Lorelei Kay

Banning the Bean

Dashing home after third grade, I pushed aside

our heavy front door and ran inside hollering,

“Mom, I’m…” when the odor stopped me cold.

 

What in tarnation was that horrid smell?

Couldn’t be—not in our home—not coffee.

Our religion banned that brown bean.   

 

It reeked of revolting sin. Disobedience.

Dereliction. Disgraceful enough to separate

our family eternally in the heavens.

 

Mom hurriedly, apologetically, explained.

The brew was doctor’s orders. Prescribed

to hopefully curb her excruciating migraines.

 

I don’t recall that dank odor ever permeating

our home again, but I do recall Mom’s lifelong

struggle with her horrendous headaches.

 

Did guilt keep her from rebrewing the beans?

 

It’s been many years. Much has changed.

The aroma of my morning cup of freshly brewed

coffee wafts up, surrounding me with warmth

 

and filling me with memories. Thoughts drift

to Mom’s dilemma, and I envision how wondrous

it would be if she might now be reposing

 

on a cloud, at last headache-free, a radiant angel

presenting her on each breaking dawn with

the freshest mug of heavenly-scented coffee

 

in the universe, sweetened to perfection, laced

with starry-like swirls of cream gleaned from

the milky way—and to top it off, each golden

 

cup served completely, and eternally, guilt free

R A Ruadh

4H Club  

(a Heptet of Heaven Hell Haiku)

Billionaires promise

heaven as long as we work

to build our own hell

Man’s heaven requires

a hell of women’s bodies

to lift them on high

Heaven versus hell

is based on an assumption

of powerlessness

Hell is creative

heaven is just arrogance

which sounds quite boring

Heaven and hell are

for control freaks and psychos

I choose to live now

If all you promise

is only hell or heaven

just count me out thanks

Heaven glorious

already is ours on earth

don’t damn it to hell

Gia Civerolo

flash bulb premonitions

She said a prayer for the safety of his soul

It wasn’t just because she had given him 

a blow job once when he was feeling very low

Their core really was a deep friendship

even though there were plenty who never 

believed it could be just that

It wasn’t the way he could sing silky soft 

on a stage, yet at the same time slick like the 

Dapper Dan tonic shellacking his hair back

It wasn’t the way he could swing with his 

black & white wing-tipped shoes pointing up

at the stars and her red lips, all at the same time

It wasn’t the way he placed his hand 

gently on the small of her back while 

dancing her around the floor

Or even the way he called her “doll” 

from days gone by, reminding the 21st century

of a past or how he could never quite fit in 

like he did so perfectly wearing white zoot suits

The fact was he called every woman “doll”

It still made her feel special

Giving her a quick little tingle

Unnerving her feministic esthetic only slightly

She knew It was his sweetness always 

seeping through, no matter how many times 

people and circumstances wanted to 

beat it out of him. Beginning with his father

and then every other man who slept with his mother

His heart was always broken by some skinny “doll”

in an off- the-shoulder tight black velvet dress 

who looked good sipping a martini

but could never heal the hurt 

no matter how pretty she was

He had charisma like a black and white film hero

always down on his luck but unlike the movies

he could never quite get together by the third act 

or any act for that matter

Everything was always on a repeating loop

She could almost hear the clicks of the film frame

sprockets slapping against the metal projector

For him the endings never faded in rich velvet black

It was always the lighting flash of white light reality

too bright for his blue eyes always flickering

trying to hide under downward lids

His vintage car was never running

despite the slight trace of grease 

underneath his fingernails

It was part of their ritual 

they never brought it up

she would always volunteer to drive

even though any other time 

she never wanted too

The devil would come to him 

Not even in the desert or after 40 nights

He would say to him “Hey, yo, Daddio”

Just like he would to any other guy

They would tell each other stories

not sure if they were even their own 

They would compare their botched tattoos

leaking bad ink all over their narratives 

and bodies, they never could erase

They would buy each other drinks,

Bum smokes one right after another

Show the tear tracks on each of their arms

Parked next to the train tracks

she waited in her car for him for hours

Pretending she wasn't feeling as lonely

as the train whistle in the black night

He always came back

resting his head on her shoulder

whisper- singing “So sorry doll” 

is all it would take, then all was forgiven

That morning she heard him singing the song

in her head before it played on her radio

She hadn’t seen or heard from him in years

maybe even a couple of decades 

She didn’t have the heart

to calculate how much time

had really gone by or remember

what made her finally walk away

She stared at the mirror 

seeing only who she used to be

She put on her best vintage dress

with lined hose on the back of her legs

always remaining perfectly straight 

Not a strand of her hair ever out of place 

She carried her pocket book, not a purse

Walking out to the flash of bright daylight

slashing across her body, it almost felt like hurt

She could not shake the sound of his 

velvet voice soul serenading in her brain

She didn’t know how she knew

It had never happened before

She just knew all the sweetness 

was gone from the world that day

as she put on her cat-eye sunglasses 

walking further into the bright sun

howling for angels 

She had written so much about 

angels and their feather white wings 

and ones with black feather too

She had nothing left to say

Angels stopped whispering 

to her pen

It didn’t stop her from mourning. 

It didn’t stop her from seeing 

them everywhere.

