Jeff Mason

MONICA ELLEN The poetry of Monica Ellen has appearerd in many print and online journals, most recently Skyline Magazine; Spiveyland; Cream; Voices, among others, and Monica is a Featured Poet at Kookamonga Square as well. She writes mostly free verse, her poetry inspired by social, political and spiritual issues and situations and stemming from love, the importance of friendship and other relationships, longings and fears: "Many times, people experience the same feelings but do not know how, or are unable to express them. To see that someone else has felt or experienced what they have provides a precious link with another, giving a sense of belonging, allowing a release of pent-up emotions, fears or anxieties. I feel I write "accessible" poetry, believing that poems need not be written in a complicated language only a select few can comprehend. To know that I have touched someone with my words is all the recompense I need from my writing." Monica spends much of her time maintaining her web site, Monica's Expresso Cafe (http://expressocafe.org), dabbling in photography and reading. She has one book of poetry to her credit, "Days of Fine Gray Ash". A copy can be purchased by emailing Monica at wordsmith@ctcn.net.

TRANSMUTATION © Monica Ellen It is a slow death for some the color lingering, almost resentfully, gradually paling in the oblique winter sunlight, as if trying to hold onto life finally, reluctantly letting go, autumn's last leaf, set adrift on a sudden gust of arctic air, coming to rest at last on the cold hard ground below, with which it melds to become the sustenance of new life VERTIGO © Monica Ellen If you knew I fear heights, especially those to which you take me, would you surround me with tender arms until my trembling stops... would you allow your lips to kiss away my tears, clearing my eyes so I might see again? could you catch me before my feet touch the ground, ease this pounding in my chest, slow the quickening of my breath... could you... would you? THE CRICKET AND THE RAIN © Monica Ellen This is a day for poetry. The silence screams and tortures, pleading for that distant noise of love, which once filled the emptiness in my heart and gave me reason to awaken even on a day like today, where the silence screams and tortures, and begs for someone to take notice. My memories are but muted yearnings for what once was. So I read my poetry, left alone to contemplate the cricket and the rain. VESPER © Monica Ellen Evening draws near and my humble petitions laden with melancholy, yet precious as emeralds or pearls are breathed out in gossamer whispers soft as velvet. They transcend the lavender shadowed summits of the rising ground and prayerfully ascend into a cerulean sanctuary before falling like tears into the placid stillness of the coming night.

TIMOTHY GAGER Timothy Gager is the author of Short Street and Twenty-Six Pack, both collections of short fiction and the e-book, The Damned Middle. His first book of poetry, The same corner of the Bar, is available through Ibbetson Street Press. Timothy has also edited the book, Out of the Blue Writers Unite: A Book of Poetry and Prose from the Out of the Blue Art Gallery. He hosts the Dire Series in Cambridge, Massachusetts every month at the gallery and his work has appeared in The Ibbetson Street Journal, Word Riot, Midnight Mind Magazine, Write This Magazine, Poems for All, Skyline and Scene Boston. He has been nominated for two 2004 Cambridge Poetry Awards. A graduate of the University of Delaware, he now is living in Waltham, Massachusetts and is employed as a social worker. Visit Timothy's homepage on: www.timothygager.com

For the music of Anna backed by Craig Dryer’s Blues © Timothy Gager Hoboken and I was so stricken by the girl with the smile that blinds, long hair that shines That I sit in a field of a day dream with the sounds and sights of a blues band that plays combustible music as she rushes through my veins ** high and the music ** it's the same way I feel when I'm edgy and can't find my sleep now Anna's as close to me as her breath against my ear and her whispers are music, beating strongly in my chest banging 1:4 rhythm, and twelve bar, of keys, drums and sax. It's as close to perfection that I'll never reach. We Needed a Night Out © Timothy Gager you in your towel "come on upstairs, i'm getting ready." i'm not early you're not late timing just getting ready wrapped in two towels bathed in candlelight i'm trying not to look tonight we need to leave the house get out for some fun conic towel on your head, unfurled hair cascading down you lean bending toward the blow dryer the soft curve of your bottom peeking umm, i'm trying to find a book plan failing we need to leave the house "what's wrong honey?" you jump onto my lap warmth under towel two me mumbling something me mumbling umm, as you push me down kiss "let's go bowling" kiss again "we need to leave the house," you say and i'm thinking that i can't tell where you begin and the damp towel ends instead, my stomach growls "hungry?" but I growl louder as lips lock, we both softly moan as I slide on top splitting you, your towel, everything smooth complete utter glory--you looking amazing making love again, again and later we eat peanut butter and jelly in bed lifting waits © Timothy Gager wait on the platform for a train or a room for the doctor for my waitress chicken primavera as slow bartenders don't see my money and even the mail is slow today wait by the box regulate my breathing, wait not going to struggle with breathing today but the landlord waits the bills wait the red sox wait eighty-five years AND my dog waits for me as I tap my foot make him sit down report says snow tomorrow and I will wait for days because these days are long to wait for love to reintroduce itself my photograph, my scotch © Timothy Gager when I miss you I look at your picture act like an ass sit and drink some scotch pretend to be something I'm not like a bullfighter, a fisherman, a champion, Hemingway. The photograph smiles at me I caress it forever as the paper grows thin and torn barely recognizable I've gone too far for there is too much ink on my fingers today I will have to wash my hands clean of what I've done

CHRISTOPHER BARNES Christopher Barnes, studied Lit. & History at Newcastle, England and has been much published in uk magazines. He is about to have a phamplet published by Chanticleer Press called LOVEBITES, he has had a table-top poetry exhibition in a cafe and recently read at the Edinburgh Festival at Per Verse.

BUSTER KEATON © Christopher Barnes "Sympathy For The Devil" resuscitates our adrenalin strongbox. The trailer park's strip lights twink as we fish up the lift-thumbing Beat by the painted milepost at The Far Side Of Reality. And snatchin' at the blinker-signal dodge-dust up Thunder Road onto the cloverleaf freeway interchange and open the throttle for a chuckle at the drive-in movies. PIT STOP © Christopher Barnes The carhop at Begley's Diner inherits sunup, a breather to log tonight's storyline for her novel... ...Ghazi glowers from nave to mosque catching the chink of toe bells. She flicks stone, dry then spatters. An overripe afternoon. The tinkering dust storm sidesteps dunes, milling satin hooked up over a mallee tree. She is Morocco sings to the echo of distant cliffs. A sniff of salt, wear-and-tear sand meddles with the Venus Fly Trap. She miscarries amongst locusts awaiting sounds of whirlwindish rhythm that welcomes the coming of rain. HUNG UP © Christopher Barnes A quick-frozen day, neon through the skylight, peroxide green. A Swiftair letter from London. Everyone's pink. Betty's wage-slavin' an hour-count to wipe out so Gerad spits the coffee grits and the ring tones rev at the Samaritans... Ruth met death this Passover the itty-bitty Susan grasped that her mom was lame we do not even get her to bawl about it she makes rubble bounce around her dad they toyed with food here at supper he's swimming two jobs too and after that another call, then another. Do I have the right to smile? BONNIE & CLYDE © Christopher Barnes Hades-wings of The New York Times biff against the stoop. Peurto Rican Soul Bros. strike a blow for yodelling up front of their first house. And in the Receptian Room a 5-piece in-crowd of cowhide flight bags is fingerposted by the carboy. As we hold out for the posse Betty arrests me for foolin' around, titters she's got a fat black 357 Magnum - if one cheerleader pins me it's out of her purse. "Boom boom out go the lights."

           

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