Greasy Monkey Poetry

” I Live Once More”

as the pink carpet grows over
the weeds are the thorns
as the angels above
look below
in a matter of scorn
as the ashtrays
overflow
with inhalation, used
gone
as the clock hands
scream and grow
and fumble on
as the leaves interchange
color
texture
smell
as the souls of humans
cook from raw
to well
as the wrapper
lies in the trash
and the stomach
asks for more
as the roaring waves crest
and plunge
onto the shore
i live once more..

-Nicole Marquise Gotlieb

Nocturne

In the early hours of the morning,
At 2:30 and sometimes after,
I would hear my father,
Unable to sleep, couching,
His footsteps moving about,
As he transformed the kitchen
Into a concert hall,
With refrigerator doors closing loudly.
Jars could be heard opening.
Their vacuum seals hissing,
Lids rolling, spiraling and strumming
Across table or countertop,
The sound of him rummaging
Through the silver for knife, fork
Or spoon, and the glupp-glupp of him
Pouring a soda, the fizzle of it
In the glass.

Some nights now I wake up
At 2:30 or sometime after,
Unable to sleep.
In the summer, I sit out
In the quiet on the front porch step,
In winter, in the darkened living room
At the rolltop desk, but always
Avoiding the kitchen.
Indeed, I tiptoe through it, for the
Silence there has grown
Into a monument to him,
And I fear that if I click the
Glass of the pimento olive
And the sweet pickle jars
It will disturb his peace,
And any slight rattle of silverware
Will conjure his spirit.

Conversation With Grandma

She is so beautiful
When she talks to her grandma,
Sitting on a corner edge
Of the hospital bed
As she listens intently
To grandma’s broken
English, nodding her head
At certain statements
Which causes her hair tied
In a pony tail to wag
Cutely up and down,
Sometimes side to side, and
Sometimes it spirals in circles,
Some of them round,
Some more elliptical.

She is so beautiful
When she talks to her grandma,
Sitting on the bed absorbed
In conversation, with animated hair
Tied back in an expressive tail and
Like a conductor’s baton it
Seems to set and moderate
The pace of conversation,
And at that moment I want only
To study all the aspects of
Pony-tail physics,
To steep myself in the
Small details of the science
Of silent motion
That accompanies and punctuates
A conversation with grandma.

Last Words

I had a dream I met
The ghost of my father
In an all-night supermarket.
I was walking down the produce
And frozen food aisle
When I saw him following me,
Walking close behind,
But I did not recognize him
Until he spoke the name
Of my childhood: “Hi Dougie.”
As I heard his voice
I knew him at once.
I turned to hug him,
And for one long moment
In the brightly lit store
Between the prickly pears
And frozen pizzas
We stood embracing.
He never spoke again,
And I too not speaking,
Just held him.

Winter Pears

On a wooden swing hanging
From the highest bough
Of his backyard pear tree
We learned to fly at the
Speed of dreams on summer
Afternoons, leaning back
And gripping rusted
Chains and looking far up
Into thick foliage that hid
The dark limbs that held us.

From the tall tree that grew
Small winter pears
I’d fly with him across the
Summers and briefly
Forget for a moment
My parent’s marriage,
The family finances,
My sister’s sickness.
In quick motion sweeping us
Upward, we learned to fly.

Before I knew of fallen fruit
Or how spring winds
Waste pear blossoms,
I knew him. He flew
Unfettered and without
Cares where dreams
Grew slow like winter pears
On the highest branches
To ripen and fall only
In late summer.

Today, under a pear tree
Drooping with fruit
I dreamt him here.

Scott Fountain

There is a renaissance fountain
Of white Italian marble
In a city park. On occasion
I still go there, for it holds
The magic of my childhood.
My grandfather and I would visit it
On summer afternoons.
He would always open
His pocket change holder,
In slow motion and pick
Out a coin for me to toss
In the water with my wish.
In the sounds of the
Streams spraying upward,
In the glint of silver coins through
The water, I think of him.

There is a renaissance fountain
Of white Italian marble,
That my grandfather
And I would visit,
That holds all my old wishes,
The heavy heartfelt ones
That sink swiftly in the turbid
Waters and lie invisible
On colored tile bottom
Grown over with algae.
They remain unseen and
Waiting, as requests from
The devout sometimes await
God’s granting. Wishes
Are secular prayers.
I know this, for whenever
I hold a Mercury dime or
Indian-head nickel
I wish he were here.

