Here Are Some Of The Recent Submissions TO PTE (More To Come)

The Rose Is The Beauty Of Life
It Starts to Blum On The Blue Moon
So They Say There Is
No Life On The Moon
But How Did This Rose
Get To The Moon?
This Angel:
With Sparkles All Over Her Body
Get To The Moon
The Angel Looked At The Rose
She Put it On The Moon.
~Mati Menzel~


Lost in Love:


Lost in my emotion,
lost in your eyes,
lost in a world,
where I fantasize.



Trying to get up and out of this hole,
gotta get out because I want to free my soul,
I'm burning inside,
yeah, my body's on on fire
come here baby,
and fulfill my desire.




Only you got what I need to satisfy my soul,
don't be selfish,
I want it all,
Just give me a kiss,
I want to be touched,
can't you see baby,
I need you...oh so much.



Deliver yourself and surrender to me,
give what I want and I'll let you be,
my lover, my heart, my aching desire,
grab your extinguisher and put out this fire.




Allow me to hold you and kiss you from head to toe,
tell me your fantasies, I want to know.
Give the chance,
for you will see,
the things I can do for you,
if you come with me.


~Kenny Royal~
 
 
A Slow Wet Thaw


Raw, nude, vibrating,

Absorbed of pulsing shudder.

Moist between thigh and brain,

infectious purgatory ache—

A pulsing wound that

draws what is close

even closer.

Couldn’t I escape you,

pulling my limbs wide,

then returning to your lover

to let me know again

and again.

This slight thaw, a slow wet—

Must now be

enough to remember.

Then the scorching tongue

traced down abandoned hips.

You weren't looking.

God, your eyes, your eyes

force desire which fuels

this desperate masturbation,

tick tick tick ticking. It

drags you home, panting.

A pulling away. One damn pull

saves this descent.

Draw blinds in mind’s house.

Draw blinds in mind.

How minds draw blinds till

blindness becomes the

newer wound.


(Cyndi Dawson)




Toddy Idol

Todd, we danced through

the Eighties, you in kilt and Docs:

the shaman of decadent punk.

You made playgrounds of us all

and we happily obliged.

When AIDS came to claim you

we pretended not to notice as you

shrunk into your spiked hair.

We refused the dark circles

and rashes no makeup could hide.

We kept dancing. It was all we knew how to do.

What you wanted was easy breath,

a continued ride on the swings.

Healing from the latest round of gay-bashing

was easy compared to the beatings AIDS dealt,

that toughest of bullies.

We stopped laughing so hard, and took off the Docs.

I found them in a closet yesterday.

Thought it might be time to toss them out.

I saved them as a way to keep you dancing

when your last dance was already long behind you.

(Cyndi Dawson)

Dread

Have you ever...

Dreaded to arise,

fearing your demise,

Demise of character,

sensibility and grace,

Left no choice but to

rant, to rage and to deface.

Filled with urgency...

Urgency to instill - some

sense, some patience,

some kindness,

Getting in return

more blindness,

Blind to facts, yet sighted

to myths.

Taunts, swipes, bickering and

tiffs,

Dreading to be on the

other side of the door,

Wondering but not knowing,

when you will take no more.

So you remain in bed, stalling

and delaying...

All awhile praying,

Praying and receiving, one more

minute of peace, with every

minute of sleep.

Have you ever dreaded to arise?

~Gina DeLorenzo~

Fuck Me

I want you to fuck me.

Fuck me gently
Fuck me right

Just don’t think I get off
going in front of crowds
and asking people to:
Fuck me.

And make no mistake either.
Because, you see
my grandfather was born in North Belgium
and there, the word fokken
means to nurture.

The same was true for fuck
until Latin was all the rage
and it was used by the rich
to bring down the poor.
Fucking was what Saxon farmers
did to their livestock
when no one was looking.

Therefore, I want to be fucked
but in the old sense.
I don’t want no fancy ideals
or airs of high society
but a gritty, grassroots, true to life, humble (eh, not so much) upbringing.
a Bohemian grand fucking!

Let’s stick it to the man
and take back the word;
let’s all get fucked together.

So fuck me

Like a farmer’s daughter does
to her beloved calf
with no menacing thought
entering her simple-hearted mind.
Taking care of my every need
pressing me up to her bosom
and holding me
through good times and bad.

