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| Acuff, Gale |
| Ahearn, Edward |
| Bartlett, K T |
| Beckman, Paul |
| Bell, Allen |
| Berriozábal, Luis Cuauhtémoc |
| Brown, Richard |
| Bunton, Chris |
| Burke, Wayne F. |
| Bushloper, Lida |
| Campbell, J J |
| Carroll, R E |
| Clifton, Gary |
| Collaros, Pandel |
| Costello, Bruce |
| Coverley, Harris |
| Crist, Kenneth James |
| De Anda, Victor |
| Dean, Richard |
| DeGregorio, Anthony |
| de Marino, Nicholas |
| Dillon, John J. |
| Dorman, Roy |
| Doyle, John |
| Dwyer, Mike |
| Ebel, Pamela |
| Fahy, Adrian |
| Fillion, Tom |
| Fowler, Michael |
| French, Steven |
| Garnet, G. |
| Graysol, Jacob |
| Grey, John |
| Hagerty, David |
| Held, Shari |
| Helden, John |
| Hivner, Christopher |
| Holtzman, Bernice |
| Hostovsky, Paul |
| Huffman, Tammy |
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| Jeschonek, Robert |
| Johnston, Douglas Perenara |
| Keshigian, Michael |
| Kincaid, Stephen Lochton |
| Kirchner, Craig |
| Kirton, Hank |
| Kitcher, William |
| Kondek, Charlie |
| Kreuiter, Victor |
| Kummerer, Louis |
| Lass, Gene |
| LeDue, Richard |
| Lee, Susan Savage |
| Lester. Louella |
| Lewis, James H. |
| Lindermuth, J. R. |
| Lukas, Anthony |
| Lyon, Hillary |
| MacCulloch, Simon |
| Margel, Abe |
| Medone, Marcelo |
| Meece, Gregory |
| Mesce, Bill Jr. |
| Middleton, Bradford |
| Mladinic, Peter |
| Molina, Tawny |
| Newell, Ben |
| Park, Jon |
| Petyo, Robert |
| Plath, Rob |
| Radcliffe, Paul |
| Ramone, Billy |
| Rodriquez, Albert |
| Rosamilia, Armand |
| Rosenberger, Brian |
| Rosmus, Cindy |
| Russell, Wayne |
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| Sesling, Zvi A. |
| Sheff, Jake |
| Sheirer, John |
| Simpson, Henry |
| Smith, Ian C. |
| Snethen, Daniel G. |
| Sofiski, Stefan |
| Stevens, J.B. |
| Tao, Yucheng |
| Teja, Ed |
| Tures, John A. |
| Tustin, John |
| Waldman, Dr. Mel |
| Al Wassif, Amirah |
| Wesick, Jon |
| West, Charles |
| Wilhide, Zach |
| Williams, E. E. |
| Wiseman-Rose, Sophia |
| Zelvin, Elizabeth |
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A
BROOKLYN TALE
by Dr. Mel Waldman
An
oxygen tank stood majestically by her side,
like
a centurion or a Praetorian Guard watching over
Mother.
I
left my little room, my sanctuary at the other
end of our home,
overlooking
Ocean Avenue in Old Brooklyn
&
rushing slowly around the bend,
I
joined Father & my sister in Mother’s Room.
She
lay in bed.
We
gathered around her.
Smiling
weakly,
she
lost her breath,
lost
consciousness too,
her
gold eyes staring blankly at us from a faraway place.
But
she awakened,
resurrected
from the other side,
the
home of the dying & the dead,
&
magically, Mother rose suddenly, & cried
out:
“I
thought I was dying!”
She
inhaled her last breath, dropped into
non-being,
&
crossed the invisible boundary,
deep
into the nothingness humans often fear,
gone
forever,
Yesterday,
more than half-a-century ago,
a
timeless crack in eternity
captured
by a young man’s Mind’s Eye,
keeping
Mother alive, while saying goodbye.
I
often think of her & feel her love &
mine for her
&
recall her absolute faith in me,
a
celestial force still feeding my sacred
omphalos,
&
feasting gloriously on hope.
How
beautiful, unfathomable, & eerie this
miracle of life!
How
sad, poignant, & transformational too!
I sometimes wonder
if
our fragile transience/mortality is a gift with
hidden meaning,
if
only we find or create it.
