Michelle Smith

Frowned

Anger

Contempt 

Expression 

Freckled

Enough 

And

Tough

Ugly

Rough

Expression 

Showing

Facades can tell the truth or not. Meaning an outward false  appearance or behavior intended to give a wrong impression of true feelings or situations.

Smokey Robinson & the Miracles

"Tears of a Clown" 

"Backstabbers" by the O'Jays

"Smiling Faces" by Undisputed Truth

"On Your Face" by Earth, Wind & Fire

These 1970's songs tell it all and have it going on.

"Can't Feel My Face" the Weeknd from 2015  on YouTube has over 1 billion views.

Just look and listen to a countenance or visage,

especially yours in the mirror.

"Everything old is new again." 

A picture can speak a 1000 words.

Face 

Facial

Features 

are something else aren't they? 

Facial 

Features 

Seven expressions truthfully tell

happiness

sadness 

fear

anger

surprise 

contempt 

disgust 

How did you feel about this topic

by the Saturday Afternoon Poets 

that you are amongst?

Mary Langer Thompson

Rules on the First Day of Class

 

Woe be to those who step out of their place,

put on a new face,

disappear without a trace.

You may lose your cadre

of friends

who can’t fathom the new you,

the new dynamics of a new two,

shifting the paradigm, it’s true--

changing the dynamics of the family-

of-man  

who want you to stay in your seat,

never admit defeat.

Remember your role to meet

expectations of what you should do or be, goals

of society.

Now, turn to page one.

Dayna Leslie Hodges

My Body Is Metaphor

My body is metaphor

My form curls

Wraps its arms around

Bended knees

When my heart folds in on itself

The weight of sadness too heavy

To lift my head.

 

My head aches when pressure pounds

Stress stores itself in molecules and membranes;

When this tangle becomes knotted

Pulse throbs.

 

I cover my face

When shame tells me to mask up.

Insecurity heckles me

And I hide within my body

Though my body reveals truth

Because my body cannot lie.

 

My body is weight and flight.

 

Depression holds my feet like cement

Until my arms become wings

And lift me skyward.

Flight is freedom and

Anchored feet are isolation.

My body should never feel shackled to

Trauma and fear

But my nervous system remembers

And memories fill my pores;

The good ones sing in laughter

The bad ones hold me in staccato crash.

 

When nervous my body trembles

From interior agitation;

My body reveals my fear

 

I feel everything.

 

My body responds with physical voice

Movements and stillness.

Absorbed memories like small treasures

Expose themselves;

Some are soft and pliable and pleasant

Others are rusted and dark and pointed.

 

My skin feels whispers

Like angel kisses;

A slight tender breeze can give me goosebumps

And loud attacks freeze my voice.

Body in stand still or free fall

Flesh speaks in scars and suppleness.

 

Vulnerability makes me feel safe and afraid;

When safe I stand open

Palms up and eyes present

When afraid I fidget and look down

Slump in my stature

Yet in vulnerability I find my courage.

My body feels humble and hopeful

When I speak courageously.

 

My body gives me vision

To see beauty

To understand deeply

And experience my world.

 

My eyes invite you in

Ask you to come closer and listen

And they invite you to unfurl

As I listen to you.

 

My body is expression and voice

Touch is language akin to reading braille

And my body speaks in affection

An embrace, a touch

A soft connection expressed in caress.

 

In stillness and movement

My body breathes;

In stillness I am interior

In movement I am free

In touch with my core, my heart, my limbs.

 

My body is metaphor

In honest dialogue

There is no false facade

Only reality

And humility

And love and grace

And longing.

Ashton Cynthia Clarke

Inspired by "Woman of the Popo Country" Jamaica 1770s 

"Worthless Obeah Woman! This stinking salve stings more than it helps." She dabbed the prescribed potion on one cheek, cautiously avoiding unaffected areas of her face. Two days ago a tiny red dot; now a pus-heavy, angry boil. Ragged edges recalling the coastline of this land holding her hostage. How long before she became like them? Whipped through sharp-leaved cane fields. Enslaved and stupid from King Spider's embrace.

Cracked

I glared back at the sullen reflection wondering how this split came to be stitched together from faces of others come before two-toned swaths of a father's dutifulness bitter rage seething on the reverse pulled & torn at ragged seams.

R A Ruadh

Wrinkles of time

He preferred to photograph

older people because

he thought them more beautiful

saying you can see their lives

and character in the lines

of their faces

Do they droop down

or rise up with a lifetime of laughter

are they wrinkles from sun and earth

a crease between brows

from scholarly concentration

or born of worry and frustration

Why would someone surgically erase

their life story and become

no more than an empty mask

of nothing and nobody

Is that emptiness really beauty

or is it death

masquerading as life

I remember the histories

of my elders written on their cheeks

and around their eyes and mouths

the hills and valleys of their

love ever more expressive

with the years

Just as the gnarly trunk

of a centuries old tree

rises from earth to sun

writing legends of a forest

in the rich rivers of sap

hidden behind its wrinkled bark

Such tales are told by crows’ feet

Face off

We are not supposed to look like

ourselves

whatever we were born with

it was not this year’s fashion

Must be smoother puffier

thinner rounder tighter

lighter sculpted unnatural

expensive looking

Mothers bring their daughters

for some work before puberty

leaves a mark or identity

settles in

Imagine never being able 
to remember what your

actual original face

looked or felt like

How do you know

if the one in the mirror

is you

or a mirage

What is it masking

this anonymous veil

hiding a you that no longer

is

PJ Swift

The Same Face

What a ride that was

the refreshing breeze

the twinkling sunrays

the smile that didn't fade

after the quick but certain stop

and the light steps that followed

a hop toward the next delight

moods illuminated by encroaching twilight

So why can it all be forgotten

invisible, and no longer not even real

how can the same face be sullen

masking memories unrevealed?

