Andrew Broadous holds a B.A. in English and a certificate in Technical Writing from Southern Utah University. Diversity is important to his creative spirit, which is why he writes genre and literary fiction, poetry, and essays. His nonfiction has been published by The Woven Tale Press, his fiction has appeared in The Kolob Canyon Review, and his poetry has appeared in Eskimo Pie and Literary Yard. In addition to his writing, he is also an avid musician and visual artist and has sold several of his paintings to Southern Utah University. View his work at www.singletearstudios.net. Loneliness |
Norman Klein is an Iowa MFA who has taught all ages in the "Poets in the School Program." Also, like the children in the book, Klein is always on the move-- from UMass Boston to a decade at Harvard followed by an adventure to Chicago. That said, he currently lives and writes in the woods of New Hampshire. |
Our world of Friends
one morning I saw an old man
step out of a rising sun onto
the top of a hill and let the wind
carry his sun-yellow kite and
let it rise so fast I had to jump
to catch the very tip of his toe
to keep him from blowing away,
and that’s why I called
him the sun man.
When I lived in the country
one afternoon I saw a lady
paint clouds onto a blue sky,
huge lazy clouds that looked
like grey elephants and smaller
sleeping sheep with puffy tails,
and when that was done she
chose colors for her sunset.
You guess what the colors were
and what we should call the lady.
When I lived in the country,
sometimes my eyes would open
in the middle of the night, and I
would go to my window to see
what I could see, maybe the dipper
in the north, or the three stars in a
straight line, or the stars that were
not stars but Venus or Mars.
Some people say it’s a puppeteer who
uses invisible strings to run the universe.
Maybe, but what do you think?
When I moved to the city there were
no horses to snort and eat apples,
or fire flies to put in pickle jars,
but I like living on the 29th floor and
looking down on the numbered roofs
of busses, then riding them to the
aquarium to visit the white whales,
basking sharks, chattering penguins,
and the dolphins dancing on their tails.
Have you ever been to an aquarium and
seen fish brighter than a rainbow?
Next is the zoo, with its polar bears,
the kids train and merry-go-round,
the flamingos and chattering monkeys.
Right around the corner from the lions
are the panthers, leopards, and rhinos.
My favorite is the King Kong huge
gorilla who keeps watch over his
kids and their gorilla mother.
Then there’s the museum where
Sue, the T- Rex lives with raptors,
and a whole hall of owls.
In the city I have new friends
that I play and pretend with,
kids just like you who love it
when the sky man throws
lightning bolts at our building
and the thunder shakes our windows
and doors on the twenty 29th floor
and the stars flicker but don’t go out
because the sky man and all his
friends won’t allow them to.
The Trees Out My Kitchen Window
I see the signs of a new spring in the back garden below.
Pairs of magpies dart and dive,
pecking at the trash left behind by other, more careless tenants.
But it is the budding trees, the ones with the white flowers,
that my gaze always wonders back to.
I do not know what the name of the tree is,
neither in Latin or laymen.
This is our second and last spring in the new Gorbals;
our first flat together will soon be abandoned for our first house together.
In this flat, we experienced old death and new life;
it has seen our family simultaneously grow and shrink and grow again.
I will not miss this flat, but I do not leave this flat with a heavy heart
And I know that, come spring, I will always think of those flowering white trees when standing at my kitchen window.
With My Own Grief
Our social media accounts allow the almost unlimited access of others into our private words of likes, interests, and 3am thoughts.
There is a digital mask, of course, one that hides some of the real truth while exposing much that we assumed to be cleverly concealed.
In this world, news, whether true, fake, or somewhere in between, is shared instantly and often passed along without thought.
My mother died last Wednesday morning.
It was a phone call I knew was coming, expected with dread, and yet was completely unprepared for.
At eight months pregnant and an ocean away, my last conversation with her had been through a mobile screen, a bittersweet blessing.
I admit to being relieved; the agony of her decline and the hellish limbo of ‘when’ was finally over for us both.