Fuck me
like a mother does
to her newborn child
Every moment cherished
Every moment a gift of creation.

I want an honest to god fuck
like a Catholic schoolboy
I want to be fucked continuously
fucked until all I see around me is love
Fucked so that I can grow strong
and take on the world
Fucked so that I can blossom into a flower
bearing the most luscious fruits

I want to be taken from the depths
raised to great heights and fucked

I want to walk
in the Valley of the Shadow of Death
and have no fear
‘cause I know you’re fucking me.

And I will cry aloud:
“The Lord is my fucker
I shall have no lacking.
He leadeth me in green pastures
He bringeth me to flowing streams
and he fucketh me there.”

So here I am
a lamb
wandering alone in the wilderness
I need you
I want you
I beg of you
to fuck me
and help me find my way.

~Julian Taub~

Kev's Picks For The Best Of The Best Of Issue Two

 Kev's Picks For The Best OF The Best For Issue Two

     I truly believe we had a great issue, and all of the work within was good, but there were some pieces that I really like. I wanted to share them with you. Here they are:

WHITMAN

Good Old Walt Whitman,
He Brought Oranges
To The Freshly Bleeding Boys
Just Off The Battlefields
Of Northern Virginia.

He Put Cold Washclothes
On Their Foreheads,
And Listened Endlessly,
To Their Stories
Of Mother And-
The Corn Coming In
(this while the sepsis and gangrene set in)

Yup,
Good Old Whitman,
He Was Always Holding
America's Hand.

He Saw It All;
From California,
To Alaska,
To The Man
On the Moon,
His Poetry Had Us,
In It's Wide Open Arms

Now, It's A Truism,
That The Undeserved
Are Overly Rewarded
In This Life
(with the converse holding naturally)

So, It's No Wonder,
That Walter Passed Away
All By Himself,
In A little Room,
Of Camden, New Jersey.

There Was No Nice Husband There,
To Hold His Hand
When His Breath Went
Out On The Wind

Good Old Walt Whitman,
We Wish He Was Here To Thank
In The Flesh,

~Dan Gross~


Innocent Little Girl



Innocent Little Girl
So naive and so young
Didn't know her misery had begun
When a stranger changed her life one day
While he thought, 'well, this is going to be fun'
Innocent Little Girl
So sweet but so stupid
Met a boy as naive and young as she
But little did she know
A demon in disguise was he
Innocent Little Girl
So pure but inexperienced
What she wanted was love
What he wanted was fun
And before she knew it
The Deed was done
Innocent Little Girl
So broken and hurt
Suddenly saw her heart in the dirt
Where the boy had left it for all to see
She wanted to be loved but didn't know her soul was the fee
Innocent Little Girl
So angry and full of hate
She went out to find him and end his fate
Bound, gagged and tied up real good
Was thrown in the basement without water or food
I screamed,
Innocent Little Girl
Have you lost your head?!
By early morning's light, he will surely be dead!
She smiled quite wide as she look to the floor
"I guess I'm not that innocent anymore."


~Fiorella Arrunategui~

The Fetish

I want the world to go away. She dances under my bedroom window every night. Some nights she’s more roused than others. I know that others can see her, and I want the rest of the world to go away. I want her to dance only for me, but I realize that’s impossible. Yet I find some comfort in the fact that they love her in a pure, non-carnal way. Unlike myself, you see. I love her so impurely that it borders on obscene. Some would say it is obscene...this love I have for her. Sadly, they would say it’s obscene only because of who I am, and what she is.


There must have been a full moon the night it first began, although I’m not certain. Lying in bed, enduring yet another sleepless night, I found it odd that my bedroom was so illuminated, it seemed as if fifty invisible candles were burning.


Tossing and turning, thinking and hoping. Hoping to just close my eyes and fall asleep. My memories taking me back to when I was a small child. I was such a peaceful sleeper that I would awake in the morning in the same position that I fell asleep in. Nine or ten hours of undisturbed sleep later, I would rise, with a smile on my face and full recollection of my dreams. Wonderful, colorful dreams of running through blossom-studded fields and then spreading my arms and soaring ten feet off the ground. And then there were the trees. I always dreamt of trees as a child. Climbing and more climbing. The trees of my dreams surged one hundred feet or more into the sky, and I scaled them with ease, feeling every inch of the rough bark on my bare soles. I would sometimes awaken with tiny cuts on the bottom of my feet, but I would convince myself they were caused from walking around the yard barefoot.