Antoinette Vella Payne

I am not Alone

Faces in the leaves of trees

reflected in my windowpane

since he’s gone

Aliens & baby yoda

stare back at me

They live in the passion flowers

Church of Eight Wheels

Evocative music

in a very old room

Eyes lift to deep blue

dark red stained glass

Mother Mary looks down on us

Step back chasse forth

Fingertips reach up

lifted from my waist

My grey haired

flabby armed self

dances with beautifully flawed humans

Proof

I am not

Alone

Windswept

Blowing hard my head destabilizes

after I take a toke of my pipe

Wind settles down

to a whisper

God’s greens float or

bob like a bobble head of

baseball fame

on the dashboard of a long car

But the wind today!

greeted us with such fervour

Our hair whipped about our faces

Just a bit of cold on bare arms

Outside on the street talking

to Violeta brown goddess

in turquoise jewels 

living rent controlled for a million years  

The Bed on Bush Street

 

When I bought the house on Bush Street 

the owner told me it was haunted.

One late night we saw her by the Christmas tree.

She stood looking out,

shimmering with the lights reflected in the front window.

 

When I was in bed alone one time,

I felt the mattress springs depress down 

as if someone had just sat there.

 

I remember making love

to an electric shimmering green outline.

His name was Bruce. We were married.

His sinewy arms holding me as I licked his face.

 

Another time when I lay alone

an ineffable calm overcame me.

I was high but it still felt like God knew who I was.

Trish Saunders

We Kneel Before the Sky

Rain slants harder against the window

now in wintertime, trying to worm inside 

find your parka perched on a nail

like an empty sleeve might point to a bird 

or vacant boots Charleston out the door.  

In the spaces between good night

and good morning, your face reappears  

dissolves, comes back 

exactly the way our bare porch bulb 

jittered off and on in the year of

constant rain. 

Sudden silence—the storm must 

have found our one cracked window 

and you standing by, hoping

for a little blue to fly toward. 

Sky wins again. 

 

Mark A Fisher

pareidolia

there above, up on the moon, a face, the pattern forms

crossing constellations out in space, the pattern forms

against a cerulean sky the ancient elephant appears

the old hills and scrub make a trace, the pattern forms

on the tv, watching history spilt across the screen

too much untaught trying to erase, the pattern forms

staring at random shapes of trees and veins and rivers

fractal figures, a chaotic interface, the pattern forms

fear and doubts plague the news, as greedy vultures

watch our dollars in the marketplace, the pattern forms

Madame Defarge at her knitting, watching all the while

so afterwards the crimes we’ll retrace, the pattern forms

I wish I could be as stoic as ol’ Marcus Aurelius

but I can’t wait with any grace, the pattern forms

Veronica Hosking

Orthodontia

April agitation

Braces face

Dental deduction

Enormous expense

Metal Mouth

Pricey pearly whites

Sparkling smile

Tinsel teeth

Past Summer Days

I am the sum of my parts

graying blonde hair and dimpled smile

Bright dimples appear on wrinkled face

Years spent under cigarette smoke

Childhood memories a smokey haze

Grandpa whistles cheery tune, Heigh-ho

Heigh-ho, heigh-ho it’s off to work we go

Construct a blanket fort in the family room

Watch TV inside cozy blanket fort

Learn kindness from Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood

Ride bikes down to the neighborhood playground

Catch fireflies on warm summer nights

Spend carefree, warm summer days outside

I am the sum of my parts

Untitled Senryu 

say cheese 

smile in front of camera 

passport photo 

Heather Romero-Kornblum

Waiting

I wanted to build a home with you

somewhere in the marshy grass of the beach

there is a woman still waiting

wedding dress like seaweed;

green was her favorite color

her hair was strings

by the end

arms frozen

back bowed forward from the wind

eyes seared mouth contorted

She must have been screaming something

when she looked back

As She Became Birds

Maybe you don’t get my new body

The one you almost killed

is gone

I gravitated toward you still

Newly adorned in feathers

Capable of flight!

More economical, physically

I drape myself in beauty

sometimes ashamed

at the hollowing

I still turned you on

though 

you hated it

Either you would snuff me out

or I would prove my scaliness

no longer human

cross shrew with crow:

you forgot who I am

Sober You

I have conversations with your pictures sometimes

Like widows at a gravesite

Sober you would understand

Dean Okamura

it's a puzzle how I got here

 

"Hope is often misunderstood. People tend to think that it is simply passive, like wishing. But true hope is active, and it requires action and engagement." 

— Jane Goodall, The Book of Hope (2021) 

"I can see, and that is why I can be happy, in what you call the dark, but which to me is golden. I can see a God-made world, not a manmade world. ... But to those who have eyes and cannot see, the world is a place of dread." 

— Helen Keller, The Story of My Life (1903), The World I Live In (1908) 

some say each of us dies alone 

while others have few friends 

the hours spent in solitary rooms 

no need to leave for commitments 

once busy schedule of activities 

now wondering where energy has gone 

it's a puzzle how I got here 

finding no community of faith 

or common interests to share 

every night dreams of disjointed scenes 

forgotten faces invade my space 

it's hard to admit this exile feels 

more like fallen towers 

than castles in the sky 

Oh Beautiful

 

Trump Administration makes headlines 

with ICE raids, personnel firings, 

face calling, boat bombing, and more 

things that seem Un-American, yet 

they show me that his supporters 

truly approve of such acts. 

I question what I was taught about 

America from Land of the Free to 

Home of the Brave. Oh Beautiful 

why do they pollute Spacious Skies? 

why is liberty a privilege for few? 

and Pledge Allegiance to a man 

not Amber Waves of Grain, but 

the Good Old Boy in charge. 

Jeffry Jensen

EVEN MONKEYS LOSE THEIR IPHONES

I could be a good dancer if the moon would stop staring at me.

Rainbows seem to always lead me into a biochemical ditch.

There is really no excuse for me to believe that consumerism

will distract me from becoming a cat-warrior of consequence.

I keep all my important passwords in a coffee can under the sink.

My grandfather taped a letter to the world onto the side of a coffee can

and dropped it into the bay after surviving 1906 San Francisco earthquake.

The mirror features me as the crumpled star of the midnight moccasin crowd.

My own Waterloo will be faced without even a ragged ceremony.

The Sunday drums were beating loud and long in the untutored suburbs.

A nasty curse directed at imposing pilgrims was concocted

during all the monkey business that had spilled over into the growing AI invasion.

Jim Babwe

Mask

1974.

Glendora, California.

At the grocery store

just north of the 210

on Grand Avenue.

He blinked.

I said, "Holy shit!"

"You'll get used to it.