But that doesn’t mean that I was prepared for the void of her absence.
A week before her death I had to post a message on social media; I hadn’t wanted to.
Her friends, full of good intentions and honest sorrow, had caught the public attention and people were looking to me, her only child, to explain.
My mother’s illness came fast and sudden; neither of us thought to make her diagnosis public because it wasn’t for the public to digest.
But her death became this quasi-spectacle and me its reluctant ringmaster.
I had to post about her death, it was the easiest way to alert the ever-hungry public realm.
Now my inbox is filled with condolences, memories, advice, and prayers from people I know and don’t know alike.
Again, with their good intentions and own honest sorrow, people have turned to me to help process their loss: her absence.
I want to help them.
After all, that is how my mother raised me.
But I am the one suddenly without a mother, the one suddenly in a world where the person whose advice I sought most and who I had known the longest didn’t exist.
They say I am strong and she would be so proud.
My own grief is released in private, in the shower, when I’m alone in bed, and when no one else is there to see my heartbreak.
My own grief is never for public consumption.
Amazing
- You are the colors of the leaves as they fall from the trees in the cool New England haze of autumn
- You are the first sip of coffee enjoyed on a wrap-around porch
- You are the sound of rain on a tin roof in the darkness of the night
- You are the warmth of a fireplace that I sit before as I read
- You are that rush of absolute joy that is felt when seeing someone waiting to greet you at the airport
- You are my flight of fancy when I’m sunbathing on the beach
- You are the sigh of delight released when sliding into sheets fresh from the dryer
- You are the satisfaction of that first bite of pizza that was craved all day
Jawline
At the corner of Rotten Row and Cathedral Square.
Your skin tells a story of traveling carnivals and long nights with loud music.
A damaged soul with stamps on a passport to the world of anywhere,
You trapped your heart of gold in a chastity belt of steel while your knight-in-iron-armor is on another quest.
Sharp edges and hard angles are the curves to your body.
Hardcore sunflower whose head can droop so low,
You’re an empress in a field of dandelions,
They will mimic and they will mock, but they will remain weeds.
That horizon you see, just over that gravestone, is a life full of possibility.
Your life is on pause just before that killer beat drops,
And you hesitate to hit play out of fear that it won’t live up to your expectations,
But you have memorials of your own to make,
And a plane to Vietnam to catch to honor those who remain covered and unheard.
So light another joint and take a deep breath,
Say good bye to the queen and leave a coin for her time,
You got this, jawline, so take that next step.
Andy Botterill was born in Newent, Gloucestershire, and attended Exmouth Community College. He graduated with a history degree from Swansea University, before studying journalism at Cardiff Metropolitan University. He worked as a journalist for a number of years, before moving into arts administration, and has worked variously at an arts centre, arthouse cinema and theatre. His poetry and short stories have appeared widely in the small presses in this country and abroad, and he has published a number of minor collections of poetry. As a musician he has released six solo studio albums, available on iTunes, and many more with bands, as well as running the independent record label, Pastime Records. Five of his earlier novels and a play are available on Kindle. Andy Botterill is married with two children. |
WALK ALONG A BEACH
lift up your memories
as never quite before.
Exposed now and bare,
lying in tatters just out of reach,
like dying embers
of driftwood washed up on the beach
scattered where they fell,
still and resting finally
from the last rising swell.
Where do we go from here?
Should never have begun that affair.
A phrase enters your head;
a word spoken out of place.
Shouldn’t have come back.
It was a mistake from the start
to think it might actually work.
The suspicion is it won’t.
The early days of spring;
perhaps the chance
for a new beginning.
Nothing’s a waste of time,
if it adds to the process of learning.
The bitter cold
of the last few months
is slowly receding.
Perhaps today a coat needn’t be worn.
Step out as if it’s the last time.
Take a walk back along the beach.
Re-trace your thoughts with your steps.
Throw some light on your experiences.
Perhaps enlightenment will come in time.
It’s doubtful in truth.
Another walk is needed.
