Two Poems by Allan Lake

 

Gone Viral

Talk about your desert dry dream or drug-

induced vision loud enough and some fool,

overhearing through ear wax, while minding

everyone else’s beeswax, will retell it

as History or even his own story.

Foxy news. Fills time on the way to there

from here when there’s a lack of smelly

gossip to embellish. Call it X, call it Y

or Yknot but, nonetheless, salesman lame,

sales pitch same.



Batshit crazy Abraham and his three

stoogettes advertently gave birth to various

prophet plagues on all our houses.

Chinese whispers, circular firing squad

vespers, hissing vipers with messages

that mutate from false to falser, crossing

oceans of spiteful spit on a barque, with

scrounger albatross infecting feverish

world’s breath to hasten Nature’s death.



Besides 1 country’s starry flag and 96 bags

of human faeces, some crusading astronut

with spiritual diarrhoea left a Bible way up

there on our only moon. Jesus Josephson!

Giordano Bruno. Salman Rushdie, almost.

Truth be told, I’m in no rush to die but

viruses vie to take one’s breath away,

to have the poisonous final say.

Your Legacy 

Are you happy, with the empire you built

out of common words. You clawed your way

over corpses of Presidents, Prime Ministers,

prime real estate, marriages and truth.

Courting, closing, disposing –

you foxy, elderly devil, you!

And are the lands of Oz, Uk or Usa

better for your clarion call to self-interest,

for your merde grafitti where power docks?

Is anything better, more united, Mister

Super-influencer, you bringer-together

of those under your invasive-pervasive?

You accomplished so much, too much.

Happy now?

 

For this self-appointed god so loved

manipulating the world to enrich him-

self that he gave his ill-begotten

shares – Abrahamesque –

to his pick of the litter.

Take that, planet!

Allan Lake, originally from Saskatoon, Canada, has lived in Vancouver, Cape Breton Island, Ibiza, Tasmania, Western Australia and Melbourne. Lake has won Lost Tower Publications (UK) Comp, Melbourne Spoken Word Poetry Festival & publication in NewPhilosopher. Latest poetry chapbook (Ginninderra Press) ‘My Photos of Sicily’. Literary journals in 17 countries have now published his poems. Such journals as The Hong Kong Review, Island Magazine, Cordite Poetry Review, StylusLit, Meniscus, Quadrant, Verandah,  American Writers Review and  The Antigonish Review have accepted his work for publication.

 

Three Poems by Jessica Weyer Bentley

 

The Tender Transformation

 

My little talisman,

my sun god,

offered to me,

rosy and wailing.

transforming my acuity,

cataclysm of truth,

revealing my courage in this brittle state.

You wielded the mirror,

my vision bulbous,

labour bringing me in,

I grazed the grim reaper with my brass neck.

In that moment under the harsh florescence,

the room stood aglow.

I dove into the Heavens through my womb,

grasping my talisman,

my molecules in another form,

yielding wonders,

keeping my life.

The Virtue of Bathsheba

 

May I return to soft ringlets,

gilded,

the air stroke my cheek as the mare raced the fields.

Before the grey,

the mundane day after scathing day,

when the hour stretched,

supple complexion of adolescence free from the scorched sun,

an innocent force shielded from sarcasm and humiliation.

Let me retreat beneath the umber horizon,

where the magician’s hand has yet to disclose the deception,

guarding myself in the beauty of naïveté,

where hope’s chord has yet to fray.

 

 

The Mourning of Fille

 

Oh! Daddy!

There are monsters,

whispering beneath my bed,

darkening a grieving cerebellum.

They lounge in wait,

beneath dark canopies.

Xanax and Fentanyl fail to remove the stain.

You abandoned me,

a barren time.

The longing expands.

Daddy,

the monsters are mine.

They dine on a throbbing aorta.

Shall I be ready?

Lead the calvary!

March with me across the wheat-grass fields.

Check beneath my bed.

Daddy,

read my epitaph.

I peer upon the cyan door.

Jessica Weyer Bentley is an author, poet, and photographer. Her first collection of poetry, Crimson Sunshine, was published in May 2020 by AlyBlue Media. Her chapbook, Down Below Where the Canary Sings, was published May 2, 2023 by Sage Owl Publishing in Massachusetts. She has contributed work to several publications for the Award-Winning Book Series, Grief Diaries, including Poetry and Prose, and Hit by a Drunk Driver. Jessica’s work has been anthologized in Women Speak Vol. 6 (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions), Summer Gallery of Shoes (Highland Park Poetry), Common Threads 2020 and 2022 Editions (Ohio Poetry Association), Pegasus 2022 Journal (Kentucky State Poetry Society) Appalachian Witness Volume 24 and Appalachian Unmasked Volume 25 (Pine Mountain Sand and Gravel) and Made and Dream (Of Rust and Glass) 2021 and 2022. She has been published in several publications by Alien Buddha Press including anthologies and magazines. She has contributed work to online blogs including Global Poemic, Lotherian Journal, Dead Mule School of Southern Literature and was a Wolfpack contributor for the online journal, Fevers of the Mind. Jessica currently resides in Northwest Ohio.

