Visualization by Martin Williits Jr.

We all have a place to go — 
we just have to get there, 
                                     a secret place. 


I’d be hauling bodies out of combat zones 
while bullets chewed the scenery into bits, 
and I’d be elsewhere — 


                                     back home 
on the farm, plowing (or was it a girl) 
planting seeds — 


                         I’d have to numb myself, 
going in, sprinting out, murmuring 
like a flock of starlings, 


             my mind would gather like that 
explosion of scattered flight, 
and somehow, killing never found me, 


             I’d rendered myself invisible, my mind 
lathering suntan lotion on a woman 
lying on a stomach, after removing her top, 


and when I came back, trying not to relive the past, 
visualizing no more War, but like a boxer, 
if I heard the bell, I’d go back again and again.

Martin Willitts Jr recently won Rattle Ekphrastic Challenge, Artist’s Choice, November 2016. His recent full-length is "How to Be Silent" (FutureCycle Press, 2016), and his recent chapbooks are “Martin Willitts Jr Greatest Hits” (Kattywompus Press, 2016) and Turtle Island Editor’s Choice Award for his chapbook, “The Wire Fence Holding Back the World” (Flowstone Press).

Richard Schnap

Dear Readers & Poets,

I know I recently closed this journal, so I don't know how many of you are still subscribed or reading Black Poppy, but I wanted to share some sad news I received this morning about fellow poet Richard Schnap. As you know, he's been a constant contributor to this journal with his poetry appearing just about every month. He was one of my favorites and also became a good friend to me. His partner emailed me this morning and told me that Richard passed away on Christmas Day. I had no idea and I'm still shocked and completely saddened by this news. I just can't believe it.

I published a chapbook for him last year, under Flutter Press, titled A Wind from Nowhere. He was so excited about finally putting together a collection of poems. If you're interested in purchasing a copy, it is available at this link:  https://www.createspace.com/6215080 or on Amazon.com. I'd like to make it available until the end of the month because I know so many of you enjoyed his poems as much as I did. After the end of February, I'm going to retire his book as I don't feel it's right to continue selling it when he's no longer here. All royalties will be sent to his partner, Alice.

Update:  I'm going to continue selling Richard's chapbook through Flutter Press. However, the press will not be earning any royalties, they will continue to be sent to his partner.

Topper by David Gross

I called him “Top Cat”

like the cartoon character, 

he liked it.

We were restoring 

Altgeld Hall 

at the university.

Drinking was his passion

and coupled with a 

finely honed black humor 

everything he said 

came out Shakespearian. 

Born in Liverpool

to an unknown mother, 

his father raised him. 

Gorged with ghosts from 

a childhood zig-zagging 

Europe, working circuses 

with his old man. 

Never said what they did.

One Monday he didn’t show,

no one thought much about it,

but by morning break 

someone tied the name 

nobody knew in the headlines 

to the “drunk little hippie”

that worked with us, 

who laid down 

on a railroad track

and fell asleep.

David Gross is the author of four chapbooks, Cup of Moon (Bull Thistle Press, 2000), What We Never Had (tel-let, 2004), Because It Is (tel-let 2005), and Pilgrimage (Finishing Line Press, 2009). His poems and essays have appeared in journals such as Big Muddy, Blue Collar Review, Cape Rock, Common Ground Review, Hummingbird, Kentucky Review, Modern Haiku, Naugatuck River Review and Snowy Egret. He lives with his wife on a small farm in the hills of southern Illinois.

Egyptian Garden, Biddulph Grange by Eira Needham

Bluebirds extend their wings

to flank a jonquil sun

above the entrance.

Twin sphinxes guard this door,

amid neatly clipped yews.

We creep into the mastaba,

spooked by a twilit passage,
where it's difficult to focus.

In the ensanguine chamber ahead
a grotesque figure squats.

Ape, attendant to Thoth, 

bathed in blood light awaits -

sculpted in feathered cape 

with oblong buckle fastening. 

Long ears frame a hog like face.  

Nostrils flare; mouth grimaces.

Returning down the tunnel
we will rediscover brightness -
yet to the left there's a short-cut
up steep stone steps, that vanish
into darkness, offering a portal
to the unknown.

Eira Needham is a retired teacher, living in Birmingham UK. Her poetry is eclectic and has been published in print and online. Some of her publications are in The Linnet’s Wings, Voices from the Web 2016 and Poetry Pacific. She has also been Featured Writer in WestWard Quarterly.

