Tuesday, 25 December 2012

You by Shelley Squires








You

Choppy waters – beget white, foamy curls of self loathing
And I think to myself……
Savage twister – ripping at reason as the ferocious
Banshee rips foe flesh
And I think to myself…..
Frigid gales – form dirty crystals of frozen pity,
Morsels for the Ego
And I think to myself……
Wild fires – charring-fear aflame down in your core
And I think to myself…..
Torrents of rain – imbue you in the sparkling mire of denial
And I think to myself….
How wistful….the world at your feet yet you forgo the walk

Tuesday, 4 December 2012

Element of Chalk and Cheese by Stephen Mordue








Element of Chalk and Cheese


Cut from the same cloth you and I are,

Despite some elements of chalk and cheese,

We meet at the same seam.

The pattern sometimes doesn’t quite line up,

But the stitches reach out their threads to connect.

I sometimes wonder at the patterns you present,

And am often puzzled that, when I thought you were floral,

you demonstrate a different skin,

Sometimes I don’t know where to begin.

I see what is without,

But can’t, at times, see what is within.

We’re cut from the same cloth you and I,

But sometimes insist that we are parts of different garments,

Yet sometimes a beautifully lined jacket we make.

Different as chalk and cheese you and I.

But, like those elements, we’re intertwined forever in the same sentence

and secured at the same seem



Stephen J Mordue is a writer from Durham UK; explorer, philosopher, creator, writer, musician, coffee drinker, inter-twiner of mind, spirit and body. He started out in the realm of creativity as a song writer and performer and is now embracing poetry and painting. Creativity, expression, and experimentation are the keys.

No poetry published as yet. Fresh out of the box so to speak.

Tuesday, 13 November 2012

'A Writer's Gage' and 'Calendar Girl' by AJ Huffman






A Writer’s Gage

Two halves of the same pill sway
my mind.  From its usual waves
leaps and bounds descend like lead
balloons waiting for the pop of understanding.
I suck on their edges, praying to breathe.  There
is no air – stale or stagnant
simply swallowed it.  Replacing it
with their own definition:  Of hollow
frame labels my bones.  Heavy
thinking dissolves itself into carbonated pools
of bloated gloat.  The glut of regret is repugnant.
It sticks itself to the skin of my fingers,
I claw at walls only I perceive to be
here.  They take my testimony in bloodless Braille.
Am I still
    or standing blind
against the reign of time’s depleat
      ing circle?
I track my own erase.
To the base of my mental lemming’s cliff,
I pledge:  No jump!
         Instead I echo
a [counter]resolve:  To fall
in/on/through the words of my own pen[ance].



Calendar Girl

Maximize your cycle.  Make a day less
dense.  Easier to read images spot
suspicious screenings.  Right after
“there’s no chance,” go on a hot date.
Show that women walk, dress and even speak.
But beware (twice before you brush off):
quit that puff during the second half.  Success-
ful kicking [the habit]:  for good – the high;
the pleasure.  Your pain
threshold may rise.  Go in for that
filling.  This week.



A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. She has previously published four collections of poetry: The Difference Between Shadows and Stars, Carrying Yesterday, Cognitive Distortion, and . . . And Other Such Nonsense.. She has also published her work in national and international literary journals such as Avon Literary Intelligencer, Writer's Gazette, and The Penwood Review. Find more about A.J. Huffman, including additional information and links to her work at http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100000191382454 and https://twitter.com/#!/poetess222.

Tuesday, 23 October 2012

Tesco's Toilets and Other Poems by Marc Carver





Tesco’s Toilets

A man comes up to me
As I walk towards Tesco’s.
“Excuse me do you know where they have anymore bathrooms?”
I think about it for a second
Because I want to use the one in Tesco’s as well
and there are only two cubicles.
I don’t want to get caught short.
“Yea, in Tesco’s, go straight past the bread and they are right in front of you.”
“Thanks, they have a steam cleaner in this one.”
“Yea, filthy dirty.” I say
And he laughs as he walks off.
I stop in the charity shop
then head for the toilet.
I see a man’s boots sticking out under the cubicle
but I don’t know if it was the man from before.
I never looked at his footwear.
I sit down and write a poem
Not this one.
Then I think about buying three bottles of wine.
When I come out the man has gone.



