Editors

Editors: Nicole E. Turiano & ZZ Baggins

Sunday, October 2, 2011

Volume 8, Issue 4

two blue trees - zzbaggins





We want to thank all those who bent themselves inside with creative conviction and submitted their work to this issue of Poetry Victims. We continue to promote all those who seek publication of their passion and expression and also greatly appreciate the quality and distinctive presence that has moved Poetry Victims to continue evolving and publishing. Thank you to all who find a love of poetry, art, and breathe in it life. 
 
 
  --"Art is literacy of the heart."
Elliot Eisner--
 

Iron and Wine
 
 
913 Victims to Date
 

Our featured guest poet in this issue is, Heather Lenz, whose prismatic work has genuinely inspired and moved us in the passion for poetry that is raw and full of magnetic emotion. Her work is a pinnacle of inspiration and her talent embraces unique, and genuine human expression. We honor and admire her contribution, as well as, all others who contributed.



Telepathy

If you can hear me at all,
kick a wall for me.
Throw a vase
through your window.

Tear down another
set of lights. Burn another
candle and scream.

Clench your fists tightly.
Rip out the cords
from the outlets.
Speed down another
rain-washed highway.

Smash the cobalt glass.
Darken the moon
with your loneliness.

Fill your blood with the
weight of wine and tears.

Heather Lenz



Tired

I am full with you. Fed-up and guilt-scarred
like all things lost. Lost children know what
to sing. Shadows prevail.

Save my steam in a jar for whenever
you need to scream. About nothing.
Save any evidence of my spirit for times
when you feel I am not good enough.

Photographs? Save those also, they are
easy to burn when the time is right. 
Then call a shrink and tell him
you are preparing to burn them.

Every day when I wake up and rise 
to reason, I trip on your burdens and
bruise. Time shatters glass.
Memories like granite. Annihilation.

Heather Lenz




--"There are always flowers for those who want to see them."
Henri Matisse--


holding on - zzbaggins




Seven Stanzas to Christ

I wove these smoky dreams for you to weep on
Though at the start I had no such intent,
To be so dark in thought and decision,
To sear the sacred meaning of the Lent

Devils marred the roads with cults and money
Judas friends cemented pain and hate,
Lovers wandered off to other cities
And fists of wilting daisies sealed my fate

Still there is a fragile candle burning
A window of crimson glass stained with truth,
Of precious words that long ago I clung to
When kneeling at the alter and the booth

Sometimes a see a Gabriel or Mary
The blood dripping from her golden hand,
Then scarred arms remember something hidden
At the river in the grass and on the sand

The holy train has carried you uphill now
To where the water pours out over stone,
I do not understand how you could die
For each of those who left you all alone

Now the trestles rust and timbers burn
The valley mountain trembles deep within,
All the drunkards play the lonely jukebox
Like the trend of causing death is setting in

Far from there I weave my smoky dreams
And though you weep I had no such intent,
To become a pillar of salt or Doubting Thomas
To be so dark, so bruised by malcontent.

Heather Lenz



Harmony

Morning rain,
dark of autumn.
My hands are stained with
acrylic paint and it is time
to sleep for a while.

You are beside me, as calm
as soft notes from a piano that
move through the room

The rising and falling of
your breath is a song for me-
your eyes, harmony.

For years this concerto
has kept me alive,
and the rain on the roof
heavier now, drifts me slowly

into a dream when I first held
you. It was then that I learned
the depth of melody, and for

once in my life dissonance
did not prevail.

for my son

Heather Lenz

she - zzbaggins



i cannot see what flowers are at my feet - zzbaggins



Season's Ending

This middle house, first one on the right, she sits. Mist from
the far-off Smoky Mountains calms her in the eves of summer's
loneliness. She accomplishes a smile through the day, hands of
the children present them from their hearts, boldly crying for
attention. A dusty guitar and a departing sun strain her curiosity.
She wonders how he would laugh or greet her in the morning, but
the children distract her almost-enough. 

Sometimes she takes off around midnight in a truck with the
windows long gone, listens to the voices of arrogance and hostility,
and knows, that it is not her garden- that David and Job did not plant
seeds here; and that in her efforts would spring up weeds that soon
would fester all around her. Yet she stays on, maybe to learn or
gain reason to scream.

In the view of the sunset she feels peace, imagines the freedom of
freeways and back-roads to the river. This reminds her of other
dreams, the ocean's speed of waves, the outcry of lightning and rain.
She goes on swinging in silence. It has been a long, short day. The
night becomes a couch of therapy, and at the same moment a pit of
lowness.

