Three Poems by Emily Tee

 

A Turning of Seasons

 

            after Tom Hennan's “In The Late Season”

 

Have you looked at lines

until they become a box, a house?

Petroglyphs of stick figures,

become men, women, deer, coyotes.

Cartoon sun, moon, stars

resolve to a map, a calendar.

Someone lived their life by them,

the hunting, planting, harvesting.

Marks meant magic – and knowledge.

They felt the same rock vibrations,

the heat leached into it from the sun,

the heartbeat of the seasons passing.

Like a snatch of lost language

heard in folk tales something calls to us.

Millennia, aeons pass.

The stars are the same.

Deep down,we're the same,

still seeking knowledge

and magic.

 

Prayer in the shadow of the serpent's slither 

 

    After John Slaby's artwork "The Serpent" 

 

Flickering screens let the world in

    all the wickedness, hate and sin

 

Big Cup, burger, pill bottle spills

   medicines for every ill

 

Fifth of cheap booze, Jesus statue, candle

   a prayer for everything I can't handle

 

Ashtray filled with stubbed out butts

   Venus statue slashed with cuts

 

Old take-out cartons, half full wine glass,

   hope that my bad thoughts will pass

 

Visualise and manifest

   try to conjure up the best

 

Photos, postcards, old iPhone

    why do I still feel so alone? 

 

 

Sometimes it travels at night with the snowfall

 

            a cento after Mary Oliver

 

this morning again it was in the dusty pines

a certain sharpness in the morning air

a bitterness, acid

 

October, first snow entering the kingdom

lonely white fields

the night traveller

the black snake sleeping in the forest

 

some questions you might ask a visitor,

little owl who lives in the orchard,

maybe one or two things

 

when death comes

white owl flies into and out of the field

crossing the swamp, the river Styx

 

happiness, a dream of trees

morning in a new land on winter's margin 

 

Source: this cento uses the titles of poems by Mary Oliver in "Mary Oliver: New and Selected Poems Volume 1" (Beacon Press, 1992).

Emily Tee is a writer living in the UK Midlands.  Her poems and flash fiction have appeared in a variety of places online and in print, including recent work in The Poetry Lighthouse, The Hooghly Review, Gypsophila Zine and the Lines of Communication Anthology by The Wee Sparrow Poetry Press.

 

Seven Poems by Mike Everley

 

Pondering

Sitting on a granite chair

circling an ancient sun

in a far corner

of a hostile universe

wondering why

humanity wastes time

and energy

on hate.

Arguing about race

and culture,

neither real

just social constructs,

rather than watching

the dying sun

fall from the sky

blazing red and gold.

Trapped within borders

of narrow culture

failing to perceive

the common thread

twisting through cells.

The beauty of

humanity's music

drowned out by tribal drums.

We erect flags

mark out arbitrary

boundaries

becoming each others' other

in the looking glass

of distorted minds.

Meanwhile, earth spins

across the vast heavens.

Lema Sabachthani

 

It is a cold wind that rises.

          Lema Sabachthani.

Let us huddle close in homage

as treeless earth cracks to dust.

Lazarus, nothing but gnawed bone,

pads his shadow towards town.

Lifting his skull towards the moon.

 

For it is a cold, cloak-like wind.

          Lema Sabachthani.

Snouting along dusty streets,

alleys and hidden retreats,

nudging between dry stonewalls.

Hear it rattle doors and tread

with grating paws on slate.

 

It is a chill wind that rises.

          Lema Sabachthani.

Sucking marrow from our bones.

Bodmin Moor

 

Bracken, black burned,

a lone straggling

saffron gorse bush

splashes colour

onto bleakness.

 

A small croft

perched beneath

a peak of rock

huddles a distant

copse of conifers.

 

Strangers here,

migrants trapped

in thin soil,

clutched together

in desperation.

 

Cars, A30 bound,

draw you back

with engine sounds

from timelessness

towards the modern day.

But

 

It's such a small word

of only three letters

yet it says so much

about what matters.

 

I'm not a racist, but...

I like immigrants, but...

I don't like fascist, but...

