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© 2013 30dpc Press

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Ready for Consumption

An Anthology of Poems

from the 30 Day Poetry Challenge

Edited by Danielle Blasko and Amelia Cook

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1

Jessie Brown

I’ll Give You

a run for your money.

A runaround, the once-over, the heave-

ho, the go-ahead. Heads up, the elbow, the eye, the finger.

A hand. The boot. The shirt off my back. The benefit of the doubt, credit

where credit is due,

a blank check, a rain check, free rein. A break, a lift, a wide berth. Short

shrift, first refusal,

fair warning. Until I count three, something to cry

about,

a taste of your own medicine.

A piece of my mind,a leg up, a cold

shoulder. Lip. Guff. Grief. Hell.

2

Amanda Chiado

Fruit at Dusk It’s summer and you’re on my ladder

gently plucking round miniature suns, fragrant

as your neck. I can see right through your nightgown.

3

MonkeyTeeth

Molotov Milk Bottles

"Molotov Milk Bottles Heaved From Pink Highchairs"

- Alice Cooper

The sight of whiskey takes me back

behind a shed in someone’s yard

in anyone’s town

where I was everyone’s girl

and no one was looking for me.

4

Maria Prieto

Summer Coffee

I do not want the sun to come up, Embracing a

nocturnal summer babe,

Getting to know the mist and dew of morning, The

small hours that unwind. Who ever said that sleep needed serenity, I find it

hard to believe,

As I sit here with my blanket,

At peace with the touch of cotton and the scent of purple. And as I speak to these blank pages, The

eccentric part of my brain ponders, Wildly at the

animals of my ego,

The roaring desires that I cannot follow, Growling at my existence,

As if I have committed a sin, At the

zenith of its injury,

As if I have defied its calling to my cortex. It’s funny, I find,

How this silence has, Become

such a thrill,

Initiating momentum to my inner being, Lifting the weight inside of me, Transforming my

sentiments into a flotsam, And my own body trying to

string the pieces,

Floating towards shore, towards day, towards morning.

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Margaret Simon

Blackberry Time

Here, a few blackberries from the

bushes.

May I hold the flavor on my tongue? The juice runs

through

my fingers staining

my jeans. The vine grows, this thorny weed with a small

gift, plump purple bites

never asking permission to invade

the flowerbed.

Like the prickly teenager, sweetness

dwells with pain.

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Robert Fontella

1

In the dim morning, from the window, we watched

for the storm. the birds gossiped from polished bells

fog sifted sideways off Monona bay. Then when

the rumble all rumbled away without the rain we looked.

A siren wobbled, maybe from Ryan's ambulance

next to the Shell. Wobbled and went, like the geese now and

and this is how the day begins.

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Jessie Brown

Twelve Ways of Looking at a Wad of Dust

1.

Smaller than a dead mouse. 2.

Hairy, irregular.

3. Probably full of asbestos particles. Don’t

touch it. 4.

What happens to a wad unwound? Does it

double, like a spore?

Does it stick, or drift across the floor? 5.

Not what the spider built the

cobweb for.

6.

Too large by far

for me to drown it with a tear. 7.

It should have been a pair of jagged jaws, slashing across screens

to oohs and ahs.

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8.

Ashes to ashes.

9.

Amid twenty thousand clots of

dust, only this one gets a poem.

10.

There’s a certain smell of dust on an

August afternoon

that recalls nothing.

11.

It is the very model

of a modern bit of twaddle.

12.

Beauty is dust, dust beauty.

That is all ye know on earth

and all ye need to know.

9

Amelia Cook

Reading Ballerina Bess

Her red satin dress,

its tutu drawn the way I drew lightning,

like Charlie Brown’s shirt:

penciled zigzags.

Bess hovering forever,

her permanent leap.

Thick soft pages, drenched in

orange and red.

The words on the page,

starting to look familiar

like a hotel room after three days,

like billboards on the way home.

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JoAnne Bauer

Auto Care

My Dodge, stolen one night

—as was my lover, opportune thief in

waiting claimed what was mine. As with my lover—

a lock broke months back— claimed

what was mine right under my nose. A lock broke months back,

I’m forced to admit, right under

my nose. I paid little heed. I’m forced to admit

from a rear-view mirror, I paid

little heed

of my care, of my car.

