New Poetry From Colin James



On the theater’s door
a few written words,
“This Theater Will Be Closed
Until A Run On Sentences
Adequately Compensates.”
The leather chairs
varnish their legs.
A thick green compensates
carpets and cashier.
No coming attractions, instead a slat
beneath a portrait with one eye
missing occasionally.
No mints either,
just the smell of insatiable consequence.
As if the balcony stairs could be arrogant
or led away.



— by Colin James



Copyright © 2015, by Colin James. All Rights Reserved.


Colin James has a chapbook of poems, A THOROUGHNESS NOT DEPRIVED OF ABSURDITY,
out from Pski’s Porch Press.


Rebecca Lee: Extemporaneous Love

The Possibilities


Extemporaneous doesn’t fit. If he were truly Extemporaneous, his syllables wouldn’t stop up the sentence. Something short like ‘cut’ or ‘pretty’ might be in style, but four syllables is not off the cuff. Extemporaneous peers quizzically over small bits of party food.

The party-goer closest, hunches – tiny teeth exposed. He warns off all other Possibilities of trying to snack. The caviar is barricaded by Verboten Love. With swimmable sweaters still tight, Verboten sits in front, blocking any hope of Extemporaneous eating.

Extemporaneous sadly weighs the heavy consequences of knowing forbidden friends. What would a party be without them?


  — by Rebecca Lee
 Copyright© 2013, by Rebecca Lee. All Rights Reserved.


Rebecca Lee has been writing since 1992 and enjoys such authors as: Albert Camus, Augusten Burroughs, and Lionel Shriver. Although she reads mostly novels, she writes mostly flash fiction and poetry. Currently Rebecca lives with her small cat in downtown Charlottesville, Virginia.


Joseph Robert: The Poem Inside

Poem Not in Me


Not a Poem in Me,
But I am not lost for images or cleverer phrasings,
Simply lost,
Like a half-made analogy, like forgetting how to wink,
So, blinking, trying to will how to know how to whistle,
My lips round and,
I feel I believe there are man-eaters around,
I strain, listening for huskie barks,
Trying to tune out the police force’s ambulatory sirens,
Rather those dogs, cold and white, barking,
I picture a mugger, who pictures me,
Hearing a polar bear pad over tall drifts, somehow.
Who is stalking us both?
Then thirst makes me contemplate licking this igloo’s roof,
Freezing my tongue to its roundness,
Grasping inheritable spear, I glow in oily lamp light,
Whilst your self-expression takes a back seat,
Content with shouting directions at the jagged dreams,
Of ragged sleep, who drive in shifts down mad highways,
ut that’s hours off still yet, and yet,
I remember to breathe,
When I catch myself holding my breath,
Playing at my casted role of being that ascetic mystic,
Caught with crumb grubby fingers,
At bottom of that annihilating cookie jar,
How dumb am I?
No, seriously, I am asking.


— By Joseph Robert


Copyright ©2013, by Joseph Robert. All Rights Reserved.

Joseph Robert was born and raised in the Midwest. However, he has always been partial to Hawaiian beaches. Nevertheless: Go Badgers! After living and working for several years in rural Japan, he now resides in London with his wife, writer and poet Leilanie Stewart. In his spare time, you can find him at the British Museum trying to teach himself how to read Sumerian cuneiform. Don’t worry, yes, he has seen Evil Dead, so doesn’t read any of it out loud.


Neil Ellman: A Rose is a Phantom of a Rose

Some Roses and Their Phantoms

(after the painting by Dorothea Tanning)



When roses die their petals shed
like skin peeled from a snake
with nothing left but the phantom-coils
of yesterday’s blooms they shrivel
and spool, curl into shapeless knots
to live among the dead      
where the ghosts of roses go
to hide and be alone
with thoughts of might have been
springs that would never come.  

 — by Neil Ellman



Copyright © 2013, by Neil Ellman. All Rights Reserved



Twice nominated for Best of the Net, as well as for the Rhysling Award from the Science Fiction Poetry Association, Neil Ellman writes from New Jersey.  Hundreds of his poems, many of which are ekphrastic and written in response to works of modern and contemporary art, appear in publication throughout the world.  His first full-length collection, Parallels, consists of more than 200 of his previously published ekphrastic works.



A.J. Huffman: Midnight Walks Electric

Midnight Walks


Pink elephants glitter through a memory
of a garden.  Soaked in rain,
we dance so carefully.  Echoing
each other’s indifference
regarding vision, we pattern a moon.
Dialed for futility,

invisible hands reached through
ghosts (broth present and unaccounted for).
Laughter lightening tongues
toward tales of fear and following.  Our hands
folding inside each other as we cross
a bridge no one built to come out.  Unscathed
is a fairy-told demon.  We find
only slightly scarred is more reality’s toll.





