James, a retired professor and octogenarian, is the author of 3 poetry collections, "The Silent Pond” (2012), “Ancient Rhythms” (2014), and “LIGHT” (2016), and over 880 poems. His poems have been nominated for pushcart and best of web awards, and were published in The 100 Best Poems of 2015 & 2014 Anthologies. He earned his BS and MA from California Polytechnic University and his doctorate from BYU. His books are available on Amazon, and Barnes and Noble. Someday Someday, When there is no longer the anticipation of time, I will try to remember a beautiful smile, clouds, flowers, mountains, and red berries that gleamed from the sun’s rays, and shadows and silhouettes of golden goblets filled with memories sitting on a mantle. Someday I will try to remember faces that now stare from graves into ubiquitous rooms of forgotten thoughts in my mind surrounded by sentiments that were dropped through slots in doors with broken locks leading to hidden visions. Someday, When the wind is filled with the shadows of rusted bones circling bronze epilates scattered among the realities of existence touching weariness loaded with collapsed hours, I will sit in a stone chair laden with incongruities and etch faux images of the past on wood and stone. Someday, When I cross the dark boundary of authenticity and enter a room of pulsating sounds of lamenting monks chanting though the rubble of lost years and broken echoes, and hear a cacophony of broken chords consisting of reedless saxophones and gutless guitars playing a discordant refrain of jazz in a bar in Chicago along side a skinny chanteuse with a constricted windpipe, I will sing a sad song. Someday, when the rusted hours are weary of my presence, and I sit on the edge of classical ruins next to the bones of a Native American clinging to the warmth of the setting sun, I will hear the voice of the owl calling my name and sense the calm scent of death offering a release from the strain of the last winter of my life. All Your Fading Memories Before you are unable to do so, Visit the place where your early Impressions were formed when You were but a small child: Listen Again to the squawking of Haughty Blue Jays, the strident Cooing of Doves, and the rat a tat Tapping and frenetic chatter of Woodpeckers high In Oak trees. Put your toes in the lazily flowing Translucent rill, and eavesdrop On frogs with their basso Grumbling voices croaking In the Reeds. Watch hawks soaring in The sky high above your head, And take note of their haunting Trilling as they dip up and down In the currents of the wind. Watch Huge luminous louds scudding Over the mountains in the Distance, forming mysterious Statues in the sky for only you to See. Smell the beautiful aromatic Scent of wild flowers wafting in The breeze, and notice their Colorful summer coats, which They display with such merited Vanity. Then in the dwindling Hours of the balmy day, lean Against the trunk of a Pine tree, Close your eyes and listen to the Silence, and remember all your Beautiful fading memories. Outside On A Summer Night The golden moon is full tonight as secret revelations bounce against the ebony edges of its craters, and into my being. The atmosphere is balmy and clear a soft calmness prevails. Distant stars appear close enough to touch; thin pink clouds close enough to taste. I bend to the breeze lazily ambling down an old road filled with furrows, and ruts begging for smoothness. The moon’s rays encircle Oak trees lining the old road like golden spider webs, leaving gold tinted leaves that glisten with childhood memories. The night is calm, and my cares and worries vanish into summer’s warm ebony Hours. The Gift Of Another Day And…what is a metaphor without golden wings that reach into lonely souls, or without a fundamental definition of that which cannot be, but is, or without splinters of stars with gleaming voices piercing our minds in the shattered darkness of night? And…what is a poem without limbs that reach far into the unstressed iambic sky causing rhyming feet to walk along heaven’s edge? When seasons come and go, and the sun has risen, and set a thousand times, when the owl has called my name in the darkness of the late night, far too often, and when dreams should be forming as I attempt to sleep, I become aware that the threads that wove my tenuous life together are becoming, unraveled. My poetic thoughts are becoming brittle like my aging bones, my words, like my weary flesh, are becoming ashen and worn. I become aware that my poet’s inky voice etched on canvass as white