Make a mental note to do it soon,
before the crowds arrive with summer
and disperse the gathering gloom.
IN ANOTHER LIFETIME
In another lifetime I was someone.
In another lifetime I built the Eiffel Tower
and wasn’t scared of heights.
In another life I did everything
that could be done.
I was a doctor, a famous politician,
an actor, a poet, a musician.
In another lifetime I travelled the world.
In another life I was a scientist
at the forefront of their field.
I went to the moon and back.
I stood on its surface
and planted a flag.
In another life I stood by the side of Nelson
and rubbed shoulders with the Duke of Wellington.
In another life I masterminded the Dunkirk evacuation
and stood victorious on the dunes of El Alamein.
In another life I broke the Enigma Code,
coming to the aid of Alan Turing,
when he was dejected and broken.
In another life I accepted
the Nobel Prize for Peace,
to add to the Pulitzers and Oscars
that already adorned my mantelpiece.
In another lifetime I discovered penicillin
and found the cure to cancer.
In another life I wasn’t afraid of failure.
In another lifetime things worked out.
I didn’t falter in love.
I wasn’t hindered by illness.
I didn’t suffer fear and anxiety.
I wasn’t scared to let go and take a chance.
I wasn’t afraid to move on
and follow my dream.
In another lifetime I was everything I’m not.
In this lifetime I did nothing.
ON REFLECTION
Yet if I’d done things differently,
I’d just have different regrets
to now reflect upon.
Ultimately things wouldn’t be
that much better or worse
than they are in all probability.
I can kid myself that in another life
I became a successful author, or a pop star.
I didn’t in the life that mattered.
I stumbled rather awkwardly along,
not quite good enough at anything.
On reflection I’d have done
many things in a different way.
For a start I wouldn’t have
wasted my teenage years.
I’d have been nicer to my first fiancée.
I’d have been easier to get on with.
I’d have enjoyed better health
and have avoided mid life illness.
I’d have been more ambitious.
I’d have said what I thought,
rather than kept it bottled up inside.
I’d have written something good,
that stood the test of time.
I’d have turned water into wine
and not been a borderline alcoholic.
I’d have made all your dreams
the same ones as mine,
and you might still be here now
in this room, and not where you are,
in someone else’s home,
many miles from here.
FROM TIME TO TIME
the day she walked out and left me for another man,
without so much as a word of regret,
apology, a goodbye even.
Perhaps in fact she did me a favour.
Perhaps I was happier without her.
I did things I wouldn’t otherwise have done.
I had relationships and experiences
which would never have happened,
if we’d simply carried on.
I’d have married someone
who wasn’t happy,
who longed for their freedom.
As it was they got it.
Perhaps in reality
it wasn’t all they expected and wanted.
I was left to move on,
on my own,
and forge another life alone.
Perhaps in another dimension,
in some parallel universe,
we stayed together
and carried on arguing.
It might not have been quite
how I visualise it
in the dream that I have
from time to time,
where everything is perfect
and nothing ever goes wrong.
UNTIL IT BREAKS
but I’m trying to make the best of it
before it’s too late,
and I struggle to get out and about.
At the moment I can still do it,
despite a daily diet of heart medication,
which keeps things normal and running,
for the time being at least.
I make the most of my situation.
I enjoy myself as much as I can.
I go out in the car. I take long walks.
I relax in quiet cafes. I read,
whilst others are engrossed in work,
in brightly lit offices.
I’m glad I’m not.
I’m glad I’m outside in the fresh air,
in all seasons, in all weathers,
fine, foul or fair.
I’m not confined by rules and regulations.
I’ve turned my back on them.
I have my own way of living.
Despite the problems and issues it causes,
I wouldn’t swap my life for yours
or anyone else’s.
I’m in it for the long haul,
whatever that takes.
I won’t give up, not now.
not ever, until it breaks.
Superstar) and many productions at Ellen Stewart famous Café La Mama.
