These Days These days of open fields and gentle skies, flocked with birds and golden falling flakes, when poplars whisper through their thinning leaves, I look about the blue and empty space to see who creeps the meadow, to hear who speaks - the wind, I say, dog says, and raises quivering nose just to be sure, but in the wind is winter and the flying feathered cold, wrapping in its white wings all the ghosts that haunt these hills and wander the dusky paths of my heart Bio from 2020: Jane Dougherty lives and works in Southwest France. Her poems and stories have been published in magazines and journals including Ogham Stone, Hedgerow Journal, ink sweat and tears, Nightingale & Sparrow and Brilliant Flash Fiction. Her debut chapbook of poetry, thicker than water, was published in October 2020.
Joyce Strolls Around the Labyrinth
He holds the pages closer and looks through them Nothing. His words have turned their back on him They seem to form a pattern, constantly pushing around He tries to bring order and worse they grow Anxious, leaves them to struggle and perish His translations of William Oscar Yeats Wilde simply gap at him If only someone would direct him a Grant or even a Pound! He always senses an oddity with language Letterx, wordx, phrasex, sentencex and paragraphs of utter nonsensex At times, he escapes into the stream of his consciousness Wherein cacophony he upholds and abhors chronology Presently, recalling Odysseus his mind Blooms To a similar journey he embarks, but only Around the labyrinth of his mind Wolfpack Contributor: Anisha Kaul A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Anisha Kaul Bio: Anisha Kaul (she/ her) is a poet with a Master's in English Literature, presently living in New Delhi, India. As of now 40 of her poems have been accepted or are housed in various national and international print and online anthologies. She served in the capacity of the editor for DRC, College Magazine Pramila, University of Delhi, 2016-17 issue. Anisha has also qualified the National Eligibility Test (NET) for Assistant Professorship conducted in India. She loves to write about herself in the third person. Find her on twitter: @anishakaul9.
Making Change with Cohen
Notes fell into my fedora in Too poetic of a way Too synonymous with a busker I once knew Once was And his panhandled songs Stolen from places And books and letters and the corners of my mind where music stood at corners begging As if there is such a thing as too poetic or too musical or too big of a fedora - stuffed with first notes and last notes and echo notes and silent notes and end-notes Left behind by no crowd and all crowds and crowded crowds and invisible crowds Maybe there is and maybe there is not but the double f alliteration that rhymes with clef and marches - next together in fell and fedora Almost made me laugh But I didn't Instead I inhaled One more time my notes that smelled of music and sadness and grief and crescendos and whole notes and half notes and scribbled idea notes on napkins and marble slabs and cocktail umbrellas and gray - matter Not of a million fingerprints on faded dollars left in hats and boxes and must violin - cases I hummed a dirge of faded songs That made no one laugh And left my fedora empty
The Arborist My tongue is a root where trees grow at night. I practice play speaking with a mouth full of trees each day with rapid rhymes and twisters. The rain in Spain falls mostly on the plains as she sells seashells by the sea shore, all through leaves and acorns that drop plop into my gut. I cut the maples and oaks - and aspens down each morning, making paper for haikus and haibuns and stressed- syllable sonnets. Before I can swallow the sunrise surprise saplings, a new tree grows to replace it, branching into my gums and teeth, caught in each birch breath. I swirl oil colors to make Japanese paper and anime character letters to speak for me. I last wrote a love note on mouth paper a century ago. Ocean ink was free from octopus lovers. I sent them black hearts that bled into the sea, floated away in tiny corked labelless -bottles that flung themselves at the sugar sand shore, to be found by small children I never birthed or loved or taught to climb mouth trees. Bio from 2020: Amy Barnes has words at a variety of sites including The New Southern Fugitives, Flashback Fiction, Popshot Quarterly, Flash Fiction Magazine, X-Ray Lit, Anti-Heroin Chic, Museum of Americana, Penny Fiction, Stymie Lit, No Contact Mag, JMMW, The Molotov Cocktail, Lucent Dreaming, Lunate Fiction, Rejection Lit, Perhappened, Cabinet of Heed, Spartan Lit, National Flash Flood Day and others. Her work has been long-listed at Reflex Press (3rd place), Bath Flash Fiction, Retreat West and TSS Publishing. She volunteers at Fracture Lit, CRAFT, Taco Bell Quarterly, Retreat West, NFFD, The MacGuffin, and Narratively. She is nominated for Best Microfictions (Spartan Lit) and Pushcarts (101 Words of Solitude and Perhappened). Her flash collection, "Mother Figures" is forthcoming in May 2021 by ELJ Editions, Ltd. And soon to be an associate editor at Fractured Lit
