Field of Vision

Stefanie Bennett

“Everyone knows that the dice are loaded,
everybody rolls with their fingers crossed.”

(L. Cohen & S. Robinson)

He said ‘I lend you love’
which meant – lease:
the aftertaste
of lips
on spent tourmaline.

The attache of indifference
doesn’t come
to terms
with chancery.
Doesn’t see
the meteor fall

or how she aggregates
the delicate


Stefanie Bennett ex-blues singer and musician has published several books
of poetry, a novel and a libretto and worked with No Nukes – Arts Action
For Peace. Of mixed ancestry [Italian/Irish/Paugussett-Shawnee] she was
born in Queensland, Australia. Stefanie’s been nominated for the Pushcart
and Best of the Net.

Three Poems

Matt Dennison


I ran away because my
parents told me that
I needed to do better
in school and I wanted
people to know exactly
what I wanted to do
with my life. I wanted
to be a professional
wrestler and I wanted
them to know that
my life was out of their
hands. I ran away to
make them miss me, and
when they did,
I was the one to
determine whether they
saw me or not.


He takes a back hand
and he grabs the rope
praying that he’ll
get a few minutes rest.
He gets that rest,
and it’s exactly at
that moment that he
pokes his opponent in
the eye.


He dreams of the day
he touches her. His
eyes only ever look
at her and he thinks
about the day he gets
to touch her and hold
her and he dreams
of the day she’ll be
his and he dreams
of the day she’ll
kiss him.


Matt Dennison hails from Florida. His work can be found in numerous journals, but he really wants you to read the work he submitted to The Miscreant first.

Three Poems

Gabriella Garofalo

Beads bags bonkers–
She bites off souls, doesn’t she?
Oh, she’s that scared ever since
They told her snakes and monkeys
Are the appointed guardians of hell –
Well, they’re not,
Those ladies grinning among crags and wrinkles are –
Beware, my soul, she’s hiding in the corners,
Safe behind the doors of your mind
When the brightest air roused in you
The blazing frenzy of time torching
The ages, the green –
Look, she may be preggo with truth,
She may be preggo with lies,
But feel not guilty, my soul,
As your only sin was
Gorging on primal colours,
Just go lost in a faraway cease-fire,
The silence of moon,
Shelter beyond clouds, nights,
Beyond God’s sighs when he squints
At some crippled light
You unashamedly called bliss –
Or time.


Dead men walking? Ok, we might discuss it,
‘Cept there’s a little problem:
They thrust out from the shelters,
Cling to the breasts, stop hunger –
Ever seen them in that trendy café
All white and steel?
Babies with mothers, red and blue stains
All over the street, a dead bird –
It augurs hope, right? –
But they don’t possess that much those spring flowers,
Only the red and blue you gave them –
At night or dawn?
Come closer, soul, those hands you don’t trust,
At dawn they spin, at night they tear asunder –
While grass and dashing stalks
Dream of leaving time black and blue,
Him and his darned skin,
Trees and moon just grow their light old –
Are you by any chance insomniac? Don’t blurt it out,
Set your breath ablaze when the oh-so-pure air
Warns you’re bit more than the taste of limbs
Or greenwood scent –
The blue keeps still waiting in the cold,
So be careful if light strikes down:
You game, word, for sticking to her in this bloody foul mess?
And don’t you hide my soul, God, ok?
Don’t, just tell me my house got ablaze,
So I’ll inherit the wind and the werewolf’s howls
We two can hear from afar.


Death was your book, she helped you learn
Young leaves fall, young branches die –
Do souls speak louder than life? –
Yet once you had the seeds of Persephone,
Wild freedom so easy to silence
And love saw to everything else –
Then out of the blue fathers, haphazard births –
You a table centerpiece,
Sometimes a guest among
Chipped dishes, animals, the dead –
But why can’t they see the proper thing
Is to lay the mind with your seeds –
Damn her, who cares if she’s ashamed,
Damn dawn, the fake promise wasting your fires,
A Sahara hissing its green anger –
Thank God they fail big time:
Lovers believe in lovers’ gifts,
Women in flowing sap or blazing pronouns –
Thank God you don’t believe, my fruit,
We both know, don’t we, the real fibre,
The rib of our jarring world is distance –
While you dream she’s feeding on her ice,
Is the moon playing Tantalus?
Don’t worry, I’m asking because
We only get a glimpse of ghost action
When our eyes get worn out on shredded charts
Dreams and a high-strung blue
Who’s got no jaded stars.


