The Whisky Blot
Literary Journal
While you’re driving cattle north to the railhead at Kansas City, I’m manning a barricade in Paris during the Franco- Prussian War. With mutual sighs we lower our books and assume the grim expression of incumbents. Easier to read about the past (with its shovel-shaped beards and crisp fabrics stretched over hoop skirts, battles and deposed emperors, beheadings, coronations, hangings, shuffling of national boundaries) than to confess the cruel and petty moments we live as if swimming through a sea of spilled molasses. In the age of Rimbaud the streets bristled with rifles and pikes. Slogans wrinkled daily discourse while Rimbaud sampled women as only a selfish boy could. In your book, the muddy crossing of the Red River marks a moment of laughter and pride. In mine, the commune poses a threat crushed with thousands of futile deaths. We should break for lunch and face, if not the onrush of history, our rapid aging, our crumpled hides almost dry enough to nail to the side of our neighbor’s barn. We’re twice as old as Rimbaud dying of gangrene. Instead of trading in coffee and weapons, he should have been a cowpoke sporting the dust of the old West, adorning the pages of your book. Then he could have died a man’s death brawling in a ten-cent saloon, his poems blowing down the street, defiantly scrawled in blood. William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities. His most recent book of poetry is Dogs Don’t Care (2022). His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in various journals. Hobbled By a narrow Stoic universe Owing nothing To anyone Alone On the cobbled stones With an airy desperation Firm in my pocket And hidden From everything Worth hiding from From anything Unseen Below the waterline Along the swift Swollen river With the dark currents Of old torments And the windswept spaces Beneath bridges Pulling me helplessly Into the sinewed arms Of my Paris As the copper sun Sets John is a social worker working in the field of disability management and holds degrees in social work, rehabilitation services, and psychology. He is the author of four books of poetry: “March” (2019), “The Seasons of Us” (2019), New Days (2020), and Fragments (2021). His work has appeared widely in numerous literary journals, magazines, and anthologies internationally. John is also a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee and lives in Caledon Ontario, Canada with his wife and two children. The apple juiced straight from Eden delicious, intoxicating clink of glasses sips of crunchy red skin how could she predict the fleeting satiation the insatiable desire that she would bear the brunt follow the serpentine path of exile Liz Kornelsen is a prairie poet from Winnipeg, Manitoba and the author of Arc of Light and Shadow: Poems with Art. To dance lightly on the earth in solitude, with other humans, or with other forms of nature, is one of her greatest joys.
Once, I heard someone say, “You only take your date out to dinner “if you can’t come up with anything more exciting.” Yet, here we sit, in this restaurant, as if we had met only yesterday, but some one hundred years ago, and the place looks exactly like that: modeled after a Philip Marlowe novel. Cherry-oak tables, a bar made from what might be mahogany, thick cushions. Expensive stuff. Even the light, raining from the chandeliers in tiny crystals, seems special. A guy with a fedora sips whisky at the bar, from behind which an audience cheers for us, even though we drink one from their midst, a bottle of cava, solely for our pleasure, because it tastes like a kept promise. We feast on pimientos de padrón, where you never know whether the one you take will burn your tongue. Burrata. Pasta al tartufo. More kept promises. Outside, the trees that line the street are already busy preparing a red carpet made from leaves for the way back to what is now home. When it’s time to leave, the waiter brings the bill: 98.50 in a foreign currency. A hundred and ten, with a tip. And even though I give him the money, I don’t pay for the meal. Maximilian Speicher (https://www.maxspeicher.com) is a designer who writes, mostly sitting on his balcony in Barcelona, watching his orange trees grow. Although he’s been writing poetry on and off for many years, he only recently started submitting it. His first published poems have appeared in Impspired and Otoliths Magazine, and more are forthcoming in The Avalon Literary Review and The Disappointed Housewife.
