Please Give A Few Pennies To A Poet With A Dream

Matthew Brouwer is a friend of mine. I met him up in Seattle in the slam scene when it met at the Spitfire in Belltown. I always enjoyed listening to his word. Stylistically, he performed differently than the prevailing winds of slam at that time. If you have a love for the spoken word, help Matthew voice the word that boils within his heart and rages out of his mouth like a hurricane.

Also check out my other wordpress website. It's a literary e-zine called Randomly Accessed Poetics! Submissions are open. We Publish continually. Lastly, Penhead Press's first publication: Randomly Accessed Poetics, Issue 1: The Texture of Words came out. If you're interested you can find it in the kindle store.

This is a video re-post of my favorite poem

Poem Unknowingly Read Before A Lady's Prayer Group At An Open Mic in Everett

Copyright © 2012 by William James Lindberg

Also check out my other wordpress website. It's a literary journal called Randomly Accessed Poetics! Submissions are open. We Publish continually. Lastly, Penhead Press's first publication: Randomly Accessed Poetics, Issue 1: The Texture of Words came out. If you're interested you can find it in the kindle store.

Friday's Children by Afzal Moolla

Apples and Spinach.

The foul odour of fire scarred flesh

Reeks of decomposition.

Fleshy bodies

once animated

now are scatter-shot across

ground irrigated with blood.

It was a surgical strike,

of the smartest weapons

a human can conceive.

Deployed,

with pin-point accuracy,

they decimate

“the bad guys”

Black and brown people

pummeled into a

purple and blue

Purée.

“The good guys,”

behind LCD screens

in climate controlled rooms

scan and surveil villages

for potential targets.

The evil doers—

Camoflauge themselves into a blanket

of mothers and daughters

selecting apples and spinach

at the marketplace unaware that they

—are standing

squarely

in the cross-hairs

of a Shakespearean tragedy.

Copyright © 2012 by Afzal Moolla

Time Masheen -- Fall Birds

Fall Birds

Fall birds speaking chattering tongues

Assemble at the train yard.

Swirl around billowing like pillars of smoke

After starting one formation then changing their mind

They Settled back down between rusty lines of boxcars.

Over and over again the flock danced

Following one leader then another darting different directions

Gathering momentum for autumn’s journey.

After the noon sun ascended above the fog,

The yard revealed silent cars spackled white.

---October 17, 2006: WJ Lindberg

I am in love...

with the poem called Murderer by Shannon Barber. It has got to be the most deliciously dark poem I have posted on Randomly Accessed Poetics in a long while. Don't take my word for it. Stop on by and read it for yourself.

"I dream of murder.

Hands around a supple throat..."

Click Murderer to read the rest

---W.J. Lindberg, Editor of R.A.P.

    Submission are open for Issue 2: Paint Darkness into Day.

    See Guidelines for instructions.