Christopher Hopkins was born and raised in Neath, South Wales, surrounded by machines and mountains, until he moved to Oxford in his early twenties. He currently resides in Canterbury and works for the NHS. Christopher has had poems published in Rust & Moth, The Journal, Harbinger Asylum, Anti-Heroin Chic, Tuck Magazine, Dissident Voice magazine, Duane's PoeTree and the online literary journal 1947. Two of his early e-book pamphlets "Imagination is my Gun" and "Exit From a Moving Car" are available on Amazon. Winter moths The shadows of street lights swing with the commute. Flared sienna yellow, between the black colours pooling. Over the stopping lines, ode of joys to an empty parking space, the lucent light of chiller aisles, to our private lives behind closed doors, us winter moths of January, head off the frantic way, where a wolf moon is seen, above the forest walls. Where desire lines are turning black, upon the tip jar coverings. Up the skelters' of ivy sheen, to the electric black of the oak trees bare, that staving hunter’s eye stares the twilight dying. Diesel trains pull into sunken towns. Us, all tinned meat unloading, With a hurried pace for such grazing stock, along the flagstone’s numbered stops. Stepping light, onto our the forest tracks, with a thug embrace of a gale force warning. To blow us home, what ever the shape our sails may be. To there, Cathedrals of living, or the room where your freedoms be. Away from the storms they gave names to at this time of year. News Report of Trawlerman Lost It was a welcome sight, only known to them. Hooker and line. The lights of the pub and the quay side chapel, shine out to the dark, where the salt grey reaches. Those horizon sat stars, guiding the hearts back home. To the hillside fortresses of family arms. Today, that home-come relief, is cold at the sight of these pricks of light. Upon the shoreline kindred rally, on a word of worry breaking. The silence drowns the pitching surf, their views so still like drift wood rooted, in their stew the harrow asking, ‘Whose prayers have been forgotten?’ The answer comes on the cert of bobs, a steamily slow course bow. Its engine sounds clack out loud, like the hooves of the pale horse calling. ‘Come quickly home, come safely so’, were the singing graces for the leaving crew. Now whispering pleas in grasped amens, ‘Lord, don't leave their love forsaken'. Then the halt of beat upon the mark. Brunt knuckle white around the heart, as the name is said, so softly so. Sorrow for the loss and a good man too. And waves roll on that hallowed soul, their wash of grief through the cockle shell floor, the spindrift tears touched the lips, and the taste was of a man’s last breath. Through the calling hours of curtains closed, the wake beers bought in lieu of flowers, their prayers hands still clasped together, when they're told, with hand on heart, 'the voice of the Lord is upon the waters'. Guilt in relief, the end for others. A sorrow on the hill ‘It's a place to go’. Here, where nothing comes, only the bread vans and the ‘taker. Men drink in the lounge, while weigh-ins for the slimmer's club go on next door. Cigarettes left their piss stains on the celling tiles. But no one’s looking up. Into jars upon small brown tables, the gaze lined instead. The talk and laughs some angered shouts, it's a little more than drink talking, from the dark torus of the room. Some with a rasping chest behind each line. A crackle in the laugh, that becomes a man's sentence. The velvet gleam of the billiard table, is the brightest thing, in the centre of the room, like a slice of spring remembered. Money only went down the hill, in carriage, stretched from lamp to the sea, and it left them up there, in their houses no one wants, longing for someone to start singing a childhood song on a Saturday night. Someone is to blame, but the blame falls wrong and nothing gets done, all knowing that history isn't enough these days, to bay the slip of hope, to stop the brewery locking its doors. It was a place to go, that place where nothing comes. Ghosts of machinery Ghosts of machines sit in the clouds unseen. The giants’ backs outlined, but their shadows don’t reach down the hillside anymore. The wildlife aren't scared off. Making homes in the ruins of toil, while the foxes eye the street foul, through the splinters of the bus stop at the gates. An ex-town, a paragraph on glossed note. A common history, a washed novelty, for the trickle of heritage coins. The snake pit of factory lights on the black canal The kids eat. Father works and mother works harder, copper counting. Pride is not the sin. Pride means worth. Worth means love and a future. No resignation from duty, from the Monday morning of responsibilities. This is for love.
