Five Poems by Dana Trick

Ghosts, Spirits, Poltergeists


An echo in memory, trauma, and presence.

Cries and words become whispers and silence.

We cannot see you clearly,
We don’t always know why you remain,
We imagine you there to sour results.

The cruel seek profit from you,
The good aim to respect and appease you,
The fearful aim to exorcize and banish you.

You cling to this world just as hard
As Death’s grip on our fates.
May you find peace and rest
In your eternity.



La Llorona


You were just a girl,
Heart dreaming of roses, love, and happiness.

You could barely control yourself
When that hermano guapo arrived in town
On his strong Spanish stallion wearing the latest Parisian fashion.
It got worse when once he walked towards you
—Only you, out of all the girls in the village—
And gave you a ruby-red rose.

You had no choice but to chase after him,
Following him for miles and miles away from home,
So deep in romance that you forgot how sore and tired your limbs became,
And that he didn’t offer you either a seat on his saddle or a chance to rest.

You wanted to be those princesses in those fairytales,
You wanted to have a prince that will treat and worship you,
You wanted him to be love himself
So you let him plant two seeds into your earth
And swallowed his promise to return.

Alone,
Waiting,
A woman, a mother,
You raised those flowers on your own,
Giving your heart to their cries and smiles,
Constantly distracting you from the tales and rumours
Surrounding their handsome father.

When he finally comes back,
You rush towards him with flowers and love
But he ignores you,
He stares at your boys for a moment,
He walks right past you and gives a ruby-red rose to a young girl.

To shocked to scream,
You wander in a daze of broken dreams and naïve wishes
Until your legs gave out at the edge of the riverbank.
You spot the bastard some distance next to you,
You spot the charlatan some distance next to you
And you could barely stop running towards him,
Strangling him, pushing him under the streams of your tears…

Then your eyes woke up
And he was them
and them was your flowers wilted
and your mauled flowers were your sons’ lifeless . . .

You wailed
You wailed
You wailed
You wailed,
Horror and grief ripped your soul from your body
To become a ghost in white and chains
Voice always crying “Mis ninos! Mis ninos!”



Darkness


Imagination is my realm, always.

Your dreams and fears are born in my realm
Where the salvation of light and knowledge always dies.

I am every monster you think you heard behind you.
I am the world that both refuses and begs to be explored.

I am the spark that brings life to the empty.

I am creativity born and unbound and universal.



Monster, Demon, Oni, Devil


It always seems the fate for different
Is to become creatures.

In this life full of terror and fear,
So quick do suspicion and rumour
Become fact and folklore.

Some are evil and punished.
Some are hated and shunned.
Some are good and misjudged.
Both the nature and the nurture
Provide birthing scars and trauma
For all.

The outcasts, the outsider
Unwilling done the mask
But the humanity—
their complexity and contradictions,
Their grotesque beauty—
Remain in the eyes and heart
For the curious to find and witness.




Changeling


Mama, Papa,
I love you.

Mama, Papa,
I love the lullabies you sing to me.

Mama, Papa,
I love your warm meals.

Mama, Papa,
I love the clothes you give me.

Mama, Papa,
I love your hugs and laughs.

Mama, Papa,
Why do you cry when you look at me?

Mama, Papa,
Why are you angry at me?

Mama, Papa,
Why do you say I’m stolen?

Mama, Papa,
Why do you say I’m the wrong one?

Mama, Papa,
What did I do wrong?

Mama, Papa,
It hurts.

Mama, Papa,
It really really really hurts.

Mama, Papa,
I promise to be a good child.

Mama, Papa,
I promise I’ll do all my chores.

Mama, Papa,
I love you so much.

Mama, Papa,
Where are you taking me?

Mama, Papa,
I don’t wanna go.

Mama, Papa,
I want to stay.

Mama, Papa,
Don’t leave me.

Mama, Papa,
I wanna go home.

