your
name is Smith, Winston Smith."

"My name is Kunta" I start,
"No, your name is Winston Smith;
you live in Oceania. Say it."

"I was born in Virginia" I say, adding
"I now live in The Bronx."

"Your name is Winston Smith;
you live in Oceania. SAY IT!"

The circle is closing, surrounding.
"SAY IT!" rasps the voice.

"I'm a reasonable man."

"I work for The Truth Ministry" I say.
"I AM The Truth!" growls reply.

"Who are you?

Dave Lego lives on the coast of Oceania and dreams of national mediocrity, that being a step up from the current state of affairs…no, seriously. 🤨

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LUCID

All the 
slip, lift, and fall, wood stove grunt 
or cat filled door, full mouth rot 
and smoke again, can’t find class, 
can’t find clothes, can’t find report, 
can’t dive into the ink bottle shrink, 
electric shock on a chain link fence, 
train to car to bike to crawl, 
can’t find a bathroom, broken bathroom, 
no walls bathroom, not a bathroom, 
breath-stopped float to powerline sky, 
white box truck and run 

Not fun, but fine,
                              but then
 
there’s the one that’s not scary.
But I realize it’s a dream. 
And I want to wake up. 
But I can’t. 
So I scream. 

                    and torn through
screen of med-thick weight I closed-
mouth real-shriek, to scare him wide, 
so he shakes me, saves me, asks again 
why, and ______ _ __  _   _      _

Copyright 2024 by Kate Powell Shine (Katherine Shine)

Kate Powell Shine (she/her) is active in numerous local literary communities including those at Montgomery College, Montgomery County Public Libraries, and the Eastern Shore Writers Association. She lives in Montgomery Village with her husband, John.

30 for 30 is sponsored by Potomac Review

Maskless in Dallas, A Dream from 2020

My parents are riding a tour bus
past mansions, universities,
museums of the last Old Masters.
They visit a historic house
that is smaller and not quite as old
as the ones back East.

My parents avoid downtown,
Dealy Plaza, the crystal skyscrapers
on postcards, the grassy knoll,
the place where my mother says
everything went wrong.

Having overslept yet again, I wander
the aisles of a Barnes and Noble
that magically expands to an art gallery,
a toy store, a supermarket, all
without selling the book I want,
nature writing set in the hill country,
all that I will miss on the flight home.

Without that book, I walk out
to the shores of an artificial lake
large enough to be an ocean
with saltwater taffy and a Cyclone
at the end of the boardwalk.

I walk past the bare-chested men
and high-heeled women
who clog this path,
singing, spitting, swigging
beer from brown bottles.

I wake up gasping.


Copyright 2024 by Marianne Szlyk

A version of this poem appeared as “Maskless in Dallas” in Mad Swirl. 

Marianne Szlyk’s poems have appeared in Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Verse-Virtual, Poetry X Hunger, Poetry Breakfast, Verse-Virtual, McQueen’s Quinterly, and One Art. Her books Why We Never Visited the Elms, On the Other Side of the Window, and I Dream of Empathy are available from Amazon and Bookshop. Her poems have also been translated into Polish, Italian, and Cherokee. Her short stories have appeared in Impspired and Mad Swirl. She and her husband, the wry poet and flash fiction writer Ethan Goffman, now live in the Washington, DC area with their black cat Tyler.

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Mirror

in the other-world of dreams
death is birth
love returns and
standing still
one flies
 
pain is pleasure
sadness 
beckons joy 
and
grief is 
an endless 
celebration ...
 
is it 
any wonder then
that
waking
i dream 
of dreams?

Copyright 2924 by Rich Follett

Rich Follett, the Poet Laureate of Strasburg, VA, has authored Responsorials (with Constance Stadler, 2009), Silence, Inhabited (2011), Human &c. (2013), and Geminations (with Constance Stadler, 2023) through NeoPoesis Press, and Photo-Ku (2016) through NightWing Publications. Rich is featured in the ODU Virginia Poets Database at https://digitalcommons.odu.edu/virginiapoets. Information and publications at www.richfollett.com.

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The Earth, Sea, Ripe Fruit

The field is parched and cracked
August angry cornstalks
splitting open the earth’s maw
merciless blue sky
but we swim in a grey angry sea
the roar of the surf in our ears like sirens
the seagulls mock us in the chill air
my ex-husband now swims in front of me
wearing a scuba mask
I want to don my mask too
but I am worried about losing
my $600 progressive glasses
or being pulled out to sea by the undertow
I drive my red Prius across the field
the Earth’s maw wants to eat it.
You are coming over tonight
we will kiss on my sofa
until our lips
are swollen
like ripe bruised fruit.

Copyright 2024 by Susan Notar

Susan Notar is a Pushcart prize nominated poet.  She has flown over Iraq wearing body armor and makes a mean beurre blanc sauce.  Her work has appeared in numerous publications including Artemis, Burningword, Burgeon, the Bridgeville Review, the Forgotten River, Joys of the Table, Alianza Latina Antolgia de Poemas, and Written in Arlington,.  She works at the U.S. Department of Justice helping victims of terrorist attacks.

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