 

Such a small conjunction

used without compunction

yet what follows after

is no laughing matter.

Clouds

 

The clouds are strange today.

Looking up they spread

wispy strands to weave

forests of lost trees

amid swirling white mist.

 

At their stationary centre,

a woman's face

with wide panoptic eyes,

her mouth teasing

trailing tendrils

into eerie shapes.

 

Perhaps she is Nephele,

goddess of the clouds?

 

Or, perhaps,

she is just in my head?

Umbrellas

 

Cargo shorts do not suit old men,

beanpole legs sprout from gaps too wide

to encompass their shrunken skin.

Creases form where flesh fails to fill

canvas sides that flap and go wild.

Old umbrellas, forlorn we stand,

with empty pockets and lost dreams.

Waves

 

Poseidon is angry this morning.

Smashing me into submission

with his seventh wave.

 

Undertow pulls. Sand offers no grip.

I fall in the water and cannot rise

betrayed by old knees.

 

My granddaughter’s hand

reaches towards me

and helps me stand.

 

A golden sun sinks from its zenith

turning orange above the sea,

a curl of cloud black across its face.

 

A blood orange ball falling

silently beneath the waves

as I sit upon the warm beach.

 

 

Mike Everley has had fiction and poetry published in the Anglo Welsh Review, Cambrensis, New Welsh Review, Poetry Wales, Outposts, Cardiff Poet, Undiscovered Poet, Entheoscope, Poetry News (Poetry Society), Lothlorien Online Poetry Journal, 5-7-5 Haiku Online Journal, 101 Words, Cranked Anvil, Voice Club and Acumen. He also has poetry accepted for next year's issues of Red Poets and The Seventh Quarry. He has had articles published in general, specialist, family history and literary magazines and journals including: New Statesman, My Weekly, Popular Crafts, Family Tree, Family History, Who Do You Think You Are and Ancestors. He was a member of both the NUJ and the Society of Authors before retirement.

Amazon Author's Page: https://www.amazon.com/author/mikeeverley

Swansea and District Writer's Circle: https://swanseawriters.co.uk/

Website: https://www.everley.link  

 

 

Ridin’ in the Dewdrop Car - Vignette By Dale Scherfling

 

Ridin’ in the Dewdrop Car

Vignette

By Dale Scherfling

I was cruising in the Dewdrop Car when Ms. Henderson called my name for the third time.

“Jeromy? The equation on the board?”

The fluorescent lights buzzed back into focus. Twenty-three pairs of eyes. I blinked at the chaos of numbers and symbols like they were hieroglyphics.

“I don’t know,” I said.

Sighs. Eye rolls. Ms. Henderson’s tight smile that meant another note home. Another talk with Mom about “applying myself” and “your potential” and “if you’d just focus.” Hard to focus when home means Dad’s new apartment across town and Mom crying at the kitchen table.

So I leave.

In the Dewdrop Car, there’s only quiet. Leather seats, no steering wheel needed. Just back from Spain, 1936—my notebook full of a war correspondent’s observations written in pen; erasers are for sissies.

I checked on Marianne Kroft across the room, beneath the pulldown maps. She was chewing her pencil, actually doing the work. Once, two weeks ago, she smiled at me in the hallway. Probably just being nice, but I’ll take it.

In my head, she was already beside me.

“Where we going?” she asked.

“Here and there, hither and yon.”

God, you’re so interesting, Jeromy.

I told her about the car. One seat when I’m alone. Two if she’s with me. Three if my little brother Donny needs to escape too. Told her how it floats through air, walls, and trees. How I wear it like my clothes, wake up in it at night deep in dark woods.

Once, a wolf stared at me, head cocked like he knew something but didn’t know what. Brother Wolf.

She understood everything.

“Where do you want to go?” I asked.

“Surprise me.”

“World’s Fair, Flushing Meadows, 1939. Then a train to San Francisco, catch the China Clipper to Shanghai—”

The bell rang.

Marianne gathered her books and walked past my desk without looking. The real one, I mean. She smelled like vanilla and had her earbuds in.