I had to. So can you," he replied.

He was right.

We laughed together

and we introduced ourselves.

If you knew 

Rocky Dennis,

you also know 

Eric Stoltz's makeup

was almost perfect.

By the way, Rocky had a great sense of humor, but his mom didn't look like Cher, who played that role in Mask. His actual mom was much rougher. She was his staunch advocate. Not sure whether you remember this part in the film, but the scene that included the school principal who Cher confronted about Rocky's inclusion into the school's student body was (by many accounts) a verbatim depiction. Like the bikers she associated with, she was very protective of her son but expected him to make "normal" adjustments to situations he encountered. She also discouraged others from making exceptions or feeling sorry for her son. He was an amazing kid . . . funny, philosophical, friendly . . . and he loved cruising the neighborhood on his bicycle. Personally, Rocky had a great deal to do with my concept of what normal means. As exceptional as he was, he was also normal.

Edward S Gault

COUNSELOR

My wife and I came to you.

We wanted to work on our marriage.

We were having a rough time,

And we wanted to return to the magic 

we once had,

Or ahead to a better time 

-in which we could simply talk together.

You barely listened to us, though.

You were staring at the computer screen.

We were in the same room,

But you didn’t see us,

Or even seem to want to.

There was so much you didn’t see.

You never saw us going to concerts.,

Sitting across the table from each other at the Pour House

Making faces at each other – in our thirties!

Getting to know each other through funny stories,

Sitting on the porch in the evenings,                                                                                                             

All the movies we saw together.

You weren’t there when we walked down the aisle.

You didn’t see the relatives that flew across the country

To welcome us into each other’s families.

You didn’t see the gifts that were given to us

For our new start in life together.

For our honeymoon we went to North Conway,

Stayed at Stonehurst Manor, hiked Diana’s Baths, 

- toured Castle in the Clouds, and discovered Old Brown Dog Beer.

Eventually, we bought a house in the country 

- had a child.

We were living every dream we ever had.

Then, we lost sight of our blessings.

We could no longer see the divinity in the other.

We no longer heard each other.

We were hoping you could help.

Help us to rediscover the people we once were, 

- or to see who we could be.

You didn’t though.

You chose not to listen to us.

To even see us.

If it matters to you at all,

We divorced.

Hedy Habra

Topography

Sometimes I think my face is a map,

each line a faint record of hidden scars,

of what I’ve seen or felt. My skin retains

traces of every fleeting breeze, of drifting

snowflakes, remembers the warmth

of noonday sun, the salty trickle of sorrow

mixed with raindrops, and even the slightest

shiver, the music of light melting down my cheeks.

An imprint remains of the faces

whose gaze lingered over my face

with fingers on the tip of their words,

or outlined my features with fingers

weighed down with words. I often see

that other face beneath the one looking

at me in the mirror, swelling with recollections,

unraveling all my senses.

First published by Cimarron Review

From The Taste of the Earth (Press 53 2019)

To Amal

     Because your name means hope

How can one think of better

days when streets

swarm

with armed men,

their uniforms

changing

with

the drift of war,

their faces the same,

their eyes, your son’s eyes.

Amal, your name means hope,

yet years

go by, darkening

days with violent ink,

night’s pulse

resounding

through splattered walls,

treacherous alleys.

And what’s left

of your sweet name,

when deafened

by the sound of anger,

you dream you’re lost in Beirut’s

neighborhoods,

in search

of a way home

in the midst

of rubble,

faceless gunmen

check your ID

for a Cross or a Crescent,

at every intersection.

Unable to withhold your boy’s finger

from the trigger,

you lie,

your nightmare, a faint echo

of raging battles.

First published by Mizna Literary Review. Nominated for a Pushcart Prize by Glass Lyre Press: Collateral Damage Anthology.

From The Taste of the Earth (Press 53 2019)

Face à Face

      After Flying Blind by Jaclyn Alderete

When with eyes closed, I face the mirror of desolation, I see myself

as a dove fluttering in slow motion like a still mirage while I walk the

desert dunes, wondering where I’d last seen the scarce palm trees still

erect by the smothered tents where all the ones I’ve ever loved are

now buried. I search for ashes shrouded in sand, and only see

through half-open lids feathers the color of my hair, lidless eyes

staring at their mirrorless reflection, lips pursed in triangular silence,

and oh, yes, how can I omit those metallic blue shades making us all

one, woman and fowl, in love and loss?

First published by The Bitter Oleander

From Under Brushstrokes (Press 53 2015)

Carl Stilwell AKA CaLokie

The Good Samaritan * 

According to the Evangelist, Lucas, the days drew near for Jesús to be taken up and so he set his 

face to go to Jerusalem. And he sent messengers ahead of him. On their way they entered a 

village of the Samaritans to prepare for his arrival, but they did not receive him because his face 

was set toward Jerusalem.  

“Fuck the Samaritans!” Jacobo said.

“Señor, do you want us to command fire to come down from heaven and consume these 

pendejos?” Juan asked, 

Maggie shook her head. “They don’t call these hothead brothers, ‘hijos del trueno’ for nothing. (1)

 “Juanito, what is written in the Law?” Jesús asked. “How do you read it?” 

Juan answered, “Well, as my next favorite rabbi said, ‘Love the Lord your God with all your 

heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind; and, ‘Love your 

neighbor as yourself.” 

“Your rabbi is muy chida.” (2)

 “And who is my neighbor?” 

“There was this man going down from Jerusalem to Jericho when he was attacked by robbers.” 

Jesús said. “They stripped him of his clothes, beat him and went away, leaving him half dead. A 

priest happened to be going down the same road, and when he saw the man, he passed by on the 

other side. So too, a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. 

But a Samaritan, as he traveled, came where the man was; and when he saw him, he took pity on 

him. He went to him and bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he put the man on 

his own, brought him to an inn and took care of him. The next day he took out two denarii and 

gave them to the innkeeper. ‘Look after him,’ he said, ‘and when I return, I will reimburse you 

for any extra expense you may have.’ 

“Which of these three do you think was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of 

robbers?” 

“Is this some kind of trick question?” Jacobo asked. 

1 Sons of Thunder

2 really cool

* From a work in progress titled, DECOLONIZE THIS GOSPEL

Dan Garcia-Black

Windows Update 

Windows 10 is no longer supported. 

