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Poem by Jade Blackmore- Fading Away November 3, 2019

Posted by vscorpiozine in poems, poetry, Veteran Poets.
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They used to be inspiration, your life’s blood.
Now they’re just privileged old men,
waving at peons from afar.


Poem by Jade Blackmore- The Old Couple and Their Cat October 27, 2019

Posted by vscorpiozine in cats, Jade Blackmore, poems, poetry, Veteran Poets.
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The Old Couple and Their Cat

He sits between them in the middle of the night
Until he wanders off
Underneath the half-broken grey shag tower,
Or a chair covered by a Turkish robe.
He sits at the edge of the bed guarding them from vermin.

In the morning,
They rub his marshmallow white belly,
And brush him when he commands them with a squeak.

He sees her and darts
From the end of the balcony
Back to the door.

Runs under the old man’s desk
Purring and trilling,|
to comfort him when she is out of town.

They give him treats when they have an evening snack,
So they all eat together as the blue light fades.

Everyone else
who cared
Is only a phantom now.
In the quiet of old age,
The old couple and their cat
protect each other.

Poem by Jade Blackmore – The Robot October 21, 2019

Posted by vscorpiozine in 1970s, Jade Blackmore, poems, poetry, Veteran Poets.
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She never said she was Marilyn reborn.
Swallowing the incandescent air,
Nonchalant, bidding her time,
Kicking in the most superficial memories.
A vacuumed gutter of change,
The seed of a willow, or
The dandelion’s heir.

An absent goddess
A blonde robot,
Assured by the rhythmic lock of
Boots and whips.
It’s not right to leave the fold this way.

Greedy rogues
Wishing for more,
Dissolving into the arc of dawn.
They’re all fools.
The decaying flutter of heaven’s dollars
Is the only music they’ll ever hear
Tomorrow hangs in the balance
It only gets in the way.

Life’s background extras scatter like frenetic pinballs.
In the end,
The voyeurs got what they wanted.
Frozen in purgatory, empty vessels,
After the vampire left.



*Another 40-year old poem I found in one of my journals

Poem by Jade Blackmore – Small Talk October 1, 2019

Posted by vscorpiozine in Jade Blackmore, poems, poetry, Veteran Poets.
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Small talk,
Transparent and barely tolerable,
Drops to the checkered sidewalk.
A chunk of cement strapped stilettos,
Costly and void, but always 90 proof,
Doesn’t sway the heart
Or stick to the ribs.

Butterfly stalker.
Fairfax Avenue graffiti
Covers up Rita Hayworth
With bountiful scars.
these words mean less
Than when
A bubble girl sang it.
That says a lot.

Words bounce back to you
And then up to the ridiculously blue sky
If there’s no one to catch them.

Poem by Jade Blackmore – Poetry Reading, East Village, 1990 September 18, 2019

Posted by vscorpiozine in 1990s, Jade Blackmore, New York, poems, romantic poems, romantic poetry, Veteran Poets.
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He dreamed of long legs,
intertwined with his.
A Cherokee priestess
in fringed suede,
fresh from the hide,
so fresh it still dripped blood.
And he wished for big brown eyes.
He dreamed of a madwoman
He dreamed too hard.

She read a poem
about the desert,
about skin and chains
and hookah pipes.
He stood in the back of the room
in cowboys boots.
He wore a stone amulet
on a chain around his neck.
She wore skull and hatchet earrings.
He wouldn’t have looked twice
if he’d seen her on the street.
He sees her clearly in a smoke-filled room
with the crash of beer bottles.
She smiled like an ingenue
but wrote like a white witch.
He fancied himself a writer
but her words made her feel like a dilettante.
His eyes made her feel
like a long-limbed Vogue model,
but his aura,
all black from hair to boots,
like a misfit with a ponytail
in the third grade,
and he was the cutest boy on the playground.

He touched her wrist,
as she put her poems into her backpack.
“You’re a witch,” he said.
His amulet brushed across her wrist vein.
“And you’re a shaman”, she said.

He bought her peppermint tea,
and she taught him about madwomen of the 18th century,
and he taught her about imitating Kerouac in the south of England.
They walked to her apartment above the biker bar
to consummate a beautiful lie.

A scattered night
transforming  mortals into magic, and
then back again.






Poem by Jade Blackmore – Down for the Count September 17, 2019

Posted by vscorpiozine in Jade Blackmore, love poems, poems, poetry, Uncategorized, Veteran Poets.
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I liked you better when this whole thing began-
you were fun, a sleepy-eyed man-child
making Halloween faces.
A lizard-collecting therapist’s nightmare.
Now you’re just a liar like everyone else,
internal organs on the slab for peons to pick at.
There are no secrets between us.
Familiarity breeds contempt.
If I knew less about you, I’d love you more.





Poems by John Grey – You Get the News and So Soon August 26, 2019

Posted by vscorpiozine in John Grey, poems, poetry, Veteran Poets.
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The news
can’t be easily compartmentalized.
It won’t stay down
with dead aunts and uncles
or even the friend
whose death was expected.
It wants to be on the move
from head to heart and back again.
And the last thing it needs
is for you to fall asleep.
The news is an artist
in its own way.
It paints a gory picture
of a car wrapped around a tree
at the side of an icy road.
Then it hangs the canvas
in full view of your unwilling imagination.
You close your eyes
but that doesn’t erase the dark.
You bury your head in the pillow
but so does disbelief
and its trained seal act of
no no no – it’s impossible –
this couldn’t have happened –
not to Nathan.
Why him, you wonder.
Why not me?
You feel guilty
at your own breath.
Regret for your over-pounding chest.
You roll over to the other side of the bed,
make it safely but implicated.


