Even the good turns against life:
a single seed sprouts thorns, then curls
its center, until every tawny spike aligns
a hand’s wounds as they unfurl.

Dropped in the dirt, the seed bronzes
in blood – sipping each heavy drop.
Then a violent thrust, a rolling downward –
veins ooze from the infinity of the seed.

The soil greys, hardens, wisps into sand.
A scream rises, pleads, and then recedes.
In tatters of chrome-oil a gnarled hand
emerges, split right at the palm revealing

splintered bone-stigmas. Then a single bird
grazes the finger-petals, waiting its murder.

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Isabalino Anastasio Guzman is a poet and student. His main goal is to explore through the multiplicity of language and society through the surrealistic use of images. Isabalino has been published in over a dozen publications including: Big City Lit, The Same Magazine, Shot Glass Journal, Symmetry Pebbles, Underground Voices, and Toe Good Poetry.

Guzman’s poetry compels me to think about why we create. With every question we writers, we poets, we scientists and artists answer about the nature of the universe, does it not seem that we only create more questions? For me, this is the very purpose of our lives and our spiritual journeys. Not to find the Ultimate Answer to the Ultimate Question (I begin to believe there isn’t one or the other,) but the continual quest to search and explore and to find meaning not only in new things, but the re-examination of purpose in everyday things.

As I read Guzman’s poetry, I see new meaning in some things I had begun to take for granted and I feel enlightened. What do you see?

Enjoy!

4.4.13

I, Isa, tremble at your presence.

Our fingers delicately map our cityscapes,
twisting into lightning as they gait down
our fragile coils – to the point that ends
in a dash where pigeons freeze midair.

The buildings topple around us. The cries
of traffic bursts through our ears. Yet,
my kisses kept shyly and slyly bombarding
your neck – loud enough to silence them.

Then your willow vines, with its porcelain
cracks, wraps ‘round my waist holding me
in the catatonia of my skull. You won’t let go.
And I don’t want you to. The cement piles

over us, thins our breath. You struggle
to say a single word, so you speak the halves
letting me fill in the rest – until my thoughts
stop at each period. We tell ourselves a story.

Its dream conquers us. We delve further
into one another – seeping through
out focused eyes – into our infinites.
We whisper “don’t stop” until our words blister.

Lilith, oil on canvas by carved by John Collier (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Isabalino Anastasio Guzman is a poet and student. His main goal is to explore through the multiplicity of language and society through the surrealistic use of images. Guzman has been published in over a dozen publications including: Big City Lit, The Same Magazine, Shot Glass Journal, Symmetry Pebbles, Underground Voices, and Toe Good Poetry.

The pretty rose, the weed,
and the marijuana seed,
have the same insisting prevalence.
Through all life flows and sees no difference.

Animals from eagle to snake,
to live, from others must take,
just like humans do with due reverence.
Through all life flows and sees no difference.

The giver and the taker are far apart,
each has a sad or happy heart.
Some hide well their ways with pretense.
Through all life flows and sees no difference.

Time passes in steady motion,
allowing love, hate, and all emotions.
And good religions do help with true relevance.
Through all life flows and sees no difference.

Some have white or black skin,
and shades of colors in between.
The dye seems to be mixed with benevolence.
Through all life flows and sees no difference.

Some of similar bodies do impart,
male or female, their love, body and heart.
They seem to truly enjoy their pertinence.
Through all life flows and sees no difference.

Those, who show mankind a better life.
Those, who send millions to their death.
They have power and great presence.
Through all life flows and sees no difference.

Love all life forms and you’ll sense and see,
that beyond all mysteries you’ll know me.
The just effect of every cause is my essence.
Through all I eternally flow and see no difference.

Photo credit: Wikipedia

Matamoros fought in the Army’s Infantry of the USA in 1952-53, in the Korean War and was honorably discharged. He’s a retired teacher with the Florida Retirement System. Matamoros sees life through mystical experiences. He wishes to share his experiences and also learn from those of others. His daily conscious awareness is a magnificent opportunity to observe and learn. For this he always express his gratitude to the Cosmic.

In my craft
Or not so subtle art,
Neither the moon rages
Nor lovers lie abed
With their arms
Around the griefs of ages.

I write these winter pages
Remembering my youth bent,
Dumb to tell the dying rose
How I roared through summer,
Reckless of thorns, blood let
And love auditions, slaps
Given before recognized,
Unintended pain, pulsating
Long after memory fades.

How could I accept this disguise,
Press its features like a death mask
And yet hope to be forgiven?

