Three Poems by Lynn White

 

A Fishy Tale

 

Oh my love,

I thought you’d left me

forever.

I thought you were

beyond rescue

but I see you now

floating

rising to the surface

turning blue with cold.

I shall pluck you

out of the water,

warm you up,

carry you home.

I see you’ve changed

become accustomed to the water,

grown a fish's tail.

You can tell me about it later,

you know I love a fishy tale.

 

Fish Out Of Water

 

The birds swooped and dived,

“listen carefully to us”, 

they sang to the fish.

“We lived in water. Then

we wanted to change 

so we came out of the water,

left it below. Then 

we swapped scales for feathers,

exchanged fins for wings.

We soared on the thermals 

and perched in the trees

so come fly with us now 

it’s your turn to leave.”

The fish listened carefully 

they were intrigued.

“How do we fly?”, 

they mouthed 

in response.

“Come up and join us,

we’ll teach you to fly”.

“If you fall from the sky

we’ll teach you to swim”

the fish called up to them.

But the birds didn’t hear

until they joined in.

 

 

Goldfish

 

Her favourite foods were prawns and chocolate.

I wondered if she would be fooled

by torn pieces of plastic

heavily disguised.

She ate them eagerly.

And then

spat.

Spat them out

her look of disgust clearly expressing her thinking,

“I wasn’t born yesterday, I’m ten years old

and I’m not one of them brain dead sea fish either!

Oh, and cut out the raspberries,

I’m not a feckin’ blackbird either!”

Then she blew a few bubbles,

swished her tail

and went in search of tadpoles.

 

First published in Event Horizon, Issue 6, November 2018

Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Consequence Journal, Firewords, Capsule Stories, Gyroscope Review, Blue Pepper, Arachne Press and So It Goes. 

https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/

Five Poems by Fadrian Bartley

 

NO SKIN IS TOO THICK

Let us hold men in our hands to feel their rough
edges between our fingers
and massages their temper before we misunderstand,
let us have them submit to our attention
and call that moment the vibes,
so their inner voice will speak through puffing cigars
and the smell of intoxicated pores from thick skins,
let us speak to them in silence
since they already know the meaning of that word
but not in the shape and form of poetry,
let them know that giants cannot crush the rain with bare hands
or sweep away the river with their lashes,
let them know that it is ok to empty the soul in front
of the universe for all to see
and release the clogged tunnel in their veins,
let them know that petals bleed when no one is looking
but birds and butterflies will know.

 

 

CAT-O-NINE TAIL

 

History is a weeping woman with drenched dehydrated skin,
sun marred in watchful eyes with a woven whip
and shackled for days on an open field glazed with humidity,
with no slumber on the lashes of a task master
who then had her shabby skirt torn
in bitter hours of savagery behind cane fields,
dragged away into a wicked poem known as "Cat-o-nine tail",

with only her remains strong enough to prose us her raped
paragraphs that she kept hidden at her skirt hem,
to create passages of fine calligraphy upon
historical pages that we now read,
giving our trembled lips their awe
whenever it is resurrected by our eyes upon dusty pages.

 

 

WIND AND WHISPERS

 

Grandma chases her handkerchief
through the whispering corridor
and swear she left it somewhere in her dream,


obeying the night which carries her voice
through the aisle
demanding her tilted bones


to lead the way of bitter escape
with her night gown stained with uric acidity,
consciousness incarcerated into the brain


and now directed by the power of somnambulism,
watching her in case the moon become
a falling object from its height


now become tender to the touch of contact paranoia,
with stillness of echoes gleaming with hollow eyes
repeating actions back and forth


into pale expressions of twisted stir,
and whisper into one self of silence
poised with a hungry crave for balance,


with rows of erupted blood vessels
and veins rooted beneath the lashes,
carry sunken eyes into its hollow sac


with lifted layers of tired skin with vacant stares,
left the overrun brain
which took a turn to find solution but ended up at a dark lane.

 

RULES OF ATTRACTION

 

The foundation of knowledge is the intimate relation
between a book and its library,
when dust bury the pages on shelves
wars invent themselves

because wisdom is shunned by the tyrannies,
today we are because of sonnets
we know how to sing without gifted voice
because rhymes pave the way,

life is short and so we breathe the reality of haiku,
when we plant ballads into wet soil
it to grow in to trees that the young love to climb,
disaster is the only thing we’ve seen

because we unfollow the doctrine of free verse,
free to be who we must
self-expression to know what to say,
and wisdom to bring the tyrant downfall,

when our ears absorbed the essence of lyric
our consciousness grow fat
because we know how to sing than to speak,
when prose speaks in parables, we fear the metaphors

because they speak of what we might become,
from the strict rule of cinquain eyes see more as they should,
and humor will point its finger
on all things we never understood

we follow guidelines and stanzas
as law abiding residence,
and those who vote on the epics of literary sense
will point their fingers at the next elected president.

