Valentina Cano

Valentina Cano is  a student of classical singing who spends whatever free time she has either reading or writing. 

Midnight

Speaking of pillows,

mine has flown the coop,

a sack of air and sweat

that’s taken flight.

It hides under my bed

scooping and mingling

with the irritated dust.

Forming balls of rebellion.

Pitch forks readying.

It crouches by the door,

its tail of wakeful hours

slashing at the wall

as it waits for a chance

to tangle up more thoughts.

My pillow has learned

the mechanics of temperature,

of manipulation by degrees,

of frozen ears and dry lips.

It can turn into goblets of

blue-tinged pills

or it can hide blades

in the edges of cotton.

Miniature machine guns

in a random war,

consciousness hovering over

like a stifling sun.

-Valentina Cano

The Revenge of Plastics

My skirt is a canopy of swirling masses

hiding bulges and tucks,

setting eyes tumbling after it.

I scoop them up and into my pail,

eyes gaping like dead fish

waiting for a suck of sea water.

I glide away,

my pail in cahoots with my thighs,

bouncing ideas off each other,

hooting the steps away.

I lay my smelly pail on the ground.

I clear away a space,

push the dirt away like dandruff

and set my loyal container on the mound.

Rocks surround it,

like worshippers,

like soldiers,

like mobs.

I cackle and unweave my steps,

praying fervently for rain.

-Valentina Cano

April Avalon

April A. has been writing for almost five years, getting inspiration from various experiences seen by the eyes of a thinker. The purpose of her creativity is urging people to see beyond the bounds, to be themselves, to speak their minds loud, not to be afraid to differ from the crowd.
She creates to destroy. To destroy the naive beliefs. To destroy the stereotypes.
April lives in St. Petersburg at the moment and hopes to succeed further both as a poet and a songwriter.

  

My contact e-mail address is beautiful-disaster-90@hotmail.com

 

 

1. From The Heart

I'm here in the corner, devoured by cold,
My little ribbed shell hides a desperate sigh,
It holds an enigma for you to unfold
Until I'm asleep to your breath's lullaby.

My soul is rushing beyond the extremes,
Revealing the vibe that is hard to appease,
But once you discover the door to my dreams,
My consciousness lives through a moment of peace.

Whenever my lips start exploring your skin,
They bleed unexplainable bitter remorse -
My poison leaves stains, and it feels from within,
But lips ever sealed do appear much worse.
 

 

2. Madness So Sweet

 

Pearls of fantasies shine in the waters of hope
That February turned tears to.
We will certainly free weakened hands from the ropes
If wonder is all that we do.

 

Let us build a small ship as a shelter-to-be
And paint it in colors of spring.
It is madness so sweet to spend life on the sea;
I will turn to a siren and sing.

 

In the song of my heart that will beat twice as fast,
Your own inner voice will reveal.
Reminiscence I'll crave is for ages to last,
I'll gift you a moment to steal.

 

 

3. Portrait

 

I'll paint your sweet portrait with tightly shut eyes
With pleasure whenever you ask.
Though hands ever shaking and colder than ice
Do find it a difficult task.

 

I'll cherish the portrait and hang it above
My empty not warm enough bed
To guard all the secrets of mystery love
And clear the mess in my head.

 

The mirror that's placed on the opposite wall
Will certainly add to its charm,
My room and your portrait will turn to one whole -
This place will incur no more harm.

 

 

Harry Calhoun

 

Harry Calhoun:  Published at odd poetry whistlestops for the past 30 years. New chapbook, Retreating Aggressively into the Dark. More at http://harrycalhoun.net

 

December

by Harry Calhoun

At last, the end again, that I’ve never known in life.

The Christmas cactus blossoms sweetly

and stupidly at Thanksgiving, not knowing

its place and time. The solstice is not far

and afterward the days will grow longer.

