Five Poems by Mike Madill

 

Afraid to Blink

(after Mary Oliver’s ‘I Don’t Want to be Demure or Respectful’) 

 

There’s a fire in the lashes of my eyes,

illuminating everything I see.

This isn’t like the cliché

of rose-coloured glasses, but far more

incendiary: the bitterness

that lines a fur coat; the overheated

toddler in wool sweater; the burning

soles of restless nomads. I see it all

and I’m afraid to blink, in case

I lose that connection, that longing

to belong.

 

Feigning Zen                                                             

 

Choose your saviour.

Cue the wings and harps,

maybe a Bodhi tree

to set your sights on,

or some white-robed hero

on high. Feign some Zen,

despite your deep-

down squirm

whenever there’s talk of

the beyond.

 

Belief crystallizes

only at the brink

of oblivion.

 

For the night sky

to be worth so many

upturned eyes, the stars

need to show more shine.

You say your faith can

rise above even the

abduction of hope

and yet, here I am,

walking on water

just to get my feet wet.

 

Forest Floor                                                                                                                    

(after Charles Wright’s ‘Matins’)

 

Today would be a good day to try

something new, break through

the crust of rote, set my sights

on the undescribed. But how exactly

do I let the light in, Charles,

without breaking, leaving me

with a net loss of shadow?

 

If we’re nobodies, then aren’t we

all equally forgettable,

fooling ourselves that we have

marks to leave, when we’re just

another fallen leaf on the forest floor?

 

Think of the combined,

subtle hue released in their dying,

however fleeting. How do I

put my faith in so tenuous a promise,

risk being let down again, always

further than any light can go?

 

So make me a mojito, with its bold,

green sprig of mint and its devil-

may-care icy tinkle, and I’ll be

the cubes immersed in swirl,

the melting and the draining away

someone else’s problem. This day,

this moment, now all I can embrace.

 

Kick away the ground cover,

face head-on the buried honesty

beneath the leaves, beyond the glass

tumbler. Inhale the musty scent

of all the nobodies who’ve fallen

before, every bit as vital now in

their loamy rooms below.

 

Digging down, I’ll discover

how much deeper I still have to go.

Grubby hands will reveal I’ve tried

to come to grips with myself and

my past: Dad’s driven work ethic.

And me, caught in the rocky stratus,

failing to measure up to my

memory of his expectations, or even

grasp how desolate that makes me feel. 

 

 

Tarnished 

 

Set your sights

on a second round

this morning, soothe

your conscience with a

swap to instant decaf.

Plunge tarnished teaspoon

into Nescafe, watch dusty

grains sprinkle down

into your mug, insides

stained more than most.

The kettle crackles, sputters,

roils its way to a tantrum.

Pour off just enough

of its pique, imagine

the rest of your days

this simple, until you find

you’re out of milk.

Resort to whitener –

truck-stop mediocrity –

these muddy days still

no easier to swallow.                                                                         

Stir up that same old

mini-cyclone, an

eddy of froth

imploding.

 

Throat, Claw and Crown                                                                                     

(after Charles Bukowski’s ‘The Bluebird’) 

 

There’s a bluebird in my heart

and a cardinal in my brain,

a vulture in my spine that won’t

stop eating me alive and a raven

that’s feasting on my toes.

 

Why can’t I break free?

If I’m stuck with them, then

they’re stuck with me and there’s

no way in hell either of us

will change our minds. That cold,

exacting cardinal upstairs,

stubborn shit. Such a motley flock

of misfits, too single-minded

to ever leave their nest.

 

I’m in pieces on the page –

throats, claws and crowns.

Here lies the dim smirk between

November and forever, the sun

again with its entitlement issues.

 

Is it even darker than I fear

inside, like those lenses that lose

their rosiness when I step outdoors,

like John Lennon confronted

by Mark David Chapman?

I’m not going to let anybody see

 

what’s really going on inside

of me. Until the day they

break open my ribcage, find

frayed feathers and dulled-down

beaks, everything scared stiff by

the sickly-sweet rot of regret.

Mike Madill’s poems have appeared in literary journals widely across Canada, as well as in the U.S., Ireland and Australia, including in The Antigonish Review, The Hobo Camp Review, Event, The Fiddlehead, The Galway Review and Witcraft. After his manuscript was one of four winners in the inaugural 2022 Don Gutteridge Poetry Award Contest, he was awarded publication of his debut, full-length poetry collection, The Better Part of Some Time, (Wet Ink Books, 2022).