Dana Trick - A first-generation Mexican-Canadian-American autistic biromantic-demisexual with ADHD, Dana Trick lives in Southern California where it is clearly foolish to wear black every day. Besides writing, she spends/wastes her day by either reading weird books; researching history because she has a history degree; drawing art and comics that she posts on deviantART under Silencedbook9; and watching cartoons, anime, and Youtube videos. Her work has been published online--Art of Autism, the Lothlorien Poetry Journal, The Kolkata Arts, The Writer Shed, Anvil Tongue Books, confetti, The Writers Club, and The Ugly Writers, Confetti—as well as in print anthologies by The Poets’ Choice and Wingless Dreamer; The Moorpark College Print Review; Other Worldly Women Press’ Behind Closed Doors; Free Spirit’s Historic Tales; Dragoon Soul Press’ Organic Ink Volume 5; The Ravens Quote Press’ Balm 2; Quillkeepers Press’ Inspired; and RAW: Race & Disability Zine Anthology. She wishes the reader a nice day.

Four Poems by Jamal Uddin

 

Fall View from the Opera House

Floor to ceiling wall

A massive glass window,

Not reflective though

To see out and to be seen

A citadel from within.

 

Modern Architectural marvel 

With light and shadow warmth of wood

And cold steel blending into showcase

For a showplace :

Ballerina gracefully floats,

Aria spreads its wings.

 

Etrog's sun bird on an artful elevation

Watching in benevolent metallic silence,

People mingle in intermission chatter

Glasses happily clink.

 

In vain across the busy street 

Urban concrete jungle

Attempts to block autumn sun

But the warm ray cuts a swath through,

 

Blessing maple trees standing erect. 

Golden blazing arms

Shivering with cold caress 

Of gusty autumn wind, 

Stripping, a ritual dance of the season

Slowly unfolding. 

 

 

Satyriasis: 

 

Flying across the ocean

Shedding his cloak

In the dim corridor

He rises once again.

 

The man with satyriasis.

No flower in the vase

Empty champagne glass

Hall filled with putrid lust.

 

With flaring nostril and fire

in the breath and charcoal eyes

He devoured and consumed 

In the  well practiced tune.

 

Never an adagio 

Just presto to crescendo

To reach his moon.

 

 

Burning Green:

 

 

Rows of tall green and under brush 

silently scream,

burning to brown 

then to ashes.

 

Canopy thins, balding planet

gaping  patches in green earth’s skin

not just in Amazon;

Smoke signal rising to heaven

In desperation for help in vain.

 

Neglect and profit guiding

perpetual willful sin

Habitat destroyed

species extinct 

Homeless natives huddle in despair.

 

Across all parts of the globe

Alaska California  to Indonesia

forest burns.

 

Juvenile dickering in worlds playpen
all around fire.
Modern day Nero
Building his own pyre.

 

 

No ball:

 

 

Ball to balls,

hard to soft 

 

hurled with gusto

as the ineffective 

 

box guard 

hides in shame,

 

in near shock 

doubling up in pain 

 

macho man

endures in agony 

 

as thousand 

amused eyes 

 

some showing  

sympathy foresee 

 

a new ball

slowly emerging 

 

out of erratic attack 

should have been a no ball.

 

 

 

Joe Root was hit by a cricket ball at the net And also while at the crease.

 

Jamal Uddin - Octagenerian retired physician in Toronto. Love classical music both Indian and western, cricket and soccer. Self published poetry books Portal and its translated Bengali version "Kalantare Bashabas" and participant in two anthologies.

MY BEST FRIEND - Short Story by Clive Aaron Gill

 

MY BEST FRIEND

Short Story

by Clive Aaron Gill

 

 

Abigail, my adorable wife and best friend of ten years, served me bacon, a cheese omelette and buttered toast in our kitchen. She kissed the top of my head, sat down and loosened the belt on her light blue pencil dress.

Abigail, short and blue eyed, plucked her eyebrows to thin arches. I, bear-shaped and tall, towered over her. We devoted our free time to each other and seldom spoke of our unrealized dream of having two children.

“Dylan, let’s take a cruise in the Mediterranean.”

“Honey,” I said, “you know I get seasick.”

Abigail looked up from her Global Traveler magazine. She tried to cloak her irritation with a straight face, but she failed, even though she had been a professional actor before I met her. Theater critics praised her role in A Doll’s House. Her friends said she squandered her talent when she married me and gave up acting.

“You’ll be fine on a big ship,” she said.

I sipped my cappuccino in silence, enjoying the sweet aroma and hoping to avoid an argument.

“The cruise I’m thinking about goes to the Greek islands, Rome, Barcelona, Monaco, Venice, and Dubrovnik.”

“Listen, my darling. People on cruise ships often get food poisoning and flu.”

