-Photo by Gayle J. Greenlea

Only1BobbyO

There is only one Bobby O
and one perfect afternoon crystallized in memory
Amber light flickering on the surface of the pond
like the freckles skipping across his nose
The wriggling worm offered between his fingers and the invitation
to pull. Me, his cousin, determined not to be the squeamish girl
The worm snapped between us, one half for each hook;
cruelty of threading bait the only cloud in our sky
Torn heart for a small creature, amplified across the decades
as the cord of cousinhood snaps for good, in this life.
But grief cannot touch that otherwise perfect day. Sun glinting
through the trees, rush of wind ruffling our hair, cicada song
thrumming Summer’s anthem. His crooked grin and shining
eyes, flashing mischief, humor, love. The sweetness
of sitting side by side in grass fragrant with contentment,
our laughter echoing along the Blue Ridge. Lines in the water,
a gentle tug.

– Gayle J. Greenlea

Bio and Links

-Gayle J. Greenlea

is an American-Australian poet and writer. Her poem, “Wonderland”, received the Australian Poetry Prod Award in 2011. She shortlisted and longlisted for the Fish Poetry Prize in 2013, and debuted her novel, Zero Gravity, at the KGB Literary Bar in Manhattan in 2016. Her work has been published in St. Julian Press, Rebelle Society, A Time to Speak, Headline Poetry and Press, The Wombwell Rainbow, Stanford University Life in Quarantine, Fevers of the Mind, Kalonopia, San Antonio Review, and Ice Floe Press.

The photo taken by Frogg Corpse is of Asters (White Heath) taken September 17th, 2021 and shot in Louisville, Kentucky in William Taylor’s backyard.

Pandæmonium in White Heath

Lost was I, to the enchantment ov sprigs,
weaved from the pluckings of their nest.
roosting autumn — Persephone throned
aster-melting twilight: calm.

Thoughts of wind, which name drew
threshing petals encircle strife,
offering wheat: by nysian mule
stripped near summers dried.

Terra cotta touch
pomegranate pressed
unceremoniously bound;
love undying — tithed to omen
until new winter coughs-back-out.

Athenastras Coveting Ostara

Bittersweet · seeds consumed
elysian well spitting alba,
golden roads balmed by chariot
anointing silver-lakes in parting

Caressed by Artemis,
mourned by Nyx,
garnet leaves:
trickle into the temple of ever sleep.

Bricked hands wed with balefire
Magic conscripted near Hecataea
Three dog moon
Observance: sorrows torch.

-Frogg Corpse

Bio and links

-Frogg Corpse

is a poet, vocalist, and photographer from Louisville, KY who in 2011 published a memoir titled The Mourning Hour which was rereleased October 30th 2022 by Cajun Mutt Press. 

From 2014-2022 Frogg has performed Spoken Word at Gonzofest. Gonzofest is a Louisville event celebrating the work, life, and legacy of Hunter S. Thompson. In 2019, Frogg had written a guest blog for 48HrBooks on documenting your dreams to improve your writing, as well as performing in a 2020 SlamPoetry event hosted by Suli Breaks. Frogg Corpse also performed as Hop-Frog in Poe vs Lovecraft: tales from beyond the grave, a radio play, in partnership with the Jeffersonville Township Library, Company Outcast, and the SoIN tourism board of Indiana.

Featured poetry by: Cajun Mutt Press, Necro Magazine, Artifact Nouveau Magazine, LEO Weekly, Written Tales Magazine, Poetry Global Network, Ponder Savant, Red Penguin, and Poetry Super Highway.

You can follow Frogg: @froggcorpse on Instagram.

-Ron Whitehead, Lifetime Beat Poet Laureate

Poem and photo by Ron Whitehead. Graphics by Jinn Bug. Poet, writer, editor, publisher, professor, scholar, activist, U.S. National Beat Poet Laureate Ron Whitehead is the author of 24 books and 34 albums. 

Homeless in the Mist (photo by Jinn Bug)

NEIGHBORS

The junkies in my neighborhood
have names, these young men
who gently haunt our streets,
our woods, who sit on my stoop
and talk about their favorite books,
who hobo-style scratch softly
at the door asking for a bite to eat.

It’s true I know the names of a few
of these lost boys in this shabby town
poised at the edge of gentrification
and true I keep a handy bit of cash
and I suspect you would not like to hear
me say, “Get some food first and then
get what you need with my blessing.”

It’s also true that there
but for grace go I,
you know.

The junkies in your neighborhood
have names too. Perhaps you say
you choose to live where there are
no junkies and I reply perhaps they
are all around you, behind doors
in your safe suburb, having not yet
spectacularly lost everything

and become both visible and invisible,
shamed and nameless
all at once.

***

Bio
-Jinn Bug

is a poet, photographer, gardener, activist, visual artist and life-long dreamer. Her photography, vignettes, and poems have appeared in Appalachian Heritage, New Southerner, LEO Weekly, Fiolet & Wing—An Anthology of Domestic Fabulism, Aquillrelle, For Sale, Pure Uncut Candy, The Rooted Reader, Gyroscope Review, Necro Magazine and other print and online publications. Her most recent book of poetry is “Nights at the Museum”. Visit her at http://www.JinnBug.com.