Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 11/24/21

In The Fog

I envision the dissipated souls
stretched across the bay,
side by side, above and below
to form this heavy mist.
The emanating sounds bring me
scenes of buoys singing in the sway,
tugboats voicing arrivals,
flapping wings sculpted by wind.

Hints of light conjure a purée
of diamond soup being stirred
gently over a pot of steam.
More and more gems rise
to the surface,
shine with a brilliance only
muted fog can enhance.

As the soup stock simmers down,
brightness spreads upward
toward unpeopled park hills,
signaling to sounds they
no longer have to bear the onus
of stage props alone.

©2021 Evie Groch All rights reserved.

Evie Groch

Evie Groch, Ed.D. is a Field Supervisor/Mentor for new administrators in Graduate Schools of Education.  Her opinion pieces, humor, poems, short stories, recipes, word challenges, and other articles have been widely published in the New York Times, The San Francisco Chronicle, The Contra Costa Times, The Journal, Games Magazine, and many online venues. Many of her poems are in published anthologies. Her short stories, poems, and memoir pieces have won her recognition and awards. Her travelogues have been published online with Grand Circle Travel. The themes of travel, language, and immigration are special for her.

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 11/22/21

A Bowerbird Implodes Above the Bank of Whys
Elegy for B.M.

To win a rose more riveting
Than truth ajar, like burghers
Of Calais, you broke your angst
Into a million angels. Buried
Now, in skies above the cross-
Eared witnesses the sorghum
Boxed the day you died, you
Schlep a new horizon, a glissando
Like the sinking Arizona, for
The Washingtons without
A frozen Delaware. Self-pity
Has the potency of God and devil’s
License; soggy franchise of
Triceratops and sophomores.
Midwives for these ancient aches
Are human, dignified and spent;
As flippant as the battleship Akagi:
Parvenu and parvovirus, each
Refrigerates our childish zeal and
Piles tears on sex appeal. So virilized,
The valley’s terror and boredom
Had a fetor Jacobin; you said,
“The brain is just a tail that’s
Outside-in and on a curious end!”
Too often brusque, my foibles
Caught the wish’s end, the banal
Albanism at its meaning’s point,
Like Joseph Goebbels; but, if God’s
Forgiveness is forgiving God,
A viable alternative is art. To
Rampage blithely in the haunted
House Madonna, with her savage
Purity and stray deceits, remakes
With outdoor apprehension, is to see
The robot teasing dawn – “Your
Skeleton is gone! You’d better go
And chase it!” – knowing dawn just
Couldn’t face it. If I scrape
The inconvenience off my tongue and
Pick the pageantry from winter’s fur,
Conception might occur; the rainstorm
In a grain that famishes bouzoukis.
Tikkun olam, in league with Periodic
Acid-Schiff, paroles your good and genius;
Wingman every time my glory fails.

©2021 Jake Sheff All rights reserved.

Jake Sheff

Jake Sheff is a pediatrician and veteran of the US Air Force. He’s married with a daughter and six pets. Poems and short stories of Jake’s have been published widely. Some have even been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology and the Pushcart Prize. His chapbook is Looting Versailles (Alabaster Leaves Publishing). A full-length collection of formal poetry, A Kiss to Betray the Universe, is available from White Violet Press.

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 11/19/21

No TB – Please

The seats are all vacant and
my rum-shaken morning legs need a rest.

The laundromat waiting area sometimes doubles
as a staging area for crackheads and bums
as they ponder how to spend the rest of their day.
I grab the attendant’s spray bottle and wipe
a chair down to avoid transferring the sweaty
residue of the last crackhead onto me.

Across the street, a sidewalk sleeper is rousted
by the 7/11 clerk – GO! LEAVE NOW!
He staggers over and plops across from me –
coughing up tuberculosis into his cloud of stink –
his flying spittle spangled with flecks of red.
A trembling sip from a paper bag calms his coughing fit.

My foot lands with a slap thud on the tile when I
uncross my legs and jump up.
After all the care I took to wipe clean the chair
it seems like such a waste to lose it.
Now I’ll go stand in front of the drier –
entertained by the circular tumble of my socks.

Thirty-seven minutes to go.

©2021 Hugh Blanton All rights reserved.

Hugh Blanton

Hugh Blanton combs poems out of his hair during those moments he can steal away from his employer’s loading dock. He has appeared in The Rye Whiskey Review, Dope Fiend Daily, As It Ought To Be, and other places. He lives in San Diego, California.

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 11/17/21

Breakfast at Lucile’s

It must be the old hippie in me:
camouflaged in a sports jacket
and whistling a show tune,
when I’d walk past beat cops,
carrying a lid to a friend’s party.

But entering our favorite
breakfast place, and seeing
three cops forking in eggs
and laughing at a story
one of them has just told,

the old fear bubbles up,
and I’m holding an ounce
of Panama Red, or that crumbly
Lebanese hash I loved,
the aroma beckoning
like the arms of a belly dancer.

I can’t stop glancing over,
fixated on the nights I prayed
their brothers wouldn’t suspect
I was high as the pigeons roosting
on the cables of the Brooklyn Bridge.

“What’s wrong?” Beth’s forehead
creases concern over her menu.
And as quick as I got stuck
in that time loop, I snap out of it:
old enough to see the police as allies,
and anyway, they’re decades
and decades younger than me.

©2021 Robert Cooperman All rights reserved.

Robert Cooperman

Robert Cooperman’s latest collection is THE GHOSTS AND BONES OF TROY (Aldrich Press), which posits what if Odysseus came home at last, but with a horrific case of what we’d call PTSD.

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 11/15/21

Jenny shoots up

Prattled by pain, a mosaic of
malaise and madness wraps round
her tainted extremities.

Slipped disc, esotropia, spondylitis
and some terse terminology to
define the new lingo she’s learning.

Back pain that’s plaguing, spine
dislocating, not to mention the old
stuff that stings, like her birth mother’s
choice of booze over family.

In the dark clouded silence
Jenny shoots up, where no one
can find her.

©2021 Emalisa Rose All rights reserved.

Emalisa Rose

When not writing poetry, Emalisa Rose enjoys crafting and birding. She volunteers in animal rescue. Living by the beach provides much of the inspiration for her art. Her work has appeared in Mad Swirl, The Rye Whiskey Review, Spillwords, and other spirited places. Her latest collection is On the whims of the crosscurrents, published by Red Wolf Editions.