Fowl Feathered

Review
Fowl Feathered Review is published quarterly by Fowl Pox Press.
Please send all comments, questions, and submissions to:
fowlpox@mail.com
Editor: Dr. Frank Bhr
ISSN: 1929-7238
Follow us online: http://fowlpox.tk/
Coordinates: 4146'13.4"N 8249'03.7"W

Odilon Redon, La Cellule dOr, a drawing in oil and metallic paint.

France 1892.

My first language
My first language was split
in two by a white light that
revolved around my head
like a halo the luminescence sparked down
like rain drops lit from within.
My first word was star,
a real white prism of light
that lead me up to a cloudless sky.
A silver and blue nebula followed
me around like a child dragging
a blanket behind her.

Cells
You changed the shape
of my cells,

the way in which my cells moved,

the way the blood touched my cells.
You are a real magician firing dull blanks
into the night it was just like the 4th of July without colors.
Women in curlers and men in their white
underwear came outside to investigate
the commotion but you had already
drifted away like a ring of smoke
no longer clinging to the air.

At the roots
You tore my soul at the roots
like an out of control weed.
My dreams condense
into thick, matted pieces
of brown hair and red glass fragments
while an old Greenday song reminds
me that I should walk alone.
You look behind my eyes

and find your hands empty.

I will not let you in.

Penguin Rhapsody
Small, silver fish dart
Beneath an icy surface.
Snow bird ate them all.

Waysides plus Soda Machines

Ivy and poison nut tree seeds, collected
Alongside club moss, nightshade berries,
Other soothing, curative toxins to tincture,
Like tomatoes with many sprouted leaves,
Acacia trees multiple gnarled branches,
Early grapes, whose networked vines
Forsake mostly, petrichors scent, or not,
Harvest brings lethal juices to the fore.
Elsewhere, free booze expresses disruptive
Phantasmagoric settings, where hinds flee.
Gormless others, stupefied by milled drugs,
Trying, in wrong ways, to fly from subaltern
Status, at high school junctures, get puckish.
Corporate arbors, picnics on velveteen lawns,
Even big shots, all tricked out in spandex,
Drop their hegemonic power when distracted.

Dudes guilty of interpersonal perfidy, forget, often,

Costs associated with containing woodland treasures.
Similarly, no caves or campfires present protection
To types lacking language skills, moose, toffs, random
Fulminating aside, bulging pouches in ordicate only
Whether or not movements, by flambeauxs light,
Become vitrified forever and ever. Elsewise, such
Remain mere cantrips, empty decoders, wee mischiefs.

The Mother
Jay Frankston
She takes the seeds from her womb,
scatters them to the wind
and sings to them, the Mother.
And the wind lifts them high
above fields, above fears,
takes them round and round
then lets them fall.
And flowers and trees
and children grow from the earth.
And the sun shines upon them
and makes them blossom.
And time watches,
counts, and waits for them
Around the corner
the panhandler stands
with his hand stretched out:
"Spare any change, Mister?"
There's Vietnam in his head,
and the blades of the helicopter
keep roaring in his ears.
And the children duck
at unexpected times
as if they could hear them too.
But it's another war they hear,
the one that follows
the one that's ahead.

And they know, the children,

they know
that it will take them
and bleed them
and drop them from the sky.
And the Mother will scoop them up
and return them to her womb
and refuse to give birth again.

Mona Lisa ca ha s Mai Trung Th

THE BUS
Jay Frankston
I got on this bus when I was still in diapers.
I didn't know anybody
only the woman who carried me on.
I grew into a boy on her lap
looking at the other passengers
and the scenery out the window.
The bus made several short stops
and I nearly fell off my seat.
When I got a little bigger
I got a seat of my own and held on
as the bus careened around corners
and several passengers fell to the floor.
There was no clear destination
but the bus made a number of stops
and some people got on and others got off.
When I got to be twenty-five
I shared a seat with a lovely young lady
who sat on my lap when the bus got crowded.
And crowded it got.

What started out to be a peaceful ride

through the countryside
turned into a donnybrook
with passengers fighting over seats,
pushing people into the isle
and sometimes off the bus.
The scenery changed
and the pastures turned to concrete,
the trees to skyscrapers
and the sun was hiding above the smog.
By the time I reached middle age
the space I was occupying was less than one seat
and I was pushed and shoved on all sides
by angry passengers who were jealous of their space.
The woman who brought me on
got off at a truck stop
and I struggled to keep my composure
in the crush of the crowd.
When I reached sixty
the situation became unbearable.
The bus lurched
and took sharp turns at increasing speed
moving so fast
that what was outside the window of the bus
became a blur

and I got car sick.

The isle was packed body to body
with wild-eyed people
who could not understand
what was happening to them.
The bus was barreling along
and everyone knew this could not continue
but no one bothered to look up front.
There was no one in the driver's seat.

RED FACE
Marc Carver
I see the young woman
I saw earlier
her face was red with the cold then
now she has warmed up
she sits next to me
in the coffee shop
I would love to talk to her
I look at her for a while
but say nothing
just like always
she is that little bit too far
away.

