ISSN 1551-8086
return to home search for a contributing writer

seach for poems by title

archive of previous issues submissions information mailing list online store links to other interesting sites contact us  
  November 2015
volume 12 number 2
-table of contents-
 
  home   (archived)
 
  featured poets
  paulo brito
  Don Kingfisher Campbell
  Michael Aaron Casares
  Emily Fernandez
  John Jay Flicker
  E.L. Freifeld
  John Grey
  Christopher Mulrooney
  Kushal Poddar
  Jan Steckel
  Wanda Vanhoy Smith
 
  home
  poets
  poems
  archive
  submissions
  mailing list
  store
  links
  contact
 
Wanda Vanhoy Smith November 2015
   

 

bio


T Jungle

    Wanda Vanhoy Smith was born in Portland, Oregon. She has had a children's book published by Charles Scribner's Sons. Her poetry has been published in several anthologies including the Northridge Review and Kerf at College of the Redwoods. She reads poetry at Southern California coffee houses. She has been featured at Coffee Cartel, Sacred Grounds, The Ugly Mug, and Borders Bookstore.
wandavanhoy@yahoo.com

   

 

Tattoo Holocaust Blues

Her tattoo is a choice.
She has a dove on her shoulder.
Her Grandmother had no voice.
Nazi put a number on her arm.
Wishful kin of Hitler's master race try to
convince themselves and the world
Auschwitz didn't actually exist.
Hitler's death camps are there when American troops march in and discover the gas chambers.
It's over over there.
U.S. Gas pumps welcome the Volkswagen
War weary German youth, welcome American jazz,
Ella Fitzgerald entertains at a concert in Berlin.
The swinging good will ambassador scats "Mac The Knife."
All the citizens of the world should be free to choose a
tattoo that is a dove of peace, not a number
Germany may be forgiven but the Holocaust not forgotten.

copyright 2015 Wanda Vanhoy Smith

   

 

CAT Takes a Scan

A cat scan seems an appropriate procedure for October.
It's a neat trick by medical cats to look at
a future zombie that covers my skeleton
with flesh and tissue.
Barium poison handed out as part of the test
would gag a maggot.
The chalk-like mixture is not a treat and it's
a neat trick to hold the gunk down.
The Medical Cat is not Doctor Frankenstein.
She isn't even a witch but an attractive medic.
She sees through my skin like a superwoman.
I think of coffins as the pussy cat
rolls me into a metal tube.
She orders "Hold your breath."
The Cat scans my kidneys, colon. lungs, and liver.
It ignores my sexy parts.
The report shows I am in good shape for the shape I am in.
I protest that I don't like the look
of my bony buns and droopy boobs.
The doctor tells me to blame Gravity,
She says I will live to see another Halloween.
She suggests it's time to give up wickedness and depravity.

copyright 2015 Wanda Vanhoy Smith