as snow can only enter minds when the grumbling gate to their soul Is opened: Only then can my weakening mists of words be accepted into their memories, and reach into the spirit of their soul. Future dreams flutter in the winds of time like abandoned dry leaves in the miasma of the last fading moments of reality, slowly becoming unreachable, as are the trails in the woods, which were so dear to me, trails I used to walk upon when I was young, during the early morning hours of an apricot colored dawn. My years have fallen like bits of burnt wood into a fast flowing river and have been washed downstream to be judged by raucous crows filling the black void of life with cawing. I listen to doves cooing in the barren trees on the side of the dusty battered road that begs for smoothness, and try to fight back against the phantom that tries to paint my breath with the corrosive color of aging. In the wee hours of the vivid composite colored morning, I hear the bells of a church pealing far in the distance, and listen to the final eerie wailing of a coyote crossing the lea in a haughty symbolic trot. I watch the moon outside my window sending down beams that pray for rain to quench the thirst of the dry granite hard earth and wonder how they will dig my grave in such hard ground. My long lost memories spin across my mind like white crested waves in an angry obscure ocean, creating a colorless collage of feelings that cover the threshold between life and death, between grief and Joy, leaving icy thoughts echoing In my fading mind, and pain Increasing in my eroding body. But… then in the breathless yawn of daybreak, as I awake from my dark somnambulant hours, I am stirred by the day’s beautiful poetic pulse that shatters the overwhelming darkness in my soul, and paints an orange hue on the hills and, the meadow below. It is then that I realize that I have been given the gift of another day of life… and sigh in gratitude. On A Beach An elderly man and woman sitting in the sand and bright sun under an umbrella, slowly sway from side to side with the summer breeze, like pale ecru pieces of paper sculpture. Only old memories appear in their thoughts: The present has little time to form new ones. The man reaches for the woman’s hand, fingers clasp together, like old leather intertwining with silken strands. She smiles and her eyes like burnt umber glisten, he gently touches her face and smiles too. The oceans waves rumble onto the sand with a thunderous roar, but they only hear the whisperings of their hearts. Time is fading; the past in a space where hours rust, where memories hoard precious vanishing years, becomes the presence. They sit in serenity and silence as the waves come and go, and precious time fades into the scarlet hued twilight.
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Blanca Alicia Garza is from Las Vegas, Nevada. She is a nature and animal lover, and enjoys spending time writing. Some of her poems are published in the new Poetry Anthology, "Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze", now available at Amazon.com. Other published work can be viewed at: www.thepoetcommunity.com,www.whispersinthewind333blogspot.com,www.winamop.com, http://www.indianavoicejournal.com, http://tuckmagazine.com Thorns into Flowers Reborn from within, turning thorns into flowers your darkness into light; healing a bleeding soul. Leaving sorrows behind, smoldering in the fire Try to forgive others, but never forget the lessons, or wounds that are imprinted upon those desires. Until your essence is ignited and flies into oblivion. For love is the only thing worthy of this replete life. Three A.M. Staring at the ceiling in my bedroom, feeling a lump in my throat, memories running down my cheeks hurting me deep inside. It's three A.M. and sleep I cannot... missing you is tearing my heart apart. In the darkness of my room the silence is deafening. I can hear the tick and the talk of the clock whispering your name. Time is sometimes cruel I say... too short for those who are together... too long for those who are far away. Autumn Skin My beautiful lady with Autumn skin, do not be ashamed of the marks that time left upon you. Look into the mirror. You're still beautiful... You're still fire... burning with intense desire. Your body once was Spring, then Summer, now it's Fall. But there's still passion in your soul and body. Your skin still gets goosebumps when touched. Look into the mirror once more, you're beautiful... you're fire... you're desire. My beautiful lady with Autumn