THE FINGER IS CLOSED (UNTIL BOXING DAY)

It’s

CHRISTMAS

the season for sharing

we’ll see you down the road apiece

love from Bradlaugh's Finger

JOHN L. STANIZZI

from POND



11.17.2018

8.46 p.m.

38 degrees


Pyx this blackness, holding within its blackness more consecrated blackness,
owlish trees nearly erased along their frayed canopy.
Night.  One would think I’d only have to write it once.  Night
Darkish reticence now, with everyone half asleep against the intrusion of cold. 



11.21.18

9.10 a.m. 

33 degrees   


Paeans, these multiflora rose-hips reaching for us to notice them.
Overstepped by the sun, the cloudiness is gone, the hoarfrost wet.
Needing this clarity -- sunken leaves, small sandy clearings on the pond’s bed --  doubt sinks too, while everything in the pond sleeps, even through the morning sun.


11.19.18

11.59 a.m.

37 degrees

Pacific little pond, so still it looks solid.
Old sky low, mist filled.
No sign of the life packed in on the bottom breathing evenly.
Deep boot-prints elongated by warmth; proof of Bigfoot or some other large nocturnal beast? 


 1.1.19

7.08 a.m.

52 degrees


Pain that surpasses comprehension.  From the pond our house-windows are amber lit,
opaline and deceptive. The sun is not up yet butthings are stirring – the cardinals sound alarmed,
night’s prodigious clouds are dragged across the murky sky by a dubious warm breeze,
death speaks through the clanging halyard on Karen’s lawn, and the early pond is black. 


1.2.19

7.59 a.m.

26 degrees


· for

Ben.

Protégé of the wind, ice has covered half the pond overnight,
ordinary in January, and I’m reminded of Donne’s gold in the
nicking around the pond and reflected on the ice like gold to airy thinness beat,
Donne who instructs us why, during this valediction, we must not mourn. 

1.27.19

8.27 a.m.

18 degrees

Paddocked by the woods on one side, the corral on the other,
ominous cracks and pops repeat the pond’s settling, 
newshawking that the ice may be safe, and then again…
detritus of silence silenced by this ratcheting racket. 



1.28.19

11.25 a.m.

27 degrees

Pandoura dirt-road…lane…hill…lane, played by the breeze,
opens today's entry, the kind of day that makes 27 feel mild.
Nimmer of birds, the hawk, must be close by, though not.
detectable even through the stripped scrubland in brightest sun.








 *****************copyright John L. Stanizzi 





The poet writes: 'A brief word about the pieces I've
submitted.  They are from a one-year-long project called POND -- The poems are acrostics.  Everyday, at different times during the day, I visit our pond with notebook and camera in hand.  I jot down some notes, take a picture or two, if a good photo op. presents itself.  Then I head home and write a four line acrostic using the letters P, O, N, and D.  The other caveat, which makes the project so interesting to me, is that I cannot use any of my first words more than once.  I need a different P, O, N, or D word every day; I began the book on November 9, 2018 and completed it on November 8, 2019, without ever missing a single day.'

*****************copyright John L. Stanizzi 





The poet writes: 'A brief word about the pieces I've submitted.  They are from a one-year-long project called POND -- The poems are acrostics. Everyday, at different times during the day, I visit our pond with notebook and camera in hand.  I jot down some notes, take a picture or two, if a good
photo op. presents itself.  Then I head home and write a four line acrostic using the letters P, O, N, and D.  The other caveat, which makes the project so interesting to me, is that I cannot use any of my first words more than once.  I need a different P, O, N, or D word every day; I began the book on November 9, 2018 and completed it on November 8, 2019, without ever missing a single day.'

John L. Stanizzi is author of the collections– Ecstasy Among Ghosts, Sleepwalking, Dance Against theWall, After the Bell, Hallelujah Time!, High Tide – EbbTide, Four Bits, Chants, and his newest collection, Sundowning, just out with Main Street Rag.  John’s poems and creative non-fiction have appeared in numerous magazines. John is a former New England Poet of the Year, and teaches literature at Manchester Community College in Manchester, CT where he lives with his wife, Carol, in Coventry. 

http://www.johnlstanizzi.com

KYLE HERBUT FROST

UNTITLED

It's quiet today
As I sit here in the dark, the rain silently drumming on the chairs outside
I wonder, will my day be full of life and laughter or the empty desires of a slowly dying man.
The game has many levels and can be played in almost every way, you even get to play as yourself
But you probably won't, a mask is so easy to wear and a costume so easy to find, that soon you forget who you really are inside
So caught up in pretending to be someone you are not in order to impress those that don't care, you lose yourself in the game
I hope you win, as do I
But remember it's just a game, there are no real rules or even players
Just you and me in a world of infinite possibilities, so smile with me and let's play together

******************************************copyright Kyle Herbut Frost 2019.

Kyle Herbut Frost is a writer, thinker and free spirit who lives in Wellingborough, Northamptonshire.

