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Subsync’s Poem of the Month

Poems chosen for our Poem of the Month are selected because we think they do a fine job of representing the sort of poetry we want for our print journals: an original voice, a sense of authenticity, a fearlessness.

The poems from past years will remain online at our archives site  until the end of the Internet (or WordPress), visible and freely accessible to the general web-surfing public. Please visit Subsynchronous Press Archives for our full catalog.

All contributors will receive a .pdf of our limited edition publication, The Trove, which is our annual anthology of Subsync’s Poem of the Month series, published every April.

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~~ November ~~

The Change
John Grey

I’m not so keen on the transformation.
The stretching pains the arms and legs,
does a cruel number on the spine.
Claws sprout through tender flesh.
Fangs irritate the gums.
Skin scales itch.
As does the facial hair.
And then the skull expands.
The brain gets lost.
It’s as if it no longer needed.

But if you’re hungry
and you have a taste for human flesh,
a day job as a bank teller doesn’t cut it.
It needs a full moon
and the hair of the wolf that bit me.
Sure it hurts.
But you should see the other guy.


~~ October ~~

Ray Greenblatt

Sun in unaccustomed place,

bat hanging by backdoor
dead crow in roadside weeds
lost belt of snakeskin
cursed litter of black cats;

fortune or chance or
so many straws in the wind;

seeds and strings and bloody threads
omens you read
from deepest innards
where ultimate truth lies.


~~ September ~~

Fanny Brawne’s Lament
Frank Iosue

How illness stands as a barrier betwixt
me and you! . . .” If I should die,” said I to myself,
“I have left no immortal work behind me” . . .
Perhaps on your account I have imagined my illness
more serious than it is: how horrid was the chance
of slipping into the ground instead of into your arms . . .

                                       —John Keats, from his letters to Fanny Brawne, 1820


If only you had been made
some lungless living thing!

Abiding among existence’s
inept chronologies,

you have supped
too abundantly
on clots of blood,

and endured such
corporeal indignities
and exaltations . . .

and loneliness . . .

and love.


No other words have I
to offer you, but these:

Shatter me, and render me
incidental to your relevance.

Let Lethe take
my heart’s secret moniker!

And remain, for me,
an absence archangelical,

among the stones and stars
and the other unbearable debris
of our incarnation!

Let me linger, one last time,
in the wise wilderness
of your mind, made monument!

That plenitude, beyond
every deficiency of embodiment,
wherein I am made minuscule.

May you, at the last, reside
upon the shore of
those indifferent waters.

Where you and others
of your kind can glut yourselves
on oblivion’s brilliant wine . . .

and every speech can lose
its sound . . .

and every sound
forget its name.


~~ August ~~

Lance Nizami

I dream of a white strip of perfectly-clean sand
A beach, void of signs of visitation; bones of seabirds, strings of weed

Pale sunlight, warmly bleaching all in sight—
Smoothed grey driftwood, broken crab-claws fading purple-pink; low waves that softly wash the strand

All in all, the innocence of un-inhabitation
No artificial noise, not even human speech; no words—

A scene that would be empty, lonely, sterile to those undeserving—
Lazy-minded, ignorant of ruthless honest wildness

This living proof that nature does not need us
This sanctum for the ones who understand.


~~ July ~~

Tim Goldstone

After the sprig of lucky heather in a tin-foil twist
was handed to him by a nut-brown arm
with an intricately tattooed henna-patterned hand
he had walked up the steps leading away
from the tube station erupting up and out
into London’s hot human summer flow
and dry concrete-tasting wind
when twenty yards along
he realizes he should have given her money
and retraces his steps
to complete the ancient transaction
a jingle of silver handed to her
by his pale arm on a soft white palm
while her spreading grin at his unexpected return
across a face the texture of parchment
and the incantation ascending from her lips
turns the clatter and blast of an approaching train
to the sounds of straining billowing canvas
propelled by the oceans’ trade winds
(others hear hooves) and now
back out into the street again
his headache gone
the speeding van that would have killed him
misses by an inch.


~~ June ~~

A Sense of Scent
Gregg Dotoli

opening my window
eyeing the dark garden
exhaling slowly
rainy night scents
sweet and summer
quiet and earthy
wake the thought
i’m in free
i’m in free


~~ May ~~

When we meet in green
Meg Smith

I take you in this May night,
the light is fading,
the unction given.
How do you figure this twilight shore?
How do you touch these dark waves?
Can I fashion you a wreath,
in grass, lilies, and one thing,
a poem.
We will have copper once again,
but we must know it.
And I know it. I will be your words.
I will be your green.


