Featured Poet: H.E. Mantel

H.E. Mantel is an Aquarius male, Poet/Writer/Editor, published in Print and Online, including Ascent Aspirations, Shampoo, The Apocalypse, A Hero's Journey Anthology, Poetry By Moonlight Anthology, World Artist Network Magazine, Poetic Spit, Poetry Soup (Awarded), Retort Magazine, Lit-Up Magazine, Poetry Of Food Anthology, Wordgathering, Poetry Flyer, Doors Anthology (I & II), The Plebian Rag, Bare Back Magazine, Apocalypse, Gloom Cupboard; awaiting the publication of his Poetry collections, "Bananas' On The Moon...A Collection Of Revisionist Haiku" & "Sophistigates: A New Book Of New Poetry"; musician-vocalist, an avid reader, athlete, and devotee of Holistic Health through Vegan lifestyle, Ecology and his Writing to Help Our Earth to Heal. He resides in Florida.

- THE SEASON! -


Ahh, the mid-Summer
of kiln'd heat, elongest days
& starred-nights firm for


the race to the Pen-
nant... behind the dogdays in
right-field to - Aha!


Mr. October
up to bat... Oh, The Season
Upon, upon - oossshoouussssh!...


Majorhockeyhoops?
Nah! but the ONE turns Jung males
to pizza-breathing


smoke-alarms, husbands
to hops-swillin' house-plants, &
females to Mascots!


- "TUMI OR NOT TUMI?" -


...No, It was not my time
to jaunt & jump about
the Morld with You, to
glowering-green-glows
of Ischia, the privileges
of Mackinac, "...our Paris, Ilsa!"...


Ornamented ataud &
calefacted incinerators
merely better-funded!, to a last-
notice of proteaned hoar, the
dearth of silk...


So, it was to be
Goa, or Delhi "curry-in-a-hurry" not,
and the touts & shouts
as We passed...
You in those shoes,
toeing-up with heel asway
like a silent, ticking-pendulum,
Me, watching...


Allowing sole specialnesses, but a few
to my inti-mated Life,
why there was You insinuate...
E'er Yours-sporadic, tho'
an extravagance of Soul!, like
incipient Sinatra, or
the piano of Jarrett! But,


No, it was not your time
to jump & jaunt-about
with Me, but for You,
like a junkie afeared of needles,
to be going, & mine
to Write... of It, plecking-off
the pilpuls from
My blanket, & You to
replacing contoured batteries
and
for Now... perhaps as recent
as tomorrows' accident.


- AQUARIUM AGE -


Grottoed
to the wall,
fluorescence afloat
4 wide
2 high
1 deep, an
ichthyologysm


pouted
angel smiles
in & out
of model caves, wile
winding, threading
faux drifting
forward & back fins, treading
like diaphanous lingerie
with nowhere to go


the smalls
hide
in tropical incarpceration
from striped black mollies'
embattled spece
& speckled zebras
in checkered futures
where none is welcomed
save C.F. Muddypuppy, Jr.
swabbing below O O O...
too bubbling unnaturally!


eyes
silverblue dart,
in confine grouper aggress
downturn at the mouth of hovel
graveled & pretty pebbled
this school for alienation
childfish innocence gone
of sweet, ingenue faces
gone
to 2 by 4 by 1 pool
tropicalla
not deep enough!


Vestibule
"Jake" chirrups
to his mirror
& circus clips
in grey-white plumearray
& orange jole
festooned canarycrown
unfurled-furled
talons & beak
that just won't speak
but
a plaintive, training whistle
in the day, night uncuttle
hungry
for more than scup seedlings!


All
whilst gaelic, loden lizards
thankfully...scamper.

H.e.m.
5.13.MMix.
(For J.I.K.)

Featured Poet: Peter Magliocco

"Peter Magliocco writes from Las Vegas, Nevada, and has poetry at THE SMOKING POET, THE BEAT, A HUDSON VIEW POETRY DIGEST, HEELTAP, OPIUM POETRY and elsewhere ... His new novel is The Burgher of Virtual Eden from Publish America (www.publishamerica.com). He was Pushcart nominated for poetry in 2008."

Crucifix In A Lucky's Shopping Cart

Somehow Ruddy the transient devised

an eclectic priesthood for himself

from his collection of discarded reliquaries.

Old bibles, incense pots, rosaries,

necklace crosses, Madonna & Child prints,

& of course several broken crucifixes,

all stashed in the shopping cart pushed

daily through North Las Vegas streets.

"I shall attack the homeless sinners!"

Ruddy declared to himself, usually

his only listener of many street sermons.

Occasionally a lost tourist (trapped

at some noisy traffic corner) had to endure

Ruddy's flapping, righteous tongue.

For these inflictions of spiritual advice

the transient demanded fast cash donations,

& encouraged the giver to select something

from the busted cart of holy paraphernalia,

blessed by Ruddy "& not by any Kraut Pope

far from the golden calf casinos of Sin City!"

Ruddy's reverberant laugh usually followed

with mouth agape featuring his missing teeth.

A horrible sight, designed to fuel repentance,

or to release halitosis as cruel benediction

for any reluctant disciple about to run off

before seeing Ruddy wave a crimson cross,

like vampire killers do with pointed stakes

about to pierce hearts of undead losers.

Lost Cherries Riff

"You don't need a bartender --

all you need's a liquor store,"

the Lost Cherries Inn whore Mimi

told her transient friend late

one nite. They sat drinking

outside her room by the pool.

"All you need's more income,"

Ruddy the transient mused drinking

while Mimi, primed but not plastered,

routinely finished off another Pabst,

nonchalantly hurling the empty streetwards.

Both burped & chuckled simultaneously.

Scalding summer nights were made for fat-chewing

& bitching about the woes of hustling in Vegas.

Cursing his friend, Ruddy retrieved the beer can

& added it to his shopping cart's aluminum stash,

chiding Mimi for being pregnant, yet still working

while her common law husband was out partying.

"Don't get on my Lem's case," Mimi wheezed

through her acrid cigarette's smoke cloud

the red-faced transient nearly choked on.

"You ol' sod, Rud, my man's a boss poppa --

a bastard, yes, but he takes care of my kids,

even when like now I can only give blow jobs, OK?"

Ruddy snarled back a gap-toothed rejoinder

indicating profound disapproval, then

he began hopping about on gimpy legs,

doing his little trademark chicken dance.

In her perennial hustler's mini-skirt outfit

(sex-stained & funky from ill-assorted smells)

Mimi would soon "take her albino ass," as she put it,

over to the neighboring Strip & wait for

some luxury auto she'd perform in, e-z cash

falling like celestial leaves into her lap

& making the blood strum on her ol' man's guitar,

till the low background music for their lives

softly counter-

pointed whatever

hard john's sex

burst into

the cool heavens

of her

mouth.

The Cold, The Hard, & The Beautiful Ugly

"the cold cunt taking in

the dick of death." So

what else is new? You've heard this

type of prosy chatter before, beyond subliminal

messages that have become blunt force

trauma of the mercantile brain. Something

superceding & kicking the ass of background

whisperings in our muzak lives

Rock & Roll desensitized into cool regions

where it's hip to be distanced from outmoded

humanity-in-a-handbasket, to be tossed

over the proverbial cliff in the name of

no-beauty, no-truth.

the downtown homeless boys

never heard of Keats, but they know

porn of ages when it's singing to their deaf ear

& other dysfunctional organs

their

sad lives

left them.