It is a time of mixed blessings. A time to drink

old cognacs and aged port for the mellowness

of years and for an excuse to put the years

in the dark corners where they belong. Time

for the firewood and the fireplace, the warmth

and dust. A flannel shirt that rots in a corner of the closet,

or just sits forgotten until you haul it out

for its yearly winter duty. You wear it when you walk

your beloved dog before January clasps you

forever in its chill.  Listen to Tchaikovsky’s “Winter Dreams,”

count the sparse snowflakes falling, write poems

and try to set mood while telling the truth. Walk the dog

so your wife doesn’t have to. Enjoy the brief abundant leaves

on your lawn because it is their time.

Yes, December. It is that time.

 

 

The new day seeps in through the cracks of the cold the fireplace didn’t burn off last night

by Harry Calhoun

Lord, I’m not awake yet, yet I sit here, 40 foggy degrees

feeling my marrow chilled like a refrigerated soul

a light in the post house

a post in the light house

the fog leaking all over the morning

the morning dripping all over the fogginess

dark etched with light and drubbed with mist

like a Currier and Ives print

I go inside by the back door

and after a brief segue to my nice warm house,

go outside on the lawn and pick Monday

morning’s thin paper off the dewy lawn

covered with reedy leaves

 

 

The Christmas tree that wasn’t

by Harry Calhoun

The Christmas tree that wasn’t

is burning a hole in the living room,

a hole of absence, and the lights

that weren’t cast darkness

over some oasis of desolation.

These are fragile days, snap-cold

days, easily tipped into drunkenness

and despair, days when a tree

might lighten our souls like a cigarette

lit against the bleak pre-dawn,

or the touch of a warm hand

in the insomniac sleepwalk toward morning.

It is sad being without family or reason.

It feels like a burrowing rodent in a dark hole.

Give us a tree, deep shallow shimmering light

to sustain us in this season.

 

 

e-mail: http://us.mc1802.mail.yahoo.com/mc/compose?to=HarryC13@aol.com
Web site: http://www.harrycalhoun.net/
My blog: http://harryc13.wordpress.com/
Pig in a Poke magazine: http://piginpoke.com/

Mike Berger (Lost in The Never)

Mike is a Phd and has been writing for a year.





Lost in the Never
Too tired and thirsty to sleep; feeling
sick Putting my head on my knees,
curling up into a little ball. The Sun
peeked through holes in the branches.
A white mist swirled around me; it
blocked out the sun. I looked deeply
into the swirling tapestry. My heart
was in my throat.
Looking again I saw a figure; it was
ablaze. It's a light shone through the
white shroud. It looked like an angel
dressed in white robes. Snow white
hair hung to his shoulders. His feet
where bear. He held a vessel in
his hands.
It beckoned for me to come; I
struggled to my feet. My fears had
vanished. He offered me a vessel;
it was filled with water. I drank until
I could hold no more. My body stopped
shaking.
Waking, it took me a moment to
realize it was a dream. Wrenching
with sobs; tears refuse to fall. The
sun was low, I stood and started
walking again.

Submissions

Send submissions to Will806095@bellsouth.net

Submissions to Farthermost Dream March 22, 2011

You may send up to three poem for publication.  Paste in the body of your e-mail. Double spaced.  You may send a short two line bio (not necessasary).  No Payment just exposure on the site.  Author retains all rights and may publish anywhere else they desire.  A word of note:  I created this website to showcase my poetry and fiction as well as my art but I felt at some point it might be cool to offer some space to those who need credits.....so here it is,  Farthermost Dream......Please be careful of what you send.....no four letter words.,  otherwise creativity is the key.  Send yer best and we'll get along fine.  No aknowledgement for rejected poems or accepted poems you'll jus have to check the site.  Please put Farthermost Dream Submission in yer subject header. Thanks and have a grand most wonderful fantastic day. 

Ron Koppelberger

The Deliberate Deed (Fiction)

Ron Koppelberger

The Deliberate Deed

The groundwork for the thing, the deed in fact was in skins of wild mountain goats and raven feathered primacy. Decorous, hooting he found what he needed in the weave of fur and feathers. Tromp, tromp, tromp, he wore giant sized boots, 18” with toes of triple endowed claw, claws of steel in careless abandon.
The hunters had spotted him, a sasquach dream, a Bigfoot fantasy. Dressed in orange they had begun firing their rifles at random. The first bullet pierced his right arm leaving a spray of crimson in the white powdery snow, the second bullet grazed his check and he howled in pain as blood coated his lips. Terrified he clomped to the hidden recess in the midst of a pile of granite and limestone boulders.
The next day the Harmony Gazette read:

“Bigfoot in Harmony Hills!”