I recently moved to a smaller house.

It has only 5 windows. 

But 5 windows are enough if you include 

A mirror. 

That mirror window will last you a lifetime.  

It keeps me entertained.

Jeanne Marie Spicuzza

Remain

I have said goodbye 

a hundred times.

And only one hello 

brought me back.

There is no one else

who fills my heart.

Your voice of clay

shapes the muscle.

So many nights alone

without your hands.

Your face appears

in faint memory.

I will return there,

the place I found you.

I never left because

I had to remain.

It is better to miss you

than be without you.

It is better to cry

than forget I love you.

Epilogue

Written two days before 

I discovered your infidelity, 

and two years later, 

I still feel the same.

Now bitterness is present,

blended with confection.

I don’t know where to go

to become whole. 

It’s a sickness

called love

we rush to

and run from.

It will never be

reasonable,

only always dreadful. 

It cannot die   

Patricia Murphy

Face / Feature

I see the face of the future.  

It is a bright red   

Like the sun 

And the fun 

In the run.  

It's like a glove 

Where a dove 

Is perched 

High above  

In a cove.  

It doesn't want 

To be seen  

Because it's  

A queen 

With a gleam.    

             

And a scream  

Like a bean   

That is clear  

And it doesn't  

Want to lean.   

Face/ Feature II

It's the face 

Of a famous actress 

In a feature film  

Of a fast paced  

Independent movie. 

The screen queen  

Is a beauty   

Like no one else  

As she prances on stage 

Like a black stallion.  

She is notorious  

For being   

A prima donna  

And changeable 

As the weather.  

Like a feather 

In the wind   

She will bend  

But not brake 

As she is not fake.  

She states 

Her claim   

With no one  

To blame 

Like a flame.  

Joseph D Milosch

Imaginary Mother

Norwegian Cruise 07-22-2023

On this cruise ship,

it is easy to embrace

the mournful pity

forged by fever and aches.

Everything seems imaginary,

even the postcard

of an apartment

in 19th century, Norway.

Am I dreaming that

in the card’s room, each wall

has three metal bars,

appearing to be

a ladder leading nowhere.

Between fever and chills,

I cough, and my eyes act

as if they don’t want to

allow this picture postcard

into my memory.

Today, my back aches.

My throat is sore.

Do I have the mumps?

Did I have them?

Anyway,

the morning seems

as dark as the postcard

with the iron rungs,

securing the inner

to the outer wall.

Everything is imaginary, 

even my mother’s face.

It is wrinkled with concern.

She leans over me,

and I feel the tenderness

of her finger tips.

My headache grows 

as reality disappears

like the shadows, while

in the window, the sun

appears to be sinking

into the North Sea.

Wayne F Burke

Robinson Crusoe Theme Park, Destiny, FL

Walking along the Gulf of Amerigo

dreaming of savage gods

coming out of the sea

wearing necklaces of

shrunken heads, and

fish tap-dancing out

beyond foamy cogitations

on whippersnapper waves--

like ill-bred juvies maxed out

of probation and parole--

as tom tom drums beat

like a heart in a-fib.

Eternal Return

the sun comes out under

the carbon copy gray

sheet

of clouds;

it is a new dawning

but

at dusk--

heralding the night of dark

magic

to come, when

the moon takes over

from the sun

which, so

far, has

always returned

in the morning.

Crash

only 12:30 a.m. but

so tired, feeling out of it

can barely hold up 

my

pencil to write

WHAM

the pencil lands like a brick

on the bed--

it is time to turn out the  

lights, Mister.

Give it up.

You are done

for this night.

Mike Turner

Facing Life’s Craziness

When the world goes schizophrenic 

Just know

That’s life:

Wild

Unpredictable

A smooth coast and a bumpy ride

And remember 

“Crazy” in life

Isn’t a bug

It’s a feature…

In the Face of Want

Oh! What can we do

In the face of want and suffering?

We cannot change the entire world

But we can change the circumstance of those around us

Acting with empathy and compassion

To meet need, alleviate pain

As best we can, as much as we can, as long as we can

Offering hope and love

With sure knowledge that it makes a difference

(Untitled Micro Poem)

Let us pass through the night

Standing to face the rising dawn

To begin a glorious new day

Mary Mayer Shapiro

WORDLESS EMOTIONS

One look

Without speaking

Facial expressions

Can express

thousands of emotions

Depends on the

Psychological state

Physiological and

Behavior reaction

Of the person

Lips turn up

With joy, happiness

Turn down accompanied 

Sadness, disgust

Remorse

Separated lips 

shows serenity

Trust, acceptance

Peace, kind, friendly

Half smile brings 

Love

Open lips display

Anticipation, amazement

Surprise, excitement

Tighten jaws, lips together

Anger, disappointment

Loathing, anxiety

Upper lip over lower lip

Funny, admiration

Not a word spoken

Action speaks louder

Then words

APPEARANCES CAN BE DECEIVING

Facial features

Differed with cultures

Eyes, nose

Check bones

Lips, foreheads

Nationalities all

Looked similar

Until moving

From country to

Country

Caused variety

In appearances

Just picture

Slanted eyes

Roman nose

High cheek bones

Excessive forehead

Large lips

Jetted chin

This is the facial

Features

Of a well

Traveled

Generation

Radomir Vojtech Luza

Fools

Numb to the world

Cold to the swirl

Where are you

In this zoo

Face first

Feature burst

Instincts of steel

Bradley Beal

Forget seal

Dumb deal

Bed of dead

Broken head

Car dents

Sky scraper rents

Philosophical fools

Metaphysical stools

Spiritual ghouls

Sunday schools

Religous pearls

Solid platinum

Gold toilet

Hero

Silver spurs

Bronze furs

Copper canyon

Aluminum alley

Face of steel

Feature heal

Superman

Batrnan

Aquaman

Green Lantern

We need you now

Eager to bow

Do not ask how

Midnight brpw

Pixel Pappa

Major momma

Who are you

Tripping by the sea

Falling near the tree

KRYPTONITE

All at once

Without stunts 

Octopus

Arms like

Oxygen

Lungs like hydrogen

Legs like hemispheres

Brain large 

Tentacles times two

Anima[ beaver

Kingdom Trout

Jesus jones

Cross in flames

Judas blamed

Mary Magdalene saves

Face of fame

Feature name

Creature dead

Sea of red

Octopus found

Underground

Wrists bound

No sound

jf giraffe 🦒

CRUEL OR CARING (Haiku)

