Michael J. Arcangelini

Posted in Michael J. Arcangelini with tags on September 29, 2021 by Scot

 

 

TRAMPLED BY DREAMS

Last night I encountered a
Herd of wild dreams grazing
In a lush mountain meadow
With a creek running through it
Stocky like bison with taller shoulders,
Longer legs, and bigger horns
I inched closer to get a better look
One of them noticed me, our
Eyes locked, we both froze
It started to move toward me
Slow, sniffing for my scent
Large cock and balls swinging
As it moved closer through the grass
I was rooted to the spot, petrified
He was now just two arms’ length
Away from me, I could smell and
Feel his breath as he snorted,
Shook his head side to side,
Looked at me with innocent eyes
I reached my hand toward him
Palm open, motioned with my fingers
For him to venture closer
He stepped into my reach
I rubbed under his chin, scratching
At the rough fur, wet with drool
Then eased around to stroke the
Crown of his head he seemed to almost
Purr, pushed his head against my hand
He closed his eyes, his flanks shivered
I kept petting him and speaking softly
About what a magnificent beast he was
Then something I did must have
Spooked him, he reared back
Bellowed loud and long
The herd interrupted their grazing
Looked across the meadow at the two of us
Then turned en masse pausing for
One terrifying moment before
Stampeding straight at me.

Aleathia Drehmer

Posted in Aleathia Drehmer with tags on September 26, 2021 by Scot

Track Three: His Eyes Raised to Heaven

As the oldest son, my father
felt the wrath of his drunken
father’s fists. He was a stand-in
for the younger boys and his mother.

His life was full of holy dreams,
a bible in his hand with eyes raised
to heaven, to the place that would lead him
from abuse into the arms of the church.

Instead, at 17, he took a walk
into the jungle, gun strapped
to his back, learning to be a man
in a war that had no solid meaning.

He lost God there.
Lost him a hail of bullets that ended
the lives of children and men
who he knew nothing about
but swore to his country, to kill.

He came home a ghost,
filled with rage and disappointment.
Setting out to walk mountains
and paddle rivers, smoked peyote with shamans,
saw the land, and knew it was the only God he’d ever find.

All these years later, after he is gone,
I stand naked in the bathroom reading lines
of this genetic trauma and listen to the light trill
of evening birds and scattered crickets
through the open window.

Here, we are redeemed together.
Father and daughter and spirit
less holy than we’d expected,
still fighting wars we never waged.

____________

Track Twelve: The Trouble with Demons

The trouble with demons
is I never know which corners
they lurk around, or how I’ll address them
with my tongue tied around my teeth.

Or when they grip my ankles so tight
that I fall flat on my face, the pavement
rearranging my features into something unholy.

Or if it is the cold breeze
sliding in my ear like a plague,
building novels from all the bitter words
I’ve ever heard spoken after my name.

Or if it’s that taste I can’t get
off my tongue like a gifted poison apple
I fed myself out of spite.

Or if the silence behind my eyes
just waits to stone me
with my own reflection, me,
a self-made Medusa.

The trouble with demons
is how easily they tempt me
into winning the fight
against being loved.

____________

Track Seventeen: Maddog 20/20

I listen to poets reading on zoom
and someone says it’s the new normal.
I can’t help but feel sad remembering
the Beat poets fest in Hartford,
or the merging of coasts in Kansas City,
or too many beers in Cambridge.
Each room was full of wild minds
and hard fought nights.

Tonight, I revisit the river of words
I swam in a lifetime ago,
though it was really just a decade,
and smile at how free these people are,
how much they draw the world
into themselves and spit it back out
like well-crafted masterpieces.

Most days I can only find smooth rocks
and wanton feathers left by blue jays
or forlorn crows, tops of acorns, dried worms,
and the way the fog strangles the hills
behind the river like a handsome serial killer.

Their poems feel like entangled lovers
who don’t know when to stop drinking,
like all the cool people I’ve never belonged to,
like every failed love poem I’ve ever heard.

But I have the river, with its cold dark water
waiting to pull time from beneath my feet
and give it all away to the next person
willing to drown in its shallows.