Skin. (Initially published in The Birdsong Anthology) Hold My Hand I could stay in the most dark and coldest corner of your soul... I'm not afraid of your darkness. I would break my heart into a thousand pieces... just to write you a poem with every one. I could remain in silence for awhile... just to hear the sweet melody of your heartbeat. I will walk with you in the fiercest storm... if you promise to hold my hand tightly. I've Danced I've danced with a demon flames flickering upon my entire being burned pieces of my heart now scattered on the floor I picked up the embers one by one and put them back where they belong I wiped my tears and shook off the ashes I'm ready to dance once more but this time he will have to dance to the music inside my soul under this beautiful full moon I'll hold him a bit tighter and show his heart unconditional love. P.T. Stone (@ptstoneofficial) is a senior English major at Clemson University. His work has appeared in The Moth, The Chronicle, andPoetry Quarterly. He runs two blogs, The Near and Far (thenearandfar.wordpress.com) and A Book of One's Own (bookofonesown.wordpress.com). He is also a blogger and reader for Spry Literary Magazine. Fathers and sons I was thirteen, never seen one before. Her hair was matted but she was pretty, had makeup on. Her ankles were propped up on coke cans and her legs were spread like she was about to have a baby or somethin. Policeman told my daddy I might be scarred from seein a crime scene but if anything it would make me more of a man. Daddy laughed at that, he told his huntin buddies by the creek about it when we went out lookin for ducks. My guidance counselor asked me about it for two weeks—my best friend Red said it fucked me up—“Just ain’t no way it don’t, somethin like that.” Now, the dark brown color of the stones in the sidewalk outside the hospital reminds me, I was in love with Miss Kieffer. Her titties were round and her hair was matted but she was pretty, always had makeup on. At my graduation, my daddy wouldn’t hug me in front of granddaddy. He just shook my hand real hard and beat me on the back. The slidin doors at the hospital reminds me, when we did the electric slide at the graduation party my daddy said “Stop bein so goddamn prissy, boy” and I sat down for the rest of the night next to my momma, thankin everybody for comin out. My wife’s sister comes outside to get me, says “It’s done, come in” I do and doctor says “It’s a boy; you’re the father of a baby boy.” I looked down at his little naked head and I said “Hey son, I’m your daddy.” He cried so I gave him back to his momma. Save me, momma I was ten. Daddy was sittin in his recliner, packin more chew’n tobacco into is mouth. He asked me if I wanted to try it, he said it’s what men do. And I knew momma didn’t want me to but I did it anyway. Tasted like shit. Next day, it was the weekend. And daddy taught me how to shoot a gun. I knew momma didn’t want me to but I did it anyway. Bruised my shoulder from the kickback. He asked me if I had a girlfriend yet, told me I better not be a little faggot. I knew momma didn’t want me to have one, not till I was sixteen but I got one anyway. His name was Logan, we kissed on the fourwheeler. When daddy caught us, he wore my tail out for bein a little faggot. the dirt sestina when my eyes winked open i was outside and the sun beat down like my daddy and i felt his fist but i couldn’t run this time on account’a my legs wouldn’t move. there was dirt in my hair and there was dirt in my shoes. it crunched. and i saw an open diner far away. my hand hurt. then my legs finally wobbled me up while the sun still made the cicadas scream. i couldn’t keep my eyes open it was s’bright. daddy was long gone now. you never think yer daddy’s gone leave you some place, beat up an’ in the dirt, left to dry like dust. but then he does. see, i couldn’t stand to see him beat up on momma. right in the open. for everybody t’see. “it ain’t right. it just is. buck up, son.” he said. and that last time i thought if i got ‘im by the legs then he’d be down and i could—but he wasn’t. nope. his legs didn’t waver. his eyes were like guns. wasn’t ev’n scared. so my daddy on account’a teachin me a lesson broke my hand. he beat me till the sun went down and hoped i’d cry one more tear so maybe he could dirty up my face too. then, about a hour when i knew he’d passed out, i opened my window and i just started runnin’. runnin’ and runnin’ away til i couldn’t see the light on the front porch n’more. now, i couldn’t even tell ya whether i saw