She turns her eyes to the light of passing cars and feels alone. Summer
is departing; soon the autumn leaves will give new mood to the land.
It's times like this that she, too, may change. 

Heather Lenz




Al Leaf - Michael Crowley



Orphan

She felt like burning herself
with a cigarette or diving
headlong into a train.

All the hours of grief whirled in
her head like engines or the
memory of her father's saw blade.
It was dark and the snow
was creating trails under street lamps
like slow-motion tears in a dream.

She'd never make it back to Oregon-
stuck like a stump in a bone-yard,
like a piece of garden statuary
cast in a lost pose.

Eyes that see too much.
All the fires like shooting stars
on a canvas inside her.

Long lost mothers, distant fathers,
abort your melancholy children.
Do not expect them to surge
into sunlight laughing

when the doors of your house are silent.

Heather Lenz



--"Every day we slaughter our finest impulses, that is why we get a heartache when we read those lines written by the hand of a master and recognize them as our own, as the tender shoots which we stifled because we lacked the faith to believe in our own powers, our own criterion of truth and beauty. We are all kings, all poets, all musicians;  we have only to open up to discover what is already there."
Henry Miller-- 



Coy Crowd - Michael Crowley



life line

i pinch some of what is life between my fingers
it boils down to the seasoning i think
maybe
a rush of curry might be in order
or sea salt or peppers or something of considerable
import
perhaps
a little sage to go with that
perhaps
some articulate accidental fire

Jeffrey Spahr-Summers



the
poet

he loves words
he loves how just
like animals or children
no manner of calling
whistling or screaming
will bring them to him

Jeffrey Spahr-Summers




may showers for hours and hours - Amy Kohut




sometimes dreams dont come true

my dream was never really fame/or fortune/or
notoriety for what i had the/balls/vanity/to write/or
say/or do/or create/or imagine
my dream was never to be on my knees

my dream was easy
but naive

it was a dance to the step of a stay home dad/a
constant presence is what i hungered to be/a
light house/a domesticated god of fire and truth
and love and life
my dream was no secret
my dream was no surprise
my dream was to never allow/this/this/
wall/to be built between my son and myself/
between myself and the world/
between my father/s) and me
i/i/i/sold my dream to the highest bidder
for the sake of some peace and quiet and hope
and some purpose since passed me by
my dream was never to punish myself
and those i love relentlessly

Jeffrey Spahr-Summers 



regarding this

sometimes what takes us
what carries us away
past the anticipation
past duende
and the realization
of rationalizing
petty revelations
or pretences
of ego
of sorts
or the hot red reckless
abandon
of presuming to know

Jeffrey Spahr-Summers




Rimpoche Pimpoche - Amy Kohut




To begin...

yellow tirades escalate into excess, congregation of blaring trumpets,
playing the blues, as spirits linger lightly on the walls....
maxim of distance unending.

Nighttime meetings with madness, causing our great mother earth sadness,
believe what you want about our pretty little world,
sub-worlds inside....
for with this time i do declare a state of nothingness
and nonetheless accept your ridicule-
for scapegoats of divine intervention, made into a fake jewel;
duped once again by life's ultimate diversion-
that which causes shape.

Step out of the conservatively bound square, and reel through the air,
lose control against the life giving fire;
lose track, forget....
the lively darkness gives identity, that which is
non-existent;
no name, no numbers

words evaporate as water in the hottest hell.

Spin furiously in the cool night breeze, find
volcanoes of heat within,
as shadows shed light on self indulgence;
understand...comprehend....
ALL shall find disappointment in death.

No wind blows the same twice,
as churches mock the ground upon which they occupy-
insult after insult we inflict, without a second of remorse.

Beautiful prairies defy the human logic-
buildings, cars, smoke and smog....
this is our chosen course.

Deploy naughty thoughts into granted actions,
what am I?
Whatever my mind desires, stir the coals of life,
make them burn higher....
trapped on this world. stuck in this room.
Uncomfortable in these clothes. secure under these blankets.
willed into this skin.

Taught values discarded, fallacies now transparent....

the natural course of nature has been disrupted;
prepare a statement in defense.

Diversity's rare touch..........bless me.

