Robin Wyatt Dunn lives in Los Angeles. Crash out with me 1. red run run now the reason, and the delight, run now, it is a torrent. run now, before you become part of it. before you are one of us. before these powerful things came over what we are now, what we were, and made them real, or realer than they were. Hot train over the downpour of reality: I promise you, it's worth it. Come anyway. It's a lie, but come anyway. There isn't any choice anyway. You see, I've already been. In a way, I am you. Coaching myself into the journey I already know I will take. To sunsbourne, and its districts. To the end of everything. Tell me, tell me everything. I want to know. Was it as beautiful as you said? Was it as wretched as you said? Was it everything that it could have been? Was it delightful, and supreme? Was it righteous? Dogmatic? Was it the thing I wanted? It's all right. I know how it is. There is no time, and even if there were, you don't know what to do. Neither do I. I don't know either. I only know: here we are. I was made for this thing. You could be too. Why not try it out? Why not say: I too can be this crazy thing, called reality. And reality over reality, with you in it. Shimmering over galaxies and meteors and your lunchbox for the office and the kitchen table and counters and the light, outside, distant and furious and covering the grass and tree with you. It's all right. I know there isn't anything else we can do. I wish there were. Revolution is a funny instant, there’s nothing like it. I've got to try and say what it is. Help me, will you? I need you so much. - - - the rain. the rain and the rain. raining on me. raining overhead. Like a rape victim, not quite sure what has happened. I can forget about it. I light a cigarette under the protection of the arches to try and forget. Cigarettes are good at that: they want you to forget everything, except cigarettes. Hahaha. Forget everything with me and come inside. We’re these stony, killing things, morbid and useless, but still breathing, with our festive rites of our bodies and their bruises, bent in to the work, and the regret. I can't say anything enough to get this story right. It'll just have to be half right. Revolution. Heartache and foul, fictive, lasting, lingering smoke over the street, getting in your lungs, coughing, in your eyes, you shield them with your arm, peeking through to get your bearings: Am I on the right street? Is it the right day? You're on the right street, man. And it could be any day. Better by day than night and so here you are. What now? Let me tell you what. Hindering delightful things. Holding back, the axe, to wait, for the return, of love, and its turns, turning, over us, into the truth. Ha ha ha if only I knew what that was! I could be god. There are easier things than revolution but harder things too, I think. The easy part of revolution is: once begun, it's its own thing. You don't have to worry too much about it. It's gonna happen. Like gravity. You just get to decide where you're gonna fall. And where you're gonna climb up. Climb up with me, over the rubble, in the wet; be careful where you step. This is Los Angeles but it will be Sunsbourne. I'll make it. I promise. - - - Crash out with me over the furious fire of our torrentous century, long loved in furious despair, where lovers drift between rights and great beautiful tears, where we learn about each other's habits. Logic is no help to me. I could apologize for that, but why? If I lied to you, the story would only be worse. Best to tell the truth. Which is that I don't know what happened. I only know a part of the how. And the why. The feeling of it. Fury. Angela had been living with me for six months when it happened. The power was shut off and we couldn't get any wireless. We started playing a lot of chess, in the street. There were still food deliveries to the supermarket. No one was asking for rent. Like we'd been forgotten about. This little corner of reality, underneath the rug of war. “Is it still you?” she asked me. I laughed. It was the funniest thing I’d ever heard. She laughed too. It was a mistake, my laughing. It made a lot of other things happen. To laugh, or not to laugh? Well, I did. - - - It's not enough my telling you; it could be anything. I could be anything. I could kill you, and resuscitate you. I could be your child. I could dive with you into death, and give you the tour. Shining. Maybe I still will. After this part of the story is over. The medium may be the message and so is insufficient; we know. I must compress as well as I can. Get as much data as I can into the channel before my transmitter shuts off. But do you know the code? Will you be able to decrypt it? Can you stay with me as I burn? Hold my hand. Fire is only one stage, of the transition. - - - No love for me is bare, it is concealed, tightly and packed away, in your luggage, in your mind, behind your passport, beneath the floorboards. After the collapse of the state, and the introduction of new armies, when you can smell arrest, underneath your coat, in the lining, in an