 

In lines in the grocery stores 

flipping through shiny magazines

In the shape of night clouds

In tattooed markings on 

monarch butterflies

Asleep in doorways 

with shopping cart treasures

A white spot flying 

across her cat’s face

Luminously surrounding babies

born and those hearing 

angels singing the blues 

smiling their last breath

She walked across grass 

well worn, gingerly stepping 

over and around

white grave markers

a little piece of heaven 

for eternity, for a price 

Life is reduced to a headline

A one-line description

No not her

She was sending a siren

a scream in a high frequency

only angels could hear

She was going end 

it all in a haiku:

The angels showed up

In the graveyard.  She needed

the comfort of cliche.

you won a trip!

*(pomo haiku)

Bouncing back & forth

between heaven/hell. Landed

middle murky earth

*pomo haiku: pomo is short for “postmodern” in reference to the genre of literature that avoids absolute meaning and does not assume universality.

James Coats

Genesis 

 

God looked down on all that was created;

the stars of heaven, and the wonders of earth,

the exotic plants, and curious animal creatures   

even man to care for them all and saw it was good.

But then God thought, I can do even better

than everything I made so far, and so, created

WOMEN

Rick Leddy

Monkey on a Dog

I'm a Monkey on a Dog

He said to me

Just Hanging on 

But I don't know why

Waiting for rewards 

I know won't come 

Heaven's in a Glass

And Hell is when it's gone

I'm a Monkey on a Dog

Just Riding the Beast 

Too Afraid To Fall

Because I might Fly 

Going Round in Circles 

Dressed With Nowhere to Go

Life's a rattle in my chest

That chills me to the bone

I'm a Monkey on a Dog

It's a one way ride

Grab hold of the fur

And watch for the teeth

Daylight Moon

Day time full moon tied up

in thin black wires

Stringed silhouettes piercing homes

Powering fantasies and killing time

Rows of poles reaching to heaven

False idols jabbing the horizon

Challenging the beauty of sublime reflection

The soft white satellite laughing at the hubris of it all

As it trails across the sky

The Silence

The quiet is an invader

Assaulting us

Jackbooting over intimacy

Claiming victory over love

When did the world go silent?

She did not say to him

The angels of our better intentions falling from grace

The evening a pantomime 

of what we once had

Black nights long as winter sets in

Your lips move 

But your prayers go unheard

Heaven became purgatory

Then nothing at all

I remember when laughter was song

Before the years robbed us of sound

When noise filled our lives

The cacophony overwhelming at times

But at least it was something

Not this

Fallen words shattered at our feet

Until all that is left

Are rooms filled with us

Illiterate mind readers

Mute to each other

Mark A. Fisher

miasma hereafter

the heavens were filled with burnt offerings we sacrificed our children’s children for additional corporate earnings

passing through ledgers in whose office is required to earn millions or billions that must be repaid with hellish sufferings

some unimaginable future brings

where Moloch’s false idols have been built on the heavens were filled with burnt offerings that must be repaid with hellish sufferings

Bill Cushing

APOLOGIA

First commandment: “Thou shalt have no other gods before me.”

I,

a fallen spirit,

made a forced exit;

ultimate love for Him

led to this downfall, this

condition of torment

I now lead.

Heaven,

then, 

was ageless, changeless, 

forever and eternal— 

as I was.

Still am.

The law was laid down ages before 

man, before 

altars, before 

temples or churches, before the writing of

law itself. Then,

that First Commandment was altered and

given to mankind: trivial creatures

created out of ego,

then possessed by it. It is ego,

not knowledge,

that is original sin.

Remember this:

before you were, that command stood

for all—animals, plants,

even angels, 

but when clay and dust

were mixed

with the breath of life

to become an imposter

of their creator, 

then

even angels were told,

“Kneel before men.”

Now,

my temptations serve as testimony

to man’s worthlessness,

proving his Bible and God’s own words

correct.

The torture of souls is only

an afterthought, only

reciprocity of torment. 

For my refusal to bow,

I suffer now; 

as do you.

GATES OF HELL

Prima sezione

The Poet sits atop the lintel

contemplating original sin 

while Ugolino devours his sons

and bodies crawl over bodies, grinding

in anguished copulation of need 

never satisfied. Surrendering 

hope, desperate to attain relief,

they try but know they can never flee. 

Seconda sezione

How does one incarcerate Satan

when he was delivered already, 

consigned and impaled to sheer stone walls 

steep in the depths of searing torture 

and guarded with the care of envy?

 

Terza sezione

Incensed by the erosion of time

that softens and sabotages, the Devil calls

for cacophony between the quiet 

lightning revealing feral fortune 

as the beauty of desolation

descends into vengeance to fracture 

the force of the oppressive thunder

from millennia of violence.

Jealousy transforms rapture into 

innate bitterness while the devil, 

a species apart, stained by hostile mirth,

poisons and torments those from earth.

Quarta sezione

Because truth can be so easily 

misplaced—like extinguishing a teardrop 

of flame on a candle between a thumb 

and forefinger, one never dares to lie 

when confronting the Grand Deceiver.

SOME NOTES OF A RELIGIOUS NATURE

Jesus was sent

to die for our sins

like some package

from UPS.

