In New Orleans, the dead speak.
The narrow streets,
ancient impressions
In chipped paint,
Pressed paper lined
streets that bleed sewage,
the dead
wake the dreams
Of the living
Their presence
reminds us all
of the pains,
smeared chalk lines
and muddy child
hand prints,
speak the mysteries
of the city
The gates of the houses
In New Orleans are rusted
from acid worn fingers,
And these prints
make
New Orleans a sacred city

Brandon S. Roy lives in southwest Louisiana.His work has appeared
in a numerous journals, including the Ottawa Arts Review, Loch Raven
Review, Origami Condom, Pedestal Magazine and Stride Magazine.

We met one last time
before his corpse was washed. 

I couldn’t get past the stench
of medicine, the thin skin and bones talking
from the wheelchair stopped me cold.
The virus had spread. 

Lucas?  Lucas… I didn’t recognize
the proud man I once knew.
He said: Come, give me a hug. 
I held on to a chair worried
I’d faint, but I couldn’t betray
the hope invested in an embrace.

He found substance
in the gathering of friends.
I know because I am acquainted 
With all my sins, the many ways
my fears have killed.

Sergio Ortiz has a B.A. in English literature from Inter-American University, and a M.A. in philosophy from World University.  His poems have been published, or are forthcoming in: The Acento Review, Poesia, The Driftwood Review, Words-Myth, The Taj Mahal Review, and other journals and anthologies.  His chapbook, At the Tail End of Dusk (2009), was published by Flutter Press.

 

Persimmons in a tree.
Yellow jackets.
Scraggly plum trees.
Cardboard.
Paper and stick matches.
A Daisy BB gun.
Honeysuckles and bumblebees.
Blackberries and thorns.
Caterpillars in a nest.
Monarch butterflies.
Strawberry blite.
Rabbit tobacco.
An old well covered with boards.  

In a golden field of straw.  

Danny P. Barbare resides in the foothills of Greenville SC. His poetry has recently appeared in Dew on the Kudzu, The Birmingham Arts Journal, Breadcrumb Sins, and many other literary magazines and journals.

Edith, in this nursing home
blinded with macular degeneration,
I come to you with your blurry
eyes, crystal sharp mind,
your countenance of grace--
as yesterday's winds
I have chosen to consume you
and take you away.
"Oh, where did Jesus disappear
to?" she murmured,
over and over again,
in a low voice
dripping words
like a leaking faucet:
"Oh, there He is my
Angel of the coming."

Michael Lee Johnson is a poet and freelance writer from Itasca, Illinois. His new poetry chapbook with pictures, titled From Which Place the Morning Rises, and his new photo version of The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom are available at: http://stores.lulu.com/promomanusa. The original version of The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom, can be found at: http://www.iuniverse.com/bookstore/book_detail.asp?isbn=0-595-46091-7.

Beachcombers are today’s gold prospectors.
Can collectors fill stolen grocery carts.
They are full of Hope with a capital H.
The problem is the small h heart of a prospector, is the soul of a pirate.
      Enterprise
is stealing copper piping.
     Prospector headlamp
has been exchanged for an Orlando magic cap.
 
Who will be their Jack London?
Grocery cart races instead of sleds.
To differentiate from the copper pipe thieves
They will need to recruit their own Victor Hugo for sanction.


Paul Handley spent a career as a student and a student of odd jobs.  He has an MA, an MPA, and is ABD.  He has driven a cab and sold meat door-to-door.