Featured Poet: Alfonso Colasuonno

Alfonso is a friend who has read at OSFR I and has some new poems he'd like to share. Please enjoy!

QUICK PLUG: While I am on the subject of enjoyment, I recommend suckas who gots to know check out Juliet Cook's 13 Myna Birds. Really interesting design and format of rotating poems; many imagistic, expository, and confessional...all really damn good.

Alfonso Colasuonno is a 25 year old writer based out of Brooklyn, New York. He is a former New York City secondary school teacher. He graduated Beloit College with a BA in Creative Writing. This is his second submission to O Sweet Flowery Roses and has also been a performer at an O Sweet Flowery Roses-sponsored event.

MANIFESTO

Regarding your “poetry” -

It is not complex enough

Nor is it obscure enough

To catch even a faint glimpse of my eye.

The beauty of poetry

Is that it leaves the proletariat

Completely baffled as to what you mean.

Your writing is as obvious

As the cumshot

At the end of a porno.

You hit people over the head

With your arcing stream of ideas.

That is not poetry.

Maybe it is spoken word.

It doesn't have the staccato

The rhythm

The je ne sais quoi

Of poetry.

I have never heard

Something as complementary of my work.

No, this is not poetry

That you learn in classrooms

Or from going to readings

And it never aimed to be.

A visceral reaction

A laugh

A cringe

A masturbation break

This is what I aim for

Not bored applause

Like you aim for.

BAD EDUCATION

I live a life of multiplicities

Responsible for the future of this country

A New York City schoolteacher.

Gutterpunk? (On weekends?)

My preferred mode of dress is a ratty t-shirt

With a picture of Exene Cervenka

And a pair of jeans with holes at the kneecaps

And Eurotrash written in black marker on the pant leg

Like a wrestler's iconography on his tights

Signaling to all parties

A false delusion.

Yet, still, I wear the suit and tie

Monday through Friday

8 to 4

I suck Joel Klein’s cock.

I do it by the book.

How do I react inside those four walls?
Student comes in blazed

Out of his mind.

Reminds me of someone quite familiar

And how false it is to say - “get yourself together”
When having a few drinks later in the day

Crack up at the thought.

I think back to same student and wonder:

Am I really getting that old and yawn-mouthed

That a student needs to show up high to enjoy my class?
And then I realize he is not enjoying my class at all

But the company of his comrade in the next seat.

Question: Did I ever do that?
No. I stifled my laughter.

I respected my teachers.

I tell myself these lies

Until they become truths.

Am I doing a good job?

Can I say what I want to say? No!

The trick to education is knowing one golden rule

Your teachers are full of shit.

A trip to the principal’s office

And a great big unsatisfactory on my teaching record.

I’ve lost control:

Classroom

Self

Severance pay

Big fat j

On the dole

Back to bumming

Reading Bukowski

Drinking heavily

In short, a rubber room existence.
There is no such thing as fate.

American Spirit

You have a high pitched voice

An anxious tremor

Resonating to the stratosphere

As if your lungs were never consumed with internal clouds of mist

Sucked in like steamboats in vile vortices

Smoke from a thousand fags

Ashes staining your fingernails yellow

Disguised under press-on nails

And teeth off white

Remedied by Crest white strips

And brushing at least three times a day

In painstaking circular motion

And time permitting, vertically and horizontally, as well.

But you still have a smoker's cough

And your perfume doesn't hide

The smell of countless nicotine cravings.

Featured Poet: Dr. Kane X. Faucher

After coming across his work on Felino Soriano's Counterexample Poetics (which is really fantastic, by the way), I had to ask Dr. Kane X. Faucher to submit some poems to OSFR. In a gushy lil' letter, I told him how I thought his stuff was really exemplory of current directions in poetry, media, and collage art(s). Please enjoy!


Dr. Kane X. Faucher
FIMS/MIT Instructor, The University of Western Ontario.
Freelance Writer, Scene Magazine.
Co-editor: The Raging Face, The Drill Press, Sorrowland Press
Interview Editor: Ditch Poetry
Proctor: IELTS (British Council)
-
Author of Urdoxa (2004) Codex Obscura (2005) Fort & Da (2006), Calqueform, Astrozoica, De Incunabliad (2007). Jonkil Dies, Tales Pinned on a Complete Ass: Travel to Romania (2009) The Vicious Circulation of Dr Catastrope (2009)
-

Gueule

(a slav-ish raillery in no parts)

--…trouvez…

--…amusant mais…

--…voyons…

--…tellement / camoufle…

--…fond…

--…vendre!...

--…mort…(.)

Scandallion standala y catapostrophe.

Bas alt relief belie goncourtier

\?--:…rue the infinite gimmegimmick a la

Moi-toi

NRF(I)NRF(II) dire la roches-elle dans un

Et Gaston IIieme dans deux 1953.

Ecrirez-pas babelogue

Insta instro insitu insu introck.

Ref fer ere frere ren enc yclo clochard hark arkhe.

Logoglissade/Wordgliding

(a fenceless optical zone)

Depistillated sermonizing wavebreak,

Immense pillar of talking flesh

<combat dining>

& the great sewer of existence underlorded

Papal cyborgs &

How God subcontracted Adam to name things.

I walk / unkempt millennium garden / public works project

Failure / empty beer bottle by bathtub / she and bubble /

Abducted from Oshawa / portable office relocate @ bar /

New fonts derivative / syncategoreme / portfolio construction

Professionalization anti-seminar / non-marketability aspects of

Doctorate.\ move to Vancouver \ organizations strategies \

Collaborate with and learn from here \ midstroke.--

Mauditerre

The future threatens

to make us seem quaint and ridiculous.

while the applause

has died away well before we arrived.

Mode juste today,

critical gaffe tomorrow.

We who write now will be subject

to cruel normalization

and barbaric standardization,

lost somewhere in a canon

the young are forced begrudgingly to honour

The political choices we make today may feel right.

Tomorrow will judge us harshly

and we will be condemned.

The future is like that: and it has the luxury

of history and consequence -

we should have known better becomes our epitaph.

The future will consign us to haunt the earth

spurned devils and the mark of Cain.

Our actions, once laudable, become burdens

as death renders us mute and indefensible.

ProblemZ

Yes, being an internet journal has it's high points. For one, you get to use a "z" instead of an "s" without feeling shame down to your bones. Also, I get to instantly publish poems for any and all to read at any point. I've heard a lot of people (myself included, in the past) go on and on about the importance of print poetry journals, but for what OSFR is, it could only really function on a website at this point.

But there are some low points, too. Blooger sucks. Yes, I said it. Though I am not good with computers and will have to do major research and work to figure out how to start a new website with all the previous posts included. The main issue I have now is with commenting...apparently people are having a hard time doing it. Not sure what to tell you...it seems to work fine if you have gmail (or any sort of google account).

Formatting has been a problem for me as well. Not sure why, but the blog has seemed to become self-aware and decided that it dislikes formatting poems correctly. While I constantly try to get it to say its name backwards to make it vanish into another dimension, I still have to work hard to get it to correctly format poems with kooky fonts or wacky line/stanza breaks. Be aware that formatting can sometimes be hard; bear with me.

Anyway, keep submitting, and if you're in Chicago, by golly sign up to read!