A smile or a frown

indicates your attitude 

toward world events

WHAT WE SEE (HAIKU) 

Looks are being judged 

as we determine their worth

Often we are wrong

SAYING GOODBYE IS BEST (Haiku) 

Her face glowed with love

His face showed indifference 

Not a hopeful sign

Ellyn Maybe

 Unwavering Bravery (Haiku) 

Though it was stressful 

they faced their predicament 

with utter courage

---Ellyn Maybe 

Mark States

NEVER TOUCHING DOWN (the Throwback Medley)

“Goin' round and round, never touchin' down”

The Cars “I’m not the One” © 1981, Ric Ocasek

Searching from face to face

looking for the one in whom I can place

my trust,

looking at the suspicious faces.

Door to door

I am no salesman

door to door

seeing not what I am looking for

looking at all the skeptical faces.

Skipping from face to face

too much attitude to allow me to look long.

Moving from face to face

‘cuz when you’re not welcome it is not the place

to stay.

Search the world, search the home,

like a bee for the honeycomb

only a bear has parked itself beside the tree

and won’t let it go.

Won’t let it go.

Face to face, tree to tree,

looking for the one to whom I run,

looking for the one

who will let me be me

Looking at all the shifting faces.

TAKE THE STEPS

Looking back through the other end of Time’s telescope – my oh my

how small the eye

gazing at here and now.

I’m not the one to tell you how to get here.

Only you can take the steps

left foot right foot

hit a wall and take a longer way around

moving from face to face

and maybe you see a smile and decide to linger a while

just for the feeling good about yourself

for a minute or a month

that can be a good thing

though the journey is longer than some of the faces

glaring at you

a walk through a hall of shame they built for you

out of lies.

You have always been you.

Marieta Maglas

The Rainbow Woman

The blue woman~alive

knows the meaning of things

and the hue of His visions.

Thinks to survive.

Absently slipping her sight at the edge

of the reality~

ruins, cracked mountains, and

rolling rocky rains

when the divine penetrates her within.

Her womb grows

to hide a new symphony of feelings.

She tries to face death and sin.

Bluish face for a falling tear

that becomes a magnifying glass.

Ear to hear the rhythm of the seconds as they pass.

Orange, red beret to pulse

in the hard, violet air.

Winds whispering old 

songs in her summery, green hair.

This woman is questioning herself

if love can disfigure,

can play havoc with, can vitiate, or 

can torpedo her essence.

She learned not to trust,

but to think and to keep it for herself

because she knows that, in the missing Light,

the words can become

silvery dust for a fight~

while shooting and jeering.

On her lips, the silence waits to explode.

Has a flamed, red shine.

There is nothing to destroy.

" Tis only a tomography of the spirit ~

her innocent jealousy and passion.

 

Note: My poem is an Ekphrastic poem, an analysis of the artwork entitled 'Femme au béret rouge-range' belonging to the cubist painter Pablo Picasso. 

 

A Crack in the Atlantic

Mountains spit fire in the night

through molten veins unseen.

Liquid ejection throws tiny,

ephemeral stars.

The vacuums pull

the universe's heartstrings.

Air suction draws thrills

from the sun.

Gaseous plasma, a long dance

with hot or cold liquids;

gargantuan aurorae.

Earth quivers, reshaping its face.

'Tis like making love, 

but it is about death~

the sun’s electromagnetic embrace.

Fire and ice storms paint

the skies with free-for-all.

Time cracks as a tectonic plate

and reshapes the land.

Creation holds its breath,

waiting for the next beat.

 

The Blue of His Face 

This angular house is filled with 

silence and loneliness.

The blue of his face is a photo 

hidden in the dark, 

whether it is love in her dreamless sleep or 

suffering in her lucid dreams. 

Martha Ellen

No One Would Believe You Anyway

I.

at your seventeen dawn  “yes”   

[he hates phonies most of all] 

you do too  Dearly Beloved

peaceandloveandallthat

punkin-lunkin  pancakes

slathered in butter dripping

with sweet syrup  1966

“he’s such a gentle soul”

at the dusk in a sidelong glance

s  o  m  e     t  h  i  n  g  protrudes

through a weak seam or

causes an unnatural bump

to swell beneath the shirt

non-human eyes flit side to 

side  w e i r d tongue   darts 

from a drooling maw 

gait                     like an ape 

        inexplicable

horrifying      a guttural growl

[hallucinations       you’re mistaken]

II. 

Bridal illusion is a soft 

mesh net fabric 

often used for veils 

or layered over opaque 

cloth to create an 

ethereal effect. Illusions 

are peaceful places. 

You preferred living there.

Plastic flatware was sterling. 

Cratchit Christmases, gilded. 

Paper plates, Limoges.

His plan to smother 

you one Autumn day 

on the uphill footpath

in the deserted forest

in northern Illinois

then sliding your infant 

under the surface of 

the nearby river until 

she drifted away, 

was thwarted only 

by his overwhelming fear

of capture         this time.

 

You were communing with nature. 

Hippie-style. Silly flower child.

Not a runaway, a tossed aside.

Didn’t see the hesitation, 

slack face, disappointment, 

nor his defeat and resignation. 

His need for power and control.

You didn’t see anything, did you?

[You doubt. And you forget.]

III. 

You rested your mind in the tangible. 

The slippery satin quilt. 

Butter pecan ice cream. 

Sunny afternoons in Chicago 

supported by Big Shoulders. 

Civil Rights rallies. A fragrant rose. 

Sapphire skies. Puffy clouds.

Cesar Chavez. NFWA picket lines.

Your baby’s first laugh aloud.

Road trips in the VW bus.

The soothing rhythm of lane markers

ticking like a time bomb.

Big birds threw shadows 

across your eyes, too. Drifting. 

Helpless with Neil in North Ontario. 

Where “My darling, I don’t give a damn”

and “Tomorrow is another day” reside.

        the forest with the uphill footpath

ceased to exist.

You found his secret poem. 

Read over and over.