The caption and the accompanying photo was of a gap-toothed hunter quoted as saying:
“It nearly killed us an I shot it but it jus ran away!”
There was a picture of a plaster footprint next to the hunter. He winced in pain and laughed simultaneously. It had been a real granny gulp.

The Trunk

Ron Koppelberger

The Trunk

Concealed in the distant cellar confines, secure in sanctified separation from the rest of the house, the clutter of knickknacks and ancient oaken furniture, was the trunk. The trunk was constructed of dark brandy colored oak, burnished to a dull glow, dusty and neglected.
The terrain in the cellar was a myriad of ancient furniture, rust colored bicycles and forgotten toys. Tempted by the treasure that might be hidden in the trunk, Reason and a tempting recklessness became the mistress of ceremonious need as Earnest Taunt made his way down the wooden planked basement steps.
He had inherited the house and it’s contents from his aunty Sapphire. In reverent difference to her sudden illness he had rushed to her side and she had rewarded him with the inheritance, the house and enough money to make life an easy task. He hunted the trunk through dust and spider webs, musty piles of old clothing and stacks of old records. Picking up one of the old records he read the title, The Drifters, Half dollar Ticket to Heaven. Earnest replaced the record and moved toward the trunk, it was covered with a white bed sheet. He pulled the sheet away and sneezed furiously as a plume of dust filled the air. He wiped his arm across his nose and unfastened the latch on the trunk.
Prolonging the space of silent expectation he paused for a moment. Fulfilling his curiosity he lifted the lid and a gust of cool air trifled the nape of his neck. He realized the shadow of pure myth adorned the solitary jewel. It was crafted in symmetrical strawberry cuts that shone a blood red reflection against the oak. Earnest inclined closer, leaning down toward the Jewel. Elderly images of aunty Sapphire and captured recollections of childhood visits filled his consciousness.
She had given him the chunk of cut glass after his battle with the neighbors ingeniously hateful child. He had come into the house crying, snot nosed and dirty with scrapes and dirty smudges of soil from aunties garden blush, as she called it. She had taken him into her bosom, soothing him and fretting his scratches with kisses and he had cried anyway. “My little warrior.” she had said to him as she pulled open a cupboard door and brought out the colored glass. She handed it to him and he stared at the reflection in faceted spears of light. He had stopped crying as he began to smile. Aunty had laughed and patted him on the rear. Later that year his mother had died and his father had moved to the virgin pride of Virginia 400 miles away, in a head first abandonment of their old life.
Earnest had placed the gem in the trunk before they had said their goodbyes to each other. Twenty-seven years later he touched the same jewel his sadness leaving him; smiling he carried the treasure upstairs.

The Hymn of Wilford Larouse (New Fiction)

Ron Koppelberger

The Hymn of Wilford LarouseRugged and in sensual ramshackles, humble in nighttime betrothal, the western ray and the backwoods tumble of survival and fascinating revolt, gave Willford Larouse a moment, a thankful moment of reason and a suggestion of sanity.
He found the substance of soul and in naive command he sang his hymn in pain and blood, to his sweet Rio Madson Larouse. He uttered and sang in subtle prelude to the miracle of loves gained in losses of cold dire agony, in desert sands and cactus bloom the yielded life, bowing in barter for the ravages of a wild decree; he cradled his love alone in folded arms by the pallor of death, desolate and abandoned near the center of scorched earth and breaths of bedlam, he sang the hymn,

“Defy the silhouette of fury

And the shallows of life hurried,

Strange, rare and in difference,

In blessed sufferance of saints and the confessors

Of current hours and sun baked covenant,

Store the soul of care and

Embrace only if you dare

The charm of notions in forever and sweet revolt,

Return the bride in bloom

Return the mystery of this hold,

Return life to the cold flow of flesh and

In balance we shall rest, oh return my love

In the name of heaven above!”