 

Three Poems by Kathylynne Somerville

 

Empty Arms

 

for Aunt Pat,

After “These Arms Are Mine” by Otis Redding

 

The cherry-red Victrola is an open suitcase, turning a record on the table,

the stylus skates, carbon crackles, our souls amplified

with the resounding voice of the King of Soul.

 

Moving Aunt Pat and me to sashay,

dressed in tomato-red raincoats, our Baccarat crystal slippers clinking

parquet, our arms holding each other­­—away from each other,

in limbed elongation, taut strings pegged along

 

the neck of double bass. Otis Redding’s arms holding us,

tears wept from a medallion molded with cherubs

keying an organ’s chords. Dry in waterproofing,

 

we dined in classy restaurants attired in casual garments, shared

glasses of sanguine wine and platters of wistful meats.

Otis Redding’s tenor shielding us from bleak skies crying

under the range of a bubble

 

umbrella. When Aunt Pat was diagnosed, an electric guitar picked

against my denial, dressing its guise in gowns and wigs

we’d wear to balls escorted by bachelors who adored

 

us. In hospital, I rubbed coconut oil on her milky countenance

her delicate hands. Held her hand, my sweater sodden,

excoriating my incompetent, infirm, indigent arms for

not being nimble enough to hold her while the instruments

 

bled. It’s no use mopping up the puddles, I said,

when the warden slunk in with a mop.

And no matter how many times I changed

 

my sopping socks and saturated boots in the interminable

interludes afterwards, my feet wouldn’t dry,

my arms would pine for Aunt Pat, and I’d die

to hold her soul, as she held mine with her song. 

 

 

The Suitcase on a Train

For Troy

 

The tunnel echoed with his offer to help with the suitcase I’d hauled

from Los Angeles to Australia and lugged up the languorous

slope, slogging the tons I’d been dragging, kilometers

to Central station.

 

With chartreuse signage glitzing overhead, he snagged my suitcase

with deft alacrity, as if it was filled with paper shreds when instead

it was filled with books, and instead of reading, I listened

to the tracks which wheeled him here.

 

While the train railed along, and the announcer informed

passengers to disembark, I learned about the lines

stationing him at unmapped destinations. 

 

Just forty-five minutes had journeyed, when he moved

my suitcase from the aisle to between us, his course

hands gripping the handle like he wanted to protect

it from damage, insure it against loss.

 

Outside, green terrain planed, kangaroos grazed, the yellow

barbs on Banksia trees pointed skyward, he pointed

out Mount Tibrogargan, how it was gorilla-like.

 

As my eyes roved over his blond buzz cut, the ridges

in his brow, stubble prickling his opal jaw, and the Lithium

grease imbedded beneath his fingernails, I felt his gentleness ease

the charge of my excess cargo, and

the lot ladening me,

lifted. 

 

 

Unbridled

 

I ride hyperbole on the back of a Thoroughbred in the stirrups of indecision,

attired in midnight-blue jeans, or, a lace corseted dress, shod in vegan

cowhide boots. Construct sentences with language traded in the streets,

bartered from back alleys, on loan from an artist’s œuvre. Written        

with. One. Word. Sentences. Beginning with and.

And running on, leaking splices, my fingers blotted in blue ink.

Trot by Gertrude Stein, whose purposeful mien

implies: “Sentence is a sentence is a sentence is a sentence.”

Eddies of alliteration trail behind me in accordance

to assonance with consideration to consonance:

characters colloquy, narratives braid. Blond locks bobbing,

I steer near Aristotle plucking a lyre, tetrachords, tings on a wire,

who tosses me grapes from his vine of logic. My horse snorts,

his muzzle trembles, his back steams my thighs. We gallop

through a meadow budded by self-doubt, riding unbridled,

by-passing darlings, I’ll no doubt, murder later,

and wadded infants thrown in water. Elizabeth Bishop flags

us down, waving a black and white flag, hands over

red-handled scissors, smiles a sun-lit smile, her well-versed eyes dimmed

by the blade of shade below the brim of her straw hat.

My horse smells of must and peat. He drinks coffee from the trough. 