____________

Aleathia Drehmer was once the editor of Durable Goods and In Between Altered States, but now spends most of her time writing novels. She has recently published poems in Spillwords, Piker Press, Anti-Heroin Chic, and Cajun Mutt Press. Aleathia has upcoming work in M 58 Poetry. Her first full-length collection Looking for Wild Things (Impspired) is due out later this year. www.aleathiadrehmer.com

coming off the top ropes by scot young

Posted in Uncategorized on September 25, 2021 by Scot

ive dined with kings and queens
and i’ve slept in the alley
eating pork and beans

the american dream said
that in his promos
from his early days
burning up the highways
sleeping in the car
& cheap motels

i knew him in the late 70s
before big time tv
before vince made
 him wear polka dots
to humiliate him
he talked about hard times
& hard knocks

he told me one night
swirling whiskey in his glass
the kings and queens
pork n beans was his story
his amercian dream
that a man never knows
where he’ll land coming
off the top ropes so
be kind daddy and help
your brother when you can

the next week he was pounding
flair’s head open
scoring it with a razor blade
then it was ric’s turn
blood was expected
he said that’s what
the fans pay for

in 2015 dusty rhodes died
the american dream died too
or maybe it died before then

when they rang the bell 10 times
with an empty ring
the nature boy cried
the arena cried and
 i couldn’t hold it back

today i have a shelf
stocked with pork n beans
because you never know
coming off the top ropes

Rob Plath

Posted in Rob Plath with tags on September 20, 2021 by Scot

 

watching a slasher flick w/ my cat

my cat’s watching a slasher flick w/ me
she’s stretched out full length
white mittens pointed at the screen
as an ax gets planted in a man’s skull
& the blood pours
& a woman unleashes a shrill scream
& i wince a little
while my cat just chills there
humming a deep, ancient cat tune
her tiny rib cage gently rising & falling
thru killing after killing
scream after bloody scream
& in this moment i realize
she’s the antithesis of horror flicks
she’s the epitome of peace
& if later i’m visited by a nightmare
i’ll have my furry little dreamcatcher
sweetly stretched out by my side

 

the world thru dead rose-colored glasses

not being in love
i see the moon better
& the cats better
& the stars better
& the flowers better
& the steam curling
from the tea better, etc…
& i even see the soft side
of my demons
& how they weep sometimes
w/ their heads bowed
& their horns resting
in their terrible claws

Maryfrances Wagner

Posted in Maryfrances Wagner with tags on August 31, 2021 by Scot

 

 

Missouri Poet Laureate: Maryfrances Wagner

Poetry in itself will not make you human. But I have always believed that poetry that shares a piece of the heart of the poet will. I found that poetry that others can identify with or that tells a story matters most. These are the poets I read and Maryfrances Wagner has been one of those poets.

The first living poet I was introduced to in 1970 came from a mimeographed poem handed out by a teacher . The poet was Richard Brautigan. The poem was It’s Raining in Love. It was clearly relatable to a 15 year old and certainly a piece of Brautigan’s heart. It had me hooked. That poem set me on a lifelong path to want more poetry in my life, to write more and to learn more. The teacher was Maryfrances Wagner.

Poetry comes to us as snapshots of life. One of the things she will tell you is that you have to be a good observer. Her writing is certainly influenced by nature, family and her former students. It is also influenced by her heart. You will find in her words, in her observations, in her snapshots the eye of a poet, in her struggles and triumphs the poetry that matters, the poetry that makes us all a little more human.

–Scot Young

 

 

Scot Young:  In your writing journey that led you up to being named Missouri Poet Laureate what moment or event stands out?

Maryfrances Wagner:  My writing journey has been for a very long time. I’ve encountered many highlights along the way. Last year I was given the award of Individual Artist of the Year through the state and MAC. Years ago, Raytown School District put me into their Hall of Fame for accomplishments. Every time I publish a new book, it’s always a highlight. I have to say, though, that standing in front of the state capital on August 10 for the bicentennial and reading my poem about Missouri was a great feeling. But, honestly, the greatest feeling is that moment when I know the poem is finished and is good.

Scot Young:  You taught English and Creative Writing for 30 plus years. What do you miss about that? What about that time makes your heat smile?