BRIAN RIHLMANN

THE LIE OF “FINE”

not sure when I became

such a social media drama queen 

but I did it

I posted it—

a melodramatic rant

in the woeful voice of one

feeling as stood up by life

as a homely girl 

at a high school dance

a friend saw it

and texted “ARE YOU OK!!”

so I answered 

“yes....I’m fine...don’t worry”

“Fine” is such a lie

but Christ—

we’d never make it

if we didn’t lie to ourselves

and everyone else

sometimes 

WAREHOUSEMEN

Thanksgiving’s over—

we have feasted and rested

now the holiday season begins

all across America on Monday

we’ll stutter-step across icy pavement 

huddle under grey skies near warehouses

ball-breaking over football scores

chit-chatting against the silent dread

of the long day ahead 

we’ll wait for the bosses to arrive

to unlock the doors 

to throw them open like corral gates

and loose the herd on all those empty boxes

a parade of hollowed out trailers

we’re part of nature, so I’m told

and nature abhors a vacuum

emptiness seems a sad thing

holes and hollows must be filled

even filled with what’s useless

and destined for the frozen dirt

of landfills in January

but for now, lovingly cradled 

by styrofoam packing peanuts 

like millions of sterile seeds gathered

from a dying tree, soon to scatter again 

to fall with snowflakes

to freeze in giant mounds

in mall parking lots 

indistinguishable til spring

*********************Brian Rihlmann, 2019

Brian Rihlmann was born in New Jersey and currently resides in Reno, Nevada. He writes free verse poetry, and has been published in The Blue Nib, The American Journal of Poetry, Cajun Mutt Press, The Rye Whiskey Review, and others. His first poetry collection, “Ordinary Trauma,” (2019) was published by Alien Buddha Press.

IKECHUKWU OBIORAH

                                                   Julia Butterfly Hill, environmental activist SUCK BREAST OF THE LAND

Don't be turned under a loop and allow

Your muscles of tendons get snatched away, By the wench wind of that little devil on the way, Grab the nipple and suck the breast of the land, Being bones shouldn't prevent you from sucking.

Though the earth is as silent as night soil,

The demon of terrorism hasn't dusted all the Oil in the body of the land of charm and magic, Sleight of hands can still cuddle and dandle The soft organs of the land into erection.

Even when the mouth is full of water that it cannot

Blow fire into a flame and smoke of conflagration, The pale sand of the earth can sing the song of fire, If recesses of heart can be as wise as owls of action.

Culture of silence can't be the future of this land,

This province of providence needs mind of action, That can snatch victory from the jaw of defeat, Be an aggressive military head of the earth paradise.

****************copyright Ikechukwu Obiorah

Ikechukwu Obiorah is a Nigerian Writer, a Prolific Poet and Novelist. He studies B.A (Hons) English at the Benue State University, Makurdi; 400 Level.  He is a Student Ambassador of POETS IN NIGERIA (PIN). The Editor in Chief of Writers' League (BSUM) and also a member of Association of Nigerian Authors (ANA Benue Chapter). His poem "The Oracle Bard" has been published in "POETICA 2019" by Clarendon House Publications, England, UK. His poem "The Throne of Truth" published in Ponders Series by Ponder Savant Publications, California, USA. His poem "Bat of the Underworld" published in Samhain Issue 2019, by Sage Cigarette Magazine, Florida USA. His poem "Skeletal Romance" has also been published in Nigerian Ero Gospel Magazine. He has been published in several reputable International Journals and Magazines. For a decade Poetry has been his sweet heart.

JOHN GROCHALSKI

the patriot

sleeping on the

evening subway train

his legs spread like canyons

sitting there

taking up two seats

with a t-shirt

spread over his fat belly

emblazoned with old glory

and a phrase that says

i stand for the flag

as the pregnant woman

standing over him

daydreams america

and a cure for sore feet.

the good samaritan

the sound of pre-teen boys

exchanging curses over video games

in this small kafka room

is my existential dread

in exchange for a paycheck

if i were a masochist

i’d send my sworn enemies in here

so that they could swoon over my fate

sensing my eternal damnation

he comes waddling over to me

grubby, maybe eleven years old

he opens a fresh bag of cheetos

under these fluorescent hell lights

points the tip

of its fiery orange embers my way

and says, come on, come on, bro

take as many as you want.

*******************John Grochalski, 2019

John Grochalski has been waging a one-man resistance against the orange, be-wigged man-baby occupying the White House every day since the election. This he does as the editor/publisher of 'winedrunk sidewalk: shipwrecked in trumpland'. He is a fine poet with published work all over the place. Look him up if you don't believe us.