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Poem by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal – Too Long June 15, 2021

Posted by vscorpiozine in Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, New Poets, poems, poetry, Uncategorized.
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Too Long

Could you spare
some sunlight
and blue skies?
This evening 
has gone on
for too long.

It is not
even close
to midnight,
but I have
to ask, bring
on the day.

I would not
mind losing
out on sleep.
I do not
need to go
straight to bed.

I am not
in the mood for
stars tonight.
Bring on the
sun burning
hot as hell.

This is the
night you say
goodbye to
me. This is
the night that
ended us.

Bio: Luis lives in California and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles. His latest poetry book, Make the Water Laugh, was published by Rogue Wolf Press in 2021. His poems have appeared in Blue Collar Review, Kendra Steiner Editions, Mad Swirl, Unlikely Stories, and Venus in Scorpio Poetry E-Zine.

Poem by John Grey- The Flight Conundrum May 5, 2021

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The Flight Conundrum

Last night, I dreamed that I was flying.
As far as my subconscious is concerned,
there’s no such thing as gravity.
Waking, however, brings it back into play.
I can stand up straight
but that’s as far as it gets.

Yes, I admit, that I once got high 
on your sweetly passionate kisses.
But that was more of a sensibility thing.
In physical terms, my feet were firmly on the ground.

But, in that dream,
I was soaring over rooftops, 
lakes and forests.
And there seemed to be no reason for it.
Nothing was pulling at me from below.
Not mortgage payments.
Not a roof in need of repair.
No backpain.
Not even a slow night on TV.

I wonder if birds dream 
of having two legs, two arms,
no wings, no feathers,
and pushing a lawnmower 
up and down a backyard lawn.
I’d like it better if they did.

BIO

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Orbis, Dalhousie Review and Connecticut River Review. Latest books, “Leaves On Pages” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon.

Poems by John Sweet- “in these cupped hands holding nothing” and “theme for the eternal now” April 29, 2021

Posted by vscorpiozine in John Sweet, poems, poetry, Veteran Poets.
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in these cupped hands holding nothing

a sound like christ
denying the pain

a cold sunlit morning filled
with junkie priests and shadow kings

the lie that all of these wars are
different and not tied together by the
same ropes of ignorance
and greed

and it was a mistake
i made once, not numbering
myself among the cowards

it was my father who
showed me the light

knew we might not all be nowhere
but we are all still nothing

we are all the flesh of god left
rotting at the freeway’s edge

can’t spend our lives being afraid
to dig for the humor buried
down underneath
all of that blood-soaked pain

theme for the eternal now

let our blood be a gift,
a song

let peace be
the obvious answer

not picasso, but chagall

not pollock, but tobey

see?

it only ends up being a
lifetime of distance between us

it only ends up being a
mistake followed
by a missed opportunity

a phone call that
no one answers

a letter written but
never sent

and are you someone who
would apologize to
empty space?

are you a better god?

it’s not answers i’m after
here, but actions
it’s an admission of regret,
but then what?

time is the enemy

the future holds the end

you can only admit to
love or deny it

you can only accept

the answer
is this why we spend our
whole lives afraid?

Read more of John’s poetry at The Bleeding Horse, Avenged

Poem – No Brakes by Jade Blackmore March 2, 2021

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He followed a straight line from
Long, humid Rust Belt weekends
And thunderstorm beatdowns
To a deposit of decay,
A past his prime rendering.

It only took a costume change,
The printed page,
And a few drops of blood-red paint
To separate the genius
From the criminal.

There’s no limit to exploration, the shaman said.
But he was born to find the end point,
A clichéd and public wall,
And crash into it
Like Norma Desmond on acid.  

Poem by Jade Blackmore -Party Night at a West Village Magic Shop, circa 1992 February 7, 2021

Posted by vscorpiozine in 1990s, city poems, Jade Blackmore, New York, poems, poetry, Veteran Poets.
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The triangle of city veins
Connive with shadows and sulky corners.
A taxi pulls up to the curb
and a motley trio filters out,
all East Village berets and black overcoats,
clichés made flesh.
Red and blue lights flash from the front window
Of a magic shop,
Bathing the revelers on the building’s front stairs
In a post-apocalyptic light.