 

In Equilibrium - Flash Fiction Story by James Penha

 

In Equilibrium

Flash Fiction Story

by James Penha

 

freely adapted from a North American legend

 

 

Near Pittsfield, Massachusetts a 175-ton boulder maintains its equipoise atop a small rock in a forest littered with stones carried there by ancient glaciers. But it is hardly credible that a sheet of ice moving forth and back could have positioned this great rock with such perfect balance. And so the native American legend we shall recount here, despite its miraculous elements, remains a story human enough for us to embrace and believe.

 

Before colonization, this area of what we know as New England was home to the Oneida people or, as they called themselves, Onᐱyoteʔa∙ká  (People of the Standing Stone).

 

Their Atotarho at the time of our tale, having allied himself with the Evil Spirit of the world, was huge in build and hugely brutal in his desire to conquer tribes desiring to live peacefully in adjacent lands. The Atotarho decorated his longhouse with the scalps and skulls of his victims. When approached with requests of one sort or another from members of his own clan, he wrapped himself in his menagerie of timber rattlesnakes and copperheads and dared the supplicants to plead their cases. The number of petitioners he had to deal with was soon reduced to zero.

 

His son Yuma inherited little of his father’s frame, nature, or bearing. Favored by the Good Spirit of the world, the boy was too beautiful in mien and gentle in mind for his father to accept; the Atotarho treated Yuma as a misfit rather than a prince and banished him from his presence even in the longhouse. Taking their cue from their king, the other youths of the tribe bullied Yuma, pulling on his feathers and loincloth and yelling epithets they invented to question his masculinity.

 

One day, as Yuma wandered alone toward the field of stones where dozens of Oneida boys clambered, a pebble was hurled at Yuma’s feet. Yuma stumbled a bit not only from the attack but from a sort of cramp he felt in his calves. A spray of pebbles and gravel followed accompanied by verbal taunts implying Yuma lacked this or that male characteristic. As each of the boys’ rocks and words assaulted him, Yuma cramped in arms, legs, chest, even in his neck and head. By the time Yuma reached the field of stones, the onslaught had ceased, and the boys cowered amidst the granite rubble for Yuma now towered over them, tall as an oak tree. Yuma realized that the spasms he had felt resulted from the rapid stretching of his body—growing pains! Huge as he had become, Yuma could have crushed his little antagonists in his fingers. He could have smashed them with boulders that had become for Yuma like acorns. Instead, guided by the grace of the Good Spirit within him, Yuma picked up the largest rock he could find and embedded it forcefully atop a small stone as a permanent reminder of this amazing day and of the blessings of the Good Spirit.

 

As Yuma retreated toward the longhouse, he reverted to his normal size. He would never speak of the miracle—not even to his father. But the boys who, once Yuma had departed, tried but failed to topple Yuma’s massive keepsake, talked of little else for months. Never again did they or anyone, including the Atotarho, dare to belittle Yuma who would, in his turn, become a beneficent king to all his people.

James Penha - Expat New Yorker James Penha  (he/him🌈) has lived for the past three decades in Indonesia. Nominated for Pushcart Prizes in fiction and poetry, his work is widely published in journals and anthologies. His newest chapbook of poems, American Daguerreotypes, is available for Kindle. Penha edits The New Verse News, an online journal of current-events poetry. Twitter: @JamesPenha

 

Five Poems by Marguerite Doyle

 

Lament for Hy-Breasal

 

Here, the Earth flooded; now the land

has merged with the turquoise sea.

 

Leaves surface, slip and sink like forest

canopies; sea ferns sway with the tides,

 

fires brightly burn, pots sputter

on the boil and spit.

 

In the east, the sun glides crimson

from her seagrass cradle

 

treading cirrus waves and seaweed

in our sky.

 

We answer her calling, falling

in with the rhythm of each ancestral

 

heartbeat, tracing the imprint

of their tumbled walls and stones.

 

Along the sunken land their legacy

lies like the weight of oceans;

 

we are the guardians of Hy-Breasal,

the protectors of our underworld.

 

Every seven years the jealous gods

return to mock our paradise,

 

to draw back the curtain of waters

and leave us naked in the world.

 

We go to meet them with courage,

casting our fishing nets as meagre veils

 

against their power, listening in silence

to their savage cries and the blue whale-song.

 

Hy-Breasal: The legendary sunken island in the Atlantic Ocean west of Ireland.