I smooth his chestnut coat, the beige island along the bridge

of his nose. German Shepherds slumbering under the parasol

of an elm tree, stir. Larks preen their striated plumage sitting on the fence.

I collect the babies bathing in the bathwater. Dry them, milk them.

Reeds clump paddocks, rushes bristle, dandelions orb. Enough horse shit.

Ass in saddle, I fire up my computer and rein in the work.

Kathylynne Somerville began writing with plays and screenplays and was fortunate enough to have  a few plays produced, and few scripts optioned. Since then, her pen has been drawn to poetry and fiction, and at present she is busting her guts penning her first novel.  She has not forgotten what she has gleaned from screenwriting and utilizes visuals, subtext, and subtlety wherever she can implement them.

Five Untitled Poems by Vishal Prabhu

 

Five Untitled Poems

unsuspecting 

the city passing by

bougainvillea

 

night landing

between descending planes

a runway of moon

cicadas’ song

the forest falling back 

with every step

turning around

on the windowsill 

the swift’s sky

crawling out

of an accusation 

mountain dawn

Vishal Prabhu lives in Greater Himalayas, India. A chemical engineer by education, Vishal Prabhu has over the years stewarded a forest, worked the chops in a film institute, lived in a strife zone, learnt languages, taught English, and written poetry in English and Hindi. More recently, he has managed a museum, and an art gallery, related to Himalayas and Spirituality.

Two Prose Poems by John RC Potter

Painting by the author’s god-daughter, Nisa Winter (Istanbul)

Reflective Prose Poetry Duet

 

Canada On My Mind: A Hybrid Prose Poem 

 

The big band sounds take me back on a sentimental journey into the past; they bring back memories that were made to last. When I was a child, Guy Lombardo and his Royal Canadians were an institution; a symbol of Canada and the Second World War; when a tyrant found his demise, along with the Final Solution. Lombardo and his music belonged to my parent’s generation, but being an old soul, I fell under the spell of big band music and the era it evoked. It made me long for that place and time, as I listened to the big band’s beat, tempo, and pace. The strands of music rising and falling, all that jazz too, complex harmonies and syncopated rhythms: yesterday, calling! Even now as an adult, Red Sails In The Sunset by Lombardo and his  band, conjures up images and sound I cannot forget. This is a tribute to a man and his band, to another time: Moreover, to this land, the great country we call our home.

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jh0sOMOtosI

Red Sails In The Sunset 

 

 

Opus in Istanbul: A Prose Poem 

 

Music is a constant in my living room, from my favourite radio station, TRT3; mostly classical or opera, sometimes jazz, and occasionally easy-listening or even pop. But it’s the classical music that inspires me, capturing and overtaking my imagination. I write and listen in syncopation, as I am taken on a journey back to Canada,  across these many memories and miles to yet another creative landscape. It is a pathway but not an escape: From the cradle and lastly to the tomb.

John RC Potter (he/him/his) is an international educator and gay man from Canada who lives in Istanbul. He has experienced a revolution (Indonesia), air strikes (Israel), earthquakes (Turkey), boredom (UAE), and blinding snow blizzards (Canada), the last being the subject of his story, ‘Snowbound in the House of God’ (Memoirist). The author’s poems, stories, essays, articles, and reviews have been published in various magazines and journals. His story, “Ruth’s World” was a Pushcart Prize nominee, and his poem, “Tomato Heart” was nominated for the Best of the Net Award. The author has a gay-themed children’s picture book that is scheduled for publication. He is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. Recent Publications: “Heimat” in Overgrowth Press (Poetry) March 14, 2025 – Overgrowth & “Clara Von Clapp’s Secret Admirer” in The Lemonwood Quarterly (Prose) Clara Von Clapp’s Secret Admirer – The Lemonwood Quarterly

Website: https://johnrcpotterauthor.com

Twitter: https://twitter.com/JohnRCPotter

  

THE DANCING LIGHTS - Flash Fiction Story By Paul Benkendorfer

 

THE DANCING LIGHTS

Flash Fiction Story

By Paul Benkendorfer

 

The air hung heavy on the oppressive summer night. Darkness loomed over the horizon, as the sun was beginning its descent behind the veil of the endless canopy of the trees.

