COLD FISH • by Bill West

Cold fish
o for mouth
icy stare
nothing there
no one home
world of one
deep down
but at night
he sees the
moon silver
and at dawn
a fire ball
smear
o for mouth
icy stare
deep down
cold fish

 

 


Bill West wrote poetry as a teenager but stopped. In 2004 he started writing Flash Fiction and has been published widely. Only recently has he revisited poetry. Bill is Senior Editor at The Linnet’s Wings Literary Magazine http://www.thelinnetswings.org/


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Posted on April 19, 2014 in Concrete, Other
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THE WAITING • by George D. Brockner

 

 

They believed in the closing light

someone remembered

 

Though thoughts of no long sleep

after death

 

The night walk past graves of men

bundled together

 

Someone would come

to remember

 

Lungs filled with dust

waiting by the moss-grown gate

remembered no more

 

Cold dark nights

they stood watch

the hollow moonlit road

 

Shadows swallowed by the

consent of darkling tide

 

A broken-winged lover

of cold stone, the black trees stilled

 

Waiting for someone to

come remembering

 

 


George D. Brockner b. 1953 still alive, nearing retirement. married 37 years. From Louisiana.


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Posted on April 18, 2014 in Surreal
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IN SEARCH OF THE MIND • by Ted

“You have lost your mind!”
they told him. His eccentricities
surpassed the boundaries
they regarded as
normal.

Determined to get his mind back,
he searched forest, roadside,
bridge, cemetery….everywhere he remembered
visiting; wondering whether his mind existed or not,
because he had memories.

 

 

 


Ted, started poetry writing in mid 2002, while in high school. Has had a poem “Poem without words”, published by Muse-Pie Press, Issue #11, in Shot Glass Journal. Recently, he published a poetry book with Lulupress, which is titled “Painting of Life in Poetry”, his first edition.


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Posted on April 17, 2014 in Humour/Satire, Other
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WOOD TALK • by Jesse Carter

Where I come from we burned Christmas trees.

We stood em’ up, and lit em’ up.

Christmas trees burn real good.

I say ‘good’ and not ‘well’ because a tree doesn’t burn well,

it burns good.

Having sex isn’t well, it’s good.

 

Being warm by a fire is the end result,

like a lover’s soft body as you hold them.

It’s all the snaps and pops along the way that light you up.

When you get burned by a stray spark

it hurts for a second, but man, you feel something;

like having you ear bit or your back scratched.

 

You want a fire to go up the first time, like a virgin wants it to be

just right. You don’t want to embarrass yourself and have that

wood staring back at you because you couldn’t do it.  No, you

want that wood hissing and cracking, flaming and spitting,

sparking everything to life and you want it go for hours playing

around in the darkness.  You and her.  Fire baby.

 

 

 


Jesse Carter graduated from Augusta State University in 2006 with a B.A. in communications with an emphasis in professional writing. His poetry seeks to invite readers to see the world from a different perspective. The voices and images of his poetry promise to tell stories for everyone.



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Posted on April 16, 2014 in Other
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DEATH OF A PETAL • by Nancy May

winter frost

whisks colour from a flower

weeping petal

 

 

 


Nancy May has haiku published in Haiku Journal, Three Line Poetry, Poetry Quarterly, Inclement Poetry, Twisted Dreams Magazine, Vox Poetica, Eskimo Pie, Icebox, Dark Pens, Daily Love, Leaves of Ink, The Blue Hour Magazine, The Camel Saloon, Kernels, Mused – the BellaOnline Literary Review, Writer’s Haven, Dead Snakes, Danse Macabre – An online literary magazine, High Coupe, A Handful of stones, Lyrical Passion Poetry E-Zine and UFO Gigolo. Haiku will soon appear in The Germ and 50 Haikus.

She has reached The Heron’s Nest consideration stage twice and the Chrysanthemum consideration stage once. Haiku is published weekly on Haikuary.

She is working on her first haiku collection.