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Donal Mahoney, a native of Chicago, lives in St. Louis, Missouri. He has worked as an editor for The Chicago Sun-Times, Loyola University Press and Washington University in St. Louis. His fiction and poetry have appeared in various publications, including The Wisconsin Review, The Kansas Quarterly, The South Carolina Review, The Christian Science Monitor, Commonweal, Guwahatian Magazine (India), The Galway Review (Ireland), Public Republic (Bulgaria), The Osprey Review (Wales), The Istanbul Literary Review (Turkey) and other magazines. Some of his work can be found at http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html#sthash.OSYzpgmQ.dpbs A School Bus Is Coming On weekday mornings on a quiet corner three moms with small sons and daughters wait for a school bus they hope is coming The children laugh play a game of tag three moms are silent three feet apart One reads a book another smokes the other checks her cell phone The bus pulls up the kids pile on and rush to windows to wave good-bye the moms all wave as if in sync The bus takes off makes its turn three moms walk home three feet apart down the block without a word three moms with children gone are free at last white, black and brown A Prescient Moment Melanie was waiting for the light to change at 12th and Broadway when a large fellow in a big truck and 10 gallon hat roared up right beside her. His truck cab loomed above her old Buick. His stereo boomed so loud her windows rattled. His truck was worth less than one of his monster tires. Melanie chafes when a big truck parks next to her at Walmart especially if an SUV pulls in and parks on the other side. She’s afraid she’ll back out and hit an oncoming car like her father did. Minutes later Melanie arrived at Walmart and had to park between a truck and SUV. Visitation will be held at 4 on Monday. A Swede, A Dane and Two Norwegians Everyone who has money should drop it in a vat and anyone who needs money should take what they need a Swede, a Dane and two Norwegians tell Fred, also an economist who flew in from Yale. After a three-day seminar in the Antarctic, the four men sit down with tankards of ale, each comfy in a chaise lounge chair on an ice floe slowly melting. Back at Yale, CNN interviews Fred about his book on the seminar. The CIA is now investigating. A Sportsman on the Weekends Some things can’t be fixed any other way says Bill in his bedroom on the third floor hoping to get some sleep after working the third shift. He adjusts the scope on his hunting rifle, makes certain the silencer’s on right glares out the window at a bull terrier barking all day, a dog that has never worked a day in its life, Bill says. In another minute the terrier will never have to either A Lot More Bounce Fred jerks back in his recliner as his wife puts him on the spot and asks his opinion about a dress she bought on sale at a fancy place for a great price. The dress is the size she wore years ago when they first met. It was the only size left. Fred shouldn’t have said “Lovely dress, my dear, for evenings around the house. A lot more bounce." Kate Thomas is a graduate of Clemson University with a Bachelor's in English with a minor in Creative Writing. She was the first place winner of Clemson University's 2016 Creative Writing Award in Poetry and plans to pursue an MFA in the near future. Skateboard I tell him that I can’t come over right now because my mom just called and said that my brother is standing on top of that building downtown with his skateboard half on the concrete, half on the open air and he may or may not be sick again. So he tells me that he’s sure he won’t actually do anything but he gets in his car and meets me downtown in the parking garage where my brother and I saw our mom kissing that bartender from that dark, Irish pub. We run out until we’re under the building but there’s no one up there on top of it. So I grab his plaid shirt and open my mouth to ask where he thinks my brother is but then I hear a skateboard on the next street over. Lois Greene Stone, writer and poet, has been syndicated worldwide. Poetry and personal essays have been included in hard & softcover book anthologies. Collections of her personal items/ photos/ memorabilia are in major museums including twelve different divisions of The Smithsonian. Connections Who dropped the crumbs? Weren’t they concealed by leaves or dirt on the path? Oh, also, houses are blown down in real life by tornados. Did a pig snout have such force, or am I confusing it with another narration? When I reach for my red-hooded coat, do I need a wicker basket to complete the outfit? I can huff and puff just doing exercise. Why do I get soup either too hot or too cold and seldom just right? Oh. It wasn’t soup in the story; maybe that’s why. The vine climbing a backyard tree could be Jack’s beanstalk and it’s so strong I can’t seem to remove the thickened crimson thing. ‘Once upon a time’ are aging words; hm, they start fairy tales also. A parallel JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. His chapbook, The Truth About Snails, is available on Amazon. DeHart's poems have appeared in a variety