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We prefer submissions with a bio to help promote your work. Please let us know if something has been previously published, we will make a judgment call on whether able to include. I don’t love the idea of sending rejection letters. If you don’t receive acceptance assume we passed up this time and send something else. If you have simultaneous submissions out there, please keep this in mind. If not accepted at first, Just try again…We will not accept pieces that we deem racist, sexist, homophobic, or have pornographic themes, photos, or any type of nudity in submissions.
blue, turquoise endeavored
to the favorite bar
of constant devotion stumbled
distant voices once here
existent of a higher plane
everybody all as one
talked about it…
some no man’s land
to faded sepulchers
spectraled silhouettes align with,
shape-shifts light makes
here in tombs
windows encase them,
cutting distance to climb of
one’s paradise eternal
a squared room
the distance that reaches,
thermal closed-sets in
cold stocks we harvest
at once for all if
consequents upon our choices
stand tall to accuse of
some other’s vision what grace is
Bio: Andrew Cyril Macdonald considers the role of inter-subjectivity in poetic encounter. He celebrates the confrontations between self and Other and the challenges that occur in moments of injustice. He is founding editor of Version (9) Magazine, a poetry journal that implicates all things theoretic. You can find his words in such places as A Long Story Short, Blaze VOX, Cavity Magazine, Experiential-Experimental Literature, Fevers of the Mind, Green Ink Poetry, Lothlorien, Nauseated Drive, Otoliths, Synchronized Chaos, Unlikely Stories and more. When not writing he is busy caring for seven rescued cats and teaching a next generation of poets.
The icon of American freedom
Once soared the skies
In numbers too big to count
But that is all changed now
Much of their land has been taken
By those claiming ‘progress’
But for the eagle
It just means homelessness
Their food is now scarce
Poisoned by pesticides
Or killed by development
Again because of ‘progress’
How can they survive
Against the human machine
Of self preservation
That propels us to build a world of steel
Where little else has value
How can we treat our national symbol
With such disdain
We have lost our connection
To Mother Earth
For the eagle this means a battle
Of life and death
Against an unseen enemy
That hides its true intentions
Who will win in a war of no winners
If we lose the eagle
We lose ourselves as well
We just don’t see
How our fates are intertwined
Every little eaglet
Brings hope for the future
They don’t know how bleak we have made it
Only time will tell
If we all will still have a home on Mother Earth
Annie and the legacy of plastic
She greeted the morning with a yawn
Wings stretched out to catch the wind
As she soared through the air
Her eyes glazed the land for food
Annie the Anhinga was a bird
Whose story is tragically common
She had a mate
She had a home
She had freedom
They had their courtship, made their nest
Hoping like all parents
The best for their chicks
Life went on daily as planned
The pair tended to their chicks
Best they could In a hostile world
They did not create
She went out one morning to find food
But instead found plastic
She returned to the nest
But had no food
The hungry chicks pecked at her beak
Begging for her to feed them
They tried to bite the plastic
hanging from her beak.
We tried in vain to capture and save her
For two long days
We watched her struggle
To scrap away the danger
She knew laid ahead
Her wings took her far away
And out of our reach
We never saw her again
But her story does not end there
Her mate could not tend to all three chicks
And made the unbearable choice of letting the youngest go
A slow end came for the little Anhinga
Death was a welcome relief to her pain
Her siblings were fed and survived
This is the legacy of plastic
We have left for others
Her life and death serve as a cautionary tale
and we need to pay attention.
Bio: Lifelong preservationist, environmentalist and animal advocate. Published writer, blogger and poet. I write poetry for fun and investigative articles to educate and motivate people into action. My travels and passion to make the world a better place inspires my writing. I’m an avid photographer and hiker who calls the east coast home with my rescue kitties.
Review of Matthew M. C. Smith’s book “The Keeper of Aeons”
Book Review by Spriha Kant
The title of the book “The Keeper of Aeons” speaks itself for the work the poet has done in this book.
The poet has beautifully painted all his poetries with metaphorical and personified strokes, influential to make the readers flow with them.
In a few poetries, the poet has recited mythological stories and beliefs, influential to drift readers into them, one of the poetries doing so is “Reunion,” quoting the following few stanzas from the poem:
“In the harbour, the sails are shrouds. The town
is a sleeping dog at its master’s feet.
They lie in the heat of night, dark forms
in silver light. With a gentle rise of wind,
the palace and Royal room are cooled
by the sea. She lies still, skin prickled,
her body barely betraying breath.
Her first finger rises, feels his ribs,
smooths a ridge of strung muscle
under his bow arm, a column of sinews.”
“Earlier, they crossed over, a pulsing,
a piling of limbs, a shine of two swords
clashing in Athena’s light; surging,
heaving, rhythms of rapture and fall”
The poet is from Swansea, Wales, and accomplished his Ph.D. in Robert Graves and Welsh Celticism from the University of Wales, Swansea in 2006. He has academic essays on Robert Graves published in The International Journal for Welsh writing in English. So, it is obvious to have a reflection of the Welsh culture, traditions, and customs, the beauties of the eminent landscapes, sacred places, and prehistoric caves present in Wales, and Welsh vocabulary in his poetries like a reflection of flora and sky in a pristine still river. The description of the beauties based on his keen observatory skills in his rivery poetries add the sun glitter by making the readers swim like ducks and wade like flamingos in his rivery poetries, showing a few shots of the sun glitter below:
“Is this the womb-temple,
the mouth of Annwn,
through ciphered rows of rocks?”