~~ April ~~

Wooden Walls
Robert Beveridge

Rock drops into pond. No ripples,
sinks down in perfect stillness.
The water hovers over the bed

of the future prime minister
of Encobia, Missisippi. Two
joggers, each with a leashed
teacup mastiff, pass her bedroom

window just as the rock exits
the water, crashes into the pillow,

dents the grey chiffon case. Good
thing it’s 11:30 in the morning
and the bed is uninhabited save

a convention of dust mites
who buy and sell dandruff
futures. One short sells three

hundred thousand shared of Head
and Shoulders, is accused of insider
trading. On any other day this
might be enough to trigger
a government shutdown, but this

is the day before St. Abbott’s Day.
Everyone wants to go home early.
Until, that is, the shadow coalesces.


~~ March ~~

How You Take It
Joseph Felser

Six nights running the same dream
the ancestors come in darkness
to make him a shaman
tear him limb from limb
boil his parts in his own blood
sew him back together again
give him a song of power
a third eye for second sight

On the seventh night she comes
radiant in black sophistication
a sultry Slavic siren
I’ll make a man of you, she sneers
tears him limb from limb
eats his heart out
tosses his liver to the eagle
throws his head into the river
You monster! he wails
I take that as a compliment!
she fires back, taunting her prey
as he floats out to sea
singing his song of power:
I had a head when I came in
and I’ll have it when I go out

The head lands on Coney Island
where it is enshrined
in a fortune tellers booth
on the boardwalk arcade
prophesying glumly
offering sage advice
an Oracle of love


~~ February ~~

Starlet on Her Deathbed:
Anonymous Marlowe

The angels want my red dress.
The devils want my white one.

And all the spirits in-between
Want that very tight one.

I gave my shoes to charity.
My gloves I gave to gambling.

And all the lacies underneath
I gave to rogues a’rambling.


~~ January ~~

Warren Andrle

the monkey god of Pangier Island
he capers, chatters
swings and dances
sending rain the moon
all things good

who would guess
this to be the
One True God
too busy to condemn
even us
who don’t believe




~~ December ~~

Like a Wave
V. Fay

tidings come rolling in
over the crags
of your day-to-day
like a salt wave breaking

cold at your feet
muddy between your toes
lean in and draw conclusions
like stick figures

with your finger
arcs and lines and dots
in the damp sucking sand
in the back of your mind

make a hand-print
proof you are here now
before time’s indifferent ocean rises
and wipes it all away


~~ November ~~

Noon and All
Dennis Saleh

Noon and the
sun all ego


in the seamless
mirror sky

Later in the

though as if in
a hall of doubts

it must
be admitted

Time and I
are not as close

as once On a
1st name basis

Now I wouldn’t
be surprised

if it said things
about me

behind my back
Me? Now,

I wouldn’t give
the time of day

to a clock on fire
Nor piss upon

its feckless


~~ October ~~

under a corner of the veil
Keith Nunes

it’s a sombre silence,
you sense the nastiness crawling up the road
your name slipping around on its lips

maybe it’s the Catholic hell
in its native form
bringing a brimstone takeaway

my feet are nailed to the ground
the torn-sheet clouds

I unstrap
death’s head,
my memento mori

and without challenge,
I’m imperceptibly


~~ September ~~

So Plaid
William Doreski

Why are you so plaid today?
Not your clothes but expression—
a green and blue geometry
of repeated overlapping squares
like many half-open windows
ruled over your daily sneer.

The day beckons with icy roads
and trees groaning and dropping
some of their favorite branches.
We should drive to the landfill,
but if we crash with that plaid
all over your face the police
will arrest us for being surly.

Maybe a cup of Ovaltine
will temper the grid of nerves
that has wreaked this new pattern
where the old one was crude enough.
Maybe if I scramble four eggs
and douse them in Tabasco sauce
you’ll eat so cheerfully the ache
of warp and woof will lessen
and permit a tiny hint of smile.

I don’t understand the green and blue,
an unfamiliar design. Maybe
the Scottish Register of Tartans
in Edinburgh would understand
or at least identify this sample.
But you aren’t all that Scottish,
are you? When you dress to go out,
don’t wear competing colors
or fashion police will nail you.

Maybe as the day passes in slips
and slurs of ice, sleet, and slush
you’ll shed this obsession with plaid,
and will recover sense enough
to close those half-open windows
that however opaque promise
a future of picturesque views.


~~ August ~~

Untitled In August
Joan Payne Kincaid

August when everyone is under pressure and despondent.
Birds are saying goodbye wondering who will return in spring .
Halfway through August he said it’s been a hot and dry one.
The sun shines less often and is never as bright.
It’s getting near the World Series.
Life is finite and you better hurry to make your point.
She thought it was important to get the dishes washed.
Summer is coming to an end tornado watches up.
Syndergaard still can’t deal with base stealers.
Seeing summer out so many years we never get enough
Of the little harbor so safe in storms.
Maybe I’ll lose my identity she said I have to take that chance.
We are pre-programed chemicals
Your body not quite certain what works outside or in.
Here again at the Shack with beer and lobster.
Surrounded by hills and clouds
The sun descends into watery secrets.