Anthony Glumac



Found poem based on: I'm Broke

it's the car again
unexpected
deserted houses
tonight's story will focus on
or the dryer
these things happen
any reason why your payment was late
even with the deductible
I can't loan you a hundred, fifty maybe
stimulus package (several crude, but funny jokes)
I got your stimulus package right here
gave themselves bonuses
we needed that money for
man, can't even afford generic generics
family owned business
unpaid furloughs
selling their
no time-and-a-half no overtime
brother can you spare a
come to our attention
abandoned pets
so if we get the car fixed
buy one get one
this bill will be late
get me out of
can you loan me
late

Cindy Stell



--"We are all a little weird and life's a little weird, and when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love."
Dr. Seuss--



Katie B - Michael Crowley



Layering

The oil is vanilla and jasmine
and a bit of pepper
The pepper is a surprise, isn't it?
and while you're searching for the elusive pepper scent
you become aware of the vanilla
not so much that you are reminded of cookies
something edible, but not cookies
here is the jasmine,
a crazy floral, really
alone,
then it slow dances with the vanilla
and with a throw of pepper
now and then
you have to be careful
you can get lost

Cindy Stell



Love Connect

My wandered in search of love
the sultry vibration
has become the life line now.
With a majestic move and graceful smack
Loneliness has become a sweet companion!
His pulsating fondle
Brings solace to the queer of the soul
though ethereal
Transported to a groovy existence
At last I dare to laugh in the face of life
shaking the tresses loose
the spirit is elated
Resonating the craved strength

Sandhya Tiwari



Catapulting Nostalgia

Machine-washable love,
continually laced with sensory spices,
brewing into nostalgic catapults of
when you stood on time's shoulders,
and made deals about the infinity of your
protection.
About how far it could go,
and how long it could carry us,
until we eventually fall,
and claw away at the walls
of our own will.

Sarah Martin



Ephemera and Soap

You could say what she had experienced
Was a bout of magic;
A strange ephemeral burst of wicked
Confidence that could seemingly give one the ability
To blow dozens of shiny, prismatic bubbles without a wand,
To make billows of smoke dance when the incense
Burns too quickly,

But there wasn't anything magical about it
It was the stroke of a guru
A transient cluster of divinity's guise:

A lie,
Cloaked.

Sarah Martin



the dreamer - zzbaggins




The Performer I

An octave prickles
the tongue which
cradles it and
buds bust into bloom
as a need for projection
is expressed with
a single
coo
Yesterday failure fulfilled you
lips lubricated with glue
the thousand-headed
monster of the crowd
lies ravenous with
its eyes cast on
you



The Performer II

Into a tree you carved
a message with a knife

"IF FACES ARE TOPOGRAPHICAL
YOURS IS A RAVINE
SITUATED SOMEWHERE EAST
OF MY COMPLACENCY
WEST OF WHERE I DREAM
NORTH OF ALL THINGS WHICH ARE NOT
BUT PAINSTAKINGLY SEEM"

And you walked back to your car
dead leaves flying backward
beneath your feet
you drove all the way home with
the emergency signal on
singing the same song
your parents played
the night you were conceived

Sarah Martin




                               Madison bench - Michael Crowley



Fury

The before and after of a mortal dream
come true

The autumn leaves turn a crisp golden
brown and red

Watch as they fall to the ground and are
swept away

The cool breeze releases a new breath
Daylight breaks and unleashes a powerful
but calm roar

Anger lies in the pit ready to be purged

A man walking down the street in an inoffensive
manner suddenly lashes out with extreme ire

Raging red as the sun life suddenly begins

Watch the tiny buds of May bloom ever so
slowly

The colours illuminate the sky as tropical orange dances with
sea-breeze purple

A quiet dusty rose gently highlights the yellow sunshine

These colours will amalgamate to form an emotion
so strong not even the thunderous sky can impede
this feeling

Marcie Riel



per-spec-tive

caught
in a dali moment
just outside of wichita
just after dark in kansas
a ballerina of the cornfield
not far up ahead the
hot red hail of tail lights
just up ahead
a white tail deer pirouettes
in a puff of steam
just like this
as the hot blood trips
the frigid air
in my headlights
a strangely beautiful arc
of crimson red

Jeffrey Spahr-Summers



 --"We need to learn to love ourselves first, in all our glory and all our perfections. If we cannot love ourselves, we cannot fully open to our ability to love others or our potential to create. Evolution and all hopes for a better world rest in the fearlessness and open-hearted vision of people who embrace life."
John Lennon--



Meet Stela...



Please join us in welcoming Stela to the online world of literature. With my good friend and publishing partner Nicole E. Turiano as Editor-In-Chief and myself as Publisher, we are excited to share our new magazine with all of you. We are currently building our website, so please bear with us, but we will soon be ready to call for submissions. Please click on the link above and see what we are all about. Follow our blog, or our facebook page, or even twitter for updates... we are here!   



Thank you for reading, sharing, writing, creating...

Poetry Victims
Luv ya, Nic and ZZ

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