envelope, written in code, love waits for a while, to see what is happening. who wields the weapon and what routes exist out of these trees? what can I remember? - - - Friend, it hurts me in your stalwart lesion, in your bury bucket, in your soul. I hear your voice and I am terrified, because I need to know: will it come for me too? Am I already there? The police, or the magistrate, or the thugs next door, these chosen things so divined, and arranged, made useful to our enemies, however they may be, do they make you suffer? I’ll come to you. Tell me how to get there. - - - These are the sounds of the guns. Come with me, under the starlight, for I am here. I am still here. I can hear the water up ahead, under here. Come on. Hear the water. Inside. Inside your mind I am waiting, for the moment, to pull out my gun. But that moment has not yet arrived, and when it does, we will know what to do. Until then, this water is here for us. Let us stop by it, to know the sound of our ancestors, and indeed, to know the sound of us. Ignore the guns for now. They are not here yet. - - - The battle is over. I tried my best. This is okay; it could have been worse. It will give us some time to explore, now that we are no longer conscripted. Now that we no longer owe allegiance to any lord. Free agents: a strange thought. 2. Now I'm a newcomer, in my country that does not exist. In my despair I am sweet, like a lovebird, hatched from its clam, ready to explore the world. Let me remember nothing so I may be a happy castaway, knowing nothing of what has gone before, or who I was. Let me forget it all. Forget everything. I will forget everything. Let it all run away, like water, over my breast, over my heart. Healing me, of the world. Heal me of the world, so I might be able to live in it again. Let me die, so I will not have to see it any more. The world is too painful. Let me Oedipus, of a kind, having seen the world, and let me go blind, so in that darkness I can find a new world. One with no light at all. One where light does not exist. Where It cannot exist, except as a radiation felt on the skin. Here I am, in this strange place.
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Chrissie Morris Brady has been published by Dissident Voice, Mad Swirl, Plum Tree Books, Writing For Peace, Bournemouth Borough Council (UK) and Brian Wrixon Books as well as several anthologies. She now lives on the south coast of England after having lived in Los Angeles for many years, where she gained her degree and worked with recovering addicts.
Best A shy skinny Irish lad Homesick for his neighbourhood Never caused trouble Talented and promising Two years later We called him Superstar The first since Jesus Christ Sideburns , girls, fame His feet were like the Fingers of a pick pocket His left as good as his right He would leave his opponents With their blood twisted Ten years he shone A star, a supernova He had class, a gift True charisma Then he got bored with girls So moved on the drink Gambling and women Ennui took him Ten years he shone A moon out of the night And twenty years He took to die Ken Allan Dronsfield is a Published Poet and Author originally from New Hampshire, now residing in Oklahoma. He enjoys thunderstorms, walking in the woods at night and spending time with his cats Merlin and Willa. Ken is the Co-Editor of the new Poetry Anthology titled, "Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze" available at Amazon.com. His published work can be found in Journals, Magazines and Blogs throughout the Web including: Indiana Voice Journal, Belle Reve Journal, Scarlet Leaf Review, Peeking Cat Magazine, Dead Snakes, Bewildering Stories and many others. Where's My Sun I haven't seen the sun for at least seven days. Lost above the clouds through a darkening, ominous wretched haze. It used to shine so bright in the sky so very high. Even the seas are gray whispering still, 'why has the Sun bid us goodbye?' The weatherman says she will return, when one day slowly passes. But still she's gone, so I sit here on the beach, crying with the masses. Balladeer's Serenade A pristine morning of a day awakened with soft, gentle warm winds, butterflies dance in pairs. The beautiful songbird, a balladeer serenading all with an early morning greeting to the rising sun. A lonely feather floats down guided by the gentle breezes to rest upon the ground here at my dew whetted bare feet. Wispy marshmallow puffy clouded shadows linger with me during my spirited walk; the freshest morning ever. Memories of that feather; a finality of forgotten things fade away like melted snow, coolness chases each breath. Thorns and Petals And in the final act we were all just human intoxicated with the idea that love, only love would heal our starved hearts, mend our brokenness and bind our wanton lust with rose thorns and red petals. Melting in the Dark Mercy granted in the key of C, coffee cafe on a June Saturday careless in fantasies or icy dreams field full of Frisbee's floating freely geese on the pond chasing sailboats tripping in the park; melting in the dark Quagmire