• Desire Remains, Memory Distorts – krista schwimmer

• The Prisoner – Jim Smith

• Dear Artists of Los Angeles – Pat DeBonville

• Based on a True Story – abigail templeton

• Lost in the overcast – Roger Houston

• Bare-naked… – Marie Lecrivain

• Pleasures I have known – Honeybee Henderson

• Steve – Panos Douvos

• A Cannibal in Venice – Sharon Shapiro-Snow

• Fingerprints – Pasquale Trellese


Desire Remains,

Memory Distorts

By krista schwimmer

It is easier

watching my body

grow older since when

i was all fire & moonstone

i loved the beautiful men.

It is easier

of course, because memory

continually entertains –

easier because

a secret confidence tells me

my body was fully revealed

at her ripest time.


What i mean

is the body remembers

despite the age

& is filled at once

with amazement & angst.

What i mean

is desire remains

memory distorts

& even when i fight it

the heart continues

to pound out

its own fierce way.


The Prisoner

By Jim Smith

They took him prisoner

when the celebration was over.

The limos arrived at his house

bringing famous men

and twitchy bodyguards.

“Congratulations Mr. President,”

said the man with the TV face.

“Here’s how it will be

Your speeches will be cleared with us

Any questions, just ask

Rahm or Tim or Hillary,

they know the drill.”

When he protested,

they complimented his pretty wife,

and his beautiful children.

Then they talked about Kennedy.

He had so much potential.

What a pity he defied them.

And wasn’t it a shame

about Bobby and John, Jr.

“You see, Mr. President,

the business of America is business.

Your role is to speak on our behalf,

nothing more.”hhhhhhhhhh

That’s why the CIA, the NSA,

the military and Wall Street

have taken the place of Congress

and the Office of the President.

It’s just more efficient.”

We’re so excited that you won.

It will be great working with you.


Dear Artists of Los Angeles

By Pat DeBonville

Art is not

a device

created to elicit

pleasure from the many

Art is creation

unto itself

it is a wealth beyond

that of


Art has no motives.

Art simply


And all of the best

have always known it

And all of the best

would rather starve


approach it





Based on a True Story

By abigail templeton

I took you to

an Indian Restaurant

You did not want

to hurry curry.

All your doorknobs

were loose, all the paint

was in chips, only the fire

had escaped. Don’t forget

to check for ticks. O

Chicken Tika Masala,

o garlic naan

and envelope. You

lick your fingers,

checking for sand,

a chickpea on your

good tooth. When

the moon drove you

home you had enough

for a two cigarette tip.hhhhhhhhhh

We must have walked

for hours believing

in the boardwalk

psychic and her

promises of water.


Lost in the overcast, I grope my way Through mounds of vague ideas this cloudy day. I heft them with both hands, to get a feel For obscure meanings, bordering surreal. No stranger to these parts, my way’s well-known. Created for myself this twilight zone That you see here. It very nicely fits. I wear it proudly. Hanging by my wits, Tread lightly through this landscape, on my own. Acknowledging that soon it may be gone, So I pause to enjoy it, to conceal Double entendre here and there, at will. My mother says to go outside and play. Obedient am I, this cloudy day…..Roger Houston, Venice



By Marie Lecrivain

easter-egg-colored coiffed beauties frolicking in front of the George C. Page Museum on a cool Sunday afternoon make one fail to notice the putrid smell rising of the tar pits nearby; the photographer searching for the best angle through a camera lens while his assistant keeps a watchful eye on the street for the manifestation of law enforcement; the google-eyed passengers through the windows of the # 20 Metro Bus as it rolls by; the enterprising middle-aged security guard as he whips out his cell phone to record ten seconds of video for later that night, where, in the privacy of his dingy bachelor pad, he will replay in time to his rhythmic ejaculations; and make one forget to notice me composing the lines of this poem in my head, while I smile quietly.


Pleasures I have known

By Honeybee Henderson

Ocean mist dancing in the moonlight

Bright stars twinkling with delight

Children laughing as the seesaw bounces up and down

Aspen trees lean and tall with leaves swaying in the wind

Sweet Mollydog shaking her entire backside with glee

A laugh with an old friend

Music pulsating through my veins as my body moves to the beat

The ocean’s tide pulling back the rocks as the waves seep back

A songbirds early morning chant

A long stretch first thing in the morning

Gentle kisses all over my bare body

The sparkle in a stranger’s eye while reflecting on the day’s events

Ghost stories

Breathing in nature in the first seconds of the day

Watching the city wake up

Smelling fresh bread being baked

Dogs barking

These are the pleasures I have known.



His teeth have popped out like popcorn

sole one stands at attention mid-mug

a paid-up gargoyle club member

anxious about dental demons with drills

let nature take its’ course who cares

while sucking-up soft foods and soup

he squints to decipher nearby stuff and people

fears surgeons keen to cut his cataract

why does he need sight has seen everything already

grudgingly grunts-up ricinus negatives

sits swaying under his raggedy hump

considers it a reprobate old friend

now spits out scatter-gun reports and

recites his strong poems from memory

plus throw-away profundities and ingightfuities

says ever-present eye problem boring but

late bulletin reveals light — bulb moment

eye correction will improve sight and thought

life’s not all crap there’s gold amidst the dross

intellectual-man to the rescue now stands tall

a national historical monument

behind the mucky facade

–Panos Douvos


A Cannibal in Venice

They came like Locusts

Devouring swiftly All

Our Homes, Our Hopes

And Our Dreams . . . . . . . . .

Never stopping to see the Tears

Or feel the Fears. . . . . .

Hear the Screams. . . . . . . .

Destroying Our Lives at Christmas


They could not Take Our Souls Away!

–Sharon Shapiro-Snow



In the depths of recollection

Small joys of youth

The wondrous days of adventure

Winters of eternal spring

In the backyards of rememberance

With all its favors

The clear and uncluttered motion

Of love’s unobstructed things

I find myself falling freely

Passing through time

Through glorious nights of redemption

Afternoons of enchantment

In the first year of discovery

Those important issues

The once and forever fingerprints

Of movements marked in time

In the waters of salty pleasure

Strong waves of tides

Softly swallow the memories

Recall all first loves

In the songs that earmarked the day

Power of persuasion

The steps to young manhood

With all its crossroads

The clarity of choices made

In the angst of not quite knowing

Small days at large

The fruitful hours of young kinship

Summers against the Fall

On the porch swing of each daybreak


The wonder of unremarkable days

The thrill of it all . . . .

–Pasquale Trellese

Categories: Poetry