I really couldn’t bear
to look at it at all,
that piece of unrequited love,
that disregarded romance,
I put his picture in a book,
so dull, so tepid,
I didn’t even bother
to finish it at all.
I put it high upon a shelf,
in a place I normally
couldn’t reach without a stool.
Then took a broom of
to sweep my love
under a rug of
I really did not mind at all.
Of wanting not to realise
the shredding of my inner lacing
under the guise of pretending
not to remember at all,
that piece of unrequited love.
Bio for Doryn Herbst
Doryn Herbst, a former water industry scientist in Wales, now lives in Germany and is a deputy local councillor. Her writing considers the natural world but also themes which address social issues.
Doryn has poetry in Fahmidan Journal, CERASUS Magazine, Fenland Poetry Journal, celestite poetry, Poems from the Heron Clan and more.
She is a reviewer at Consilience science poetry.
Memories flow around our bodies
from the heart of the rain this morning,
we are empty. Sorrow pulses through
memories, swallows up our noisy minds.
We are absorbed by water,
and can feel the sounds of ocean,
as something familiar is dawning
deep within us every morning,
then it disappears again. Memories of us
have the roots right in the air.
We were the wings for each other,
but stillness breaks before dawn,
in the name of all that’s hailed,
and face it all—
the past remains unclaimed,
driven forth by faith.
GOODBYE ALL THE LEAVES
“Walk on,” I said to myself
and turned around, when the wind blows,
the shadows change.
“Walk on,” I said and continued
the path, we know the rules—
the light’s gate trough the wall of darkness.
So, goodbye all the leaves under the turquoise sky,
goodbye all the leaves above the emerald land.
I walk with silence in my heart
there is no room for words anymore,
what’s done is done.
SPIRIT OF SILENCE
Language, the spirit of silence.
Each word, the heart of silence.
Without hearts we are sightless,
with fingers searching for rays.
I was circled by the cutlery of
emptiness, but I felt your breath
one day and realized my existence.
Essence emerged from emptiness,
all the mysteries of our century
and all the answers flew with us.
Silence. Language of understanding.
Meanings, only. No words.
THE COLD BREEZE OF BAY SHORE
Long ago, the wind knew my plans. I asked myself:
“If the wind knows our plans who can defeat the wind?”
Long ago, I knew the answer. Silence.
I always knew that we all are going to the garden,
and there was a street, empty, tiny, calm street,
with the tiny wall, at its very end, and a garden
beyond that wall. Ruins, as precious dust of hope,
and wishes. Long ago, in noisy night I was attacked.
I don’t remember those faces, voices, I left for dead.
All I remember is my own breath,
strangely telling the truth— meaning of loneliness,
as if that garden beyond the wall
was the sanctuary of my own heart, always alive,
always beautiful from the very beginning of time.
I lived to revenge myself against my enemies,
not for what they were – for what I was,
from the end of childhood, friendship, war,
from the beginning of understanding—
when we all were created as a crown of the world,
I thought the loneliness, and even that pain meant
we were not loved, but standing on the other side
of alone, I felt the cold breeze of bay shore,
and took a deep breath, I heard the seagulls up above,
“it’s all over now,” I realized, and it meant we loved
Bio: David Dephy (he/him) (pronounced as “DAY-vid DE-fee”), is an American award-winning poet and novelist. The founder of Poetry Orchestra, a 2023 Pushcart Prize nominee for Brownstone Poets, an author of full-length poetry collection Eastern Star (Adelaide Books, NYC, 2020), and A Double Meaning, also a full-length poetry collection with co-author Joshua Corwin, (Adelaide Books, NYC, 2022). His poem, “A Senses of Purpose,” is going to the moon in 2024 by The Lunar Codex, NASA, Space X, and Poetry on Brick Street. He is named as Literature Luminary by Bowery Poetry, Stellar Poet by Voices of Poetry, Incomparable Poet by Statorec, Brilliant Grace by Headline Poetry & Press and Extremely Unique Poetic Voice by Cultural Daily. He lives and works in New York City.
Depression is having rhinos in your soul,
live chained to the clock of emotional terror.
Depression is spiritual blight, komodo dragons lying in our bed.
Depression is a slow, sadistic death, depression feeds on our time.
Depression is giving up on loving even before we have someone to love.
I'm cheerful, but I'm not happy.
It is possible to be depressed and smile.
The serrisos hide what kills us inside.
Don't tell the depressed person: be strong, be brave, it all depends on you.
If you think that to overcome depression
it's all about willpower,
you don't know what it's like to live with that monster in your soul.
They're all happy, not me, I just want to
wake up and live one day at a time, in peace next to love.
Bio: Ediney Santana was born in Brazil, is a poet, novelist and composer. Write for newspapers and websites.
