Jesus Christ: and a Sense of Humor
Making It Happen
By Kenneth Pobo
He’s almost here
but for one thing—
He demands a temple
No big return
till then. Jesus won’t budge.
He’ll stay up in heaven
with twittering angels,
blissfully happy, while
971 Palestinian and Israeli kids
have been killed
in seven years. No problem.
A holy war--destroy Islam--
grab the Mount--build a temple.
Presto! Jesus gets off his ass
and dashes down. Oh,
Slaughter, carnage, ruin!
More children dead.
But the temple! Look,
there it is. Blood-colored walls,
magnifico! And Jesus,
with Bush’s smug grin,
says Well done!
Bio: Kenneth Pobo has a new book of poems forthcoming this year from WordTech Press called Glass Garden. His work can be read online at: 2River Veiw, Forpoetry.com, Pemmican, Adirondack Review, and elsewhere. He teaches Creative Writing and English at Widener University. Catch his radio show, "Obscure Oldies," on Saturdays from 6-8pm EST at WDNR.com.
Editorial Comments: As a Christian, at least while in private prayer, one could take offense by the above poem. I personally love it! Here you see a combination of: truths, irony, creativity, strainge alliances. Great job Kenneth.
The Farmer's Dream
By Eddie Dowe
The farmer is dreaming
of his blue tractor
as if it were a woman
pulling off her blue panties
and climbing into
the windy field of his bed.
Bio: Eddie Dowe is a high school English teacher in Norfolk, Virginia and an MFA student at Old Dominion University. Previous publications include Trillium, the strange fruit, Facets, Lunarosity, and Simply Haiku, among others.
Editorial Comments: Sometimes short, sweet, with a tight image says it all. Especially
In Illinois where we have a lot of farms riding those tractors all day. Now I know what
they are really doing.
The Luxury Afterlife
By Doug Holder
A state of the art mausolem.
A place to die for,
to be dead in.
And trimmed grass.
Why lay among the masses
In close quarters
Pressing all that decaying flesh
All that white trash.
Rest in peace
As your body turns to ash.
Doug Holder's works has appeared in The Café Review, Flashpoint, Word Riot, Heeltap, Poet’s Page, Pegasus and many others. His two recent collections: “Of All The Meals I Had Before” ( Cervena Barva Press), “No One Dies at the Au Bon Pain” (sunnyoutside) were released in 2007. He is the founder of the Ibbetson Street Press.
Editorial Comments: Here we have a wonderful combination of imagery, an unusual insight, crafted words, and a constrast between the common burial grounds and the elite grounds of the rich or prominent of society heightened by architectural adjectives. A history of life and death in about 15 lines of poetry.
Jesus Knelt In Grief Over
The Death of Children
by Michael Lee Johnson
Breaking out of silence,
Jesus knelt to his knees
in moist desert sand,
with his fingertips
“water is water, toys are toys,
but by my fingers burn with life,
though I toil over tombs with grief and tears-
I’m the living and I am the dead.
I was born to life to bring
new hope into the death of children.
I’m the messenger of the morning sun
the prayer book between the morning dew,
the play fields of your daily adventures.
When I kneel here again, the end will be the end.
Fire will be willed into my words.
Driftwood and sand will turn to stone.
I drag my fingers across hot sand once more;
morning will come without a daybreak.
Birds will no longer sing, and crickets
lose their songs.”
Church Pew Romance
By Toby Nelson
They moved their heads close; his lips touched her hair
(I fought down the bile, and tried not to stare)
His hand on her shoulder, her rapturous face
(Trapped, I beheld it with deep’ning disgrace)
They whispered, they giggled, they gossiped and whined
(Sitting behind them I’ll go out of my mind)
Through the songs, through the sermon, through the prayers did they schmooze.
(If the service were longer I’d for sure blow my fuse)
They’re happy, they’re comforted, free and refreshed
(To think of next Sunday just makes me depressed)
Bio: Toby has none. He is a good father, I sense a man with a God spirit, a nice wife and 3 lovely children. Are you this lucky? I'm not. Now he is a published poet-that is good enough for me!
Editiorial Comments: I sense several things here-a sense of God, a sense of family, a good father, an amateur poet, and some damn nice funny stuff! I also sense potential. I believe in my writers, I believe in Toby, Michael Lee Johnson.
Use the Bathroom Please?
by Reginald Walker
The sound of my alarm clock wakes me.
I swing my feet over the side of my bed.
Honey brings me the paper and coffee.
I yawn, stretch, then I rub my bald head.
I stand up and go to the bathroom.
My paper, under my arm, in tow.
Just as I am coming out of the bedroom.
My daughter closes the bathroom door.
So I grab myself and cock my knees.
I quckly run for bathroom number two.
Just as I am coming down the stairs.
My darling wife closes that door, too.
I am amazed by what just happened.
I turn and rush out the backdoor.
‘Damn, ’ in anger, I shouted aloud
‘In the garage, there is one more.’
Through the kitchen and out the backdoor
To the garage, as I fast as could, I ran.
I open the door expecting I would finally sit.
I have been holding this as long as I can.
Just as I enter the garage,
All my plans are undone.
I hear the bathroom door slam shut.
I just got beat there by my own son.
I say to myself, ‘I wish we only had one kid.’
All right, I know where there is one more.
Across the street I hurriedly went.
To the neighborhood convenience store.