Heavy Hands Ink

Well, here it is…the big announcement…

HeavyHandsInk is moving and becoming a PRINT MAGAZINE!!! Here is our new site:

http://heavyhandsink.wordpress.com/

I hope you all enjoy this new project.

Maxwell Baumbach has a major announcement that will forever change the young publication. Sounds interesting, right? Come back to the site on Friday, and you will find out what it is.

George Moore

Buddha Caves-

Deep in an earth that does not give back light,

down five guano splattered cathedrals of rock,

along a knotted rope the monks use without candles,

the Dante tourist descends through heaven.

Below on a platform made of curled wood,

strung with a loose tapestry of old saffron robes—

curtains to deter the bats—we sit and breathe an earth

that has known the origin of darkness.

Ash Krafton

By the Side-

He seeks a key.

His quest takes him through realms unnumbered

sprinting after a dream

I am tugged along in his wake, an afterthought to his actions

my place by his side a given, a constant

No longer in his line of sight.

I do not remember the moment I had faded from notice

gradual erosion of existence; silenced

when I spoke up or, more often, answered with a

non-committal

noise, assenting without hearing. He charges on, chasing his goals

choosing his paths, changing his destiny

changing mine

If only a mirror! Perhaps my reflection would catch his attention

He’d see what burns in my eyes, stings my lips to be spoken

I’m more than a shade, more than a shadow

His gaze toward the horizon, he

overlooks his greatest resource

He seeks the key

never realizing I am the door.

——

Undone Before Begun-

Like a rough shove between the shoulders I am urged onward toward an unseen end.

Unseen but not undreamed:

this ungift-like gift of foresight makes me dread what is to come

and already I mourn for what has not yet been lost. My future has been stolen—

possiblys and could-bes and maybes etched into stone

as immutable as the memories and certainties of the committed past.

Undeniable.

What is hope? What is dare? What is try

when all that lies ahead is preordination?

Architects built this destiny with flawed blueprints, unknowing

I, the instrument of their operations was, itself, flawed—irresolute and unscrewed

to the sticking point because my heart had changed.

My foundation crumbles and gravity pulls me to my fate

like light toward the event horizon where

time slows down—drags to a still stop—and I am crushed at the core.

Unsurvivable.

All this I see: the ungift-like gift is not prophecy but hindsight,

a remnant of time travel and the black holes that swallow us when we dream.

Ironic that a heart could change, and, yet, change nothing.

If only unwishes came true.

——-

Bio: Pushcart Prize nominee Ash Krafton is a speculative fiction writer whose work has appeared in several journals, including Niteblade, Ghostlight, and Silver Blade. Ms. Krafton resides in the heart of the Pennsylvania coal region and is an active member of Pennwriters, a national writers group. You’ll find her lurking near her website Spec Fic Chick (http://frontiernet.net/~ashkrafton).

Erik Estabrook

The Heart-

If you testify and suare it by your heart,
then maybe i’m not just banging my head against the wall,
 
I wear it and suare upon my heart,
someday we’ll both become our song,
 
I hear twilight birds in turquoise light above,
singing out their hearts for love’s song,
 
a solitary bird I’ve become,
but everyone needs shelter sometime,
 
I’ll tuck you in under my wing, my love
and this heart will swell up like the moon full of richness,
 
name our love and it’ll be named,
pick the fabric and it’ll be hewn,
pick the tempo and I’ll give it rhythm,
 
testify by the heart and never lie to the heart,
and I’ll be there poeting our love.

Lorna Gilbert

after he died-

personal effects shoved tight against a damp, grey wall

bloodless arms laid over a silent chest

an edict from proletarian etiquette of yesteryear

a different nurse

pushing the same medication cart

shift after shift

passing pills to one less resident than before

an open book

pages still

no reader

his story: laboured breathing, Cheyne-Stokes

oscillating, crescendo-decrescendo

no time left to watch the sun gently rouse a reluctant day.

in a high-rise a tired mother rocks her baby back to sleep

to the mesmerizing murmur of a street cleaner

listens to it waltz up the empty boulevard

whisking debris, blood, and tears

the tangible remains of dreams gone astray

yet in the cool, undying quiet of the cemetery

when half expecting

to greet his god

or something else

or nothing

but finding those he lost

singing, dancing

he forgives

all is forgotten.