“The sag of her face as the life drained out.”

“The sag of her face as the life drained out.”

“The sag of her face as the life drained out.”

The hidden life of an upstanding citizen. 

Fiction. Horror. Forget them.

Dissociated. Only in the Dark Wood 

of dreams lurked the abandoned 

factory in Tijuana          and Alma,

the one before you.

[No one would believe you anyway.]

linda m. crate

no depths 

when you look in 

the mirror to see your face,

i hope instead of 

your features you are 

haunted by every ghost of

every person you've been

a terrible friend to;

i hope you recognize

you're not as innocent

as you pretend to be and that

being oblivious does not

excuse all the harm you've done—

but i don't expect an apology

or for you to hold yourself 

accountable because i know

you've got no depths, only shallows;

go ahead and stick with the

waters you're used to—

i'm going to dive deeper into

the depths of who i am because

i was a mermaid meant to swim

oceans not mud puddles.

so many masks 

when i look at my 

face and examine my features,

sometimes i see a pretty

woman;

other times i see a scared

little girl

and other times an angry teenager—

they're all a part of me,

always have been and always

will be;

i have never been the type of

person who has one facet

i contain multitudes like all of 

my favorite goddesses—

i think most people have more

than one face,

but everyone likes to wear

so many masks;

you may never know any of their

features.

glad i'll never be like you 

when you look at your

face features,

you tell me that you look

more like one parent

than the other;

i look into the pictures

and all i can see is

bitterness where sweetness

once was—

i will never understand how

you can go from a sisterhood

to purposefully excluding me

and giving me the silent treatment

over nothing,

but somehow life shows you

who not to be;

and i'm glad i'll never be like you

discarding someone who loved

me like they were nothing—

i will never look into my reflection in

the mirror haunted by who i neglected.

David Fewster

ODE TO A DEAD SURREALIST

The other month

on one of the Facebook pages

I frequent and post shit to

(I forget if it was

"Poetry Super Highway"

or "National Beat & International

Beat Poetry Festival Bulletin Board")

some guy referred to himself

as a 'literary maquis'--

the word looked familiar,

but I still had to look it up.

It was a slang term for

the French Resistance.

You know who's a goddamn

literary maquis?--

Robert fucking Desnos

You know who's not?--

the social media warrior

who posted the 852nd meme

on Trump sucking dick

that I've scrolled thru today

(Image: Portrait of Robert Desnos by Man Ray)

Lynn White

Masquerade

We create so many masks, 

so many masks to hide behind.

We hide our face features,

to hide ourselves.

We may make new ones

in wood or plastic,

stone or papier-mâché,

create new features, new faces

as we  paint our faces,

make ourselves up

and symbolise

who we are

or want to be

at that time.

We shape the face featured

in our masquerade

like black magic.

Ahead Of The Curve

I wanted to get ahead

and stay ahead

ahead

of the curve,

but Magritte intervened.

He faced me up

painted my face,

featured me anew

and made an ass of me.

About Face

In those streets

of men and boys,

in that country 

for men and boys,

he felt like a man with no face,

his face space occupied

by a swirling mist of confusion.

So he had to wait, 

as they all waited,

for it to settle down

to see what emerged

if anything did.

Sometimes 

he wished for a blank space

that he could fill himself

with his own face features,

or even a woman

unmasked

featured

and visible.

Sometimes

he wished he could wear

the same features every day,

wake up with that face in place

and know it would stay,

know what he would be,

what he could be every day.

Tim Tipton

Front Porch

Sunday night is beautiful,

perfect end-of-the week night.

the half moon lifts

from behind a cloud

into a flat, pale slice of light.

I stood on the porch staring out at

miles and miles of endless space

stretched in front of me.

I drink up the night

I didn't go back inside, just stood

in the flow of a slight wind that

ruffled my hair is like my grandmother’s

touch.

All my worries and troubles were lost.

Monday morning appeared to be years away.

Wandering

Wandering

on my own

Without anyone

To notice where I go

Without any worry

Or when I come home

Wandering

whispers of warm air sigh on my face

Like a friend,

Like a secret lover

softly to me

Wandering

inside myself

Inside my thoughts

My nose flares

My eyes close

My future lies deeply in the afternoon.

Long Sunday Breakfast

On a journey

to a warm, comfortable place.

Where sausage and eggs are

ready to be consumed with relish.

Traces of hot coffee and fresh cinnamon rolls

lure me into a estacy 

The face of Sunday comics is open

and smiles at me.

Sun allows itself to emerge

from the trees.

Late June

Everything is full of promise.

Sunday morning nourishes me.

Ruth Bavetta

Fishermen at Night  

 

So many lights, scattered

like forget-me-nots across the dark sea.

They could be reflected stars

but the sky is clouded over. The sun,

like an old fox, has disappeared

into its dark den, and the moon has yet

to creep over Cristianitos Ridge.

 

Do the men on those little boats

call out to each other

in encouragement, do they argue

about who took the best spot, banter

about the Dodgers’ last game?

 

I have faith in fish and in the multitude

of creatures that live beneath membrane

of the ocean. Little boats, just past the breakers,

it matters what you catch,

it matters that fishermen get older

and their faces change.

Previously published in Muddy River Poetry Review

Jackie Chou

The Metropolis

Cars whoosh by

below my balcony 

like ocean waves.

I can feel the smirks

on the faces of the drivers,

though I cannot see through 

their dark windows.

The world is drowning me

in its collective smugness, 

eyeing the little people 

who board the buses,

walk to the stores,

stand on our balconies.

They are content with the shine

of their plastic possessions,

randomly running a hand 

though perfectly greased hair.

As for me,

I am unaware of this skin I have,

or the clothes on my back.

Robert Fleming

 

Susan Isla Tepper

REJECTION

He didn’t get why

couldn’t figure out

my reason for

rejecting him

 

making him all

the more pushy

and abrasive

 

How could I say

it’s your noodle face

Joe Grieco

MUG SHOT

We could argue till we’re blue in the face

Me game face, you long face

In a stone face face off

But I don’t care if I lose face

I can face the music

I can do about face

I just want to see your smiley face

I’d like to apologize face to face

I wasn’t watching the clock face

I stand before you with egg on my face

Willing to face the firing squad

Face up, my bad

I’m sorry I got up all in your face

I was drinking and ended up shit faced

Now can we play kissy face?

