Category Archives: New Poetry

‘The Moon’ by Lucy Heasman

Silver star duster,
Light guider,
Path finder,
Sky brightener.
Night keeper,
Pure encircler.
Symbol giver,
Sleep enricher.
Wisdom seer,
Grace caller.
White revealer,
Bright blazer.
Hill top lighter,
Glare in darker.
Cloud and star enhancer.

Copyright 2017 by Lucy Heasman. All rights belong to the author and material may not be copied without the author’s express permission.

 

‘A Breath Of A River’ by Lucy Heasman

Doubt recalled a spout of the water formed, rocks of mould.
Melting with the green floss, sing water, sing,
Up higher the trees surround, shades fall and coolness bring.
Down below the river flow, motion, water gently ripples with a fold.

Green lava, smooth slick and thick, darkness deep,
Underneath there are growing river weeds and colorful fish that swim,
Catch a glance if your eyes are quick, up to the surface they spring.
Jumping over rocks and the waters sinking surface, feather light leap.

Voice of the river, soothing soft slither of water beneath the trees.
Trees rustling in the breeze, sounds of the sea can be heard.
But this is a trick, leaves like a tambourine, fly bird.
Shaking and blowing, shiver leaves.

Dips and a plop and drums soft stop, the flying fishes fall,
River pour your water from hilltop, down, shower and never cease,
Always you must flow and drip and grow over plants silent crease.
Applauds of the leaves, flashing wind, river call.

Copyright 2017 by Lucy Heasman. All rights belong to the author and material may not be copied without the author’s express permission.

Featured Image By Lucy Heasman

‘So Late At Last So Long’ by Jerrold Bray Miller

It was a decent living at one time, a nice way to make a stay

Even though it led to the mindless compulsion to wander off

I’ve often been called restless, suppose I cannot refuse a mystery

Life lived as a zigzagging and futile attempt to replicate a cherished home

Only the late evening wailing can ever return me to my right mind

She was here once, was once a visitor who stayed beyond her appointed leisure

Some moments pass through us like poison winds, leave us scarred beyond reason

Come out to the other side, they call

Come join us in a moment of calm

Turned and looked to see who beckoned me

Only to find the dead brown leaves of fall

And lachrymose reminders of a day left in a dark past

Copyright 2016 by Jerrold Bray Miller. All rights belong to the author and material may not be copied without the author’s express permission.

‘Black Friday’ by Jen Hughes

It is named Black Friday
For it’s not unlike the bubonic plague
Spread across by rats from over the waves
And infecting the peasants.

They wait in their droves outside,
Always looking at the time: 5.59
They care not for their pride
For inside, there are discounts to be had.

The doors open, and you can feel
That it will quickly become a battlefield
Graphically violent scenes
Seriously just look at them!

There are mothers pulling other mothers hair over coffee machines
There are teenagers playing tug of war with a flat screen TV
There are twenty year old men with armfuls of Barbies
Who don’t even have children.

There’s five hipsters brawling over one iPad
There’s a fur-coated woman, basket full of multipacks of pants.
There’s a man with two supertoasters under each arm
Even though he’s actually gluten intolerant

They emerge triumphant, their trolleys with prizes
Of war. But they are just foot-soldiers beguiled
By the dazzle of having things at such a low price
The real winners here are the shop owners and CEOs.

At least in America, they celebrate Thanksgiving,
Once a year, grateful what they have, happy for living
Before to the shops they are whizzing
To fill their cupboards with more useless crap!

We don’t have this holiday, it’s queer
That we’d participate in this year
We don’t even celebrate Thanksgiving here!
I can’t understand what’s wrong with us as a species.

Copyright 2016 by Jen Hughes. All rights belong to the author and material may not be copied without the author’s express permission.

Featured Image By Kevin Main

 

‘Third Level Of Madness’ by Cam Stinchcum

From the balcony, one can see all the world laid before him–

But if we stare long enough, the globe tilts crazily.

I have dreamed of knocking at my door just after midnight–

The absence of actual sound is what I find most unnerving.

If you’re actually ready to leave so soon, so abruptly–

At least give credit to the forces that push you forward by the moment.

So it goes on, so it will always flow, concentric waves of utter despair–

Until the fever at last breaks, the virus finally shattered to pieces.

How I have longed to reach you, my darling–

To tell you one final time….

That it has all been my own wasted dreams

My own

Shattering.

Copyright 2016 by Cam Stinchcum. All rights belong to the author and material may not be copied without the author’s express permission.

 

 

‘Her Name Is Red’ by Andrew Bradford

I recognize nothing from my past, less still from my present

Toss the cold earth upon me and leave me to be silent

Some will claim it was an act of God, others will merely chuckle knowingly

I turn each page as if led by a force outside myself

There was a time years ago when one could feel safe

Now it is nearly impossible to discern the madness from what is deemed reality

In miniature, you can see the world spinning just as it always has, always must

Angels draw near to me, kindly tending my wounds

Such overwhelming and crippling awe

Suddenly struck down by the power of utter implosion

Leave me, forget me, let me be, pass along

Abruptly in early morning

The dew falls heavy upon the tombs

Copyright 2016 by Andrew Bradford. All rights belong to the author and material may not be copied without the author’s express permission.