All I was left with now were sleepless nights and yearnings. I yearned, yet did not know for what. That’s the thing that tortured me the most. For how could I fulfill my desire when I did not know what I desired? The answer came to me that freezing, end of March-night. I desired her. It was a yearning that I had to fulfill.


There she was. She spoke to me without words. Danced for me without music. Reached for me without arms. Right there outside my bedroom window. The light of the moon frolicked on her limbs. Every reflected beam was like a wink across a room intended for a soon-to-be lover. The dance she danced was so slight yet so sensual. Barely moving yet it was a wild dance. She danced only for me, it seemed. Surely many other men had been attracted to her before me, I presumed. Yet in my mind, I and I alone deserved her. They all had their normal, sleep-filled lives. Perhaps most were married, in love, had children. They did not need her or want her the way I did. Therefore, she had to be mine.


In the realization of my fetish, I felt so sick and abnormal. How could I lust after her? Although I had read nothing describing my adoration of her as a fetish, I wanted to wear this branding...this badge of having a fetish, around my neck for the rest of my life. Like a pyromaniac or a pedophile, I justified it. The yearning was so strong that I had to give in. I justified it by thinking that I wasn’t hurting anyone. For in my lust for her, she would not be hurt. She could feel no physical or psychological pain, you see.


So there I lay. Every shimmy and quiver she made compelled the moonlight to blink off my window. I could hear the wind whispering, but it sounded as if she was moaning. I wished it were true, and therefore, it was. One thing I knew for sure was that the yearning was mutual. In my mind, at least, she wanted me just as much as I wanted her.


I didn’t fall asleep that night until the sun began to rise and night turned into day. Once the sun began to twinkle onto her limbs, she seemed like a child to me. Off-limits to my sick fetish. I would not, and could not, subject her to my compulsion in the daylight. She would have to be my night lover only, for my desire waned once the sun ascended into the sky.


A few evenings later, and hours before our imminent consummation, my breathing became deep and almost guttural. Pacing around, and long, ice-cold showers that numbed my fingertips and toes could not put an end to my arousal. Nightfall could not come fast enough. If given the option, I would have gladly forsaken the sun forever, if only the twilight would arrive immediately.


Mother nature was my cohort that night. Although according to the calendar, spring officially began days before, it was a bitterly cold end of March evening that entered the record books. This hopefully ensured virtually empty sidewalks and streets. I wore a dark-blue cashmere pullover with nothing underneath, and a pair of overly-worn, soft as felt, button-fly jeans. My fingers quivered so much that it took me more than ten minutes to fasten all the buttons. I theorized that this was the least amount of clothing I could get away with, given the temperature, without seeming downright loony if spotted on the street by a passerby.


Making my way down the corridor of my building toward the door leading outside at 3:15 A.M., I didn’t even know what I would do, exactly, once I got to her. Like a mother reaching out to hold her newborn baby, still covered in greasy vernix, or a fly committing suicide in a bowl of scrumptious syrup, I just knew that my actions would come naturally. Without thought, planning or consequence, and definitely with the promise of pure bliss.


Once outside, I immediately spotted her.

Her long, naked branches resembled the limbs of an unusually lanky, angelic looking young girl, undoubtedly destined to become a fashion model. I took a quick glance upwards and to my right to look at my bedroom window. Until then, I had only pined over her through that glass pane, thirty feet above. A quick roll of my eyes, left, then right, established the fact that the sidewalk was devoid of people. As I approached, a short and frigid burst of wind bent one of her lower limbs downward and I was instantly overwhelmed with desire, as it was apparent that she was eagerly reaching down towards me.


I rubbed the back of my right hand gently across the lower part of her trunk. Her bark was gorgeously caramel-colored and rough. How on earth, I asked myself, could any man, including myself, ever have been turned on by moist, smooth flesh, or warm, wet kisses? At this second, a human woman’s warm, soft flesh seemed as repulsive as the bloody side of a freshly stripped piece of animal skin, and human female lips, like two plump, pink maggots.


