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Poetry 2 Fall 2017



Old Century Dark Woods Jazz Attic

     by  Kim Hazelwood Haley


Big drops were thumping on the rooftop

Like bongo drums,

One rainy, jazzy Friday night,

In our gorgeous, epic house!

Drumming like a long, secluded madman


Two stairways,

A vestibule, an attic,  

A bit of a deranged, dusty basement,

Pealing with side cymbals,

Sashaying over

The Shadows,

Echoing against the

Skeleton key doorknobs,

Over the smell of lemon oil and early

Old century dark woods.


In history awe,

I  imagined  women in all the skirt lengths of time,

Strutting across the palatial front porch steps,

From Bustles and  Brunswicks,

To flappers and men with Fedoras

Escorting them eventually to

Be Mod with Minis and maxis.


Turns out,

Our little mansion used to be a radio station,

Great big pole with call letters, just a stub now.



‘Cause my man is the best DJ in the world,

Friday nights he plays me the sizzling and most beautiful

Soulful ear candy~

Rocks  and jazzes me all night long.

O, the music he plays from his infinity collections!


Always like a date,

So what with Steely Dan and Weather Report and Mingus,

I felt the need for lipstick,

So I climbed the stairs.

Passed the Newel post and thought of George Bailey’s grateful kiss.


My Rose Dew tube was in a purse pocket on the teal bedspread,

So with lip tint in hand, I swiveled back towards the stairs,

To take me down to more music, more love,



In a strange shadow, I felt an unusual chill, a draft?


Can you play, Corcacoes de Atum

Or  T3Ka didgeridoo,

From my country of Portugal.


Eek! A yelp, maybe, I couldn’t breathe.

With one eye, I spied a silhouette….

Attic door-never opens by itself!

I wail! …something…

Music’s too loud for my DJ to notice…

Wha? Who?....



A voice coming from the attic?!

In a latin accent:


I am hungry, I only eat when you leave the house,

I slip through the place with paws of cats,

With ready claws for hungrier rats,

But I need some music for my

Deep, hollow soul.

My deeply, harrowing, growling soul!


Dizzy, fading and unsteady

I tumbled down the stairs,

Bruising all the way, crashing onto the

Cascading little cliffs,

Then the music stopped,

And  I heard the attic door shut,

Heart Pounding,

My DJ rushing,



“I’m okay, I think…”

As the lipstick rolled across the hardwood floor shadows, he was shaking as he said,

“Maybe we better get you to the hospital!”


“No, I’m… just a little sore,”

Finger pointing upstairs,


“I  finally thought of a music request,

Got any, Coracoes De Atum, or

T3ka Didgeridoo?”


Bio: Kim Hazelwood Haley is the editor of this litzine and author of CoyoteBat! . She  placed third  in a local poetry contest and has upcoming publications  in the vast universe of poetry. She and her co-editor husband have formed Cats With Matches and are  also musical with an Appalachian group called Zen Robins. Life is a dream. 




Bitter Thorns

    by James G. Piatt


Dead indian warriors ride their ghost 

Mustangs into the hot wind as they ride 

Over rugged mountains and gritty fields:


The hushed echoes of phantom hoofbeats 

Beat deep in a box canyon; once sounds of 

Cherished dreams, now only rusted 

Pulses of a lost ancient nation.


The vanishing beating of drums of murmuring 

Yesterdays tell a dismal tale of days 

Which have disappeared, collapsing in  

Discarded corroded hours, and scorched 



The venerable Chief sits alone with legs

Crossed next to a Yucca Plant in the 

Sweltering desert; the shrub secretes 

Musty aromas of unfulfilled dreams of his 

Lost people, waiting for eternity to die out.


The sun reaching for nightfall, casts a dull 

Pink hue upon the mountains as the Chief’s 

Tears try to wash away the bitter thorns of 

His people’s lost dreams.


Bio: James, a retired professor and octogenarian, is a Pushcart and best of web nominee. Broken Publications has published 3 collections of his poetry,  “The Silent Pond” (2012), “Ancient Rhythms,” (2014), and  “LIGHT,” (2016). He has also published 4 novels and over 1,025 poems. His fourth collection of poetry, and fifth novel will be released this year






Two Days

     by Olivia Parker Sergent



Two days

Two days of sorrow

Two days of melancholy minds

And tear stains instead of rouge


Three years

Three years of pasture 

Three years of daisies

And snowy twilights


Two days of ash


Two days of smiles 

And handshakes

And how-do-you-dos:

Two days false smiles

Cold handshakes

And lies


Three years of bliss

Two days amiss


And a future still to hold onto.


Bio:"Olivia Parker Sergent has been writing poetry for as long as she has been wearing big-girl underwear. When not writing she enjoys reading, anime, and musical theatre, and even though she doesn't enjoy it she often finds herself tripping, hiccuping loudly, and brooding over impermanence. Over the years, she has come across countless inspiring creatives, and hopes someday her words may reach someone who needs them."