jump to navigation

Poems – Sleepless Again and Good Days by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozabal  May 10, 2022

Posted by vscorpiozine in Los Angeles poets, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, New Poets.
Tags: ,
add a comment

Sleepless Again

Sleepless again,
awake at the witching hour,
an everyday thing,
no  wonder I seem so tired.
I read and watch tv
like I have all the time in the world.
My thoughts are all scrambled.
Who knows when I will fall asleep.

I heard the birds
and their late night songs.
Nature is beautiful.
I sit down to write.
Gathering words,
I throw them against the wall.

Night is when I write
the small poems.
I go to outer space spaces.
I cut things short.

Good Days

Good days stray.
Bad days stay.
One day things 
will balance.

Before then,
them bad days
know they are
killing it.

know they arekilling it.

That gets me
down. It hurts.
Help does not
seem to come.

Waterfall tears.
Arms hanging.
At times these
moments stray.

Today is
a good day.
Said as much
yesterday.

Give it time.
You know well
something else
is coming.

Do not fret.
It happens.
It is life
testing you.

Remain strong
in your mind
and hope for
the good days.

BIO:
Luis lives in California and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles. His poems have appeared in Escape Into Life, Live Nude Poems, Mad Swirl, Unlikely Stories, and Venus in Scorpio Poetry E-Zine.

Poem- The Quiet World by Jade Blackmore April 14, 2022

Posted by vscorpiozine in city poems, Jade Blackmore, Uncategorized, Veteran Poets.
Tags: , , ,
add a comment

The Quiet World

Looking at the world from a window.

Apartment dwellers
laugh at the audacity of nature.
two raccoons overtake the parking garage
to make whoopee in plain sight.

The red finch at the feeder
thousands of butterflies skirting across stucco rooftops.

Then a phantasm shuttered the mountains, the planets, the movie scenes
with its’ money,
the lush green steppes only accessible
to the haughty and clueless.
The legacy friend who is quite sure she’s always right, the bluster, the vile and righteous path.

More sculpted glass in the sky,
a formula for escape or detention.
A squirrel scampers up the construction site fence,
another reminder
that the quiet world is out of reach.

Poem by John Grey – Coin in the Jukebox February 11, 2022

Posted by vscorpiozine in John Grey, Veteran Poets.
Tags: , , ,
add a comment

Coin in the Jukebox

Put a coin in the jukebox
and remember what you wish to remember.
You half-smile when the needle hits shellac.
You can breathe without having to worry
whether or not your lungs are there to greet the air.
You don’t have people wary of you
as if your very touch is poison.

Put that coin in the jukebox.
The effort won’t be wasted.
You can spread your arms wide
or hug yourself tighter.
It doesn’t matter if strangers think you’re crazy.
Insanity has all the best tunes anyhow.
You can be yourself, by yourself,
with legs kicking up a storm
and hips swaying a hurricane.

Put that coin in the jukebox
and sing along with the best croak
your old frog throat can mister.
Show them how wild you can be
as song plops on top of song,
and the names get lost in the vinyl shuffle.
It’s all about the beat
and not the hens who cackle how
you should act your age.

Put that coin in the jukebox
for every old friend gone mute,
for the guys who’ve long hung up their dancing shoes.
Forget the time.
Raise the volume.
There’s nothing like a luminous wrinkled face.
Your withered legs could do this all night.

Put that coin in the jukebox.
A neglected high awaits.
Some singer, long dead,
will give you tips on how to stay alive.
So what if you don’t know the words to the song.
The ones you sing will be minted in the moment.

Put that coin in the jukebox.
Ignore the bartender, the other drinkers.
Leave them to their alcohol-powered disillusion.
Some guy has a trumpet in his mouth.
Another thrashes a willing kit of drums.
The singer unleashes a string of passionate half-sentences.
So much for the soft hue of memory.
It’s a blazing cauldron.

Put that coin in the jukebox.
You create an island for yourself
in waters of sneering and disgust.
With a healthy strut, you grant time permission
to take all those unwanted years back.
You want to be seventeen again.
So push that coin in the slot.
Increase the likelihood.