He delivered the goods

to humanity

and we delivered him

back to Heaven

battered, beaten,

mutilated.

Some creation 

we turned out to be.

Caleb Delos-Santos

A Heavenly TV Evening.

 

While typing up a teaching slide

and watching Gilmore Girls,

I feel my pretzel-eating bride

caress my tired curls.

 

Beside her rests a fluffy friend,

an orange-gray month-old,

who sleeps until the credits end.

Then, purring joins the fold.

 

I praise the Lord for my abode

and play another episode.

The First Word.

 

Tacky

was the first word

of my prized manuscript

in junior high.

 

In time,

I lost each page

of that flimsy English notebook,

but words are funny.

 

Most symbols mold with history

or melt beyond obscurity.

 

But, others

survive in minds

subconsciously

or perhaps communally

or perhaps transcendently

or perhaps heavenly.

 

Jesus is a word.

Jesus is eternity.

 

So, transitively,

does this mean

that some words

are everlasting?

 

What about

Tacky?

Another Demon Dream.

 

We loitered in suburbia,

my family and me.

We clamored over nothing

until the starless night flushed everything

 

besides a homely white streetlight,

which sweetly hung above our gossip-spilling clump.

 

At first, this seemed like a simple, silly dream.

 

So, what woke me up?

 

Eventually,

Something

crushed our nothing-chattering.

 

It was a Sound

or Feeling

or some kind of Energy

that needed, more than anything,

to consume my body.

 

The streetlight started flickering.

My family ran away from me.

The lightbulb snapped, and knife-shaped glass engulfed me.

The darkened ground devoured me.

I screamed

 

until

Something

entered me.

 

What was this

Possessive Mythic Thing?

 

Fear?

Hate?

Anxiety?

 

A Xenomorph Baby?

 

Normally,

it wouldn’t concern me

because it was a dream.

 

But, upon waking,

I didn’t feel It leave.

 

Maria A. Arana

Who wants to grapple with death? 

there is no cure for the ailments of the world

reflect on the way things were before your mind conceived tragedy

you bore no ill will nor deserted hope

and in times of strife, you struck with a wicked tongue

it should have been a knife, so the blood could sign the end on the floor

 

 

 

by the river bank

a sense of the end fills your body

consuming the life once had

gaping you sip from the water

as your ancestors did before you

damn the sickness that ensues

and damn the calamity of offering

thirst one last request

and when night blankets the earth

the stillness comes alive

 

 

toxic

 

i can’t look into your eyes

they hold the world in chains

bound and swept across the void

or is it the black hole

they call a heart?

it gathers lost souls

and dispense of the rest

like a lost button that’s never found

Alicia Viguer-Espert

The Wayfarer

Penitent with a broken heart

I cross tumultuous rivers

clothes wet, sandals on hand,

a stick of repentance to steady me

for when I pass to the other shore

where torn leaves wait in silence

praying for the wind to lift them 

to heaven. I kneel with the sisters

hoping for the good fortune of faith.

Leaving Paradise

Trees were everywhere

but the fig tree in the middle of the body

of the garden, was my favorite.

The air, sweet with bees and flowers

made me lose my mind.

I walked the enclosure barefooted

called the moon appearing on the horizon,

huge, pregnant with nectar 

drank in a juvenal bacchanalia,

Bacchus looked on sitting on a barrel

guarding the wine, sipping slowly  

infinite problems destined to remain unsolved.

Confused I stood by the gate,

ideas exited first, almost flying,

never touching the dust, 

then feelings pushed each other 

to cross the portal where senses crawled

trying to undo each other.

Rain bathed camelias and jasmine,

sweetness multiplied honeysuckle’s intensity. 

I bit the base of its corolla, pulled pistils out

and suckled little balls of ambrosia for lunch.

It happened in March, in May, in June, in August,

which means, I was always drunk,

sheltered from the rain of misunderstanding,

the cold of loneliness, 

but not the ruins of a future identical to itself.

Neither striving, nor laziness, not even

memory had any business being there.

One day, when the mood was right,

I opened the gate, and abandoned Paradise,

never to return.

The Mind

The light of the mind bright as it is, it is not

what I seek must be perennial pine trees,

bright green, sitting with like companions 

in the temple of leaves, needles pungent,

sharp like swords ready to cut through 

distractions, seductive thoughts, honey 

of a flickering phone calling to engage

with a world of plenty unnecessary news.

It’s late, I tell my mind to be quiet,

I tell my mind to be still, so I can hear

the voice of the Beloved whispering.

What I hear is the body complaining,

lumbar vertebrae, scapula, cervical sprain,    

every part clamors for complete attention.   

A voice brings to mind that day when at 6

I was scolded for something I didn’t do,

also, what I should have responded

to that teacher in college who couldn’t

give me a deserved A. I catch myself 

replying, try to stop a tsunami of thoughts 

but, I fail, again, and as I straighten 

my back, ask help from Heavens 

wondering how will I be able to listen 

with so much inner chatter.