Cat

I look down at the pavement
There is a coat on the ground.
Then it starts to move
Even though there is no wind.
Then it gets up
And becomes
 a cat.



Beautiful

Most days, I don’t talk to anyone
just coffee girls
and supermarket women.
Sometimes, I tell them how beautiful they are
but
when I come back the next day
they expect me
to say it again.

So now
I go to different places
and I don’t tell anyone
how beautiful they are.



LUKE

I walked into the coffee shop
The big black man was there
and we talked about the weather.
He stopped talking
and i moved on.

I ordered a coffee
and i began to chat to the man there as well.
"Do you realize between us we are half the gospels."
He thought about it for a while.
"Yea, i guess we are."
"Hopefully you will remember that little ditty. It has made your day memorable."
"Yea, most people tell me star wars jokes."

I grabbed my coffee from the oldish biggish woman.
"Thank you, you are a beautiful lady."
"I just serve coffee." She said.
I sat down
and stared out the window, looked at some women.
Then finished my coffee and walked out.



POUNDLAND 2

I looked at all the one pound cds in poundland.
I recognized all the names
from bands
part famous
maybe ten years or so ago.

I could not help but think
what would they think about their music
being sold in pounland for a sum of one pound.

When i went to the till
with my one pound toothbrush.
The till lady asked me if i wanted a bag.
"No you are okay love." I said.
She put my toothbrush in a bag anyway
as if she was giving me a present,
then smiled and said.
"There you go babe."
And that smile just got bigger and bigger
until i could've fallen right into it.



Job Center

The man in the job center
asked me how i was
after i asked him.
Of course i don't really care how he is.
I told him i was okay.
"We will knock that out of you."
"Oh i don't think you would want to do that John." I said.

He looked at me for a while
then found me a job.
"How do you feel about that."
"Yea, i can give them a call." I said.
"Do you really want to do it?"
"What do you think John?"
"Okay sign there Marc."
I signed and walked out and even wished John a good day.
And you know
this time
I really hope John does have a good day.



Invisible

A man walks down the street.
He waves his arm forward in a sweep.
The way, you usher women
into a room before you.
But I don’t see a woman
or anybody else.
They only exist in his mind.
Or mine.



Ice Cream

I remember when I was a child
Maybe eight or nine.
There was a group of us
six or seven children.
This older boy came up to us
 he knew one of the boys.

He was old enough to have some money.
He bought everyone an ice cream from
The ice cream van.
I looked around for mine
But I was the only kid left out.




Marc Carver has published 6 books to date. 


Tuesday, 2 October 2012

'Dream Life' and 'Scene' by Greg Moglia










DREAM LIFE

Got the right girl - sweet and kind, right job - retired
Right case – govt. pension, right stat-single living alone
Awake when I wish – asleep when I wish
During my working life this only a dream

And now I’m here – whoopee – but no, still not right
At my age think a lot about dying and that’s a pain
Look this mother- daughter walk by
I know the girl thinks I’ll never be like Mom

‘Forever young’ lives on and on
I play that game – death lives in the other room
Push back my end date –at 50 I’ll take 30 more
At 60, healthy – still got 30

Keep this up and at 90, life at 120?
Why I can even dream a death bed me
Trying for the next sunrise
Retooling with ‘One day at a time’

Who said to our unconscious we are immortal?
That tiny cashier at my market, her voice at a whisper
Asked her age, proudly says Going on 90
Hands me back my case of Bud Lite, warns

Careful, it’s heavy




SCENE

No girl or dear friend  
Just a fellow camp counselor who says

 How about a run across the lake?
There’s a general store

Ok, sure I say with no sense of breaking a rule
Though canoe flight at night not allowed

No sense of grand moment
Paddle in hand I step inside

But once shoved off and three strokes in
I catch the moon at its brightest

The lake all glass in blue peace
So that each drop, pull and finish of my arms

Gave me something at 20
I did not understand

Now, after forty years
That lake in calm

Wonder at the art of the mind
that takes hold and loves



Greg Moglia is an American writer whose work has appeared in over 100 journals in the U.S., Canada and England as well as five poetry anthologies.