him come after me. my legs sure as hell could—he did. an’ he let it go on me like a op’n pair a’scissors (on account’a his belt’s got studs). y’see my daddy, he just loves too hard. i saw ‘im cry one time. said it was dirt in ‘is eye, but i knew. he loves us. he loves us like the sun loves skin. a’course, problem is the sun is real complicated. y’know, it couldn’t just outright burn u like dirt just outright makes ur legs need washin’, no. daddy just—well, i deserved it. “a pen don’t write ‘less you make it.” the sun was burnin’ the scars on my leg but i couldn’t help but smile when i looked up an’ saw daddy comin’ up the road, dirt flarin’ up behind the truck. he open’d the door an’ he spit tobacco on me. SAMSON RAITI MTAMBA Is a Zimbabwean poet of Malawian extraction (b. Harare, Zimbabwe, 1959).He has published both poetry and prose in Australia, in the United States of America, Germany, Ireland, and South Africa among other places. He has been practising the art of poetry since primary school. He studied at the University of Malawi, Chancellor College and was active in its Writers’ Workshop ending up editing the English Department Critical Broadsheet THE MUSE from undergraduate years to postgraduate. Briefly at Dalhousie in Nova Scotia. New Left. Interested in Poststructuralist Theories and Children’s Literature. Taught in Zimbabwean high schools and the Zimbabwe Open University (ZOU). Now independent researcher into the writings of J.M.Coetzee and Ayi Kwei Armah. CURRENT: “DISABILITY, DEFORMITY AND DISFIGUREMENT IN CHILDREN’S LITERATURE: THE CASE OF BEN HANSON’S Takadini AND CLAUDE MAREDZA’S Harurwa”, JOURNAL OF AFRICAN CHILDTEN’S LITERATURE VOL 1 No.2, February 2013 WE LEARNT OF NOTHING BUT DEATH AND THE THINGS OF DEATH We learnt of nothing but death and the things of death: We laughed with pure joy Walking with pure laughter glinting from our teeth Kissing with all the affection we could muster Imagining that we flew bouncing like sprightly birds Borne on the hardy wings of youth Springing from each other’s breaths and heartbeats While the others, bemused, stared As the trees sang for us The wind wiping our sweat-drenched faces In the afternoon sun. We learnt of nothing but death and the things of death: We loved ardently. We walked arm in arm in the streets of Harare Doing what we thought most natural Preferring the sweet orange to the bitter lemon Avoiding pain and things of pain Avoiding hate and hugging only what was beautiful Selling nothing (No more and no less) Buying only what was for sale And repenting our losses With the dew of somnolent amnesia. But of life, alas, we learnt nothing surely And for this, we are condemned to die young Demented, destitute and sick- Morons and ragtag yokels Consigned to a cruel master, For living and loving most naturally, most genuinely. IF YOU CAME BACK TODAY If you came back today I would not greet you the way silver swallows Weave their way in the sea of the sky To celebrate the first rains If you came back today I would say that I was in the throes of sleep And that you were the creature of a nightmare Welcome only because inevitable Though inauspicious and menacing to my world I would not know The meaning of your smiles Nor recognize the inflexions of your speech As in the past warming up To every syllable of your words The way heat is registered by metal Or the lusty touch of the rain by the thirsty lips of the parched earth. I would not know Whether to be happy or surprised In this speechless limbo Pregnant with weighty questions About departures without farewells Returns without eagerly-hoped for arrivals Or warm welcoming rituals... If you came today I would say that you were a dream A gift from the gods Which no one expects Or can refuse For whether a joke or serious sign Just or unjust Who but the gods themselves Would know or say? If you came back today I would not speak Or dare blink an eyelid Fearing to see the lie of your truth Or the truth of the lie Before my bemused presence. Matthew Wilson has had over a hundred and fifty appearances in such places as Zimbell House Publishing, Horror Zine, Star*Line, pellbound, Alban Lake and many more. He is currently editing his first novel and can be contacted on twitter @twitter94544267. "Drunk on Summer Fruit" I do not think I would like to live so long I am not so selfish as to dance when the music’s stop Nor linger when the fruit of summer time has rotten I would not like to see my loved ones wilt and drop. Time is a surprising gift I do not feel I deserve Though there is