Call for an international incident

What do Iceland, Poland, Spain, Croatia, India, Czech Republic, the Philippines, Brazil, the Netherlands, the Dominican Republic, Canada, Mexico, Ireland, Australia, and Fiji all have in common? Obviously, people there dig OSFR. This is just a call to those people: If you read this site, I am calling out to you: submit! It doesn't even have to be in English. As long as you like it, I like it. We like it. So send something in and be the first UnAmerican to post poems on the Floweriest Front this side of the digi-webtron. Glad to keep gettin' submissions! If you have sent stuff in and it isn't up yet, be patient! It's on it's way! Best, Russell Jaffe Editor-in-Chief

Featured Poet: David K. Tamura

"I am a poet...David K. Tamura..I have been published online at Bareback.mag

these are three different poems...

thank you for reading..." Floweries, please enjoy these three poems and the bonus fun of a font change in the first one.

Subway dawn

2/1/08

I walk a thousand subway steps

to reach for the exit

The sun warms my face

like a million deserts

The canyons of Manhattan

fade in and out.

though I see many persons

Not one is human enough to say hello

As if wandering in the deserted city

of unwelcomes

Eyes gazing downward

I find solitude in the ipod

Softly the Night

The Cars become shadows of light that slip into emptiness

I watch her drift slowly in and out of dreams

The sunset beach, crimson

The forest of forgetfulness

The path of wonder and despair lost in the fog of forever

Rain attacks the windshield like tiny drummers with sounds of their stomachs

Hitting glass

Fresh, the air becomes hallucinatory

and seductive,

and slowly it melts.

Melts my thoughts toward infinity

That infinite quiet orgasm,

that sweetness can never touch….

That night has left its gates open for me,

To once again explore and wander down

Its numerous paths and castles..

And to find that opening…

which will allow me a glimpse of Heaven

and hell, seems so far away….

Mountains

There are always mountains before me

to climb, caress and kill,

spilling narrow passages of bitter discretion.

Ghost markings guarding the passage.

Only nobility allowed to penetrate

their wishes come true…..

No admittance, intestine buried…..

the barriers always there.

Impasse, a restriction into your dreams.

We melt, fighting the extinction, the inexistence,

the forgotten, unconsciousness.

Our adherence to perservere, is our only optimism,

reassuring the belief.

The horde surges swiftly toward the

massacre.

Indifferent, uninvolved, dispassionate.

Confining our journey, our ocean crossing

leading to our hearts.

Featured Poet: Robert Voris

"Born in the City and County of San Francisco, Robert Voris lives and works in Brooklyn, New York. Previous writings have been published by the literary magazines New York Collective, JMWW and Slow Trains." The New York Poetry Invasion (NYPI) continues on O Sweet Flowery Roses. Please enjoy Mr. Voris' poems. Realm of Possibility

What if the East River were to freeze?

If, on one of those nights when the snow stings

Our eyes, we were able to peer through the blizzard

And found ourselves confronted with a ripple of jade

Punctured by the steel towers of the bridges?

Would we shake our heads, dizzy from drink, chapped

By the cold and trudge across the drifts to the warm den

Our bodies create in your bedding?

Whiskey winds whipping around our bones;

Stale smoke smell clings fervently to our hair, skin, moist breaths;

There’s soft cash dusted with lint in our pockets,

And perhaps I’ll rub your feet to bring back your

Circulation once we’re home;

Maybe you’ll brush melted droplets of very cold

Water out of my eyebrows;

Or could it be that this night – eve

That nature trumps all human concern –

Could it be that tonight you and I will venture

East, lace our bloodless feet into childish,

Ridiculous bladed boots and glide from Corlears

To the Kills, navigating thoughtless and carefree

Away from adult trappings out and out into wonder?

Sometimes I miss you

Sometimes I miss you.

But not always.

Occasionally I think of you.

But not every moment.

Certain nights I dream of you.

But not often enough.

When I do miss you

I think of the times

I didn’t miss you and wonder

If I’m not missing you

As much as I should.

When I think of you

I remember the occasions

I spent in contemplation of moments

With others and imagine you

Feeling slighted, if only you knew

How few are the moments I think of you.

