Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Featured Poet: Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal works in the mental  health field, writes
poetry and short stories. He lives in
Los Angeles  County. His latest chapbook, Overcome, was published by Kendra
Steiner Editions,  and it is a
collaborative effort with photographer, Cynthia Etheridge.


The news of another murder on television,
or the news of crooks getting  away scot-free
makes me long for the days I watched cartoons.

In those days there were fewer murders.
I could do without  television.
I would just stare at mirrors instead.
I would watch myself at  noontime
eating an apple.  In the evening
I would change the mirrors  to another room.

I do not need television.
Maybe without it there would be fewer  murders.
Perhaps there would be more.
I think I would read a book  instead.

I could turn on the radio
and listen to the untalented musicians
on  the popular music stations.
I would complain about what happened to

good music.  A mirror would break.
I would long for the days of  TV.
The news of murders and crooks would return.
In the evening I would  lock all my doors.


In the soft evening
we sing without sound
and carve our hearts
and  dig out the pumpkin seeds.

Broken of heart we eat
of what is left of it
and descend into the  abyss.


On this night the moon
is not easy to look at.
Its light fills my  nose
with a pungent scent.

My lips turn blue and
cold.  The distant moon infects
me with a  sadness
I cannot escape.

I pace aimlessly
in the black night with the
devils of the  soul
whispering to me

to give up my soul to
them for a night of joy.
I become moist  with
sweat and defend my

sick heart with silence.
More awake than ever I
keep my soul  hostage.
It is all I have.

Unlike my heart, my
soul is intact.
Still I shiver from  the
moon’s disease as I

walk in confusion like
a lost child.   When I cry out
it is  my soul, which
reverberates on

this night, where the moon
is an eyesore.  It
fills me with  sadness.
I cannot escape.

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Featured Poet: William Stoneberger

                          The Mirror

               Sometime the mirror is my mother.
               Her hair,
                             going toward gray,
               graces my head.
               Her eyes,
                               owl-wise and ancient,
               emerge behind my own.
               I recognize their regrets,
               harbor their hopes like heirloom treasures.

               Sometimes the mirror is my father.
               His expression,
                                        almost evil,
               possesses my mouth.
               His attitude,
                                 all-mighty and apathetic,
               is my only legacy.
               I bear its terrible weight,
               feel its fangs sink into my spine.

               Sometimes the mirror is my mask.
               Its stare,
                             blank alabaster,
               terrorizes my mind.
               Its features,
                                  frozen and unfeeling,
               refuse my reflection.
               I give nothing away,
               shut my heart in a lead-lined vault.

               Sometimes the mirror is my self.
               My face,
                              sagging slightly,
               shows my years.
               My mind,
                              contemplative and nostalgic,
               imagines another life.
               I dream "me" out of existence,
               someone else stares back.

                                  An Artist Confesses

                     I have been a thief,
                     robbing life from the night
                     stealing its essence
                     inhaling all its offerings
                     like the cigarettes
                     I stole from my father
                     and snuck into dark corners
                     to smoke.

                     I have swiped the moon's power
                     and used it       
                     to weave a web,
                     ensnarling strangers
                     in that lacy seduction
                     - lust and lunacy.

                    I have taken the colors
                    of certain eyes
                    that offered their glances to me,
                    flashing like strobes
                    across bar rooms and lanes of traffic,
                    holding them up toward the light
                    like crystal prisms.
                    I have been a burglar,
                    breaking into the best of dreams
                    convincing them to belong to me
                    conning them into keeping me company
                    recreating them in my own image,
                    chiseling away.

                                         The Little Man

                            L (ove)
                               onliness lingers
                            in the little bed
                            in the little room
                            in the little house.

                            The little man
                            ( moan & groan )
                            ( regret) is in deep
                             in a drown of a river
                             of rolling rage.

                             He hums his heart
                             a dirge
                             lowdown dirty (dog) blues
                             & blacks
                             & grays (shadows)
                             ( ghosts).

                             Winter within
                             the reach his
                             ( arthritic ) fingers
                             he feels the grip
                             tighten ( his throat )

                             D (espair)
                             into circles under
                             his eyes (blind)
                             and he keeps the depression
                             tucked in a cr (amp)
                             tight twisted
                             little torture.

                             The little man
                             in the little house
                             all alone   trapped
                             ( tears )  in the temptation
                             to put an end to it all.

                             There's nothing little
                             about his pain ( massive )
                             large in l (ove)

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

OSFR is back in business

Please send poems, reviews, et. al. to We're back! Seriously. -Russell

Featured Poet: James Dye

James Jason Dye is a 26-year-old college student from Dubuque Iowa. He is a new writer whose poetry can be found on various publications such as Ampersand, Dogzplot, Poor Mojo’s Almanac, The Clockwise Cat, Aphelion, Calliope Nerve and Public Republic. He can be reached at or check out his blog at You can also download his free poetry e-book at

The Rose Again

The rose again above the mountain goes up the valley down. The wind lifts it off the ground its gravity pulling back around.

Ambush arose from its seat. A pillar of smoke arose in defeat.

The sun bowed down again.

The Fate of Night and Day

Darkness boasts the night. The Sun is down. Evening settles in.

The thickness blackens. Heavy is the weight. The gloom stagnates. The mass curdles.

Twilight congeals. It consumes the whole world. In the morning Dawn mourns.