Author: Ayesha F. Hamid

The Nightmare Network

I went through several forests full of metaphors
Before I got anywhere close to the city,
There were the trees clustered together in vines,
Woods resembling the nervous impulses of the brain,
And a forest dead in the center but alive at the outskirts

I reached the river and other bodies of water,
Occasionally I reached bodies sitting by that water,
We never talked or looked at one another,
But I felt a kind of unity since we were both counting
The contours of the waves spackled with sunlight

I only became a minor celebrity in the city,
People talked about me and children
Were told to stay away from the potential dark cloud
Of hidden disasters that my presence represented,
My black cape and top hat finally a good investment

Hudson Valley News

Sunday’s pastime: Hudson Valley wanderings
Under a nebulous cliffhanger fog,
Empty town and city and country pass by
Along with solitary mountains
Which break from the horizon
To peak without any friendly range nearby

Even the train is having trouble keeping track,
The cars swing and screech over each bank,
Outside, a river thankfully knows
Its course and stays in the vessel
It carved out for itself over centuries
While making the commute south to Manhattan

Looking Critically

Empty city streets, so what?
The colors are out
And I can enjoy them, from red to white

If the streets overwhelm
With their procession of cars and banners
I have the sidewalk to clean my eyes

So then I can look up again
At every light post and power line,
The auburn wood a leash for glowing pets

Ben Nardolilli currently lives in New York City. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, Danse Macabre, The 22 Magazine, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, fwriction, Inwood Indiana, Pear Noir, The Minetta Review, and Yes Poetry. He blogs at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com and is looking to publish a novel.

Please note: Poetry is compressed to fit smart phone screens. If you are reading this poem on a phone screen, please turn your screen sideways to make sure that you are seeing correct line breaks for this poem.

Where every gram
of every human
inhabiting this place
is ground to dust

poured into cement
and mixed with the
water we only see
when it rains gray.

Gray that is hard
but is not rock
spreads over this
Earth we call home

and the land is
plotted out with
the width and height
of every human here.

Human sized
human sourced
boxes, we build
and we pave

and we build
with our waste
until we run
out of room.

Yet we come, we all come
here, because it must be here

and we pound
this pavement
thirsty, so thirsty
for something

we cannot see or hear
or smell, but we come
and we build our boxes up

until there’s no more light
until there’s no more
blue or green or brown
and gray is all we have in sight.

So we wait, we all wait underground
and we close our eyes to air that rushes but is not wind
and we sit or we stand in place, not moving

while something else moves us
waiting for someone to move us

because it must be here…

Jenny Keto is a writer and actress born, raised, and currently living in Austin, Texas. She graduated with a B.A. in Theater from the University of Texas at Austin and acted regionally until wanderlust bit her.  As a life experiment, Jenny moved to NYC just shy of turning 30.   After the city taught her what she needed to learn, Jenny returned home to switch gears and become a nurse.  She looks forward to the prospect of helping people for a living.  Her first publication can be seen in the upcoming web publication of Painted Cave Literary Journal.

Please note: Poetry is compressed to fit smart phone screens. If you are reading this poem on a phone screen, please turn your screen sideways to make sure that you are seeing correct line breaks for this poem.

FREETOWN 

We struggle to negotiate
mid-morning traffic,
not just cars
but a half-naked drunk
stumbling across the road,
a horse-drawn cart,
and heedless children hauling goats.

At the red light.
homeless men heave forward,
a ragtag army of open palms
going car to car
until the light turns green.

Windows down,
we risk the beggars
but enjoy the scents of
plantains fried in palm oil,
the exotic aroma
of crain-crain and okra
stirred in a large pot.

Our travel is a series of glimpses:
an artisan carving lions and rhinos out of stone,
children munching on
butter-soaked cassava bread
as they shamble into school.

We pass out of the city,
skirt the ocean by road,
watch dazzling painted fishing boats
ride high on the waves.

This world comes no closer
nor does it keep its distance.
It appears here, there,
as if for benefit
of a foreign couple
in a rented car
for whom West Africa
is only slightly less myth now
than the moment we arrived.

FREETOWN

A young boy waves
from the side of the rough bumpy road.
It might be a welcome.
He could be warning us off.
Travel’s like peeling away
the baffling, the strange.
until what you’re left with
is nothing but ignorance.

PLANET CHILD

glow-in-the-dark-stars
stuck to the bedroom walls –

I stretched out my arm
to try to hold light –

the dark was ominous
the stars were well-intended
and they needed no prompting
to shine my way –

tacky yes
but almost beautiful –

I believed in them
as I did in the ones
who glued them into place –

intimate flashlights,
precious objects
of permanent fire –

a wall-paper galaxy
no universe
should be without –

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. He has recently published in New Plains Review, South Carolina Review, Gargoyle, and Big Muddy Review with work upcoming in Louisiana Review, Cape Rock and Spoon River Poetry Review.

Please note: Poetry is compressed to fit smart phone screens. If you are reading this poem on a phone screen, please turn your screen sideways to make sure that you are seeing correct line breaks for this poem.