“glint in glacier-ruins
where minnows flicker
in golden shallows”
“Step the green shelves – where shadows wind
and kinks of light kick as cupmarks bubble from a riven roof”
Showing glimpses of a few words used by the poet for one of the Welsh customs:
“Horror a horse skull, bargain its bygone breath with death.
The shock and shake of shell flays the air with its ribbon trail;
flails, tails, natters, rattles against glass, thumps, clunks doors ajar,
stealing heat to slate-sheen street.”
The poet’s attitude of flashing light on prehistoric species and objects while taking his readers on a ride to their prevailing state in the museums in synchronization with his emotions shows he is still a “fresh leaf,” on the fact that he completed his Ph.D. in 2006. However, this fresh leaf has also a deep love for prehistoric places and objects which is evident in the words he used in his poetry “Og of Coygan (Coygan Cave)”:
“When everything clears, eyes conjure images that twist in the spectrum.”
The poet has also added different flavors in a few poems, including, satires, hard-hitting words, and recital of pathetic conditions influential to make the heart weep, quoting a few of the flavours below:
“Walk with cracked feet through heat
of the city. People cross as ghosts, drifting”
“The low murmur of blood.”
“Tides are time’s erasure.”
“the paradox of human destruction versus quiet veneration”
A few poetries indicate the poet’s fascination towards “Space” which can be read in the following few stanzas from one of such poetries “What is Faith?”:
“It is knowing that nothing matters
that there is nothing else
but the dance of dust
around our bodies
and the speed
of light, impossibly fast
and far, which knows
no pain, an arrow without sentience.
That we were and are,
will be, so close
in moments uncounted, as we pass
through this carousel of space,
with hard laughter,
where lips are planets tilting
and limbs are luminous,
giant jets of cloud on axis,
against diamonds on black.
Our faith and belief are inside,
within, beyond each breath.
We, miracles of molecule,
with fingers that shape
and conduct our fervent whispers
This book is a hair dyed in the streaks of archeology, nature, space, and mythology. However, there are a few poems vacuous of these streaks, such poems are scintillating like glittery hairpins in undyed black hair, one such poetry is “Winter Fever,” quoting a few following stanzas from the poetry:
“She kneels in silence, in a golden heart of light.
She is prayer, Angel.
Recovery is slow: veins blue, fingers white,
these hands, marmoreal.”
This book can be a reference for travel enthusiasts by giving them clues about the beautiful places to travel to in Wales. The poetries glittering with the beauties of the eminent landscapes present in Wales can prompt travel photographers to travel to Wales. This book can act as a root that can arouse interest in poetry and guide to writing poetry for all those untouched by poetry who are fascinated with space.
Bios (Matthew M.C. Smith & Spriha Kant):Matthew M. C. Smith (Poet):
Matthew M. C. Smith is a writer from Swansea, Wales. He completed a Ph.D. on Robert Graves and Welsh Celticism at the University of Wales, Swansea in 2006. He has academic essays on Robert Graves published in The International Journal for Welsh writing in English.
Matthew is widely published with poetry and prose in Poetry Wales, The Lonely Crowd, Finished Creatures, Anti-Heroin Chic, Arachne Press, Atrium Poetry, Barren Magazine, Bold Magazine, Broken Spine Arts, Icefloe Press, Seventh Quarry, The Storms Journal, Fevers of the Mind, Bangor Literary Journal, Wales Haiku Journal, Green Ink, Twist in Time, and Acropolis Journal.
Matthew won the R.S. Thomas award for poetry at the Gwyl Cybi festival in 2018 and has been nominated for ‘Best of the Net’ three times by Icefloe Press, Acropolis Journal, and Broken Spine. He is the editor of Black Bough Poetry, the Silver Branch project, and the weekly online poetry platform TopTweetTuesday on Twitter.
He published Origin: 21 Poems in 2018. The Keeper of Aeons is his second collection.
Spriha Kant (Poetess and Book Reviewer):
Spriha Kant is a poetess and a book reviewer. Her poetry "The Seashell" was first published online in the "Imaginary Land Stories." Her poetries have been published in anthologies including “Sing, Do the birds of Spring”, “A Whisper Of Your Love”, “Hard Rain Poetry: Forever Dylan”, and “Bare Bones Writing Issue 1: Fevers of the Mind”. Her work has been featured in “SYNERGY: CALLING ALL WRITERS WHO ARE PHOTOGRAPHERS” on thewombwellrainbow.com. She has been featured in the “Quick-9 interview” on feversofthemind.com. She has reviewed four poetry books, including, “Silence From The Shadows” by Stuart Matthews “Spaces” by Clive Gresswell, and “Washed Away- a collection of fragments” by Shiksha Dheda, and “Nature Speaks of Love and Sorrow” by Jeff Flesch. She has been a part of the events celebrating the launches of the books, one by Jeff Flesch for “Nature Speaks of Love and Sorrow” and the other one by Paul Brookes for “As FolkTaleTeller.” She has collaborated with David L O’ Nan on the poetry “The Doorsteps Series.”