Maryfrances Wagner:  I’ve taught writing (creative, expository, and academic) on both high school, undergraduate, and graduate levels, and I’ve taught some literature classes as well, particularly American lit. I taught for over thirty years before finally retiring from the classroom all together. I still teach some writing workshops and work one-on-one with writers. I certainly don’t miss meetings or grading papers. A writing teacher is doomed to massive grading. What I do miss is the interchange with students. I miss good discussions where people get to voice varying opinions. I miss the sense of family that existed with my creative writing classes. I miss getting to know my students, and many I have stayed in touch with in one way or another. I miss writing along with my students and all of us sharing together.

Scot Young:  What was your first published poem and/or book. Talk a bit about that?

Maryfrances Wagner:  Well, I wrote lots of what I call bad poems for a long time as a young person, before I knew what a good poem was supposed to do. Once I realized I was going to keep writing poems, I decided I needed to learn more about poetry, so I took classes in college. My master’s degree focuses on creative writing, mainly poetry. I suppose the first poem I wrote that I’d call a real poem was “Ragazza.” I am from an Italian family, and all of my life my parents said I should marry a nice Italian boy. I didn’t know any nice Italian boys, though. At that time, I was in Raytown where I was the only ethnic person in the school. Every time my parents would talk about nice Italian boys, they never were able to come up with the name of one I might date. My father was always my hero, and I never would have spoken back to him or sassed him in any way, so I wrote “Ragazza” to tell him how I felt. I gave him the poem, and he said, “Is this how you really feel?” to which I said it was. After that, he quit saying I should marry a nice Italian boy but should choose the person right for me. So, in that case, that poem had a powerful effect. Apparently, it has some legs too as it appears in the Dream Book, an anthology of Italian American women and in the textbook Writing Across Cultures. All the same, I still write some bad poems. Not every poem you write is a hit.

Ragazza

A good Italian woman
will cover her dust-free house
with crocheted doilies,
bear dark-eyed sons,
know what to do
with artichokes and chickpeas.
Her floors will shine.
She will serve tender braciole
in her perfect sauce,
make her own cannoli shells,
bake biscotti for every wedding.
Supper will be hot at six o’clock.
She will always wear dresses.
She will not balance the checkbook.
He can doze behind the paper
while she washes dishes.
Because she will never leave him,
he will forgive her bulging thighs.
Because he will never leave her,
she won’t notice unfamiliar stains.

Italian men always know ragazze
who work the fields in Bivona.
For airfare one will come.
In time she will learn English.
In time they may learn to love.

 

Scot Young: Who were your early influences in your writing?

Maryfrances Wagner:  It all began with Edgar Alan Poe. I loved his poems and stories, and I started memorizing his poems in high school just for fun. I had “The Raven” memorized at one point. I used to recite it in my head when I was bored. I can’t do it anymore. Then I suppose Emily Dickinson, E. A. Robinson, Robert Frost, and Pablo Neruda after that. I really wasn’t exposed to living writers until college. There I discovered Gary Soto, William Matthews, Robert Bly and W. S. Merwin. Then I started exploring on my own and found Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Sharon Olds, B. H. Fairchild, Maxine Kumin, Denise Levertov, Mary Rueffle, Li Young Lee, Yusef Komunyakka, and many others. I’ve read hundreds of poets, and I’d say that their influence shifts over the years. Writers feed us when we need them. As far as direct influence, it would be Robert Bly. I was fortunate to take a class with him in Port Townsend. The location was in a forest on the ocean. What could be better? He was the most amazing human being, full of energy, brilliant, encouraging, demanding, challenging, dynamic, and exciting. I spent twelve hours a day with him. We ate together, talked, did assignments, and the only time the eight of his students were not with him was during the time he sent us back to our rooms to write. We wrote three rough drafts of poems each day. The first one we always wrote with him. In the evenings we went to poetry readings and craft lectures with some heavy weights — Maxine Kumin, Denise Levertov, Robert Pinsky, Robert Hass, John Haines, W. S. Merwin, and others. It was the most creative time I can remember. I was on fire. At the end of the course, through the University of Washington, I had produced enough rough poems to go home and create a book. That became Salvatore’s Daughter. I sent him a copy, and published on the same day was his own book from that same summer class. He sent me his, and there we could see the very poems that had originated there at Port Townsend.

Scot Young: If you could sit down with anyone living or dead who would it be and how would it go?

