Individual Poems

Love, Devastated   I didn’t want to syphon more youth from you than I already have, For, sticking around with me will make you symptomatic The prognosis: A reverse Dorian Grey-syndrome, A gradual debilitation, a sneaky degenerative disease Affecting rationality, … Continue reading Individual Poems

Bilman E – Emily Bilman

Rebellion With An Actor and A Poet   Kingfish-refugees gathered on the beach, around bonfires waiting to end their life-risk on land.   I met an unknown actor by the river, reciting Blake’s “Songs of Innocence and Experience”. He had returned from the river’s congested mouth in turmoil like the sacrificial sea.   The migrants were even more vulnerable than migrating birds, a chorus led to their destinations by millenary magnetic patterns.   Innocent like blades of grass their children were lost, severed from their parents, snared in lands of cruel egotism.   At last, the actor facing the blood-sea, … Continue reading Bilman E – Emily Bilman

Imbler M – Linda Imbler

Choices in Frontier Towns   Amid tumbleweeds and clapboard buildings, standing upon dirt roads or a sawn timber dais, snake oil men, extolling their potions, their curing wares depleted by end of day. Risky whiskey, the magic elixir of 19th-century self-proclaimed wizards. Was it truly hope in a bottle or just sanctioned intoxication? The Old West version of paper or plastic.       Changelings (An Etheree Poem)   Cauls on face; the stand-ins enter our world, are revealed as odd. We know them as changelings, left by ones of the old world and recognized by strange facade. Impersonators that … Continue reading Imbler M – Linda Imbler

Ottley A E – Abigail Elizabeth Ottley

The Gecko’s Tale ‘Jesus Christ,’ says Jerry, ‘the little bastard bit me.’ Eli doesn’t look up straight away but keeps his eyes on the workbench.  His neck is hunched into his narrow shoulders and his complexion is more than usually grey.  ‘I’d watch my mouth if I were you.  The boss don’t care for that kind of language. Outed someone two days ago. Heard it down the canteen.’ Jerry is using his long, bony thumb to squeeze the fleshy pad of his finger.  His angular features convey a mixture of indignation and pain. ‘Look,’ he says, ‘it’s bleeding.  It didn’t … Continue reading Ottley A E – Abigail Elizabeth Ottley

Moriarty D – Dennis Moriarty

I Dream Of Him     Still damp from his evening walk in the rain The dog sleeps on the floor at my feet. A slowly steaming heap of inertia, he lies there Making neither sound nor movement. He smells of the hillside and warm summer rain And something more sinister. Did he chase sheep I wonder, while my back Was turned?   Spurred on by a ewe’s feeble cries, did he pursue, Hunt, back her into a corner of the field, Did he sit there waiting, watching, willing her To break cover? His soppy grin turning to a snarl … Continue reading Moriarty D – Dennis Moriarty

Brizell B – Ben Brizell

Gusset   Serenity’s been breached, it lies bruised and beaten. The lies of masculinity have been inseminated into the grove.   We’re bleeding to death, clutching the wound, pushing our entrails back in.   Somebody hacked their right foot off amongst blooming flowers   There’s an apple with its core missing Somebody’s mouth is wet with saliva.   Time took the postman’s child so the postman took a knife to his arterial veins   Preach what you believe because the truth is it’ll be an outdated statement to tomorrow’s lacerations.   They flayed the revolutionaries hung them upon meat hooks … Continue reading Brizell B – Ben Brizell

Grey J – John Grey

THE COTTAGE BY THE SHORE   The ocean is theater and its stage is deep and dark, its orchestra seats, the shoreline. But the show is slowly moving in on its audience.   Lying in bed, you listen to the performance. Waves slam against rock, scramble up the sea-wall, sweep across your pebbled lawn, slap against your cottage’s foundations.   No need to panic though. It’s not that kind of show. Sure, you hear water bounce off wood. But the sound is soft and almost pleasing. Ocean can’t surely be a predator. Sure, it rises inch by inch. But so … Continue reading Grey J – John Grey

Peledov I – Ivan Peledov

Still     I hear the clouds move in the air, dead and light. I know ghosts prefer hot tap water to wine and tea in the houses they would have never chosen for residence. Trees contemplate and books burn. In the droplets of the untouchable sun live the toys of departed children.       Do You Really Think It’s Thursday?    Laundromat roofs crumple the sky, distort the voices of birds in the nearby trees. Little girls wander the streets carrying huge buckets of ketchup, spilling it, splashing it on the sidewalk. A saxophonist plays for passing UFOs … Continue reading Peledov I – Ivan Peledov