When I dream of you

I am aware of how very long

It’s been since I’ve seen or heard from you.

This rare apparition of the you

I sometimes miss

And occasionally think of

Triggers a dread feeling:

I have misplaced you.

That you are gone

And it is my fault.

I lost you by allowing my

Thoughts to wander to moments not

Spent with you.

By missing others during the time

When I am not missing you.

By dreaming of flight

Rather than you.

This feeling lasts long after

The dream of you

Has concluded, driving me to miss you

More intensely, to spend longer

Thinking of you, until a night arrives

When I cannot sleep,

Cannot dream my pale imitation of you.

And so I put pen to page,

Attempting to place you safely

Somewhere I can find you

In those dread moments

When I panic that you are lost always.

On the sidewalks in front of the intricate

Facades and arched windows of massive

Apartment houses are piles of bulging plastic bags.

It’s trash day on the Upper West Side.

All of the pretty girls wear high boots

In this part of town, standard-issue-like.

The trees push against the bricks of their planter boxes,

As if attempting to break free and join their brethren in the park a few blocks away. Above the brown brick buildings the sky is all clouds.

No sunlight permeates them, no nourishing water falls from them.

They are plain gray, as lifeless as the concrete.

In the park the dead leaves rustle in a shallow breeze,

The water is dreary brown, the turf hard underfoot.

No birds call. Steaming puffs of breath move along

The paths beside the lake, but there is no sound of conversation, nor of play.

The cloudy exhalations dissipate quickly in that breeze

That rustles the dead leaves – the only sound.

It is but a few minutes past four and yet night is falling.

The lamps are lit, but no life congregates.

In this chill there are no readers, no insects;

There is hollow light and silent cold.

Midtown and the millions of dark windows

High above the cab-crowded streets.

Smokers huddle in doorways,

Tourists gather to gaze upon impossibly expensive baubles

And no bell, silver or otherwise, can be heard.

The towers, the glass and steel ever-erect

Cocks of capitalism, create canyons.

Upon these walls , the horns, voices, sirens echo unrelentingly.

The winter wind is funneled down, cutting through coats,

Whipping scarves every which way.

Coffee cups clatter, caught in the bitter gusts and tossed

From their perches atop the overflowing litter baskets.

Votive candles glitter invitingly in expensive

Restaurants and the churches are all closed.

The waters of the East River swim their languid

Course to the sea alongside the impassive

Obelisk that is the United Nations building.

Across the street in an abandoned playground

A lone man in a tattered coat tips a bottle in a tattered

Brown bag to his lips. He sits on a bench, bathed in beer-hued streetlights.

Noxious fumes from the FDR.

Foul scents from the river.

The river red-wine dark, flowing.

The headlamps white-wine light, unmoving.

Stuyvesant Town, each of its buildings larger than any address uptown.

Combined with Peter Cooper Village, some 50,000 souls

Call this quarter mile square of the island home.

Size is but one part of might, though, and here the facades

Bear no adornment, the windows are simple rectangles

And the grocer and wine shop are

Replaced by the deli and liquor store.

The crowds are just as substantial here, but the full-length

Wool coat has given way to hoodies under beat-up

Leather jackets or layer upon layer of hole-riddled sweaters.

Haircuts seem to have been done by razor, if at all.

Hands are pierced, faces tattooed.

The low, old buildings bear intricate

Spraypaint tattoos, pierced by fire escapes.

Street vendors display gloves, knit caps, but no one’s buying.

The folks down here all already look exactly as they want.

Men in tight jeans shiver alongside

Women in bright coats, all of them sucking smoke.

Whether unaware, uncaring or unbelieving

Of the consequences, they inhale and exhale,

Shaking in the cold, drawing no warmth from their small fires.

Outside the subway stairs there are men

Hawking half-price newspapers. No one buys.

Those that care about the news know the stories by now;

Those that don’t know the news by now don’t care to.

Chinatown keeps expanding.

Little Italy’s three-block toehold remains,

But the smell of hoisin surrounds it.

Lower East Side streets bear the aroma of plum sauce

When once they reeked of nothing whatsoever.

Downtown towers are as depressing

As their Midtown cousins are impressive.

