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

Featured Poet: Ray Succre

"Ray Succre currently lives on the southern Oregon coast with his wife and son. He has been published in Aesthetica, BlazeVOX, and Pank, as well as in numerous others across as many countries. His novel Tatterdemalion (Cauliay Publishing) was recently released in print and is available most places. He tries hard.

For inquiry, publication history, and information, visit me online: http://raysuccre.blogspot.com"

The Source of Time-Travel

He’s fond of stating California

greeted him with a heat wave,

thirteen cents in pocket, but yet

a Cadillac and house were attained

in the months post arrival.

“I worked it out, things were

great back then, but it all turned.

And to shit. It always does and will.”

I agree so he won’t pistol-whip

my afternoon with poisonous

explanations.

I get the notion California carried him

out like chunks of broken cement.

He talks and grows angrier, then

slows to measure a sixties notion

of karma as the sole punishment

for those most internal of misdeeds:

“A painful consequence for

an infraction of the rules in

a painful, changing game

that is always inside you.”

He rates, criticizes, and complains

as if these acts were on sale.

Always the review, never the art.

“I go ahead ten mental years and

use hindsight on now,” he says,

“and I act on what I think I’ll know.

This pushes my head at a warped

lens, and seeing through,

it’s a lot of shit, this time of me.”

Puke Diver

Though my turns are ultimate topples,

pikeflip to layout, the knees unhinging,

ankles in revolutions like a turning toy crank,

even to the marvel of falling I still

perform a marvelous drop.

I dive in, diminutive splash, suffer a layer of

potato mash and apple flesh,

peas, chicken strings, cosmos of cubed-carrots

that the acid has rounded, as

the cords in my reddening eyes

work the image of sesame seeds past.

I bottom, arch, and navigate up through flecks

of spring onion. Treading a meniscus of

greasy broth. I surface, where the oils part,

swimming in the biley, crystallizing tang of it all.

How by-the-instant my arms tire,

breaths furling into topside foam,

and then up into steam streamed into heat.

I dive to the cooler level; I know heat can

leach the very voice from a throat.

I reach the wall, ascend, and ladder out.

A man congratulates, and soon I am banging my

ears to clear them, clearing my mind for next

drop.

This is the manner of my sturdiest passion,

and a soily will strongly realized.

Lloyd’s Boilerpot

Maisy had left for the restroom, and I stood there, waiting to be seated.

"Just one today?" the Groan asked.

"No, two. Smoking."

Lloyd’s Boilerpot was a coastal hick-joint with a restaurant and tavern

in its guts. I was seated.

"Menus?" the Groan inquired.

"Just one. For my wife. And two coffees."

“Sure thing. Guess it's a good thing they got Lucky outta here." she said.

"What?"

"Good thing they got Lucky outta here."

"I don't—"

"Be right back with the coffee." she said before spilling off, a head

of patchy hair above showing, withered cleavage. The Groan

was a misshapen woman that someone had tried to wrap in a dress

and help with a nametag.

Maisy returned. I told her a menu was coming. She discovered we were out

of cigarettes.

“I’ll buy some in the tavern half.” I said.

The tavern’s weight had settled over years and the door into the tavern

only opened halfway, catching the faded carpet.

I slid in, found the machines. One was an old 45 jukebox

and the other was the cigarette machine. They were set up

beside one another.

I put in a five, the machine spit it out. I reinserted the five,

the machine spit it out. I put it in backward, the machine spit it out,

face down, creased, spit it out, spit it out.

There was an old crone in the bar, staring at me from a barstool and

brushing her hair with a large, teal brush. She kept drawing her

lower lip inward, as if it were a piece of food that hadn’t made it in.

I approached the bartender.

"I don't think the machine over there will take these new fives.

Could I exchange it?" I asked.

"The cigarette machine?"

The bartender’s face dented into her head like bruises on fruit

that had fallen from a truck on the highway.

The hairbrushing woman was beside me, still staring a hole in my head.

"Yes, the cigarette machine." I repeated.

"Son, that machine won't take the new fives." the bartender replied,

waving her hand at me. One of her ears bent, then straightened.

"I know,” I said, “Could I exchange it?"

"Could... what?" She didn’t understand.

An old light wedged in the dingey ceiling phased out, shot back on.

"Could I trade my new five... for an old five, is what I’m asking."

"Trade me fives? What for?"