‘Is Love A Violent Feeling?’ by Jen Hughes

You see, I don’t know if this is love
I’ve fooled myself before
So forgive me for not going fast enough
And being armed to the teeth.

I’ve got daggers on each hip
I’ve loaded a crossbow
Forgive me for complaining but
My arms are sore, you know.

This wild, raw feeling kicks like a horse
Intimacy is earned not conquered
But I know you already know that.
You’ve said it already.

Yet I’m still on the defensive
You want to see through the gaps in my stitches
What’s so special about a bunch of wounds?
What sight do you think you’re missing?

Back! I’ll shoot! Don’t get too close
You’ll see that I’m just patchwork
Like the monster in Frankenstein
You’ll freak out, leave and I’ll be hurt.

But, you hold me as I tremble.
The crossbow is on the ground
You aren’t going anywhere, are you?

Please stay here. Get your pen-knife
Open up these stitches
You ask me, why?
I need you to see me for what I am

And embrace every bit of it.
I need to clean these wounds
Before they fester and kill me.
Before they see me ruined

Let the ghosts of the past and demons out
Let them out of our ribcages
Take a sword from my hand
And let’s face them

Together

Copyright 2016 by Jen Hughes. All rights belong to the author and material may not be copied without the author’s express permission.

Featured Image by Sophie McNicol

‘The Mirror Seen As A TV Set In The Bedroom’ by Art Metzger

You sit in daytime,
cross-legged on the floor
just inches away from the turned on tv.
In pajamas
one hand plays with a big toe,
the other thrust inside a box of Sugar Pops.
Sound from the speaker,
picture on the screen,
all yours, embracing.

Dad leaves for work,
bends down to kiss you unseen
as you sit, still.
“Not so close,”
Mom says, now and then,
unheard
against the bright colors,
cartoon sounds,
and sales pitches.
Nothing can summon you away,
daytime safe.

Night.
Almost asleep when Mom comes.
She takes your hand,
you rub your eyes
as she leads you to their bed.
“Dad won’t be home again,”
she says as she lays you in his place,
turned, facing the big dresser mirror.
Thumb in mouth
you watch her robe fall,
she gets into bed,
tucks a pillow between her legs,
takes your hand to hold,
thumb wet with sucking.
You can’t change the channel
or turn it off.
It’s all right there
in the wooden frame,
bigger than any tv screen,
but you’re not pulled in,
awareness remains.
Alert,
you hear every sound
capture every moment
while she holds onto your hand
and says that she loves you.

Copyright 2016 by Art Metzger. All rights belong to the author and material may not be copied without the author’s express permission.

‘The Faked Prophet’ by Andrew Bradford

Here he comes, all shine and polish, glue-glossied hair

Bringing lies and corruption in the guise of being genuine

They grovel at his feet, kiss his ring, beg for more

Dig it, he shouts:

It’s all gotta end, gonna change it all, gonna shake loose the foundations of Earth

Think anyone else can do what I can? Only I deliver your superficial salvation

Crawl closer and bathe in the putrid sweat of my hidden fear, until it infects you

Place your hand next to mine and let us all perish in the same suicidal rap

Repeat after me, acolytes of hateful shameless droning:

We will overcome the self-loathing we carry like an anchor

By directing our fetid vibrations 

In new directions of slavish dementia

Bury us all out by the pits of fire

We await your arrival, our prophet of faked creation born out of our madness

Here we stand, eyes fixed on the sun

As our pupils liquefy

Copyright 2016 by Andrew Bradford. All rights belong to the author and material may not be copied without the author’s express permission.

‘Our Ghosts On The Causeway’ by Robert L. Franklin

To explore this realm is to step through a tunnel

defying space-time, to deviate from the unknown

into an era rich in familiarity

and framed in nostalgia.

It’s easy to plant battered sneakers on

the haggard cement, but difficult to tread

from the sentimental causeway down to the

knives of summertime protruding

from their earthen sheaths.

This place is a graveyard haunted by people

and events long-since gone,

whose afterimages continue to exist

among the overgrowth and the barren gulch

that once served as a hindrance.

It was in this place that boys began their journey

to manhood, transitioned from mischievous to criminal,

entered as virgins and exited baptized.

Their footprints still

give them away in the soft sands.

Their art still colors the concrete

jettisoning from the damp underpass.

Their stained mattresses still rest

dilapidated among the symphony of insects.

Once upon a time,

I helped write the history of this place.

While warm rain fell from the sky,

I ran through the weeds with her

in the jovial preciousness

and pleasurable innocence

that exists only in youth,

before retreating underneath the causeway

and feeling her lips on mine for the first time.

Within the bitter winter,

he and I produced colorful aerosols

and imprinted our imaginations

on the mutilated cement

jetting from the waterlogged soil that anchored it.

They experimented with delinquency

in the early evening hours

while we experimented with honor using our fists.

But now I’m here,

a slow repetition of ethereal notes

sequestering me from the ambient bustle

of the surrounding world,

watching these ghosts play under the causeway

like they were antiquated home movies.

I see us as clearly as I did before,

engaging each other and our mercurial environment

with adolescent recklessness and moxie.

For as long as the causeway stands

and artifacts are left behind,

our ghosts will still

haunt the weeds, the swamp, and the starved ravine

forever attuned to burgeoning juvenescence.

Copyright 2016 by Robert L. Franklin. All rights belong to the author and material may not be copied without the author’s express permission.