She fingered her diamond necklace. “Dylan, I’ll be disappointed if we don’t go.”

I leaned back in my chair and sucked my lower lip. “Ask one of your friends to go with you.”

“Well … if you won’t go ­—.”

“Invite Mia.” Mia and Abigail met in their twenties while performing on the stage.

“She can’t afford it.”

I drummed my fingers on my thigh. “We can pay for her.”

“What?”

“Yeah. Get a large cabin with a balcony. And fly her from South Carolina to New York.”

“All that will be expensive.”

“Go ahead.”

“You’re so generous.” She puckered her lips in a kiss. “I love you. I do.”

“I love you, my sweetheart.”

“Mia may not be comfortable with the invitation,” Abigail said. “In the past, she’s refused my offers to help. But I’ll try to convince her.”

To my relief, Mia, single and working as a server in a diner, agreed to join Abigail on the seven-day Mediterranean cruise.

While they were away, I met with my financial advisor, played golf with three of my friends and joined a Rotary Club event.

*

When Abigail returned home, I hugged her. “How was your cruise?”

“Excellent food, room, entertainment. I loved it.”

“Great.”

“I can’t wait to go on another cruise,” she said, her lips stretched in a broad smile.

“Did Mia enjoy it?”

“Not all of it.” Abigail lowered her head. “On Mix and Mingle night, she met a guy she wanted to get to know better. But instead of having a conversation with him, she just clammed up. When I asked her why, she said, ‘I felt nervous and overwhelmed. And I don’t feel comfortable going on more noisy cruises.’ But I told her there are plenty of quiet places on cruise ships. She thought about it, and the next day she agreed to go with me on another cruise.”

“Good. You’ll have a companion.”

*

Abigail and Mia continued to travel on cruises once a year for nine years. Their destinations included Australia and New Zealand, Costa Rica and French Polynesia.

Abigail returned from an Alaskan cruise suffering from a headache, muscle aches and a fever of 101 degrees. I urged her to see a doctor.

She said, “I’ll take Tylenol. That’ll take care of it.”

For two days, I gave her fruit juices, broth and water. I put damp cloths on her forehead and kept the bedroom temperature cool. But her symptoms did not improve. On the third day, she coughed up mucus and blood. She had shortness of breath and chest pain. This time she didn’t argue when I said, “I’m taking you to the emergency room.”

A physician, wearing a white coat over green scrubs, diagnosed her illness as Legionnaires’ disease, a form of pneumonia, and admitted her to the hospital.

“I wish you had come in sooner,” the physician said to Abigail.

Numbed by grief, I lost my appetite and couldn’t concentrate. I wanted to continue our lives together as normal.

Because Legionnaires’ disease is not contagious, the hospital staff allowed me to stay in Abigail’s room. I slept on a couch for about three hours a night, then strode in the corridors while my wife slept. Furious that she had the illness and about my helplessness, I pounded my fist repeatedly into my palm. I felt guilty for encouraging her to go on cruises.

Three days later, her condition worsened. I paced in the hospital room, the hair on the back of my neck damp from perspiration.

A week after being admitted to the hospital, she died in her sleep of respiratory failure.

I couldn’t believe my darling’s life had ended. Cheated by her sudden death, I plunged into an overwhelming despair.

*

Abigail’s funeral was held at the Woodlawn Cemetery. The heavy rain slowed to a drizzle. A deep sadness swept over me. I didn’t know what day it was. How would I survive without her?

Mourners, with open, dark umbrellas, gathered around the grave, sniffling and moaning. I took deep breaths and twisted my mouth to hold back my tears.

Many people, including Mia, gave eulogies describing Abigail’s kindness, how she respected people and how they admired her acting skills.

Abigail’s sister, eight years younger, spoke at the gravesite. “I’m Amy.” Tears fell from her swollen, bloodshot eyes. “In my earliest memories, Abigail took me on walks in Duck Pond Park near our home. When our parents were at work, Abigail prepared cheddar and mayo sandwiches for my school lunches and snuck in candy bars.” Amy’s lips trembled, and her chest rose and fell with choking sobs. “I remember Abigail’s first doll, the long scar on her thigh and her beaded moccasins.”

The grey clouds had retreated, and the drizzle stopped. Only a single, cottony cloud hung in the blue sky.