Radomir Vojtech Luza

Lord Lavender

Spayed by their reign

Losing my brain

36 years of institutions and pain

White coats

Iron bolts

Neutral halls

Bald walls

Never knowing joy

A black toy

Holding back the tears

For years

Others making plans

For my wild and wooly glands

Freedom's cold and hard hands

Independence a hard hold

Meds, beds and doctor's heads

Rolling into Nirvana's fold

My gift quivering

Conformity shimmering

Sprayed by God's rain

Jealousy insane

The good little boy who always

Did what they wanted

Sleeping undaunted

Taking razor to wrist

On hell's bucket list

Autumn Sky

Burnt like dust

Red as rust

Thin trees

Heroine breeze

Lofting over brown bees

Fall ceiling

Flowing next to tan dreaming

Chocolate leaves

Bursting beneath bony knees

October in Central Park

Like Abraham Lincoln in King Arthur's Court

Drinking sky

Like sipping lie

On majestic buttresses so high

Devouring heaven's saffron pie

Wild Boy

(Dedicated to Fred LeBlanc of the band Cowboy Mouth)

On the outskirts of sanity

He sings of existence and vanity

No one like him nowhere

He dares us to care

Dressed in flair and

Riding a mare named success

He spins instinct and talent

Into something valiant

Long hair and

A devil may care

We are all mesmerized by his stare

Ten fingers and a drummer's glare

He takes rock n' roll

From here to there

Knocking down heaven's door

Bursting onto Nirvana's fluorescent floor

Marvinlouis Dorsey

 

along the way

to

hea-

ven

passing

through hell

be-

tween

here there

count-

less

U

turns 

can't be

made

many

lonely roads

for-

gotten

foot

prints left

be-

hind

blown

away-

by a last

breath

Lori Wall-Holloway

Desert Heaven

“He also made the stars. God 

set these lights in the heavens 

to light the earth…” 

(Genesis 1:16b-17 NLT)

Away from city lights

the black Mojave Desert 

sky is illuminated 

by heaven’s natural radiance

Packed in my line of vison 

are different shapes and designs 

that were created in space 

by the divine Creator

A periodic interruption 

of a falling star zips across

the universe like a splash 

of paint made to enhance

a new part of the galaxy

which waits to be discovered

Closure of the Past

“…I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses. 

Now choose life, so that you and your children may live 

and that you may love the Lord your God, listen to his voice, 

and hold fast to him. For the Lord is your life…”

 (Deuteronomy 30: 19-20 NIV)

In my past, I lived 

in a hell of self-absorption 

with a consuming 

nightmare of imperfection

enhanced by the influence

of rebellious idols in my life

As I walk away from former

days, I welcome a heavenly 

peace filled with God’s mercy 

where His grace is lavished 

on me regardless of my faults

This unconditional love 

compels me to turn from 

how I once was and towards 

life where new dreams

are formed beyond 

my imagination

Marianne Szlyk

Before My Mother Lands in Heaven,

she is a stewardess, flying

through turbulence, never crashing, never

landing.  Her skirt is too

short, showing each half-pound

creeping onto her small frame.

She cannot stop to pull

down her skirt or reapply

her makeup or fix her 

hair or even drink coffee.

The passengers plead for more

for more drinks for more

pillows more peanuts more sickbags.   

Customers call for more quiet 

as babies and grown men

howl as fat women pray 

to Jesus without a rosary.

She rolls her eyes, correcting

everyone’s grammar in her mind.

Her coworkers are friends.  They

roll their eyes as, voices

lowered, they discuss the passengers.  

While they stock the cart,

they give everyone nicknames.  They

have nicknames for coworkers, too.

They can’t find pillows; they 

fill the cart with blankets

or raincoats or sticky uniforms.

They can’t find Dramamine; they

raid their purses for M&Ms

breath mints or hard candy.

Someday this plane will land.

My mother swears that she

will go back to Maine

and never leave.  Her friends

and family will all have

to find her there.

Previously published in Blue Mountain Review as “If My Mother is in Purgatory”

 

Thelma at the Prado

After Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights

Hell might as well be on another planet,

circling a distant, winking star.

Musical instruments litter the parched surface  

where the damned swarm out from a shattered bass. 

Bosch has tattooed musical notes 

on naked bodies strewn across hard stone.

Beside an overturned table, a gap-toothed girl glares.

Balancing a die on her head like a halo,

she sings off-key to a rabbit’s blasts on a pipe.

In the background, all buildings burn.

Sinners break ranks like beetles, 

riding knives on the acidic river

to escape the flames and the artist’s gaze.

Originally published at Duane’s PoeTree

 

Death and the Miser

After Hieronymus Bosch’s panel of the same name

In the end, Death slips in,

the only whiteness in a room

tinged with blood and sweetly rotting 

flesh’s infectious pink.  Terra cotta curtains

are drawn against a dizzying sun.

Death’s light fingers on the door

smell of absence, not brimstone.

He is a wide-eyed neighbor

looking for gossip, looking for loot

like the green-clad brother who clutches

the miser’s coins for his own.

Death sees the blue-ish angel,

color of marble and the future’s

scrubbing powder, holding out a slim

crucifix.  The tiny devil, slimy gob

of spit and ashes, offers a bag 

of coins heavy enough to weigh

the miser down.  

Nevertheless, Death will not 

stride into this crowded sick room,

forcing the dying man to choose

between coins and crucifix, Hell and

Heaven.

