person Kristin Garth, two poems

Kristin Garth is a Pushcart & Best of the nominated poet from Pensacola and a sonnet stalker. Her sonnets have stalked magazines like Five: 2: One, Yes, Glass, Anti-Heroin Chic, Occulum, Drunk Monkeys, Luna Luna, TERSE. Journal and many more. Her chapbook Pink Plastic House is available from Maverick Duck Press, and she has another Pensacola Girls from Bone & Ink Press. She has two forthcoming: Shakespeare for Sociopaths (The Hedgehog Poetry Press Jan 2019) and Puritan U (Rhythm & Bones Press March 2019) from She also has a full length upcoming Candy Cigarette from Hedgehog Poetry in April. Follow her on Twitter: (@lolaandjolie), her weekly poetry column The Sonnetarium and her website (kristingarth.com).

.

Silence

is seamless, Victorian nightgown, roof
reproof, no fingers or electric sounds
when it’s affixed, lightless chandeliers, proof
of fealty, microscopic tears. Hound
haunts fears, your plate glass tabletop front lawn,
barks at shadows, windows, doors while the , hand
is gone. Perimeter once stood upon
with plastic hedge, inch edge to tile crash land
or Dalmatian whose lunging signal, teeth
remands in silent walls without a back
turntable, aerial attack. Relief
the latter, only friend, through shingles black
the five descend desiring fingerplay.
His fingertips are all you’ll hear today.

.

His Music Box Breathes Depeche Mode

a hollowed set design inside dollhouse
ballroom. Five fingers lead. Wallpapered flats,
black bloomed, encircle stage. Gossamer flounce,
gray ballet skirt, a plié romance danced,
piano wound by fingertips, Behind the Wheel
tuned teeth play Maxence Cyrin. Planet eyes,
constellations, melt, stratosphere surreal
inconstant asteroid belt, light devised
stings limbs like lust. A moonbeam pas de deux,
move as you must, his passenger. Fouettés,
regrets, releasing whim, each orbit you
spin closer to him for God the father
created little girl and universe;
his music box breathes, and you will rehearse.

.

 

person Wale Ayinla, three poems

Wale Ayinla writes from the ancient city of Abeokuta in Nigeria . He is a Best of the Net Award nominee, and his recent works appear on Palette Poetry, FLAPPERHOUSE, Connotations Press, The Temz Review, SOBER., and elsewhere. He is @Wale_Ayinla on Twitter. He is the founding editor of Dwarts Magazine.

~*~

a library of misfits

to be honest, this poem isn’t about me / and it is
              the apple froth gulped through my lungs / and it is
disorientating how i draw the horse with its chariot /
              when i own a story, i consume consent / the air wilts
in between my teeth / and there are dead bodies
              as cymbals in the oxygen / i still insist on making
youthfulness a decade earlier / maybe i’d have become
              a river inching away from the shoreline / a plenty
of water is death / i pleaded my mother to teach me
              how to pray / she calls God our father / it is written
that God grew into darkness and spoke light out /
              this time, to speak is chaos / the fire in my throat
is a basket of echoes / i mask my spirit into a prayer /
              & i watch my ears slide off / listening to a wisteria hum /
the leaves don’t lie / they only undress their branches /

~*~

inebriation
for D.J., Jerry, and Nome

listen to me little anchors, i pledge
allegiance to take you home safe.
arrange the bodies closer to their
death, safety will come last. this
body will find a way to save itse-
lf. i pledge allegiance to my tong-
ue wrapped around the continent
stemming out of the acacia. a blue
scissors, a paper bullet, a city of
letters, then the boy lying behind
brothered to a stillbirth. i slice up
the wind and count the faces of the
fathers i have drunk to become filled
to a circumstance. i keep a lagoon
under my throat. & i cry & cry fishes
out into my palms. the fishes are out
of the water which means i am giving
more than i have which means i am
feathered to a room which means
i am as vain as my mother’s threat
which means you are on this ship
which means i am going to drown
you which means no one will die
which means even my father will
re-appear which means i can break
which means you can pick me up
which means every october which
means we will be in remembrance
which means someone is missing
which means someone is carrying
the loss which means we are both
here.

~*~

the soul wishes it could reverse a wound

dusk seizes the day from its own light
how humbling creatures yield to the other
blissfully               there are feathers everywhere

my eyes are fastened to the veins of vines left
unkempt                             let’s pretend the body is on flight
and the lilies are blooming from my teeth

let’s pretend no one is pretending           amid danger
there is also peace             are you safe little creature
of want?

in the end           this is all the flesh ever wanted:
to be plucked from its skin as a miracle
a new religion and no one is dying           save me

from this placidity           hence there is a quiver
of arrows under my shirt             i find a hunger
and shoot through

~*~

{ marks }

/

Please give a moment to eye Signs Taken For Wonders by Nadia Wolnisty, here:

Signs Taken for Wonders | Nadia Wolnisty

Wolnisty’s work in {isacoustic*} is here:

https://isacoustic.com/2018/07/10/person-nadia-wolnisty-three-poems/

/

Cynthia Manick was interviewed by The Woven Tale Press, here:

https://wtpcentral.thewoventalepress.net/2018/11/12/wtp-2018-winner-cynthia-manick/

work in {isacoustic*}:

https://isacoustic.com/2018/10/15/person-cynthia-manick-five-poems/

/

Mike Ferguson has a new book of poems from Red Ceilings Press titled Professions, as such:

http://www.theredceilingspress.co.uk

work in {isacoustic*}:

https://isacoustic.com/2018/09/17/person-mike-ferguson-two-poems/

/

Rebecca Kokitus was interviewed by Thirty West, here:

https://www.thirtywestph.com/column/rebeccakokitusinterview

work in {isacoustic*}:

https://isacoustic.com/2018/07/10/person-rebecca-kokitus-one-poem/

/

Please check out Corey Mesler’s new book, Madstones, here:

https://www.burkesbooks.com/pages/books/202687/corey-mesler/madstones-signed?fbclid=IwAR1E86AsmI41Wax8IJSbnal6i857moHrsAhYmnilKWVrlL67SpL3at4whA8

work by Mesler at {isacoustic*} is here:

https://isacoustic.com/2018/02/06/person-corey-mesler-three-poems/

/

Also, Devon Balwit’s chapbook A Brief Way to Identify a Body is here:

https://ursusamericanuspress.bigcartel.com/product/a-brief-way-to-identify-a-body-by-devon-balwit

and work in {isacoustic*} here:

https://isacoustic.com/2018/04/11/person-devon-balwit-three-poems/

/

Yesenia Montilla took part in Platano Poetry Café’s poetry series, here:

http://www.jasminnemendez.com/blog/2018/2/22/platano-poetry-series-yeseniamontilla?fbclid=IwAR3qjvrtF-X1AXTLyJSg0b4dCcfk6In-bt6J_pt5XPEVjfc_8JOBR5SFxsE

Montilla’s work in {isacoustic*} is here:

https://isacoustic.wordpress.com/2018/02/26/person-yesenia-montilla-two-poems/

/

Please check out Kat Giordano’s new book, The Poet Confronts Bukowski’s Ghost, here:

https://www.amazon.com/Poet-Confronts-Bukowskis-Ghost/dp/1732292205

Giordano’s work in {isacoustic*} is here:

https://isacoustic.com/2018/07/09/person-kat-giordano-three-poems/

/

This Someone I Call Stranger, poetry by James Diaz, is here:

https://www.indolentbooks.com/this-someone-i-call-stranger-by-james-diaz/

Diaz has work in {isacoustic*}, here:

https://isacoustic.com/2018/07/12/person-james-diaz-one-poem/

/

Andrew and Donora Rihn have work up at The Mantle, here:

https://themantlepoetry.com/?fbclid=IwAR3U3qHhvrwyFRrRTZuCCSwHgjS4s1-yKTUQVIf_fEI4P4wDMGxMskU5860

see their work in {isacoustic*} here:

https://isacoustic.com/2018/03/08/donora-a-rihn-and-andrew-rihn-poems/

/

check out former contributor Asante Keron Hamid’s guest editing of Glass Poetry’s Poets Resist series, here:

http://www.glass-poetry.com/poets-resist/archives.html

you can read Asante Keron Hamid’s work on {isacoustic*} here:

https://isacoustic.com/2018/04/09/person-asante-keron-hamid-three-poems/

/

check out former contributor Natasha Kochicheril Moni’s new publication, A Nation (Imagined), here:

http://www.floatingbridgepress.org/product/a-nation-imagined/

you can read Natasha Kochicheril Moni’s work on {isacoustic*} here:

https://isacoustic.com/2018/08/09/person-natasha-kochicheril-moni-five-poems/

/

Poet Camonghne Felix has a new book, Build Yourself a Boat, here:

https://www.amazon.com/Build-Yourself-Boat-Felix-Camonghne/dp/1608466116/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1540827094&sr=8-1&keywords=camonghne+felix&fbclid=IwAR1jPPIoZbVDYMXTnaaVuf046eCPZUHd__D1RUj3FyU_PzC3MoYIdib1EBM

I had, and still have, some words for the previous work, here:

on Yolk by Camonghne Felix:
https://isacoustic.com/2018/04/19/yolk-poems-camonghne-felix/

/

{ in honor of its one year in the seen world, a former reflection on Devin Kelly’s ~In This Quiet Church Of Night, I Say Amen~ }

reflection from April 23rd 2018:

 

In This Quiet Church Of Night, I Say Amen
poems, Devin Kelly
Civil Coping Mechanisms, 2017

~

‘…Father turns his head, I think,
to watch me, & this goes on forever.’ – {from} The Wind In Galway

With confession’s nostalgia for the crystal ball, Devin Kelly’s In This Quiet Church Of Night, I Say Amen gives away blood’s belongings and yawns itself over a lived-in kindness known maybe once or twice to you as a child when clicking you went with your bones through the sigh of a strange house the morning after a sleepover. This is a precise and expansive poetry, a poetry of scope and spotlight, somehow able to amble oddly behind inquiry while at the same time calling out distance for the shortness of its answer.

