Jotted Notes in the Margin

                                                                  In my enthusiasms pages
                                                                  turn thick

                                                                  with ever-more-ecstatic markings. 

                                                                  He said

                                                                  no one can ever read a book 

                                                                  I've read.
                                                                  My hieroglyphics serve me well,
                                                                  though,
                                                                  and I hate the paltry margins
                                                                  of Kindle.
                                                                  More like you, they are, lost
                                                                  in the past,
                                                                  words raced by and gone back
                                                                  into mystery
                                                                  of thoughts come and gone into ether.
                                                                  My treasures
                                                                  require much pumping up to stay,
                                                                  fireworks
                                                                  on a darkened winter sky.

Carol Hamilton is a retired educator, having taught elementary school in Connecticut, Indiana and Oklahoma, community college and in the graduate writing program at the University of Central Oklahoma. She has published 16 books of poetry, legends, and children's novels.

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Baseless

one day the ground crumbles
the streets of stability split and

separate you

and me

and we stand at different poles

not tethered by power lines or sewage pipes and i feel

alone

despite the enormous sea

the enormous city engulfing me

and i wonder what the weather’s like on your side

and i wonder what i’m missing out on because i crossed over

and crossed back to what i once left behind

where are you? where are we?

across, over, around the bend?

lefts and rights that don’t lead to ends

lefts and rights that lead to nothing

they lead to nothing

nothing

Melani Grace Tiongson is a twenty-something Filipino-American writer based in New York. Although her aspirations lie in law and philanthropy, Melani has loved writing from a young age, and looks forward to seeing how her career goals will shape her future works.

Untitled from ‘Me Myself and I’ by Kamar Thomas

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Middle Class Poets

A tolerant democracy 
allows self-full, bloated poets 
to hide in a university 
sneering at the workings of the world,
secure in the protective cloak of tenure.
Once poets' voices raised the call 
for freedom, other great causes.
Now most wallow in comforts 
mumbling impotent objections 
to current events 
beyond their comprehension.

- Gary Beck

Tennis-playing, ditch-digging, salvage-diving writer with a penchant for poetry. Explore his impressive repetoire of poems, short stories, novels, plays, and other musings at garycbeck.com

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Oil Field

Artwork by Michael O 
(featured on www.hashthemag.tumblr.com)

Clay-eyed and metal-skinned executioners

breaking the body of the earth,

machinery rattling through the night,

workers aged by the wars of profit.

One man stands alone,

dreaming of an ending.

It’s happening, 

all around.

-Janelle Rainer

Janelle Rainer is a 24-year-old poet and community college teacher living in Colville, Washington. Her work has appeared in Harpur Palate, Steam Ticket, Script, Sugar Mule, and elsewhere. She earned an MFA in Poetry from Pacific University in Forest Grove, Oregon.​

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Death To...

Digital painting by Falk

Is this a common courtesy,

Alive in only me? 

Where once it was that thriving pulse in every vain, 

A common place, 

But with a societal pace, 

So easily did die away? 

Red, 

And rose, 

And chose- 

To leave a door unopened, 

A chair pulled in, 

A glass of wine replaced with rum, 

And beer, 

And sunsets of a fruity tinge? 

Or so did we whisk away- 

With a rude, 

Crude, 

Brute replace- 

Chivalry.

But try it for a taste, 

Give it your hand, 

For a kiss to place. 

You’ll find no kinder smile, 

Nor gentler pace. 

A suit, 

A tie, 

A poem- 

Confession? 

A lie… 

Oh but isn’t that the trouble, 

Let Chivalry that died rest,

It did so because- 

And this one must detest so- 

A fib, 

A phrase, 

A passing phase- 

I grieve, 

I weep, 

Because Chivalry did so, 

For Chivalry’s sake.

-Maurina Robinson

An aspiring Lead Game Designer, who captures dreams in writing as inspiration for that truly iconic, "terrifying" and artistic game that many will hopefully enjoy.

Read Maurina's "Butcher" in Issue 04 here.

