One Poem by Clare Roberts

 

The Porch 

 

when the natural world as my flesh knows it ends 

i will find a porch 

no land i own, yet this 

does not stop me 

singing or taping 

“the land owns me”. 

 

when the exodus of humans, bionics, robots begins 

i will plant myself into 

this porch which was built 

to grand estimates 

moulding or sowing  

depends on what 

the land wants from me 

 

they will march on blue lights into the metaverse without me 

i will be on the porch 

could this morning dew 

be my elixir 

weaving or reaping  

in binary, the steel 

petals sing in unison 

 

“if you want to find yourself, melt away and join the circuit.”

Clare Roberts is a writer, musician, and theatremaker known for blending sharp humour and contemporary commentary on social media, class struggles, identity and belonging. Her work has been published in Moss Puppy lit mag, The Writer’s Workshop, Unpsychology Magazine, Bonnie Wee Zine (Coin-Operated Press), Glasgow University Magazine, and exhibited in the AfroScot Exhibition, Glasgow and the Triptych Magazine Exhibition, Edinburgh. Clare recently graduated from the MLitt Creative Writing programme at The University of Glasgow and is an emerging writer. 

Two Poems by Daniel DeLucie

 

Death Lurks Under

Death lurks under shallow ground

Close enough to pull you down

You can't run or jump so high

Such that death will cease to try 

It's nature is to lie in wait

And someday be your ultimate fate

To weigh you down, wither and wane

Or a sudden strike devoid of pain

Death it ever creeps below

Basking in a sinister glow

Bony fingers clutch a scythe

To take a swing and end your life 

On the day set by your lord

Or maybe just when death is bored

Drop the Hammer Down

I like it when the storm clouds form

A torrent falls and cities drown

And when the lightning cracks the sky

It’s time to drop the hammer down

Nothing gained in tranquil seas 

And placid water still and smooth

With gentle breeze and empty air

And bluest skies that never move

When fire rages all around

And verdant lands are burned and brown

When tremors shake and crack the ground

Drop the hammer down

Corridors where no one dares

Or forests dark and nightmare fraught

Forbidden fields and cursed lands

Are destinations to be sought

Nothing gained on trodden paths

With templates worn and recognized

Or sheltered tight in guarded rooms

Or old routines safe and tried

When thunder is the only sound

And hungry wolves creep and surround

When arrows fly and broadswords pound

Drop the hammer down

Daniel DeLucie is a writer, musician, and technologist living in Los Angeles, California.  He played guitar in the heavy metal bands Destiny’s End and Crescent Shield, releasing four albums in the late nineties and two-thousands.  He self-published a heavy metal-themed self-help book called Heavy Metal is my Life Coach in 2021 and has been writing poetry for much of his life because it's fun.

Five Poems by James Benger

 

Back Alley Promise 

 

It’s a back alley promise, 

but then aren’t they all? 

 

She stumbles the littered street, 

everything discarded, 

least of which is this life, 

these chances that didn’t  

seem like chances  

until it was all over. 

 

She thinks these things, 

cigarette little more than a stub 

threatening to char her lips, 

and she wonders what it would take, 

what would happen if she were to 

take off a shoe, 

chuck it at the nearest window, 

and listen to the glass rain down, 

thousands of deadly shards of rainbows. 

 

She’d like that, 

it feels like something. 

But she doesn’t. 

She keeps walking down that alley, 

and never turns back.

 

 

Entrance 

 

She sees a shadow of something 

she almost remembers; 

a blinking flash of recognition, 

and she wants to go in, 

just grab the handle,  

swing, all her muscles tensed in action, 

and enter, everything giving way 

to her. 

 

When she sees the spiderwebbed glass 

she wants that control more than anything. 

 

But the cars pass down the  

mostly forgotten road, 

street peppered with sparse houses, 

and she feels the eyes of the world 

anticipating her next movement, 

and that’s far too much pressure 

for the little she has left within. 

 

The sun tells her lies, 

the clouds offer only cloying comfort, 

and no possible action makes sense. 

 

So she balls herself up into herself, 

a flexing, tense amalgamation  

of all that she has accumulated, 

and she puts a boot through the glass, 

unconsciously screaming all the while. 

 

The shattering sings along with her, 

an ode to reclamation. 

 

She opens the door.

 

 

Hooks 

 

She hangs herself from 

the inside of everywhere, 

constant repetition of things 

she’s always known, 

but never wanted in her head. 

 

And these moments, 

imagined and real, 

they permeate everything, 

leaving her so full of holes, 

such a leaky vessel, 

it’s no wonder she’s light enough 

to float to the ceiling of her mind 

and pin herself upon 

anything more substantial  

than the nothings 

she carries in her threadbare pocket. 

 

Sometimes outside of herself 

she can hear a bird call 

or even a child laugh,  

and that almost feels like a sign 

that things could keep rolling 

long enough uphill 

to reach the crest, 

and there she’ll finder herself, 

the easy slide  

into comfort. 

 

But those things never happen, 

not for her. 

So she hangs herself from 

the inside of everywhere, 

gently, loosely swaying in 

someone else’s breeze.

 

 

Abandon 

 

When there’s nothing left 

but to turn up a go, 

that’s what is done. 

 

No need for bags or wishes, 

only what can fit into a pocket, 

only the baggage that  

doesn’t physically weigh. 

 

Nothing is finished, 

everything is left to chance, 

and all the things undone 

are to forever remain that way. 

 

Seeing the world through 

a peephole of determination, 

a tunnel vision of depressing hope, 

the ether cries its demands, 

and the walker determines 

what is to be left unanswered. 

 

Maybe the roof wouldn’t cave, 

but then maybe it would, 

either way, no one will be there 

to witness the outcome.

 

 

magic 

 

she forcibly sees things in clouds 

 

any number of wonders 

deities 

aliens 

illustrations of the kama sutra 

her great aunt 

nothing is off limits 

when imagination 

and more importantly 

hope 

are the only weapons 

 

she forcibly sees things in clouds 

she has to 

because there’s no magic to be found 

anywhere else

 

 

 

James Benger is the author of several books of poetry and prose. He is on the Board of Directors of The Writers Place and the Riverfront Readings Committee and is the founder of the 365 Poems In 365 Days online workshop, and is Editor in Chief of the anthology series. He lives in Kansas City with his wife and children.