The crew of men at the bar were noontimers, lifers. They didn't care

to notice me, but the bar crone with the Barbie fixation watched me

as she crotch-slid off the stool and dragged herself off into the dark.

"What for? ...So I can buy a pack of cigarettes."I repeated, frustrated.

The bartender stroked one of her eyebrows.

"Well, that machine is set at four-fifty."

A buzzing sound began just below my left ear and the anger began,

rising steady, my coals stirred, my forehead swimming.

"I— goddamnit, yeah, I know."

"Here son, why don't you just give me your five and I'll get another."

the bartender suggested.

Someone in the back yelled fuck. No one moved.

"...okay." I said, agitated.

I gave it to her.

She gave it to me.

Then, the bar crone with the teal hairbrush was leaning against

the cigarette machine, brushing her hair, waiting for me.

I approached, hoping she wasn't going to advance on me.

"How ya been, valentine?" she gagged.

"Uh, hey. I need to—" She moved out of my way.

"—yeah. Thanks."

I put the old five in and the machine whirred.

I pressed a button that was hot to the touch.

The machine began to click and hum.

The bar crone carefully worked a dollar into the jukebox,

slid it through the slot with a tampon knowledge.

She picked a track from memory.

My cigarettes still hadn't been dispensed but the machine was

working on something. A new, spinning noise had joined

the others.

A Yardbirds song began to play. She was watching me, playing

wryness, acting the old fuckhole. Did she feed the shirking men

who I could see stuffed in those dim corners and sitting on flat beer?

Was she theirs?

I looked at her and she hopped and snorted.

"Fuggin' hey!" she exclaimed.

“Okay.” I replied.

My cigarettes fell out of the machine onto the floor.

I retrieved them, turned, and left the tavern quickly.

In the restaurant, as I approached the booth and my wife, the Groan

crept up next to me with a strange smile.

"You know, I'm tryin' to quit but shit, you know what I mean."

A cook peeked out at her from a slat in the wall with slow,

lichen eyes and a swollen left cheek.

"Uh, keep at it, I guess.” I said. The groan made her noise.

"At least Lucky's outta here. Thank stars." she said.

“Yeah, no shit.” I responded, leaving her there. My wife had

overheard this odd bit of verbal transfer.

I sat down in the booth.

"Who’s Lucky?" Maisy asked me.

"I don’t know. But we have to leave."

"We do?"

"Yes."

"Now?"

"Yes, now."

"Well, I haven't ordered yet. Why?"

"Bad place."

"Bad place?"

"Yeah, let's go."

I went into that tavern again, four years later, for the same reason,

and while standing at the cigarette machine, a man crept up

behind me, stated angrily that he wouldn’t stand for my stealing

his seat.

I turned, and while looking at him,

vanished into smoke and falling shit.

Featured (Christmas) Poet: Mary Brown

ATTENTION ALL FLOWERIES: It's Christmas time, and you know what that means...fierce competition from that dastardly Hannukkah (my Grandma is still fuming at me for missing her Matzo Ball soup), 20% more effigies of the baby Christ on people's lawns, and, of course, miracles. This isn't quite a full fledged, part-the-red-seas type, as such...but it's been lingering in the O Sweet Flowery mailbag line and deserves to be brought out. Tis' the Season. Remember: JAN 22 IS THE NEXT READING XXXTRAVAGANZA. "Hi, I'm an out of touch poet, Mary Brown, from small town Oklahoma. I took up writing again to fill a void, and am more thankful than ever for creative outlets! Here is my first poem in years." Time is irrelevant in a world of you, But still it feels wasted. I'm strong, yet helpless, my weakness was you, And still I wasted away. Rebuilding is starting new. Time was wasted building a life unused. So much time I wasted. Worlds of life are floating by Far from my grasp. Time spent chasing another world that's not real Time I wasted to become your ideal Helplessly wasting away. Now life has no weight, my roots are dry. I have nothing green, nothing new, Any life I had I gave to you, I wasted away. Winter has settled deep in my veins yet time is on my side, for Spring is coming!

Featured Poet: Tacuma Baye

“My name is Tacuma Baye and that's African for "He is alert and straightforward!" I am a New York native, born and raised in Brooklyn. Currently I'm 34 years old, father of a beautiful little girl and aside from my occupation and daddy duties, I'm an adventure and good time seeker. I ride/race motorcycles (nonprofessionally), have a love for entertaining and I am a writer. This is my passion. I'm working on many projects which include stories, novels, screenplays and of course, poetry. During my school years I've always been encouraged to pursue writing. Throughout my life it has been more of a private affair for me until I began to share my poetry with close friends. I've never been published and I came upon "O Sweet Flowery Roses" while on Craigslist. I would like to share some of my work with you and I hope you enjoy them!”