Like Dawlish Winter Train Tracks by Paul Tristram

She remembers ‘Feeling’ it
rather than ‘Hearing’ it
start to buckle and give way inside.
Never really strong to begin with
yet enough to generally keep afloat.
Unwashed for two more days now
and another sickening afternoon
with just cigarettes for breakfast.
The cupboards are not bare
just untouched,
it’s her heart or soul or both
which lay empty.
There is still money in her purse
but the bills keep changing colour
and mounting up.
Brushing teeth is like climbing Everest
sdrawkcab.
She now understands 
why children draw arrows through hearts
upon the covers of schoolbooks…
it’s a form of cosmic telepathy.
You can tread water
trying to keep sane all you like
but when you are fighting 
a losing battle with yourself
it’s never your nice, bright side
which comes out the winner.
Most people are quick to be cruel,
there’s a degree of safety in solitude.
Loneliness; a ‘Mental Echo’ 
trapped inside like toothache and cancer
which is physically and emotionally
the most Horrific thing you can go through.

Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet.  Buy his book 'Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press)  http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1943170096

Sitting in the Brown Chair with Lets Pretend on the Radio by Lyn Lifshin

I don’t think how the

m and m’s that soothe

only made my fat legs

worse. I’m not thinking

how my mother will 

die, of fires that could

gulp a mother up, leave

me like Bambi. I’m not

going over the baby sitter’s

stories of what they did to

young girls in tunnels, of

the ovens and gas or have

nightmares I’ll wake up

screaming for one whole

year wanting someone to

lie near me, hold me as if

from then on no one can get

close enough. I don’t hear

my mother and father yelling,

my mother howling that if

he loved us he’d want to buy

a house, not stay in the apart-

ment he doesn’t even pay

her father rent for but get

a place we wouldn’t be

ashamed to bring friends.

What I can drift and dream

in is more real. I don’t want

to leave the world of golden

apples and silver geese. To

make sure, I close my eyes,

make a wish on the first hay

load of summer then wait

until it disappears

Lyn Lifshin has published  over 130 books and chapbooks including 3 from Black Sparrow Press: Cold Comfort, Before It's Light and Another Woman Who Looks Like Me. An update to her Gale Research Autobiography is out: Lips, Blues, Blue Lace: On The Outside. Also just out is a dvd of the documentary film about her: Lyn Lifshin: Not Made Of Glass. Just out: Femme Eterna and Moving Through Stained Glass: the Maple Poems.  Forthcoming: Degas Little Dancer and Winter Poems from Kind of a Hurricane Press, Paintings and Poems, from Tangerine press (just out) and The Silk Road from Night Ballet, alivelikealoadedgun from Transcendent Zero Press Just Out.

Her website:www.lynlifshin.com

Ringing in the Ears by Donal Mahoney

Ringing in the ears

has no cure. 

It’s called tinnitus

and you can pronounce it 

the way it looks or the way 

your doctor says it.

Today I discovered how 

to turn the ringing off 

and that’s to take 

a phone call from your son 

who says your daughter 

died last night.

She won the first 

and second match but  

lost the last to cancer.

An hour later you realize

the ringing in your ears

has stopped but there’s 

no silence in its wake.

A train of memories 

chugs by and stops

and then chugs on again.  

You want the ringing 

in your ears back again.

You can live with that.

Donal Mahoney has had work published in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his work can be found at http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html.

Unchanged Melody by Joanne Olivieri

Music box dancer
pirouettes through darkness.
Her stage, a desolate wilderness.
Keywound compositions
through which demons sing
an ominous foreboding
she cannot escape.

The revolving performance -
a monotonous chaos.
The endless encore
she remains
day after day
never to break away.







Joanne Olivieri is a San Francisco native.  She is a published poet and photographer.  Her poetry has been published in numerous magazines and ezines to include Jerry Jazz Musician, SP Quill Magazine, SoMa Literary Review, Things Asian Online Travel Website, Tango Diva, the India based Eternity Magazine, The Hong Kong based Terracotta Typewriter and many more.  Her poem Symphony of Lights was chosen as one of the 300 Short Listed Entries in the initial round of the Cathay Pacific Airways - 100 Reasons We Love Hong Kong contest for July 2007. As a result, Joanne was awarded a round trip ticket to Hong Kong for her winning entry.  She is the editor of Stanzaic Stylings Literary ezine.

Bomb Scare by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

He smiled at me 

and I could tell by the way he smiled

that there was a bomb planted

in my esophagus,

probably while I slept

the room key passed along 

by spooks and well placed sympathizers

and so we shook hands firmly

and talked for some minutes

in the hall by the elevator,

agreeing to meet up

for dinner,         

then I went back to my room

locked the door behind me

and sat in the dark

bent over the cold off white porcelain

with finger down 

throat                    

I started

purging.






Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his other half and mounds of snow.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Word Riot, In Between Hangovers, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.

The Dove by Michael Keshigian

Approaching dusk breaks his heart,

the rising moon represents nothing more

than a source of inactivity,

because, of course, he loves the dawn,

the noisy, cacophonous conversations of birds,

bugs, and bees in buds, forging him forward 

in his khaki shorts and sleeveless attire

to sit in the park with bottled water

and celebrate how good life has been.

But the moment has arrived,

his levels of attainment have climaxed

and his sense of contentment

has been distracted by a dove 

perched on the bench alongside,

a handsome specimen with dark eyes

and snow white down, 

though its tail feathers streaked 

rainbow colors to which he inferred 

that the fowl had flown from paradise

to become his guide through a beautiful death,

navigating dark shadows and pungent fumes 

toward a place where blue walls 

radiate a continuous light 

behind the black sheet stars attempt to obscure,

where he will sit upon a stool of sunshine

and this messenger muse will explain all,

reinforcing the significance of his presence,

how his efforts will influence

rather than evaporate in a toxic doom

the sciences foresee,

that the heavens will not collapse,

that he was not born by chance

to occupy a temporary space

in a cryptic, accidental place.

Michael Keshigian’s published poetry collections include:  Inexplicable, Beyond, Dark Edges, Eagle’s Perch, Wildflowers, Jazz Face, Warm Summer Memories, Silent Poems, Seeking Solace, Dwindling Knight, and Translucent View. He is a 6-time Pushcart Prize and 2-time Best Of The Net nominee. (michaelkeshigian.com)

Marigolds in Early Winter by Martin Willitts Jr.

the yellow-orange marigold came in

towards the end of summer

like a prayer no one speaks

it would protect the tomato plants

from harmful bugs too small to see

like a guardian angel 

I was told hovered over me

to make sure I knew right from wrong

in Viet Nam 

napalm exfoliated forests

were the same ungodly color

prayer could never heal

blood splattering like tomato paste

under my skin crawls invisible bugs

just mentioning this memory 

all angels abandoned us

wronging our actions

Martin Willitts Jr recently won Rattle Ekphrastic Challenge, Artist’s Choice, November 2016. His recent full-length is "How to Be Silent" (FutureCycle Press, 2016), and his recent chapbooks are “Martin Willitts Jr Greatest Hits” (Kattywompus Press, 2016) and Turtle Island Editor’s Choice Award for his chapbook, “The Wire Fence Holding Back the World” (Flowstone Press).

The Fate of a Beautiful Flower by Indunil Madhusankha

In a glamorous morning,
a gorgeous flower had blossomed
with a ferocious texture of vermillion glow
Glinting dews on feathery petals
bursting in brilliance like sequins
with its soothing velvet touch
Swarms of bees buzzing around
for hunting and gathering pollen
mesmerized by its amorous delicacy

But, a few days later,
in a traumatic evening,
the flower had withered
Its splendour vanished
in a yellowish brown pallor
Petals not vigorous enough
to bear the dews and about to fall apart
And the sepals dried off
No bees to dash above the dead stigma
Thus the once glorious flower had faded away.



* Previously published in the international anthology of poetry, “Moonlight
Dreamers of Yellow Haze”







Indunil Madhusankha is currently an undergraduate reading for a BSc Special Degree in Mathematics at the Faculty of Science of the University of Colombo. Even though he is academically involved with the subjects of Mathematics and Statistics, he also pursues a successful career in the field of English language and literature as a budding young researcher, reviewer, poet and content writer.  Basically, he explores the miscellaneous complications of the human existence through his poetry by focussing on the burning issues in the contemporary society. Moreover, Indunil’s works have been featured in many international anthologies, magazines and journals.

Find Me by Diana Decker

Someone will find me

as I found Helen

bent over a long cold cylinder of ashes

her last cigarette.

Find me

as she found her father

dressed for the day and seated

in sallow dignity.

Find me

as she found her husband

his deep song, his long breath

in eternal fermata.

Find me

as a stranger found her son

my father

bent over the 23rd Psalm in cold prayer

in the driver’s seat of his running car

on the dark shoulder of a desert road.

Find me

and take it for your own:

decaying devastation

wincing memory

comfort

Because I intend only to comfort

when I tell you that someone

someone

will find you, too.

Diana Decker's poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Crab Creek Review, Verdad, Silver Birch Press, Poppy Road Review, deLuge Journal, Smoky Blue Literary and Arts Magazine, Mothers Always Write, and KY Story’s anthology Getting Old. She writes and sings on the little farm that she shares with her husband.