Her dark, hard roughness added a welcome sensation to my mushy cold skin. In one smooth downward motion, my hand turned around so that my palm was now caressing her. After several seconds, my left hand came up and wrapped around her waist, which was slim and couldn’t have been more than seventy centimeters around. Holding on tight, I pulled myself close to her and pressed my chest into her lovely brown bark. The delicate fibers of the cashmere locked into the jagged furrows of her body. I could not detach myself from her even if I wanted to, it seemed, for each and every minuscule curl of goat wool had latched itself onto her tiny jutted bark imperfections.


In my newly twisted psyche, she was a warm-blooded, breathing, panting being. I turned my head and pressed my left cheek into her. Like a child making bark rubbings with tracing paper and pencil, I pressed long and hard until I was sure an impression was made onto my flesh. Our embrace lasted five to six minutes and it was enough to seal our love.


My lover is a Honey Locust. Deciduous by nature, our affair began that cold, end of March night, when she was still in her bare stage. As I made my way back to the entrance of my building that night, I became quite giddy with the thought of what striking beauty she would present to me in the warmth of spring, when her light green buds would burst forth and tease me with every night-time rustle, seemingly whispering my name. I was sure it would be— and it was—intoxicating.


~Gina Delorenzo~

This is something that both Brian and I agree is one of the best of the best!


Me


On the runway of life
when I’m shaken me off balance,
I want to be embraced
by the loving arms of a man
who won’t ask me to be
what he needs,
he lets me exist as I am,

The free spirit of a lioness,
a tempting seductress,
a passionate artist
with an unquenchable exuberance
for living life to the fullest.

Will reality and imagination
combine into a jigsaw puzzle
of unmatched pieces?
Or, will the vivid pictures
in his mind spur the tranquility
of this reality?

One thing’s for sure,
this you will see,
as I strut down life’s runway
I’ve got to be me!

Bonnie Martha Moret

The Who's Who Of Issue Two

Donnie Gatto - is a poet/actor who competed in, and won, the very first poetry slam she entered at the House of Xavier Ball with props, for her poem" "Passing" in 1999. Donnie has read her work at the Blue Stockings Bookstore, A Different Light, Pseudo.com, and slamed at Nuyorican Cafe. She is the author of two chap books: "Passionate Journey," and "Passionate Journey Revisited." This is her first poem in "PTE," and we're glad she is with us.

Fiorella Arrunategui - Is a firey and very talented writer. This is her first published work, and we here at "PTE" know that we will be hearing a lot more from this writer. Welcome to our pages!

Ice -  Is a New York city performance poet, living between Chicago and New York...

developer and founding editor of uphookpress, (please check out our website), there are dates
and places we will showcase our new anthology, "you say.say." this is our second anthology.
A Cautionary Tale, Peer Into The Lives Of Seven New York Performing Poets.
I have been published on line, in anthologies, performing regularly on the circuit here in New York.
Cornelia Street Cafe, Bowery Poetry Club, Telephone Bar etc.

Dan Gross - The author was born in Hackensack NJ, in a log hosptal. He grew up in a banal town in North Jersey where the tax payers were obligated to educate him. In the mid 1980's he attended a state college where there was a lot of cinderblocks and not much ivy. it was there that he studied the quarter mile and beer drinking.


After college, the author worked as a roofer, where, through cowardice, he avoided broken bones. Afterthat, he stumbled into a far more dangerous job: working for lawyers.

Along the way, he had a couple train wrecks of romances and near marriages.

Now, he resides on New York's Upper Westside, where he dates anyone in a skirt, or anyone who may have once worn one. He remains perpetually ready to finish his novels, especially his Great American one. (This is the one that is written about that long neglected subject, the Civil War)

His poetry is inspired by no one who survived past the 1960's, and who was born in the 20th century. Thus, he is headed for a lot of literary and popular success in the year 1932.

Paul A. Toth - Is a writer from Sarasota Florida. He has published several novels. One of them is "Finale," and "Airplane Novel" will be published in late 2010, or Spring 2011. Check him out on Facebook. We welcome Paul to our pages.

Kevin Michael Wehle - Is the co-editor/co-founder of: "Pushing The Envelope." He has poems published by The Poet's Haven: http://www.poet'shaven.com/. CC&D Magazine: http://scars.tv/. His Poem "Long Island Railroad" is it the February 2010 issue of Danse Macabre called: "Kismet." http://dansemacabre.art.officelive.com/. He has a chap book out called "Hairless....In A World Of Big Hair." You can check it out at: http://www.lulu.com/. He has featured at: "The Saturn Series," and Bengal Curry's: "The Phoenix Series." 