“When spring came, even the false spring, there were no problems except where to be happiest. The only thing that could spoil a day was people and if you could keep from making engagements, each day had no limits.”—Ernest Hemingway: A Moveable Feast Ocean waves wash gently along the beach, where spanned between two sea⸗almonds hangs a hammock. Pearl-white seashore. Paradise. It awaits but no-one is coming. Parrots fly in circles around the island, calling. Rose-ringed parakeets sit on branches, dreaming. Earth’s most beautiful birds await but no-one is watching. Under palm trees, quietly, stands a food cart, empty. Piles of surfboards behind a straw hut. Foamy waves yell eagerly. They await but no-one is surfing. From the trees hang coconuts, mangos, star fruits, figs, and pears; sapotes, pommes⸗cythère, papayas, plums and limes. Earth’s tastiest food awaits but no-one is eating. Inland, there’s a waterfall, just behind the rusty Nissen hut overgrown by vines and moss and orchids. Paradise. It is here but no-one is coming. Maximilian Speicher (https://www.maxspeicher.com) is a designer who writes, mostly sitting on his balcony in Barcelona, watching his orange trees grow. Although he’s been writing poetry on and off for many years, he only recently started submitting it. His first published poems have appeared in Impspired and Otoliths Magazine, and more are forthcoming in The Avalon Literary Review and The Disappointed Housewife. a murder of crows on a wire converse loudly then fly, verdict reached R.D. Ronstad writes mainly humor pieces and poetry. His work has appeared at Defenestration, Points in Case, Robot Butt, Bindweed Magazine, Lighten Up Online and many other online sites. A native Chicagoan, he currently lives in Phoenix, Az. Some girls flit like fireflies, Smiles that shimmer & shine, Laughter like wind chimes, Kisses like candy, Lift your heart like helium. This girl, She slinks like a panther, Smile like smoky whiskey Her laughter like jazz, Her kiss is dark chocolate dope, And she holds your heart in velvet chains. J.S. Mueller (a pen name) has an urban core but resides on 34 acres in south-central Kentucky. They are kept amused by their husband of three decades, their 6 kids (half of whom are young adults who've not yet fled the nest), three cats, two ferrets, and a pit bull with an insect phobia. Their stories have appeared or are soon to be published in Red Fez, Mystery Tribune, Night Shift Radio, and Flash Fiction Magazine. The first carolers are intent on chasing sun out of bed. She takes her time, stretching long limbs into the day. Pink diaphanous morning wear streams across horizon, crescendos to scarlet. Rising into her fierce power, she blazes a hole in silhouetted trees. Birds alight! Liz Kornelsen is a prairie poet from Winnipeg, Manitoba and the author of Arc of Light and Shadow: Poems with Art. To dance lightly on the earth in solitude, with other humans, or with other forms of nature, is one of her greatest joys. summer winds tickle leaves into silver-rippled laughter, twinkling stars Liz Kornelsen is a prairie poet from Winnipeg, Manitoba and the author of Arc of Light and Shadow: Poems with Art. To dance lightly on the earth in solitude, with other humans, or with other forms of nature, is one of her greatest joys. Cicadas Sing cicadas singing strong drink and a warmer night summer, welcome home Summer Ditty crickets play a tune outside the window, bright moon Shining through the night Michelle Olivier is a registered nurse by day and a poet by night. When she's not saving lives, she has her nose in a book or a pen in her hand. I find myself in again and again ready to turn left at the intersection where I learned left turns listening to a song from those same late early years singing along half wrong learning or remembering —remembering learning—the lyrics as my car climbs a familiar road my hands not so much steering as rereading this hill: the sameness of the slope and the humidity, as if seasons stay put and we keep visiting them, as if melodies and dashboards were time-travelling machines in the silence between songs, I am here at the stop sign (another left) surrounded by green and memory between the playground and the swim club between the library and home beneath the blue June sky and despite the renovations everything seems just as it was only more so—the insects louder, the leaves denser —the ghost breeze swaddling all the years between then and then compressed compressed in now, turning again as I learn to remember learning the way home, the way through this growth and warmth, this summer Ceridwen Hall is a poet and book coach. She helps poets and novelists plan, create, and revise compelling manuscripts with one-on-one coaching and inspiring feedback. She holds a PhD from the University of Utah and is the author of two chapbooks: Automotive (Finishing Line Press) and Excursions (Train Wreck Press). Her work has appeared in TriQuarterly, Pembroke Magazine, Tar River Poetry, The Cincinnati Review, and other journals. You can find her at www.ceridwenhall.com. now thunder rolls in, as well as birdsong the rustling of wet leaves, a distant ambulance the neighbors’ flute practice, traffic, a few stray moths-- all disrupting or becoming thoughts memories and dreams, meanwhile, leak out into the wide green world where horses run in the dusk and geese land on ponds, where cars circle the hill and deer rip new lettuce from gardens and people pause in the warm dark before a storm where summer insists on growth and some of us call this hope Ceridwen