of places, including Gargouille and The Other Herald. Needless to Say It almost goes without saying, but the phrase is still offered. I can respect that. I respect a word that stands up for itself, unflinching in the barren air, filling a formerly empty space. This is the fear of first utterance, of composing on a blank line, the challenge of words on a page. Seeker Let me lie here a while, another moment, and soak in the search, my face in plush carpet, calling down epic fire from the sky or just a bit of breeze, listening to the calls around me of the other seekers, reaching for solace and heaven, reaching, up and up, past plaster, past chandelier, past roof and cloud and vapor. Underground Poet Words travel in traces around the web, dotted here and there, among other common voices. Featured on this page, do they notice, do they like, do they... and is that what composing is about? Pleasing others? A sound that's heard or a word that fills a screen? There must be a weight to the ink beyond audience. I Go on, speak, I record, I jot, I take note. Fill this room with story. I will simply ask, What do you want others to know? Then do my best to listen, lean in, intent, nod. Jot a note. It will hopefully make sense later. Tell me more about that. And when did you first know. And what is your greatest love. Tell me as much as you want. I'll do my best to represent it later, somewhere else. J.R. Sweeney writes to have fun and researches his Irish and French genealogy back to early AD. He lives in New England with his Father and Brother but the true"apple of his eye" are his terrific Daughter and Grandson. website: http://celticorigins.yolasite.com/ COMMANDMENT BROKEN I DID NOT ASK EXISTENCE is it I that they will keep? will they give me to another? or send me into sleep? Charles Hayes, a multiple Pushcart Prize Nominee, is an American who lives part time in the Philippines and part time in Seattle with his wife. A product of the Appalachian Mountains, his writing has appeared in Ky Story’s Anthology Collection, Wilderness House Literary Review, The Fable Online, Unbroken Journal, CC&D Magazine, Random Sample Review, The Zodiac Review, eFiction Magazine, Saturday Night Reader, Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, Scarlet Leaf Publishing House, Burning Word Journal, eFiction India, and others. She Is Me Her glistening face was set with polished pools of brown, a slash of teeth below. A primal splash washed the air. In the pocket of a mountain lake, translucent drops of water ran across her olive skin, light sandstone framed the beauty of her form. Light was all that passed as her lash flipped a diamond, to spot an eye that said, “We are young and I am ready, because I love.” That cove of water with reflective glints, of summer green and pale stones, held by steep hills of hardwood, was our castle for a little while. I was its king, and she was as ever mighty, as my queen. So immersed in a moment, that all could have been nothing more, the feel of her shoulder, the way that her breasts floated to, branded my soul. We were whole. So long ago though it may seem to some, it could never be less than now for me. And for those who sometimes log such things, one time will always play, too nice to record, and put away. For they know that, though she has returned to all, she still remains. She is me. Love It catches you off guard, in the most unsuspecting places, love at first site or an old friend, That tingle in your stomach, when you see that one person, you are filled with joy, A tender hug, A sweet kiss, True romance, Love. Breeze As the ocean wind ran over her she contemplated, Her thoughts raced and heart pounded, The smell of the ocean did not soothe her, Her issues were too huge, Her heart was full of sorrow, Hopelessness fell over her, There were no options for her, Death seems the only way out. Autumn in Michigan The trees glow with yellows, reds , oranges, The smell of bonfires in the distance and hoodies are welcome, Bringing in the fall with a brisk touch of wind in my hair, As the leaves fall slowly, children jumping in the piles, A full moon brightening the night sky, with each brisk blow of wind, we know winter in coming, but how we enjoying the autumn treasures, It is so brief and is the most beautiful time of the year. Summer The sun hit her, The warm rays made her feel alive, Making her feel happy, Vibrant colors surrounded her, The hope of happiness, All the energy summer brings, New challenges a wait. Identity I wonder if the trees can hear me When I scream aloud, Or if the dandelion screams, When I pick him out. There's no telling where life can take us; One day I'm a blade of grass, But today I am myself- Nobody else. Life chooses for me to be me. * You may think, at times, that the world is fatal That all just dies, and drifts, and slowly fades away That these lives we slave for now, Mean nothing to the end. I am here to tell you, little girl inside, That though you grow outside- You remain you. That while others will thrive, With masks to survive, You alone, shall be you I have seen the way you mark people, They excite in your art, Art of unique originality, And art in love. Do not