I recalled the first time I’d seen Abigail’s blue eyes at a dinner party. They reminded me of the colour of the ocean on the day my uncle had taken my parents and me fishing in his boat. A cold, briny wind had stung my face.

A tall man with cool grey eyes and wearing a black, two-piece suit approached the coffin.

“My name is Robert,” he said in a dignified, deep voice. “Abigail was a wonderful, dear person.”

He paused, looking up at a red-tailed hawk that broke the stillness with a hoarse kee-eeeee-arr screech. A faint wind brushed against the broad leaves of a weeping birch tree.

I stared at the speaker, knowing I had never met him.

The tall guest’s face blurred, and I felt disoriented and dizzy. He spoke about his profound friendship with Abigail. My shoulders wilted. My world collapsed under the reality of his words.

“She was so generous,” Robert said, clasping his hands. “Every year she booked a suite for me and her on a cruise ship.”

People gasped. My legs buckled and my knees struck the mud.

“She …” Robert said. “She was my best friend.”

Clive Aaron Gill - Born in Zimbabwe, Clive has lived and worked in Southern Africa, North America and Europe. He received a degree in Economics from the University of California, Los Angeles and lives in San Diego.

More of Clive's stories may be found at

amazon.com/Clive-Aaron-Gill/e/B00FADQIR6

 

One Poem by Charly Chow

 

Ballade Of The Cresset

Come fill the hollows of truth’s heart 

with waxen balm to fuel her fire,

this slow revealing is an art 

designed to excite and inspire

each curious knight and squire

passing beneath her searching light

as sweet songs of lute and lyre

echo through the deep, shrouded night.

 

For so long truth has longed to start  

shining down on every liar,   

she trims her wick to fiery dart 

and dreams of when she’ll be a pyre  

that purges plowman, lord and friar 

of every secret dread and fright,

she aches to light dark desire

with grace that can bestow true sight.

 

Truth pines in lofty heights apart

from the fickle muck and mire,

for centuries she’s felt the smart

of aching hurt and loss, the dire 

pain of hearts that deeply tire

from carrying false selves so tight 

they suffer from their own fierce ire

when falsehood never feels quite right.

 

Will we deny truth’s desire

until the last day turns to night?

Still her pure flame is a fire

our wayward hearts prefer to slight.

Charly Chow is a neurodivergent British poet and spoken word artist with a BA in English literature and a passion for classical literature and forms. She's proud to be part of the Move Me Poetry movement, and has published works in Duck Duck Mongoose, ARTS O' MAGAZINE and others. You can find Charly on X: @dyspraxiccharly and on Instagram & threads: @wordsbycharly

Two Poems by Gifford Savage

 

Turning

Instinct urged her on,
shovelling upward through the weight above.
Reaching to the stars,
seeking for the moon.
Breaking surface at last
dragging her tiring tiny limbs
towards the light and the waiting sea.

Tonight it is the bright city streetlights
that charm and bedazzle her,
luring her to certain doom.
Until a caring hand gently scoops her up,
carries her away from the seductive radiance,
sets her wriggling free
into the waves’ embrace.

This one,
this time,
has made the journey
that her ancestors for countless millennia
made without the help of human hands –
until we turned her world around.
If she could speak,
this fragile link to ages past,
she would urge us:

please, turn down the lights.

 

Brief Encounter

We caught one another unawares,
he emerging from behind a granite stone
in the old graveyard.
He stood, chest rising and falling,
eyes locked with mine.
The rest of the world stopped

in a moment seeming sacramental.
Evening light casting his shadow before him,
copper fur set aflame.
A dog fox in his prime –
one front paw raised,
me trying to be still

lest movement from either one
would snap the thread between.
Then he was gone
as suddenly as he had come,
darting back behind the monument
with a parting glance over his shoulder.

I waited, longing for him to reappear.
Slowly inched forward –
looked behind the gravestone.
But he wasn’t there.
He had vanished like a will-o'-the-wisp
into the setting sun.

Gifford Savage - colour:#333333;mso-fareast-language:EN-GB">Gifford Savage escaped from the Civil Service and now spends his time shouting at the news on television and shaking his head in bewilderment at social media. He writes poetry because he has to and never fails to be surprised that his poems have appeared in a number of journals including ‘The Bangor Literary Journal,’ ‘The Storms,’ ‘Agape Review’ and ‘The New Verse News.’ He was included in the CAP anthology ‘Across the Threshold,’ has performed his poetry on local television station ‘Northern Visions TV’ and was winner of the Aspects Festival Poetry Slam 2022.