   

 

WIRED AND REMOTE

 

A new generation that has never been in an office
but carry their homes inside of it,
not through the door but through
conversation wired unplugged,
for better or for worse?
no complaint as the virtual world carries voice and speech
outside the foundation of traditional corporate places,
with devices and requests challenging their feedbacks,
and by their stripes comes platitudes that chaired
with an earpiece now echoes the disgruntled.
what is it that we've lost and what is it we gain?
as the services are not far fetch but customarily
struggle to remain the same,
new minds new world of changing spaces
which brings out the 9-5 into questioning,
how far will the present go with the future?
when it is already confine into one place
that struggles to reach the world.

Fadrian Bartley - is a poet from Kingston Jamaica, his poetry is available in various journals and online web magazines included, The Horror zine Magazine, Pif-Magazine, South Florida PoetryJournal, Mixedmag.com, Ramingoblog.com, Academyoftheheartandmind.com, Disabled Tales, Driech Magazine, IHRAF-international human rights art festival, and others.

Fadrian writing is based upon life, nature and people’s personalities, and also a horror fantasy writer, He is a customer relation specialist and spends his free time doing creative writing. His inspiration comes from within and continuously opening new pages to begin a new chapter.

 

 

Three Poems by Steve Klepetar

 

The Markets of Eternity

Sometimes I just want to window-shop 

in the markets of eternity.

Sometimes the puzzles don’t make any sense.

My father regarded anything he could read 

as an obligation, something to try his memory.

He never forgot a thing, but to get him to recite

took hours of persuasion. 

Essentially he was a modest man, 

not shy but unwilling to put himself forward, 

unless he could ease someone’s pain. 

Of course he was good with children, 

which I must confess, made me jealous. 

Once I stole a puff of his cigar. 

Another time I sipped his dry martini 

when he left it on the table near his books.

He used bookmarks made of sticky notes, 

read eight or nine novels at a time. 

Our house resembled a warehouse or a library. 

He cooked frankfurters and beans 

every Thursday night when my mother 

went to the movies alone. 

Together they lived in a cold, unusual dream.

Twenty Questions

Some time when the river is ice ask me 

mistakes I have made.

William Stafford

Ask me why I stand before the mirror, preening in my old age.

Ask me why, even now, the sap runs as maples 

leaf out in passionate rage.

Ask why so many people stumble down my road 

in the morning, with wind tearing through trees.

I will offer you something to drink, coffee perhaps, 

or green tea if you plan to live forever. 

Maybe a glass of Chardonnay if the hour is right, 

and some nuts to nibble on. You can ask me then 

why I spend my day gobbling words, why I hold my terror in, 

listening to the soothing symphonies I love. 

Ask me, and I will feel your questions like a knife 

held at my throat in some dark alley on a dangerous midnight street.

The River of What Used to Be

When your body trembles and turns 

to mist, when your mother calls 

again and again from a third floor window, 

when girls toss their jacks in the air 

and sundown crashes through the hedge, 

when all that happens, 

you are nailed to the past, 

your mind floating on the river

of what used to be. 

When birds gather in bare branches 

of the river birch, 

when frogs shiver by the frozen pond, 

when a boat sails through fog 

as cameras click, when you can’t sleep 

for thinking of money and gold, 

your father sends for you. 

He has stern advice, a notebook 

you should keep, a stack of folders 

you can add to the cabinet on the floor. 

When the door closes, don’t look back. 

A hailstorm drives in from the east.

Windows shatter as you turn away from home.

"Let us intoxicate ourselves on ink, since we lack the nectar of the gods."

Flaubert

Steve Klepetar lives and writes in the Berkshires in Massachusetts.