From a rear-view mirror . . . I see now

how the trespass

of my care, of the car—

started with me, cavalier. I see now how the trespass

—-opportune thief in waiting started

with me, cavalier —

my Dodge, stolen one night.

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Rachel E. Pollock

A Rose-Thorn Glory

An August moon, I think it was my second

love revealed

thin as a shiv from a ballpoint pen his copper

hair annealed I heard his voice just yesterday

though it’s twelve years since we spoke borne on

the lips of a man just-met whose whisper crushed

my throat. Ten years ago I’d toss my hair

and laugh a bit too loud,

wrap myself in the comforting folds of a soft

red sloe gin shroud.

Time they say spreads wet orange clay upon the

cracked old vase of the heart. To hell with that, I

heard him say, Let’s smash that thing apart.

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Rachel E. Pollock

twister show

nothing more than the wind--

that’s who uprooted the pines. they lay stunned, roots uptwisted like the cartoon

dead, their branchy-haired treebearded heads on

the street’s opposite side, resting on ground

upon which their leaves have never fallen of

an autumn. water was present, a mere accomplice shining

rods of it flew

parallel to the earth,

creating a distraction as the wind circled,

moved

in. I noted the stones, clutched in the roots’

crooked grasp, the long not-moving ape-

toes of the dying. I stared from my shop window, not

thinking

of the magical glass-shattering power of

tornadoes.

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I stared from out that window, transfixed by

the conifer carnage-- the wind was selling

ringside seats at matinee prices, and I was

buying. I was buying. the rain ran rivulets, I noticed,

improvising a sudden river

or red clay sea

parting around the poor trees, so big yet

so fallen.

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Robert Fontella

2 And

I tried growing my own tree

sowed Paulownia tomentosa, Royal Empress

a magic hardwood that grew feet a year

a spectacular, miracle tree, they said

restores the earth, converts toxins

makes dead soil into fertile ground

I started in the basement from seed

maybe

I could have found a better way to talk

with the green shoots and little leaves

explain how outside would be different

difficult

you got shaken, mortally, by a Detroit spring

and it was probably the sunlight

that did you in

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F. Dianne Harris

Peaches

Fuzz blue in moonlight like old

rutabagas sprouting mold

on the linoleum

forgotten and abandoned with no

thought

for tomorrow’s dinner.

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Sara Crawford

Apples

So many apples rolling down

the hill,

always reminding me of what I miss.

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Emily C. Sexton

elongate

elongate

make long your thoughts, your body

immeasurable.

linger in a memory of a dream youthful

and contagious.

a moment in time, wrapped round a

thought

of something lost. or found.

or yearning.

nothing waits. nothing stops.

except the clock that continues, like a xerox.

copying

time and days and life over and

over until

night falls. quiet.

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Amelia Cook

A Poem About a Poem About a Poem by Cesar Vallejo

Cesar Vallejo, I read your poem

when I was twenty years old

and I wrote you back right away,

dreaming up a road of

skulls, in line like teeth,

yellowing keys of a piano.

Nothing has changed since then.

I still know death only in flashes

that shudder through me

like the thunder and lightning that

sent me shaking to the rain-painted

front windows just two nights ago.

I am still writing poems about poems.

I've never been back to Paris.

Amelia Cook is dead.

These are the witnesses:

the poems that have been written over and over

and the ones that have never been answered.

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Margaret Rozga

Dear Estabrook Park

Dear LaFayette Hill Dear

Copper Falls Dear Oregon

shore Dear places I love Dear

winding paths Dear rush of

water What next After the tide recedes After the

river mouth After gasping

After a seven year old slipping

After heart near stopping

After the spruce stands against the sun

After the sun slips

After the night falls to memory Hiking without a map

Pursuing virtue beyond twists of hill Brushing

aside overlapping pine Hearing water crash

against rock Trusting your keen ear

Pulling up out of this dream

Chilling, at the edge of the imagination

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I feel as though I am On the