Buried by Sandy Hiss

The broken-down and dying
scribble their detached names
in the muddy, coastal sand.

Each stroke of driftwood
a wound they suffered alone;
their toes buried in discomfort

from walking barefoot in circles.
Dead starfish and brown seaweed
litter the beach like discarded

bones, marrow intact.  A hermit
crab picks at the decaying bodies,
attempting to retrieve the secrets

of the ancient cerulean sea.  But,
she will never reveal her mystery,
her connection to the moon's clock.

Quickly erases the beach graffiti
with the curl of the tide, knowing
the sunset will bring more souls,

sleepwalking their way into her arms.

Sandy Hiss has always been intrigued by haunted houses, ancient cemeteries, forests, gardens, and abandoned buildings. She currently resides in Southern California with her husband and two children. 

Lost Daughter by Linda M. Crate

she thought it was love,
but the sentiment
was false;
a more experienced eye 
would know—
no one was surprised when they
found her body drained of
blood
they had told her not to love
a monster,
but she hadn't listened to their pleas;
and so she paid the ultimate 
price—
her mother asked how could they be
so heartless or how could they forgive such
a crime?
but these people were dead to their emotions
they lost their life and love a long time ago
dead before their time they could not
be moved to compassion for this mother or her 
lost daughter.







Linda M. Crate's poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have appeared in numerous anthologies and magazines both online and in print. She has three published chapbooks the latest of which came out in August 2016: If Tomorrow Never Comes (Scars Publications). She is also the author of the fantasy novels branded as the Magic series.

The Marionette by Amit Parmessur

Emancipation of mind

is the greatest liberty. ― LAILAH GIFTY AKITA

 

She stumbled upon a brand-new girl marionette

lying comatose in her littered backyard. Supine.

With rotten finger-like twigs around her throat.

She looked quite beautiful in that policewoman’s

uniform and with that aquiline nose!

When she carried her home, her colors spilled

onto her hands and poured into her eyes

as she wiped at hot teardrops.

 

Once in her room, she placed her on the bed,

stroking her black straw hair, talking her back

to life; only a miniature pair of handcuffs

fell out of her pocket. A few perfect circles

appeared on the bed sheet as the brave girl tried

grotesquely to stir and open her morose eyes.

The night was black when she died.

 

She now dreams, every day, of huge marionettes

clawing and pummeling at her heart.

The weight of their vile vendetta pushing her into

the colorful chasm splitting in her bed.

Her cries gagged by bloody fingers creeping

around her moldy, twisted throat.

Amit Parmessur is a poet and teacher. He has been published in several print and online journals. A Pushcart Prize and Best of the Web nominee, he lives in one of the most beautiful islands in the world, Mauritius.

Her Early Afternoon Sepia Face by Paul Tristram

There is still a deep, dusty frost
on the overgrown lawn outside,
yet, the Winter sunshine
is dazzling and blindingly bright.
As she perches, with feet up
upon the left bay window seat,
between the heavy, velvet drapes
and breath-misted glass.
This is her ‘Quiet Hour’,
she shares only with strong coffee,
cigarettes and nostalgia.
She’s contemplating the ‘Circles’
which keep tripping her up
from the straight and narrow.
How to evade emotions
and still be contented is the thing?
Reining in affection
and keeping desires in check…
simply seems unnatural, wrong
and against the grain of everything
that the ‘Beating Heart’ should stand for?
She’s sat here every day for centuries,
hair and eye colour changing,
along with her earthly name.
Pondering, worrying and debating with herself
a delightful/deplorable Riddle
untouched by science, uncharted by maps…
which like a Victorian Penny Arcade
is all down to luck, chance and guess work.








Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet.  Buy his book ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press)  http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1943170096.

Dust on the Parlor Mirror by Ken Allan Dronsfield

Boxed peanut brittle

candy cane smiles

cigar smoke rising

trays of ribbon candy.

spruce scent wafting

mistletoe in doorways

nutcrackers guarding

gifts around the tree.

lights flash or chasing

holly on the fireplace

toast with hard eggnog

enjoying Christmas eve.

bowl of reddish punch

family and friends arrive

holiday memories exist in

Dust on the Parlor Mirror. 

Ken Allan Dronsfield is a published poet from Oklahoma. He loves thunderstorms! His published work can be found in reviews, journals, magazines and anthologies throughout the web and in print venues. His poetry has been nominated for two Pushcart Prize Awards and the Best of the Net for 2016.