Tuesday, 11 September 2012

35 and Other Poems by Nicholas Alexander





35

At 35 a man feels he has arrived.
The baby on the bed attempting flight.
the older child petitioning hunger.
The woman in the kitchen concocting
a late-night swell-belly meal;
and yet, you wonder why your waist line expands
faster that the runner clocks records.

This expansion lingers in the mind,
recounts the memory of athletic exploits
that seem, now, myths of old:
stories to be told to unbelieving off-springs
who think you're lying
or just downright bragging,
like you thought your father was.




Early Morning Praise

Voices through leaves echo
hollow like half-remembered dreams
of the night before where
pipe-sprung water
like Hopkins' sprung meter
lubricates my parched city-subconscious.

Above me a cutlass sings
sweet serenade to the morning
after the night before
my first experience.

My spirit stretches
heaven-ward like these trees
ascending to God
flown like birds
squawking early morning
praises to the fresh open air.




High Mountain Range

Up here in this high mountain range
one can hardly recall life in the city:

the thick smog of factories and vehicles,
the quick pace of feet to and fro its streets,

the swash-buckle of work, school and traffic,
sound systems and gunshots blasting through the night.

But here, silence! Like an exclamation past anxiety,
an indifference to make a Stoic proud.

Soft chirping birds and tender rustling leaves,
a lonely voice singing redemption there.

The wide open space of vertical trees
littered with exaggeratedly-colorful blossoms.

The nights cold and cramping like ice,
lizards croaking between the savage baying of dogs.



NB: "Early morning praise" and "High mountain range" were previously published in The First Cut(Ireland).


Nicholas Damion Alexander is a teacher of English and Philosophy. His works have been published in The Sunday Gleaner, The Sunday Observer, Caribbean Voice magazine, Small Axe: sx salon, Tongues of the Ocean, Poets against War, A Handful of Stones, The Cartier Street Review, Auckland Poetry, The Black Collegian, Angelfire, Mr. Africa Poetry Lounge, Eos, Truml, Poemhunter, The First Cut and the 'Calabash' anthology So Much Things To Say. In 2008 he was awarded a fellowship with Calabash International Writers' Workshop.He has also been featured on e-Buffet's online magazine: "Postcards from the people of Earth", Squid Inc. and B-Gina.

His blog is: http://nicholasdamionalexander.blogspot.com

Tuesday, 21 August 2012

The Cellist of Camden by Cyrus Finucane



The Cellist of Camden

The feather ruffler is back
that vestibule magi and guardian of cat gut,
with all the dreams and wishes
from a shop thats long been shut.
Hoarding the deafening babels
for one last Bleak house gig,
Heathcliffs face is rather distorted
but it pays for the cellist's digs.

Now aging and embittered
he is a tramp from a different class,
a ghost of a wayward victorian
with a shattered champagne glass.
Up and down the stairs he flee's
in a short and jerky English stride,
then slams the door of his abode
with his face and noise to hide.

I am sure that he plays for the witches
in their witching witches hour,
trying to reach the most grating tone
of a most musical acid sour.
He embraces a distressed cacophony
creating a toothache in ones head,
will this old bastard
ever go to bed.


About the poem by the author:
"It concerns a time when I could only find digs in a lowly and very congested doss house in London (circa 1992). The cello player lived next door to my room. I was amused by his constant strangling of the instrument and the moans and groans of the other residents. I myself found him to be a very polite gentleman rather out of his comfort zone".