right trail Having known how

(not straight and narrow) And

where and when,

If not why, you are Be strong

Be well Gratefully Sincerely

Yours truly

Affectionately Best

wishes

With Love

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William S. Tribell

Alive

Acorn bound as sound

As I will lay long sleeping

Both in the darkness

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Courtney Elizabeth Fell

Bracing for the Awakening of the Hills

I perceive the time is tonight And I

believe my mind is right Sling-shot pebble

to the temple And drops of ink begin to

flow Sins and shovels buried in snow

Freezing winds on our hovel blow One more sip of sobering drink Moment of

clarity to think Third-eye is cracking open

Like ripening pistachio Fright'ning sight outside the window

Enlight'ning strike, the sky's aglow I can only hope we're ready

And pray she might stay steady Wavering

simply won't hold up In heavy, ominous

weather All of this is just a tether

Hidden-promise hills of heather One final coating of varnish

So our intentions won't tarnish But all

this scattering sawdust Is too hard to

keep together Do not seek the ties we sever

We retreat, and turn back never

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Amanda Chiado

Weight

Now I lay in your neighbor’s yard alone.

I am a roof for the pill bugs and all their

yet black babes. Their legs squirm under

my gut. We are friendly with the mud. And

if by chance you feel an itch Steal me for

your mantle

A simple stone soft as a newborn.

Heavy as your mother’s dreams.

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Danielle Blasko

Bake Day

Someone has to bake the bread in every family. It

simply must be done. Review the recipe; make mental tweaks according to personal taste:

mix honey into molasses. Gather all ingredients behind the scenes before

bringing them to the table for mixing. Warm (but don’t boil) water, and melt butter in redware bowls by the fire.

Add yeast to water for frothing. Combine all the right simplicities until dough

begins to pull away from edge of bowl. Turn dough over and over, kneading until

you can stick a finger in and have it spring back. If time allows, let dough double rise on front of hearth

before a final baking. It’s okay to punch the risen dough,

re-knead as necessary.

What emerges from the bake kettle beneath and above hot coals is fluffy,

honey-molasses wheat bread, fully baked, and ready for consumption.

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MonkeyTeeth

1981 Chevette

Automatically one horse more than a bicycle, coil wire

arcing, calipers sticking, damn lazy, silver as the hairs on

my head and bottle caps, duffle bags of stilettos and red

lipstick, chaos, cocktail napkins and dog eared notebooks,

youth, a series of poetry raped of its contents, the radio

long gone, hope chest on wheels, crushed pack of smokes

and one wet match,

a $300 highway robbery and no dice, damn . . . . . . unreliable, late for work, cross town venues, climbing

inner city mountains, struggling free, carrying sisters,

speeding tickets, pressing on, tint peeling, can’t hide, 808,

investing nothing, hot, idling low, purring not, twisted

priorities,

the smell of burning rubber, lawn jobs, chapstick, condoms

in the console, my stash in the hatch, echoes in the ashtray

and dust collecting... . . . coasting upwards on the exhale, clicking,

the last exit, a phone booth in a field, no change, the sun

sinking in my chest, heavy, fear in my eye, tail lights in the

mirror, lone house on the horizon, a black cat howling, back to

square one, unload, layers of freeway fuzz and mad crickets,

done, vapor on the window and exhausted ideas, 4x0, there

are no buses on Rosa Parks Boulevard,

just a dashboard Jesus and a fork in the road . . .

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Emily C. Sexton

These are suspect places

Questionable locations dark corners

Where we wait

and hope for intercession

intercedence

interlocution There is a place where we hide

in fragments of memory like grains of sand where

nothing is quite what we expect

And there, just maybe, we find love or

something that feels close enough for going on

with.

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JoAnne Bauer

Blue Moon

radiant dot

searing a purple sky

fully glowing luminous orb midnight

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Amanda Chiado

The Poem I’d Never Right

I am what they call a really,

bad girl.

All those cold hands are

reaching back, roots yanked up, all those

I've hung

like dangly earrings. Robbery, takes the

highway to Ooh-La-La. I slipped out

between the bars. There was an angel, she

has given up on me.

You can only burn so many

bowls of feathers. I know how dumb

I was. I suffer the residual ding-dong.

The witch

never dies, she just gets swept under the rug.

You can always see her wicked striped legs

peeping out from under

my welcome mat, unapologetic as obscene

hellos.