‘…The body is holy,
because I miss it.’ – {from} My Grandmother Is Holy

I have long held that the reading and writing of poetry be made of either a great avoidance or a sudden thing, or both. What Kelly does here is generous, and disproves such superimposed withholding. It is old and it is young, and possesses the frail form, not to own it, but to cheerfully accompany its grief, on that shaky bridge, as a carrier of its welcome mat and holder of its prayer.

~

reflection by Barton Smock

~

book is here:
https://www.amazon.com/This-Quiet-Church-Night-Amen/dp/1937865932/

{ an / otherness }

i.

Cynthia Manick was interviewed by The Woven Tale Press, here:

https://wtpcentral.thewoventalepress.net/2018/11/12/wtp-2018-winner-cynthia-manick/

/

work in {isacoustic*}:

https://isacoustic.com/2018/10/15/person-cynthia-manick-five-poems/

ii.

Mike Ferguson has a new book of poems from Red Ceilings Press titled Professions, as such:

http://www.theredceilingspress.co.uk

/

work in {isacoustic*}:

https://isacoustic.com/2018/09/17/person-mike-ferguson-two-poems/

iii.

Rebecca Kokitus was interviewed by Thirty West, here:

https://www.thirtywestph.com/column/rebeccakokitusinterview

/

work in {isacoustic*}

https://isacoustic.com/2018/07/10/person-rebecca-kokitus-one-poem/

person Kate LaDew, two poems

Kate LaDew is a graduate from the University of North Carolina at Greensboro with a BA in Studio Art. She resides in Graham, NC with her cats, Charlie Chaplin and Janis Joplin.

.

you find your youngest daughter

now your only daughter
swinging her sister’s rosary
back and forth back and forth
upending jesus like a carnival ride
the ones that made you sick
made you watch from behind little metal gates
as your children and everyone’s children raised their hands and screamed.
you snatch the crucifix mid-swing,
beads popping from between your youngest daughter’s fingers
your only daughter’s fingers
clutch it to your mouth, lips against the centerpiece of mary
breathing in and out in and out
eyes closed, squeezing so the whole scene is a negative in red and orange
as you lower your hand, opening it in time with your eyes
and find the imprint of christ on your palm
(the priest said with enough praying it would turn gold).
your youngest daughter is looking at you now
your only daughter is looking at you now,
eyes so wide and sad you want to erase the whole world
and build it bit by bit into perfection until she is satisfied
but you only say, ‘I don’t want people to touch it,’
as words form in your mind
too many hands might fade her fingerprints away
then how could we be sure she ever existed at all?

but the words stay thoughts as you repeat again
‘I don’t want people to touch it’
stuffing the silver jesus into the pocket of your jeans so his bloodied feet show.
your daughter folds her hands under her heart
looking at your receding back the way saints looked up at God
praying to be more than people

.

you walk clear to the end of the world

nothing happens
when you look back at your footfalls
god is not there, too.

.

person Tiffany Elliott, three poems

Tiffany Elliott was born and raised in sunny Southern CA and is currently a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing candidate at New Mexico State University. Her works explore issues of abuse, trauma, and how recovery and resiliency allow people to remake themselves. Her poetry has previously appeared in MUSE and Pacific Review and is forthcoming in Indie Blu(e)’s “We Will Not Be Silenced” anthology.

***

For Love

I cover you in ink, the flavor harsh
on my eardrum. I eat words
ten syllables at once as we fuck
atop stacks of forbidden newsprint.

I found you spelled in grease
between the library stacks, the stains
Rorschach images of birds, of vines,
of mice that notch books, of their feces,
of tulips pressed
between pages—they had their time,
they shed petals one by one
like woodlice.

We have two words left. I
lock the pair away
behind my bared teeth.

***

A Longing for

Does glass remember
its ancestry, blown
in waves over the Savannah or
trussed by turtles
egging the future
in pits. Curling the single hairy
root of a palm, does sand
question starlight—
so distant
from the burning
that transforms. Do stars
peek our moon
longing her weightless
embrace. I search those same stars
divining
the way your lifeline flows
through rivers and into
the Salton Sea fifty miles
from a buried
teacup shard where I
whispered
I will return
someday.
And in slanting
May sunlight, you
stood on Indian clay
north of the ravine, my
name floating the orange
scent of all the late blossoms
I will never pluck
again.

***

you heard his voice in

the fallen tree branch—a sign from God
to sell your home
as bark tore moth wings from your arm.
did your body already know
the tearing within? the sick cells
replicating, replacing, fireflies
sparking alveoli, the eternity
of wild lights at the edge of vision
and even when your vision failed the left eye,
you insisted on driving yourself,
drowning already, pneumatic
under the emergency room’s crimson glare.
did your body feel a loop drawn tight
like a lasso around a fly’s head?

***