-Russell

Featured Poet: Peycho Kanev

"Peycho Kanev is 28 years old. He loves to listen to sad music while he drinks
slowly his beer. His work has been published in Word Riot, Gloom Cupboard,
Poetry Cemetery, Nerve Cowboy, The Chiron Review, The Guild of Outsider Writers, Spoken War, Side of Grits, Southern Ocean Review and many others. He loves to put the word down and not talking on the cell phone for days. He is nominated for Pushcart Award. He lives in Chicago. Alone."







scream in the afternoon


the sun is high again
and it looks to me like an enemy,
outside
in the hot street
an old lady stands by the curb
under the shadow of a tree
and she looks like my mama
and she looks like your mama
I ask my self where my luck is.
it has ran away like a river of sweat
in this hot summer afternoon
and the old woman is gone
and the sun is about to set
as I wait
as I shiver
thru the endless day
and thru all the wasted loves
I fell asleep again
and this poem become
silent for ever.






the beast

the beast is so lonely…

and the beast and the prey are looking
for each other-
to become their blood mutual.

the blood of the prey is vulture
into the veins of the beast,
doomed for loneliness.

and happy blood-
with desperate and sorrowfully passion
the recluse possesses it.

the love of the beast is all in red.




for N.
confession


you are sun light
sun light walking around

you just don’t know how good
you are
you play with my seriousness
make me laugh

when you comb your hair
all the gods come down from
the mountain and watch

you are the woman
than all the women should have
been

it doesn’t matter how you turn
your body
or what you say
it is perfect diamond
perfect cut
perfect glow

and when you get the blues
I got the blues
because I don’t want you
to get the blues

in all my life
I have never said to another woman
that I love her

now
I say it to you

and I know that I will carry you always
in me
inside
outside

at my fingertips
at the edge of my brain

and in the center
in the center
of what I am of
what remains.

Re-featured poet: Barry Frauman

Happy belated Memorial Day from the (Russell, oft-involved Becky, friends) staff of O Sweet Flowery Roses! Please find more poems from Barry Frauman below. No, we are not hard up for submissions quite yet, but Barry is the first poet signed up for the Super Duper Blowout Chicago Reading (date, time, et. al: TBA)!

Let me know if'n your down to read and I'll put you up on the list!

MEMORIAL DAY

I dreamt of you Tony in morning twilight,

that you were admitted to hospital care

not sick, not well,

that I was your room-mate,

not ill at all.

You wore silk pajamas, white, I think,

your hair thick and dark, a few strands of gray.

Your body flourished, exciting and strong,

I ached to sex you.

Instead we unpacked, each one for the other,

together, happy.

We talked long and warmly about... can’t recall,

more friendship of love than in stormy life-days,

the tension of AIDS.

　

　

　

　

TWO LOVES

he first of my heart is quiet, certain

and serene as all the Buddhas.

When I err, when for a fraction of a second

I am not quite honest, the motion of his eyes,

their change of light, point back the truth to me

with no less love than in our perfect harmony.

He is my soul.

* * * * *

My other love maintains there is no soul

there is no God

there is no human life

outside the robot masses of our time

stampeding all his words into my brain;

yet deep within, his fury seeks affection:

At a crowded café, not too gay,

he cornered me with a hug;

and then one night, good-bye at his door,

he beamed when I kissed his beautiful face.

* * * * *

The eyes of my soul are in white white skin

under jetblack hair.

He is young-tree slender and elastic,

shoulders open and embracing

even when his arms are down.

The breeze nestles in his thick black thatch,

dreaming of eternal June, and he has

the soul of a tree in young manhood,

sometimes playful, more often stilled

in the half-smile of serene growing.

* * * * *

He calls himself fat, that's a laugh,

short wiry devil-dark mustache,

eyes of gray lightning.

* * * * *

Hello to you! Yes to you!

From all my soul to all my soul I call.

You are the tree in whose branches I nestle,

the lightning will not strike.

Your faults are like a summer shower,

soon to dry away.

* * * * *

Leaping to your feet? still fast asleep?

Thinking of you, wondering how you are,

I wake up late and slowly Sunday morning,

glasses on the table from last evening

stilled into the memories of fun.

Now silent, mostly empty, they'll sit out

the hour or two until I get to them.

Ever think of weekends you were here?

We've showered music breakfast yes or no,

it doesn't matter all that much,

we've had our sexy talky turbulence.

I won’t approach your nakedness now,

tempting though it is,

but will instead anticipate a lingering good-bye.

What are your plans?

* * * * *

The greatest number of people,

whose kin are family-tree,

would not understand my joy in you,

beloved keeper of our light.

I have small knowledge of your prior years,

I did not see the steps you took

to form the inner workings of your life,

a discipline so perfect and serene,

that you should be a beacon to us all..

You grow and thrive around a core of stillness,

a happy silent purity

toward which my restless spirit stretches endlessly..

You never come to me to lay confusion,

but work a trouble through then hail me

to share your joy in hard-won resolution.

* * * * *

Ten A.M. Sunday thunderhissing discoblitz

you shut the door against the din so we can talk

your rage boils up at years of sexual repression

your lightning strikes the wordhouse you have built

as shelter from the storms you generate.

I lash past your downpouring sentences

to bring my love to your intelligence

and turn your storming elements to sunforce.

Burning tired your head falls to my shoulder

still you say you do not feel love

it must be no right now, maybe not forever,

but firmly for this time you back away.

* * * * *

You let me rant about the world's nonsense,

then you embrace me.

* * * * *

Better this way you say in the labyrinth

of bar-and-bath nightmerchant anonymity.

Better this way than learning in the hurt

of amorous friendship somehow gone awry.

* * * * *

Remember the time you stayed during the week?

I’m sure it was December snowy rainy

muddy morning grumbling down to work.

The sidewalks were in slush,

we made the bus-stop walking in the street.

The night before I’d lain down at your side,

though I still mourned the parting of another.

As we were trudging slave-like in the grayness

toward the dreary obligations of the day,

I felt my guilt glide up into my throat.

With gentle indirection you forgave.

Your compassion that sad day gave birth

to the sweet closeness all our own

that keeps us free of all the cushioned traps

the gray Decembering world sets

to ground the flight of those who love.

* * * * *

You say, "I’ve never felt... whatever it is,

but that's alright, I live from day to day.

If somehow I could change, that would be nice,

but I don't count on anyone, OK?"

* * * * *

In front of your house good-night, I’ll call you soon.

Our hug is long and strong,

and always with the imprint of your face,

you touch me in my quiet tender place.

Featured Poet: Felino Soriano

This is Felino Soriano's second submission, but everyone should check out Counterexample Poetics for unfiltered astonishment.
Editor's note: Happy birthday to me!




Felino Soriano (California) is a case manager working with
developmentally and physically disabled adults. He is the editor of
the online journal, Counterexample Poetics,
www.counterexamplepoetics.com, which focuses on International
interpretations of experimental, philosophical, post-postmodern, and
avant-garde poetry, art, and photography. He is the author of five
chapbooks and e-books, including Among the Interrogated (BlazeVOX
[books], 2008) Feeling Through Mirages (Shadow Archer Press, 2008) and
Calling Toward Clarity (Chippens Press, 2009), and also has a
mini-chapbook forthcoming from Wheelhouse Magazine. The internal
collocation of philosophical studies with classic and avant-garde jazz
explains his poetic stimulation. Website: www.felinosoriano.com


Painters’ Exhalations 118 —after Bridget Riley’s Edge of Light


Light needn’t

sky born, or shape create
happenstance
below, soil level
or other

cliché

developed notion decided
on a shelf of
predetermination.

Birds sketch
a clawing scratch
vertical road from sky elsewhere

leading

to twig architecture, feeding opportunity,

as light illuminates in constant etching
into echoes

dissipating

only as dusk hands begin the painting of
exaggerated gray.