keep seeking, instead, be sought You spend your whole life searching for what's naught These walls you channel are set bound in stone You must find those who will tear down your heart, Tear down your sorry heart, To find some love. Love, it may so happen, Love, it works, I tell you. Never stop saying, as you always be saying, “Nothing, nothing but love.” * Happiness is something We all deserve to find; More and more my happiness With you is on my mind. I need to find the courage To show how much I care; Then if you feel the same We’ll be a happy pair Racing Heart Her heart was racing, Breathless for him, His touch was all she wanted, The thought gave her butterflies, Her hands were tingling, The anticipation was excruciating, Finally his touch Keith Burkholder has been published in Creative Juices, Sol Magazine, Trellis Magazine, Foliate Oak Literary Journal, New Delta Review, Poetry Quarterly, and Scarlet Leaf Review. He has a bachelor's degree in statistics with a minor in mathematics from SUNY at Buffalo (UB). A New Idea
Creativity abounds, He continues to write his short story, What is it about? Does it have true meaning? He continues with this creativity, He feels good inside, A sense of confidence takes over, He feels a new idea taking place, Creativity is hard to define, It has many dimensions, Dimensions with a concrete meaning, Or dimensions with an everlasting fate, This is his work, His livelihood, Writing is what defines who he is, For this is his belief, To create and to be published, Publication is really the goal, His main goal is to feel satisfied with his work, For this is now, The future is at his beckoning call, The future is really hard to define, Success has many meanings, Let this future carry forward, Let it define what can happen, For this is the new idea, Foster it, Let it grow, This is all one can do, Only realism can exist as his new idea takes form as its definition stands the test of time. I am lucky enough to be able to write and in a way that I truly enjoy and hope that other people get something from it. After all a writer has to write. Suddenly As I walked into the supermarket A woman bent down in front of me. She started to pick something up from the floor I looked down, there was a round flattened chewing gum down there. I watched as she thinking it was money tried to get her nails right underneath it. I walked off shaking my head and laughing. She followed me in realizing her mistake. And suddenly I knew why I had left the house Coffee House Feedback I look at the girl's reflection in the sheet glass window. Another woman looks at me. I see her but still she looks, I am not that different am I? The woman shouts some exotic coffee to go but it doesn't matter because everything is in a 'to go' cup today. The Anglo Indian man told me the dishwasher was broken I asked him if it was him, he looked sheepish. I can't decide whether to tell the girl who made me my coffee that it was good because she told me she didn't get much feedback. The woman who looked at me before looked at me again as she walked down the road. It is quiet now but still I don't want to go but I know I must and I know I have to tell her how good that coffee was. As I tell her an old boy says "Horrible the coffee in here is horrible." "Mine was alright." I tell him. As I walk out he walks out with me with his coffee. He has spilt something on his jacket but not recently "Horrible." He says. "Well it will sober you up." I say "It will be Christmas soon." He says. It is January. Tent I bought a tent a while back when I bought it I was fairly sure that was where I was going to end up Living in some field in my tent. But time still rolls on and still I have a roof over my head and wine on the table and food in the fridge. Someone is looking after me so all I have to do is write. Blind Date I met her through some dating ad I turned up at her house, she shared it with two other women. They started to make fun of her as soon as I turned up. "Got yourself a man, well done." And they started to laugh. I took her to the pub and we started to talk for a bit. She was very nervous and kept talking and laughing. She said she would go to the bar for some drinks. There were a couple of stairs on the way down to the bar. As she went down them her legs gave way and she landed on the floor. A man came over and picked her up he took a look at me just as I was getting up and heading out the door. I hope they made a nice couple. Angelou Put two hands under my armpits and lift me and still I fall. Raise me above crowds pass me along twist me around and still I fall. Baptise me in holy waters from a sacred river and still I fall. Trumpet my name with adoration and still still I fall. Worship me and still still I fall. Be my friend the most loyal friend anybody could have and once again I fall. Pamper me look after me make me lazy and still yes still I fall. Betray me. Mock me. Piss all over my body. Shout, spit at me. Hate me. Torture me. Laugh at me. Cut me, pull my limbs from my body. Nail me to a cross. Let ravens peck out my eyes and liver. And I will rise. I will rise I Will Rise. |
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