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Aesthetic Necessities

I want to live with my parents forever because my passion does not bring the money for independence while mother chases away the beatniks because my lifestyle does not bring distinguishable satisfaction

I want to sleep on the floor of a ramshackle drug house, the rats biting my toes to wake me up and lice tap dancing in the forests of my head – a morning fix to add to the joy of working or living or bleeding as the pen quivers at the sight of my magical fingers

I want to curl up into a depressed ball of self loathing after reading rejection letters as my ex-sanguinated soul was not valuable or tainted enough to make money at the big summer sale

I want to be a burden for every friend I’ve ever made my drunken shenanigans remuneration for the never ending pile of favours that empties every wallet and coils around every mind like the shrewd boa of Eden

I want to contemplate suicide in the heartbroken shoes of eternal doomed romantics because my genius is left undiscovered for future generations to find and only then praise in my afterlife

I want to be the saintly nomad of the world – leaving pieces of his angelic heart in every village, fragments of his intellectual brain in every town and his dharma soul scattered throughout the rock

I want to embrace the radiantly malignant bosoms of life – losing myself in the love-struck snatches of the Aphrodite harpies, losing myself in the void of deliberate hallucinations, losing myself in the starry abyss of indie, psychedelic jazz and blues

I want to die too soon by the hand of god or my contradicting hand – my legacy is my life and its infinite struggles that enhance the eventual victories. Tears, blood and madness left behind for the miserable sheep that choose to follow and get high on tea and drunk in nightclubs and copulate ecstatically and write through tearful eyes then die at 27 and I am forgotten and they are reborn

I want to revolutionize the world with my essence – my artistic words to resurrect my heroic saviors and guarantee the sweet release of immortality.

- Gilroy Van Wyk

South African Mechanical-engineer-to-be-turned-wordsmith seeking self-enlightenment by embracing life, many religions, and every bit of knowledge this wonderful world has to offer.

Read Gilroy's 'Era of a Ruined Gods' in HASH E-zine Issue 04 here.

Medusa No. 2 by Japanese Artist Hiroko Sakai

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Night Falls

The enamel moon rises over the darkened land 

The stars sparkle like grains of sand 

The elusive stars flutter from our grasp 

Hanging just out of our begging clasp 

We remain grounded, covered in scars 

And shake our fists at the laughing stars 

We look up at the taunting sky 

And stand with an enduring sigh No matter how many times we tumble and fall 

We'll always dust off and stand up tall

-Sophia Randall

Favim's Photography

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Lion in a Coma

Lion in a coma, lion in a coma
Who wants to smell the fine aroma

Animal Collective

I want to smell the fine aroma

The fine aroma of Leila’s leisurely cigarettes

Not the way she smokes now.

The revolting scent of a hated habit, yearn for most.

As her homeland crumbles, Dunhill Switch to Captain Black she wishes to relax

Yet her pulmonary veins continue to throb, cinnamon sears with every pulse

Destroying her lungs the way the Lions have destroyed everything

Everything.

From her sister’s voice box, bedridden not only by a critical error but by years of rooted terror

That not only choke the throats of my paralyzed Teta but the throats of every Syrian woman, man, child.

“Don’t talk about such things on the phone ya Asma’a”

Don’t talk.

Rip your throat box out before the calamity of the consequences of free speech impend on you

Like they impended on your father

Like they impended on your mother

How can they not see?

You cannot impend upon bravery.

How can you not see?

The Lions will not destroy their bravery.

Mount Vesuvius is no longer dormant

Ashes of withering sorrow knotted in our knuckles

Pompeii hunters seek the informant.

Pointed bullets to the Lion’s den, bullet through his head,

Silence the chuckles.

Lion in a coma, lion in a coma

Freedom is my fine aroma

-Asma Alabed

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Losing Symmetry

Equivalence was dear to me,

It was a yearning of the soul.

Two equal halves, a balanced mind,

It took its toll.

With the hand's slightest twitch,

The colors start to blend.

Perfection dies before your eyes,

and symmetry is at an end.

-Joshua White

An Airman with an imagination 

http://hashthemag.tumblr.com/post/69962363567

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Jack of all Trades

A Jack of all Trades, 

Master of none,

Is often better 

Than a Master of one.

He is a renaissance man,

In every shape and form. 