And these poems are a museum of me
no matter how beautiful and ugly
the prints fit your shoes. I carry my body
an ocean so you can vast your wing
about the blueness of my reflection.
My body is a beach tiding grief
even if I cough the yellowest sun. No matter
how hard I burn bright, I can't put off
these shadows. Or stop making teeth
off their bones. How do I tell the world
that y'all going to the same place
you came from? From dawn to dawn again
and everything melts into dew.
I hated happening to myself since
I will have to pay my hands if the result
comes empty-handed. How holy can curl
sharp on a tongue— how bitter I burnt
when it broke chain off my voice box.
I melted into a puddle and waved
to dawn's peace— how much dust
you can gather when your body
is an hourglass
my heart ticking me there.
Every breath I take collapses a grain
through the walls of my chest— I've seen
enough of the past to call the window a mirror
—A reflection threw into the future
Biography; Oladejo Abdullah Feranmi is a Veterinary medicine student at the University of Ibadan, Nigeria, a submission reader at the sea glass literary magazine, and an editor for the incognito press. Pursuing his enthusiasm for poetry, He has his works published/forthcoming in Gone Lawn, Brave Voices Magazine, and a few more. He tweets from;@oaferanmi
Black Moon Promise
Black moon promise
made to a leather winged Angel
Afterglow addict disciple of dawn
woman standing at the edge of love
listening for the silence in between the words
whispered by an ambidextrous tongue.
Loiterer in dim luminescence
under bloodshot skies.
beautiful visions reminding her of horrible things
knowing the best part of truth are the lies
casualty of kindness twilight apostle
feeling what is not her favorite color
the song of flawed perfection
its taste bitter on her lips
The melody fading with the last smile of summer
An Addicts Lament
I'll just have to start over
After ten months of being sober
My weakness proved to be stronger
than my determination to stay clean
Searched for a valid reason to get high
That didn't sound like an excuse
Resulted in a list of lies
I used to bribe the truth
I deserve a reward
for all the progress I'd made.
Listen to me trying to justify my actions
for what I had just thrown away
I'll blame my sponsor say
it's all his fault
For being out of town
When I needed his help most
he wasn't around
Temptation befriended me
encouraging my decision
Where the hell is it now
That I've become guilt ridden.
What am I thinking
who's gonna know
That I relapsed and got high
Unless I tell them so.
I can live with the lie
Big deal it's not the first time
After all I'm just a junkie and addict
Fighting a losing battle
with my habit
The Hole In My Life
There's a hole in my life
where all the happiness leaks out
Doctors tried to fix it with medication
Which produced poor results
So I made a hole in my arm
to replace what I had lost
Used all of everything I could find
Nothing succeeded to fill the void.
Next ambition, compassion gratitude and pride
also spilled out and exited my life.
A toxic depression filled the emptiness inside
What remains is a hole I made in my arm
And an addiction I struggle to satisfy
created from a madness that I prescribed
The diamond in her wedding ring has lost its glimmer
Gone is the sparkle that once danced in her eyes
Left with a basket full of laundry
Every memory a thief that has robbed her smile
A hostage of irresistible misfortune
She keeps telling herself it's a bad dream
The sink full of dirty dishes
her laughter trapped in a scream
She stares out the kitchen window
sees a future of muffled thunder in broken skies
Her conversation with silence disrupted
By the sound of the baby's demanding cry
Two Dollar Talisman
I have never professed to know much, although what I do know,
is the distance between want and need is measured in sacrifice, the road that must be traveled to obtain this awareness is plagued with fierce storms, lightning crackles with Catatumbo intensity, rain slowly rusts your ambition, the wind's sharp corners cut through a frail confidence, causing your ego to bleed, your desire starves for just a morsel of encouragement, but your hunger doesn't entitle you to take part in the soul feast, you believe no one's pain is greater than your own, convinced you've paid your dues, now fate owes you, but you've defaulted on the loan, your want is a demand, its sole purpose is to please the image reflected in a selfish mirror, you're damned to keep counting blessings, coming up short, then feeling cheated, out of what was never yours, yet you ask why your prayers go unanswered, your self-indulgent wishes are ignored, worshiping a two dollar Talisman, purchased at a thrift store, it has exhausted any cosmic goodwill it never had before, turns out to be just another poor choice, as your last resort, if a line between right and wrong ever existed, you snorted it long ago, and conscience you considered an encumbrance, was shedd in liabilities shadow.
I've lived a deplorable existence inside the underbelly of life, my reward for addiction and a twisted mind, been in places where Satan would be afraid to visit, acting on some drug's bad advice, I've learned the more I denied my want, I discovered how little I need, I've heard it rains diamonds on Neptune, there's blue sunsets on Mars, but as I mentioned, I don't know much, I'm just an imitation of me.