A Poem by S.E. Ingraham

Should Luna Soar

Should Luna soar immense and scarlet
Crones - creatures of the craft -
take the sky
Silhouetted starkly they sweep
in loosed formation

Their juices:  boiling, bubbling, brewing
Accrued alchemists' acumen young again
Tender, supple as willow shoots in Spring
flooding hearts of old with joy . . .

Settling surreptitiously, the coven convenes
Replacing acid-tongued curses
with thoughts of oil-slicked escapades
They are prepared to sprinkle trouble,
need only gauge where best to begin.

S.E. Ingraham, a retired mental health consumer, pens poems from the 53rd parallel (Edmonton Alberta) where she lives with the love of her life and their wolf/border-collie cross.  She's still obsessed with straightening pictures, and travelling where-ever and when-ever she can - NYC and New Orleans this year . . . who knows where next?  Family is her other obsession, and of course, writing.  She has also been doing some reading for the Found Poetry Review.  Her work has appeared, or will soon in:  Poetic Pinup Revue, In Gilded Frame, Otis Nebula, Poetic Bloomings Years One and Two, Poised in Flight, Poised in Flight, amongst other publications.  It may also be found here:  http://thepoet-tree-house.blogspot.ca/ here: In My Next Life http://nsaynne.wordpress.com/ and here:  The Way Eye See It http://aleapingelephant.blogspot.ca/

A Poem by Paul Bavister

Plastic Bag

I collected firewood
along the edge
of the overgrown carpark.

A plastic bag
caught in a birch tree
wrapped a ball of rain water.

For months I've looked at it
for a clear
upturned image

of empty offices.
Now the water's warmed
to fishbowl green.

Today I pushed
against the wire fence
to get a clearer view.

Tomorrow I'll climb in
and nose around the wire racks.
There are rats there.

Paul Bavister has published three collections of poetry, the most recent being The Prawn Season (Two Rivers Press).  He works as a gardener and also teachers creative writing for the University of Oxford and Birkbeck College, London.

A Poem by ayaz daryl nielsen

Sophia's Crockpot

At the ending sigh
From withing self-tolerant mangrove
From within Suddenness in time
From within magical African rain
From within crow and night crawler
From within fly, grub and bacterium
From within caravan, catamaran and canoe
From within Marrakech, meringue and salsa
From within rain shadow of mountain
From within twilight alpenglow
From within hidden moon
From within angel, demon and dakini
From within sea gull windsurfing
From within murmur of forgotten language
From within Paris sunset lime tree
From with divine mother
From within All Ways
Always  Always  Always
From within maggot
Sighing exhalation of
Gazillioniths brilliant ingredients
Everything
Pulsating archetype of endless Creation
Of Life


ayaz daryl nielsen, husband, father, veteran, x-roughneck (as on oil rigs) and x-hospice nurse, is editor of bear creek haiku (24+ years/116+ issues), his poetry's homes include Lilliput Review, Yellow Mama, Verse Wisconsin, Shamrock, High Coupe and Shemom, he has earned some cherished awards and participated in worthy antholgies -- his poetry ensembles include Concentric Penumbra's of the Heart and Tumbleweeds Still Tumbling, and, in 2013, released an anthology of poetry titled The Poet's of Bear Creek -- beloved wife/poet Judith Partin-Nilesen, assistant Frosty, and! bearcreekhaiku.blogspot.com (translate as joie de vivre)

Two Poems by Richard Schnap

Residence

He lived in the same place for years,
The same apartment, watching through
His window as the seasons passed by,
Like friends you would get to know
For only a brief time before they would
Move on forever, like the neighbors

In the other rooms who stayed a year
Or two, the old lady who chain-smoked
Marlboro 100's, the Japanese girl
Who never spoke, the woman who
Wore a fully decorated Christmas tree
As a holiday costume.  And over time,

He grew to realize that we are all
Tenants in the world, paying rent
With the sweat and tears of our labors
And loves, but destined to leave
The houses of our bodies eventually,
The houses we've grown to call home.