Joan McNerney

That Long Afternoon

The air became heavy wiping

willows along skyline.

Blue jays sped to bushes

startled by thunder.

Rain drops linger on face

lying on lips now

cascading arms

falling from fingers.

precious cool.

We listen to rain

caressing flower beds.

Circles of water

spreading wider wider

laden with moist

scents of spring.

Rain walks over

side streets, pelting

metal roofs in

slippery symphonies.

We hide under cover

our bodies as damp

as silver willows.

Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

Simple Words

What are the simple 

for joy and sadness?

I do not have a clue.

Don’t ask the sun or the moon.

Who could describe

how I feel inside of me?

I would not know where to start.

There are no simple words.

I do not feel so good.

I do not feel as bad as other days.

The future is uncertain.

I lack the courage

of a lion tamer.

Anxiety he drinks me up

like a glass of water.

I can’t put my finger on it.

I distain metaphors.

I search for the simple word.

I like to be sure.

I look for simple words.

The day is long

and my head feels heavy.

I do not feel so good.

I do not feel love.

I feel like I’m going mad.

The birds sing in a mocking tone,

not with tenderness.

I do not feel good.

My face is burning

and my eyes are dazed.

I am catching fire.

It does not feel so good,

and I bite my tongue.

 

The Faces

The faces are large and small,

shaved, unshaven, with handle bar

mustaches or thin ones. After a while

a child’s face appears and a voice

speaks out, welcome to your life.

Coping with these visions is 

hard. The fatal crash of sanity

is a tough pill to swallow. A marriage 

with madness is not a picnic.

The bartender serves me drinks.

I want to escape this world, find

the old person I used to be.

I take a pill but it is useless.

I see the faces in my glass.

First Verses Seeking Their Counterparts 

Your hands are soft

like a breeze 

pressing against my face.

Stripping away all

thoughts, you sit,

where you can hear birdsong.

You hold out, just

waiting to

hear what you find missing.

Like the hermit 

you’ve become,

you keep everything 

an arm’s length away.

You remain still

as the world’s

at a frenzied pace.

If you could be

invisible,

you would be at ease.

Chad Parenteau

Early Epilogue

 

I hide revenge

in poems 

no one will

keep or read,

my enemies

gone away

to abandon

criticism,

live catatonic

by a lake,

egg left 

on face 

believed to

not exist.

Virginia Mariposa Dale

I Dressed Especially Carefully that Night  

I dressed especially carefully that night  

Like a toreador before a bull fight 

Put on my soft brown twill jumper dress  

Black silk blouse to match, ruffles at the neck  

An extra stroke of the brush through my long hair  

You picked me up at the San Jose airport Drove 

me to the San Jose State fraternity house Fresh 

young faces, hot fast pulsating music:  

“Hey, baby, wha’d I say” Ray Charles raised the tempo  

Drinks consumed in a flash like the look in your eyes  

As we danced hot, fast, bodies touching  

You towered over me at six foot three  

Such a hunk; a ladies’ man  

Hips grinding out a sensual beat  

We laughed; bodies hot, juices flowing 

Such a stud, never missed a beat  

Time spun by; the house went dark  

A hand grabbed mine; pulled me into a room Bobby, 

where were you? I was alone.  

I fought and shrieked while your friend raped me  

Left me on a bed naked as the wind that raked my hair  

Knocking naked at the house next door  

The elderly couple scared as could be  

“Can you send a taxi to the Alpha Delta house?”   

I covered my body with shaking hands  

Ran back to the fraternity house My 

soft brown jumper dress, panties  and 

bra waited for me  

“I called the police!” I screamed My 

purse and silk blouse shoved though 

a crack in the door.  

Such courtesy.   

Andy Palasciano

Passing Notes

Listening to our President speak

feels like I’m doing something wrong.

I shouldn’t listen to rumors,

but a lot of people are saying this.

“Who is saying this? And are you sure

they’re ok with you telling me?”

I feel like I’m in third grade 

passing notes,

when you could see it on our face.

You could do your best

to hide the truth,

but you knew it was evident,

Suzy had cooties.

Maskies

We will never be above love.

We will never be beyond connections.

So, we should take our masks off

and experience resurrection.

Barry Vitcov

The Waiting Room

what do we notice 

when entering an

empty waiting room

empty chairs lined in a 

straight-backed void

the faces of hope or despair

having already left

with diagnoses and prescriptions

entering hand-in-hand

both of us nervous

about to lay a future

on an examination table

never warm enough

remembering when parents

informed us of their end of days

with the solemnity of age

and the humor of their years

the chairs seem emptier

if emptiness could be less

when entering an

empty waiting room

 

Fastballs

Baseball brings out the best…

child in all of us

not because the game is always the best

but because it’s a sport meant for imagination

and afternoon daydreams

For me, it was always about fastballs

I could wallop a fastball

anything over the plate, above my knees

below by shoulders…gone

then I saw my first curveball

or should I say ducked under that curve

the second curve, the third curve

strike one, strike two, strike three

in my mind take a seat loser

watching my father in the stands

shaking his head and making a face

like he had just nibbled on stale

rancid Cracker Jacks

I’ve never forgotten that look

Yet, I still love baseball

never more when watching a mother

lobbing whiffle balls to her toddler son

who’s standing at home plate 

on the baseball field in the park 

on a crisp, sunny baseball playoff fall day

he stands barely two-foot tall

shorter than the plastic bat he swings

and misses, swings and misses,

swings and whack, contact

running imaginary bases gleefully

giggling while mom claps and roots

There will be curveballs in his future

and memories of mom cheering

he may duck three times

or maybe not

Abbey and I in Yachats

The sea moves like

grey shoulders shrugging

off the fog and gray

while Abbey the standard poodle

ponders the parade of non-standards

passing by thinking they’re okay.

I’m comfortable and tidy

in my black hoodie

with the mist glazing my face

as Abbey paces the deck

reminding me of my place,

just a human and not entitled

to a puppy’s grace.

The ocean maintains 

a languid pace

with muted colors 

and expanding space.