He is the author of several books, including The Lonely Shadow.
I repair your guitar in
a bathtub of broken glass.
The high e string bends
as I’ve no expert hands,
everything’s slick inside
the velveteen case; hollow
body ready to ache, fatty
frets thick enough to stop
a house from falling. It’s
one for the money, 2 for
a long scar down the rib
cage. A rock steady pulse
dependent on your hand
around the skinny neck.
Clear the throat wounds,
allow the wah-wah pedal
to leap from the bridge
into a sea of flashing bic
lighters humming an arc
of stimulated veins an
octave above start.
Right Index Finger
Jimmied my car door
by a thumbnail moon
for a day job in star
dark California wild
green Suburus park
to propagate at Vista
Pointe the surf is too
much of its own thing
to be of interest or use
telephone poles felled
by the wind propped
upright as candles on
a cake await the next
quake to test settling
a tsunami warning is
scheduled annually to
allow low land cattle
some time to adjust
herons, cranes, geese
flock to muck beyond
cameras or spy glass.
Right Middle Finger
I’m stitching tie-dyed
checkered flags for a
new wave. Come rain
or storming boots an
enemy is common as
snarling dogs. Friends
run red light between
emergencies, save our
place in a line of sand
bags holding the river.
Comb shag carpet w/
split-level super lotto
logic polish the temple
floor in sun streaking
amber dust slate blue
canopy in swallowtail
yellow let the cat paw
out of Papa’s Brand
New gag order and
scatter feathers fine
and far from the hunt.
Right Ring Finger
I brought my cheap suit
to the launderette. Hung
from my arm like a wild
west scarecrow, the grey
vertical threads, so chic
decades ago, match my
cuffs collect dust good as
any dictionary. I remember
how proud Mama was, me
at the graduation lectern,
ignoring my notes, riffing
on a particulate tone, my
pocket square arresting
the audience, the phonetic
spelling of God, the pleat
of my corduroy rubbing
Aladdin’s lamp as I spilled
my guts in vitro. The dry
cleaner suggests pressing,
pats the pockets for a gun.
Right Pinkie Finger
The pinkest blossoms fall
to the gray street. The sun,
like a comedian, turns fun
into a drought. Year in year
out, commemorate lost bees,
search the ice shelf for new
definitions, kindling is just
a word for wilderness, bears
pose for selfies with salmon,
drones picnic downstream
a coyote claws an abandoned
bus another famous hiker
leaves a notebook or a watch
on a teeter totter of stones in
full view of an arsonist making
bad decisions. Try explaining
New Year’s to a washed out
bridge, use the twisted metal
rails to spell check Celsius.
An emergency phone number
sputters, my breath on hold
music is worth a bird in hand.
Find more from Will here:
They are dangerously sexy
and always married to a king,
generic wealthy man or stonecutter,
living out their tumultuous lives
in the first wife's home, altered first
of course; scarlet-draped boudoirs, gothic
windows opening on to moors
where deformed trees loom.
They harm stepchildren in
enchanted forests by incising
their subcutaneous fat with blue light
turning them into swans, proffering
poisonous fruit or exposing them
to the vagaries of witches. They have a thing
for mirrors, lakes and strange headgear.
Age toughens them; keratin scales within
their nails and hair. When they die, it is
by bitter herbs, their spirit thrashing
like a hammerhead shark, never
in history going down without a fight.
*originally published in Fiona's first collection of poetry, Alchemy (Turas Press, Dublin, 2020)Altered State
Oh Father, this forest is a labyrinth
I have caught sight of the flying saints
you sent to rescue me if that is what you
need you to hear. I feel no compulsion
to compete with this ecosystem. I have never
understood the concept of ancient self.
Let me tread through the seedlings of tender
ambition. Seal off the charred remains
of childhood in syncopation with the seasons.
Your white emulsion appears as Polaris
in the vast Vantablack. All in good time
I will follow it home.
An unexpected spectacle-
all those luminescent
through the forest
creatures, other tiny
soft and unfettered
as moon jellyfish
they form fleeting
rings around bats
congregate in all
the in-between spaces
my susceptible heart surges
to their baroque rhythm
a caravan of light
wiping shadows away
they will not pass
this way again.
Bio: Fiona’s first collection of poetry, Alchemy (Turas Press, Dublin), won the Poetry Book Awards (2021) Silver Medal and was shortlisted for the Rubery Prize. Her flash fiction, Sea Change, won first prize in the Bath Flash Fiction Awards (2020). Her poetry and short fiction has been published internationally in publications such as Fevers of the Mind, Lighthouse, Skylight47, Utopia, Abyss & Apex, and Ink, Sweat & Tears. She lives near Oxford, in the UK, with her family.