Featured Poet: Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal works in the mental  health field, writes
poetry and short stories. He lives in
Los Angeles  County. His latest chapbook, Overcome, was published by Kendra
Steiner Editions,  and it is a
collaborative effort with photographer, Cynthia Etheridge.





WITHOUT TELEVISION

The news of another murder on television,
or the news of crooks getting  away scot-free
makes me long for the days I watched cartoons.

In those days there were fewer murders.
I could do without  television.
I would just stare at mirrors instead.
I would watch myself at  noontime
eating an apple.  In the evening
I would change the mirrors  to another room.

I do not need television.
Maybe without it there would be fewer  murders.
Perhaps there would be more.
I think I would read a book  instead.

I could turn on the radio
and listen to the untalented musicians
on  the popular music stations.
I would complain about what happened to

good music.  A mirror would break.
I would long for the days of  TV.
The news of murders and crooks would return.
In the evening I would  lock all my doors.



THE SOFT EVENING

In the soft evening
we sing without sound
and carve our hearts
and  dig out the pumpkin seeds.

Broken of heart we eat
of what is left of it
and descend into the  abyss.



THE MOON’S DISEASE

On this night the moon
is not easy to look at.
Its light fills my  nose
with a pungent scent.

My lips turn blue and
cold.  The distant moon infects
me with a  sadness
I cannot escape.

I pace aimlessly
in the black night with the
devils of the  soul
whispering to me

to give up my soul to
them for a night of joy.
I become moist  with
sweat and defend my

sick heart with silence.
More awake than ever I
keep my soul  hostage.
It is all I have.

Unlike my heart, my
soul is intact.
Still I shiver from  the
moon’s disease as I

walk in confusion like
a lost child.   When I cry out
it is  my soul, which
reverberates on

this night, where the moon
is an eyesore.  It
fills me with  sadness.
I cannot escape.

Featured Poet: William Stoneberger

                          The Mirror

               Sometime the mirror is my mother.

               Her hair,

                             going toward gray,

               graces my head.

               Her eyes,

                               owl-wise and ancient,

               emerge behind my own.

               I recognize their regrets,

               harbor their hopes like heirloom treasures.

               Sometimes the mirror is my father.

               His expression,

                                        almost evil,

               possesses my mouth.

               His attitude,

                                 all-mighty and apathetic,

               is my only legacy.

               I bear its terrible weight,

               feel its fangs sink into my spine.

               Sometimes the mirror is my mask.

               Its stare,

                             blank alabaster,

               terrorizes my mind.

               Its features,

                                  frozen and unfeeling,

               refuse my reflection.

               I give nothing away,

               shut my heart in a lead-lined vault.

               Sometimes the mirror is my self.

               My face,

                              sagging slightly,

               shows my years.

               My mind,

                              contemplative and nostalgic,

               imagines another life.

               I dream "me" out of existence,

               someone else stares back.

                                  An Artist Confesses

                     I have been a thief,

                     robbing life from the night

                     stealing its essence

                     inhaling all its offerings

                     like the cigarettes

                     I stole from my father

                     and snuck into dark corners

                     to smoke.

                     I have swiped the moon's power

                     and used it       

                     to weave a web,

                     ensnarling strangers

                     in that lacy seduction

                     - lust and lunacy.

                    I have taken the colors

                    of certain eyes

                    that offered their glances to me,

                    flashing like strobes

                    across bar rooms and lanes of traffic,

                    holding them up toward the light

                    like crystal prisms.

              

                    I have been a burglar,

                    breaking into the best of dreams

                    convincing them to belong to me

                    conning them into keeping me company

                    recreating them in my own image,

                    chiseling away.

                                         The Little Man

                            L (ove)

                               onliness lingers

                            in the little bed

                            in the little room

                            in the little house.

                            The little man

                            ( moan & groan )

                            ( regret) is in deep

                                                       down

                             in a drown of a river

                             of rolling rage.

                             He hums his heart

                             a dirge

                             lowdown dirty (dog) blues

                             & blacks

                             & grays (shadows)

                             ( ghosts).

                             Winter within

                             the reach his

                             ( arthritic ) fingers

                             he feels the grip

                             tighten ( his throat )

                             constricting.

                             D (espair)

                                 arkens

                             into circles under

                             his eyes (blind)

                             and he keeps the depression

                             tucked in a cr (amp)

                                                   anny

                             tight twisted

                             little torture.

                             The little man

                             in the little house

                             all alone   trapped

                             ( tears )  in the temptation

                             to put an end to it all.

                             There's nothing little

                             about his pain ( massive )

                             large in l (ove)

                                           oneliness.

                             

OSFR is back in business

Please send poems, reviews, et. al. to osfrblog@gmail.com We're back! Seriously. -Russell

Featured Poet: James Dye

James Jason Dye is a 26-year-old college student from Dubuque Iowa. He is a new writer whose poetry can be found on various publications such as Ampersand, Dogzplot, Poor Mojo’s Almanac, The Clockwise Cat, Aphelion, Calliope Nerve and Public Republic. He can be reached at jamesjdye@hotmail.com or check out his blog at http://jamesjdye.blogspot.com. You can also download his free poetry e-book at www.poemhunter.com

The Rose Again

The rose again above the mountain goes up the valley down. The wind lifts it off the ground its gravity pulling back around.

Ambush arose from its seat. A pillar of smoke arose in defeat.

The sun bowed down again.

The Fate of Night and Day

Darkness boasts the night. The Sun is down. Evening settles in.

The thickness blackens. Heavy is the weight. The gloom stagnates. The mass curdles.

Twilight congeals. It consumes the whole world. In the morning Dawn mourns.