Tom Waits Sonnets

1.

In smoky bars of a Los Angeles town, a troubadour with gravel in his voice, The stranger would sing of love and of the clown, All the moonlight's broken hearts had no choice. With bluesy chords and stories rough and raw, Spun a world of darkness and the lush delight, We've got lost souls stumbled through the straw, And dreams both beautiful like shone heaven or tornadic blight. Listen to the song, a hope to find Lucinda in Texas. Sparkling lights amid the swirling gloom, You can relate in your cough, in your tears, we aren't alone There is beauty hidden in the diners and the raincoats, lead to a hotel room. Thus Waits became the bard of the night, A poet of the soul, a beacon bright. While God is kicking down buckets over his trippy walks. II. In '73, a debut album came, And…

Aquamarine Tears

I'm in this world where trees bleed out aquamarine tears I've been left pearls by my pillows as I dream a feminist dream. She was a poet who spoke through screams, contracts with the devil? Words could scald and destroy, clear the paths for the potential of prayers or ashamed limping. Revealing truths we couldn't avoid. Petite, scared, smothered by clarity. Anne Sexton, she could inspire. The ladybugs and the city roaches. A generation with words that never tired, Words that caused the pause. The flying corks at the parties, the crosses to burn her into witchery. You showed the world that pain could transgress. The bravery of words, the power of lewd, the humbling of masochists. You apologized for living and loving, Yet you taught us to pray and keep moving, You reinvented the way we see, The beauty that lies without our frailty. Your words were…

Jen Schneider is an educator who lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Pennsylvania. She is a Best of the Net nominee, with stories, poems, and essays published in a wide variety of literary and scholarly journals. She is the author of Invisible Ink (Toho Pub), On Daily Puzzles: (Un)locking Invisibility (Moonstone Press), and Blindfolds, Bruises, and Breakups (Atmosphere Press).

When Tina Turner Took the Stage

When Tina Turner took the stage in Philadelphia’s JFK Stadium as a part of Live Aid, destiny was made. Turner, the Queen of Rock and Roll, was simply unstoppable. Better – better than all the rest, with no fear of going solo. Born Anna Mae Bullock, Tina Turner took no flack and forgave no traps.Her life was sometimes described as a Cinderella story — with balls and gowns in supersized surround sound. A generational talent. A talent for all generations. She moved mountains…

Bio: Abel Johnson Thundil is a poet from India. He is the author two poetry anthologies. His poems are sometimes sentimental, sometimes dark; but always with a madness that’s very enjoyable. His works have appeared in Terror House Magazine, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Fevers of the mind, and other places. His latest anthology ‘Wilted: Poems of Modern Tragedy’ is currently available on amazon.

Contact: abeljthundil@gmail.com

Bukowski the bluebird He bites a cigarette, And I see the smoke gather into a heart; A heart that expands and expands Until it breaks, Dissipating into mere embers That stay lighted on the grass For a brief moment; Like a quiver, A pulse, A soul locked in its own cage. He bites a cigarette, And the smoke talks What he cannot say directly; His lovers, His pain, His pain caused by his lovers.... He bites a cigarette, And it writes on his lips His own…

(c) Shane Balkowitsch /(c) Theo Cobb painting.

My Desolation Row

A nude foggy night and my ears are popping just walking down some empty street with clowns sleeping by streetlamps. The wind whispers secrets to my ears The witnesses are just the shadows that dance around me The dream in midnight as liquid and float around triumphant bleeding stars. And I wonder what it all means here. This is my Desolation Row Splintered, embedded the bars are my spiritual pulpits I had a dream, it was broken and slender, not fat and potent And look i'm an illusion now, i'm haze, i'm a flame, i'm a lost talisman in a drain pipe, sitting next to the old underwear, sitting next to the pissy pennies. Oh, I guess i'm just a lonely passerby. If you look past the casket, you'll see the art of a city. You'll see real lights, real…

For Paul Brookes’ Wildness challenge.

A guided tour

Where would I go to show you what I love?
Which tree to see among these woods?
You’d need shoes to walk, less talk required,
quiet and alert the watch words, listen to the birds,
the singing in the silence, the ringing
of water bells, the smells
of damp earth, all worth lingering by.

We’ll walk the lane in May, stay awhile
where the stream crosses, a mean country bridge,
a simple track, then back
into meadow where orchids blow.

Will we go up the hill
leave the lane? The plain is below
where the river lies, blue-snaking like skies
of spring. I’ll bring you to the path
to the mere. I’ve stood here
so many times, listening to the chimes
of the orioles’ song. They belong,
not we.