Maryfrances Wagner: Benjamin Franklin. I’ve always loved Benjamin Franklin for what he gave to America, and his contributions have been significant. He was an inventor and gave us positive and negative electricity, the Franklin stove, bifocals, the musical instrument the glass harmonica, the lightning rod, and others. He was an original founding father and signer of our treasured documents The Declaration of Independence, and the Constitution. He was a journalist and printer and wrote Poor Richard’s Almanac under the pseudonym of Richard Saunders. He founded the first circulating library so that anyone could enjoy books, he establish the first post office and became the first postmaster general, and he founded the University of Pennsylvania and the first philosophical society. He served as an Ambassador to France, which was significant in maintaining a good relationship with France. He did many other things that made life better for Americans. I’ve always thought it would be interesting to hang out with him for a day and follow him around just to see how he could shift so easily from one thing to another. He had great taste for great food, so a good dinner together would be in order as well.

Scot Young:    What advice do you have for the beginning poet?

Maryfrances Wagner: What I would say to beginning poets is to use poetry to express what you feel, what you see, what you know.  Be a keen observer.  Study everything you see and see what others always see but see it differently and notice what is always there but others miss.  Adding those details will make your poem fresher and more interesting.  The first thing I had to learn about poetry was the importance of imagery and metaphor and fresh language.  I had to learn to drop all of the easy, cliched wording and the vague “telling” words in order to draw the picture with images, and then those images convey the meaning and feeling of the poem.  The other thing I would say is to read, read, read.  Read as many poems and poets as you can.  Notice what they are doing and why you like what they are doing.  Imitate a poem you love in your own words to help you learn how to see as that poet sees.  Write about what interests you.  If you love nature, write about nature.  If you love science, write about science.  If you hate math, write about why you hate geometry.  Also, notice things that are a bit off, something out of the normal, and try to bring those two things together in an interesting way.  Not every poem you write will be a good one, and it may take a few tries to be satisfied with the poem, but don’t stop too soon.  Revision is the most important part of the process.  Keep working with the words so that there is sound going on even if the words don’t rhyme.  Keep cutting out the words you don’t need.  I always start by overwriting and then start cutting and cutting and paring it all back to the bare essentials.  I also think the best poems still have a narrative core to them, a story in some way.  This enables the reader to find his own way into the poem with his own experiences.  This makes the poem accessible to readers.

 

Some Poetry from Maryfrances Wagner

 

MENDING LEROY’S SWEATER IN COMPOSITION

Leroy swaggers into my class without books
or pen, jams hands into his pockets, face
partly hidden under his black hoodie.
He stares at his desk after all questions.

Students step around him and his gym bag
to trade papers. They have always kept
their distance. His fight last weekend
after the football game gave them proof.

He waits for the principal to suspend him.
He’ll be gone five school days for the fight
behind the stadium, blood scrubbed clean
now from asphalt, bats, and knuckles.

A row of stitches jags across his eyebrow.
He rocks in his seat, glares. Heads bowed,
students write comments on rough drafts.
The register hisses. It is snowing.

I look up. Leroy opens his hoodie to show me
the rip in his sweater, sets a button on my desk.
We stare at each other. I rummage for a needle,
point to the window where light is best.

The ground outside is covered and unmarred by tracks.
I pin the rip along the seam near his waist, think
of how to situate myself, the angle so low. He
rests a hand on my arm. I kneel beside him and sew.

–from Dioramas

____________

 

Victims Lose Direction

In a blizzard, snow surrenders its direction,
unsure if it’s snow or sleet, one with the wind.
A man once walked through a blizzard to bring me
a yellow rose and a package wrapped just like
a Bicycle deck queen of hearts.
He was unlike my father, except he knew
how to mend the broken, build what he needed.
Once he built a tetrahedron kite we flew
in an open field of wild flowers. With him
I cracked my first lobster, unsure about forks.
He rescued me from the undertow of a barge
when our canoe tipped on the Missouri River.
He helped me raise six baby rabbits
he recovered from a deserted nest.
He sent dozens of yellow roses.
Through that blizzard, his eyelashes iced,
his jeans crusted, he never lost his way.
That took knee-deep rice paddy mud,
unspearing men from pungi pits,
stepping on a Claymore mine.
After months in Army hospitals,
he folded an origami diamond, identical
to the engagement ring inside. But he couldn’t
mend nerve damage, soften welds of scar tissue.
In a blizzard, victims lose direction, see
what isn’t there, collide with what is,
become one with the sleet pocking away at them.
The bridesmaids wore daisies in their hair,
the groomsmen dress blues. Guests threw
rose petals as we stepped through a saber arch
supported by wounded vets, our smiles
mirrored over and over on the sharp blades.

