Original Poetry: A Gathering of Four

This man (curled into
      himself) sits outside
the turnstiles of Washington Street Station
      right at the maw of the vast
subterranean Pedway
      moaning with errant winds.
His cardboard sign faces his lap.
      Dirt and thirst are kneaded
into the fibers of fleece.

***

Picasso’s old, blue
      guitarist is blocks away,
propped up
      by a cheap guitar.
His face – cadaverous,
      fallen forward;
sunken eyes –
      drawn shut as dry husks.
No warmth radiates
      from cyan skin draped
over gentle bones.
      No music escapes
this blind guitar.

***

As if trying to bow
her long-forgotten
cello, my grandmother
          full of grace
breaks the prayer circle,
starts to wail
in dissonance with
           blessed
winds at the window pane
           among women
Rosary beads dangle
           blessed
as two aunts
regather her hands
           of thy womb
These tendoned talons
           Mother, pray for us
pull and flex
with the banshee cries
           at the hour of our death.
She writhes;
her eyes dart. Her tongue
flicks
from her cavernous mouth.

***

Grandfather’s hands flutter;
      one gently, one not.
He speaks softly, too
      softly and too rapidly.
He rocks to propulse
      from the chair, to beat
those who would push him
      back into its cradle.
They’ll ask, what
      do you want? One
more time. Just say
      that again. Just one
more time.

 
 
 
[This poem was published by The Eunoia Review in mid-April 2015.]
 
 
[Check out other original poems here.]

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Original Poetry: Night Blossoms

. . . 4-something in the still, birdless morning;

Through glass doors across the room,
a dark outline of a bicycle,
the thin bars of the balcony,
I can see the deep fuchsias
of rhododendron dimly lit by building light
and the more generic urban light pollution.

I imagine that it is the moon’s doing.

Come daybreak, the blossoms
will be a bit less exotic—a bit
less lovely. They are not rhododendron.
For those, too, I left in the little park
clinging to Brynmill village.
 
 
 
 
 
[Check out other original poems here.]

Original Poetry: “And So”

Tie up your well-wishes with ribbons and bows
though a notary signature might ensure
your promises more to my liking. Who knows
less than me your truest intentions? An obscure
vision of security does less than a warmer
greeting of inaudible reference. It’s your silent
serenity massaging my anxiety, but I’ll endure
the turbulence a while longer without dissent.

Blame it on my emotionally masochistic bent,
but do, indeed, see me at my most pathetic
state. For soon’s the hour when I’ll repent
my weakness. I’ll grow cold and apathetic—
tired of waiting and hanging onto hollow
words. I’ll dance the lead without a follow.
 
 
 
 
 
[This old sonnet of mine stands as my own response to a previous sonnet I’d written, “And If”. Check out other original poems here.]

Novel Review: Recreance by H. G. Chambers

Recreance (The Aeternum Chronicles, #1)Recreance by H.G. Chambers
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

More than a few fantasy series can be described as: a future dystopian society on the verge of social apocalypse with 1 or 2 teenagers stepping up to overcome terrible odds for the sake of all. It’s in the differences between this epic and others that makes it special and in the parts that it does particularly well. As the opening installment of a series, the potential is also worth. But the series also owes some explanations left unanswered in this volume.

Humankind long ago overcame aging and natural death, but that led to an unexpected new discovery. Like the changes of puberty in teenagers making them adults, humans undergo a second major change [or third if one counts menopause] in which after the age of 150 individuals gain a physics-bending, if not magical ability. Interestingly, the magical process taps into and opens portals and potentials in parallel universes. Some of these are quite different and deadly–and tantalizingly left for future volumes.

What matters here is that the truly ancient Patriarch wishes to keep others from the final change by culling them at 150 years of age. He also uses his abilities to enslave the citizens of the only known true city on the planet. His plans are of demonic, Lovecraftian proportions.

Two teens, Oren and Clementine, each lost their respective families. Cast aside by society, they are the city’s only hope.

Some things are handled particularly well by this series. 1) The development and yet understatement of exobiological species. 2) The individual development arc of the two teens. Each follows a very different path. Especially strong is the relationship between Oren and his mentor. 3) Speculative technologies and Clem’s manipulation of them.

Left unanswered is the atypical development of Clem and Oren to their species. Similar and shared experiences hopefully explain it, as otherwise the kids don’t represent the potential in us all. Lastly, the overly Millennial colloquial euphemisms and dialogue between the teens makes little sense in a world and time so different from ours.

I received my copy of the collection directly from the author through bookreviewdirectory.wordpress.com.
 
 
 
[Check out my other reviews here.]

Original Poetry: “And If”

And for this moment I’ll choose to only believe
all of your whispered promises and the firm embrace
of my shoulders dispelling the fears that the nights conceive.
And if tomorrow I’ve no choice but to face
the day’s reality of being solitary, I’ll displace
the anxiety with thoughts of your lingering scent impressed
upon my cuffs and collar. And just in case
your words are true and I’ve second-guessed
your honest intentions, put my mind at rest
with nothing more than what you’ve already done.
Put my own convictions to the test
to see if for yourself, I’m the one.
And if I doubt everything you do and say,
leave me—quietly—to make my own way.
 
 
 
 
 
[Check out other original poems here.]

Short Story Review: “Vermont Muster” by Nick Mamatas

2 of 5 stars.

This tale feels more Lovecraftian than ghost story when a teenager lights a candle and sternos a can of soup in front of his high school’s engraved image of a local hero that returned home from fighting in the Civil War.

A confluence of strange events ensues. The teenager has a seizure before he can start his seance. [But he is accustomed to having seizures.] His borrowed video camera captures an unexplained image in front of the engraving at the same time as the seizure. Civil War enacters from all over start to arrive into town after being compelled in their dreams–and they find it very difficult to leave again . . .

Much is packed into this short tale. However, a clear explanation and resolution are not.

This tale appears in Shades of Blue & Gray: Ghosts of the Civil War edited by Steve Berman. I’ve previously read this author’s “Hideous Interview with Brief Man”.
 
 
 
[Check out my other reviews here.]

Poetry Review: There is a Storm in My Head by Jide Badmus

There Is a Storm in My HeadThere Is a Storm in My Head by Jide Badmus
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

Hidden within the heart of this collection are a few poems with a true subject or a tangible event being referenced. A couple are about the shock and horror of specific airliner crashes; a few more are about the state of Nigerian politics and/or war. These are the strength of the collection. My favorite was “Mid-Night Sun” dedicated to the 2005 Bellview plane crash.

. . . We didn’t hear the metallic groans
Of the shattering aircraft
Nor the scared screams of loved ones
In the throes of death.

We won’t forget you
‘Cos in a moment’s flash
You lit up the dark night like a mid-night sun
Only to leave us gloomy days darkened by grief.

The bulk of the poems in the collection had no discernible specific subject. They spoke in allegory and in cliched metaphoric abstractions. More troubling was the overbearing rhymes wresting control of the poem from the poet.

It’s possible that “bombs” and “floods” referenced in the final poems are speaking to real events or specific occasions. However, after scores of allegorical poems, bombs and floods without specific references could be more hyperbole. It’s concerning that I cannot tell the difference.

I received my copy of this collection directly from the author.
 
 
 
[Check out my other reviews here.]