time for dances in the sun The chance to kiss a girl and have some fun Before the winter comes and the joy is done. No I do not like to think of greying hair and worse The pains of wrinkled hands that did much labor That lost their joy and beat their wife and child That mislaid the love of life and found no favor. Too many days would take the gleam off the few Familiarity and boredom are things worth than death When I could fit in so much living in just one summer Still young enough to enjoy its beauty with each breath. "Perils of Prometheus" Aphrodite has poisoned her husband’s wine She has set his guards upon my scent This little fool who thought she loved Running for his life from heaven sent. I have taken shelter from the storm Cowering in the cold of a mossy cave Planning my next step to save my neck To save me from stupidity and waiting grave. I know that history pages shall forget me The briefly living think I had no start No chance of escape from Aphrodite’s hate The queen of beauty who removed my heart. I will save my fragile kind from her cruelty I will leave the gift that sealed my doom The fire that once belonged to Gods alone I give it man to walk safe beneath the moon. “Memories Not Owned By Time” Time cannot have my possessions I will snatch them all from its stream My heart should be their place of detention Like a miser hoarding the gold of his dream. Time and tide devour the good of men’s keeping Memories of dead friends gone to God’s garden Sneaking in like thieves when men lie sleeping Stolen moments to make the widows heart harden. I will walk the world to reclaim every crayon sketch An image of days before that shall never read again Penned by my children who would throw and fetch Now sleeping beneath winters ground in freezing rain. In time that time and tide I despise shall claim me I too shall go and play when my great work is done But first I hold memories of dead loved ones inside me Before I go to God’s garden and play in that beautiful sun. Parker L. Dubuque is a student at Bryant University where he studies Finance and International Affairs. The opportunity to be published in any journals or sources has somehow alluded him thus far in his very brief poetry career. Parker is an avid reader and even has a card to his town library. Simply put, Parker is funny, smart, handsome, etc. It may appear to the readers he symbolizes utmost perfection, but ultimately kiwi fruit devastates his existence, as it gives him a bad case of hives. See Spot Run Spot and the chronicles relating to his past have been extensively documented. Over the years, the seemingly happy-go-lucky canine is pictured throughout various locations. Depictions from numerous sketch artists show the dog in motion, ranging from a green meadow soaked perfectly by Mother Nature’s touch to beaches speckled with the flakes of green bottles shaped by rugged nature of the sea. The years have piled up like the dirt from Spot’s countless number of holes in the backyard. Spot has only focused on one sole task: running. Not even the rummaging from the neighborhood raccoons every Thursday night when the trash was taken to the curb was enough to deter the hound. It has become his daily routine, his obsession, running had become Spot. However, the question remains…why? Rumor has it, the dog got involved with the wrong gang of Chihuahuas. Leaving behind his stable life filled with vigorous tummy rubs and hefty servings of vegetables snuck underneath the dining table. Instead, for a life riddled with tequila and lines of coke. But when the time came for a “favor,” Spot was nowhere to be found. Even with brains smaller than a peanut, the Chihuahua composed cartel does not forget those who have wronged them. Word on the street has it that emotions got the best of Spot down at the track. Given some insider information, his buddy assured him this new greyhound was a sure thing. Ignoring the insurmountable odds he listened. Selling all his buried bones and chew toys, Spot invested his life into that race. With eyes symbolizing pure terror, Spot can only hope. Hope that one day he will not turn to discover his bookie acting as Spot’s shadow. “Unpredictable, unstable, and unruly” These were just some of the words those close to Spot used to paint the subject’s image. Stories of the dog were gossiped throughout the neighborhood, creating a snowball of devious antics. Spot’s legend quickly grew, as his story was told to wide-eyed campers the flickering flames mirrored off their face. With a portrait illuminated by