–from Red Silk

____________

The Results of Some Hoping

Ardith is last down the steps,
the only student lugging books in a fire drill.
Like a bird, she tilts her head at me, same way
her mother, Lydia, did twenty years ago.
Red-headed Lydia sputtered and wheezed
whenever she raised a hand, all of us shifting,
setting down pens, some hoping
she’d raise those eyes above clusters of tissues,
afloat on her desk like wilted gardenias.
I untangled her from hooks and latches,
but wished just once she’d open her locker
on the first try, not call out for me to wait.
Lydia, the only girl unable to run a lap,
dribble a ball, the single pep squad member
waving a crew-sweatered arm
among cheering v-necks, the lone girl
stumbling down bus aisles,
snagging her spiral on jackets.
At the door, Ardith leans
into her sliding geometry book.
A pencil and highlighter bounce off her elbow.
We shoo her into open air, scramble for books
fluttering pages behind her.
As she measures the last step with a toe,
her red hair spirals in the wind;
a flurry of Kleenex lifts from her purse like doves.

–from Red Silk

____________

 

 

Bio:  Maryfrances Wagner has served as board member of the American Poets Series, co-editor of New Letters Review of Books and co-president of the Writers Place Board of Directors.  She has published nine collections of poetry including Salvatore’s Daughter (BkMk), Red Silk (MidAm), Light Subtracts Itself (MidAm), Dioramas (Mammoth), Pouf (Finishing Line), The Silence of Red Glass (Woodley), and The Immigrants’ New Camera (Spartan). Red Silk won the Thorpe Menn Book Award.  Her poems have appeared in many literary magazines including New Letters, Midwest Quarterly, Laurel Review, Beacon Review, American Journal of Poetry, Natural Bridge, Louisville Review, Cape Rock, Voices in Italian Americana, Poetry East, Chariton Review, Patterson Literary Review, Hiram Poetry Review, Nebraska Review, Birmingham Review, et. al., and she’s appeared in anthologies including Unsettling America:  An Anthology of Contemporary Multicultural Poetry (Penguin Books), Kansas City Outloud II, Voices from the Interior, Bearing Witness: Poetry by Teachers About Teaching, Memories and Memoirs, Anthology of Missouri Women Writers, Chance of a Ghost, Art Uprising, and The Dream Book:  An Anthology of Writings by Italian American Women, (winner of the American Book Award from the Before Columbus Foundation).  Her work for that book was chosen for American Audio Prose and was translated into Italian for Trapani Nuovo in Italy.  Her poems have won various prizes including the Stanley Hanks Poetry and Potpourri contests.  She has co-edited several anthologies, and Denise Low says of her, “Maryfrances Wagner is a literary advocate and community builder,” and she continues to help support the literary arts. In 2020 she was the Individual Artist honoree for the Missouri Arts Awards, the state’s highest honor in the arts, and she serves as Missouri Poet Laureate from 2021-2023.

For many years, she and her husband sponsored the Simpson House Readings, and they also sponsor the annual Crystal Field Scholarship Reading that contributes to a scholarship that she and her husband Greg Field set up for a creative writing student at UMKC.  She has served as Co-President of The Writers Place, Secretary of Kansas City Creates, board member of the American Poet Series, and currently serves as Vice President and Programming Chair for The Writers Place. She is the daughter of four Italian immigrant grandparents, and she lives with her husband Greg Field (writer, poet, visual artist, drummer) and their dog Annie Sexton, a rescued dog of seven breeds.