Electric Sunset

Flock of feathered followers
pierce the clouds.  Dollops of fuscia,
gold, and lime sizzle before igniting.  Clouds
crack, open a peep show of silver linings.
Lighting spotlights the mountains’ misery.
1. . . 2. . . 3. . . Thunder matches angry
growl of night, resigns, fades from dripping red
to black.


Copyright©2013, by A.J. Huffman. All Rights Reserved.


A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida.  She has previously published six collections of poetry all available on  She has also published her work in numerous national and international literary journals.  She is the editor for six online poetry journals for Kind of a Hurricane Press ( ).  Find more about A.J. Huffman, including additional information and links to her work here.

Steve Klepetar: The Lost Place

The Lost Place


No longer home
or any other world,

this empty space
grows inside out

like time eating
its own flicking tail.

Have you wondered
where the strong

walls bent, sliding
back into earth?

Who has answered
your call or left

a message on your
empty, hanging pad?

Someday you may
call me “brother”

or forget my different
name.  Someday

you too may disappear
another breath of smoke

an absence rising
wraith-like to the snowy stars.


Copyright©2013 by Steve Klepetar. All Rights Reserved.

Steve Klepetar teaches literature and creative writing at Saint Cloud State University in Minnesota.  His work has received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.  Recent chapbooks include My Father Teaches Me a Magic Word and My Father Had Another Eye, both from Flutter Press.  His book Speaking to the Field Mice was recently published by Sweatshoppe Publications.



Cameron Gearen: Compounded



Little lake
earth’s thimble
glacial sink
take my ache
take the torn girl
the grieved woman
buoy her children
there where
the loon
its catch
where the
pickerel jumps
and the pocked
surface splits
or reflects
Black Mountain
I can’t contain
all I’ve got
to carry let me
leave it to your
silt muck reeds
and granite
to your white
lilies and their
leeches to the
streams that
feed you deep
pond stay
close today
I’m counting
on your volume
your powers
to dilute to be
your gracious
self to ask no
questions pond
absorb receive
ripple then that
lovely silence
will you take
a few of these
troubles pond
and positively
drown them?




That’s when blindness set
in.  Silent movie.  I knew
all those door hinges, their
capacity for swivel.  Ceded
my sight to the cornice’s
stare.  Do you know yourself
a vision veiled?  What
the throat felt: need
clamping (his) / a forced
yield.  It’s a marvel,
scientifically speaking;
it will succumb
unhingingly.  Whatever
wriggling resistance
I came with has been
quashed.  The light
changed, a strange cloudy.
This I could turn or blank
but not pierce.  His mad
rage—desire—dial me
to grunting always
crescendo.  What can
naming solve now?  
Call it, catalogue.
The stubborn cornice
and my stoppered ears.
Aren’t we as hideous
as the most we have seen,
been done to? Not
if we don’t remember.




Hanging lamps dangle over no table.
Witch hazel hands. When the child was small.
You know the list. It starts with silk.
Blind TV shouts Mandarin.
Rubble lot, transport me.
We stack suitcases like popsicles: red green pink.
A place is an envelope for memory.
Like blisters, the inside manifests.
Rust can orange and brown and cut open.
I drip water over American coffee.
We’ll give you the hero’s welcome.
My little slice of heaven: the stinking downstairs store.
The body hiccoughing flamboyance, buoyancy.
The courtyard shows foresight.
Stitching on a red slipper.
Burgeon is a word about growth.
Tingle itch swarm the window.
Cities matter mightily and I’m in one.
Where’s my ladder, means of egress?
What you say is whole my mortar.
Skin poison to the edge of membrane.
Colored newsprint rubs my hands solid.
Buzzered gate: tip the guards.
You say arrive.
You stand in the window and say arrive.

— by Cameron Gearen


Copyright © 2013, by Cameron Gearen. All Rights Reserved.


Cameron Gearen published a chapbook in 2004 entitled Night, Relative to Day and selected by Robert Pinsky.  Her poetry has appeared in Fence, The Antioch Review, the poker, Drunken Boat, Poetry Northwest, The Bellingham Review, River Styx, Quarterly West and elsewhere.  She won the Grolier Prize in 1994, the W.B.Yeats Society Poetry Contest in 2001 and the Lynda Hull Prize from Crazyhorse in 2005.  In 2011, she was a recipient of the Barbara Deming / Money for Women Fund.  She has also been funded by the Connecticut Commission on the Arts.  She lives in Chicago with her husband and two daughters.