Artists and dilettantes scatter on the sidewalk.
They smoke joints and drink vodka from repurposed 7-Up bottles.
A disheveled man wearing sunglasses strums an acoustic guitar. His gruff gargle of a voice punctuates the blended conversations about auditions, art galleries,
and coke-addicted boyfriends.

The night’s honoree gave his regards, but stayed safe and warm in his cushy suburban home.
He sent his sidekick instead, a hyper but amusing misfit with slicked back black hair.
Still, the oblivious horde gathered, armed with red Solo cups and tales of punk rock debauchery
The beret-wearing trio held court with him all night.

After two drinks, they talked dirty to the fortunetelling mannequin in the corner.
After three drinks, they confiscated a set of exploding dice. The fall-out resulted in a toppled book rack.
After four drinks and an impromptu “Cut a lady in half” trick, the owner kicked them out.
Undaunted, the foursome stumbled to Gray’s Papaya for hot dogs and Pineapple whips.
The magic shop never hosted any parties after that.
It’s a vegan restaurant now.

Gerald Locklin, CSULB teacher, writer, poet, dies at 79 January 21, 2021

Posted by vscorpiozine in Gerald Locklin, poetry, Southern California poets, Veteran Poets.
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Poet Gerald Locklin passed away in Irvine, Ca. on January 17. Locklin’s work was published in over 125 books and broadsides. He wrote a memoir about his friendship with Charles Bukowski called “A Sure Bet”.

Amanda Gorman’s Biden Inauguration Poem January 21, 2021

Posted by vscorpiozine in poems, poetry, poetry readings.
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Amiri Baraka and Rob Brown – Something in the Way of Things (in Town) January 18, 2021

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Poem by Jade Blackmore – Redux- Talk Show in the ‘90s January 6, 2021

Posted by vscorpiozine in city poems, poems, poetry.
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Sometimes, she would press random buzzers in the vestibules of apartment buildings.
She went to parties with actors, Goth kids, and her co-workers from the S and M dungeon.
You’d always find her hanging out in a decaying apartment building with other squatters.
They’d watch Gilligan’s Island reruns, drink beer, and smoke pot. She had an affair with a guy who bought smokes at the 7-11 while she shoplifted a bottle of wine.
Eventually, he got her pregnant, and she had the baby. She sent her friends a photo of the newborn, a proud mama,  then dropped out of sight for awhile and retreated back to the old neighborhood.

She shared an apartment with a friend from the third grade.
The baby cried a lot.
After the first few months,
The once-doting Mama disappeared for days at a time,
Skipping out on rent and returning drunk.
The roommate threw her out.
Now the baby Daddy’s Grandma raises him,
and the parents appear
when obligated to do so.

Poem by Jade Blackmore – The Old Poets December 28, 2020

Posted by vscorpiozine in Los Angeles poets, poems, poetry, Uncategorized.
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They all gathered in a basement near the beach. Sunlight covered by brick and photocopies, the pesky blonde surfers sent packing, the scourge of suburbia long gone.    

The reluctant idol in western jeans ducks into his car, but he can’t escape. The parkig lot fence won’t shield him from the aftermath of his chosen profession. Every autograph paves a piece of soul flattened until he can escape incognito to another land . 

Neon-haired old woman
Swathed in black
Yells across the room
Even louder than she did in her heyday,
Oblivious to the background bro calling her an old hag.
Her former partner-in-crime ostracized
For having the wrong opinion.

The woman who raises chickens and grows corn in her back yard
Discusses Bukowski with a slouching, bespectacled poetry professor.
In a previous life he was a long-haired bass player, dropping acid and sharing girls in Golden Gate Park.

The wine disappears from red Solo cups as conversations intensify.
The words of fallen comrades echo in front of scratchy 8 millimeter films.
Self-made local legends, revealed to a select few.
Only those who crack the code understand.
Transference and time fade the intent,
but the spirit remains.