——-

Janet Kuypers

Build Your Own Cross-

why be a carpenter
and build your own cross
when Walmart
can do it for you

selling mass produced
2’ tall
wooden crosses
with glued plastic flowers
to hammer into dirt
at roadsides
for accident victims

why be a carpenter

why build your own cross

when Walmart can do it for you

—-

Thinking. I Hate That.-

I think the reason why I’m doing this
is because I’m lonely.
I’m sorry. I’m rationalizing.
I look over and see the bartender’s yellow bracelet
and I imagine having a conversation
and I ask him if there’s a cancer story
and he says no
and he asks about my blue bracelet
(which happens to have ALS at the top for us to see)

and I have stories with MY cancer bracelet
that I’m not even wearing,
which I won’t get into

and I think about the cancer
and he asks me about the ALS
and then I start thinking.

I hate that.

—-

Left With a Hole-

you ever see tee vee shows, or in the movies
how some protagonist would fall into a coma
i don’t know from what, a gun shot, a car crash

well, every time they wake up from their coma
and they’re under from like four weeks to four years
they come to and they’re mentally just fine

they talk in complete sentences,
and they remember what happened to them
right up until the catastrophe

But let me be the voice of experience
in the real world, that’s not the way it goes
you don’t remember what happened right before

the coma began, you’ll wake up confused
because your long-term memory never got the chance
to save your short-term memories from that fateful day

when you wake up, you’ll have to train yourself
to walk and talk and eat again
you’ll fall out of your hospital bed trying to leave

you’ll want to kill the people who did this to you
you’ll want to scream your story to the world
as they put you in restraints at night

you know, for your own protection

you’ll want to rip that food tube out of you,
but you’ll be afraid to put food in your mouth.
look, you’ll have to remind yourself

that you’ve done this before, it’s not hard, everyone does it
put some food on a fork, put it in your mouth,
remove fork, start chewing, and just swallow.

I know it seems strange, but you can do this.

you have to build your life again, piece by piece,
I mean, you did this from scratch when you were a baby,
you’re an adult now, you can retrain yourself

people will ask you if you remember what happened to you
that fateful day, and they’ll think it’s just like the movies
and everyone just snaps out of their coma good as new

you won’t know how to tell them
that you’ll never be as good as new
and nothing you can say will make them understand

that even though you woke up,
those bastards who did this to you, they took so much
that you can’t even remember

the seconds before your life was forever changed for the worse.
you’re left with a hole. they even took your memories
of the last seconds of your life from you

——-

Janet Kuypers is a professional performance artist, a writer, photographer, and a literary magazine editor, while running Scars Publications, which hosts two literary magazines, publishes books and releases CDs. She has had 53 books published (poetry, prose, novels and art), has sung in 3 acoustic bands, and worked with 8 music groups (combining her poetry with music. Her CD releases (38 in 2008) appear at iTunes and other online vendors, and she also produced a monthly iPodCast and an Internet radio station (2005-2009), found through http://scars.tv or  http://www.janetkuypers.com. She is also the host of the weekly poetry open mic at the Cafe in Chicago (http://www.chaoticarts.org/thecafe).