 

 

The Haunting of Loughshinny

 

The clocks are going back tonight,

  Winter rises from her sleep.

Every door is bolted tight

    and Samhain welcomes Halloween.

 

Autumn tempest shakes the trees

    leaves come rushing down the lane.

Whirly gigs climb up the eaves

    and dance along the windowpane.

 

The roads are darker than the night,

    the sea beyond is black as slate.

No soul is seen in step or flight—

    wind sings and plays with churchyard gate.

 

Sickle moon wears solstice crown,

    dying ashes spark and splinter.

Silent sprites watch Autumn’s gown

    brush gently past the coming Winter.

 

 

Snow Globe          After James Joyce

 

On Usher’s Island every door

is a house of the dead.

 

Each a gravestone, shrinking

from the Liffey’s dark mantle,

 

snow-capped, like the statues

in the park of the Phoenix.

 

The river rises and flows

in reverse, an umbilical

 

cord feeding the abdomen

of its origins,

 

chained to the waterwheel

of ages. The tide breaches

 

the banks, flooding the streets,

casting pale wreaths

 

in every dark window. For

a lament someone is singing

 

The Lass of Aughrim over

the petrified metropolis.

 

 

Grandmother’s Alternative Bedtime Tale

 

Once I had a dream of walking in the woods

along a path of fallen fruits of summer.

Early evening, black branches, the moon

a sharp-toothed sickle among the stars

and the air chilled, so I wore my shawl

about my shoulders. I heard voices carried

on the wind; goblins perhaps or a crone

trying to bewitch me but I paid no heed to them.

Suddenly, a wolf across my path, gasping

for breath and wild-eyed; a woodcutter

plunging through the thicket behind her. 

I hid her among the roots of a great oak tree

and fed her apples so she in turn could

feed her young. So it was that I was not eaten

by the mother-wolf; instead I grew up

and she bore the faint memory, or dream

of a girl long ago in the woods with a red cloak.

 

 

Demon Cream             After Bulgakov

 

On Walpurgis Night, over green linden trees

and the bright metropolis,

 

she flies invisible, casting no shadow

on glass or moonbeams.

 

Trams pass below, sparking their light

in windows while figures

slide off bridges into mirrors.

 

The cream smells of mimosa,

pine needles, seaweed.

 

Her sledge is swift and shears hoar frost

from pinhead stars

that crackle like ice on fire.

 

Cities spiral into galaxies and lakes

slip into mysteries.

 

Deep in the forest, fires burn, nymphs

dance in a sylvan universe.

 

In her wake she leaves a torrid scene,

a burned book, a pot of invisible cream.

 

Marguerite Doyle holds an M.A. in Creative Writing from Dublin City University. Her publishing credits include Vallum, Reliquiae Journal, Carousel, The Galway Review, The New Welsh Review, and Dreich. Marguerite’s poetry also appears in the Dedalus Anthology, Local Wonders: Poems of Our Immediate Surrounds and The Ireland Chair of Poetry Commemorative Anthology, Hold Open the Door. Her work is published in The Poetry Collective’s Fear Less in aid of Jigsaw and Art in Mind and in the Dedalus anthology Local Wonders. In 2022 Marguerite was one of the winning poets selected to participate in the Bard of Ballymun Project run by the Axis Theatre in Dublin. Her work was also recently performed as part of a collaboration between Pens of the Earth and the Bench Theatre in the UK.  In 2022 Marguerite was Winner in Category for the Trócaire / Poetry Ireland Competition and she has been shortlisted and highly commended for the Anthology Poetry Award.

Six Poems by Nolo Segundo

 

Wrestling With God

 

For over half a century

I have wrestled with God.

Our unseen match is daily,

in my bed before I sleep,

at the table after a meal,

sometimes while driving

along a lonely, desolate road

and always while watching

the evening news with its

graphic proof of humanity’s

stupidity and wickedness,

over and over and over….

 

I try to pin Him,

to keep Him in one place,

to hold Him just long enough

to see, to know, to understand.

 

Sometimes I think I almost have Him,

but no, He always, always slips away.

 

Of course it is not a fair match--

my little brain that can hold but

one lonely thought at a time;

my hands, once powerful,

now arthritic, crooked fingers

still trying to grasp at divinity…

but even when young and strong

I could not hold Him-- still,

we wrestle, God and me, and

sometimes I suspect He wants me

to win, but mostly, no: I know

I’ll never pin Him down--

not in this life, not in this world,

yet He lets me try….

 

I think He likes it when I try.

 

The Gifts Of God

 

Those whose minds see only matter as real

will never see their gifts from God and

so will take for granted the beauty of

dogwoods in early spring and not marvel

at the cacophony released by a forest of

birds in the endless concert we call life….