Hall is a poet and book coach. She helps poets and novelists plan, create, and revise compelling manuscripts with one-on-one coaching and inspiring feedback. She holds a PhD from the University of Utah and is the author of two chapbooks: Automotive (Finishing Line Press) and Excursions (Train Wreck Press). Her work has appeared in TriQuarterly, Pembroke Magazine, Tar River Poetry, The Cincinnati Review, and other journals. You can find her at www.ceridwenhall.com. Dusk colors the sky; a precocious preschooler. Look! It earned a star. Art; life flat-lining. Seventeen beats. Three straight lines. Heart breaking. Yours. Mine. Light/dark. Different? Two sides of the same thin coin. Dawn; like night and day. Renate Wildermuth's poetry has been published by The Postcard Press, Poetry Jumps off the Shelf and the online journals Mannequin Envy and Literary Mama. She is a freelance writer for The Albany Times Union. Her articles have also appeared in Adirondack Life Magazine, The San Francisco Chronicle, The Miami Herald, and The Charlotte Observer. She has been a commentator for North Country Public Radio and have appeared on New Hampshire Public Radio’s Word of Mouth program. Her creative nonfiction has been published by Syracuse University’s journal Stone Canoe. She teaches German at Shippensburg University in Pennsylvania. What I ask is a memory. What I get is a story about the sun. The smell of seagulls, sand, oarweed, the smell of rot, outfielder stats, the sheer fountain of brown waves over the feet of an unwanted son. I get chatter of divorce, tubular daughters, the smell of pot, talk of war, and its harsh tentacles hanging in the air. Some sky writer’s joke about drunk co-eds, a pun that echoes down the OC boardwalk meat. The heat is not the illusion, but the joy is, unseen as it is. Unwanted sex running down legs, long hooks of sweat fall into blankets, into the bookbag hidden with beer. My wrinkled hands go thick and vampiric. Some days you drink for meaning, some days to keep the world in place. Today the booze’s burn keeps the blood interesting, I focus on getting through, the skin of my arm becomes an ocean of anger I always understand. C.L. Liedekev is a poet/dreamer who lives in Conshohocken, PA, with his real name, wife, and children. He attended most of his life in the Southern part of New Jersey. His work has been published in such places as Humana Obscura, Red Fez, MacQueen's, Hare’s Paw, River Heron Review, amongst others. His poem, “November Snow. Philadelphia Children’s Hospital” is a finalist for the 2021 Best of the Net.
We promenade our dreams down streets of life, places we lean into when darkness rolls over. We wave at wee folk, wasps, and the woman whose just discovered whiskey, distilled like so many other intoxications. We open our mouths to June dry - manatee mermaids and lightning bugs show up on floats telling stories we believe. We cheer mystic mentors who step simply on the warm, round womb beneath us and toss diamonds and stars to us on sidewalks, hands open. Karen Pierce Gonzalez is a San Francisco Bay Area writer whose chapbooks include True North (Origami Poems Project) and the forthcoming Coyote in the basket of my Ribs (Alabaster Leaves Press), Down River with Li Po (Black Cat Poetry Press).
After waiting through an extra hour of traffic (three lanes becoming one, road repair---black asphalt patches amidst gray concrete) I am in the garden. In front of me white flowers appearing to be daffodils are contained in a brush of foot high greens. In the center of the gaggle lives a spread of shorter grass. Adult trees with white flowers, and a red Japanese maple border the meadow’s western wall. While I feel less than perfect--- it is a perfect day; blue sky, no clouds, cool breeze. A carnival of color in front of me. As I gaze on this scene recollections of dismal days past bubble into my consciousness. In those times I stopped believing. Today, in the gentle garden I find a bit of hope. Ed Krizek holds a BA and MS from University of Pennsylvania, and an MBA and MPH from Columbia University. For over thirty years Ed has been studying and writing poetry. He is the author of six books of poetry: Threshold, Longwood Poems, What Lies Ahead, Swimming With Words, The Pure Land, and This Will Pass All are available on Amazon.com. Ed writes for the reader who is not necessarily an initiate into the poetry community. He likes to connect with his readers on a personal level. Kayacks and paddleboards glide across. Gentle Breeze. Sunny day. Children play in the shallows screaming about the cold water. Pleasant vibes from all. The lake is a sanctuary from daily troubles. Content to sit on the shore. I watch. Life goes on around me. While others paddle and glide sitting in the shade is glorious and restful. Perhaps this feeling is what is meant by equanimity. Ed Krizek holds a BA and MS from University of Pennsylvania, and an MBA and MPH from Columbia University. For over thirty years Ed has been studying and writing poetry. He is the author of six books of poetry: Threshold, Longwood Poems, What Lies Ahead, Swimming With Words, The Pure Land, and This Will Pass All are available on Amazon.com. Ed writes for the reader who is not necessarily an initiate into the poetry community. He likes to connect with his readers on a personal level. crushed a lanternfly beautiful harmful creature please don’t kill the trees warm summer morning each dewdrop is a prism shattered by footsteps shaft of white moonlight spikes the fine lines of her face it should be raining sun kissed