I stayed in my seat, pen moving across the page. Ms. Henderson could wait. The Dewdrop Car lifted off, and Marianne—my Marianne—was laughing beside me as we rose through the ceiling into open sky.

Some people live in the real world.

I’ve got somewhere better to be.

 

 

Dale Scherfling is a newspaper veteran of 30 years, serving as a sportswriter, columnist, editor, and photographer, and a retired Navy journalist and photographer. His work has been accepted by San Diego Poetry Annual, Letters Journal, The Blotter Magazine, 25:05 Magazine, Writing Teacher, Third Act Magazine, Yellow Mama, Close to the Bone, Flash Phantom, Does it Have Pockets Magazine, Lost Blonde Literary, All Hands Magazine, Pacific Crossroads, Daily Californian, Naval Aviation Magazine, Propeller Magazine, Buckeye Guard Magazine, and Oddball Magazine. He is the recipient of three U.S. Army Front Page Journalism Awards and is also a college lecturer and instructor of photojournalism, photography, and music.

One Prose Poem by Concetta Pipia

 

Winter’s Exposed Frame

The year bends its back to the North. It bares the bones of the earth. Colors fade. The landscape stands stripped, sharp beneath a pale, piercing sun.

Form finds prominence. Dark evergreens—pines, firs, spruce, and cypresses—hold their steadfast green. The outline of deciduous trees stands revealed, skeletal, geometric. Eucalyptus scents drift crisp and clean through brittle air.

Trees carry their histories. One rises with gnarled grace. Another wears a coat of pale gray. Each surface etched by passing seasons. Silence settles thick and deep. Life retreats beneath frost. Yet stillness is rich, deliberate, complete. Wind whispers through bare branches, weaving snow and air into subtle, symmetrical patterns.

Water slows. Where it once leapt and roared, it now lies thin, reflective, hushed. Ice spreads across the surface. A fragile film flickers in cold light. Stones, once hidden, are revealed. Cattails and rushes stand rigid along the margins. Red osier threads the banks with scarlet veins. Frozen falls hang suspended. Monuments to time paused.

Gardens sleep under frost. Holly displays red berries like sparks against muted earth. Japanese skimmia nods bright amid the snow. Winter aconite pushes delicate yellow crowns through frost. Leaves crunch beneath booted feet, recounting summer’s surrender. Feeding roots below. Mist rises, outlining delicate webs in fleeting, fragile light. Beaded grace, brief and trembling.

In human hearts, winter invites retreat. The world narrows behind frozen windows. The hearth glows. The lamp marks a small circle of warmth. Friendship and welcome anchor the dark hours. Time slows. The mind weighs the past. Lessons sift quietly, slowly, beneath the hush of snow. In frozen fields, quiet honesty lives. Beneath the cold sky, there is a promise: life, though paused, persists.

Winter’s exposed frame holds the seed of what is to come. It offers a measured blueprint. A frozen foundation for spring to fill. In this austere beauty, subtle grace waits—a quiet testament to the structure that sustains us all.

Concetta Pipia is a writer, poet,  and editor raised and living in New York City.

Her work has been published in international anthologies and literary magazines including "The Raven's Perch," (2023) and "The Wise Owl" (November, 2023) and "The Suffolk County Poetry Review," (2024). She is an Administrator of several online writing groups and a Moderator as well.

Ms. Pipia attended Parsons School of Design (BFA), Touro University School of Law (J.D.), and the University of Phoenix (MBA/HRM).

My bodyguard - Flash Fiction Story By Andrea Tillmanns

 

My bodyguard

Flash Fiction Story

By Andrea Tillmanns

 

Sometimes I think no one can see this being. But it has always been with me, for as long as I can remember. It rarely speaks, and when it does, it’s not in my language. I don’t know why it’s here, only that I feel safe in its presence. And I know that it protects me. I knew it earlier in school, when the boys who once wanted to beat me up in the schoolyard and were just held back by a teacher suddenly disappeared. I knew it even more so in college, when the professor who wanted to fail me for the third time disappeared.

But I’ve never seen it protect me – until now.