They are equally reminiscent of hard-ons,

But down here it’s the cadaver’s erection.

No windowshoppers, no champagne lounges,

Just security guards, bored and lonesome.

The sky remains implacable.

It is full night and the cloud-cover gives as little

To the moon as it did to the sun.

Winter Wasteland

I. UWS

On the sidewalks in front of the intricate

Facades and arched windows of massive

Apartment houses are piles of bulging plastic bags.

It’s trash day on the Upper West Side.

All of the pretty girls wear high boots

In this part of town, standard-issue-like.

The trees push against the bricks of their planter boxes,

As if attempting to break free and join their brethren in the park a few blocks away. Above the brown brick buildings the sky is all clouds.

No sunlight permeates them, no nourishing water falls from them.

They are plain gray, as lifeless as the concrete.

II. CP

In the park the dead leaves rustle in a shallow breeze,

The water is dreary brown, the turf hard underfoot.

No birds call. Steaming puffs of breath move along

The paths beside the lake, but there is no sound of conversation, nor of play.

The cloudy exhalations dissipate quickly in that breeze

That rustles the dead leaves – the only sound.

It is but a few minutes past four and yet night is falling.

The lamps are lit, but no life congregates.

In this chill there are no readers, no insects;

There is hollow light and silent cold.

III. MT

Midtown and the millions of dark windows

High above the cab-crowded streets.

Smokers huddle in doorways,

Tourists gather to gaze upon impossibly expensive baubles

And no bell, silver or otherwise, can be heard.

The towers, the glass and steel ever-erect

Cocks of capitalism, create canyons.

Upon these walls , the horns, voices, sirens echo unrelentingly.

The winter wind is funneled down, cutting through coats,

Whipping scarves every which way.

Coffee cups clatter, caught in the bitter gusts and tossed

From their perches atop the overflowing litter baskets.

Votive candles glitter invitingly in expensive

Restaurants and the churches are all closed.

The waters of the East River swim their languid

Course to the sea alongside the impassive

Monolith that is the United Nations building.

Across the street in an abandoned playground

A lone man in a tattered coat tips a bottle in a tattered

Brown bag to his lips. He sits on a bench, bathed in beer-hued streetlights.

IV. MH/EV

Noxious fumes from the FDR.

Foul scents from the river.

The river red-wine dark, flowing.

The headlamps white-wine light, unmoving.

Stuyvesant Town, each of its buildings larger than any address uptown.

Combined with Peter Cooper Village, some 50,000 souls

Call this quarter mile square of the island home.

Size is but one part of might, though, and here the facades

Bear no adornment, the windows are simple rectangles

And the grocer and wine shop are

Replaced by the deli and liquor store.

The crowds are just as substantial here, but the full-length

Wool coat has given way to hoodies under beat-up

Leather jackets or layer upon layer of hole-riddled sweaters.

Haircuts seem to have been done by razor, if at all.

Hands are pierced, faces tattooed.

The low, old buildings bear intricate

Spraypaint tattoos, pierced by fire escapes.

Street vendors display gloves, knit caps, but no one’s buying.

The folks down here all already look exactly as they want.

Men in tight jeans shiver alongside

Women in bright coats, all of them sucking smoke.

Whether unaware, uncaring or unbelieving

Of the consequences, they inhale and exhale,

Shaking in the cold, drawing no warmth from their small fires.

V. LES/DT

Outside the subway stairs there are men

Hawking half-price newspapers. No one buys.

Those that care about the news know the stories by now;

Those that don’t know the news by now don’t care to.

Chinatown keeps expanding.

Little Italy’s three-block toehold remains,

But the smell of hoisin surrounds it.

Lower East Side streets bear the aroma of plum sauce

When once they reeked of nothing whatsoever.

Downtown towers are as depressing

As their Midtown cousins are impressive.

They are equally reminiscent of hard-ons,

But down here it’s the cadaver’s erection.

No windowshoppers, no champagne lounges,

Just security guards, bored and lonesome.

The sky remains implacable.

It is full night and the cloud-cover gives as little

To the moon as it did to the sun.

A Monster Reading in Bushwick / E. Williamsburg!

