Darren C. Demaree… Nude Male With #201 & #200



Without immensity, with
the size of a forenoon day
I can be the white edges,
but then I can only grow
to interfere with the scene
of art. I want to be the art.
That’s why I’ve covered
my body with pictures,
because before all of those
little, driving ink pens found
me supple enough to be
taken, nobody looked at me.


I want to lake
the tree, swim
the trunk
after suspending
myself briefly
above the foliage.
I want to be taken
in. I want the sun
to nourish me.

Darren is a dangerous dreamer, concocting love poems to his home state, and pastorals to his true love.

Darren C. Demaree is the author of five poetry collections, most recently “The Nineteen Steps Between Us” (2016, After the Pause). He is the Managing Editor of the Best of the Net Anthology and Ovenbird Poetry. He lives and writes in Columbus, Ohio with his wife and children

Copyright © 2016 by Darren C. Demaree


Carrie Albert… Frog Artifact, named “Beatrice”



Frog Artifact, named “Beatrice”
(3016 Analysis)
Mass and Materials:
Of blue petrochemicals, spots intact.
Palm size with “China 1” underbelly
found on earth under far-Eastern
impact of Asteroid Zabo
Early Plastic Age, before World War 3
on the eve of Meltdown Z when
memories were buried
all religious faiths annihilated
100 years prior to extinction
of living amphibians
Goddess Anura, likely a fertility charm used
in Laboratory Zigmar’s early attempts
to procreate human/frog beings
Stunning survival, but needs bath and shining
Hold in Goddess Vaults 100z456890000//

Carrie Albert is poet and visual artist and sometimes the two merge. Her poetry has appeared in diverse journals and anthologies – recently – the Bullies and Bystanders Project: “Changing Harm to Harmony”, HEArt online and upcoming (with photo) in Gray Sparrow, both print and online. Collage, photo and poem pairings have been featured in a number of publications. Here are a few links: Carrie Albert | The Far Field, Carrie Albert — The Monarch Review, Spiritual & Healing Practices – all things healing, qarrtsiluni.com/tag/c-albert. She is also Artist in Residence at inksweatandtears.co.uk. online.

Copyright © 2016 by Carrie Albert


Tamara Lakomy… Calvary (in the) Fields of Waste



I held you in the brilliance of my tear
Nothing could assuage the radiance of your soul
But you burned my touch as I drew near
You opened all the scars that held me whole
You whipped my flesh with words in barbs
And watched of the furrows of streaming blood
For you came to me in the guise of angels in all garbs
Just to trample my spark in conquest into the mud
I held you in the palm of my hand, as a nail against a cross
Watched your loving hatred perforate my tender care
For in the desecration of my heart you see no loss
And you see an illuminated spectacle of my despair
You anointed the altars of my devotion with my entrails
And laughed as the dismal cry of the abyss as I wept
As the sunlight drowns beneath the horizon, my life fails
In a bloodbath of forsaken hopes as mercy slept
You are nothing but the razor that I both love and despise
Brilliant as those stars that are cold yet a glory to our eyes
For in the sundering of my existence there is nothing but your lies
Always waiting to be held again in my hand to nail me to my demise
I am a relinquished sacrifice, denied the resurrection of hope
Till my bones dry and bleach and the garments rags fluttering free
I remain a prisoner of your Calvary, dangling by a silken rope
Woven of the dreams I once conceived, prey to your murderous spree
So in the brilliance of my tear, I augur the omens of your abhorrent spite
And hold in abeyance the beating of my heart lest you stalk my will
And in every denuding of my soul, and in the venom of your poisonous bite
I fade into oblivion with the confines of the world to haunt and fill….

Fields of Waste

The fields of waste are open, wide is my wound
Vaster than the horizon I drink with avid eyes
For there is nothing hollower than my chaos, my memory doomed
The grave beneath shall be the dome of my skies
There shall be no more sunshine, no more breath of air
As slowly the deconstructed mind errs as a shrieking fear
That haunts the shadows of the barrows, crouching in the devil’s lair
All is coming to an end, your untimely death is near
But what have you reaped of the wayward times, casting lots
What have you earned of your mortal sojourn, conquering the beast
The animal who resides in your subconscious, your sagacity blots
But still from the shorn veins, the agony is released
Do we prize the allotted time, as a remuneration for our insolence
Our beliefs in the poignancy of endeavours soon to greet the dust
But be wary of the signs of the horror of awakening from our indolence
For naught shall grant you immortality when your exploits end in rust
There is no glory in our sublime decline, moribund flesh and ribaldry
There is no irenic hell for our souls that burn like the conflagration of the stars
Caged in the immense cages of their own design, with an art surpassing sygaldry
We await our unravelling and decay, behind our prison’s gilded bars
I have tasted my spirit, from the gullet leaping high in its escape
For it seeks the winds, to be shredded as sea foam on broken waves
Into the chasms of the rim of the world, into the dismal awning agape
Of the pits of our torments that forever our dismal master craves
Sing for the skies that have no soul, eyeless auguring the fates of men
Forever looking down in spite at the vanity of the fruitless machinations
So descend from your throne creator, come walk the realms of creation again
For made in some erroneous image we live in delusions of dominations