Painters’ Exhalations 119 —after Aleksandr Grigor'evich Tyshler’s The Wedding



Somewhat deciphered
by the citizens whose
cataract emotion matches eros
amid walkers during night
purchasing intimacy through
paycheck deposits for
affection laced with
uncertainty and
thought’s edges protruding
the forehead’s soft tissue. Here
the ceremony unfolded structure
capitalizing on sun’s open hand throws
italicizing vows and intertwining reading
of scripture. Hands exchange third finger symbols
casting aside absence for platinum
platitude, though the spectrum of smiles erases
the monotony of the specialized moment.

Painters’ Exhalations 120 —after Mark Cesark’s Grey Area



This is language. Two hands
held in fisted reality
hiding
bodies of truth or fiction
behind the overused back of trickery
asking
choice of relevance above interpretational
guesses.

Human claws at dichotomies. Splaying
too far
from routine brush blends anxiety
into parallel thinking of the body-normality
excusing nervousness
from the eyes’ visual safety.

Many want sharpened edges of black or white. Maze
circles segregated or
introduced into factual tongues
speaking newness—

the area of vellum’s spectrum wide wingspan
creating inability to travel emotionless
away from supported measures
the mind ambulates in complete
control.

Painters’ Exhalations 121 —after José Bedia’s Isla Bonita



Impressionist interpretation of a woman’s
unworn, strapless, high-heeled stiletto. Stilled
away from walking’s many efforts

providing

a layered rendition beautiful faced woman
interrogated by wind’s rhythmic, ugly hands. Trees

border

the silhouette metaphor walking tired
among forest resting near water’s diamond
recreation. If man resides here

soon

the heel will wear, become a broken semblance
of identity prior to the overbearing bludgeon of self
-righteous motives.

Painters’ Exhalations 122 —after Thanet Awsinsiri’s Under the Shade


We proclaim protection. Said by the promise
of illusion. The protected is not
alphabetic dissertations
elaborating the body’s many functions.

The body bare
is at its unpeeled genesis
actuating ensuing movement
if desire overwhelms stagnant
curses tattooing the limbs of
extravagant reason.

Where wind and walls simultaneously converse.

OSFR is finally prepared to tweet you

http://twitter.com/OSFR

O SWEET FLOWERY ROSES CHICAGO SUMMER INVASION

Gird your loins and plug up any and all available orifices, because this news will undoubtedly blow you away, out, and all around:

O Sweet Flowery Roses will be holding its third blowout reading in Chicago this July!

While plans are still being worked out, if you are interested in reading and live in the Chicagoland area, please email me (Russell) and let me know. The reading will most likely take place near the end of July!

Hope to hear from you all,

Russell Jaffe

osfrblog@gmail.com

Featured Poet: Mike Berger, PhD

Your mother would be happy to know that OSFR has some return poets coming up- Barry Frauman and Felino Soriano! Enjoy this mother's day weekend and please keep checking back for more poet(ry, ics).

Today's poet is Mike Berger, PhD!

"I am 72 years old. I have a Ph.D. in clinical psychology and was a practicing psychotherapist for 30 years. I am now fully retired. I have authored two books of short stories. I have published in numerous professional journals. I have freelanced for more than 20 years. My humor pieces Clyde and Goliath, Good Grief Columbus, and If Noah Built the Ark Today have won awards. I am now writing poetry full-time. I have many pursuits which include sculpting, painting, gardening and baking bread. My forcaccia is to die for."

BUBBLE BATH

I wondered whether it was like

to take a bubble bath. Born in

the depression, we were too poor

for such frivolous things.

I was too macho for such wussy

things when I was in my teens.

I wouldn't get caught dead in the bath

with 1 million bubbles while I was going

to college.

I didn't have time after I graduated

to indulge in such a frivolity. It was

a quick shower and off to the grind.

Now I'm retired and my wife works.

At last I have my chance. I started

the water and poured in a bottle

of a bubble bath.

Bubbles fill the tub and overflowed

obscuring the bathroom floor. Soon

the stuff was up to my knees. I

struggled to find the tap to turn the

water off.

As I stand here looking at the mass;

I ask what do you do with 1 million bubbles?

I'm thinking I should have waited a little longer

and taking them back after I was dead.

GREEN THUMB

The neighbors yard was a menace.

He never cut the grass. The rosebushes

had died from lack of care and the ivy

on this side of the house were now

stringy brown.

I never saw him go to work. I wondered

what he did. His friends would come at

all hours and played rancorous music

just above a threshold of pain.

They were all rough looking with long hair

and a variety of beards. The women who

must have been easy they had mattresses

strapped to their backs.

In the middle of the night I was awakened

by a thunderous crash. The street outside

what is lined with cars and two police

Van's.

I understand my neighbor has a green

some. The cops haul them all away

along with forty weed plants.

FLAMING GORGE

Twisting Baroque art

etched into vermillion

cliffs It sings a Bach melody.

A dark blue river

provides a foil, highlighting

the mazes of scars

carved deep into

rock.

Brilliant red strata

undulate.

A dizzy labyrinth

Touches streaked red sky.

Sunrays painting specters on

canyon walls as

they chase fickle shadows.

Lonely sagebrush clings.

Deep shadows reigns

where sun light hides.

Robert Walton: Bio and (awesome) author photo

Yeah, you're going to want to click on this picture. Remember, readers: send along a bio and three poems whenever you submit!


I taught at San Lorenzo Middle School in King City, California for thirty-six years before retiring in June of 2006. Phyllis, my wife of 37 years, and I still reside in King City. We have two sons – Jeremy, thirty-one and Jon, twenty-six.
I am a life-long rock-climber and mountaineer. I've made numerous ascents in the Sierra Nevada and Yosemite. Three of my short stories about climbing were published in the Sierra Club's Ascent. Others appeared in "High" magazine, "Loose Scree" and in "The Climbing Art". I converted a story named "Three's a Crowd" into a radio play and it was broadcast on KUSF on November 22nd, 2006. It was later broadcast several more times on PBS. Much of my poetry reflects my time in the mountains. A few of my poems have been published in journals and on websites.

Triple threat: Call for submissions, Applewood Revue event, Robert Walton poem

Why, you should hop on the wild ride and submit poems to O Sweet Flowery Roses.




Yes, event time is upon us once again.
Sean Lyman Frasier + Michael Gorman's Applewood Revue is a-rollin' into Brooklyn on its steam-powered go-matic contraption. The last one of these I went to absolutely brought the house down; it was the kind of magical event that makes people migrate to legendary New York City. The folk songs were fun and uplifting, the poetry was poignient, and the music of the band Go Cat Go was nothing short of a metaphysical feeling wherein the waters of the mind's most beutiful creek flowed between the hard tin camping vessels for water (which doubled as drums) all within the confines of Flushnik Studios. I strongly urge anyone in the NYC area to truck/boat/plane it out for this one.

The details:
Flusnik Studios
698 Flushing Ave
Brooklyn NYC
7:30 PM doors open and FREE food served (Editor's note: the food is really amazing. Do not do like your humble editor and gorp down 9 lbs of pizza before a party with delicious homemade pasta and fresh baked bread)
8:00 PM performances begin
Free Entry, Free Food, Cheap Drinks (You may BYOB)

Spoken word performers: Susan Brennan, Niall Connolly, Liz Afton, Ed Malone, and Sean Lyman Frasier
Musicians: Alexa Woodward, Jo Williamson, Bern and the Brights, and Michael Gorman

Robert Walton didn't send anything but this poem, which I think is befitting of the revival-stylings of the upcoming Applewood Revue performance.