Friday June 27th - 8pm

698 Flushing Ave. #1F (1 block from Flushing stop on JMZ, 2 from Flushing stop on G)

Brooklyn (E. Williamsburg/Bushwick)

Ring buzzer!

8:00 Party Starts!!! Yes!

9:00-9:45 Live Performance

Jessica Fenton - acoustic rock

Charlie Christianson - jazz piano and voice

Malina Rauschenfels - classical cello/flute and performance

ModmylIfe - video short

Russell Jaaffe - poetry

Dan McCarthy of Incomplete Denial- rock

Paul Damon Thomas - rock

9:45-10:15 ambient music: icelu

10:15-11pm live performance

Aldo Perez and Co.

Matthew Varvil - banjo & voice

Free Love Forum- comedy video short

Patrick Ireland - Opera

Kids Creative singalong

jmtr

Blake Faulds- Dance duet

Pastor Dan and Co. - Bible message ambient music/visuals

11:00 CAKE!

11pm-11:30 ambient music and visuals: Teoh and Schoster

11:30-12:15 live music

Emily Zempel - group yoga break

jmtr

Steel Fluba and Ruth - 80's covers

Maria Petschnig - Video and performance Art

Unicornicopia - voice keyboard electronics

12:15-? ambient music etc.

Also!

Paintings by Charis Braun

Screenprinting by Chauncey Smith and Sarah Fritz

Delicious cake by Master Baker Reid Stratton

And other tasty snacks and merriments!

Featured Poet: Sean Lyman Frasier

"Sean Lyman Frasier writes and performs poetry in Harlem, NY. He has
recently appeared in the anthology West Memphis Witch Hunt and has
printed several collections with Fat Candiru Press. He was also the
first poet featured in The Horror Writer Magazine. Sean collects
pictures of proboscis monkeys and constantly daydreams of sloppy joes.
He was once a member of a vampire gang and pretends to this day that
he regrets it."

Check this out: vampires, monkeys, sloppy joes, and soaking, abyssal regret. This is a sweet flowery flower of poetry, readers! I apologize for the site delays; one must find a job by inserting their competitive proboscis into the nectary world. That sometimes means the free poetry blog doesn't get the time of day. But love triumphs:

The Duel

Main Street hasn't changed much in a century and a half. Erase the
power lines, replace the asphalt with dust and that's pretty much it.
They built a new wing for the library, expanded it from one room to
two in 1971, but all the other buildings look the same.

Right there, in that patch of dry grass between the library and the
post office, is where Bruce MacDougal and Humphrey Clarke drew pistols
back in the summer of 1908. Only homicide in town history.

There's a clipping from the town bulletin in the library. Mr. Clarke's
obituary. There's also a picture of Mr. Clarke in the town hall at the
end of Main Street there. Looks like a serious man, tight-lipped and
strong-jawed, like he never spoke a word in his life. Has a thin nose,
long, like a shark fin. The photograph is so aged the paper where the
eyes once were has crumbled or worn away and all you can see is the
black wood of the frame behind it.

As for MacDougal, you don't get away with killing a mayor. Especially
right in the middle of town. He was hanged next to the woods behind
the Peterson silo. Left a wife behind who used to watch my best friend
when he was young. He said she always sang. Couldn't tell if the songs
were sad or not.

There's nothing in the town bulletin or free press regarding the
reason for the duel. All we know is that they took ten paces, turned,
and fired. Mr. Clarke took the shot in the chest and fell to the
ground and coughed a bit. MacDougal frowned and put the revolver in
his holster. That's all anyone knows.

Only homicide in town history. The actual story is just a whisper now
in that patch of dry grass. They both have graves over on Rice Hill.
Opposite sides of the cemetery. I guess that's the whole story now.
Two cold stones with the dust of old flowers scattered about. An old
photo crumbling on the wall.


Vacant Railroad Tracks in Rensselaer

As day breaks, a doe bends its neck and sniffs an aluminum can
flattened on the rail and gingerly crosses the tracks.

A bearded man stumbles over the rusted metal with a cloud of cheap rum
stink in close pursuit. Black plastic bag slung over his shoulder.
Looks wildly behind at unseen enemies, sees only his cavernous foot
prints.