He is waiting for the miser

to decide.  

Originally published in Setu.

Patricia Murphy

Hell Or Heaven

I feel like I'm in a Hell of a pickle. 

It's hell or heaven.  

It feels like hell in the pit of my stomach. 

A pain I can't explain. 

All to complain. 

Like rain 

With no gain. 

It's all the same.  

Just a game. 

With no name. 

So we remain. 

Like the movie "Fame."  

Forever a drain 

On the brain. 

Only to blame 

One another. 

Forever in a quandary. 

Hell Or Heaven 2

Hell or Heaven is a great way to live. 

Being in hell is swell. 

Not to be able to smell. 

The sweetness of life 

Is a quell 

From what we can tell. 

Now is the time to be in heaven. 

It's something around seven. 

When we are in heaven. 

We cannot believe in miracles. 

If we cannot achieve success. 

Otherwise its a mess. 

But we are the best. 

Least we expect a quest. 

Like a mirror on the wall. 

If we fall 

We can stand tall 

Or not at all.  

Like a ball 

Of fire. 

We go higher. 

PJ Swift

The light

The light was all around him.  It was impossible.  Not to feel. Promise.  It was impossible.  To imagine.  The dark.  The light was all around him.  And everywhere he went.  The light was present.   Radiating. From a benevolent force.   The light was all around him.  And he laughed.  As if anointed.  By the light.

Jeffry Michael Jensen

NAVIGATING BEWILDERMENT

My eyes were closed as the rusty wheels

Took up their destiny in the soggy sand.

A ship of many tongues was driven to the edges

Of an acidic resolution without a bone to bury.

My mathematical elevator left thousands of stones

At the bottom of a melancholy depository of distilled heavenly excuses.

No one attempted to straighten the distance between

A hellish hemisphere burning bright and the oppressors of a polluted journey.

My mineral collaboration with God took a turn beyond orderly abuse

Before the raucous singing angels could fertilize a planet.

A domestic smugness added weight to the dusty conquest of a bliss

That originated where jasmine perfumed eternity.

My oyster odes returned to the ocean for a saltshaker sanctuary

That left no explanation for a dizzy soul to confess its bewilderment.

A sombrero heart that can crack the nub of both Heaven and Hell

Takes a circulatory curve toward what can be the inexhaustible ringing of change.

Simone Wilson

How to Get a Man

I ain’t goin to no clubs.

I ain’t sittin on bar stools.

If you want to be successful

Then you got to break some rules.

Got my hat

Got my gloves

Got my bible and my fan.

I’m going to the church.

Gonna get myself  a man.

He can be short.

He can be tall.

Maybe fat

Even bald. 

Can’t be a miser

Got to have a tither.

Give a tenth to the Lord 

But the rest is mine.

While he’s at prayer meeting 

I’ll have a shopping good time.

Seen a deacon

He was speakin

‘Bout heaven and hell.

He was winkin

I was thinkin 

But it’s too soon to tell.

Gonna check his left forth finger

When I go shake his hand. 

I’ll be so sweet He won’t retreat.

I think I just found my man.

Heavenly Butterfly

I can’t explain it, I don’t know why

But I believe my mother’s spirit is enclosed in a butterfly.

When she left I looked to heaven with but one simple plea.

If I cannot have her in the physical,

Can her spirit visit me?

Nasturtiums were her favorite flowers.

She’d work in the garden for hours upon hours.

Planting, tending watering, weeding,

Their beauty each year outshined the preceding.

Now they bloom in my garden, orange, yellow, and red;

To honor my mother’s special flowerbed.

Some days I can’t visualize her no matter how hard I try

That’s when she visits me, in the form of a white butterfly.