Mass Grave #58 The bloodrot rooting Over the rise that hides the pit, That mallow mound that salves the flatlands vista. From outré putrefaction, the wilder roses bloom, Their pungent spumes of spiky fumes, Fragrances that flounder in dead-hand dealt air, A stasis that unstirs the shrill, still sadness, Staunches the undertow flow of the unforgiven Charred and hidden in the sods of soil despoiled; Limbs oiled in its threadbare muddy mercy. The irremediable blue in ten years time you might retire, you might come back to Blighty, we might return to Port Isaac, we might have time again to ride again our bicycles, from Cornish coast-to-coast again. wannabe wayfaring, we might loll laughing again on a wafeted, scrumped tat o'tartan rug again on a dot-dash of distal headland in the mizzen drench sea-mist of a "Fogust" again and brush fingers again and have, again, the intent of a kiss, not and never had, but ever much onwards missed, again and again, since then, old friend, when we'd talk in a distinctly distant flannel; we swarding swatches aswirl within this still vast vista of irremediable blue... the last laugh never came to pass crackling, crackhead rapidity of speech, in a cack-handed matey tempo spackled with infomercial riddlings and pseudo-psychoanalytical patter about the love in every one of us being all that really matters personality types as if purloined sachets to add a touch of bitter or sweet to the mobby broth whose vibrant, rolling broil of events are tampered/sieved/blent into spuzzy negatives of denials all misfiled into microfiche mêlées of confusion in a filled-up soup of psyche (with its linger of crouton tumours) oh, then, to defrag these fleshy coils of cortex to promote more systematic recall a crumbly softness arcing through the spindrift spun trace remembrances of cogency condensed to illegible; slapdash jottings made with leaky fountain pens on absorbent flays of blotting papers and in there, somewhere, the specifics of what you'd dare to recall clogged in five years of such mulching, moulder of drippage and when, and if, ever discerned, decrypted as mere juvie, virtue-signalled, naïve jibberish with no stanchion of good will or best wish for this unanchored flail of flatline future Bio: Barney Ashton-Bullock, is the poet/librettist in the ‘Andy Bell is Torsten’ music-theatre-poetry collective and he narrates his own verse on the Downes Braide Association albums. He is the founder of Soho Poetry Nights. He has poetry published, or pending publication, in a wide range of cult poetry journals**, in the ‘Avalanches In Poetry’ tribute anthology to Leonard Cohen, in the Dreich pamphlet ‘Famous’, in the Pilot Press ‘Queer Anthology Of Healing’ and in the 'Soho Nights' anthologies published by The Society Club Press who also published his first collection ‘Schema/Stasis’ in 2017. His latest poetry pamphlet ‘Café Kaput!’ was published by Broken Sleep Books in 2020.<br>(**the Wellington Street Review, the New River Press Yearbook, SPAMzine, Re-Side Magazine, -algia Press, Scab Mag, Pink Plastic House Journal, Lucky Pierre Zine, Poetry Bus, Neuro Logical Magazine and the Babel Tower Notice Board)
Regaining Wonderment I saw a picture - Or, Was it a dream? - Of a full-grown Redwood washed up on a beach. The giant had become The driftwood of giants, Tossed about effortlessly By the ocean, since oceans aren't Easily intimidated. Our son repeatedly tells us He wants to visit the Redwood Forest. It's ironic how being small amidst large can feel empowering, Somehow. Knowing your limits, Means knowing your place - The means to rediscover A sense of wonder. Perhaps, the tree Only wanted to feel young again. But where will The ocean go, to feel small? Fighting with Straw Men Try arguing with The straw man who's Making his true case that Some times are easier than Others, to pretend We're not all waiting around to die. He's right, of course. Wilting demands we watch Its predictable end - but We'd prefer not to look. Even anonymous funerals are Harder to attend than weddings. Now, I'm the straw man - Making his case for him, When we were meant to be Arguing about the Prettiest floral arrangement For the venue. Poetic Trinitas poem (pdf) from Samantha Terrell : Visual Broadcasting
Bio: Samantha Terrell, author of Vision, and Other Things We Hide From (Potter's Grove Press, 2021) is a widely published American poet whose work emphasizes self-awareness as a means to social awareness. Her poetry can be found in many fine publications, and her work has been featured on Sunny G Radio Glasgow, Dublin-based Eat the Storms podcast, and "The Open Collaboration" all-acoustics show (Bristol, U.K.). She writes from her home in upstate New York, where she lives with her husband and their two sons.