Snow falls. One inch, then two on the preexisting foot. Train tracks
barely visible. A faint red-brown line of eroding metal hiding in the
snow.

Nothing moves for hours. Snow stops. Wind stops. Birds asleep or
silent. Factory hum from beyond the gray trees lining the tracks.

Camouflaged man with a bright orange thermal mask drags a fawn behind,
limp-necked, eyes moist and unblinking, a thin red trail melting the
snow.

A pale blue butterfly swings low and topples into the snow. Twitches.
Flutters forward and rests. Pushes back into the air and teeters away
on a strong gust.

Sun starts setting. Far off city lights join the darkness. The factory
hum at its unwavering pitch and volume. A constant murmur. The
countryside hangs on every word.

Night. An owl glides, digs its talons at the snow, comes up with nothing.

A light green Chevy pulls up to the tracks. Old model, mismatched
white door on the driver's side. Headlights sharp on the snow. The car
settles on the tracks. The headlights turn off.

A Premature Conclusion

We can talk all day
about who is bombing who
and what skeleton face
should be on the dollar bill
but the real question is
wh

Featured Poet: Andrew Terhune

Andrew Terhune is a poet, father, and proud representative of the displaced South in Chicago. As a Columbia College Chicago MFA candidate, he has published work in Columbia Poetry Review, in other journals, and right here on O Sweet Flowery Roses. The baby in the photo is not him, but may very well be related to him. What's that? That's is daughter? Awww, cute, poetry website! Cute.

I Time Travel to Save You From So Many Stupid Things

You see, you have a donut

and from where you sit

my face looks like squish.

There are a few things I’d like to keep from the unspoiled world,

but I’m caught in an accidental nap

which does you no good.

I know, briefly of things that belonged to

my mother.

Lovely. Unreadable.

The shag carpet is full of plastic crumbs,

which is not why they trimmed your bangs.

Colic. Without shadow

Mine is a face that sits, pressed hard

like the plastic shell in the quarter machine

outside the grocery store, under polished

pockets of human beings wandering, walking backwards

and if we are lucky, emptiness arrives

and you will crack open the shell and throw

my face and watch it slide down, down

the glass and like a tide rushing through me

I like how it feels.

Grasshopper Police

Sister,

you’d pick the color,

and you showed me how to point my fingers like a gun

we’d shoot everything that was red.

You called it grasshopper police, lodged comfortably in the back of

our father’s Jeep Wagoneer. In the very back,

you remember – it had that false wooden paneling.

We did puzzles at the dining room table

in our first house on Crewe Street. I remember yellow walls – they almost

seemed stained and there were frilly edges on the tablecloth.

I couldn’t make anything fit, my small hands, as dull and useless as mittens.

You told me to ask Jesus for help.

Does your face still hurt from the rock I threw?

Walking the long walk from the bus stop, I was angry and you were there.

In Janesville

I am dressed like a clown.

What is this tender strangeness?

Temporary. Artificial heartbreak.

The warmth breathes over the theatre.

The concrete. The petal’s tear.

And your sour face again like a wilting flower.

What have I really done

and where do I begin?

O Sweet Flowery Roses has moved a few doors down...

To here, New York City! I myself will be living in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. It's like a chili pepper, but far more emotionally spicy than spicy tasting. It's a lovely little neighborhood! Too bad it will be demolished by a FLOWERY POETIC ASSAULT! And you, reader, will help lead the charge!

OSFR: PHASE 2
You are probably unsure what Phase 1 was. Well, Phase 1 was making a web blog devoted to poetry. Done! Phase 2 will be the matriculation into NYC, including joining an artist's space my new pal John runs, and reading at lots O venues.

THE FUTURE: BAH GAWD, WHAT DOES IT HOLD?
A print version of this site! First come, first served. So I want to take at least one poem from everyone who has submitted thus far and publish them in a book. This is a goal to accomplish by first quarter 2009. Also, I want to begin to run OSFR readings at the artists space, which is in Bushwick, Brooklyn. All are welcome! More to come.

SUBMISSIONS
The submission process remains the same, and poets from all over the country and world should feel free to keep doin' what yer doin!

Best,
Russell Jaffe