We walked down the narrow path that cut through the woods, just me and my younger sister Mara. She was a sweet girl of twelve. I myself reached my seventeenth last year. She had begged to accompany me on my trip to deliver one of our cows to town to be sold.

The trip took longer than I had anticipated since old man Fetcher insisted on bartering beyond the previously agreed upon price. He knew we needed the money. We were practically starving as the harvest was thin this year.

The wood was dangerous at night. It would be too dark to see and easy to get lost. My thoughts drifted to the nearby bog. We could cut through it and be home before it got too late.

We could make it, I thought. I would just need to keep a close eye on Mara. Make sure she doesn't stray too far off.

We neared the bog and night began its slow descent upon us.

“Look at the beautiful fireflies,” Mara said, staring in wonder as the two of us walked down the path.

“Those aren’t fireflies,” I said, turning towards where she is looking.

A dozen or so golden, orange, and green lights flickered and danced and swirled in the rays of moonlight above the bog.

“What are they, then?” she asks.

She is young and curious.  Not quite old enough to be an adult.  Not quite young enough for a child.

“Lost souls. The damned,” I say. “This is a cursed place. Stay away from the lights.”

The lights stop for a moment, as if they are staring at us. They waver and buzz and twirl towards us and zip back as if beckoning us to approach.  Mara takes a step.

“No,” I say, grabbing her elbow.

“Do you hear them?” she asks.

“Hear what?”

“The singing,” she says, taking a step forward, breaking free of my grip. “And do you smell that? It smells so good!”

A light flashes past us, startling me back.  Mara giggles and chases after it.

“Mara, no!” I reach for her but tumble over a patch of peat.  My face lands in the cold, dew-laden grass.  I look up and Mara is farther from me now.

“Don’t you hear them singing?” she asks again.  I can barely hear her, she’s so far away.

There is no singing.  Only the chirping of the crickets in the night air.  Then I do hear it.  The sound of singing.  In a language I cannot understand.  Like the soft voices of children.  I know this.  This siren’s call that allures the naive.

Mara is over the bog now, a fog beginning to consume her.  The lights swirling and dancing around her.  She twirls along with them, giggling as she does so.  One of the lights takes the shape of a handsomely dressed man, his golden aurora almost blinding.  He bows his head and dances with her, farther and farther into the fog.  The singing grows louder.  The lights twinkle and swirl.

Then it was as if a giant banquet of pure golden light emerged. Fountains of champagne erupted and cascaded into towers of wine glasses over tables of the most delectable food my eyes ever laid on.

I follow after her. 

“Mara!” I cry. 

It’s strange.  It’s as if she is gliding across the water now. The mist suffuses the bog, ensnaring her.  I can still see her figure in the veil.  The lights dance around her.  The song of the voices starts to fade.

“Mara!” I shout again.

I hear a splash.  A frigid cold wet wraps itself around my ankle. I look down. There I see a body lying in the water, its wraith-like figure shimmering, the hair and body swaying as if made of algae.  Large eyes as pale and luminescent as the moon stare back at me.  A bony hand reaches and I jerk back my foot from the bog and fall onto the grass.

“Mara!” I yell.  I see an orange glow emanate from her silhouette.  It fades into the fog and the fog slowly disappears along with it.  Then the fog is gone and the singing stops.  And Mara is gone. 

I rise back to my feet, calling out her name.  Warm tears fill my eyes. Not my sister. Not my Mara.

I yell for Mara again. But I hear nothing. I see nothing.  I only see the lights, dancing in their rhythm.

I creep up to the bog and look back down. The eyes are still there, the wraith opens its mouth.  “Alasdair,” I hear it say my name.  It’s Mara’s voice.  “Alasdair.”

I step back.  My heart racing.  I turn and run away from the bog.  The voice following after me.  I turn to see an orange light among the others, shaped like Mara. 

It reaches for me. I shut my eyes and pray. When I open them again the light is gone. 

Mara is gone.

Paul Benkendorfer is a a PhD candidate and GAT at the University of Arizona where he teaches Rhetoric and Composition. He recently obtained his MFA in Fiction at Drexel University and holds a MA in Teaching Writing from Johns Hopkins University. Paul has published several short stories, essays, and poems in publications such as Backroads Literary Review, Dark Poet's Club, The Write Launch, Eerie River Publishing, and many more. When not writing he spends his time at the park with his rescue pup.