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Sarah Rae

Pistachios

Shiny shells litter the floor. She works

each nut open with her thumb and forefinger,

goes beyond the membrane to get to the green of the

meat, keeps one hand on the steering. The shiny shells. She recalls

smooth pebbles that sat in round fishbowls atop

clear-coated shelves in her childhood basement, along with the plastic

chess set, Barbie doll and black wooden checkers, forgotten now— now not forgotten—the layers of varnish her father painted the

shelves with, the way he carefully set the finished wood.

The black ink of an approaching storm seeps through clouds in

front. Smooth pebbles.

Shells.

The layers. She drives ahead, into the weather.

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Amelia Cook

Immigrant

I move toward your love

like it’s a lit village

full of strangers tending fires

in early night, on the edge

of jungle, in a country I do not know,

but recognize. Smoke

moves toward me,

smelling of sweet wood.

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Danielle Blasko

Cross Dresser

I used to live on Main Street, now I’m working on the farm.

Prepare the hearth with fire; fill the cast iron kettle with water,

begin heating for washing dishes after dinner. Today, we cook for

three, for the ladies of the house, while the men are away toiling in

town on business. Meat first: lamb chops stabbed

onto cast iron rack, begin to sizzle in the whipping flames, fat

dripping into a cast iron tray beneath the hanging meat. My

kettle baked gingerbread, the first of many to come,

fills the stagnant farmhouse air with sweet reminiscences,

mingling boldly with the heavy aroma of mutton drippings.

Honey wheat bread rising at edge of hearth, hot tea steeping in

a redware pitcher, egg noodles being prepared and turned,

before they’re tossed into the small kettle of boiling water,

dangling directly over the open fire. Noodles take a little longer

than expected, are gooey like undercooked dumplings. The table

is set with redware mugs and plates, sharp,

two-pronged forks, and dull knives meant to be eaten off of.

Just before the meal is done, the tea is poured, and pickled

goods are served: nasturtium and radish seedpods, beets,

and cucumbers with onions. Finally, our noodles are strained,

then dressed with butter, salted to taste. At noon, we eat.

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MonkeyTeeth

Six Mile High

laughter used to fly like un-

caged birds who’ve since

escaped through cracks

and all that remains are

painted words

on falling walls, the bath ran

dry and wires were cut;

a series of separations released

our ghosts

that roamed these halls searching

for heaven. Here we’ve been to

hell and back...

there are no signs of us except

those feathers, this dust.

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Jason Brown

good faith

i am

and i will be

but tomorrow i’m not

until i make myself again

i’m not

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A.J. Huffman

10 Reasons Not to Slit My Wrists Today

10. I smell coffee! Someone made a fresh pot. 9. I woke up able to breathe out of both nostrils.

First time that’s happened in months. 8. I’m having a good hair day.

My ponytail went in smooth on the first try. 7. Three butterflies landed on my windowsill. They appeared

to be laughing. 6. My Chihuahua would have no one to wipe the mud off his feet

when he comes in from the rain. 5. Brownies. 4. I hear Leonardo DiCaprio has a new movie coming out. 3. I am mere moments away from teaching the woodpecker to spell

my name in Morse Code. 2. I still need to lose 10 pounds before I can fit in the dress I want

to be buried in.

1. Maybe, just maybe, tomorrow I might not feel

so alone.

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David Frazier

Hair

Hair is growing everywhere,

But on my head.

There the ages have worn it away.

It's hard to grow hair in granite.

Hair traveled to my ears and nose.

Softer tissues and

Fertile ground there,

For hair,

I suppose.

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Danielle Blasko

Yard Work

peeling off layers of lawn,

you find grubs, toss them aside, kill them with spray, worry about

the birds

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Joel Mitchell

Green

1.

I've been climbing into the graves of other men

trying to see if little scraps of my soul had traveled down to forage

in the marrow of lost love and release So far i've only found a polished black wooden ring, a candle

with the virgin mary fading, and a rusted capo that used to

make shy guitars weep This dirt under my cracked nails is filled with joy and

laughter like disappearing rain at a breezy cafe when another

bottle of wine has just arrived 2.

late in spring we were

falling with the snow

and try as we might we

couldn't

force our charm

back into that bottle

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3.

april

the foolest month tripping

over itself

eager for summertime & shine

hard rain

4.