BIO: John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, “Leaves On Pages” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Ellipsis, Blueline and International Poetry Review

Poems and Artwork by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal – Night Be Mine and How Good You Have It November 18, 2021

Posted by vscorpiozine in Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, poems, poetry, Southern California poets.
Tags: , , ,
add a comment


Night Be Mine

Night be mine.
All its darkness.
The moon. A
Wall of stars.

Night of dreams.
The moonlight.
The punctual train.
And dark shadow.

Because night
Beats life into
My wings. I

Dream of night
And its stars
And dark shadow.

How Good You Have It

You do not know how
good you have it until
you have been Haldol’ed.

If I had gone into the
family practice and learned
math, I would have been ok.

Just send me home, where
I can continue to dance
to my own music and beat.

When is the pizza coming?
I don’t need to work. Call
a cop or call a copycat.

I cannot hear you. My ears
stopped working years ago.
Blame it on Schizophrenia.

Call a cab for me or put me
on a bus to Neptune or Mars.
I want to get out of this place.

I am sticking to my story
and you stick to yours and
I’ll catch you outside one day.

BIO: Born in Mexico, Luis lives in California and works in Los Angeles. His latest book, Make the Water Laugh, was published by Rogue Wolf Press and can be purchased through Amazon. His poetry has appeared in Blue Collar Review, Kendra Steiner Editions, Mad Swirl, Unlikely Stories, and Venus in Scorpio Poetry E-Zine.

Poem by John Grey – The Loud Honk September 27, 2021

Posted by vscorpiozine in John Grey, poems, poetry.
Tags: , ,
add a comment

THE LOUD HONK

Traffic near stalled.
The car in front of me
continued to occupy
the place I wanted to be
more than any other.
But, as the vehicle inched forward,
so did that place.

I could see the back of the head
of the woman driving.
It didn’t matter who she was,
what she looked like
or whether her personality
was frothy beer or iced tea.
I couldn’t tell if it
was her selfishness,
or just plain luck,
that saw her edge by
Greg’s liquor store
moments ahead of me.
or stop for some guy
in the crosswalk
when that was a role
I could only see myself in.

I finally pressed my finger
on the horn
because I wanted her to know
that, though she was already
crossing Elm street 
and it looked like
I wouldn’t make the light,
that tomorrow could well
be a different story.

That was the sound you all heard.
Not my impatience.
My ultimate vindication.

BIO: John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Penumbra, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. His latest books, “Leaves On Pages” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. He has work upcoming in Lana Turner and International Poetry Review.

Poem by Sushant Thapa – The Sky That Stopped Me July 25, 2021

Posted by vscorpiozine in Uncategorized.
Tags: , , , ,
add a comment

 The Sky that Stopped Me 

That late afternoon 
I saw the sun hiding behind the clouds. 
My eyes swept
from a green tree,
Swinging its arms in the slight breeze.

I stopped for a while that afternoon
To realize that soon evening would drop.
I stopped my walk and my eyes 
Stopped in the clouds, 
The yellow and the blue 
As if they are colours of my 
Life which has been too busy.

I rush to make a chapter of verses. 
That feeling and the strike 
From the clock tower,
Shaking me from the buzz,
A bee hovering, 
Flowers singing the tune of balance 
Gave me the rhythm 
Again and again. 

I have learnt to stop and 
Cherish life in the silver mirror of the clouds.

Words they help me to arrange the white clouds 
In my blue sky. 

BIO: 


Sushant Thapa is a Nepalese poet from Biratnagar, Nepal who holds a Master’s degree in English Literature from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi,India. Some of his publications include Trouvaille Review, The Piker Press, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, New York Parrot, Atunis Poetry, Visible Magazine, Litehouse exophonic Magazine, Impspired, EKL Review, The Kathmandu Post, My Republica and Harbinger Asylum. Sushant is the author of the poetry collection “The Poetic Burden and Other Poems” published by Authorspress, New Delhi, India.  

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

Posted by vscorpiozine in Uncategorized.
Tags: , , ,
add a comment

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.
Tags: , ,
add a comment

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

Posted by vscorpiozine in Jade Blackmore, Veteran Poets.
Tags: , ,
add a comment

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.
Tags: , , , ,
add a comment

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.