Wilford advised the pallor of his sweet Rio with a kiss and the healing witness of a single tear as the spirits of evanescent delight drew close. The immigrant wanderings of chance celebrated his wife and gave her season the will to be. She inhaled and in delicate care touched the countenance of Wilford Larouse.
He found passion and a reason to be in the concern of angels and the miracle of life and boundless love.
“Thank god!” he sang to the angels above.

Lusty Cares

Ron Koppelberger

Lusty Cares

The necromancy was a passionate pastime in Truck Snarls pale-faced demeanor. He lusted in an elegant alliance with the wont of power, sex and pleasure, any pleasure. Truck sneered at the tiny auburn haired Daisy Chit. She was perched on the edge of the sofa as she baptized her tiny mouth with a splash of Canada Gold.
Truck felt a tense prickling across the nape of his thick bullish neck; he thought in waves of scarlet, a charcoal assessment, cauldrons and warlock amore’. He had memorized the invocation,

“Wills and thrills

Deem it in dreams

And tender seams

Give me yer turn and

Accept the magic’s

We burn.”

As he said the word burn he drew the Gillette stiletto across his hand. A fine spray of crimson followed the shaving blade in a misty arc as it splattered Daisy. They waited and measured the moments by the puddle of scarlet tears beneath Trucks palm.
Truck touched the edge of the blade and looked at Daisy. She was leaning back against the sofa staring at Truck, she whispered,” Come to me love…..,” Truck smiled and moved toward the couch. His palm print stained the beige cushion with red smears as he scooted up close to Daisy.
“ ye got some homespun for daddy Daisy?” Truck said as he kissed her full on the lips.
“ I got the best in beasts baby.” she sighed as his hand caressed her thigh.
The light grew dim and a gentle rumbling rain began to pour in cascades and buckets. Truck knew it was raining inside the house, nevertheless he was entranced by Daisys passionate response.
The air hummed and rumbled as Daisy called out in the throes of passion,

“Rage and downy allure

Come and be sure.”

Truck screamed a moment later as the house tore in two, a division of light and terror, of sylvan egress and whiskered demons in bloody raptures of Canada Gold and crimson smeared cushion.
Something huge, unbidden, unbridled and ancient reached through the rend in space, the torn half of Trucks space. Truck fought and screamed as the phantasm consumed him, as the specter of forever told a tale of obsidian shadow and gray ghost. He slipped and turned in tumult as the air closed around him; an instant later he was gone.
Daisy apologized to the empty space where Truck had been and sighed with a tired requiem. The day turned twilight and Daisy became a picture in ash as she walked through the shadows between what had been and what was a new world of contrasting wonder.

The Licorice Witch

Ron Koppelberger

The Licorice Witch

He had an aversion to the Licorice witch, in his intimate confession he had expressed his deeply furious concern with the green eyed monster. The Licorice witch, a compliment to the sorcery of willing darkness and the blackest of magic’s. An abhorrent proof in the existence of evil, she was a restless exception to life.
The cottage was askew at oblique angles to the sun and the windows were painted black. The view from his secret vantage was limited. He contemplated by design of devoted vermillion fury, a fury that shook him to the core. He watched her thrash a large ornate rug on the clothesline strung between the cottage and the small copse of oaks next to her house. “ As if she were a hitten me……..” he thought without reason. Obsessed, he found himself watching her as she emptied her wash water to the ground near the cottage. “As if she were a drownin me……” he thought in the gloom of twilight.
He sat in his small asylum staring out the window toward the licorice witches house when a knock came at the door. It was her. “ Strange crony, I perceive yer joy in billowy ash and ills, ye would have my soul witch!” he screamed in fear. Stumbling backward he fumbled for his musket. In passions of delirious fright he tripped and hit his head on the floor, killing him in unfettered delivery.
The woman made merry in her cottage. The cascade of rain defended the sound of her laughter; she rejoiced. The faithless clever witch consumed the nocturnal potion, “Mystic darkness, backward and forward nearness, gainful, baneful pots of gold the revolutions of bedlams old.” She sang as she danced in glee.