Green, how i love you green.

In the lean hours night after day I have

found your way in Fall when all the leaves

are flying. Green, how i want you green.

In the mean hours covered in snow I will

know your way in Winter when in terminal

slumber's bliss. Green, how i need you green.

In the clean hours with days longer

I will be stronger with your way in Spring when you

bring all your love to bloom. Green, how i find you green.

In the pristine hours soaking in sun

I will have begun your way in Summer when

under your slippery spell.

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Robert Fontella

3 I heal like you, in the open air

I have, before, given myself stitches

for that, fishing line

or walking angry in the rain, jumping out of a car

rolling rough with last night's open blade

I heal like you, by forgetting

staying warm

bright light

like you

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Colin James

Claustrophobia without Excuses

A conspirators reliance on the illusive washed

over the unfamiliar terrain. Our strength

returned.

Raw scabs were a blessing and rested

un-rubbed.

The trail was necessary.

Evidence of something being dragged. We followed thirstily, listening. One of our

own cried out,

and would have been cruelly eaten had not

we quickly organized

a Friday night karaoke fistula. It's

confounding to us still

how we manage to appease.

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Poets' Biographical Information

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JoAnne Bauer, Ph.D. holds a doctorate from New York University

in Communication Arts & Technology and advanced degrees in

Special Education, Human Nature and Religion and Philosophy.

An international book co-author for Cambridge University Press,

she also wrote research papers presented nationally and taught

secondary school writing. JoAnne has been honored as a special

education director and for nonprofit community leadership,

environmental activism, scholarship & research, events and

publicity coordination, and visual arts. Her poetry has been

published regionally, nationally and abroad, including prize-

winners in Encore and Long River Run. Other recent publications

include: Avalon Literary Review; Caduceus; Journey to Crone;

Granny Smith Magazine; Poet Tree; Rhubarb; Theodate; Verse

Land; Where Flowers Bloom; and the honored haiku anthology,

seed packets.

Danielle Blasko lives, works, and plays in Detroit. She is co-creator

of the 30 Day Poetry Challenge and co-editor of this anthology. Her

poetry has most recently appeared in Rhyme and PUN-ishment

Anthology, Etchings, and march will be march.

Jason Brown is a graduate of the University of Detroit Mercy and a

lifelong writer. He dreams about bringing philosophy back to the

world.

Jessie Brown works as poet-in-residence in schools, libraries, and

community centers in the greater Boston area. She took her MA

from Stanford. A founding member of the Alewife Poets, she gives

performances and workshops both in collaboration and alone. In

addition to poems in various journals, she's published two short

collections: Lucky, winner of the 2011 Anabiosis Press Chapbook

Competition, and What We Don't Know We Know (Finishing Line

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Press, 2013). You can find her at www.JessieBrown.net

Amanda Chiado received her MFA from California College of the

Arts. Her other work appears in places like Best New Poets, 200

New Mexico Poems, Forklift, Ohio, Fence, Eleven Eleven, and

others. She works as a Calfornia Poet in the Schools and Preschool

teacher. She lives in Hollister with her huband and daughter.

Amelia Cook was born in Appleton, Wisconsin. She earned her

Bachelor’s degree in English from the University of Minnesota and

her MFA in Creative Writing from the University of New Orleans.

She's a regular contributor to Madison, Wisconsin's Isthmus and

her poetry and reviews have appeared recently in Black Heart

Magazine, Wisconsin People and Ideas, Rain Taxi, and Short, Fast,

and Deadly. She is a co-creator of the 30 Day Poetry Challenge

and co-editor of this anthology. Amelia spends her free time having

adventures and drinking the hoppiest beer she can find.

Courtney Fell is a 27-year-old woman born, raised, and living in

beautiful Pensacola, Florida. She holds a Bachelor's degree in

Theatre Acting, and currently works in a supermarket. She has

loved poetry as long as she can remember. She started

experimenting with writing at a young age, then grew out of it.

Over the past few years Courtney has re-kindled her love affair

with rhyme and rhythm, and has been working to hone her style.

Robert Fontella is a writer, translator, and DIY enthusiast living

in Madison, Wisconsin.