still runs searching for Lois dance a jiggety step as Peter frolics; seek forgiveness; tomorrow's Sunday busting a bubble from a pink Bazooka; pleasuring rhyme upon a cartoon insert begging for mercy in MacArthur's Park. Death Doesn't Knock I lost my friend this morning, death did not come knocking plying lies that hide the truth. Death simply walked in the door without pride or prejudice, and took what it came for and left. We all sat there stunned, lost as it were in that maze of heartache and disbelief, hurt and empathy. All served with a side dish of jealously and envy that he will never worry again about getting the oil changed, paying another electric bill, or the filing of taxes. But, regrettably he shall miss family birthdays, Christmas, and anniversary celebrations with his dear wife. Or will he? Perhaps he will be a shooting star, a butterfly in the garden, or red cardinal at the feeder each winter morning. But all in all, we are simply left here to carry on; never to forget his smile or memory. Angelica Fuse is an unquiet voice from Los Angeles. She has been published at Outlaw Poetry, among other sites. Funeral she’s a mother I don’t know but I feel so close to these people I weep on the back pew even though I am surrounded by strangers I listen to their stories inserting myself inside the narrative – remember how I stood in the doorway? Foot in Mouth yes, I’m loud louder than I should be yes, I never know the right phrase to use if this were a spell I’d be standing outside waving my useless arms like an angry mantis a complete idea rarely coming from my mouth. Chitin I have formed rows and rows of shell on my back to protect me from the weather to protect me from criticism so go to shit I say to all the weapons to ring against my spiny exterior. Jack D. Harvey’s poetry has appeared in Scrivener, Mind In Motion, Slow Dancer, The Antioch Review, Bay Area Poets’ Coalition, The University of Texas Review, The Beloit Poetry Journal, The Piedmont Journal of Poetry 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. A La Fin In the night of love, in the light of love, we repair the ravaged goddess; tinkling bells, a ballad worn out; love, hanging heavy on the heart, love, like a sunken boat, green in the sea, love like a delicate ivory contraption, love’s body like a strong soldier, stronger in battle. And Proud Of It All vanity, said the preacher of Ecclesiastes, picking his way through his ennobling prose, all beneath. Hills and streams the backs of our ears the wind at our backs our Hamlets not real; man's inhumanity or love incompetent and incomplete. Rock of the hearth star and soil all vain and thin wasted with self-feeling; to be alone and adore the gape of time and ages gone, too, is no powerful liniment; pour good, pour often what speck we have, waste as you will; on a corner at the end of time death waiting will not care will not spare you nor scant you eternal rest. New Bedford Before dawn lines leave the dock, bare table floating. Thin coils in tubs, hard hooks; the flickering steel-blue unknowing fish waiting. At sea, lines lean out long and deep; hooked, gaffed, silver piles shiver on deck, then lie grey and still as stone. Before night, turn the boat home, three stars gleam over the harbor; the work is done. Short and Sweet Rosie's fine legs under the barstool; loved by how many midgets? Exuma 1967 Powdery blue fish your intricate leavening describes the ocean in meditation. You hang like tin crescents in a forest, pointing every which way to the absolute. The coral fan spreads her dandy branches, the anemone gulps with longing for sun and rain, steady providers of other climes; for change, too, the rose sighs in her cut-out garden. Such blooms, such creatures find their way, their blind will moving like the wind; wild geese home to roost, oracles marooned and mute in the vast the magnificent room of countless things. Will Shadbolt loves to read and travel. He has lived in Germany and China and been to a dozen more countries, each time bringing plenty of books along for the trip. He currently is back home in America working as a proofreader. When he is not completely exhausted after a work day, he blogs here: willshadboltblog The Path The path is velveteen black broken by Patches of stars between cloud and branch. I can see the beginnings of the road, The flashes of flowers, for this is Spring, But now by night beauty has gone. The buds and petals tremble, Resemble fetuses and dead hope, As stars become dots of blood. I walk it, an attempt at a cure for Odd insomnia—in daylight the trail Brings me up, arguments become Smiles—but now the late hour only Blackens my mood. And then comes a turn. Footsteps. I look up at the man, He goes by head down hands in pockets, And I wonder what misfortune has Forced him to walk the path? Family Reunion 1 At night the barbecue coals burn A mirror for balls of nightlight: Bright and visible, each star almost Distinct like distant faces. Each star too far for us to Know it in detail. 