Wednesday, 1 August 2012

Electric in a Dense World by Dan Hedges






Electric in a Dense World
Into ‘the thoughts’ we project bias at all moments, while we forge our word-trances, electric in a dense world of colored noise.  Metaphors are for phoring, and jousting at semantics at full charge.  Sustaining vision after the original shot of noticing ‘new spectacle’ and ‘new fodder’, is the key.  It’s in the sustaining of vision (and) in the follow-through.  It’s in the ‘holding it’ just long enough so as to corral the flowing gaze at thoughts and give them agrammatical justice.  Whereas the past and future are of equal magnitude, the self at present sits at the very focal point of the conundrum.   Complexity infinitum passes through the self at volumes and speeds that cannot be registered or ‘dealt with’ satisfactorily.  To remain in a strong state of physical sanity (remember the orchids), the humanimal must settle with reaching out into the semantic storm, and plucking at only bits of the puzzle to hold close for observation and further wondering. 





The Poet

Dan Hedges currently teaches English in the Sir Wilfred Laurier School Board of Quebec. He has also taught English at Sedbergh School, and the Celtic International School. He has lived in the Yukon, Spain, Mexico, Wisconsin, Algonquin Park and Quebec. Dan runs an artist collective called Humanimalz. His poems have appeared in The Maynard, Ditch Poetry, Jones Av. Quarterly, Fortunates, Haggard and Halloo, Rigormortus, and The Camel Saloon. His work is forthcoming in The Monarch Review, Marco Polo Arts Magazine, Inertia, and Wildflower Magazine.

Saturday, 7 July 2012

Leaving For Paris by Della Perry


suitcases open on the crumpled bed

lists wrote out ready to be read and reread

crosses out in biro and scribbles in ink

piles of aerosols and soap so we don't stink

holiday is due, stuff for kids me and you

travel sickness pills in case Sean is ill

baby wipes, tissues, plastic bags just a few

bottles of water and biscuits, just the two

pj's pants and socks by the pair

trousers, jumpers and tshirts for us to wear

the camera and films, we take about 3

the shavers, shampoo and makeup for me (bloody need it i do)

the four toothbrushes and brand new toothpaste

shoved in on the morning in our haste

passports at ready and tickets at hand

eager to get off the ferry and back on dry land

the mobile phone and wallet with some money

nearly forgot these, it wasn't bloody funny!!

swimming trunks and cozzie ready for the pool

will shave my GEORGE BUSH,  (I don't as a rule) cough, cough

a couple of towels to keep us dry

a big sloppy kiss and a wave goodbye

we're reay, we're off to Disney in Paris

where we'll have a break and sit on our 'HARRIS'

we'll meet mickey mouse and minnie too

we'll send you a postcard saying 'miss you'

we won't mean it, we'll be having too much fun

to give a shit what you're doin at um

bed and breakfast we've got in Santa Fe

we'll see you again when it's nearly May

so TA-RA for now and happy holiday!!


The Author
Della works as a Teaching Assistant in her local Primary School in the Dudley area of the West Midlands. She is married to Darren and has two sons, Ian 18 and Sean 13.

She started writing at a young age and her love of reading was encouraged by her late Aunt. Since working in school she has written many poems for the children that are used to help in the lessons, she also loves art and her artwork is used for displays in and around the classroom.

‘I’ve always loved writing, especially poetry, jotting my thoughts and dreams down in diaries. I have found it an outlet from everyday life and through writing have met so many people, it is a truly amazing form of art.’

Friday, 15 June 2012

Inside The Treatment Zone by J S Watts




Inside The Treatment Zone

struggling for a fluid line
                                                direct flow into the patient
reality callously insinuates
it is never going to get there
wherever there is.
                                                                         Trying, though. Trying.
                                                Palpable washed-out quivering liberal feelings
searching for empathy, bone-digging comprehension
that sweet temptation of someone else’s truth
understood boundaries dissolve in the flood
                                                I can’t understand. Will always fail to understand
                                                                                                                                I
veins open and bleeding
                                                            life barely breathing pink.
seeing through a one-way window
                                                                        the glass barely pink.
life inside the treatment zone is open and bleeding
                                                                                    my words barely pink
                                                                                                and yet I claim
                                                                                                            imagine, presume
                                                                                                                                  write
random words, splattered with red messy life
inside the treatment zone
fluids flow up hill
                                                            inside the treatment zone
                                                                        I am always looking out
looking inwards
seeing only myself
flowing up hill.
to see inside the treatment zone
you have to have lived it
from the inside out
open and bleeding
                                                            Sticking plasters are pink
                                                                        will never contain a life
                                                                                    flowing up hill.