early summer's sun broken by my sago palm retribution burns cabin dance hot, sweaty, sticky your perspiration now mine you dance next to me Sabrina Sanchez is a writer and artist living in Charleston, SC. The former Editor-in-Chief of The Troubadour, she is currently working on her first chapbook, all my dead birds. Tea Time the perfect moment one pot of tea, two teacups, and a rose garden First Song a startling sound robins sing to fading stars just before dawn breaks Gibbous a separate thing far above this wilting world the half-melted moon Carolanna Lisonbee is a writer, English teacher, and globetrotting adventuress from Utah. Her first collection of poetry is WISP OF FOG MOMENT. Her poems have been included in the collection TEA-KU: POEMS ABOUT TEA, by Local Gems Press, and her translations of Chinese poetry appear in issue 10.1 of the journal Reliquiae, published by Corbel Stone Press. She posts on Instagram as carolanna_joy_poetry, and writes #ScienceNewsHaikus on Twitter as @carolannajl. The wind chimes jabbering dances across the lake,
the water a conduit, copper wire electrified by glass the wind is toying with, an alert to the air’s mischief, black sky bullies its way through the back door. Soon the pelting starts. Wrathful raindrops dump from belching clouds. Thunder announces lightning contestants that jab the dark, pummel the afternoon’s serenity into submission. The storm nature’s villain. The character that forces everyone to shelter inside. Hide from the anger, uncontrollable crying, bellowing intimidation. But a voice, a streak of blue, breaks the sky. Hints the yelling, the pounding tears, electrocuted remarks, will end. Submit to a clear unclouded truth. Doug Van Hooser's poetry has appeared in Roanoke Review, The Courtship of Winds, After Hours, Sheila-Na-Gig online, and Poetry Quarterly among other publications. His fiction can be found in Red Earth Review, Flash Fiction Magazine, and Bending Genres Journal. Doug’s plays have received readings at Chicago Dramatist Theatre and Three Cat Productions. More at dougvanhooser.com. The Poet’s Mirror I Spirits assail under cover of dark to suborn the poet’s ink how close are prayer and poetizing wrestling the ineffable the half-finished poem is a blind man feeling his way on a dark night or a lover groping with passionate hands toward his consort’s bed how the autonomous words blow where they list the bell of the Sorbonne, the guttered candle the frozen inkpot warn against the Promethean stroke which re-orders the world The Poet’s Mirror II The poet indites his hope of immortality in evanescent tracery of loneliness, love and loss; concupiscence and copulation synecdoche for life itself. Lloyd Jacobs is a former surgeon and university president, now writing daily. His poetry has been published in The Wallace Stevens Journal and The Main Street Rag as well as by other small magazines. We slump under the calm sky, By the bank of the Thames, And weep like grass in a lagoon. Waves crash against us, In the gleaming quiet of the tide Like dawn against darkness. There in the pool of blood, We piece our shadows together, Ebbed in a world of struggle. We cry; we wet the shores Of the bloody Thames, With streams of our broken dreams. We lie on the porch of the sea; Waiting to float along, Slinging towards hopelessness. In the blurred distance, A wave of lifeless bodies litter Upon the waveless sea. Our tears fall like raindrops, Painting the sea yellow, And the sky purple. I hear the hum of the wind In a cocktail of gold and red, And a gloss of floating grief. But nothing grief can stay Upon the tidal sea and moon, Upon the strait of change. I return to my sacred home Where gold leaves strewn the floor, And feel hope surge like a tide. Jonathan Ukah is a graduate of English living in London. His poems have appeared in various journals and anthologies, including the Ohio State University anthology, Dwelling During the Pandemic, published in May 2021; the Poet Magazine's collection on Ukraine, published in April 2022, the Discretionary Love magazine, State of Matter magazine, etc. It is raining and I am listening to Jazz Noir The heavy rain comes down the whisky pours into my glass The sky is dark the crystal tinted amber The rain and whisky soothe the parched places It is no longer raining I am still listening to Jazz Noir and I feel it The whisky spills into my glass I drink it again and I feel it too Shane Huey writes from his home in Florida, where he resides with his wife and son. His works have appeared in Black Poppy Review, The Chamber Magazine, Raven Cage Zine, Purple Wall Stories, MONO., Open Leaf Press Review, Haiku Journal, 50 Give or Take, and Cold Moon Journal. He is also editor of (and occasional contributor to) The Whisky Blot. Salty, sultry air,
sugar sand, sun-sparkled sea, sets my sling back chair. Beach cottage palette, unholy guacamole, purple, pumpkin, pink. Bud Light, Bud Lime, Blatz, Budweiser, Boddington, Bass. Sunburned beer bellies. Bud Light in my hand. relaxed in my sling back chair, toes dig sugar sand. Donna Meares is a native of Atlanta, Georgia now residing with her husband in Grass Valley, CA. Having worked as a social worker, she pursued her interests in writing after the birth of her first child. She engages in volunteer work and enjoys bonsai gardening, Zumba, and baking seedy sourdough bread. Her poetry and articles have been published in various magazines and she is the recipient of First Place Prize in America's Best Poetry Contest. |
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