Poem by Robert Walton:


Above Parker Lake


Snowmelt waterfall
Bursting bright,
Crystal tresses flung
Across ebon cliffs -
Impatient girl
With all of time
To brush your hair
But none to spare
This morning.

Featured Poet: Holly Day

"There’s an awful lot of pressure involved in sending out poetry during National Poetry Month. Perhaps it’s because I assume that thousands and thousands more poets are sending out their writing this month more than any other month, and the thought of that level of competition frankly scares the crap out of me. Writing is a competitive enough sport as it is, and I’m not a particularly competitive person."

-While Holly Day did not send in a formal bio or photo, I found her cover letter worthy of attaching as a reflection of April being "National Poetry Month."

I'm not much for competitive sports, anyway. Enjoy her poems! -Russell

I Hold Your Big Fat Heart In My Hands

Extinguish the joy in my heart, my head, tonight

I open my body to you like a dependant cripple

Supine, sublime, sometimes I wonder what we’re doing here, and

Then I realize how little I actually want to know the

Truth. Your hands push against me like rough, angry starfish

Press my starlight thoughts of you in between pages of Hitler

Some leather-bound book filled with piles of crushed leaves. In

Time, I just know we could become friends, the emotional cripple

The raging lunatic. I chose to be the weaker of the two of us, and

It has nothing to do with you, not really. The

Closest thing I’ve come to love like this is this, tidepool starfish

Wrestling for pieces of meat, so slow like Hitler

Decomposing beneath heaps of garbage and dirt. You let me in

Last night, and just because I let you touch me then doesn’t mean I have to tonight.

And even though we’ve settled into this domesticity, there will always be the

Images I have of you, unflattering. Hitler hands starfish out against me, touch my backside--

If I let you in again tonight

Will you cripple me further still?

I Deny You

all this talk of reconciliation

and all I see is the back of your head

how I want so bad to pick up a hammer

and smack it into the small round

bald spot growing there.

I can feel the fire balling up

in my middle, billowing out

until I can touch it with my palms

how easy it would be to take

this boulder of tangible anger

smash it down on you

make you flat and small.

I’d Help, But I’m Not Really Here

she says, do nothing

and I’ll make it all right

be quiet and no one will know.

I am a statute in her shadow, I am

a monument to quiet, she will fix everything and

I have no need to move.

she says, say nothing

tell no one, you didn’t see

she says, go back to sleep, I’ll be back

in the morning

I am a monument to shadows, to quiet

So still I don’t even look like Alive

I am a statute of I didn’t see

these memories of dying even as they are born

And the DJANGO Award winner is...CAROLINE O'CONNOR THOMAS for her poem "Apples and Water"

Apples and Water

outside your window, a tree is blooming.
white paper flowers that will brown, like
the spot where you bit the apple-
leaving a trail of juice on my thumb
and other knuckles.
you remind me of someone i've never met before,
i think
as i suck the water clean from my fingers and feel
a sudden shame for even this private show
of affection.








From Caroline O'Connor Thomas: This poem is about yielding to restriction or moderation; you could find the temptation pulling from that act of letting go, in the narrators sudden complete disregard for personal limits. I'm excited that Apples and Water was chosen by Russell Jaffe and Sean Lyman Fraiser to be the winner of the DJANGO award. I can't think of anything more lovely than knowing that I've written something that others can appreciate. It's appropriate to say I feel dazzlingly jewel'd and naturally glorious!


From guest judge Sean Lyman Frasier:
First, thank you Russell for allowing me to dissect the poems that voluntarily settled beneath the kiss of my literary blade, and thank you courageous artists who tackled this contest with sophistication and barbarity, in equal measure. The winning poem, Caroline O'Connor Thomas' "Apples and Water," struck me as a poem that earns its brevity, the way that an epic must earn its enormous scope. I felt voyeuristic, like the words (written in invisible ink) were supposed to vanish before I found them. To me, the delicious guilt of the poem revolves around the idea of wanting more but not feeling entitled to more. While the action of the poem may be a single act of disobedience, a decision to indulge rather than ignore, this temptation will change the body and mind, much like the flowers and apple change hue and brown with time. A rare fifty second portrait that breathes long after it's enjoyed. The poem, beyond its elegance, addresses the theme with concealed desires that squeeze through as whispers, and it was a pleasure to hear those.

From Russell Jaffe: It was a real joy to hold this contest, and I think it's really important to say that while we had a winner, every poem we received was a little treasure to read and explore; in searching through the troves of poetry to find the one that would ultimately win the jewelry prize, we found ourselves happily lost in the founding principles of O Sweet Flowery Roses: sharing, enjoying, and participating in poetry. Thanks to all who read and submitted, and thanks for supporting this journal.

Featured Poet: Larry Jaffe

It's true that the dastardly O Sweet Flowery Roses poetry journal asks for three poems, a brief bio, and a picture. Constraints be damned...Mr. Larry Jaffe (no relation to myself, though his name is the same as my grandfather's) sent a thick phalanx of poetry, which surrounded his massive bio. So why take the O Sweet Flowery word for it? His bio is here; Mr. Jaffe is quite the prolific poet and general artsmith.

ODE TO GALLANTRY

Aesthetic waves crash

forming tender beauty

a radiant inspiration

redefines destiny

Riding strong

a spirit emerges

– She is her own Galahad

A ripped cape

in flight

– Escaping captivity

Tears shimmer

in sudden joy

obstacles of life

conquered

– An empire created

Leaving her mark

in the universe

–The mirror gasps.

HEMORRHAGING

The Earth bleeds

we stand around

hands in pockets

some shout retaliation

some scream futility

still the earth bleeds

We proclaim peace

accuse each other

march and protest

hold hands for inner warmth

love one another with venom

still the earth bleeds

We kill songs with rocks

torture memories

plead sides

and wonder

why the Earth

still bleeds

– Some never learn to hate

Peace is not a tourniquet

Peace is a new Earth.

LAYERS

I unfold

destiny

diminished

I unfold

precious wings

arc into flight

I unfold

twirling

through space

I unfold

music triumphs

in endless beat

I unfold

– I fly

Featured Poet: Thomas "Kaysen" Fraker

NEWS: The winner of the DJANGO Award will be announced by the end of this week (April 20-26)

POETRY: Kaysen sent but one poem with no bio. In lieu of the very long featured poetry que, I thought I would put this one up for today.



"I'm 18 years old and 5'10, 280 lbs. My name's Thomas Fraker but i prefer to be called Kaysen. I've been writing for years and honestly dislike most of my work. Others say its good, but i like few of my own poems. Hopeful you will like the one I've picked to submit."

~Untitled~

The vampire in the alley

the monster under your bed

the shadow in your closet

the demon in your nightmares

The thought that shakes you at night

the form that haunts your dreams

violates your body

with a laugh that chills your soul

Your heart will race

your mind will scream

your soul will squirm

but your body won't move

Frozen in fear

staring at your nightmare

born into reality

RUN!

Running

from something that only you can see

everyone laughing as you run by

not knowing what’s really chasing you

They will know

when your mangled body

found in the alley

is left with

No heart

no mind

and worst of all

no soul

So run

faster

harder

like nothing else matters

Cause if it catches you

nothing else will

it will all be over

nothing left but flesh and blood

Unable to love others

unable to think for yourself

and worse

emptiness

Featured Poet: Jane Ormerod

WELL

Time for an O Sweet Flowery Apology on this, April 20, 2009.

