The Wars That One Can Not Win

October 2013 | back-issues, poetry

“Therefore put away all filthiness and rank growth of wickedness

and receive with meekness the implanted word, which is able to save

your souls.  (James 1:21 RSV)

I scratched, pinched, bit my way through today

as if I didn’t come from a long line of God fearing folk

but from Darwin’s monkeys being provoked with pokes of fun

by human aliens all safe on the other side of the hellish cage.

I dug a deep trench hiding safely behind garbage bags of self pity

then started a sunrise war with my defenseless family,

went on to battle an army of co-workers until lunch hour found me

picking fights with unarmed cashiers, shoppers, fruit vendors,

with noses lifted so high in the air they could probably

identify by smell the flowers in heaven but not tell me..

I missed when I tried to kick a snarling dog

on the leash of a snarling man both of whom barked

at me with mouthfuls of long, white teeth, crooked

like the interlacing necks of hungry trumpeter swans

I saw later while sitting on the bench but didn’t care to feed.

Beating it home, I blasted the horn, shook a mean finger

at a gang of elementary kids playing dodge ball in the street

then couldn’t find a song on the car radio that

didn’t fill me up with great big foul irritation.

Saying prayers while I brush my teeth and my husband snores

I ask God why he gave me the burden of so much anger today

even though I know He didn’t, will mercifully forgive and help me

once I  accept the blame, humbly drop to my knees to pick up

the empty cartridges of my wicked weapons of words and deeds,

that I pray have left no permanent wounds in the lives of others.

All that I have won today is a flag of guilt slapping me in the face

with the filth of my own hands; a flag at half staff with it’s metal pole

jammed deep into the shallow ground of my soul.           

— Carol A. Oberg

During her writing career Carol has published widely with Blue Mountain Arts, Inc., was one of three featured poets (10 works) in Ancient Paths, issue 16, and has also published with Carcinogenic Poetry, The Avocet, Extract(s), and in the fall issue of The Fourth River (Chatham University). This poem was first published in Ancient Paths in 2010 and was nominated for a Pushcart Award.

A Daughter’s Birthday

October 2013 | back-issues, poetry

Methylphenidate is the name I use

To lull my child to sleep,

Swaddling her diaper rash in vinyl chloride.

I haven’t slept in days but no matter, red eyes

they suit me like latex gloves.

Paraben is the name I write on my mailbox

to ensure everyone knows not to write.

I’m not home, but I am

Inhabiting the home.

Breathing in lingering Febreeze fumes,

my mouth pressed against the armchair arm.

While the baby’s red mouth squalls.

Hetrocyclic amine is the name I say

on my child’s first birthday,

to call her out from hiding under the stairs.

I wrap my arm around her chest

and urge her to pet the neighbor’s snarling dog.

While his wife frosts a high fructose cake

and counts out Styrofoam plates.  

— Meagan Maguire
 

Meagan Maguire is a 22 year old poet living and occasionally working in Portland, Maine. She enjoys reading, running, and informing people there actually is another Portland besides the one in Oregon. Previously her work has been featured or will be featured in The Alarmist, The Golden Sparrow Literary Review, The Eunoia Review, Words & Images, and Marco Polo Arts Mag.

Burning City Of The Heart

October 2013 | back-issues, poetry

for Susan

It’s the voice that puts

me to sleep,

something like a waltz,

the dancing to the end of love,

Leonard Cohen’s hoarse slow

tempo moving through the heart

like streets without names.

At night I stumble

into other people’s dreams.

I could simply leave

through the keyhole

but there is food

on the table,

a woman combing

her hair who looks

so much like

my first love.

— Vladimir Swirynsky

Vladimir’s 20th book of poetry Poetry: The Tedious Mining Of The Words is due out in October from New Kiev Publication.