2 Across the bonfire, Shadows like lace Obscure my uncle’s profile. My cousin sits next to me, But extending my arm, I cannot reach him. Leaves They come in Spring as little buds And grow forth to green sails Mapped and crisscrossed by veins. A trail lined with brush and trees and Shrubs—a good spot for a date. Then comes the Summer simmer, Shades creep down to offer respite, An offer we are glad to take. Sun burns down, making an Oven of the world. We don’t care. But the green goes, replaced by colors Of stars, and the finale begins. Like tears they fall, slow and Rhythmic, and crunch underfoot. I step and step and hear the music Play in the wind. I look back down The path and all I see is emptiness. The Horizon When Blue’s forces near the horizon, Black’s attack. The first strike paints the sky’s edge dull crimson But Blue regroups, hits back, and the horizon Deepens in color until it is a distant Flame that flickers, mixes, purples The once Blue expanse. And then like a Rose, the battle bloom’s into war: Yellow gunpowder blasts, Orange explosions, Red fresh wounds. Black’s forces overwhelm And the world turns Gray, dark gray, black. Battle scars--flickers of whites dot Black’s land. But Blue will return, rested and restored, To plant another flower come early hour. My name is Moses Chukwuemeka Daniel, I am from Ebonyi state Nigeria, Africa. I'm a young poet. The pen All hail the pen, all hail her ink, For every strength spent, For every night she thinks. The shoes she wore yesterday, Now walks on marbles of words, They rule like the wind in the rains, Controlled by thoughts. If wisdom would be a friend, If love would have no end, If suffering would bare no trend, All this she writes endless. She sleeps beside hope, For a better tomorrow, She walks in lane of imagined gold, With optimism for our homes. She never let the mirror, Decides the future, Because beauty is in the heart, That is what she stands for. I am proud of a friend, I am proud of a gem, If I think of my plights, All I do is write. show me a man, Who writes and smile, And I will show you to his ink, That never gets finish. Who is the pen? You are the pen, believe in her strength, Sorrow in her end. She is no God, But mighty is hers words, She is love, She is mightier than the sword. The truth about life Life holds so much to tell, Of the truth that she bare, Two things guild life's sphere, They are but birth and death. Some say it is a journey, Some say it is a story, Some call it good and some fool, But I call it truth. Yesterday is gone, A new day has come, One truth about now, Is that we can never live forever. Reality is a friend, Fallacy is our end, A dream built on exaggerated wall, Will one day grow old and fall. Even the rivers wash away, Even the sun dies everyday, the moon is prone to dark ray, Life like the irony of the snails. Look the bird in the sky, Sometimes they weary beyond their smile, Look the penguins in the Antarctica, Life says love who are. I see blades, guns,arrows, spears very ardent, They don't fight themselves, They are held by innocent men, Used by other men in an incessant quest for leadership and wealth. What you see is what you get, What you get is what you learnt, When you sow love, Surely you will reap joy. He who falls, Should pick himself back up, Only losers stay stuck to the floor, Only winners fall but keeps standing tall. Beauty is beyond mere view, Love is beyond men's clue, The face will one day fade away, But the heart will live until we fade away. The truth is just a lie to the wise, But the lie keeps you crumbling until you die, Face the world it's in a piece of paper, Face life before the day gets bitter. Gareth lives in North Wales, he has been published in various magazines and hopes to achieve something with the pen THE CLEANER I was told he was gone by his son. Remembering his frown, like a ballast of railway line. Firm as the cliff edge. He was ex army. Bringing with him discipline, strictness, a cliff face look. When he came out he opened up a cleaning business. Wiping away the used breaths on glass, brushing away the dead leaves, sweeping away the lost voices, hoovering up dead skin removing nightmares of wars he had known. SHEPHERD STEPS There was room and light as we made our up and into. Skylight shine on the well mowed grass. A ball fizzed across, a cannon shot. Sheep stepped behind, with wrapped burger, rolled programme in back pocket. He was always ahead at this stage. When things came to an end I dreaded the squashed lung, fire drill rush. The steps were miner tight, chamber leading Where we all struggled to breath for air; Each foot fall was hammer blow, no flow. I just caught a glimpse of his hair as he headed for the outer. My small limbs shadowed by grown ups. Conveyor slow. I wondered if this is what happens at our own final whistle. The walking dead heading for the next game. He often looked back, led me with his eyes. I followed as a sheep back then. I hated the end, where I couldn't cope with him down there somewhere. While I ached to catch up. But now it is the other way. As he whistle blows with each breath. But I walk slow just so he knows I am not