Janet Kuypers

So-

so the hotel I was in
didn’t have a continental breakfast
so i looked for a diner
for a bagel for breakfast

so i pulled into some dive
and i just sat there

i kept me head down
i don’t like looking at strangers
so i kept my head down
looking at my writings

and i didn’t even notice
my head was buried in my words
but the lady walked over
and dropped the bomb

of liquid into the coffee cup
into my upturned glass

i watched this black mass
sloshing around, contained but violent
as she walked away

i don’t like coffee, you see
and i could have stopped her
said no thanks

but this was my fault
as much as it was hers

so there i was
staring at this coffee
that i don’t even like

so i’ve got this bailey’s flask in my pocket
i guess that tells you something about me
but
if i’m going to have coffee
i’ll sweeten it with anything

so my eyes dart right, then left
then right again
make sure no one’s watching me
so i open the flask
under the table

then

slowly drizzle in the creme

i watch it form a mushroom cloud

from within that contained bomb

i try to remember where i am
where i’ve been

i didn’t know
that on the other side of the country
you just died

i just looked at my coffee
that i don’t even like
and wondered if i should drink

—-

Janet Kuypers

observer’s love poem-

maybe I’m not a writer
maybe I’m not an artist
maybe I’m an observer
like an astronomer
looking out past the solar system, past the Kuiper Belt
looking out into the universe
trying to understand what makes everything
everything

I travel around the world
learning different histories, different cultures

I fly in airplanes
I jump from airplanes
I pilot airplanes
trying to get closer to the stars

molecule by molecule,
we originate from stars
and I know we are all linked,
our bodies formed from stardust

but outer space
is a violent place
violent explosions create the stars
and our earth has earthquakes,
avalanches, volcanoes
tsunamis, typhoons

and in all this madness
somehow I’ve found you

with you I have walked on the tops of glaciers
with you I have watched solar storms
    from near the Arctic Circle
with you I have walked through the gates
    of Hitler’s first concentration camp
with you I have sailed from island to island
    retracing the Origin of Species

I bought a balalaika for my guitarist in Russia
I’ve even held your hand at the Great Wall of China

as I said before,
I’m only an observer
and with these observations,
I thee wed
because I will never let you go

I’ve seen galaxies collide
I’ve seen comets smash into planets
I’ve seen supernovae and the death of stars
and in all of that, I still found you

as I said, I’m only an observer
but I’ve found what I’ve been looking for

I’ll tighten my grip on your hand
because I don’t ever want to let you go

——-

Janet Kuypers is a professional performance artist, a writer, photographer, and a literary magazine editor, while running Scars Publications, which hosts two literary magazines, publishes books and releases CDs. She has had 53 books published (poetry, prose, novels and art), has sung in 3 acoustic bands, and worked with 8 music groups (combining her poetry with music. Her CD releases (38 in 2008) appear at iTunes and other online vendors, and she also produced a monthly iPodCast and an Internet radio station (2005-2009), found through http://scars.tv or  http://www.janetkuypers.com. She is also the host of the weekly poetry open mic at the Cafe in Chicago (http://www.chaoticarts.org/thecafe)

Kevin Heaton

To Hell With It-

Although the

              human

experiment has at

times exhibited

signs of

           promise;

indeed,

demonstrated a

desire to

             elevate.

The rudimentary

levels of

development

achieved thus far

have consistently

       fallen short;

the intended

goals unrealized.

Therefore, the

process should be

        abandoned.

—-

Kevin Heaton

Depravity-

What utter

         nonsense

is man?

For he

               alone

amongst God’s

creatures

        possesses

the age-old

yearning

              desire

to seek with

zealous fervor

his own

      destruction.

——-

Kevin Heaton currently lives in South Carolina, formerly from Oklahoma where he published Country Music. His work has appeared in: Heavy Hands Ink, Right Hand Pointing, Counterexample Poetics, Elimae, Foliate Oak, Calliope Nerve, Full of Crow, Carcinogenic Poetry, The Recusant, and others.

Kevin Finucan

Skyscraper-

You told me my tower was the death of your flowers,
while you stood within its walls, that held you safe against rage of the
weather.
And every drop of water sliding freely down every glass pane
was a subtle tribute to the sweat along my forehead.

You told me my eyes were mocking your American dream
while you quietly asked me to offer you peace and a paycheck.
You sang of giving your spirit for love
while you ate out of hand that cradled you from above.