He has zigzagged across the US and Europe many times stopping to shave hogs in Iowa, work as a carpenter in Turkey, lived with the Comanche people while writing his novel “The Long Delay” (a Comanche love story) and loved the girls along the way. He continues to follow his Bliss as J Campbell would say.
Right now he is camped out in N Idaho. Tomorrow who knows? He says he's regretful to be healthy and alive and doing something.
djacobs@gmail.com
You Go To My Head
shibboleth phrases whorled around the room
not a chance this crazy romance
Was clear we had nothing in common
Your dark I'm light
I'm male your female
Yet we both savored our onion bagels
black coffee breakfast
Then laughed at something
A mysterious joy
trying to wriggle in between
my coolness
her warmth
She stood breathed a whisper in my ear
Then glided back to the bedroom
So how do you do... what to do
She me
Egg sperm
Oh what the hell why not
I followed her eager to be the good husband
NEVER LET ME GO
Hargrove blew the tune
He captured the moment perfectly
Screw everything else
Her warm breath sent shivers through me
Could feel her breasts agonist my chest
Her leg entwined
Her pelvis pressed into mine
Never let me go
Prolonged pleasure is what it is
My hand followed her nates on the down stroke
Oh skin … oh so electric
I bit the inside of my cheek
So painful
She spoke in sighs and musical tones
Nature's cruel response vanished
Pure intoxication lingered in my toes
She crossed the blood barrier in my brain
Never let me go
the sweet life
take that girl over there for instance
relaxed in her world
blithely rocking back and forth
oh the sweet life…
can’t see her face but
a keen-eye tells me all is well from a sand pipers view
did she rob a bank…
blew down to the caymans’
packs a kruger lc9…oh baby
maybe she’s
looking for a companion
someone she can share her secret with
i threw a stone her way
it kicked up a little sand by her foot
she leaned backward in her hammock
looked at me upside down
didn’t mean to startle you
now do i look alarmed
no…you look beautiful
so do you
would you like some company
i would indeed
shall i come to you
let me come to you
six feet maybe blue-green eyes elbows back
i stood
she ran at me
i stepped aside
she got tripped
went sprawling into the back of my cabana
crashing into the table and chairs
she let out a moan
i watched her many scrapes/cuts begin to bleed
she struggled to get upright
the sand ground into her wounds
her ribs began to ache
her head leaked blood from the cut
the cool night breeze lifted the flap of the cabana
rushed inside and caught the heat pockets by surprise
i nursed my budweiser and watched her breathing
her beauty was only slightly marred by all the bandages
it was almost midnight when she stirred
she had been sweating
now she trembled
i covered her with a light blanket
the doctor had given her a shot of something
she rolled over into another sleep
the smell of food woke her
a note propped up by a beer can read good morning
she blinked her eyes and stood up
exploring her bandages she noticed her bathing suit was missing
the full length mirror revealed a new tank top and shorts
what the hell where am i
a cabana had turned into a thatch hut
she opened the door stepped outside
the empty white sand beach stretched for miles
the kinda beach that says paradise
he was humming and tossing food on a barbeque
hey there you… good afternoon
where am i and where did i get these clothes
i hope they fit i just guest your size
have you kidnapped me is that it
no…no…here sit and have some food you must be starved
who…how change my clothes
well…i did but i didn’t look swear-to-god
you expect me to believe that
she began to eat voraciously
it’s the best i can do for now
besides the cops came looking for you
oh shit
yeah oh shit you should be grateful
what did they say
the detectives’ said you embezzled money from a company you worked for
i didn’t it’s complicated
well did you who’s this other guy your boyfriend
what
this other guy the detectives’ mention
he was…
stop lying i’m beginning to not give a shit
back on the caymans’ i thought you were one of his friends
so why did you attack me
i’m a black belt you know
black belt huh that stunt was pure hollywood you silly twit
don’t i know it
they ate talked laughed got high of ganja
well you know where all that ended up