While you are all undoubtedly puffing your [legal tobacco] pipes and are therefore in a good (and hungry [un-chemically stimulated]) mood. Your humble Editor-in-Chief is moving to Iowa City! Yeah, that has derailed my posting for a spell.

NOW

We are back on track AND have a *W*I*N*N*E*R to announce! Stay tuned HONESTLY and please enjoy the poetry of Jane Ormerod while you do...

Jane Ormerod was born on the south coast of England and now lives in New York City. She is the author of the chapbook 11 Films (Modern Metrics, 2008) and her work also appears in numerous print and online publications including 21 Stars Review, Arsenic Lobster, BigCityLit, eratio postmodern poetry, failbetter, Ginosko, Night Train, Whatever Literary Journal and the spoken word CD Nashville Invades Manhattan. She is host of the occasional reading/performance series Emotional Rescue at The Cornelia Street Cafe and is a founding editor at Uphook Press. Her website is www.janeormerod.com

A Nightingale Invades

The lid falls off replaces

The lid falls off replaces

Beauty as cure for society’s ills

Child dream murderers fly-driving sailors

(Clap)

Beating out a carpet heart on pumice steps

Horses heavier than anyday fear

Hurdlers replacing heraldists cab rides abundancy

Her ribcage filled with nettles

Lip dash and slash

A change of hair inside her leather yellow bag

Skip

Skip

Neigh

(Clap)

Seams below seams between seams below seams

Picric papers Stockings

Yet another wedding ring passed round the room like port

Lanterloos oh oh and double christs with sakes

Skip

Don’t sing

Splutter Hide

Savers Coasters Shoe lacers

Mongers coster and scare

The cheapest skates

Wives with hives and junket days away

Painting with marsh mist and a marigold

Painting with flute and three weapons

Waiter!

Water

Suckers

(With bait in her breath)

Are you interested in Pre-Colombian art?

Do you care about sticks? Do you lie about buffalo?

Stretch of elastic linking tooth and hand

Rolling beads of sweat and glass

A coral sunset choral sunrise whore tales grape hyacinths

Our daily bread delivered by a nude

The lid falls off replaces

Painting with baby in plastic

Painting with sun patches and ghost

MAN’S HEAD FOUND IN GIANT COD

The lid falls off replaces

The lid falls off replaces

Her mother spread on crimson icing

A pecan coat faraway lockers neutron spillage

The rich and the gullible and the bed and the kitchen

And the heels and heels and the healing of his hands

The lid falls off replaces

Her adult space in flames

Like a hedgehog Some warm milk or raw sugar

May be all she now needs

The lid a while replaces

The lid a while replaces

Everything dearie round here dearie

Feels just too good dearie dearie

To be true

Go Figure

Light mote variations, mounted warriors

A tetragon, birthday greetings from ‘72

Experimental geese, better later than usual crops

A red barn uncle-inherited but never seen

Homicide

Long gone fish markets

The very last man smoking … puff puff puff

Why are things so heavy?

The doctors and psychiatrists drinking in the hotel bar

Bladdered, they were

Pissed out their heads, they were

Voices slurring like prescription notes

Stripping to their underpants

One banana, two banana, dirty, dirty, dirty

Remember, remember, the fifth of November

Meanwhile, watch me

The almost adolescent

Right outside their building

Swift-flitting between telephone wires and scaffold poles

Humming and ho-humming on the perfect diameter

To fit inside my own … toot-toot … small feet

Nashville Invades Manhattan

Tigers are cardboard cut-outs shaped like men

Tigers are cardboard cut-outs shaped like men

Tigers are cardboard cut-outs shaped like men

Everything tiny as leather

Mild as In-ger-land woah woah woah

Considerable as thought (risible!)

My schedule tight as the neighbour’s dress

Swiss Holiday Inn (wool temptation!)

A hamburger (I think) tigers

I push sticks and stones fifteen hours a day cardboard

Tigers are cardboard cut-outs

My mother floats like a pilot

An eyebrow

Pretty pitt the older pretty pitt the younger

Rows of conifers along an empty race course

Such a fun age, my mother snapped sing sing sing

Yet I would have very much liked

To have been as chatty as Gertrude snippity-snip Stein

Or maybe the goalkeeper I watched on the television news

Serious as a handle bicycle moustache down the hill

Curds wah-hey!

And now kissing occupies me as much as war

And my small tail has grown a little stronger in the city

English mustard is hotter than French German not so sure

I remember trains pencilling through countryside …

This is my brain, this is my brain, this is my brain

Diddley durr, diddley durr, diddley durr

Not the same, not the same

… Hay bale clouds kestrels lifting from overgrown allotments

Superstore car parks punctuation ribs ribbing ribbons

Sleep sheep waiting to be seated or stroked sniffled sniped

Badgers of honour otters de fe decaffeination

Tigers are cardboard cut-outs shaped like men

Tigers are cardboard cut-outs shaped like men

Tigers are cardboard cut-outs shaped like men

(One more thing I realize…

Having a child

Prevents you

From ever

Cutting your wrists)

ONLY ONE DAY REMAINS! TIME IS RUNNING OUT-

Tomorrow, effective at midnight, the submission window for the first annual DJANGO Award slams shut, locks, and is fired into the center of the sun while trapped in a bamboo cage. Yes, they go bye-bye. Then the site resumes its regularly scheduled posts, and judging for the contest begins. Stay tuned to OSFR for details on the judging and for new poetry.

SHEDULED OUTAGE

Yes, the DJANGO Award submissions are mighty, tho ye have little thyme to submit. Remember: deadline is April 1.

After the great DJANGO craze cools, the submission/instant acceptance/oft stalled posting of poems will continue. Stay tuned for work by Jane Ormerod, Lawrence Jaffe (no relation to Russell Jaffe [myself, though it is my grandpa's name]) and a wonderful poem centered around running from the physical manifestations of everyday nightmares from Thomas Fraker.

See you in the desert!

-Russell Jaffe

Do you dare to chase the DJANGO Award?!?

Have you what it takes to chase these glittering jewels?
Consider the April 1 deadline...djangoaward@gmail.com...THIS IS (not) A RECORDING

Featured Poet: Tyler Black

Tyler Black is currently a top star in the Ring of Honor wrestling promotion, which recently announced it will broadcast an episodic television show on HD Net. Tyler can be seen every month on ROH's In-Demand Pay Per Views, and on DVD releases through rohwrestling.com.
When I began this site, I solicited a number of poets across a wide gamut; many I knew personally, some I respected, and still others I found unconventionally exciting and befitting of the spirit of a truly completest journal. As a pro wrestling fan and poet, I was excited to see Mr. Black producing poetry on his Myspace blog and asked him to submit.
Imagine my surprise when I realized I had an unread, year-old message:

Why don't you just take the stuff I write on here and put it on that blog. Put my name on it and everything. That should work right?

Right-here it is. Please enjoy. Don't forget that the DJANGO Award is waiting and the deadline is April 1st. Please look under our February archives to see the post with the official rules!

Still
How does it feel to change?

The varying speed and uninvited deviations
Have blended the colors in my eyes.
What once was simple is now a labyrinth.
What once was silver is now rusted and bent.
And I keep telling myself that it's not broken.
So what am I trying to fix?
Or repair?
Or throw away?

It feels terrible to forget things you want to remember.
I'm not desperate yet,
But what happens when I lose myself completely?
Is it possible to recover hope?

I can buy all the newness the American dream has for sale.
I can shrink or grow or bleed out or fit in,
But I am still lacking;
Unable to evaluate change and develop.
I'm standing still...
Standing, breathing, thinking, and living still.