You traced your finger along the curve of my back
and applied pressure to the twist you found there, calling it art,
while the lines you followed formed the map
that carried you through the storm.

You called my skyscraper the end of beauty,
how it stood in proud defiance of the sky.
You called my hands, pressed in reverence against its walls, a disease,
while it is only against your cruelest lies that they will always crease.

H.D. Whatley

Daytona Dad-

We drove the old Ford wagon across the gulf states of the South

from Louisiana all the way to the sunshine state of Florida.

We stayed with my aunt and uncle on their farm in Lake Helen

with orange groves and lots of room to roam.

I played with their collie dog in the pond

and rode a horse for the very first time.

We went on down to a place called Marineland

where I saw the dolphins jump through hoops.

Then on to Disney World in wet and rainy Orlando

where we went 20,000 leagues under the sea.

We took a ride in a glass-bottomed boat on a river

where the monkeys jumped on board to greet us.

Then on to Daytona Beach for the day

where Dad was stationed during the war.

The army mechanics would soup up their jeeps

and Dad and his buddies would race them at night.

He was only a nineteen year old boy then

but now he’s dead and gone and I miss him so.

Ricky Garni

HAVE YOU HEARD THE ONE
ABOUT THE JOKE

I know it sounds like
a bad joke but I made
a boat out of jokes
my plan to sail away
the mast & sail was a joke
about a guy goes to the movies
with his pet chicken
the jib was about a mother
in law, I gotta tell ya–
the rudder was a joke about
a priest and a rabbi go
into a bar and for
the boom I didn’t use
a joke at all I just used
a microphone boom and
they were all bad jokes
but as any seafaring man
knows nothing matters, nothing
well it only really matters
that the hull is sound and
that it doesn’t leak water
so it stays swift and true
the horizon is clear
the wind is at your back
and so I made a joke, great
about love and forgiveness
I made it into a hull and just to make
sure I added a pet monkey,
an ex-wife, a farmer’s daughter
airplane food which is terrible
a guy who walked into a bar
who dares not cross the street
and a heart that says knock
knock who’s there followed
by a long silence and everybody
laughs and laughs and laughs
and boy are his arms tired
at these prices, you never will
and I sailed on and on and on
I had no fear and the craft
was true the horizon was steady

N Renner

The Ring

I’ve seen her
I’ve seen her with you and she looks amazing

she is one of those women
that wears a dress to the food market

with nude pumps

her hair looks perfect and shiny

all the time

and her blue eyes

sparkle

compared to my plain brown

she has two pairs of earrings
for each outfit

just in case

and so you know
while you’re sneaking off
to meet her at that bistro
I’m pawning the ring for double
what you paid for it

and spending the money
on that boat you always wanted

——-

N Renner began writing shortly after her father died when she was eight years old. What started out as rhyming lines about rice and her nephew Bryce, soon turned into life stories in a few stanzas. Still writing in a dark corner, N resides in Utah with her husband, two daughters, and a tortoise.

Counting. By Kathleen Herboth

One girl, One heart.

Too big of heart
Too big of a mouth
Too big of eyes,
Shedding too big of tears down too fat of cheeks,
Drenching the collar of an old sweatshirt

Three big words
That get caught up among three ways of being:
Body, mind, and soul.
Three times I’ve tried to get my point across,
And three times I have failed to show you.

For there are many stars filling up the sky
For there are many hands that can hold mine
For there are countless summer nights,
Promising adventure and something new

But forgive me for saying,
I’ve lost the count of days,
The pages got wet and ruined
The Oregon rain won’t hold out,
Drenching every inch of this place,
There is no way to escape the crying city

Portland weeps. I weep. I count not knowing why, or for what,
But I keep count, so at least I have something to hold on to.

——-

Biography: Kathleen Herboth resides in Portland, Oregon where she keeps busy among friends, family, playing soccer, and writing about everything she experiences. Her favorite mode of literature is poetry, where lyrical rhymes express her every day encounters.