Two Poems by Andrea Damic

 

Art by Andrea Damic - Coronavirus

People

 

people we meet

journey through our life

often unnoticed

intangible

like disappearing snowflakes

precipitating out of moisture in the clouds;

some of them stay, but

not for long

some grow into a distant memory

unconscious realisation

an afterthought, to which

we unwillingly circle back

like a déjà vu,

at times abruptly,

an imminent storm

covering the sky brusquely

until they disappear, in a flesh

not worth our time, but

others mark us

for a lifetime

every so often,

resembling a fresh breeze

in the early spring, and

they stay for a while

like a lengthy slender vine

leaving its ingrained mark, so

we keep them in our hearts

as long as we need

soundlessly yearning for the day

we capture their hearts,

impalpable but real

lingering

***

in the people left behind

 

 

Precarious Existence

 

fear, ever-present

during the forced

lockdown existence

 

not knowing what the future holds

 

our only authority,

the unyielding persistence, to

keep art alive, so

 

it incessantly unfolds

Andrea Damic, born in Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina, lives and works in Sydney, Australia. She’s an amateur photographer and author of prose and poetry. She writes at night when everyone is asleep; when she lacks words to express herself, she uses photography to speak for her. Her literary art appears or is forthcoming in The Ekphrastic Review, Door Is A Jar, The Dribble Drabble Review, Five on the Fifth, Roi Fainéant Press, Your Impossible Voice, 50 Give or Take Anthologies and elsewhere. She spends many an hour fiddling around with her website damicandrea.wordpress.com

Five Poems by Robert Witmer

 

A Pigeon Is a Dove

 

ever so positive

affirming even the dust

with your vigorous nodding

over bits of gravel

and stale bread

body of Christ

here in our stead

high on a cross on a hill

 

the women who wailed

in your shadow

the birds that circled

your head

listening for heavenly news

an unbroken thread

lips sewn to an olive branch

 

coo lowly dove

your partner preens in the light

coo lowly dove

always merry and bright

 

thunder hungers

for the rainbow in your wings

 

 

Dreadful Speech

 

Herdsman: I am on the brink of dreadful speech.

Oedipus: And I of dreadful hearing. Yet I must hear.

 

wise men

the star that guides

on the blink

 

the labyrinth

behind her eyes

a broken thread

 

a brilliant idea

out of the blue

Icarus

 

twitter

the bead

in his whistle

 

sunlight

on ice

the banker’s smile

 

somewhere

in the dark room

a clock ticks

 

wild canaries

singing on the wing

from the coal mine

 

climate change

we turn to face

a firing squad

 

war

a fistful of ashes

in a game of dice

 

twisting shadows

beneath falling leaves

war’s children

 

little red rooster

the hen’s dream

sizzles in the skillet

 

 

The Dew’s Sweet Slumber

 

dewdrop on a yellow leaf

uplifted, waiting for the sun

memory of the night, augury of the dawn

swift silent creation, are you an angel’s tear

or the sublime baptism of a patient god

 

 

Satori

And so socratically
I raise my wrinkled robe
and relieve
myself against this wall
of melting snow
that certain sophic sentiments
splendiferous in their own
right now seem
especially now the shrills
of autumn birds
are but a distant memory
to leave me
with this last long
silvery chill
of emptiness

 

 

Ijin *

 

a sharp knife

on an empty plate

the winter wind

wheezing through the iron gate

a stranger in the snow

 

* The folklore of Japan is full of references to the mysterious figure of a Stranger, who wanders into a village from an unknown ‘outside’ world. This ijin could be a traveller, such as a tinker or priest or performer, or he could be a foreigner, or a supernatural being. Regardless, he is different from us, and therefore he is excluded from the network of relationships which comprise our community.  (paraphrased from an essay by Carmen Blacker, “The Folklore of the Stranger”)

 

 

Robert Witmer has lived in Japan for the past 45 years. Now an emeritus professor, he has had the opportunity to teach courses in poetry and creative writing not only at his home university in Tokyo but also in India. His poems and prose poetry have appeared in many print and online journals and books. His first book of poetry, a collection of haiku titled Finding a Way, was published in 2016. A second book of poetry, titled Serendipity, was published earlier this year (2023).