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Posted on April 15, 2014 in Other
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PENTANGLES IN SAND • by Chrystal Berche

Gather the beasts to the elder city
And within its circles offer sacrifice
Blood into earth
Bones into dust
Flesh into food for the vermin that fill the streets
We march on
Carving woven patterns of runes into the earth
Into our skin
Into the minds of our children
Darkened with the seeds of witchery and divination

The shaman dances in a ring of fire
Praying for blessings from the gods
Never burning
Never burning
ashes fall like tears to dot his skin
The gray-white dust of bugs coating him

Patterns in the dust
Old blood and bones
Twisted
Woven
A full palette for the diviner of dreams
The medicine man who guides us from hell

 

 

 


Chrystal Writes. Hard times, troubled times, the lives of her characters are never easy, but then what life is? The story is in the struggled, the journey, the triumphs and the falls. She writes about artists, musicians, loners, drifters, dreamers, hippies, bikers, truckers, hunters and all the other things she knows and loves. When she isn’t writing she can be found in the woods with her camera, or reading a good book with a kitty on her lap.


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Posted on April 14, 2014 in Other
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Every Day Inspiration

Apophenia, or for the statistician, the Type I Error, is the perception of pattern in randomness.  In other words, when you see a face in the shadows of tree limbs or textures on the ceiling, that is apophenia.  Type I Errors are what fuel the conspiracy theorist or help us find “meaning” in Tarot cards.  Some argue that without apophenia we would have no true creativity.

Get creative and write a poem about patterns, forms and connections that don’t really exist. Or do they?

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Posted on April 14, 2014 in Every Day Inspiration
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BOUNDARY • by RK Biswas

 

The hour arrives, and you contrive

to flee the madness of the silence following

you like a newly hatched duckling,

a piece of shell still stuck to its tail.

 

You run down the stairs as one possessed.

A tether around your neck. A howl

spiralling down your throat

as you gape, but cannot take that step.

 

You cannot take that step. You cannot take that step.

No you cannot step across the great divide

between you and humanity’s swell.

But the hour arrives. And then it goes.

 

The hour arrives and when it goes,

moon waxes. Water flows. Hope

droops.  Falls down like a spent flower.

Despair expands moments into hours.

 

Despair expands moments and the hours fill

your heart with black and briny thoughts.

Your world lies scattered and broken

like an egg upon a clean cold floor.

 

You reach for the handle of the door.

You try once. And then once more

to run ahead. Like an urge against

an impatiently surging tide.

 

Oh how you strive. How you try. And then in sudden

exhilaration you do. You do. You do succeed.

But only up to a certain point, before your terrified ears

foretell the imminence of a slamming door.

 

 

 


RK Biswas is a widely published writer and poet. She has won accolades for her work, including the first prize in the Anam Cara Short Story Prize 2012. Her first novel “Culling Mynahs and Crows has been published by Lifi Publications, India. Her short story collection entitled “The Vanishing man and Other Imperfect Men”is forthcoming from Lifi in 2014. Another story collection entitled “Breasts and Other Afflictions of Women” is forthcoming from Authorspress, India in 2014. She blogs at Writers & Writerisms


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Posted on April 13, 2014 in Literary
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URBAN HERO • by Timothy M Daisy

His was the last house

standing, risen out of

the cracked earth, a

monolith made of brick

and stone. Wanting to

remain, a safe house for

a gentle recluse.

 

And those proud and tired eyes

bury a deeper wisdom,

looked straight at you,

dignified and settled.

 

Fearless.

 

 

 


Timothy M Daisy is a writer and musician living in Chicago.
His poems are reflections on his time spent in the big city.
The diversity of the people and the many events that have shaped his life.


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Posted on April 12, 2014 in Other
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OH, STAR. • by Lucy Gregg Muir

Oh, star! Beyond my ken.

Dead light lingers in time

long gone, lost

to other elements.

To dust and air, and memory.

 

The alchemy of matter, one becomes another.

Blood to ash. Bone to dust.

Hope to light.

Unweighable measures.

Thought, and desire, and love.

 

I, by flesh confined, thoughts confused.

I, with muddied mortal mind,

reach for your light, still.

Flesh to firmament, confirms

the longing for a fading dream.

 

 

 


Lucy Gregg Muir is as a middle school English teacher. When she’s not beating her students with a stick for splitting infinitives, or chasing one daughter out of tattoo emporiums and the other away from absurd My Little Pony videos, she writes.


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Posted on April 11, 2014 in Literary
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