too far gone. CWM PENNANT I hear you whisper in the last of light as I slip back to the unknown dark. You are a place I have been before when new light broke the skin on my eyes. I hear you whisper in the last of light as I slip back to the unknown dark. I feel you in the distance when coming by aching to place adult foot on your land. I was pulled out of you years ago screaming until you held me safe. I hear you whisper in the last of light as I slip back to the unknown dark. My heart aches to live in you again, swim warmly in your bluebell sea. I once suckled on your fresh mountain top giving me strength to walk, walk away. But I long to sit again, press my hand on your breast. Feel the heartbeat that chimed for every minute I grew. I hear you whisper in the last of light as I slip back to the unknown dark. Wishing to walk back to the womb of life and the warm sea of mother blue. AMENITY SITE The clunk and clank of skips, squashed dust puffed up into the air by the dead weight drop, coffin heavy. where things will wait until the next time. the stale smell lingering in the fabrics of workers. they give you that zombie stare, as if their own life has been thrown away too. crushed cans, rolling bottles, fridges sitting silent, like old people in a home. crinkled carpet of yesterdays steps. a heave and swing of a container, yellow vested men watching in lighthouse stance. a shrug of the contents Allyson Whipple is a student with the online MFA program at the University of Texas at El Paso. She is the author of two chapbooks: Come Into the World Like That (Five Oaks Press) and We're Smaller Than We Think We Are(Finishing Line Press). She teaches at Austin Community College. Democracy and Exile While the Berlin Wall is coming down my mother calls, makes Thanksgiving plans with in-laws she despises. My father out of town. Just business? She knows the truth. Halfway around the world, freedom spills, hammers and hands in concert. The Berlin Wall is coming down. In Cleveland, no snow yet. Everything is brown and gray. When I am thirty-one, I’ll be on the sands of Panama at Christmas. Won’t come back to town for holidays. I would rather drown on some foreign coast than sit through reprimands and arguments. Easier to bring the Wall down. No resolution, no peace to be found in this family. We’re Israel. Afghanistan. Iran. Like my father, I escape, always flee from town. But I have Catholic guilt. My mother’s frown haunts me. No matter where I am, I hear demands. (Ragan implores Gorbachev to bring the wall down.) But I can’t go back to our war, our town. Mutilation Every time I opened my mouth to speak, my jawbone popped and cracked, the hinges crying from the nights when I drove my teeth against each other. You’d carved diagrams from Grey’s Anatomy, sliced sections from the heart, excised portions of the brain, carved up muscle networks, neural pathways, the coffee table a loose collage of cadavers. The pill bottles sat empty for days. Then more days. I wanted to cling to the threads of your old self that sometimes flashed at dusk, after drinks. I wanted to weave them into a shroud. The best part of a love affair is walking up the stairs In your bed, I feel like I’m alive twice, fingers threatening to rip the sheets to splinter the bedframe Double life, double lie, where you’re not married where I’m not a mistress For an hour a week, easy to deny where you come from where you go afterward Just an hour a week, if I’m lucky the most you can get away to pretend maybe someday No. I’ll take my hour, my brief breathlessness when I hear you on the stairs Maybe love only lasts a lifetime when parceled out in tiny pieces that you can barely grasp Scott Thomas Outlar hosts the site 17Numa.wordpress.com where links to his published poetry, fiction, essays, and interviews can be found. His chapbook "Songs of a Dissident" was released in 2015 through Transcendent Zero Press and is available on Amazon. His poetry collections "Happy Hour Hallelujah" (CTU Publishing) and "Chaos Songs" (Longsword Press) are both forthcoming in 2016. A Steady Resolve When the cold wind is howling in your face, and each step seems more difficult than the last, trust in the process. When your enemies are lined up a mile long, and you have to face them all down one by one, trust in the process. When the lies are being hissed straight from the snake, and the bitter truth seems like more than you can take, trust in the process. When you reach a high plateau atop the peak, and yet you know there are still a million miles upward to seek, trust in the process. Naked Dreams Crimson nightmares stain the neurons of my inner eye and I can sense the emerging last refrain as lust begins to sing a twisted lullaby of a dying passion collapsing beneath the waves we once stirred up between these sheets The carnage of the vision is more than I can bear but I keep my peepers closed for I know all too well that the truth will be even worse upon the wake Shuttering Lens Every poem is a snapshot in time. This one just blinked. |
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