Poetry by Thomas Fortenberry

Thomas Fortenberry is an American author, editor, reviewer, and publisher. Owner of Mind Fire Press and the international literary arts journal Mindfire [www.mindfirerenew.com], he has also judged numerous literary contests including the Georgia Author of the Year Awards and the Robert Penn Warren Prize for Fiction. His work appears worldwide in English and translations. Please visit www.thomasfortenberry.net   for more information.

Did Knife Tricks

"Got tight last night
on absinthe.
Did Knife tricks."
- Ernest Hemingway

"To cut or not to cut
to the chase?

That's the question
-able motive
that brought me here
squinting the bloodshot out
of my grog-blinded, mid-morning eyes,
red veined and throbbing with the memory
of our night out amongst the tulips.

Her two lips caused all the trouble.

The pearly flash of shark grins
slicing irony over her hot stuffed mushrooms,
the spinach artichoke breadcrumbs
of our conversation lured this innocent
victim to the edge of my own intentional fall
so that I stood back from myself
and took the plunge into her.

In two, her broken cigarette showered sparks.

Even the accidents were intentional
I later figured out, too late of course,
kneeling to brush ash
off the chartreuse skirt of her native country
as she caught me immigrating with knowing eyes,
touched the trembling feline rising
up out of the lap of luxury to rose my cheeks
until it dawned on me and I
froze, paw in trap. Jesus.

She just smiled. You do any tricks with that knife?

Its the one question that cannot be answered
except with the affirmative vigor of youth.
So she grabbed my woodenhead handle,
wielded me throughout the night,
cutting our world to pieces, rolling
experience like apples on the garden green
which cannot be unhung, the cut flower
which cannot be re-stemmed
after it has blossomed in my knowing
hands, feeling me feel it grow.

It grows cold, dead, and bored.

My mouse no longer the toy,
at least now I see after her playing
just how used up I am. Discarded,
the afterthought of the empty bottle
still flowing like green electricity
through my head, my soul
thrumming to the beat of her
pouting poetry and all the absinthe
she poured into my tightening grip,
I let go. Just let it go."

[c 2005 Thomas Fortenberry]

Poetry By Domnic Savio

Username:dsaviolink                                                                    Email: dsaviolink@gmail.com                                                    Gender: Male                                                                                   Age: 38                                                                            Country/Region: Qatar                                                                 Marital Status: Married                                                          Profession: Document Controller                                              Hobbies: Reading, music, traveling

That big I

"The blacksmith picked the burning red with his poker,
Immersed in the earthen dish.
Cries of existence rose from the frozen throats - uncountable
The eternal plea, ever since the Beginning,
But never sustained.

Knell ! ! ! A A A A . . . .
Slouching the waving feet
Upon the dark Valleys and hidden Forests,
Hungry Deserts and sleeping Glaciers,
Fading and sprouting Civilizations, past and present,
Adrift upon the Deluge of the past
Heralds the Coming of the Unavoidable.

Darkness ejaculated
Earth quaked in wild excitement
Palpitated the black gloomy rocks,
Frightened wind blown blunt,
Fled away into the wet bed of his beloved,
leaning on the sweaty chest of the Shore,
And soaked the panting feathers.

Night leaped from her calm slumber in a nightmare,
Her curly locks spread around, unbraided;
Her bubbling dreams bumped the withered mind
That landscaped her heavily breathing breasts;
Sat hiding her face between the bare knees with hands around;
Heat off her virgin thighs baked her pale face,
Rattled the brass on her cold feet.

Moon started waning, pulled dark clouds on his crescent face,
Ran away behind the dusty clouds,
Stars felt giddy, fell into oblivion,
Lightning brandished on the grim face of the sky
Shivering plants grew breathless,
Blooming flowers, unable to inhale the fragrance back, closed their lashes
Owls took flight beating their heavy feathers.
Solitude lost her spells.

From the peak of the depth,
Where light never glances, echoes no sound,
Unleashed the Inevitable with unfathomed power.

No one ever dare wish -------.

Can’t hear anything.
Creeps the deadly silence inside the head
Activates the final Counter Process.

Behold, the banks of Lethe weeps.
He waits impatiently with his small old boat.
Hymen was moved aside
Millions of flying souls welcome me
Some of them distinguished me.
A heavenly odor silently spread in the darkness
Intoxicating the senses, reckons me from sleep.

Forget the existence.
Oh ! I lost the grip
The only one I ever thought of,
Neither a ray of light I see nor a drop of sound I hear.
I see every thing in a bird view,
Milky Ways, Bear and Solar system.
Unimaginable and unbelievable !
I tried to locate my memory, my sense, my existence,
My past …

But Oh! None!
Flowed with no shape as the air
Filled where vacant and vacated where full
That big I is no more."