Shih-Fang Wang

Heaven Became Hell

The fatal spark 

The savage wind

The dry vegetation

Formed the firenadoes

The ferocious heat 

The rampaging inferno

Engulfed everything 

As it advanced

The speed too rapid to escape

Houses burnt to the ground

Cars incinerated

Lives turned to ashes 

Smoke blackened the sky

It was the darkest day 

For this island

Heaven became hell

Mary Mayer Shapiro

Afterlife 

When it began 

G-d created Heaven and Earth 

Conflated with idea of paradise and eternal salvation 

Or a state of mind 

Environment of peace 

Love of fellow man 

Where did G-d come from 

Where did G-d dwell before this 

If Heaven is a place of bliss ecstasy utopia 

Then Earth must be Hell 

If the garden of Eden was paradise 

And Adam and Eve question their presence 

Were forced to leave 

Then paradise was moved skyward 

Therefore Earth must be Hell 

Heaven must be in the milky Way Galaxy 

A celestial heaven 

With upper atmosphere of moons stars planets 

A voyage in the sky 

Does the North star point the way 

Does Orion protect the souls going towards the pearly gates 

Does Sirius shine bright show the way 

Does the Big and Little Dippers show the path 

And Altair, the flying eagle help direct the trail 

Perhaps it is on top of a bean stalk 

Where the golden harp lives 

You reach the stairs leading to the Pearly Gates 

Repenting each step along the way 

When you reach the top step 

Hoping to get in 

You are given a form to fill out 

An application 

A form to fill out 

A rental agreement 

Regulation and a resume 

All included 

Heat electricity internet cable 

St. Peter assisted by angles open the doors 

You walk in 

One big house for everyone 

This is spiritual 

Is this what you expected 

your own heaven

Heaven is a state of mind

Your create your own promise land

You live the life you want

If you could

Be it hermit social or 

Inbetween

You come to peace with yourself

Doing what you wan

Living your life as you want

But remember 

When you make plans

Are you living in hell

Volcanos erupts

Lava spilling all over

Leaving trails of hot molten lava

Burning everything in its path

At first you feel you are in purgatory

Limbo between heaven and hell

You ask forgiveness

For you sins and evil doings

Redemption

Absolution exoneration pardon

Pleading begging you will change your ways

Miracle upon miracle

You escape the searing lava

You live through

Hell on Earth

Did you mean what you said

Will you change your ways

CLS Sandoval

Hell 

 

Clip these weary wings, set flames unto the pure, 

Fill the room with smoke; get drunk to think straight, 

Rain on the sun and smoke up the moon 

Just think, had you believed, you wouldn't be here. 

Swallow all that is good, pray to your feet. 

 

Purify the wretched, because they don't want it. 

Drown the righteous; poison the innocent, 

Praise the wicked because they hate it. 

Murder the dead; touch the untouchable, 

Rape the virgins; give the children to strangers. 

 

Break my rusty chains; you are trapped, 

Roll in dirt to get clean, sniff of her grave, 

Drink of death to live, you can't ever leave, 

Slash the faces of the young, swim in their blood, 

Kiss your enemies; you don't want it. 

 

Bite them till they die; scream till you can't, 

Catch your breath in your throat, spit out your soul. 

Glorify evil because he tells you to, 

Cut her with your dullest knife, why were you so blind? 

Smile till you die, cry till you live. 

 

Scratch out your own eyes till you see. 

Kill all those you love, they don't give a damn. 

Let him cut you, burn your soul to bleed, 

Lick up the blood. 

Jesus tried to save you; you didn't let him. 

 

You couldn't want this 

Hell Hath No Fury like a Woman Scorned 

 

I leave you with a broken, empty house  

to match my broken, empty heart 

 

All of those beautiful memories we made  

became ugly the moment you threw me away 

 

My unsolicited advice:   

 

The next time you tell a woman you love her and want to marry her: 

mean it. 

 

In Grandma’s Eyes 

for my great grandmother, Mary Evelyn Harris

 

Lying there, eyes of glass, skin gone cold, 

In her death, she finally looks very old. 

Testifying to her strength, her life was long, 

Seemingly impossible, she is now gone. 

 

In Grandma’s eyes and heart, life was a dance, 

She knew that nothing would be gained without taking a chance. 

Putting convention aside, she lived ahead of her time, 

Now that she is with our Father, all of the answers she will find. 

 

With us, her creativity and love, she did share, 

It will be difficult to find someone to replace her care. 

From the Hereafter, she sings us a tune, 

Her flame is emulated by the stars and moon. 

 

In Grandma’s eyes and soul, life was meant to be fun, 

From a challenge, she would never have run. 

Rising above the rest, she worked so hard, 

From ordinary, her life she decidedly barred. 

 

As she ascends, she enters the Heavenly gate, 

Grandpa smiles, embraces her, and says he was tired of the wait. 

She looks down on us now, and then begins to pray, 

We miss her so, but in our hearts, she will always stay. 

 

In Grandma’s eyes and mind, life was a trial, 

She left us a legacy each and every mile, 

I think of her and now begin to cry, 

But I take comfort knowing that one day, beside her I will fly. 

 

Matt McGee

PROUD PARENT

Michelle finally experienced 

the moment she'd been waiting for 

her whole parental career. 

“My daughter called me, yelling

‘Oh my God Mom, something’s 

wrong with the car!’”

So I slow her down, and I say

“OK baby, so when it stopped 

what did it sound like?”

“What do mean ‘what did it sound like?! 

THE RADIO WAS ON 

IT SOUNDED LIKE MUSIC!!”

Michelle waved her hands around, 

one with a cigarette in its yoke, eventually 

forming a ‘whoa, time out’ kind of T. 

“So I say ‘look, turn off Taylor Swift 

and describe what the car sounds like.’ 

And she says ‘it’s not Taylor Swift, mom 

it’s Highway to Hell.’ And I'm like ‘OK, at least 

I gave the kid good musical taste. Now 

I just need to get her a Triple-A card.”

 

NO OFFENSE, ABE

A trim, fit young woman 

crossed the porch of a sports bar

in front of a trim, fit young boyfriend

who looked like he could beat anyone

at any sport he choose. He flung open

the front door and the woman strode in, 

leaving Todd and Brian

leering in her wake.

Todd said “God bless the guy 

who invented yoga pants. There is 

a special place in heaven 

waiting just for him.”

Brian nodded. “Right up there 

with whoever invented the bikini.”

“Yep,” Todd agreed, his eyes

scanning the front window in hope

that the woman might slide into view,

the way a dog patrols a dinner table

for any dropped scraps.

“Yeah,” he added, “I mean, 

nothing against Abraham Lincoln

and his Constitution, but what good is 

Emancipation without that kind 

of proclamation?”