~~ July ~~

Sun Worshippers
A.J. Huffman

line the sands at first glimpse of morning
sun. Spaced like iridescent sentinels,
they claim perches on rainbowed terrycloth,
fall like dominoes into prone position. Oiled
up, shades down, they offer their flesh to the light.
Thirty minutes later, this open-air oven triggers
internal thermometers, and one by one they turn
themselves over to brown the other side.


~~ June ~~

Country Time
Ray Greenblatt

The sun’s across the road,
insects paused
             in their summer litany
even trees their in-place pawing,
wind’s later grasp of the arm
            will have night chill in it
ice cubes gelling
            you can hear their vise-like
            statements in the next room
bottles which gleam in a row
            your choice of poisons
            mine elixirs
the view across the valley
just shifting
            gold lucidity
            into dusk dreaming.


~~ May ~~

Town of No Taboos
David Spicer

The sign with its square lettering
invited me beyond the ten-foot wall:
Ataraxia: Population 45, Where
Aquarius Dropped His Jug of Water.
My footsteps carried me
to an ambiance that nothing had
prepared me for: a hotel named
The July Inn, a bar called No
Worries, roasted acorns, caviar,
and a rare Merlot the main
course at Carol’s. Violets shrugged
as I shuffled past the drugstore,
and a blind roustabout scratched his
bald head, counting to ten,
holding a blue marble shoebox.
Beach waves reside
inside my rectangle, boy,
so open any door in the town
of no taboos, and you’ll die
happy, he said, empty eyes staring
at the cloudland above him.
I touched its smooth surface, and,
yes, sin didn’t exist, nor virtue.
What did I expect? I decided
to leave, not wanting to live in this
oasis where seals licked bricks, hags
lingered in lobbies, their rags more
tattered than mine. Did I stumble
in a fugue through the place I couldn’t
translate? Before I advanced much
further, trudging into the desert again,
I noticed a city of vices ahead, burned,
black, and, I thought, not yet purified.


~~ April ~~

One Person’s Seriousness Is Another’s Colossal Joke
J. J. Steinfeld

Let me say right off the top
while I’m in this philosophical mood
this slight metaphysical delirium
about meaning and the meaningless
that one person’s seriousness
is another’s colossal joke
a prayerful joke like death—
God slaps you for such a thought
and when God slaps
it’s not like the strap at school
by a shy, secrets-burdened teacher
or a prizefighter’s knockout punch:
God’s slap barely makes a sound
but it hurts like the death of a beautiful bird
the recalling of which
will shape and sharpen memory for you
leave you fearful of death and loss
and making colossal jokes.


~~ March~~

Solo Boxing
Michael Lee Johnson

Solo boxing, past midnight,
tugging emotions out of memories embedded,
tossing dice, reliving vices, revisiting affairs,
playing solitaire-marathon night,
hopscotch player, toss the rock,
shots of bourbon.


~~ February~~

The Angel in Flight
Nina Clarence

is a thieving angel
snagging your heart
like a bright red kite caught
in a flowering tree the supple fingers
of its wild branches
holding gently entangling

all that you wish for
until that angel’s overbearing
blue-lipped conscience
blows your heart free
to fall to the hard earth lost
amid a whirlwind of blossoms
and lonely love-struck words


~~ January ~~

Looking Back
B.Z. Niditch

When we hear a melody
a Coltrane solo on a sax
or tunes from an accordion
from childhood streets
a whistling calliope
near a city pushcart
the recorded voice of Sinatra
Peggy Lee, David Bowie
singing of a lost love
becomes alive in their notes
the day becomes a memory
and all night thoughts
dream visions,
all arguments of love
break-ups, new beginnings
familiar endings
challenge us
full of retraced letters
those echoes of good times
remembering those journeys
when I taught the classics
of an exile between two continents
as Odysseus remembered Penelope
at our table of grape leaves
and olives
surrounded by an absence
in being parted from a partner
not forgetting my own exiled life
loving evocations
near our favorite Greek cafe
drinking ouzo with lamb
and honey and almonds,
yet just as I am here on the Cape
in a slack season
without many vacation tourists
amid a rain spell
to review my pastimes
as nostalgic songs from a jukebox
seize me
in this enlightened night spot.


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Creative Commons License

 This work is licensed under a CC BY-NC-ND 3.0.
Subsynchronous Press 2017



5 responses »

  1. Only you, Gary, can spin a tale of the mydterious Arizona wilderness. Great write.

  2. Dear Gary: Thanks for sharing these great poems. Keep ’em coming! Suzy

  3. Thanks Gary Keep ’em coming! Suzy

  4. Good company here. NIce to be aboard. JP Kincaid


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