Old Century Dark Woods Jazz Attic
by Kim Hazelwood Haley
Big drops were thumping on the rooftop
Like bongo drums,
One rainy, jazzy Friday night,
In our gorgeous, epic house!
Drumming like a long, secluded madman
Over
Two stairways,
A vestibule, an attic,
A bit of a deranged, dusty basement,
Pealing with side cymbals,
Sashaying over
The Shadows,
Echoing against the
Skeleton key doorknobs,
Over the smell of lemon oil and early
Old century dark woods.
In history awe,
I imagined women in all the skirt lengths of time,
Strutting across the palatial front porch steps,
From Bustles and Brunswicks,
To flappers and men with Fedoras
Escorting them eventually to
Be Mod with Minis and maxis.
Turns out,
Our little mansion used to be a radio station,
Great big pole with call letters, just a stub now.
Happenstance~
‘Cause my man is the best DJ in the world,
Friday nights he plays me the sizzling and most beautiful
Soulful ear candy~
Rocks and jazzes me all night long.
O, the music he plays from his infinity collections!
Always like a date,
So what with Steely Dan and Weather Report and Mingus,
I felt the need for lipstick,
So I climbed the stairs.
Passed the Newel post and thought of George Bailey’s grateful kiss.
My Rose Dew tube was in a purse pocket on the teal bedspread,
So with lip tint in hand, I swiveled back towards the stairs,
To take me down to more music, more love,
But
In a strange shadow, I felt an unusual chill, a draft?
Can you play, Corcacoes de Atum
Or T3Ka didgeridoo,
From my country of Portugal.
Eek! A yelp, maybe, I couldn’t breathe.
With one eye, I spied a silhouette….
Attic door-never opens by itself!
I wail! …something…
Music’s too loud for my DJ to notice…
Wha? Who?....
A voice coming from the attic?!
In a latin accent:
I am hungry, I only eat when you leave the house,
I slip through the place with paws of cats,
With ready claws for hungrier rats,
But I need some music for my
Deep, hollow soul.
My deeply, harrowing, growling soul!
Dizzy, fading and unsteady
I tumbled down the stairs,
Bruising all the way, crashing onto the
Cascading little cliffs,
Then the music stopped,
And I heard the attic door shut,
Heart Pounding,
My DJ rushing,
“Honey!”
“I’m okay, I think…”
As the lipstick rolled across the hardwood floor shadows, he was shaking as he said,
“Maybe we better get you to the hospital!”
“No, I’m… just a little sore,”
Finger pointing upstairs,
“I finally thought of a music request,
Got any, Coracoes De Atum, or
T3ka Didgeridoo?”
Bio: Kim Hazelwood Haley is the editor of this litzine and author of CoyoteBat! . She placed third in a local poetry contest and has upcoming publications in the vast universe of poetry. She and her co-editor husband have formed Cats With Matches and are also musical with an Appalachian group called Zen Robins. Life is a dream.
Bitter Thorns
by James G. Piatt
Dead indian warriors ride their ghost
Mustangs into the hot wind as they ride
Over rugged mountains and gritty fields:
The hushed echoes of phantom hoofbeats
Beat deep in a box canyon; once sounds of
Cherished dreams, now only rusted
Pulses of a lost ancient nation.
The vanishing beating of drums of murmuring
Yesterdays tell a dismal tale of days
Which have disappeared, collapsing in
Discarded corroded hours, and scorched
Yearnings.
The venerable Chief sits alone with legs
Crossed next to a Yucca Plant in the
Sweltering desert; the shrub secretes
Musty aromas of unfulfilled dreams of his
Lost people, waiting for eternity to die out.
The sun reaching for nightfall, casts a dull
Pink hue upon the mountains as the Chief’s
Tears try to wash away the bitter thorns of
His people’s lost dreams.
Bio: James, a retired professor and octogenarian, is a Pushcart and best of web nominee. Broken Publications has published 3 collections of his poetry, “The Silent Pond” (2012), “Ancient Rhythms,” (2014), and “LIGHT,” (2016). He has also published 4 novels and over 1,025 poems. His fourth collection of poetry, and fifth novel will be released this year
Two Days
by Olivia Parker Sergent
Two days
Two days of sorrow
Two days of melancholy minds
And tear stains instead of rouge
Three years
Three years of pasture
Three years of daisies
And snowy twilights
Two days of ash
Two days of smiles
And handshakes
And how-do-you-dos:
Two days false smiles
Cold handshakes
And lies
Three years of bliss
Two days amiss
And a future still to hold onto.
Bio:"Olivia Parker Sergent has been writing poetry for as long as she has been wearing big-girl underwear. When not writing she enjoys reading, anime, and musical theatre, and even though she doesn't enjoy it she often finds herself tripping, hiccuping loudly, and brooding over impermanence. Over the years, she has come across countless inspiring creatives, and hopes someday her words may reach someone who needs them."