On the first day by Scot Young

Posted in Scot Young with tags on August 26, 2021 by Scot

on the first day

of kindergarten
she told the teacher
her daddy choked out
her mommy last night
on the second day
she said the same thing
and now her mommy’s
eyes were black

her book bag reeked
so bad of marijuana
it was hung in the hall
when she was asked
what she wanted to be
when she grew up
she said not
a mommy

the fresh out of college
kindergarten teacher
came in my office
crying
said i’m not sure
i can handle
this
i said remember
at inservice
when i said you all
were here for a reason
and that people were
put in your path
for a reason…

that little girl
is your reason

S.A. Griffin

Posted in S.A. Griffin with tags on August 25, 2021 by Scot

It’s a Crazy Old World Anymore

full of talking heads
and walking dead

with maskless millions

unreasonably worshipping
science fiction

what happened to our faith in
science and reason

if Covid were an ugly disease
a blistering smallpox
a flesh-eating Ebola
or a black plague oozing blood and pus
frosting the decaying landscape of
every withering body

then no doubt
there would be
no doubt

and all the marshalled forces in this crazy old world
wouldn’t be able to crank out the cure
or get needles into arms
fast enough

to put our broken blue egg
back together
again

S.A. Griffin
8/24/21

Matt Borczon

Posted in Matt Borczon with tags on August 25, 2021 by Scot

 

 

What did you do in the war daddy? #1

 

I helped
ship dead
Soldiers and
Marines back
to the
states and
tried to
forget their
cold cold
eyes enough
to sleep.

____________

 

What did you do in the war daddy #2

 

I took
a scalpel
from the
hospital
to my
tent I
told people
I wanted
to use
it to
whittle but
mostly I
just cut
myself
to make
sure I
could still
feel.

____________

 

What did you do in the war daddy#3

 

I took
the amputated
body parts
of soldiers
down to
the burn
pits to
be destroyed
along with
all the
bloody uniforms
used gauze
and human
waste.

____________

 

 

What did you do in the war daddy#4

 

We showered
in metal
stalls that
held the
118 degree
heat like
it was
bus money
I would
get out
of a
cold shower
sweaty and
miserable
happy that
at least
the blood
was off
my skin

Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Posted in Ryan Quinn Flanagan with tags on August 25, 2021 by Scot

 

 

If you linger, old leaflet

as though dropped from a plane,
the seasons will happen without you
if you linger, old leaflet,
out of house-mouse doorways
lit from above like an annunciation painting
littered with punched out cigarette butts,
harbourer long gone, but the habit remains,
the soles of lace-worn shoes sticking to each step
as though the waking world must learn to walk again:
run, hop, glide again…
across avenues long as family blood feuds,
these crimson lip-quivered gorings
of our frenzied bull market vendetta.

____________

In Stinks

Why does anyone do what they do,
meander move from place to place
like a family of non-stringent raccoons
searching out momentary advantage?

Blood thinner refuge
and the in stinks that have kept you
upright and at least half-feral and hungry hippo
since Tesla was killed over a lightbulb.

Since Kim Mitchell stole your patio lanterns
and some genie climbed up out of a public bathroom toilet
when you could not stop rubbing yourself
like a losing scratch ticket at a gambler’s
anonymous meeting.

The desert is sand like the beach is sand.
A red scorpion tattoo on your left forearm
to remember the sting.

That dark quiet way
the bartender lays the bottle down
in front of you and walks off
knowing all your problems aren’t going
anywhere without you.

Stephen Jarrell Williams

Posted in Stephen Jarrell Williams with tags on August 25, 2021 by Scot

 

 

Track Rider

Temporarily walking
away from the tracks
western trains and heat engulfing

steel rails shining with the moon
highlighting the way
smooth distance of escapism

no path through the dry brush
stepping on snapping twigs
into trees limp and tired of fire danger

haze of lights beyond the border
a small town aging with the highway
ashes upon my boots and skin

lone motel with an office
a century holding back
flutter of moths around the door light

waiting at the counter an odd couple in charge
unafraid of my look
guessing at who I am and who I was

she is thin and haunting
he is oval and grinning
they do not touch each other

she takes my wad of cash
a cheap room till noon
shakes my hand with the change

room at the end of the row
she points with a long finger
the key bent

past a gravel parking lot
only one car opposite
a narrow walkway for admitting sinners

I unlock the door
my fingers salty
twisting the doorknob years worn

switching on the light
stale air
hint of cleanser

I step in and wonder
how many have slept
in the bed by the window

how many
fools losing everything
often too late before remembering

their choice of the walk or the ride
leaving your first love
for the far whistle of the train.