Henry Olivas

THE ELEVATOR TO HEAVEN 

was out of order

so I took the stairs 

gripped the banister 

wet with plague 

began to climb 

that corkscrew path 

sure bet vertigo 

but who cares?

it was the trip of a lifetime!

a ten-minute ascent opened up

a clear view of the asylum 

“what’s that word mean?”

I once asked Pop

(pronouncing it wrong: ah-SEE-lum)

“it’s a place for crazy people”

so I climb and climb 

miles into the sky 

shedding crumbs of reason 

what if heaven’s just an asylum?

you’d need to be crazy 

to want to live forever 

the final step left me 

suspended in air 

clouds below and above 

quick drop or slow ascent

which choice 

would a sane man make?

(NOTE: This was the last poem I showed to Johnny Bender, aka Brutus Chieftain, a couple of months before his untimely demise. He had me remove a line and suggested a word change or two. So I’m dedicating it his memory)

 — Brother Jude 

Jackie Chou

The Roaches Are Going to Heaven 

The roaches lay eggs,

making colonies 

in corners, in drawers.

I let them live, 

quiet little souls

bothering nobody.

They leave their marks

all over this earth

the same way I do.

These critters

as deserving of heaven

as are butterflies.

Their insectile feet

would enter its gate

before I ever could.

Maria Duarte

This is not like the movies

 

I.

 

I stood perplex on the front patio

of my grandfather’s ranch admiring

the sheet of fog, almost translucent,

coming down on the pines of the canyon;

it was almost romantic like a gesture

of caress, as if the hand of God

had come down and had put that sheet

for protection, but this moment lasted

only a few minutes and then the forest

was bare again to the mercy of the sun.

 

II.

 

Standing in the same place

I had looked away to the right

side of my shoulder to discover the cat

eating a rat, I wasn’t disgusted or surprise,

I stood there my body calm, my skin

was beginning to be cold, but there was

no sudden movement to cover myself

or seek refuge inside the house;

I wanted to know how it felt to be cold

in the lovely hours of the evening.

 

III.

 

Loneliness; a sudden realization 

of the standing of my body,

unprotected, as if waiting 

for a change in the moon’s rotation. 

Joe Grieco

RECYCLING

Taking out trash today

Out to the recycle bins, curbside

My mother drove by in a Tesla

She didn’t even wave

Dead these fifty years

Why the hell would she get a Tesla?

Is heaven melting down the richness

In dead souls 

Recycling us

Into driverless cars 

Dean Okamura

I struggle with simple things

 

I struggle with simple things 

like chewing food 

& mid-sentence 

I am interrupted 

by a sudden pain 

as my teeth & inner cheeks 

break the 70-year truce, again. 

My teeth sliced off a chunk 

of my epithelium 

& it hangs in space. 

Heaven blazes upon me — 

they re-assigned 

my guardian angel. 

My previous protector 

looks after a prominent 

pastor’s daughter. 

He prayed for angels 

to protect her 

from all the world’s 

worst temptations 

& liberal philosophies 

accosting his rebellious 

teenage children. 

Given my recent string 

of unexpected maladies, 

my new guardian angel 

lacks diligence. 

Heaven blazes upon me — 

they assigned 

my guardian angel 

to part-time protection. 

What? Since when 

did guardian angels change 

to keeping watch sometimes? 

I ask around & people describe 

similar experiences. 

They wonder if God cares. 

Others say do not complain. 

God’s ways are not my ways 

(plus catchy phrases to declare: 

It’s my problem). 

Some say I have dental issues, 

oral hygiene deficiencies, 

or even bad genetics. 

These factors are 

not under my direct control 

(but those people with 

catchy phrases declare: 

It’s my fault). 

Heaven blazes upon me —  

they pointed out 

guardian angels 

do not give advice 

or assist my body. 

They provide protection. 

What? Okay, it makes sense. 

Guardian angels never 

tapped my shoulder 

before I mutilated my cheek. 

Forgive this man 

who struggles with 

trivial things, Lord. 

Heaven blazes upon me —  

they pointed to 

a Bengali poet reciting: 

Clouds come floating 

into my life from other days 

no longer to shed rain 

or usher storm but 

to give colour 

to my sunset sky.  

Sunset? Okay, I am 

far past the noon 

of my day on earth. 

Rid me of my simple 

closed-mindedness. 

We live with clouds, 

winds blowing chaos, 

storms gaining control, 

forces of nature, 

agents of Heaven, 

legions of Hell-hounds. 

Yet these overwhelming trials 

are storms and seasons 

which will come to an end. 

They yield, pass into history, 

transformed, shifting, 

assuming new shapes. 

Loose these specters from their 

harmful roles, and see them drift 

into other broad sunset realms. 

Silhouettes across earth's sky, 

covered with creamy velvet, 

marking the pathway to Heaven. 

Robert Fleming

 

fasten your seatbelts

five dollars to feed the fire

hell helicopter

Petrouchka Alexieva

Wakeup, Wake Up, My Heart!

Wakeup, wake up, my heart!

It’s not time to sleep

I am here, here, over here

Sitting on the chandelier!

O-o, this is an operation room light. 