Undermining My Own Integrity

There is more than a part of me that knows how small this is.
The obvious insignificance
Of a man losing his hope.
I remember the strength of a few years ago.
I know,
I've told myself that there is always a better way,
But perspective isn't the easiest wisdom to gain.

I used to trust myself with love.
Falling is so fucking easy.
The skies are bluer.
The dreams are bigger.
The eyes are brighter.
But when it stops making sense,
Where does a man put his faith?
When I can't believe in my own promises;
When I can't look at my own face;
When focus dissolves;
What is this place?
Who the fuck am I?

And then someone dies....
And now I really feel like a fool.
Just another self-righteous disaster trying to get by,
Another drop in the pool.
The real sufferers are the ones just trying to survive.
Love,
Lust,
Lies,
These feelings simply do not apply.

It's so easy to forget how easily we're able to forget...

Life is too fucking short.
Our priveledged position is the ability to exist.
It's my desire to feel enough to write this.
It's the idea that we can live for tomorrow
Because at least we have that time to borrow.
At least we have this heartache to show us
What it's like to be alive,
What it's like... not living to die.

Don’t You Wanna Know What I’m Currently Listening To?
Current mood: disappointed

Raindrops cut like razorblades.
I make my way home.

Disaster draws near as the seconds click their way into oblivion...
And then we disappear.

All that horror and all that hope.
All those lacerations and every "I love you."
Every mile, every memory.

So it's simple to avoid the storm.
Or I'll validate myself and brave the weather.
True commitment is the promise to make it work.
What's stronger than my word?
What's weaker than our lies?
My comfort is me.
My solace is the fight.
Heroes die.
Armageddeon ends.
And so be it that survival is success.
Until of course,
My soul becomes just space.
Because it's got nothing left to do but give.

Featured Poet: James Dye

The DJANGO Award submissions are trickling in, but you -yes, you- still have a chance at the bag of jewels. Now is the time to strike; lots of superfluous Oscars were handed out last night, so why not win a meaningful, prestigious award to show'em how it's done?

That's right. O Sweet Flowery Roses went there.

DJANGO submissions close on April 1, 2009. In the mean time, enjoy this poem by the mysterious James Dye, who left no bio, no picture, and but one poem, certainly befitting the spirit of the DJANGO Award:

Something Beautiful

The woman is a beautiful virgin,
the loneliest in all of the land.
Her hair flows down the mountain
reaches the beaches and the sand.

Her cheeks are ornaments, her neck a string.
For the director; the song "Lilies" she'll sing.
Like jewels, eyes veiled like doves in the skies.
A full moon shines off the brightness of her eyes.

Sandaled feet travel down the path from Village. She
fills jugs with precious water pillaged from an earthen tower.
Beloved turns, tends to a fig tree, waters it and returns
to the heart of a dying valley, waters and returns.

Evil Eyes tend to her lovely figure.
Jealous woman despise to disfigure,
her gemstone thighs, put a blemish in her eyes.

And how lovely, O love, that men will kill to steal
for a look behind the silken veil at her will.

Why is she any better? The fig tree blossoms
give off her fragrance. The flowers wither as
she's picked quickly, swallowed, overcome with wine.
The land is invaded by Pagans and ring-nosed swine.

She is wise but they are harsh,
evil. Silver and gold acquires
her sensual delight, a slave in
harem, a concubine, in plight.

Beloved turns and tosses day at night.
They make pinnacles out of her gems,
gateways out of her beryl and her stones
become a wall, the most beautiful
property in the land of them all.

"Arise and come away with me!" says Knight.
She gives herself into his hands, stripped.
Becomes the King's nurse and serves him.
Follows the path of flocks, and herds men.

For the director; she sings the tune of,
"Lilies" a love song. A heart is stirred.
She is given Zion, the most beautiful of words.

A fair garland; crowned, as awe inspiring as armies.
Men from all around come to see her, a diadem of remnants,
and they feast on the finest flour, silken honey, every hour
adorned in gold, clothed in the embroidery of royalty.

“Wake up! Wake up! Zion is doomed to destruction.
The dress, the jewels, the gold, eye shadow, nothing,”
someone told her. The lover spurns her, wants to kill her.
The tree is set on fire. It blazes with a mighty roar.
The branches are good for nothing. The land is ruined.

Trampled into desolate wastes, swarmed by stinging flies,
her chambers are destroyed, pavilions tore down, her eyes.
Her tears say, "I am perfectly beautiful." Her roots dig deeply
down to plentiful waters. Her branches are a forest of shade.
Top reaches the clouds. The trees envy; hear but don't listen

Introducing the O Sweet Flowery Roses First-Annual DJANGO Award

O Sweet Flowery Roses' one-year-of-existence anniversary is coming up, and what better way to celebrate than to present to you our first-ever DJANGO Award!

The Dazzlingly Jewel'd And, Naturally, Gloriously Official Award is a contest open to any poet up until APRIL 1st, 2009. The award, an honest to goodness bag of hand-crafted jewelery donated by OSFR alum and artist of all trades Shannah Schilit, will be judged by the OSFR staff and guest judge Sean Lyman Frasier.
The rules are simple: please submit one poem about/responding to/invoking the theme TEMPTATION. After all, what's more tempting than a bag of jewels for you or yours?

There are no restrictions on length, form, meter, etc.
The deadline is April 1, 2009.
Please send just one poem and a short author bio, including postal and email addresses to:

djangoaward@gmail.com

What other poetry journal keeps whets your appetite for both emerging poets and poetics AND shiny, shiny bling?
Submit to this contest now!

-Russell Jaffe
Editor-in-Chief

Featured Poet: Tom Sheehan

Tom Sheehan served in Korea, 1951-52 and has published 13 books. Brief Cases, Short Spans, short stories, was published November 2008 by Press 53, and From the Quickening, another collection, was published this month by Pocol Press. His Epic Cures, a short story collection, earned a 2006 IPPY Award. A Collection of Friends, was nominated for Albrend Memoir Award. He has nominations for ten Pushcart Prizes, three Million Writers nominations, and a Noted Story of 2007 nomination, and received the Georges Simenon Award for Fiction He has hundreds of Internet appearances, with 50 stories currently posted on Rope and Wire Magazine, publishers of western cowboy stories, and six consecutive print issues of Ocean Magazine. He meets again soon for a lunch/gab session with pals, the ROMEOs (Retired Old Men Eating Out, 93/80/79/78). They’ve co-edited two books on their hometown of Saugus, MA, sold 3500 to date of 4500 printed and he can hardly wait to see them. They’ll each have one martini, he’ll have three beers, and the waitress will shine on them.

Apple Pine Mountain

At four, near dawn, resident with trees, a mountain’s

wind song, a moon that clashed with clouds perky

as lambs, friends loving behind me though six feet

apart at times, I pissed off the wide porch down into

the unknown, that good talking beer talking good

again, crisply, this way and that, on the quick glass

of leaves. The sound stole, even for a moment, all

the moon and the cool threat of snow.

But at the last shattering of a leaf, at the end of beer

talk, I was the aggregate of selves knowing Apple

Pine Mountain, was constant and one, a kind of

uniform loneliness with stars punching down their

pneumatic cries, the million years of their dying

that one would hear their voices.

Oh, I heard, between trees and close shadow burst,

between the thrills of impulse, between molecules,

the significance of sound. Oh, I listened, my friends,

I listened and grew dizzy because I heard, from stars

by way of clouds, from loam by way of blade and leaf,

from every joint and joist of the cabin, after pissing

off the porch, love.