Born in Italy some decades ago, Gabriella Garofalo fell in love with the English language at six, started writing poems (in Italian) at six and is the author of “Lo sguardo di Orfeo”; “L’inverno di vetro”; “Di altre stelle polari”; “Blue branches”.

Three Poems

Jack D. Harvey


King and master of
the queen of morn,
star of heaven had he;
then time’s bony fingers,
forgotten in the boon,
touched the bloom of youth
and trembling old Tithonus
bereft, bereft,
locked in a room,
withering to a cricket,
an insect
chirping endlessly
through eternal mornings
waiting waiting alone;

begging the gods
for the grace of his doom.



The dogs’ code.

Two dogs, one bone,
don’t share the bone.

Watch outside,

guard the yard.

Bark a lot;

bark the bark
right off the trees.

Hate cats.

Love people
who smell good to eat.

Hate the pullers of ears,
the tweakers of noses.

The dogs’ code.



Horace knew what
is winter
what was winter
slow as molasses
by the fire;
centuries and centuries ago

so far across the sea.

Jack D. Harvey’s poetry has appeared in Scrivener, Mind In Motion, The Comstock Review, The Antioch Review, Bay Area Poets’ Coalition, The University of Texas Review, The Beloit Poetry Journal and a number of other on-line and in print poetry magazines over the years, many of which are probably kaput by now, given the high mortality rate of poetry magazines.

The author has been writing poetry since he was sixteen and lives in a small town near Albany, N.Y. He was born and worked in upstate New York. He is retired from doing whatever he was doing before he retired. He once owned a cat that could whistle “Sweet Adeline,” use a knife and fork and killed a postman.


Three Poems

Michael H. Brownstein


The first nap we took was long and comforting.
You sleep when you can, the noise bad enough,
but I can no longer stand silence.
You learn to eat when you can,
lift the fork to your mouth, your buddy gasps,
lifts backwards, a rose at his forehead,
and you think about physics, the laws of motion,
finish that one swallow, the air smoke and yelling,
the seed of a fruit, a sniper, a puff of dirt.
Later, you help others carry your buddy away.
There is never time to finish eating.
There is never time to take a nap.

This is the weather of crazy men,
word purists, electric company shareholders:
Hell is not fire and steam, blisters and melting skin–
hell is the weather where everything is not enough,
clothing in layers, fireplaces roaring,
inadequacies with the furnace. Every year
we are the madman who live here.
Every year we remain.


My wife was born at the lead of a bridge,
its moat turbulent and full of snakes.

Maidens did not speak to knights.
They had to find light on their own.

Our men not Roman Gods, nor Norse.
They knew the code to the city.

When my daughter arrived, wild flowers
blue and pink leafed, sprouted at the road.

My son studied the naturalness of his world,
slipped into gardens for hours.

If we have bread, if the water is drinkable,
if the castle is no longer full,

my children, my wife, my knights,my maidens,
some years harder than others,

some centuries a hundred year war,
some decades an African Renaissance,

some years years of flower and peace,
flour and trees glowing with leaf.


And so I forgot water, too, has breath
and purple weeds can lift their eyes from the mud first light.
cloud fire covers light with admonition and compliance.
I have forgotten them too, their pattern of speech,
their bright fingers tearing the sky apart.
There is much to forget and much to remember.
In time I will forget this also: the great Missouri
breaking the boundary, its belly pregnant,
its strength a pulse, current, a spread of hands–
rising, rising, rising–its fingers stretching from fist
into mud and design, debris and satisfaction.


Michael H. Brownstein has been widely published throughout the small and literary presses. He is the editor of First Poems from Viet Nam (2011). His passion is Project Agent Orange: Project Agent Orange



The Miscreant publishes flash fiction and poetry that challenges social boundaries, makes us rethink what it means to be human–and more importantly, bludgeons us over the head with raw, honest reality.

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