Though to master a trade,

May take more than he can afford. 

So he dabbles in this,

Scratches the surface of that. 

All to try something,

He may be efficient at. 

No longer he stays,

Than to get a good feel.

No sooner he leaves,

Than when lost is the appeal.
- Hailey Brant

Scene from Orc Strain, a comic by James Stokoe

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New Beginning

New Beginnings- Jose Portilla

             I hope you will find a love,

             So big, so deep, so pure.

             Your previous loves have made you weak,

             And the new one should be your cure.

             You are an incredible woman,

             And you deserve someone like you,

             But you made some very bad choices,

             Unfortunately this is sad but true.

             Life is unpredictable,

             Some believe that there is a fate,

             But I think that everyone has a choice,

             You only need to keep the faith.

             Love is a strange thing,

             Wakes the best and the worst in man.

             No matter how strong you are,

             You can be hurt again and again.

             I know that you haven’t changed,

             But you feel some kind of fear.

             You have to move on with your life,

             And these are the words you need to hear.

             You have to forget all bad things,

             And remove scars from your heart.

             Leave the past behind you,

             It’s time for fresh new start. 

- Pavlovic Nemanja, Serbia. 

  26-year-old Civil Engineer. 6-poem old poet. I find inspiration in everyday life. & Classic Rock rocks. 

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Ode to a Pleasurous Life

One who pursues knowledge is one who pursues unhappiness. 

A man who pursues pleasure finds joy in everything. 

The sinful man suffers The One’s wrathfulness, 

The righteous man finds happiness beyond measuring. 

Taken for granted some pleasures go unnoticed, 

Little things in life bring satisfaction and delight, 

Pursuing the unaquisitionable is foolishness. 

But keeping hope always, and dreams focused, 

Brings an end to fright and reveals light, 

And the music of life; no longer tuneless.

-Remington CW*

Contentment Smoking by Joshua Petker

*Remington CW is an 18 year old student from the midwest United States. He writes poetry as a casual hobby, usually of the philosophical or reflective type.

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A Tortuous Path

Life is harsh and it is tough

The surface isn’t smooth, it’s very rough

Why do I feel so much pain?

Am I in a desert where it does not rain?

People on this planet are as clever as fox

Everyone I know is rigid of their orthodox

They are mean and they believe in selfishness

I am afraid of their evil plans and fiendishness

Their tongue seems to be like a dagger

In their eyes everyone is like a begger

Their behavior is a cause of stress

Others they just want to suppress

It is sturdy but you have to survive

With strength will you have to strive?

- Faruk Ahmad, 14, Pakistan

Amazon Under The Boom, courtesy of www.gogallery.ru

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a dream within a dream- illustrated

Aya Zahran, 18, Egypt*

A Dream Within A Dream 

by Edgar Allan Poe

Take this kiss upon the brow!

And, in parting from you now,

Thus much let me avow--

You are not wrong, who deem

That my days have been a dream;

Yet if hope has flown away

In a night, or in a day,

In a vision, or in none,

Is it therefore the less gone?

All that we see or seem

Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar

Of a surf-tormented shore,

And I hold within my hand

Grains of the golden sand--

How few! yet how they creep

Through my fingers to the deep,

While I weep--while I weep!

O God! can I not grasp

Them with a tighter clasp?

O God! can I not save

One from the pitiless wave?

Is all that we see or seem

But a dream within a dream?

*This is the artist's first CG attempt on Sai Paint tool. 

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Lacus Mortis

Death smiles upon the barren and the lost, 

Death pries on the souls of the hopeless. 

Death waits upon those who appreciate, 

Who realise the truth of fate. 

With grief, walk the souls, 

With anguish, they swim, 

Across the Lake of the Death 

They burn, within. 

Above, there lies, 

The sea of cold, 

Where even the most lustrous hearts 

Fail to glow. 

Below the flowing basaltic lava 

Below the wails of the dead 

is a place like none other 

is the place for those who dread 

The Truth, the Reality : Death!

-Asma Sohail

Aspiring Neurologist. Book Freak, Cat Lover.

PS- Lacus Mortis refers to "the lake of death, one of the many 'lakes' found on the moon", says Asma.

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