Encounter

A stranger with no shadow
Came to me last night

He offered me a key
That would unlock any door

I asked why he was here
He said "You called for me in your sleep,"

And then I remembered
The dream of a realm of cages

With prisoners who all wore
The exact same mask

And sang the same song
The one with one note

But when he asked me "Well?"
I sent him away

For I recalled the secret
The wise man builds his own cell



Richard Schnap is a poet, songwriter and collagist living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.  His poems have most recently appeared locally, nationally and overseas in a variety of print and online publications.

A Poem by Allison Grayhurst

Complete, but

 

to no avail. Sitting as a new house sits

on its lot, needing occupants.

Sewer sludge, soiled napkins, anthills

too late underfoot. Held up by restlessness

in the many gardens of Mount Sisyphus, heave-hoe

to the point of rudimentary madness.

Windows I look through, birch trees I stop at

to collect nuances, rest like the sparrow in hopeful

camouflage, wearing myself down with unrealizable dreams.

 

If I had claimed myself a calling as a chaplain -

ritualized pacing in university halls, my arm

around youth, accompanying my affection

with a spiritual smile, then I would have

the certainty of some kind of career,

not be a carved body on fire, totem

of tripwires and aftershocks.

 

If I was a young starling neck deep in uncut grass,

pecking at exposed roots, I would be

sky, downspout, bush, tip of a cross on a steeple,

cured of isolation, taking flight and landing when I choose and

I would choose a fenced-in backyard

where a boy’s imagination owns the splintered bench, weeds

and a dug-up secret hole. I would watch that boy plot his course

and leap, knowing no separation,

I would spread, sing

and fold.

 

 

 

Allison Grayhurst is a full member of the League of Canadian Poets. She has over 290 poems published in more than 175 international journals, magazines, and anthologies.  Her book Somewhere Falling was published by Beach Holme Publishers, a Porcepic Book, in Vancouver in 1995. Since then she has published ten other books of poetry and four collections with Edge Unlimited Publishing. Prior to the publication of Somewhere Falling she had a poetry book published, Common Dream, and four chapbooks published by The Plowman.  Her poetry chapbook The River is Blind was recently published by Ottawa publisher above/ground press December 2012.  She lives in Toronto with family. She also sculpts, working with clay. 

 

A Poem by Sarah Flint

Today
(Icelandic volcano grounds flights nationwide)

The air hangs
In the heat

Filling the gap
Between biscuit horizons

With a gentle persistent blue
Until the edges stretch.

There are no scratches
To scar the canvas.

A rising sky lark is the only movement.
It rises

Singing solo.
There is no harmonic

Of engine drone or roar.
The world stand still

Under a quiet clear sky.

Sarah Flint lives in the West Country of the UK and for several years has written about diverse interests including gardening, cooking and climbing.  At present she likes to write poetry.  She enjoys playing with words and tries to put them in an interesting order.  Her poetry has been published by The Pygmy Giant,

Message in a Bottle, and she has been runner-up in the Mountaineering Council of Scotland Poetry competition.

A Poem by Vernon Frazer

Fun and Prophet

 

The linear                         

met retrospective entities 

previously hidden

 

where the chiseled glyph curves

 

Cassandra 

her message a twisting 

inventory 

 

meaning shifts its moment 

 

a vacuum away 

from tiding the breath events 

cresting over

 

the wrath of uncomprehending seas

 

 

 

Vernon Frazer’s most recent books of poetry include T(exto)-V(isual) Poetry and Unsettled Music.  Enigmatic Ink has published Frazer’s new novel, Field Reporting. Frazer’s web site is http://www.vernonfrazer.net. Bellicose Warbling, the blog that updates his web page, can be read at http://bellicosewarbling.blogspot.com/, His work, including the longpoem IMPROVISATIONS, may also be viewed at Scribd.com. In addition to writing poetry and fiction, Frazer also performs his poetry, incorporating text and recitation with animation and musical accompaniment on YouTube. Frazer is married.