Bare-Ribbed Talisman

There’s a piece

of her hanging

like an old jacket

on an old nail

beside a job

I never finished.

Dillinger, On His Way Into The Movies

The air’s

popcorned,

butter-rich,

slicing.

The girl

trembles

electric:

it must

be my

touch, the

allure

of it.

She has

odors

ripe as

berries,

markets

open

early.

Her dress

is Lupinus

Perennis,

Maritime

roadside

purple

like a rich

woman’s

lingerie,

tight in

the crotch,

heady.

After-

wards will

be the

real thing.

Featured Poet: Greg Santos

"Greg Santos was born and raised in Montreal. He currently attends the MFA Creative Writing Program at The New School in Manhattan. He is the poetry editor of pax americana."

I Am His Majesty’s Most Trusted Servant

On winter nights the Emperor splays out

on his favorite ruby-encrusted divan,

his slight legs propped up on an ottoman.

I, along with a cavalcade of His Lordship’s servants,

the Imperial Grape Peeler, the Toy-Winder,

the Royal Fondue Dipper, His Majesty’s Pillow Fluffer,

among others, wait for our orders.

As the Royal Sheller of Chestnuts

I am the most important of

His Distinguished Majesty’s servants.

We wait for our bell, the ding-a-ling

signaling whether we are to grace the Emperor’s

munificent presence or whether we are fated

to slink away to our quarters in shame.

I am, more often than not, the chosen one.

For His Most Virtuous Highness’s fingers

are far too delicate for menial tasks

and I am truly blessed, having been descended

from a long line of noble nut shellers.

I take great joy in guillotining the nuts with a sharp blade,

exposing the meaty brains inside.

My most favorite thing to do once they’re shelled and popped

into our August Majesty’s mouth

is crunch the shells beneath my fists.

I hereby declare that the best feeling ever.

Taking the Amtrak Vermonter on Martin Luther King Jr. Weekend to Brattleboro

Trees accustomed to swaying softly

formerly anchored telephone poles

snow-dusted mountains hardened to a sedentary life

ramble past your window

as if aware of something secret

looming over the horizon

like how cows lie down

when they sense a storm

or how Lassie knew Timmy had

fallen down a ventilation shaft or wandered

into a live mine field

while you, placid in the cup-holder

spill not a drop

they clamor: enough is enough

and the man in the gray flannel suit

stands, declares his aspiration:

medieval battle recreationist!

the woman in the aisle next to you

pumps her fists in the air and chants

sommelier! sommelier! (sommelière?)

potato chip specialist, opera singer

brewmaster, action figure fashion designer

one by one dreams

crackle and bounce amid the coach cars

and even the countryside decides to dusts itself off

pack its bags and take a little ‘me’ time

for an eco-vacation to Costa Rica

leaving you flustered and wondering

why oh why

you never went to sleepaway spacecamp

and now you’ve been left in the lurch

on a stretch of frosty tracks

with nary a bag of peanuts in sight.

Oh, Canada

The Canadian beaver is known for its industriousness.

It is also known for being mild-mannered and polite.

It mates for life and is a very social animal,

living and working with others in pastoral harmony.

But be forewarned: the beaver is not to be taken lightly.

The beaver has been known to fell small trees,

creating limpid ponds, which, while ideal for reflection,

can cause dangerous flooding in low lying areas.

The beaver’s ability to change the landscape is second only to that of humans.

Recently a crudely fashioned beaver lodge

was spotted along the banks of the Bronx River…

How can we be certain that these creatures will not take over?

This new and deceptively cuddly form of eco-terrorism has no place here.

We cannot rest on our haunches until all alien beavers are rounded up.

They must be sent back up north from whence they came.

Our national security depends on it, my friends.

SUPER HUGE ANNOUNCEMENT COMING SOON

There is a mega-huge announcement that will drastically effect the future of humanity coming soon from O Sweet Flowery Roses.


What's up with this colorful representation of jewels? Precious Reward Items Zoned Equally.
Stay tuned...

OSFR II: Monster Success!

Thanks to the standing-room super no vacancy crowd of 25 (a big 25!) who made it out to Flushnik Studios in East Williamsburg/Bushwick for OSFR II! Enjoy these pictures from the show, including readers (from top to bottom):

The crowd begins to gather and grow...
I made this poster
Cameraman Leland Fischer and OSFR Vice President of Acquisitions Becky Dewing
(we're taping for NYC public access)
Russell Jaffe
David K. Tamura
Shannah Schilit
Niina Polari
Sean Lyman Frasier

WE ARE 2 WEEKS AWAY

Editor-in-Chief Russell Jaffe wants to know...

...are YOU READY for O SWEET FLOWERY READING II?!?!?!

Here's who's ready for certain:

Sean Lyman Frasier, editor of Fat Candiru Press (read at the last event, too)
Niina Polari, editor of At Large Magazine and facilitator of the Bushwick Public Library reading series
David K. Tamura, poet and MMA trainer/afficionado
Shannah Schilit, a regular jack-of-all trades artist (and prolific blogger...see?)

plus myself and, so far, perhaps one or two others...I have a working list.

If you want to sign up for the next reading, email us please.

And keep on a'sendin.

See you January 22. 8:00 pm. Flushnik Studios, 698 Flushing Ave. Brooklyn.

If you don't know...


...now you know.

Featured Poet: David Kowalczyk

“David Kowalczyk lives and writes in Oakfield, New York. His poetry has appeared in five anthologies and over seventy magazines, including California Quarterly, Maryland Review, and St. Ann's Review. He has taught English in Changwon, South Korea, and San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, as well as at several American colleges, including Arizona State. David is fond of, in no particular order: Thai food, Canadian ales, Maggie Mae Ryan, foggy mornings, and the geese that fly over his house in late autumn.”

Prestidigitation

The epitome of this.

The antithesis of that.

Both mother and father

of the wind,

it is usually preceded

by silent laughter, and

has a great affinity for

morally bankrupt leprechauns.

Loves to play Hungarian

rhapsodies upon its violin.

Chicken Noodle Soup


INGREDIENTS: CHICKEN STOCK (ENRICHED) EGG NOODLES, WHEAT FLOUR, EGG SOLIDS, NIACIN,FERROUS SULFATE, THIAMINE MONONITRATE, RIBOFLAVIN, FOLIC ACID, COOKED CHICKEN MEAT,

WATER. CONTAINS LESS THAN 2% OF SALT, CHICKEN FAT, COOKED MECHANICALLY SEPARATED CHICKEN, MONOSODIUM GLUTAMATE,

CORNSTARCH, ONION POWDER, MODIFIED FOOD STARCH, YEAST EXTRACT, SPICE EXTRACT, SOY PROTEIN ISOLATE, SODIUM PHOSPHATES, BETA CAROTENE FOR COLOR, CHICKEN FLAVOR (CONTAINS CHICKEN STOCK, CHICKEN POWDER, CHICKEN FAT) FLAVORING, DEHYDRATED GARLIC

Poems in and of Themselves

abbatoir angst avuncular badinage

brouhaha callipygian charivari clandestine

cyesis doyenne effervescent endemic

gargoyle hegira insatiable keen

maculation nimbus opprobrious ordure

pedicular pedologist perambulate persiflage

puissant putrid quoin schmozzle schnorrer

sesquepedian shibboleth simulacrum subversive

sumptuous sunicular suskin tectonic

tinctuous traduce trepidation vagary

venal woof zeugma