the cliché essence of a flashlight, the nation of dorky dads would lean closer to the children telling Spot’s story: “Worst of all, Spot doesn’t bother breaking apart Kit-Kat bars, With utter disrespect to society and its established norms, he simply bites in the bar taking one giant chunk out of it.” Rags to Riches: A Caterpillar’s Story Last night I decided it was time to fly. As the sun began to peer between the spaced foliage of my home, I saw my cousin fall. From the refuge of the tree, To the concept of bitter reality. The leaves became quiet, Sun beams halted their path within the clear sky, Time Froze still. Her decent was graceful yet spastic, But I turned my head before the journey’s end. As the sun was at its peak in the infinity that was the heavens, I saw my brother try. Golf carts driven by campus security impeding his destination. The dire consequences being treated as a game. Soon he was playing Frogger for his life. The game won. As the sun was disappearing below the fading image of the distant fountain, I said goodbye to safety. The rain, the wind, and the howl, These elements all beckoning me down. I may not be ready, But my chances slimming like the waning moon above. Last night I decided it was time to fly. Starry Nights At times we think of nights like you, That come and go and brace the dues. There arise glimpses of seeming peril, The road in a haze as it may be time to settle. But in the darkest times you pave the way, For men like us to find and lay. Luminous shades. Glorious tones. An ever present strength and guide, Seeming eternal through countless tides. I lay beneath as my heart still sings, Starry nights more sacred than treasures of kings. How wondrous your light that radiates still, Wishing we had endless time to kill. Oyin Oludipe is an emerging Nigerian writer. He is a contributing author for theluxembourgreview.org and co-editor at expoundmagazine.com. Oyin was a judge for the 2015 Green Author Prize, a literary award for young unpublished poets in Nigeria. Some of his poetry and essays have appeared in national and international art journals like Kalamu Review, Ehanom Review, Sankofa Magazine, Arts and Africa, Sentinel Literary Quarterly, Kaanem Art Magazine, Praxis Magazine for Arts and Literature, and several others. Winds Against Ideology that reaches for the neck A vibrant arc rages to bullet, Rages arc bullet into winds In fears from bullet and rage And winds enslave, and winds unearth the heave Of futile rites, winds exalt The gory feast of throats, exhume Concealed hate as foolishly sprung. Winds hoist proud voices of folly, Fury leap of urea conceit, track demise In repute, prescribe on lichen-earth Of vain blood. Winds may warp In strange litany, pray sanctions from Ethereal lust – an eye for a myth Mourning loss in spite, graveyards For a mass crusade – the consolation Of a silent table is broken by thirst On pillage wells… And winds enchain, and winds enact the peal Of accord; winds deform the Paths of that one last traveller Pranab Ghosh is a journalist, blogger and poet. His poems are published in Tuck Magazine, Dissident Voice, Literature Studio Review and this magazine among others. He has co-authored a book of poems, Air & Age. He has also translated a book of Bengali short stories into English. The name of the book is Bougainvillea And Other Stories. He, at present, works from Hyderabad, India. Waiting for the Sun The overcast sky like your pale face stares at the morning. Dreams and desire mingle in the diffused light of the day. Mired in melancholy you stand at a distance trying to bathe in the morning breeze. Images cross your mind. You feel shaken by the dark thoughts that resemble the gray clouds. You wait for the sun to brighten up your soul and fill the blue sky with light, white and pure. You wait for the purity of the morning to return and I embrace you to whisper in your ears. Betrayed As I lay in your arms thinking of the forgotten dreams and the times of joy we walked through together not so long ago, you think of your lover. Betrayed, I lie frigid as you caress me in unmindful desire. I feel like throwing up, as images of your mistress and you devouring each other cross my mind. Tears moisten my cheeks as you sink inside me in false gesture of love that rots in your gut and burns my flesh. I want to pluck you from the depths of my body and throw you in a litter bin. I want to shred you into pieces. Trading of the Soul The sleepless night has been long. He tossed on the bed, tormented by desire. She lay asleep by