– Doug Tanoury

Josh describes himself as follows, “I am Josh Cochran: poetperson and explicator of such silly things as ideas. I’ve been writing for about a year now and this is the second submission of any of my poetry. I am a wanderer of the web and a lover (and hater) of arts, literature, and music. This poetry is for you. print, read, and live at your own risk.”

potatoe

i eat pot a toes e very day
us u ally baked & w it hout gra-
v(e)y.

selection

CON
TEXT TEST TENT
TANT

(there is not supposed to be a blank line beetween TENT & TANT, next poem)

reflection

S he came to me in midnight blue-
the cre scent her silver pen d ant-
she asked me what i wi shed from her-
& her p art to p lay in it.

i exc laimed, ‘to rise’-
i pro claimed, ‘to shine’-
‘to come & take the day.’

‘& with your shadows num(b) ero us
do not lead me as(h)tray.’

Josh Cochran

Tendai Dawanyi is a native of Zimbabwe. Currently he is a freelance writer residing in Cincinnati Ohio. He also works in news production for a local TV station.

The further you are away from home, the stronger your sense of identity…..

#1 The African Spirit

Its mysterious and intangible
But so real and powerful
Like a raging fire across the Motherland
The fever of the African spirit

Unleashing a piercing cry
From deep within the heart
Capturing the heart and soul
of the African spirit

Playing on the bongo drums
With a rhythmical feel
And a fiery fervor
– Making music of the African spirit

How do you combine power with grace,
Explosive energy with rhythm
Its seemingly effortless
For they that have inherited, the African spirit

The legacy of ancient generations
Is passed on from generation to generation
And as for her children, now scattered afar
They too remain bonded by the African spirit

Mighty as the Zambezi
And as proud as a lion
More colorful than a flamingo
With a sense of identity and unity
That is more intuitive than thought
A flame burning from within the heart
This is the African spirit

#2 THE SIMPLE LIFE…….

When the music floats across the airwaves
Pictures come flooding to the mind
Collages of color, vivid and natural
The wild and the free, the beautiful and the simple
Now only captured in melancholic memories

Education brought much wisdom
And wisdom brought much hunger
For things only money could buy
And now time itself
Cannot bring back the simple life

The pursuits of my heart
Took me to unfamiliar places
Where the cold has pierced many hearts
And the laughter of the simple life
Has dissolved into wishful feelings

Where is the sense of balance
When the agent of progress
Has traded the soul for the world
And there is no turning back
To the pleasures of the simple life

We all have coping mechanisms. Some of us have different ones for different circumstances. Whether they actually work or no, is another question. Here’s one

#3 The Night is relief to a weary mind

The night seems to swallow
The problems of life
If only for a moment

Sleep’s like a drug
Taking away the pain
Till morning light

Hard days seem managed
By a little rest
Until solutions come

Natural and cyclical unconsciousness
Seems to bring back
Relief to a weary mind

Life is a lot simpler when I am honest to admit I don’t understand any of it all..

#4 You know I just don’t understand it at all!

I don’t know the mysteries of life
Why I was born and why I live
And why as the sun sets, I must die

I don’t know why the grass is green
And why the desert grows
Under my very eyes

I don’t know why peace keepers
Are armed to the teeth
Or why in the name of love
We justify murder with thought, word and action

I don’t know why fires can rage so furiously
And yet remain contained
Inside our driven bodies

I don’t know the mysteries of life
And I don’t understand THE Mystery of life
You know, I just don’t understand it at all

#5 FAMILY OF TODAY

Family of today
Where is your future
Without the past
And where is your joy
Without the children

To survive in this uncertain world
You must be ‘as wise as a serpent’
But what is wisdom without the elders

Life is a daily struggle
But its the innocence of babies
That softens your hearts
And its their laughter
That brings you back to your senses

Weeping and laughing together
Is all part of the sharing
That keeps you strong
As the village grows

The hope of tomorrow’s society
Is not defined by politicians and corporations
It is defined in the foundations
Laid down by you, the family of today

Tendai Dawanyi

1998 © Tendai Dawanyi, author.
The author will allow non commercial redistribution of any or all of the above poems to sites on the internet.

