27 February 2011

Poems appearing in Issue No. 3 of Obsolete Magazine.

Two of MaryAnn's poems "Break Room" and "Three Roads Converge" -- which first appeared on this blog -- will be published in Issue No. 3 of Obsolete Magazine.

Quarterly (Four issues per year) $12.00 (includes postage and handling).

From their blog: http://obsoletemag.blogspot.com

"Obsolete Magazine is a quarterly tabloid publication in the tradition of the International Times, OZ, The East Village Other, The Berkely Barb, The Chicago Seed, The Whole Earth Catalog, PUNK!, and other great underground rags of days past....."

25 February 2011

Contemporary Literary Horizon, Jan.-Feb. 2011 Issue.


Some poems published in the Jan.-Feb. issue of Contemporary Literary Horizon!!

01 February 2011

Crazed Cup

under the sink they are,
lined up, the forgotten
carafes, skewers for a
barbeque, behind a jumble

of flowerpots, paintpots, coffee-
and-teapots, the held-onto-
just-in-case, the broken
vessel, chipped, who might

just do in a pinch, and
thankful, too, we'll be, not
having that easy habit of
discarding others, the broken,

the imperfect, the slightly
the crazing on an old cup a
map of all those days gone by

long forgotten, along with
their random imperfections,
dwarfed by the blazing of the sun,
remembering how hot it was....

A Cat and A King

because the mind can be
convinced of anything at 3:58
a.m. she clings more tightly
than ever to sleep, anxious for

the dawn to set things to rights, the
towels folded for the laundry, the
coffee made and the
black dog sent on his way

without a bone to gnaw upon. And
peace falls upon the house
(momentarily), all the small
noises scrabbling inside the walls

a sort of unspeech to the unpeople
lingering about in all their
transitory glory, a housemaid
passing by a duchess (and to

be sure, a cat may look at
a king)

Shipping Forecast

there is no connection,
no threading tissue,
between one and another,
no bother, as the dinner
gets done, chop-a-block,
in staccato steps, a
puzzle of paint-by-numbers,
ketchup-red, steak sauce-brown,
grainy-golden mustard, a dollop
of it on the spoon about to
be dashed into the sauce for the fish
with one fine wrist-movement (ah,
if all things could be so--
definite and sure)

saving her voice for after
dinner, when the clatter of
silverware straight into
the sink has faded, the
shipping forecast predicting
only minor squalls
and so
to bed

Hitchcock's Blond Women

Hitchcock's blond women forever
frame-frozen: on a train, in a
shower, in a boat, on horseback

not always
having more fun

especially when:
hanging off national monuments,
being repeatedly stabbed, bird-beak
pecked, or
stringently psychoanalysed by
their husband (even if he is
Sean Connery)

better, so, to be


dervish whirls around the
pastel plain of the carpet
where lambs gambol,
eternally leaping over
that next hillock

turn, turn, turn, turn and

on to pacing, pace, pace, pace,
pace, pace then

then to screaming, the arc rising
up and up, the
incredible crescendo of it

breaks with a bite upon
his hand,