his side unaware of the rot he was experiencing. As night became darker he became overpowered by perverse longing. His flesh burned. His soul had left him long ago when he exchanged it for power. Tonight he lay powerless wanting to die by the side of the lady he once loved. His deepest secret fears engulfed him. He thought of a day when he was stripped of all worldly belongings. His heart convulsed. He lay motionless enduring the pain. The night he traded his soul in company of his lover, he remembered his love for once. but he brushed her images aside. Tonight writhing in pain, his bowels twisting, he wants to turn the clock. But that is not to be. Mefisto came and went that night, and he became a lump of flesh, unaware of the decay he had set within him. He has lost his vigor. He can no longer satisfy the siren who accompanied him that night when he lost the protection of the Lord. Tonight satan will also desert him. He pines for the lost purity of his soul, desiring for the dark night to end. His days are also dark, but at least he could stare at the sun-filled sky forgetting the cry of his lost soul. Nights are unbearable, with his tormented soul craving to be freed from the slavery of a heartless master, as he suffers night after night lying by the side of the lady who is unaware of the trade. Souls are traded in the darkest of nights and he has nothing to offer now as he waits for his flesh to perish and die. Union Within Alone I contemplated of the night you were with me. Eternal light invaded me as you embraced me. I remembered of a celestial union light years away. Ours is a different union where two entities become one. Deep inside me I felt your presence. Loneliness disappeared. New Poetry Red Krishnachuda lie scattered by the road side. She walks like a queen down the road; her bare back reflecting the morning sun. The world was devastated last night. Fierce wind had tossed trees aside. Hutments were razed to the ground. Her home withstood the fury. She is going to fetch water from the lost river fed by the last night’s rain. She walks alone with pitcher on her head. Her gait has a music, the earthen flute played by the wind. The melody has engulfed my soul giving rise to new poetry. Chrissie Morris Brady now lives on the south coast of England. She lived in L.A for several years, getting her degree at USC and working with recovering addicts. Chrissie is much travelled and is a human right's activist. She has been published by Writing For Peace, Bournemouth Borough Council, Mad Swirl, Dissident Voice, Novel Masters, and Scarlet Review as well as appearing in several anthologies. The Priest A bloody white handkerchief, waved as he carries the boy through gunfire. The boy dies, with many others on that bloody Sunday. Ireland's second bloody Sunday. So many deaths, so much blood in the fight for freedom. How many bloody white handkerchieves? Rick Hartwell is a retired middle school teacher (remember the hormonally-challenged?) living in Southern California. He believes in the succinct, that the small becomes large; and, like the Transcendentalists and William Blake, that the instant contains eternity. Given his “druthers,” if he’s not writing, Rick would rather still be tailing plywood in a mill in Oregon. He can be reached at rdhartwell@gmail.com. RECORD DROUGHT - - abetted by human greed that has: dammed rivers, to suck the reservoirs dry; chemically fracked oilfields, that leak into aquifers; overwatered selfish yards and moneyed golf courses; damned a blighted land, unwilling to reverse a hellish spell. Long-dormant seeds need at least some semblance of moisture to burst the husks buried under dry, brittle, cracked soil of the canyon badlands, where life waits no longer as humanity wrestles with corporations and politicians. Fissures of erosion runoff become dry, dusty openings to an underworld; no hormone, only water, can restore suppleness to this drought-besieged land; yet each passing year the West’s libido ebbs, now only desertification remains. Desert lilies lie comatose in culverts along Reche Canyon; anorexic burros have dispersed, no longer herding, thinned out with vanishing forage heat-seared; the cliché of some is ‘dry as a bone,’ but this boneyard no longer contains any marrow. Na Pali Eyes saturated - too many shades of jade, razored cliffs with veiled valleys of the Na Pali coast, sapphire sea with sky grayed by a gathering storm. [Untitled] Interminably Youth blinded to horizons Fall voyages begin |
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