It's a real honor and privilege to publish emerging poets on this site, and I think there's a particularly cool feeling with being the first journal to do so.

Plus, rejection slips really suck. Ask anyone who's ever submitted anything.

A reminder to NYC poets: Jan. 22 is the date of our next reading. If you don't know...now you know.

I Wasn’t Supposed To Love You

I wasn’t supposed to love you

A good time, a fuck or a screw

Nah! believe it or not I had more respect for you

But the bottom line is, I wasn’t supposed to love you

I was supposed to break down your barriers. I was supposed to influence your mind

But in order to achieve that I wasn’t supposed to give up mine

Not my mind, not my heart, but I gave it all

No wait! You took it all! You tripped me! You made me fall!

Put my back against the wall!

Till I had you in the hall against the very same wall

Please! Let it be my name you call…

Tell me you love me, that’s how it should be

I wasn’t supposed to love you…I don’t think you hear me

You can’t say you hear me, calling

Eyes flooded with tears, reflecting on the years

Hard times, facing questions, reliving my fears

Who are you? How’d you get here? Who gave you the right?

No fuck that! Who gave you the light?

Unveiling what’s behind the shadows, forcing me to go through me closet

Stupid ass cops, why didn’t they go through the closet

They would have found him, and then it would end

If she’s your friend, why both of y’all in the bed with him

See…here we go again, taking me there. Why you making me share?

Don’t you know I’m selfish…?

I take everything and I don’t give shit!

You heard the rumors, act like you ain't believe it!

I sent you gifts, tell me you ain’t receive it!

What shoes? My gifts were love

Love is…all I have…for now that is

Me stay down? That is not the life I intend to live

I’m on the rise my dear. Take my hand and have no fear

Our love will persevere! Wait! How’d you get me back here?

I wasn’t supposed to love you! Don’t you get it?

Am I trying to convince you or me…shit, forget it!

It’s all out now, can’t try to hide in the open

I just dread the day I’m left in the middle of the ocean

Drowning…

Waiting For You

Here I sit, waiting for you.

Like a dream, or a wish, or a prayer…Waiting for you to come true

Here I sit, frozen in time

Seconds pass as if they’re hours, days pass as if they’re years

Life goes on, All lives except mines

Here I lay in a pool of black, as black as a moonless night

Caught up in your rapture, so the pillow I cling to tight

Waiting for the day black turns to white, burning oils and candle lights

No longer a pool of darkness but a sea of delight

Soaking in your Brown Sugar, drowning in your sweet essence

Delving deeper, foregoing air. To die here would be heaven

But instead I lie here condemned to hell. Instead I lie here naked, abandoned

If hell is hot why am I so cold? You said I have power, should I have been more demanding?

Don’t make me wait for you, do you wait for me?

Do you cry, hug the pillow, shun your surroundings, forego companionship?

Ignore needs and desires, because your body aches only for me?

Here I sit, my very essence throbbing, pulsing, laying with great weight in my hand

The weight of your body on mines, but only in my mind. The weight of the Cognac heavy on my eyes

The weight of the truth pressed upon me. But never as heavy as the weight of the lies

It’s not me it’s you, ride me. Yes it’s you! Straddle me, fuck me, give me my pussy! Yes, it’s you!

But it’s not…it’s here the lies just stopped. On the floor beneath me, it’s here the lies just dropped

Body jerking, hand gripping, heart racing, my love dripping…

It’s not you, it’s only a vision. It’s not you, it’s only me wishing

Wanting, waiting, taunting, hating. This process is a task, why do it I ask?

To wait for you is to have faith in you. To trust that you will return

To believe that no matter what takes place, it’s for me you yearn

So here I sit waiting for you, as a true hunter waiting on his prey would do

Patient, persistent, tenacious, relentless. I sit alone…waiting for you…

Quickie

Galloping hearts racing against time

Sweat defying the laws of gravity

Lip gloss upon lips, upon face, upon chest

Eyes dancing, predicting the others next move

Hair pulled back, Ears guarding the door

Flames escaping through muffled moans

Bodies chasing the climax, yet needing the moment

Make it last, but be quick about it!

Shhh!