 

Three Poems by Karen Lynn Kerekes

 

Suspended

 

marshmallow clouds

hover high above

rolling, meandering

beneath the sun’s

playful eye,

suspended and

weightless within

their own dimension

I glance up, as

gravity gives way,

floating effortlessly

among the shapes

that swirl and ignite

my eager imagination

each ethereal image

I see, carefully crafted

just for me, before

twisting and shifting

in the drifting sky

 

and on this timeless

summer’s day

when the heavens

echo my name

I dare not close my eyes

or look away,

that I should miss

my silent messages

from above

Undiscovered

 

twilight

calls me

like a siren,

beckoning me

to awaken

and embrace

her silence

 

the quiet

that consumes

spaces

before creatures

scurry

and earth's

rumblings

roar

slumbering still,

beneath the

lustre of the

waning moon

 

heavy air

hovering

cool, giving

way to warm,

creeping

in search of

daylight

 

and I wonder

what today

will discover,

watching darkness

slowly dissipate

and seep

through silhouettes

outside my window

 

waiting until

the blackbirdś

sharp shrill

reverberates

above,

inviting rumblings

to rise

and scurrying

to start

 

as silence

bows down

before dawn

Winter Haven

 

she sits

on the sofa

cradling her

cup,

watching

snow swirl

beneath a

blustery sky

 

and she listens

to the sound

of the

whistling wind

calling her away

from the demands

of the day,

and she brings her

cup close

for another sip

 

and she watches

flurries

twist and scurry,

her shoulders

loosening a

little more

with each

drifting flake

 

and she sees

branches sway,

while tucked

tight for

the night,

beneath

winter’s heavy

blanket

 

and she is

weightless

 

Karen Lynn Kerekes is an educator who lives in Ontario, Canada.  Recent publications include Consonant Lights Anthology, The Lawrence House Centre For The Arts - Uproar Literary Blog, Carmen Ziolkowski Poetry Contest winner, The Dissident Voice, The Lothlorien Poetry Journal, volumes 7, 9, Dreamers Creative Writing, issue 9

Eight Haiku Poems by Samo Kreutz

 

HAIKU

 

1

spring buds

her very first

pregnancy test

 

2

early daisies

that special name

for his new born

 

3

baking cookies

a girl ads to the list

a new profession

 

4

fishing ...

caught in a boy's nest

man to man talk

 

5

bachelor party

a different appearance

of the sun

 

6

a pee stop

time to admire

daisies

 

7

first talk

after their dispute –

a spring nettle

 

8

narrow path ...

the loneliness she keeps

for herself

 

 

Samo Kreutz lives in Ljubljana, Slovenia. Besides poetry (which he has been writing since he was eight years old), he writes novels, short stories and haiku. He is the author of ten books in Slovene (four of them are poetry collections) and four in English (they are haiku books, the last two are titled No Bigger Than a Crumb and Forgotten for a Moment, all published by Cyberwit.net from India and are available at Amazon.com). His recent work has appeared on international websites (and journals), such as Ariel Chart: International Literary Journal, Better than Starbucks: Poetry and Fiction Journal, Green Ink Poetry, Ink Sweat & Tears: The poetry and prose webzine, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Seashores: Haiku Journal, Stardust Haiku Online Journal, The Bamboo Hut, The Heron's Nest and others.

Teddy the Teddy Bear - Micro Story - by Angel Edwards

 

Teddy the Teddy Bear

Micro Story

by Angel Edwards

 

I was attached to my teddy bear as a child. I would say unusually attached to this very kind of ordinary teddy bear.

I think it was made in England . His arms legs and head were moveable.

Of course his name was Teddy.

I've seen a picture of me carrying Teddy who was seriously almost the same size as me even though it was a small teddy bear.

I think I was about two years old and to me he was real although I knew even then that it was only imaginary.

I played with stuffed animals with my little brother while he was still of an age to do so and I was a young teenager but still enjoyed pretending that stuffed animals were real.

Teddy was not ageing well as the years passed. He was missing one eye and his fur was thinning,

Anyway many people thought that my continued attachment to Teddy was a bit immature and overdone as I was now a teenager and really more into The Beatles

But my big sister understood perfectly how important Teddy was to me!

 About that time Teddy disappeared...

I was more interested in music as I said and kind of dismissed it to the back of my mind but sometimes would wonder what had become of my teddy bear, even accusing family members of having something to do with his disappearance.

I missed Teddy very much at Christmas time!

One Christmas morning I remember that to my enormous surprise and immense delight in one of the packages  from my sister was Teddy .

He had been painstakingly re-furred re-furbished and recovered into a healthy teddy bear.

All of this was done in secret by my sister who worked for days fixing up Teddy.

Never underestimate the love of siblings

Angel Edwards is a singer songwriter guitarist published writer published poet with 4 books from Vancouver BC Canada. Member of AFM local 145. BMI SOCAN

THE ANGEL EDWARDS MUSIC ®

http://www.angeledwards.ca