IN
THE DEVIL’S HOUR
I
STAND AMONG THE STONES ALONE
by Dr. Mel Waldman
In
the Devil’s Hour, I stand among the stones
alone, with the dead
Mother
Father
gone
so long ago, Yesterday, far away & now,
forever here
trapped in the madness of a fractured Mind’s
Eye
asleep
in my broken brain cells, & awakening
suddenly & strangely
to speak to me & disappear again, coming
& going & never
saying goodbye
Why? I do not know.
In
the eerie desolation of the Devil’s Hour, I
stand among the
stones alone, with the dead
Mother
Father
in
the cemetery of my mind, waiting for them to
speak to me again
if
they can find me in the invisible universe
across the unfathomable
chasm
if
I can find them among the weeping stones of
mourning pressed
against my wounded soul, blessed, however, by
the Without End
with everlasting love in the holy cosmos
ROMANCING
INFINITY
By Dr. Mel Waldman
One cool, soothing night,
nestled in an everflowing summer illusion
most days tasting a cornucopia of oppressive
heat,
I drifted into an unfathomable dream,
swept away in sweet phantasmagoria
an eerie interlude in a never-ending unreality
of decay,
for even on this calm, soporific night of cool,
sweat poured out of my olive skin,
like wild rain, unleashed & unalloyed
my whole being suffering in an apocalyptic
totality of pain
until in a beautiful metamorphosis
I became the corpse flower on this orphic night
oozing the stench of rotting flesh
& still, a gorgeous mammoth inflorescence
unbranched & growing/rising high into the
vastness
a phallic yellow or olive-green stalk
majestic spadix bathed in the River Styx
encircled with a deep purple or maroon spathe
a rare beauty romancing infinity
coming forth from decay
blooming for only 2–3 days
vanishing too soon
& returning years from now
but in this numinous dream
I, a corpse flower, died & was
reborn again & again in a microsecond of
infinity
The Obsolete Professor by Dr. Mel Waldman The Antediluvian Professor, rendered obsolete by Rod
Serling in a retro non-existent episode of The Twilight Zone,
without Burgess Meredith playing a librarian condemned to
death or Fritz Weaver, chancellor & tormenter in a real-unreal TV
Broadcast, gazes at his swirling image inside the oval mirror of otherworldly/earthly
suffering & shrieks, Why? in a sea of despair. “Here I am folks,” he utters,
addressing you, his invisible audience, chimerical readers floating in oceanic nowhere & his broken
brain drifts off in shameless boketto & for Show & Tell,
he holds a mammoth photo of Einstein sticking his tongue out
at us. Smiling sardonically, the obsolete
sufferer, condemned to an unfathomable fate, whispers, “I
think Old Albert was on to something real. Don’t you agree?” Soon, he laughs hysterically,
howling with tears of joy & whipped cream on his rosy nose until
he too sticks out his red, hot tongue & waves goodbye.
Dr.
Mel
Waldman is a psychologist, poet, and writer whose stories have appeared in
numerous magazines including HARDBOILED DETECTIVE, ESPIONAGE, THE SAINT, PULP
METAL MAGAZINE, and AUDIENCE. His poems have been widely published in magazines
and books including A NEW ULSTER, CLOCKWISE CAT, CRAB FAT LITERARY MAGAZINE,
ESKIMO PIE, INDIANA VOICE JOURNAL, LIQUID IMAGINATION, THE BROOKLYN LITERARY
REVIEW, BRICKPLIGHT, SKIVE MAGAZINE, ODDBALL MAGAZINE, PABLO LENNIS, POETRY
PACIFIC, POETICA, RED FEZ, SQUAWK BACK, SWEET ANNIE & SWEET PEA REVIEW, THE
JEWISH LITERARY JOURNAL, THE JEWISH PRESS, THE JERUSALEM POST, HOTMETAL PRESS,
MAD SWIRL, HAGGARD & HALLOO, ASCENT ASPIRATIONS, YELLOW MAMA, THE BITCHIN’
KITSCH, SOUL-LIT, TWO DROPS OF INK, and NAMASTE FIJI: THE INTERNATIONAL
ANTHOLOGY OF POETRY. A past winner of the literary GRADIVA AWARD in
Psychoanalysis, he was nominated for a PUSHCART PRIZE in literature and is the
author of 11 books.
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