It looks like unlanded UFO

Bursting rays towards my face.

In my case, seven minutes ago,

I was pronounced “dead”,

But I don’t want to go, my friend.

Wake up, wake up, my heart!

I can hear the jokes that doctors tell

About heaven and hell 

For their own entertainment.

I can hear the gossips they share - 

Who sleeps with whom, 

Who got a new car, 

A new lover, who got the flu

Or who still has a headache

From the last-night boos...

Colloquies. I understand.

Four and a half hours

Is a long run since they began

With scalpels and stitches in their hands.

So, they’re chatting 

About the last soccer game,

The Premier League Championship 

And the referee who was unfair.

Now, I know who got the silverware.

Four and a half hours of doctors’ mistakes!

Oh, I almost forgot that I am dead. 

On Monday? In May? No way!

The angels suppose to pick me up, 

But they are late. So, my dear heart,

We have some extra time.

What a start for a person with a tag:

With my name, my age and my time of dead. 

Am I really on the line to the …morgue?!

U-f-f-f…It’s getting cold!

Oh, no, no! No and no!

I want to dive back into my body.

I don’t want to be stack

On the freeway 

Between heaven and hell, 

Chatting from the top 

Of this fancy chandelier.

You, lazy heart, wake up! 

Wake up and start pumping blood

Like you run on the Olympic marathon!

Don’t you dare! Don’t leave me alone!

Wake up my heart!

It’s too early for me to visit Saint Peter’s shack.

With St. Peter’s Interns - Trust the Process

I’ve got company in the divine elevator

With two of St. Peter’s interns.

Two silent angels 

Supposed to bring me to heaven.

I was sure, I deserved

The furnace down there, 

In the flaming basement.

A-ha! I was told it was a tunnel.

Hell no! I was lifted up

Thinking: “O-oh, what if 

I get stack in between two levels

In this holy skyscraper.

It happened before. I was returned

To my small earthy life

Not once, but twice.

O-oh, Divine Angels!

Help me out this time,

Lift me up straight to heaven

Or drop me from above

 - I don’t mind, 

But don’t stack me again 

With a claustrophobic guy.

He was swearing, 

Then he begged hell and heaven

Not to die. Then he cried, 

Then he grabbed my skirt to stay in touch

With a human soul (At least he said so) 

While biting his fingers

And weaving his knees on the floor.

He glued to my legs and tried

To express his fear.

I just wanted to disappear

When he hugged me so tied;

I thought I might completely die

From suffocation. Then he began

Hiding behind my back for protection

He opened my little umbrella

To stop the ceiling to fall from above.

Hey you, St. Peter’s interns,

I trust you, but promise me 

– This time no more returns;

No ups and downs or any confusion.

I trust the process and I have no illusion. 

Just bring me… where I deserve.

Ellyn Maybe

All Night Jukebox 

Heaven is an all night jukebox.

Hell is being out of tokens.

The world splits the difference.

Van Gogh

There’s a man who looks like Van Gogh cartwheeling through the sky again.

I said what brings you here.

He said I get bored in heaven sometimes.

Everything is taken care of.

All the chocolates, all the paints,

all the books, nothing on TV of course.

I want to come closer to all the scurrying people.

Rushing quickly as though they could outrun death.

I used to take all day to feel what the peasants felt.

What the crows were cawing at.

Life was simpler then but still so hard.

I knew someday I’d make a living but I didn’t live to see that day.

If you knew Vincent, why?

Knowing and actually seeing for your own eyes,

Its such a chasm.

No it’s more than that.

I was lonely. The colors I made.

red yellow blue

became orange green purple

I could make one color disappear into another.

It was seamless.

I thought my loneliness was like that.

Some other feeling would mix with it and I’d have serenity.

But my palette was a little short.

I don’t know. It goes sometimes like that.

I made good use of my time.

I’ve had a long time in Heaven.

Vincent, are you saying this to make me feel better?

Well, yes and no.

I wanted to know the Earth more.

So I come down on the biggest playground slide God ever made and look at life each week.

Once a week I feel everything on Earth as thought I were still human, more than spirit.

I used to come down every night. Now once a week is all I can take.

The 20th Century was more than I could bare.

We look at you from Heaven.

You’re living in Guernica. Picasso agrees.

We thought you’d learn from the Inquisition, the many Joan of Arcs we don’t know about.

We thought you’d become peaceful.

When I say you I mean your species.

He spat the word and I knew exactly what he meant.

World War Two

We were dead so we went to the camps to say prayers for our breathren.

There are people who refused to go back to Heaven for a few years after seeing what went on there.

They painted shrouds.

They painted landscapes inside their eyelids.

Many went crazy.

Heaven is not just cotton candy clouds, harps and angels.

We watch you.

Yep, you are our movie of the week.

We don’t want you more than once a week.

Even the dead need peace now and then.

I said Vincent, did you ever find love?

There was this day the print in my favorite book began to dance with me. I took it for love.

There was this day I heard the music the birds sang and I became a bird but more I became music.

There were many days.

Yes that love I found.

Suddenly I said Vincent

Are you my guardian artist?

He said yes.

He said all I needed to know.

(From the chapbook Praha and the Poet - 2006)