he packed his duffel
she sat on the edge of the bed in silence
i’m going to get lost
she put her clothes on
see that float-plane moored in the bay
i see it yes
i’m flying that baby to budapest and your welcome to come along
you would leave me here
yes and will call your boyfriend and tell him where you are
god…i hate you
ok black belt i’m out of here
she watched the plane lift off
she ran peeled off her clothes and dove into the surf
he circled and made a pass over the beach
he looked down at her nude body gliding through the clear water…
la dulce vida baby…
banked then came around
the pontoons knifed through the emerald water and pulled alongside
she rose from the sea like a shimmering jewel
i’m one lucky dog
memory
she glanced over to me and sang the words
the extremely slow tempo gave us a chance to show what love sounds like a beauty intoxicating my soul a flood of memories poured through my wood horn it was like a papercut
sending me back in time to the crazy days when we didn’t care who knew the ghost in my heart lingered in my brain
could this romance ignite again
a haunting wish but not a chance
Paco Rabanne Sickness
I long for the smell of Paco Rabanne
I don’t give a shit if you won’t fly in a plane
I’m not driving from new york to london town
In the airport begging
Million in the air
I won’t cave this time
Turn around you jerk she said
She had on roller-skates
And short, short, short shorts
And a camel toe peaking through
Damn you
Guess I’ll be driving to Ontario
Seasons of Earth
against the window
as cherry dreams
slide inside.
Searching a marigold,
a child's eyes bob to the
the tunes of morning
as do butterflies rise from
chrysanthemum jars.
And so does the coup
surging from a young
girl's diary becomes
bubbles to be sprayed over
the clavicles of earth,
titillating her varied
musk tinted seasons.
Togetherness
when I will
be gone
for I will
be raining
over the
contours
you will be kissing next.
Dancing in the
hair of
the children
you will beget.
Sprouting as wheat
over her playful bosom,
I will be the bread
in the basket of
each morning.
The firmness of ground
beneath your feet,
the buoyancy of waters
your lips shall kiss.
The life in the stillness of a stone,
I will also kneel down in
prayers with you.
Do not miss me
for I will be the
melange of noon
hung around your lips.
From where I shall drop
as a secret into the earth's crevices.
Life of a Dream
of a kid, its wire in the hands of fate.
Tossing like a foetus inside,
their unheard sighs
become craters over moon
hit by unlucky stars.
Marks of destiny!
But they would continue to spin,
hold on to somebody's yarn
Or in the grasp of somebody's
round arms, melt, once for all.
Thereby deciding the
circumference of their life.
Repeat
in pressed linins;
night horrors rumble
from the shadows that
pool. Best intentions
ease the weight,
muscles fatigue and small shifts
build ‘till breaking out;
fruiting bodies of threads
that stretch in all the soils.
We pushed too far, for
all our history knowledge
we repeat, repeat, repeat.
Ouroboros
wearing its teeth,
the Ouroboros, food-sleepy,
rolled like a penny
back through the world,
to the tale that first dangled
worm-like before it.
The early years
crashed the mirror wall out to the savanna.
The hairy sloth coiled down the dance pole,
click-clicked to the latrine.
I machete-ed a face slit to expose my teeth,
she doesn't need one, she has no skin.
We confront the hippopotamus,
he sprayed into our glasses.
Braying zebra forced us closer,
there is a distinct stridulation.
Army ants crawl over his raw muscles;
I slipped tail ‘round her waist, samba-ed to the floor.
…...............
Look- she said,
emptied salt into her mouth.
I can do that, and crushed an onion into pulp on my tongue.
She took the starters melon,
released it floating to the ceiling.
I made orzo from my own finger nails,
crumbled tooth sugar over the grapefruit halves.
We looked at the wine; we looked,
then they arrived.
….................
I coughed feathers,
curled round the nappy bin,
wrestling its fearsome jaws apart.
She took a loop round the light fitting
and two-footed the onesie draw open.
We trailed our hands luxuriously
through the cool terry cotton.
The lugubrious ape sauntered heavily in.
We whistled and looked at the ceiling.
A single bee came through the window
and on inhalation, went down the pipe.