An English major at the University of North Texas in Denton. Trevor previously attended Southeastern Oaklahoma State University in Durant. He says, “I always thought I had an ear and a heart for poetry, but thanks to professor Randy Prus, I developed the honesty and dedication it takes to become a poet. I really owe him a lot.”

Check out this piece…

Cemetery Season

we rode out like two
amid decay and deformity
set abreast upon the life
we once called love and home
ran to the steps of dead religion
and entered without holy water
attendance placed us at a previously reserved setting
made for two

-this is the place i can not call home-

attendees made of lace and starch
all believe to be individually whole,
but i could see right through them
to you;
not Love, but love.
they wear their jewelry at dinner table
as they pass more wine
and i listen as my secrets are served raw to the orchestra.

you and i are grown upon
by the weeds of deception
they leave their edicts strewn
amid our garden
the tulips and the marigolds
shall never prosper
in this usury
nor pisces
nor leo
nor porcelina.
near the wise oak
the well rode two
danced the minuet under a sophoclean moon
but the wise oak never spoke
only lifting her skin
to medicate melanomas
in the land of soft deceit
withered faces trust labia intrusions
hearts that lie
made of hearts that lay
with every flower but Love.
must life progress in their pangea of nothingness?
in the home
by the cut stone
near our garden
where under our feet
the lizards have flown…
and under our feet
the place we can not call home.

Trevor

Three poems all written within the last few months, in no specific order. I hope you enjoy.

RELIVING YOU

pallor pale, cold,
rough skin pocked,
pain blackened eyes,
nails bit to the root.

I recount details,
marks noted hatefully,
minor feelings enlarged
to sizes meaningful.

This is when I see you
for who you really are
just an ogre with a smile
and a cavernous heart.

I need your brand of pain
it consumes me like a drug
you see, the junkie heart inside me
thrives on callous blood.

KEEP HOPE A LIE

Promise me,
peeled, painted fences
and over-grown grasses
calling for a cutting,
sunshine rich enough to burn,
calm waking moments
lacking fear of touching.

lie to me,
tell me stories
about our life to come
when we can muse about forever
without embarrassing fragile Truth
or twisting unbending Fact.

and let me listen without doubt
or skeptical logic
about a created world
full of fictitious beauty.

I want to live in a world
where truth grows to change
with each passing season
and fear is crushed by
slight, calming breezes.

The passive sound of falsehood
will ring glorious in my ears,
your voice will soothe my doubts
and hope will reach my touch.

ALLEGRA

Fear clasps my shoulders
then twists into anger
with reckless endangerment
but it’s alright with me.

my heart pounds
like the broken engine mounts
under the hood of our
not too long for the road car.

crossing Montana, endlessly
two lanes stretch out before us
as we make a break for destinations
hidden from Denver’s responsibilities.

you and I have mind alike
missing parts and filled with
just a few too many thoughts
but it’s alright with you.

we’ve gone far
and not far enough
to stop and fix this car.

the horizon pulls us on
to thunder storms, complete
where electric atmosphere
collapses panicked thoughts
while your hand falls into mine,
finally.

Justin Dixon

Mike Elkins

Cannibal Animal

Two men make a deal on the steps
of the capital
One’s selling out the air that you breathe
can’t seem to get his pocket full
And me I’m chasing my tail like a dog
just to pay the bills
There’s a wolf in the shadows
where he waits very patiently
to make his kill
And I can’t take it
And I can’t seem to shake it
I sing the paranoidal blues
I’t keeps nipping at my heels
Like some cannibal animal.

Well, he’s bigger than life,
but he’s only as tall as your TV screen
I feel his hand in my pocket as he shouts
about how heaven has financial needs
He takes the truth, and he gives it a twist
like a knife, in the back of us
and then he waves from the windows
of his limo at the general populous.
And I can’t take it,
And I can’t seem to shake it,
I sing the paranoidal blues
It keeps nipping at my heels
Like some cannibal animal

There’s a finger in the face of fate
that points the other way
It keeps the wandering eye of chance
confused and in a daze
And me I’m waiting at the end of the tunnel
trying to see the light
But I’m blinded by the lack of control
that I have over my own life.
And I can’t take it,
And I can’t seem to shake it,
I sing the paranoidal blues
It keeps nipping at my heels
Like some cannibal animal.