Luke Stilwell (1968-2015)

THE LOVE SONG OF CANCER BOY 

Two days out of the hospital and kind of bitter

I could end up being that asshole

My cancer is more important than your petty triumphs 

and set backs

I am Cancer Boy

Look upon my diaries and despair

I look up and chills are drenched in blood

 

The jaws of gold illuminated a sunset fire

The sky mass of darkness clouds 

held up by those bloody pampers

 

But then how am I going to build up 

my neo-platonic high rise to whatever 

blissy heaven is up there?

The only face that matters to me now

the only face that sparks is my wife’s

Romantic?

Sickeningly so?

It sounds like a cheap line

But there you go

This means she is more important to me 

than ever before and I am terrified 

of losing that face 

the kindness

the sympathy…. If I lose that, 

I am nothing

Please my love, 

let me ask even more of you

Charles A Perrone

Unmasking Sound Advice

This is indeed the mask I have chosen to wear

on the dare of an observant fellow traveler who

had been to Ancient Rome and had learned that

persona was the word for an actor's face covering,

through (per) which the voice would sound (sonare).

This mask of mine is multi-chromatic, multi-cultural,

multitudinous, if you consider all the many features,

nooks and crannies with still ridges that it possesses.

My wearing of the mask deserves just as much press,

as the journalistic possibilities are more than myriad 

if one simply takes the time to look ever so closely...

 

Honoring Dad

I was seeing all these posts about deceased parents

and, honestly, not giving them a second thought at all.

But then along came the day that would have been my

own father's birthday number one hundred eleven, 111.

Time for something singular or primary, one of a kind-ish.

And I thought back to his ninetieth (90th) birthday and the

bash we planned for him (recent widower) complete with a

lovely Mexican lady to bring treats and keep him company.

He showed up all right with a stunning silver-haired lady on

his arm and a smile on his face it is difficult to describe anew.

So much for the "planning skills" of the younger generation.

 

Post-Screenings

What happened after the conclusion

of the fine cosmopolitan film festival

where sensational shorts were shown

was even better than the five winners

For an unidentified gentleman snappily

dressed and intimidatingly tall & bulky

turned the corner of the patio lounge

and strutted past all the tables with

their espresso-sipping connoisseurs

boldly displaying his black knit face mask

covering everything from his chiseled chin

to the top of his solid and broad forehead

with the apt exception of two eye holes and

from behind this unusual barrier did he say

Try to ID me now you cursed face-recognition

software designed to make movies less fun!

Connie Johnson

 

CLS Sandoval

Dedication

Gateway Community Church was still Lincoln Ave. Baptist Church. We didn’t believe in baptizing children until they were old enough to decide to choose Jesus. We would dedicate them in the sense that the church would be dedicated to loving and helping take care of these children. I remember on the day of Tiffany’s dedication, I stood there with bright lights in my face wearing a white straw hat and an Easter color dress with lots of seams down the full skirt. They were horizontal and created a texture that I loved to finger. As Pastor Craig explained what dedicating a baby to the church meant, the fingers of my right hand slid down the back of my full skirt to pull at each decorative steam, and the texture.  It was one of the first times I felt like I was living in a movie and I was the star. I was pulled back into reality as Pastor Craig asked who would be dedicated to Tiffany. I raised my hand high up above my head, shielding my eyes from the spotlight, and expressing my dedication to my sister.

The Pap Smear

 

My nerves make my blood pressure

so high

that the nurse is concerned

 

I tell her that this happens every year

doesn’t matter that this physician is female

far more gentle

explains everything so clearly

 

My body stiffens

Dr. says just relax

it makes it worse if I’m anxious

 

My pelvis won’t listen to my brain

she thinks she knows better

maybe she does

 

As the doctor inserts the speculum

I take a deep breath

press down on my abdomen

 

I hear a squeal next to my left ear

then a full-on cry

 

“Can I turn her around?”

The doctor offers to swivel my 18-month old’s stroller

so she can’t see anything but my face

 

Can’t see what the doctor is doing to me

won’t worry that her mommy is being attacked

or that the future may have a similar attack in store

for her

Trust

 

We had only been reunited for a few months at that point. My mom had experienced a break with reality that resulted in her being diagnosed with bipolar disorder at the age of 72. Right toward the end of that fog, she met a man who she was just completely smitten with. “We are getting married!” Mom could hardly contain her excitement. The anticipation of this marriage, to be her fifth, took years off her face. She looked like a young blushing bride. In that moment I begged her not to marry him. I knew that she met him when she was still coming back to reality. I knew he had absolutely nothing financially. I was worried that he only cared about her money. She insisted that they would be married. I asked her if she insisted on marrying him if she would please make a power of attorney or some other document that would say if she lost touch with reality again I would have control of her finances so that her new husband couldn’t take what she had worked her entire life for.  She agreed.

Mom had a trust made

I did not read till her death

They married in May

Don Kingfisher Campbell

Faces and Flowers

faces like flowers

you see them everywhere

some fully blossomed

flowers like faces

looking up or down

who ponders who

like faces flowers

have a countenance

you can read easily

like flowers faces

react to their environment

sicken and die

flowers faces like

are robust and

full of character

faces flowers like

are cultivated plants

reaping beauty

Car Face 

Whenever I drive 

I see them

in front of me

Each vehicle

sports a brand

personality

That Honda CR-V

a glasses-wearing

angry contrarian

looking with disdain

at the mere act

of my following

On the other hand 

this Toyota Corolla

Hatchback eye smiles

broadly like it is

happy to be on road 

logo nose points at me

But the Hyundai

Tucson is a mutant

like one car was

stacked on another

a hideous designer

deadline rush job

I become curious

as to what drivers

think of my Nissan

Cube it has a smoky

rear window like

a large forehead

way down too

close set eyes

stare straight

below a Fu Manchu

moustache framing

a license plate mouth 

insidious but not

menacing just like

its aging owner

Watch out for a

Chevy Corvette C8

its countenance is

a four-eyed crab

appearing ready to

bumper devour you

tail pipes recessed

like pinchers waiting

to thrust loudly

OMG a Cybertruck

an alien strip lights

up two corner slits

above a blank shiny

steel trapezoid an

expressionless giant

must have been drawn

by a rascally boy who

became a billionaire

An Orange-Faced Man

so much depends

upon

an orange faced

man

glazed with presidential

power

beside the white

supremacists