We paddled lie-lows before the telly,
wriggling toes; the ceiling fell and concussed,
I dreamed of ape after ape after ape.
Two years more
the watcher, sallow with loss,
looking askance, sidling.
Seeds crack and suck
in the first confused lightening.
He settles deeper,
grinds his buttocks,
sagging heavy with bloat;
freeze burns exposed flesh
and rot eats the heart out of hope.
Canines
dogs always linger;
they will sprint, but
not when required;
stand and sniff, or
bark at unthreatening
things. I clap them
and they saunter along,
the condescension total.
Walking briskly past and
they may follow, but finding
myself through the bend
I return. A jangled leash
gets tongue lolling irony and
decent to the forbidden stream.
Yelling is counterproductive and
crying pointless. I surge in
and scruff each like a grocery bag,
worried looks from better
owners than me. I smile cheerily.
They lick the seat leather,
hungry, as we all three shiver
in the car. I start it for heat
but where am I to take them,
with the fuel near gone.
MARK FITZPATRICK was born in the Naugatuck Valley of Connecticut where he began writing poetry and everything else in the 3rd grade. He graduated from Barrington College with a BA in Biblical Studies and minor in Literature. He lived and worked in a low-income, African-American suburb of Chicago for over 20 years. Then he went off to see the world, being an ESL teacher in Brazil, Somaliland, Haiti, and Honduras. Now, he's back where he was born and for the last four years taught at the English Language Service school at the University of New Haven. He has had numerous poems, stories, etc. published over the past 25 years in Parting Gifts, Oasis, The MacGuffin, Whiskey Island Review, The Small Pond Magazine of Literature, Oxford Review, Dramatic Shorts and many, many others. His novel-in-verse was a finalist in the Tassy Walden Creative Writing for Young People contest in 2017 and he was nominated for Pushcart Prize in 1994. Two of his plays have been catalogued; one play appeared in Qu, and another play came in as a finalist in the Tennessee Williams One Act Play Contest. |
SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL
placed upon a paper towel
like a sliced apple --
wicked little dream I have
of being my own master
and running the biz as I say
(which is a phrase I myself coined
and like very much).
Everyday, my sadness comes
placed in a golden bowl
as if some gift has been offered.
He asks, "What's wrong?"
in that gentle, compassionate,
irritating way of His
when He knows far better than I
what the crux of the matter is.
Shall I tell Him what He already knows?
I cannot live much longer among these humming birds,
cannot stand the laughter in their voices.
Laughter should be deeper, more --
terrifying (another word of mine)
and make one spastically tremble.
Everyday, my sadness comes
and I relish it, sink deeper into it
until one day I will explode
and find myself
the brightest star
among these very dim luminaries.
Categories
All
ANDREW BROADOUS
ANDY BOTTERILL
AQSA MUSTAFA
AVE JEANNE VENTRESCA
BOBBY Z
BOB FERN
BONNIE STANARD
BRIAN RIHLMANN
DAVID HANIGAN JACOBS
DIKE OKORO
FOTOULA REYNOLDS
GARY BECK
ILYA GUTNER
IVY MONTE
JAMES CROAL JACKSON
JOAN E. CASHIN
JOHN SKEEN & RICHARD GARRIGUS
KAREN ARNOLD
KEITH BURKHOLDER
KIRK BUECKERT
LINDA BARRETT
MANISHA MANHAS
MARK FTZPATRICK
MISHAL IMAAN SYED
NANCY JASKO
NGOZI OLIVIA OSUOHA
NORMAN KLEIN
PATRICIA BRAY
RACHEL MEDINA
ROSE AIELLO MORALES
ROUNAK CHAKRABORTY
SAHAJ SABHARWAL
SALLY WILDER DAVID
SANTOSH KUMAR POKHREL
SHRADDHANVITA
SOPHIE MCMILLAN
STEVE FRAGALE
SUSAN SANDERS
THOMAS M. MCDADE
TOM SQUITIERI
WOODY FRAN