This time, no one else is here to help me. This time, the creature has to react while I’m there.

I see its dagger-like claws and fangs sinking into the two men who were chasing me. I hear the strangers’ screams, hear their skin tearing, see their blood glistening in the moonlight as they finally fall silent.

When it looks at me afterwards, its gaze changes. Now I know the price for my previously carefree life. I can’t hide from it that I cannot accept it, as I lie trembling and sobbing on the ground in disgust and fear.

Unexpectedly gently, it pulls something out of the inside pocket of one of the dead men and hands it to me. A police badge, lying bloody in my hand. When I look up, the creature has disappeared, for the first time in my life. I begin to understand when I hear the sirens in the distance. Too many deaths in my immediate circle, perhaps more than I realize. And now these two police officers who have been following me, surely not without informing their colleagues, and my bloody fingerprints on one of the police badges … I have to get up, get out of here, but even if I can escape the police this time, my legs trembling and almost blind from tears, I won’t have peace for long.

I fear this was the worst moment to chase the creature away.

Andrea Tillmanns lives in Germany and works full-time as a university lecturer. She has been writing poetry, short stories and novels in various genres for many years. Her poems and stories have been published in The World of Myth, Hawthorn & Ash, SciFanSat, and other journals and anthologies. She has also published more than twenty books in German. More information about the author and her texts can be found on her website www.andreatillmanns.de.

Five Poems by Simon Collinson

 

Dec 23rd

 

Winter surreptitiously,

slithered in,

bringing stiff Easterlys,

sends shivers,

down spines,

as the last bee,

feeds feverishly,

upon,

final flowers,

lingering on,

and when the,

last flower is gone,

so will the bee.

 

 

Ambitions

 

A child dreams of far-off places,

of fantastic beasties and wondrous creatures,

on lilac tipped mountains,

climbing to seek,

fame and fortune,

but as child becomes the man,

older and less bolder,

increasingly incertitude,

inserts itself,

as hesitancy insisted,

doubt gripped tightly,

spirit sapped and worn,

those mountains receded,

the grey shrouded monoliths,

look so,

daunting and forbidding,

the paths followed now swallowed,

and hidden in ivy,

creatures look petrifying,

eventually the dreamer awakes,

the mountains have vanished,

and now the dark clouds descend.

 

 

Souvenir

 

Just yesterday,

a tall lady,

dressed in fawn,

passed me by,

and her scent sent me,

seeking for the past,

retrieving,

a smell I’ve not,

smelled in years,

unpleasant in an un,

deux, tois, sort of way,

reminding me of my French teacher,

the formidable and ferocious,

Madame B,

she of scary, scarlet, screamy face,

quatre, cinq, six,

who lived near the school,

in a house with a blue balcony,

she was horrid,

prowling the corridors,

bursting into rooms,

making a grand entrance,

frightening kids,

standing shaking behind desks,

“Bonjour Madame B”

we’d plea, but soon,

shouting and screaming at me,

“You stupide donkey”,

sept, huit, neuf,

she scared me,

dragged me to the sink to wash my filthy neck,

dix, onze, douze,

shrieked at me,

“Tu es flemmard”,

Madame B marches up corridors,

peeks at boys changing for P.E,

Oh la la, was she blushing,

hard to tell with all that rouge,

ah well, Au revoir Madame B,

the scent eventually withers,

but the memory lingers.

The Deep

 

So lately, such a

surfeit of death and decay,

storms around my head,

sending swirling.

suffocating thoughts,

smothering like a shroud.

 

Pall bell strikes,

misfortune knocking,

like a battering ram,

resounding repeatedly,

hammering my brain.

 

Should I let it in? 

 

 

Ghostly Shuffle

 

It’s been a while,

since I used to be,

someone,

considered fab,

for a while,

now ignored,

just a nobody,

enduring,

anonymity,

existing in the shadows,

practically invisible,

a living ghost,

if you like,

now most days,

just trying hard,

to be,

recognised,

hoping someday,

i can be,

somebody.

Simon Collinson is a writer from England. He is a member of the All Seasons writing group. He seeks stillness and solitude.