3 Poems by Ken W. Simpson

Vagrant Thoughts
A sound whispers
in the wind
a candle gutters
and shadows flicker.
Reflections
of passing moments
languish
in a sea of apathy.
The myth
of contented bliss
exists as echoes
of promises pawned.
Dreams disintegrate
unaccountably
like thoughts
fleeing from a memory.
Ernest Hemingway

betrothed to a boat
fishes for tuna
with a tommy-gun.

Wasted Words
The cargo of a ship at sea
has little to do
with you or me.

Withdrawal Symptoms
I was prescribed
an analgesic
to relieve the pain
caused by a degenerative disk.
But because I dozed
and overslept
I decided
to give it up.
My mind
began to adapt
and simmered
for several days.
It lurked somewhere
inside
like a lion
about to attack.
Sweat
began to slide
down my brow
one cold and wintry day.

Electric light
harsh and unkind
replaced
the descending night.
A tormenting band
began
remorselessly squeezing
my forehead.
Jumbled images
zoomed
flickering
kaleidoscopically.
The ennui
like an exorcism
haunted
my neurotic mind.
Shadows gathered
amorphously
in clusters
around my persecuting pillow.

Although exhausted
I couldn't sleep
a prisoner
inside my mind.
I hoped
to see it through
and last
just another day or two,
The futile sun
looked on
glowing
and ironically gloating.
I seemed
to decompose
slowly
every dying day.
I'd forgive the mind
its heresies
if only to sleep
and dream again.

Life of a Recluse
Gurneet Kaur
The Morning dew, cool Breeze
The touch of humanity.
Finesse and elegance,
ecstasy in thy breath
every step is reverence.
Circling the eternal being,
is the power of the lords supreme
benevolence be the spectrum of life,
and every speck of it is alive
strings not attached to the world.
Public fame is not bequest,
His grace said day and night.
Secluded from all ends,
a solitary life.
What happiness! What joy! All is mine.
Valleys, mounds and deepest thoughts;
the beauty free from servile bands.
Of affluence life is meant
No vice, no sin and no wound
all is His and to Him I return.

Contributors:
Dawnell Harrison has been published in over 60 journals, possesses a BA from The
University of Washington, and is the author of three books of poetry; Voyager, The
Maverick Posse, and The fire behind my eyes.
KJ Hannah Greenberg giggles too much to be actually indomitable. What's more, she: eats
oatmeal, runs with a hibernaculum of imaginary hedgehogs, watches dust bunnies breed
beneath her sofa, and attempts to matchmake words like balderdash and xylophone.
Sure, she's been twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize in Literature and once for The Best
of the Net, as well as received National Endowment for the Humanities monies.
Nonetheless, she refuses to learn to text or to own a digital watch.
Jay Frankston was raised in Paris, and came to the U.S. in 1942. He became a lawyer and
practiced in New York for 20 years reaching the top of his profession and writing at the
same time. In 1972 he gave up law and New York and moved to California where he
became a college instructor. He is the nationally published author of several books some of
which have been condensed in Reader's Digest and translated into 15 languages.
Ken W. Simpson began his vocation as a poet late in my life. A Face in the Rain is his fourth
book. A retired teacher, he lives in Victoria, Australia with his family. When he is not
writing, he enjoys growing vegetables.

Marc Carver, a British poet, was recently an internationally featured

poet at the Austin International Poetry Festival. He has published
four books of poetry and has had some seventy or so poems published
and posted at various sites. All of his books are available on
Amazon.com. He is now writing a book of fiction and hopes to publish
it very shortly. He performs mainly in London and will continue to
write poetry as long as people enjoy his work.
Gurneet Kukreja is a biotechnologist in the search of the next source of energy.

The Carrot. 1699.

Painting.
Willem Frederik Royen.

The Refrigerator as a Symbol of

Unrequited Love

The Non-Sticky
Sticky
Biopsychosocial
Model
Organic
dcollage

Bacterial soft
rot

Can prompt other

problems such as
Exploding Head
Syndrome

We Rent Goats. Heres why

Because goats arent like other
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Goats are natural-born weed eaters.
Thorns and plants that cows and
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For years, chemicals have been
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We Rent Goats doesnt claim that
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each year 3-5 year, with the

landowner managing the land after

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We know from experience that goats
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FAQ page)
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Jay Frankston
Speak up!
Break the silence.
Dont let them do it
without you.
There is no virtue
in acquiescence.
Youre either a mover
or a silent victim.
Chain saws are buzzing.

Stars are exploding.

The rain tastes like vinegar
and oranges glow in the dark.
Speak up!
Is this your doing?
Can life go through the sieve
and come out clean?
Must we endure toxic waste
in our haste
to turn tomorrow
into yesterday?
Can we suffer our children
to survive our abuses?
Did the Holocaust teach us nothing?
Speak up!
There is no time.
Break the silence

before the dirt

falls on your face.