Two Poems by Daniel N. Flanagan

Mental Illness

Ahh . . .
I love the idea of
Reading.
The author.
I've only read half of
The Bell Jar, but yet
I love Sylvia Plath.
The more you read of someone
The less you can romanticize about them;
Except for Bud Light & Bukowski,
I'd rather keep their words inked to page.

And editor said, "It would be more interesting to read about the
Origin of, not the present state of,
Suicidal depression."
Well . . .
I'd like to understand the root of it
Too.
But until you pick apart and
Buy my beauties from me,
I cannot fund such analysis.

#

How narcissistic is mental illness . . .
Hours of therapy, premium drugs, and
Thousands to find out
How badly Mother & Father
Damaged you.  While there are
Beaten prostitutes, like my sister Desiree.
Single alcoholic mothers, like my sister Marie.

#

And it's amazing what the mind is capable of
How much it will repress.
Freud said our conscious mind is like the
Tip of an iceberg.  While the subconscious mind is
The other 80%, buried deep down
And it is the forgotten memories which haunt,
Causing anxiety daily, without you knowing.
And that's what my family is.
Knowing your own sister sucks dick, gets beaten by pimps in order to
Smoke crack &
Shoot dope in order to
Escape her own life, disables mine
Subconsciously.  Thousands I must spend on my
Pompous mind just to feel real, while there are
Starving children and
Pretty girls on tv telling me
I should donate to save the crying animals as well,
Well, 10/10 I will choose me because
I cannot control the kittens or the whores
My family is blood but the river steadily streams,
Fleeting.
Hopefully I can fix me before I
Implode.


RawDanny

& I was watching youtube videos by RawSammi
& She was boring me and so
I envisioned my own world
I first thought, how nice it would be
If I had the disposable income to
Tear my house apart, everytime mania hit
Throw lamps threw walls and TV's out windows.
And then a second thought invaded me
Flooded through me, How lucky I was!
I envisioned what my 1st hospital stay would be like,
One of the mental nature.  I have
Romanticized this deeply.  Damn you, Vizzini and the likes
. . . I would be wearing dress shirt and tie
As to look more sane than the (in)sane, yes!
To prove them wrong when, mania hit and, I wanted not
To be trapped in there anymore, I shouted
"I'm a grown man! Let me out!" to no avail
They rushed me with anvils in hand
I fought them ferociously, verociously, my mind made things up then
I was a fighter then
Punching the black man in the face.  I had never punched a
Man before.  I awoke later in a bed
Strapped.  My panic returned.

It was 9 days later that my release was
Finalized and here I sit
Steady type-type-typing as the bats steady
Rap-rap-rap, rip apart my brain matter, as I
Take scissor to bracelet.  Dive down and
Slice wrist
Bleeding this to you.
Raw.

Daniel N. Flanagan is a Worcester, MA native.  He is the author of the short story "Daddy's Girl," located in The Commonline Journal, and sixteen poems, featured in Poppy Road Review, Three Line Poetry, and more.  He has five stories and six poems scheduled for publication by various journals, including Stone Path Review.  Check him out at www.DanFlanagan.webs.com and follow him @DanielNFlanagan.

A Poem by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Everyone Loves a Motorcycle

Everyone loves a motorcycle,
and here it was
cleaned and polished
and set to the curb,
the for sale sign staked
into the lawn
with firing squad finality,
and the neighbourhood kids came
from all around;
the boys climbing on
and playing the outlaw,
the starry-eyed girls
dreaming of something their fathers
wouldn’t like -
60 years after Brando,
the Wild One
in black and white -
this motorbike for sale
in a world              
long sold away;
the silver swanlike handlebars
like some strange chrome god
straight out of
Egypt.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan presently resides under 12 feet of snow in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada.  He awaits the spring thaw with great anticipation, and always the next line as well.