by J S Watts


J.S.Watts lives and writes in Cambridge in the U.K. Her poetry, reviews and short stories have appeared in a diversity of publications in Britain, Canada, Australia and the States including Ascent Aspirations, Acumen, Envoi, Mslexia and Orbis and have been broadcast on BBC and Independent Radio. She has been until recently the Poetry Reviews Editor for Open Wide Magazine. Her debut poetry collection, "Cats and Other Myths", is published by Lapwing Publications and her first novel is due out from Vagabondage Press in Autumn 2012. For further details see www.jswatts.co.uk or you can find J.S. Watts on Facebook at www.facebook.com/J.S.Watts.page 

Thursday, 24 May 2012

Orna Ross' 'Ten Thoughts About Love' - Poetry Review by kaleeM rajA


Orna Ross' ‘Ten Thoughts About Love’ Review by kaleeM rajA

www.ornaross.com


The slimness of this volume belies the extraordinary power encased within the covers.
Ross's verse is technically brilliant, emotionally beguiling and at times startling.

The poems show the hallmarks of an experienced and adroit writer who effortlessly demonstrates the far reaching things language can do across the small span of 10 poems.
The language, when Ross chooses to charm her readers, is achingly beautiful ('In the amber of late October', 'May the blessing of the soft rains be on your house') and at other times, delivers a shocking punch ('those harsh, embittered words you said, the love they slapped away').

In the triptych poem 'Salema Moods', Ross demonstrates her range and mastery of language. The first part 'Ocean Pulse' brilliantly mimics the welter of the protean waters through choppy rhythm and a bombastic bombardment of words ('Rising, curling, foam unfurling'); the second part enters into a lilting, dream-like internal monologue'; and in the last of the trilogy, the language is clipped and lucid.

In 'Surfacing' Ross puts to great use the extended metaphor of troubled waters, drowning and saving a sinking relationship. In 'Spinning Still' extraordinary line breaks spark the subject and meaning alive and contort language into unexpected cadences.

Great lines and turns of phrases abound ('I've been here before but now I'm here for healing', 'my strange need to go too deep', 'knowing how it came to end is how mine must begin') and Ross's intelligent word play at times is tremendous (''Thou Shalt Nots' ruled their days and ours').
The words are carefully selected and the sounds they engender meticulously composed through sound juxtapositions. There are fewer better examples of masterfully crafted poetry than the last one in the volume, 'A Reply & An Answer' in which the two verses mirror one another in imagery, words, sounds and structure.

A powerhouse of a poetry collection.
This reader recommends it thoroughly.

Ten Thoughts About Love is available from Amazon.
ISBN-978-0954875688
This and Ross' other publications are available for review and purchase from www.ornaross.com 

Wednesday, 23 May 2012

TIME Poems by Clive Gresswell: 'TIMe' & 'City'



T I M e

Ti me trick les pass 
Tha serpent o mi youff
In form s
Maj est ick enter prise
A t 1 wiv al l k now ing
Cert ain ty.













City

The all-electric sky hawks
eating clouds of acid rain
flashing acrid plumage
more innocent times
saw ranting children
banned from schools
wearing bandanas
cloaked in the bureaucracy
the illuminati hand raised
down rivers and across bridges
soaked in diamond playing cards
strange said Alice
a stage of suicide
torn from her eyes
in mock sorrow
forming  tears of incredulity
falling to the ground
a message from the governor
bow to his 1984 preposition
Prescribing Pepto-Bismol
for better times
bankers  along conveyor belts
grab at 1960s daisies
growing out of garbage cans
in the strung-out polluted city.














The Author: Clive Gresswell is a Luton based poet who has been writing for more than 20 years. He is a member of the reVerse View poetry group and is currently studying a bachelor degree in Creative Writing at the University of Bedfordshire.