Roxanne Hoffman - worked on Wall Street, now she answered a patient hotline for a major New York home healthcare provider. Her poems and stories appear on and off the net, most recently in Amaze: The Cinquain Journal, Danse Macabre, The Fib Review, Hospital Drive, Lucid Rythms, MOBIUS The Poetry Magazine, Word Slaw and two anthologies: The Bandana Republic: Literary Anthology By Gang Members And Their Affiliates (Soft Skull Press), and Love After 70 (Wishing Up Press). She and her husband own the small press, POETS WEAR PRADA.

Bonnie Martha Moret - is a certified hypnotherapist and Reiki master specializing in empowerment and life coaching. Writing is her passion and poetry is her emotional outlet. Bonnie’s research has been published by the director of clinical hypnotherapy at Pendleton Memorial Methodist Hospital in New Orleans, LA and by the Northeast District School Board of Ontario, Canada. Other publications include, The Obvious Expert, by Elsom Eldridge, Jr., J’Adore Magazine, Syndicated News and her weekly blog, bisforbonnie.blogspot.net. In addition to writing, Bonnie teaches seminars, which have been featured at Marietta City Schools, Borders Books, The Knowledge Shop and Greater Atlanta Hadassah Health Professionals Council.

Danny Garcia - is a 26 year old lyrical poet/short fiction writer. He is a homosexual Mexican American, who is also schizoaffective. He writes lyrically because he loves music more so than he loves any literature. He was born in West Los Angeles, raised in Burbank, California, and he now resides in Flint, Michigan. He's been writing for 15 years. His lyrics convey a variety of subjects, such as love, inner-strife, spirituality, mental illness, etc. He's been inspired by poets and literary authors, but he's been far more inspired and influenced by songwriters, such as Mariah Carey, Brandi Carlile, Patty Griffin, Corey Hart, etc. Writing to him has always been like creating a collage, whether it's abstract or simple.

Laura Acevedo - Is fairly new to the scene. This is her first time being published by "PTE," and she has featured at "The Saturn Series." We're happy to have Laura in our pages.

Adam Henry Carriere - is a poet, teacher, and broadcaster. Recent publications include The Bicycle Review, The Smoking Book, The Mayo Review, Counterexample Poetics, Tonopath Review, Junked (2008 Poetry Prize Finalist), Zygote in My Coffee, Oak Bend Review. and Tattoo Highway. He publishes Danse Macabre, Nevada’s first online literary magazine.

Phillip A. Hubbard - Heard of us from Danny Garica. He is a great writer. who we are happy to have in our pages.

Brain Damian Sabbats - is a writer that defies definition, because he prefers being a rainbow with his writing. From children stories, to poetry of all kinds, to gay erotica, to a collection of stories about sexual child abuse: "To My Son, Love Dad," to the novel he's writing with John T. Bestecki called "What the Mushroom Said"(a gay love story set in the late 1960s of NYC). He prefers writing things that will hit you in the gut & make you feel. So be warned not to expect to feel safe & comfy. Oh, he has written insipid stuff much to he's own dismay & he asks for your forgiveness during such moments. We can expect him to blow up the world with his writing as soon as he finds proofreaders & the time to write. He's the co-editor of "Pushing The Envelope" which is a labor of love with blood, sweat, tears & a lot of cursing. So now read their 1st issue & feel things that you have never felt before lol.

Gina DeLorenzo - a native New Yorker, born and raised on the lower east side of Manhattan. She considers herself a survivor. She and her older brother Joe were raised by our grandmother due to our parents' death when they were young children. They became became each other's support system, and the hardest thing in her life, so far, has been to see him succumb to AIDS at the age of 33, back in 1991. She have always loved to write, but has only recently begun to pursue publication of my work. Her Poem "Dread" was just published by The Poet's Haven. http://www.poet'shaven.com/. We are very excited to have Gina in our magazine. "Dread" will be in the next issue. 