David Frazier was born breech in the steel town of East Chicago,

Indiana. He attended D.E. Gavit High School in Hammond, IN. He

spent one year attending Indiana State University in Terre Haute,

IN. He met his wife Kathie (of 39 years) there. David grew up to be

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a third generation steelworker at a mill in Indiana Harbor. He

worked there for 31 years before developing an illness causing him

to retire. After retiring, he began taking creative writing classes at

Bernard Klienman Learning Center. He and editor/publisher

James Ward Kirkhave mutual respect for one another. David is a

featured poet in most of his anthologies including Indiana Horror

2012 and Indiana Science Fiction 2012. David's work has also

appeared inCircus of the Damned, Kindred Voices 2, Harvest Time:

Inwood Indiana and in many other publications.

F. Dianne Harris is an artist and writer who lives in Houston,

Texas. She recently took up writing after a 10-year hiatus prior to

which her fiction and poetry were published in The Ledge, Poetry

Motel, Bayousphere, Buffalo Press, and Iowa Woman amongst

other publications. New work will appear soon in issue 3 of C4:

Chamber Four.

A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach,

Florida. She has previously published four collections of poetry:

The Difference Between Shadows and Stars, Carrying Yesterday,

Cognitive Distortion, and . . . And Other Such Nonsense. She has

also published her work in national and international literary

journals such as Avon Literary Intelligencer, Writer's Gazette, and

The Penwood Review. Find more about A.J. Huffman, including

additional information and links to her work at

facebook.com/amy.huffman.5 and twitter.com/poetess222.

Colin James has poems forthcoming in Nostrovia, McDar, and

Merida. He lives in Massachusetts with two old dogs.

Joel Mitchell lives and breathes in Detroit, Michigan. He spends

his time on acting on area stages and his poetry-based play The

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Plastic Happy was produced at the Planet Ant Theatre.

MonkeyTeeth is a Detroit native, poetic journalist, and

professional mixed media sculptor dedicated to freedom of

expression.

Rachel E. Pollock is a professor of Costume for Dramatic Art at the

University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill. Her creative writing has

appeared in the Harvard Summer Review, Fourth Genre, Southern

Arts Journal, and Mason’s Road, as well as the anthologies Voices

of Multiple Sclerosis, Confessions: Fact or Fiction? and Knoxville

Bound. She is currently pursuing an MFA in creative writing

through the University of New Orleans’ low-residency program.

Maria Prieto is currently an incoming senior at the University of

California, San Diego, majoring in Psychology with a minor in

Chemistry. Before California, she spent twelve years of her

childhood living in the Philippines. After ten years in the States,

she has embraced the beauty of the English language without

forgetting Tagalog (Filipino). She has fallen in love with the accent

that inevitably comes with her speech. Maria has always been a

loner, a painter, a poet, a scientist and a dreamer. Her poems

expose such a delicate part of her mind that she has become

vulnerable and attached to every word she’s written and

submitted. She hopes her poem reflects a proper introduction.

Sarah Rae has worked as a high school English teacher and

guidance counselor. She is currently working on her MFA with the

University of New Orleans, and lives in the windy city of Chicago

with her beautiful bilingual cat Maya. She has been published in

the Tata Nacho Press, the Poet's Corner of the arts website

fieralingue, and the literary anthology Solamente in San

Miguel. Thanks to Danielle and Amelia for this fabulous project!

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Margaret Rozga has published two books: Two Hundred Nights

and One Day, and Though I Haven’t Been to Baghdad, both by

Benu Press. Always grateful for a good prompt to keep her writing,

she also enjoys walks along Lake Michigan and blogging about

poetry and social justice at www.benupress.com/For-Words.

Emily C. Sexton is a lawyer by day, fantasy geek by night and a

writer all the time, at least in her head. She occasionally gets the

thoughts on paper from her home in Northern Virginia.

William S. Tribell was born in Kentucky. He currently lives in

Budapest Hungary where he doesn't sleep much and the television

has no subtitles. William's work has been published in many

journals and magazines around the world and online. Many of his

poems have been audio recorded spoken word and with

instrumentation by John Blyth Barrymore, 2012 Radio Hall of

Fame inductee Gary Burbank, and others. His favorite color is

green.

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