 

The stars at night may seem awesome but

will not pull up their minds into the depths

of the Universe, for they are fastened hard

to earth’s dirt, like walking, talking corpses.

 

 

When I Pray

 

When I pray,

I pray for my body,

for its sporadic attacks

of arthritis to cease

and desist—or at

least lessen so I

don’t feel like I

am back in time

at the Inquisition….

 

I pray for my mind,

that it stays sharp,

sharp enough to be

able to think and

write and listen

and question and

hope...but also

that God takes

away my mean

thoughts,  and

the petty dreams

of my ego, the

soul’s enemy….

 

Most important, as

I learned as a very

careless young man,

are my relentless

prayers for that

endless part of me,

my soul… for

what else will see

the eye of Eternity?

 

Does God Get Lonely?

 

Does God get lonely?

Does He miss you

when you don’t call on Him?

Does He feel neglected

when you try to navigate

alone this world of

shadow and substance,

shallowness and depth?

Are His feelings hurt

when you decide He,

the Lord of all the Worlds,

does not exist, He cannot be

real?

 

Does He ever yearn to shout

‘You are not God! You are

only my faint image and

know not your limits.

You have learned some, just

a few really of my secrets and

now you have the power of a

god to destroy your world as

you have always had the power

to lose your soul, yet what

but fear can keep you from

making your own hell?

 

I’ll tell you what:

the love I gave you--

that singular love when I

took the animal out of you

and gave you choice instead

of instinct--

but you choose to feed

fear and hate and

not love and hope.

 

And that is why I miss you... ‘

 

WHERE THE SOUL HIDES

 

Not behind a face, nor eyes

Can a soul hide for it seeks

Always to escape the body

Which holds it fast to earth

And keeps the soul from

Flying to heaven or even

Just to travel a vast and

Wondrous universe….

 

For soul knows--  knows

The good it has done and

Suffers for the harm.

And soul longs, longs

Fiercely for God--  to swim in

The great ocean of light

And hear the beating

Of the Eternal Heart.

 

 

ONCE, ONE CELL

 

I was once a single cell,

made when my mother’s egg

swallowed my father’s sperm

(the lucky one that won the race).

 

I was once a newborn,

coming into the world uninvited

though not unwelcome.

 

I was once a toddler,

shuffling from room to room

in a house partly recalled,

mostly forgotten.

 

I was once a young child

who believed in Santa until

reason became cruel and

chased the magic away.

 

I was once a teen

beset by the sudden plague

of desire, pulling and pushing

me every waking moment,

the freedom of childhood

now gone forever.

 

I was once a young man

of good stature and passable

looks who learned how to talk

to women and how to make

them laugh, and they would

fall into my arms but my

heart was frozen, afraid it

would break I suppose,

 

I was once a suicide falling

into a vast darkness

until God returned me back

to the world for another try.

 

I was once a newlywed,

a survivor of myself, and

now half of a new being.

 

I was once a working man

who drove a 100 miles a day

selling this or that and

was happy to do it.

 

I am now an old man

edging ever closer, not

to that final illusion,

death, but...Eternity

Nolo Segundo, pen name of L.J.Carber, became a widely published poet in his mid-70's in over 140 literary journals/anthologies in America, Canada, England, Romania, Scotland, Portugal, Australia, Sweden, India and Turkey. A trade publisher has released 3 book length collections: The Enormity of Existence [2020], Of Ether and Earth [2021], and Soul Songs [2022]. These titles like much of his work reflect the awareness he's had since having an NDE when as a 24 year old agnostic-materialist, believing only matter was real and so death meant extinction, he lept into a Vermont river in an attempt to end the suffering of a major clinical depression. He learned that day the utter reality that poets, Plato, and Jesus have spoken of for millennia: that every sentient human has a consciousness that predates birth and survives death--a soul. A retired teacher [America, Japan, Taiwan, and Cambodia in the mid-70's] he's been married 43 years to a smart and beautiful Taiwanese woman.

 

Two Poems by John Harold Olson

 

Doing Our Best

 

Left my Pendleton shirt

at my girlfriend’s house

the night we split.

I saw her wearing it in Doc’s It Club-

Kind of a black watch 

with a tan stripe underneath the plaid 

that accented her auburn  hair.

“Recognize it?”

“Looks good. At least you

could buy me a beer.”

 

 

105 At Midnight

 

I found a Las Vegas locust in my 

bathroom sink last night,

waiting for the faucet to drip

a drop of water. 

“Is it the AC, the leaky faucet,

Or do you care about me as a man?”

“Well, to be honest, I love the cool

apartment , I adore the blob of 

water on my grasshopper head,

I appreciate the vibe. So that’s you,

I reckon. Does that answer it?”

John Harold Olson - Is a retired Special Education teacher in Las Vegas. Transitioning to being a hospice volunteer.