(Photo credit: woodleywonderworks)

From 1986 to 1996, Joseph Lisowski was Professor of English at the University of the Virgin Islands. He is now teaching at Elizabeth City State University in North Carolina. Some poetry chapbooks include JB, a dialogue in poem form between John the Baptist and King Herod (PoetryRepairShop), Stashu Kapinski Strikes Out (Rank Stranger Press), Fatherhood at Fifty (Tamafyhr Mountain Poetry), Sketches of an Island Life (dpi press), Art Lessons (Tamafyhr Mountain Poetry), Stashu Kapinski Gets Lucky (Pudding House Press), and Stashu Kapinski Looks for Love (erbacce-press, UK).

After growing up under the shadow of Heppenstall Steel Mill in Pittsburgh, Pa., Joseph Lisowski has spent much of his life near the sea, including 10 years in St. Thomas, VI., which serves as the setting for his three published mystery novels, FULL BODY RUB, LOOKING FOR LISA, and LOOKING FOR LAUREN.

He has lived many lives: as a wide-eyed boy, a keeper of keys, a beach comber… (There are poems somewhere commemorating them all.) Now regularly bicycles along the banks of the Pasquotank River near the outer banks of North Carolina where he and his wife Linda are both professors at Elizabeth City State University. He has just won the University of North Carolina Board of Governors Teacher of the Year Award (2013).

You find
yourself
submerged into the well
of accursedness
that stone-frozen stop
on the road
to Armageddon. Which cup

shall you drink and which sweet vintage
pour out onto snow
crusted ground?

What sacred voice
sent me here
with
an armful
of
lambs?

When you rise
bloodless
from the bedroom
floor where you crouched
until the final star blinked

out, whose
flower will you
hold? What angel

blooms from your startled
fingers? Whose
rage have you tasted in this fastidious night?

Steve Klepetar teaches literature and writing at Saint Cloud State University in Minnesota. His work has received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Flutter Press has recently published two of his chapbooks, “My Father Teaches Me a Magic Word” and “My Father Had Another Eye.”

I am the banshee of atomic wind
I am the singularity of desire
I am recombinant by design
I will not cower in predictions
I toss back the astral dice
    remaking each new day

Chaos is my song of resurrection

Nancy Ellis Taylor is an L.A.-based writer who gives readings locally several times a year. She is active with the Southland Poets of the Fantastic (science fiction, horror, and fantasy) and Poets on Site (group giving poetry performances focusing on art in galleries and museums.) Her work has appeared in a variety of publications, including STAR*LINE, Tales of the Talisman, Fickle Muses, Illumen, and Astropoetica. Taylor is also a member of the Science Fiction Poetry Association and gives readings and workshops at conventions.

You will see
a twisting of metal ribs
white as fine porcelain or good teeth

You will see
a shattering of wired veins
bright as novas or doomed planets

You will see
a sizzling of gaseous breath
hot as refinery fires or fresh lava

There is no sin in their souls
just a short in the system
a flash of understanding

       then silence

Nancy Ellis Taylor is an L.A.-based writer who gives readings locally several times a year. She is active with the Southland Poets of the Fantastic (science fiction, horror, and fantasy) and Poets on Site (group giving poetry performances focusing on art in galleries and museums.) Her work has appeared in a variety of publications, including STAR*LINE, Tales of the Talisman, Fickle Muses, Illumen, and Astropoetica. Taylor is also a member of the Science Fiction Poetry Association and gives readings and workshops at conventions.

Listen and you will hear the Milky Way
The sounds of universe call from deep space
A tune that all the constellations play

Each string plays distant notes with no delay
The quiet melody calls you to this place.
Listen and you will hear the Milky Way

The music travels back from yesterday
Keys of dark energy increase the pace
A tune that all the constellations play

Mysterious lyrics what do they say
The chorus moves and cosmic vocals race.
Listen and you will hear the Milky Way

Songs conducted by a phantom deejay
The galaxies orchestra has no face
A tune that all the constellations play

The chords of gravity will not decay
Harmonies you can follow but not trace
Listen and you will hear the Milky Way
A tune that all the constellations play

Denny E. Marshall has NOT been published in hundreds of magazines. Although he has no art education or training, he enjoys drawing by hand or computer. Denny does not have a Facebook page or Twitter account but does have a website with previously published works.

Note: This post also includes Marshall’s speculative portrait entitled, “The Wrapping.”

Universe the great time machine
The pyrotechnics of the big bang
Celestial eruptions of the stars
Shoot lava-like across the voids
Echoing the eternal flame
Some explosions remain divine

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Denny E. Marshall has NOT been published in hundreds of magazines. Although he has no art education or training, he enjoys drawing by hand or computer. Denny does not have a Facebook page or Twitter account but does have a website with previously published works.