B.Z. Niditch… The Jazz Poet – Passing By



Line by line up
crowds are in the shadow
in the sax riffs
of my new translations
feeling their body of joy
as the music sounds
from landscaped heirs
off islands of the sea
where adventurer tourists
on a large ocean liner
hear me in an opulent time
playing smooth sax
in the cool night air
risking my new melodies
by once frozen lips
on rowing
words of memory
no longer poisoned
by motionless lovers
nor abandoned by absence
for warring times
of fiery alarming devotions
under cold sleepy covers
now my good gestures move
as red and orange leaves us
with voices embracing Fall
when everything is new
in voices of water and wings.


We are passing
to another season
with fresh sunflowers
in our garden hands
poetry will survive
all barbed wire
of poisoned jealousy
beyond villages
of freezing grey
as in a Hardy novel
watching departing feathers
counted on flying wings
on tall grass ravines
and murmuring shadows
from tall branches
as a mourning dove sings
by a sailor lost at sea
at the light of a tumid river
and now at peace
we’re trying to make amends
after a tourist jaunt
though the coppery rain
quickly covers us over
with clay sky memories
of a new Autumn
leaves us by cool rocks
under a shadowy orchard
wanting new friends.



B.Z. Niditch is a poet, playwright, fiction writer and teacher who resides in Brookline, Massachusetts. His work is widely published in journals and magazines throughout the world, including:Columbia: A Magazine of Poetry and Art; The Literary Review; Denver Quarterly; HawaiiReview; LeGuepard (France); Kadmos (France); Prism International; Jejune (Czech Republic); Leopold Bloom (Budapest); Antioch Review; and Prairie Schooner, among others. His latest poetry collections are “Lorca at Sevilla”,”Captive Cities,” and “EVERYTHING EVERYWHERE” published by Penhead Press

Copyright © 2016 by B.Z. Niditch









David Christopher la Terre… Cynical Internet Pundit & Dead Jester


Cynical Internet Pundit & Dead Jester

we are being led. even the grumpy, cynical internet pundit – s/he’ll go kicking & hackneyed – but led down the same path to the same pit that history half-recorded: for the wits had their glasses shot off, & all the sportos were in charge of cargo transport. the goon squad is reborn everyday in learning institutions & halls of government. i painted myself as a satyr but still made bids with ATMs & communication companies, as head-nodding Heaven & organ-failure Hell looked on .. even this pendant life doesn’t accept characters or emoticons on their .docs. we didn’t make the template. we just went down the hole

dead jester: send more jesters. send a variety of shop-sink malbec with talons in spirituality & survivalist mediocrity. is this gonna be the matt damon version or the gary cooper version of floating literatzi bogem? a car is a salute is a hamburger. love comes slowly like an annual teetering orbit & we munch on panini mango in the channel-separation. hail, here comes the coolie retail chain blocked-hat. Caveat Bipedum; IED in the afterlife Barneys party dress parade ~ i walked out of the experimental film of my life .. this ‘anteroom’ smells like cliched embryonic buzz.


David Christopher la Terre is an old punk, advertising brat, artist, writer, hit-and-run orator, humorist, exfilmmaker, “asexual icon” and sentimental Modernist pursuing work in new formats, hybrids, language arts, Sound Poetry, decon, “post-mod,” prank-art … ‘living satire’ … he has been published in the Slate, Spleen, Lost & Found Times, Rag Mag, Roar Shock, Open Minds & Monkeybicycle.




S. Thomas Summers… A Lost Child


A Lost Child

The wolves
The pines
from the air,
horde it beneath
their limbs.
in an apron,
her mother
in the black
by the deep well
holding a candle,
the dancing flame
a final hope.


S. Thomas Summers is an Author, Teacher/Professor of Literature, Writing, and Philosophy at Wayne Hills High School and Passaic County Community College

Copyright © 2016 by S. Thomas Summers









Stephen Philip Druce… The Kissagram Cake


The Kissagram Cake

The kissagram was meant
to leap out of the giant
birthday cake, but
she was found
inside it.
I didn’t eat
any cake, but
the other guests
did, until there was
nothing left
but a corpse
lying in the
living room.
The guests were later
struck down with
birthday cake curse –
nightmares of a giant
cake, with hideous pink
writing on the top of it,
spelling the words –
Happy 60th Birthday
( sarcastically )
with candles sticking
into it, and suffocated
between the icing
and the fruit
was the marzipan trapped
inside screaming, and
the crumbs were just
left to rot.


Stephen Philip Druce is a poet/humour essayist published in the UK, USA, Canada and India. In August 2015 he signed an e-book deal with Tri Screen Connection in The USA – with his British style humour book of Absurd and nonsensical essays – QUIRKY SHORTS. link here – http://www.web-e-books.com/index.php#load?type=author&product=62

To hear Stephen read his poems/humour poems link here http://youtu.be/nLBrHCkeSMg

Copyright © 2016 by Erin J. Jones