Maria Lapachet - Writer, translator, and HIV/AIDS & LGBT Rights activist, María Lapachet is the author of New York. New York. A poetic Journey, The Year of the Cat, and Suada. For more information: http://www.marialapachet.com/

Jean Soto - Has no formal training as a writer, but read poetry voraciously and have many favorites including Grace Paley, Bukowski, Oscar Wilde and Emily Dickinson. Aside from the writing of others, she is inspired by sex, nature and the frailty of the human condition. We loved having her in our magazine, and hope to see more from her.

Maria Chislom - Is a new comer to our pages, and we're thrilled to have her with us.

Patricia Carragon- is a New York City poet and writer. Her publications include Poetz.com, Rogue Scholars, Poets Wear Prada, Best Poem, Big City Lit, CLWN WR, Chantarelle’s Notebook, Clockwise Cat, Ditch Poetry Magazine, Mobius Magazine, The Toronto Quarterly, and more. She is the author of Journey to the Center of My Mind (Rogue Scholars Press). She is a member of Brevitas, a group dedicated to short poems. Patricia hosts and curates the Brooklyn-based Brownstone Poets and is the editor of the annual anthology.


Danielle Lucaina – Has been writing since she was eleven, but she is fairly new to the scene. Danielle’s poetry is full of rhythm, and soul. She is also our proof reader. She was just published by The Poet's Haven.
http://www.poet'shaven.com/

Anti-Social - has two pieces of art in "PTE" "The Vapors," and "Burlesque"


To know more about us, to get our guidelines or to submit for our next issue, or if you know someone who wants to receive a copy, or submit email us @ PushingTheenvelope09@Gmail.com.

Pushing The Envelope Issue Two The Third And Final Part

Sexual Reawakening

 

A den of pure pleasure

From many years ago

Returned to sight

Finally his truth came to light

 

Hurt to the point of

Amnesia

Into being a plain white tee

Lies shut down his libido

To barely breathing

It took an all beef patty

The taste of sweat and leather

To be recalled to the pack

 

He wants older

Tougher

Hairy men

Sin is in

Gave up his puritanical ways

To be a burlesque dancer

For the big boys

 

Fuzzy wuzzy was a bear

Daddy liked

Chubby cub

Let’s get each other off in the woods

Oh pack master

Let me be your bitch

Then I’ll return the favor

 

Boys he’s coming

This time he’s in touch

With his body

With his soul

Willing to shed some layers

Playing….touching

He wants to see how sweet

The honey really is.

 

~Kevin Michael Wehle~

 

 

 

EMMETT TILL

 

 

“Boy, why’d you whistle at that white Girl?”

I say boy, why’d you havta whistle at that white Girl?

They’ll getcha for that,”

in Money Mississippi.

 

Young men pounded on his front door.

Took him from his bed at night.

Said he had to be properly identified,

in Money Mississippi.

 

Young boy never did go back home.

The men beat him in a weathered shed.

Shot him. Barb wired his neck to a cotton gin,

in Money Mississippi.

 

His Mother had his body sent home.

Thousands viewed the disfigured corpse.

“YOU WILL SEE HIS FACE!” She said.

“LOOK WHAT THEY DID TO MY SON!”

in Money Mississippi.

 

14 years old that’s all he was.

Clouds still puff in the sky,

and the Tallahatchie still sails like a matter never was,

in Money Mississippi

in Money Mississippi.

 

~Maria Chisolm~

 

 

 

 

Details

by Daniel Garcia

 

Wet green grass

Dries too fast

Harmony

Shall find me

All Earth tones

Glow alone

Fancy words

Like bright birds…

 

And in a new beginning

Some useless chains are breaking

And I’m newly connected

To life that shall be sacred

 

Before I embark on a new life

I should pay mind to the details

Like everything that should be hailed

Like flowers, butterflies and snails

 

A cute boy

Christmas joy

A rebirth

Recalled mirth

Black coffee

Milky tea

Sweet brain farts

Unspoiled hearts…

 

And in a new beginning

New angels are beckoning

Tears shall be different colors

Like picking a new gender

 

Before I embark on a new life

I should pay mind to the details

Like everything that should be hailed

Like flowers, butterflies and snails.

