November Poetry Selection

(Poets: Abigail Russel, Ivan Jenson, Louie Crew, Donal Mahoney)


Patel Art by Taskin Khan

Pastel Art by Taskin Khan


Ol’ Pal

By Ivan Jenson


I do hope

you will stop by

expected or



or formally


with a bottle of wine

or a bag of

coffee beans

and that you will

bring a mutual friend

or someone I have

never met

and that

we can catch

or miss a flick

grab a bite

at a diner

or dine at

a four-star


and that

you will

reach for your

wallet and place

your credit card

on the check

by the bottle of Moet


because you

are the millionaire

and I am the poet



Ivan Jenson’s Absolut Jenson painting was featured in Art News, Art in America, and

Interview magazine. His art has sold at Christie’s, New York. His poems have

appeared in Word Riot, Zygote in my Coffee, Camroc Press Review, Haggard and Halo,

Poetry Super Highway, Mad Swirl, Underground Voices Magazine, Blazevox, and many

other magazines, online and in print. Jenson is also a Contributing Editor for

Commonline magazine. Ivan Jenson’s debut novel Dead Artist is available as a

paperback and on Amazon Kindle and Nook. His new novel, a psychological thriller

entitled Seeing Soriah is now available as an eBook or in Paperback on Amazon. 


Diablo.. can you see him, cigar in hand. ..another quick art by Ashe

Diablo.. can you see him, cigar in hand. ..another quick art by Ashe Troberg


By Abigail Russel

She was red

Red like city sunsets that burned through windows on the upper west side

Hot like campfire

We gathered around to tell stories of lost lovers

She was my broken hope

Shattered from the fall

I pray you had it all

It’s only what you deserved


Sometimes she was blue

Blue like the pen I use to write

Electric but accepted

Her voice rang true

Speaking even if there was no one to listen

Always there never missing

Like the sky

I never took the time to appreciate her mind

Blessed with thoughts so standard to her

But new to all the ears that could hear



Like her hair

And that dress she used to wear

Before it teared hopping over that fence


That dress said hello

Inviting me

Enticing me

She ran with me

Pulled me along

We escaped the night


For a while everything was white

A perfect combination of every color

A rainbow reflected off of our passion

Everyday a new facet would shine a different color of her personality

It was like being in love with a new person everyday

Then she turned black

Black as the deepest pit

Sucked into a deep abyss

She called for help

Couldn’t help but fall into herself

She woke up covered in welts

She slipped away

In the black of the night

That night we ran

She turned around and couldn’t stand what she saw


She saw purple

She saw my face converge with hers

She saw our violet violent love

And she was scared

Scared that I’d be just another long lost lilac lover

Afraid she’s take my color

Colors that I wanted to share

I begged her to have

But she refused

She couldn’t stand to see me fade

Didn’t want to see out love age

Keep us in that honeymoon phase

So she put us in a glass cage

She had to keep me safe


Safe from the night

Because no light means no color

And no color means no life

The end of your strife

She had to protect me for fear of this

She became my knight against the night


She was doing everything right in her tarnished mind

But she was so blind

To my needs


I just needed her to see that I didn’t want to put our love on a pedestal

I wanted to live it

I wanted to see her colors change through the seasons

To witness her tints and shades

I didn’t care when they came or went

As long as I could behold them


But I really wanted to see her green

To see the verdure of her

I wanted to lie in fields of healthy lush love

To skip through florid fauna with her

To see her as an emerald entity

And to hold her budding body in my unripe arms


Or her orange

I’d have shared my apricot affection with you

Kept our hearts beating together in a constant citrusy syncopation

I can deal..

I mean

I could’ve dealt with your tangerine temper


But now all I really wish

Is that I could at least have her red again

Because without her

My life is left




Abigail Russel,  is a 16 year old aspiring poet from Brooklyn.

Stefan Troberg © 2013

November Northern Cardinals
Water Color Digital Art by Stefan Troberg.
Stefan Troberg © 2013


  The Right to Do our Own Naming

By Louie Crew


I held a glass to the wall of

a learned journal:


     In nursing homes

     nocturnal emissions

     sometimes terrify

     very old men.


A man watched tv on the sampan

in the harbor below my window

while his sons hoisted nets.


I peeked at your comments on a

student’s paper:


     Mature with these

     issues. Question

     over several years. 

     If others had   not

     done so, we would

     still bind feet, not

     just minds.


   An intercom interrupted:


     Use the white

     courtesy phones in

     the lower baggage

     area. You may  wait

     for your party at



“But Chinaman is a nice  term.

Why do you say that I have

insulted you?”



Louie Crew is an emeritus professor at Rutgers. Editors have published 2,293 of his

manuscripts, including four poetry volumes. You can follow his work at

See also The University of Michigan

collects Crew’s papers.

Contact Crew at

Digital Art "The Cat And The Rat"  By S. Troberg Stefan Troberg © 2013

Digital Art “The Cat And The Rat” By S. Troberg
Stefan Troberg © 2013

New Yawp, New Yawp

 By Donal Mahoney

God is everywhere, I know,

but Michael Bloomberg,

the mayor of New York,

is catching up.

He’s on TV incessantly, 

telling folks about his

new commandments:

Thou Shalt Not Buy Big Sodas.  

Thou Shalt Not Buy Big Guns.


He disturbs my neighbor Roscoe, 

whose bib overalls encase

a perfect pumpkin paunch. 

He likes a wash of Mountain Dew 

after double shots of gin

and keeps a howitzer under his bed 

in case some nincompoop some night 

comes to steal his llamas or his wife.

“Llamas cost big money,” Roscoe says.

“but I can find another wife.”


Unlike God, whom I have yet to see,

Michael Bloomberg has a face  

reminiscent of the four on Rushmore.

I want to yell at him but can’t because

the man sounds almost right.

I had nuns in grammar school like him

but they smiled once or twice. 


God loves all men, I know, 

but I’m afraid the Lord might ask 

the mayor of New York to take

the microphone some day 

and firmly announce 

the End of the World.

At any given moment

Michael Bloomberg is 

the best man in America

to handle that assignment.

He was born to separate 

sheep from goats. 



Donal Mahoney



Donal Mahoney has had poetry and fiction published in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his earliest work can be found at