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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


Poem by Jade Blackmore – The Mourning Dove June 11, 2019

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The Mourning Dove

The mourning dove
Perches and coos
on the balcony railing,
She acts as if she belongs there,
a frequent visitor,
a symbol of hope.

A few minutes later
She waddles on the ground
With her companion,
Surveying the mottled pink flooring
for crumbs.
We put out a plate
of crumbled homemade bread for them,
And it still sits there,
An open invitation
For cleansing and peace.

Poem by John Grey – Ugly May 26, 2019

Posted by vscorpiozine in John Grey, poems, poetry, Veteran Poets.
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That’s what the other girls called you
all the way through grammar school.
Not ugly as sin.
They were still too young
to make that connection.
But ugly as yourself,
the face in the mirror that
your mother assured you was just lovely.
You weren’t convinced.
She only said it sometimes
and, even then, you were learning
that mothers always come out with that stuff
when they’re talking to their children.
Maybe she saw some kind of beauty.
Maybe she just wished it was there.
But the other kids were adamant.
You looked like the back end of a mule.

Some growing does come with
its own beauty treatment of course.
You journeyed from that mule’s rear
to its head to a more dignified horse’s noggin
and, finally, by the age of thirteen,
were a girl, average in appearance,
among other, mostly average, young girls.
Some even hung with you.
They forgot all of those ancient slurs.
You did too.
By then, your mother never commented
on your looks themselves,
just what you were doing with them:
the dresses worn too high above the knee,
the raids on the grownup makeup case.

By then, guys came into the frame.
The one you liked called you
and your friends ugly.
At sixteen, he couldn’t be with you enough.
By then, ugly had become more
indicative of the one who said it
than the ones they were saying it to.
You took ugly as a signpost
to a time when you wouldn’t be.



John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. 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 Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal – Suddenly Last Summer and The Soul February 27, 2019

Posted by vscorpiozine in Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, Southern California poets, Veteran Poets.
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Suddenly Last Summer

Suddenly Last Summer
The Motels sang
and I was taken back to 1983.
My whole life was in front of me.

Suddenly Last Summer
The Motels sang
and I was back at the beach at 16.
There was no better place to be.

I thought it would last forever.
That was just wishful thinking.
It is 35 years later and I cannot
stop this sinking feeling.

I saw that The Motels are
out on tour to save Los Angeles.
Suddenly Last Summer
I need to get back more or less

to that place where I thought I
I could be whatever I wanted to be.Is it too late?
Please do not
tell me that it’s too late for me.

All I need to do is buy a ticket
to see The Motels in Los Angeles.
Suddenly Last Summer
will make me feel ageless.

The Soul

The soul is a place of wilderness
and oblivion, where a shallow
grave awaits, where the spirit
retreats. The soul is a deep,
dark cave, where birds of paradise
and flying birds wilt and die.

The soul is much more than one
could imagine. It is not always a
dark place. The light of day can
come from there. It is the first step
one takes from the chill to the warm
and hopeful place where one can
come to. The soul can be a place
of hope. It all depends on the soul.

Bio: Luis lives in Southern California, works in the mental health field in Los Angeles, CA, and has poems upcoming in The Ogilvie, Spillwords, and Unlikely Stories.

Poem by Rob Quill- Word Assault February 19, 2019

Posted by vscorpiozine in New Poets, Uncategorized.
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Word Assault

it’s early.
say a word, two words,
a string of them.

I will hear only
one.  I will hear
only what I want.

I will distill
your word and swish
it around.

then spit it
out like so much

BIO: Rob Quill is a new poet, getting his feet on the ground.  He lives in a city and loves words.  Read more of his stuff soon on Synchronized Chaos.

Poems – “Found/Lost” and “The Sound” by John Sweet February 14, 2019

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was talking about this dog on fire
was talking about nixon
or cobain or
some other suicide

last day of july and
the smell of all those bodies
rising from the river

your pale breasts cupped
in my blistered hands
more beauty in this
world than i
could ever describe


the sound

was talking about
clouds in the moonlight

was drinking you like
holy wine, like poison laced
with strawberries

had almost forgotten
everything i’d
wanted to


John’s poetry collections are available on Amazon.com and issuu.com

John’s blog is The Bleeding Horse, Avenged