I am an author, and a poet, but I have never sought to publish my poetry before as it was deemed too dark and heavy, laden with a melancholy and metaphysical twist that most people could not relate to. I grew up in North Africa, a tribal Amazigh feminist girl in a repressive regime, witnessing many dark things that have scarred my memory. I grew up around the mystical marabouts and the witch doctors that ruled over the souls, I was exposed to a wilderness of spirit and bare human cruelty that the West seldom comprehends; radicalisation, jihad, organ trafficking and the likes.

Copyright © 2016 by Tamara Lakomy


Gabriella Garofalo… She Listens to Magenta Flowers


She Listens to Magenta Flowers

Yet she listens to the magenta flowers
Blowing up on a night shift, too early,
To street vendors sneering too loud at the lousy coffee
While ogling ladies who fake some concern
For their bosom friend’s migraine,
Is it foul acting or what?
You can trust me, danger is over,
Those women so keen
To heap life on all and sundry
Hardly tawdry theater cloths now,
Relax, soul and give life
To the towers, to the ravens, who cares –
No wounds, no scars, no knives I’ve got,
I’ve never hit light or kiddos, only dark-adapted words –
As ever I oblige –
But you, you are bit slow, aren’t you, migraine,
Why wasting time with hope?
Look, no births, no goddess of wisdom,
My head is barren, just fields
And a burning bush holding fast the sky –
Call them my days if you like –
Them I remember and February,
A month of mirrors and scorching remarks
Aimed at limbs or lips –
How funny, on the very same day
While a teacher tied the knot
A suburban wife put a cloth deep in the oven –
Who would have thought light could dance
The breathe of life over the chrome plating,
Sort of burning ice when doormen smash up bass players
And black-widows sting to death pure-voiced singers?
Dunno, who cares, lunch time:
The metaphysicals stop arguing,
I stay busy with my first sin, fear –
Know what, soul, we two trust
Lovely rose and lilac blending in the shades
Can shield us from nasty ambushes
The odd arrow, wild shadows –
Time to get it clear once and for all:
Staunch sinners and ever the ingénues
Are favourite fodder with marshes and sea deeps,
No more misunderstandings, please –
Geddit and geddit fast, then go!

Copyright © 2016 by Gabriella Garofalo


William Doreski… At the William Stafford Memorial and the Last Concert


At the William Stafford Memorial

On the left coast, cypress pointed
like thorns scrabble at the sky.
Along the river, a mock Stonehenge
casts sinews of deep shadows
among which you pose smiling
and rapt in your bubble-pattern scarf
as you lean on William Stafford’s
Giacometti-shaped memorial.
If your shadow catches up with you,
both of you may go adrift, floating
over Portland, your scarf a cloud,
your smile a daylight crescent.
Meanwhile Stafford’s ghost muddles
among the first spring flowers,
red and blue trimmings to border
a lush and consequent afternoon.
His pacifism warps the horizon
to conform to your fondest moments:
those spent reading or thinking
in a shower of pastels, shared
only with gravest reservations.
The cypress scratch but can’t damage
the sky. Leaning against
the starkest of infinities,
you uphold yourself and the world
with your bubble-pattern scarf
as casual as the poet’s ghost
fluttering in flaccid light.

The Last Concert

The stars dress more formally
since we counted the oak leaves
fallen that one drab afternoon.
The stars exude atomic hues
to endorse the famous nudes
that step from art museums
to dance to certain tunes scraped
on home-made instruments sporting
one string each. We share a love
of such primitive music, the cries
of mating cats and dog-bark
tuning a chorus in G flat.
By the Charles as conventional
music fumes from the Hatch Shell
couples explore each other’s seams
and find the weak spots where thread
has rotted in the damp climate.
We watch from a safe distance,
remembering that we have counted
enough oak leaves to carpet
the entire river basin. Two
or three little sailboats flicker
in the cold November wind,
their bow lights tracing them back
to the dock to tie up for night.
The last concert of the year
has set the musicians shivering
before an audience upholstered
with boisterous winter coats.
The stars observe with indifference,
but their formal dress expresses
not only the nudes dancing
in Copley Square despite the cold
but also the rehashed Beethoven
churning beside the river.
We watch from a safe distance,
too old to expose ourselves
to the yellow lamplight, too shy
to let the stars understand us.
We can’t process each other
the way those young couples do,
but we can parse the starlight
and read in the various hues
the journal someone has kept for us
in our long, unaccounted absence.

William Doreski’s most recent book is The Suburbs of Atlantis (2013). His poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in many journals. He lives in Peterborough, NH.

Copyright © 2016 by William Doreski