But when exactly?
At this very moment?
Maybe there are moments inside moments
and one of these is when it’s happening.
I was expecting to have to wait.
But events don’t pay much heed to expectation.
So she’s here.
The storm’s begun.
I feel the pain.
The phone rings.
The bell ding-dongs.
The lights go out.
The lights come on.
I prefer the chaste version of time,
the kind of passages that don’t move a second forward
unless everything has been considered,
all factors taken into account.
But the time I get has been around the block,
even around the clock, a few times.
Sometimes, it just happens.
It’s five o’clock
and a breath later it’s six.
I’ve got an hour or more before I have to get ready.
So why am I running so late?
It’s time to leave already.
Or set sail.
Or catch a flight.
Or study for the exam.
This world I live in
is a procrastinator’s nightmare.
I try to hide behind a postponement.
But the day, the hour, the very second,
know where to find me.


John Grey is an Australian poet and US resident. His work was recently published in Midwest Quarterly, Poetry East, and North Dakota Quarterly, with work upcoming in South Florida Poetry Journal, Hawaii Review and the Dunes Review.   

Poems by Alex Z. Salinas – Connect Four and Warble August 14, 2019

Posted by vscorpiozine in poems, poetry, poets from Texas, Veteran Poets.
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Connect Four 

When I was eight or nine years old,
my parents, in the summer,
dropped me off at my grandparents’ house
on Camargo Street. It had a little brown roof
and a basketball-pelted garage door.
The house sat across from an old dirt field
where baseball once was played
by my older brothers and cousins.
My grandma would either be
in her tiny kitchen, making fresh tortillas
with lard—slapping the dough with her
small, blue-veiny hands—or in her bedroom
that smelled of incense and gardenias,
lying down and watching Telemundo.
My grandpa would either be in the cramped
living room watching luche libre wrestling,
drinking Milwaukee from the can,
or off somewhere else, most likely smoking in solitude.
The days were long then.
Every so often, my grandma retrieved
Connect Four from her closet and
shook the box—clanking the little plastic pieces
to let me know it was game time—
it was magic to my ears.
I’d always lose.
For a transplant from Hualahuises—
where Cabeza de Vaca once stepped foot and showed
the benevolence of God to the dark-skinned natives—
my homebody grandma was sharp as a dagger.
We wouldn’t talk during our matches,
as if the yellow Swiss cheese wall of
Connect Four between us had reached out and pinched our
tongues. But the truth was, I couldn’t speak Spanish.
After my grandma won, she’d release the red
and black checker pieces, which came crashing down hard
onto the dining table. Chiquito, the ever-annoying Chihuahua,
barked like mad. My grandma cackled like an old lady.
I’d stare at her dentures, a little frightened, but then remember to laugh too.
At some point, we reinserted the chips
and played again.


Woke up to the sound of
your tweeting, little birdie.
High and low, up and down
it goes,
like a tea pot whistling
or police sirens ripping through
the silence of twilight.
Sound is decay, hot exhalation,
back-of-the-throat disruption.
High and low, up and down
it goes,
forever and always so long as
the sun will fry us.



Alex Z. Salinas lives in San Antonio, Texas. His poetry has appeared in the San Antonio Express-News, Shot Glass Journal, As It Ought To Be Magazine, The Dope Fiend Daily,  Duane’s PoeTree and the San Antonio Review, where he serves as poetry editor.

His short fiction has appeared in publications such as Every Day Fiction, Mystery Tribune, Red Fez, Points in Case, 101 Words, Schlock! Webzine, 365tomorrows, and The Fusty Nut Review.


Poems by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal- All the Colors and Stop the Earthquake July 23, 2019

Posted by vscorpiozine in Los Angeles, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, poems, poetry, Veteran Poets.
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All the colors that I see
are slightly reddened.
I want to do them a favor.

I want to give them some purple,
some pink, maybe a little
blue or golden sunset touch.

A bright yellow and some
peach, something to taste.
I imagine green fields for miles.

I want to see the flames go
out in a blue moon song.


Try to stop
the earthquake,
try to stop
the rain. It
won’t happen
no matter
how hard you
try. Try to
stop traffic,
that is an
thing to do.
You may get
run over.
It will stop
for the crews
to pick up
your remains.
Try to stop
an earthquake,
not even
could. Maybe,
I don’t know.
Most likely
he could blow
clouds away
and stop rain
from falling.

Read a review of Luis’ chapbook, chapbook, Before and Well After Midnight, at Clockwise Cat.

Poems by Linda Imbler- Green Roses and Fabulously and Wonderfully Made July 9, 2019

Posted by vscorpiozine in Linda Imbler, poems, poetry, Veteran Poets.
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Green Roses

Help me remember
any truths beyond the lies.
Do you know who you are?
And, in return, say what you know of me.
I stand before you with hands extended.
You do this also,
when it suits what you’ll render.
Your piano man fingers,
your furrowed face,
you weave my pain into holy beads.

Help me remember
any previously painted portraits
before the newly applied paint coat.
Is peace better than being right?
I learned omens and portents from you,
so I see where this new ripple will carry us,
and I ask you:
Would you still grow for me
a most beautiful garden
if there were no more roses?

Fabulously and Wonderfully Made

Your life is your canvas
and you are the showpiece.

You sense the velocity of your paintbrush,
across the canvas,
inspired by all
you hear, see, and feel.
The juxtaposition of the zeal and exuberance
of Kerouac’s mad ones
against the Buddha’s Zen-like serenity.
The sublime pairing of you
as a visually stunning
fleshy specimen of art.

You are no hopeless relic,
but a probable grasp of creation,
personified as the finest portrait,
fabulously and wonderfully made.


Linda Imbler’s books are available on Amazon.com