 

 

 

                               An Appetite

 

I for an eternity have longed to taste you,

However my appetite has been destroyed,

My hunger is no longer,

No need to feed the poor,

I won’t settle for half a loaf anymore,

A feast and famine of feelings,

As your puppet, I’ve let go my strings,

You have eaten at my insides,

You can see it in my eyes,

But the eyes are always bigger than the stomach,

And now I am just sick,

Sick of you,

Never knowing what to do,

Never knowing how to act,

While diminishing my tact,

Driven to expulsions of waste,

And the harsh results I have faced,

My final acceptance,

Has seemingly reduced your confidence,

Scrounging for leftovers,

Forgetting that there were no firsts,

You have chosen your own emptiness,

I now have no need,

To feed,

The poor,

Anymore,

I have let you taste too much,

And memories are short of mutual,

And none the such.

 

Danielle Lucania

 

 

 

day sky

 

 

I - The child, he's got his own

private tourist,

smelling of pineapple and despair.

 

Each set of hands

takes a holiday

across the other blue body,

 

while each set of lips

like Lady Day

fill the red night.

 

 

 

II - That wind sparkle in his eye

has done gone;

there's no need to tell me

we're sound coming back,

earthen.

 

It's all over now,

     you've changed.

 

 

~Adam Henry Carriere~

 

 

 

Me

 

On the runway of life

when I’m shaken me off balance,

I want to be embraced

by the loving arms of a man

who won’t ask me to be

what he needs,

he lets me exist as I am,

 

The free spirit of a lioness,

a tempting seductress,

a passionate artist

with an unquenchable exuberance

for living life to the fullest.

 

Will reality and imagination

combine into a jigsaw puzzle

of unmatched pieces?

Or, will the vivid pictures

in his mind spur the tranquility

 of this reality?

 

One thing’s for sure,

this you will see,

as I strut down life’s runway

I’ve got to be me!

 

Bonnie Martha Moret

 

 

 

Fall

in hues of

sun fire yellow

and dappled orange

we shone

in glorious symphony

we fall

pertruding in the wind

gracefully mirroring

one another

neither you

nor I

Knowing

we fall

to die

 

~Laura Acevedo~

 

 

Three of our writers were published in: The Scars Publications 2010 Sexy Poets” Calendar. Here they are with pics, and featuring our PTE Queen: Patricia Carragon http://scars.tv/2010calendar.htm

 

	Mr. April Rhododendrons of the Sea Adam Henry Carriere The waves break in small modesty trailing tear-like from his closed eyes, aglow in the evening Pacific. Inside the blue-grey salt are feather-like red petals harvested from the window shelves of ships lost long ago; in their luminescence the sea feels without a stranger in the world and the left-over pearls smart in jealousy.

  

 

 

 

Ms. September and our current PTE QUEEN

Prayers and Wishes

Patricia Carragon

 

prayers             cover the earth trees stripped of leaves

wishes sit in a well a rain cloud leaves

 

 

Mr. December

Home

Kevin Michael Wehle

Glass half full
No longer on empty
The poets applaud
Living above the firing line of
Bullies, fools, and wombats
Finally I belong                                                            

                                                

                                                                                                                             

Here is the first ever group poem.  Drum roll please. The author of each line name appears at the end of the line they wrote. Thank you all for the input. Everyone did an amazing job. Look forward to see the next one. I gave it the title “Love Or Desire”

 

Love Or Desire

 

Blue eyes...nothing else moved me ~Kevin And Brian~

flashing bits of sapphire, burnt right thru me... ~Gina Delorenzo~

the thrill of your shrill tongue, lingering inside me... ~Adam Henry Carriere~

in velvet tempest, these things do inhabit... ~Jean Passarelli Sotos~

the greatest version of myself through your eyes... ~Julio Gomez~

A burning image of passion that forever flickers in the darkness of reality ~Fiorella Arrunategui~

let me dance for you like how the flame from a candle moves, and sways, so softly. ~Maria Chisolm~

let me sing songs so gently that you may drift sweetly into a new... ~Marilyn Thomas-King~

Love or desire...what is it you hope to find...I need to know. ~Kevin Michael Wehle~

Just how you feel, in the search for something real. ~Danielle Lucania~

 

 

We want to say thank you once again to all the writers. We would like to thank our proofreaders.

Also a big bear hug goes out to all the people who helped us along the way, and for everybody’s continued support. Thanks! Kevin and Brian J  For more info. about “Pushing The Envelope” please check out or FB page, and our website: http://ptealiterarymagazine.blogspot.com