By Michael Elkins
@Mikerosongs 1997

Marc Awodey

My poetry has been selected by many print and electronic publications including; Humanitas, Writers Journal, Zuzus Petals Quarterly online, Recursive Angel, Anthem, Thoth, Ygdrasil, Lexicon, Tight, Defined Providence, Illyas Honey, The Portland Review, Midwest Poetry Review, Obscure, Southern Ocean Review, Webgeist, Glossolalia, and many others.

Marc Awodey of Burlington, has an M.F.A. from Cranbrook Academy of Art.

The Wine of History

In the next five hundred years the rosy
faces of our descendants, like an eyeless
charioteer (a useless expense and burden

to drag) will see either a cornucopia
of calm revealed as a meaty Utopian dream
or a scar barren of hopes and fears

more ugly than The Planet of the Apes.
Gardens will thrive without human tears
just as many taverns at midnight do. Wine

is a name for the mirror of life till by 2am
besotted remains pucker like lust or a scar
barren of sober hopes and fears while amber

spots and diversions shine to slice through
lies like silver knives. They will know
if our promises were kept before sleep.

Wine is a name for the mirror of life
with Delphic bouquet and clear, crispy edge
to slice through lies like a silver knife.

The wine of history is an unhinged gate
we barrel through it like winged wheel chairs
with spiked axles dulled by neither fashion

nor school. Is tomorrow starched virginally
white to call forth truth and settle strife?
Will it sing in bright Rubaiyat dulled

by neither fashion nor school? In poetic
wisdom wine blesses boughs and mirrors
are a cornucopia of calm by which rich

civilizations are drawn to call forth
truth and settle strife. Thunderbird washes
waterfront priests who spill thier guts into

parking lots. Will our rosy faced descendants
be twisted and blotched under amber light,
or afterthoughts someplace inconceivably cold,
poisoned in the next five hundred years?

Anubis

Anubis silently plies a charmed trade
by conducting spirits into shade
as Nut whispers in his jackal ear
a chain of swift dark coos and melodious
accolades.
By conducting spirits into shade
Anubis sees each soul as one in the same;
a chain of swift dark coos and melodious
accolades
regardless of wealth, rank, or name
Anubis sees each soul as one in the same.
Respectfully guiding them, the passed
regardless of wealth, rank, or name
they who have shed last shred of human
remains.
Respectfully guiding them, the passed
as Nut whispers into his jackal ear,
they who have shed last shred of human
remains
Anubis silently plies a charmed trade.

America on a Plate

Evil genii starved with greed
launched in oak sparred carracks
and barks
to break bright nations into debris
and melt copper bottoms to mix
into bronze
to harvest fields with tools of war
they plowed the oceans coughing
disease
coaxing to follow, possessing to lead;
bright nations into cruddy debris.
They planted flags and kissed the beach
at the edge of Atlantics ancient froth.
They colonized like army ants
coaxing to follow, possessing to lead.
As slaves filled cups of English rum
there rose a beautiful behemoth,
of a shot in tea heard round the world
at the edge of Atlantics ancient
froth.
At Philadelphia great questions
were raised;
shall we clear a righteous path?
Will Europeans point fingers and say
ah! there rose a beautiful behemoth?
Shall we boil New France? New England?
New Spain
into a soup of bloody broth?
And again they asked as nations
dropped
shall we clear a righteous path?

Today of coarse, our combines feed
the world
and harvest fields with tools of war.
I too have tasted buffalo tenderloin
served au jus in bloody broth
but I keep my wits and bide my time,
as evil genii starve with greed.

By
Marc Awodey

A poem Dan wrote on Earthday. The Monkey hopes you enjoy!

Dig…

Our Purpose

The responsibilities of life
confuse the soul
to the extent that we no longer know who we are.
We do not recognize our own species as our family
let alone respect other species.
Unless a plant provides us beauty or food
we do not honor it’s coexistence with us in time.
There is no other purpose to being
except for our responsibility to our soul
and to the other souls of this beautiful but lonely world.

by Dan Derheimer
Copright 1997

Notebook Margins

Does He Like Me?

I look at him at lunch,
I look at him in the morning,
And I wish he’d give me a warning!

Does He Like Me?

I pray for him in the morning,
I pray for him at night,
I pray his love will come in sight!

Does He Like Me?

I’d do anything for him,
I’d do everything for him,
If he doesn’t like me I’ll be out on a limb!

So Does He Like Me or Not?

Written by: Karina Simone and Serena Ryan