Instructions for  making a quick video

 

This will turn on the voice recorder   ttesting    testing

1...press the camera key on the right side of the phone for a few seconds

Okay I have done that

TIP!      exclamation mark must be important    To switch to the camera mode or video mode slide up/down the camera or toggle video icon on the right centre viewfinder.

I do not have any idea about what that means

I cannot see anything resembling whatever it says to toggle

but I can see figures starting to move in the bedroom

 

2 Holding the phone horizontally point the lens towards the subject of the video

I now have a problem because the screen is bright and is illuminating my face

they only have to look outrt of the window and they will see me in this tree

but it’s handy because I can read the instructions

 

3   Press the camera key on the phone once to start recording or touch the red dot.

and I cannot find either of them unless -

no that has started to redial the last number I phoned

how do I stop that?

no need to worry I can hear her phone through the window

and from what I can see she isn’t going to answer it any time soon

I hope the court take into account how devious she was

and the lengths I had to go to to prove it

and that solicitor who said he could get a private detective

well I am showing him showing them all

no get up and go she said   whatever that means

a man of your age the solicitor said      my age      no age at all

 

but it did take a while to climb up here

and I wrecked my trousers though it will be worth it in the end

I am glad I decided to record this voice record

as collaborative contemporaneous evidence

should put me ahead in the court

ok start again     checking

yes      it is recording now

I will just get along this branch a little to get their faces

and that will be the evidence I need

what is that cracking sound?

is this recording that cracking sound

I can hear a cracking sound

 

 

 

 

City of glass

 

through an empty glass

the sun split into a million colours

like an oil slick

and that is how it is

that is where I live

populating my own love story

in a city of colour

a city of faces

a city of voices

a city full of love stories

a city of wildness

a city of streets going nowhere

a city keeping the wilderness at bay

keeping it away

a city that wears you out

makes you mad and sane

makes it possible to grab the next line

to see the words transparent meanings

pregnant with possibilities

or know where it is coming from

 

somehow the future is getting shorter

the time available less

the days that once seemed endless

pass almost   almost    almost

unremembered

although I come here alone

I am surrounded by voices

in a city full of love stories

and I tell you I’m here

you have no memory of it

 

no memory of it

 

you have never been through the woods

or walked the secret paths

to my midnight ballroom

some things you may know of

some things I have written of

some things are on photographs

may have left an impression

but you will not know the

rise and fall of paths

the ladder rocks

the smells of the wet ferns

unless I tell you

 

unless I tell you

 

you may think you know

how I sit and watch the Dee

the Welsh Hills

those you know from other places

but on that bench    on that hilltop

it is mine and only mine

and as the sunlight towers

reach down to the fast flowing river

it reflects upon the shortening future

and the lengthening past

 

this I know and only this

for most people here is a now

made from words    images  and hope

they go like Prufock’s children

to inherit coffee spoons

while my life has been a gift

I spend walking between towers

in cities of glass

a million fly eye reflections

these are the places

I made for myself

and populate with my dreams

here in this city of class

 

the city of glass

 

 Jim Bennett is alive and well living on the Wirral in the UK. 




This house

This forgotten house, full

of candle wax and bird droppings,

teacups with brown-coffee stains.

This old school, with the ghosts of hippies

skating in the hallways,

and faded maps of Greenland

tacked to the ceiling.

This small house, all a jumble

of stale laughter and broken chairs,

with chipping gold paint

on a blue background.

This grand mansion, left muttering softly to itself,

quietly decomposing,

an old widow- Nate, let’s dance.

This venerable hovel, well versed in sorrow,

this, the corner where they kept the potatoes,

here, the hearth where they cooked them,

there, the bed where Peggy died when there were none left.

This blue plantation, empty now of all who knew it,

empty of happiness, of new love and old,

but empty also of the pain of those who were kept

against their will,

finally free.



Johanna Johnson-Murphy


Johanna Johnson-Murphy is  a young writer from Seattle, Washington, where she lives with 17 chickens, a gay cat, and many, many musical instruments. 



poem in a can

what gives this poem its misty fizz
is the opening hiss
emanating from the can of Coke

in insipid spaces between sips
burning calories of thoughts
mind hunts for meanings
in the blanks between blinks
between         the       words
lines      and       stanzas

nothing to latch on to
but this empty can of poem
and
a line of burp

                                        SK Iyer 

 

 

SK Iyer is a commerce graduate, presently leading a retired but busy life in Pune, India, has published a few poems in  print and on the Internet. Member of PK Poetry List, UK.



The Lion Tamer

 

Beyond the bars, the circus crowd sits pale

to watch the beasts perform the tricks they loathe

They hope that I, their tamer, may just fail.

But with my whip I will control them both.

 

 

I have outfaced the adulating crowd

and I have learned to ride the lions' rage

My early quest for freedom had its shroud

in fame found here within the circus cage.

 

 

For freedom, I pursued the painted lights

(while others dreamed of flight in tame unrest)

in tearful longing past a thousand sights

Within my trade, today I am the best

 

 

and watch the crowd behind its fearful mask

and watch the painted lights that will seduce

The lions' foolish master, thus I ask

if there's still time to put my life to use.

 

 


 

 



 The Patriarch

 

Since I was young, I've been the youngest

and worshipped Venus in the sacred

and fragrant colonnades of even

her humblest serving maids.

 

 

Some of the time I've managed to

ignore the silly rules, and valued

a graceful poem higher than

a contract of employment.

 

 

And thus I've spent my life surrounded

by books and children. Now my grandson

advises me to act my age.

Outrageous innocence!

 

 

Poor stranger, I've been younger than you

for longer than you would remember.

I've celebrated life so long

I’ve grown too young to change.

 

 


 

 

Happiness

 

 

Happiness sprouts as a humble plant

that Ogre, the purposeful, in his haste

towards a looming ambition can't

spy out, for he has no time to waste.

 

 

But Jackeline and Jack, forgetting the tale

and hunting for field mice on any ground

(imagining lions along the trail),

may find it blooming all around.

 

 


 

 



 Like a River

 

Like a river, you carry me down

washing over my senses

 

 

the fort of my seven skins has abandoned

the rite of defence to the waves

 

 

unsheltered, my nerve-raw flesh in its freedom

spatters into the current

 

 

like a river, you carry me down

between singing, mountainous shores.

 

 


                                                    Thomas Land







Thomas Land is a poet and award-winning foreign correspondent. His poetry has been published by The London Magazine and The New York Times, his reviews and polemics by The Times Literary Supplement and The Baltimore Sun.




Collateral Damage

                 for Clara, my grandmother, 1894 –1918

A pot of spaghetti sauce simmers;

streams run like veins

down the steamy kitchen window.

Her hands stained gray,

a girl pulls at pieces of yesterday’s paper,

shreds the words of war,

tears them to confetti

to bless the peace parade tomorrow.

The war to end all wars is over,

but soldiers will bring back Spanish flu

which will make her mother

now adding pasta to a boiling pot

one of the last casualties of that war. 




 

Birthday

There are flowers in this house,

the sensual dance of stargazer lilies,

mums, cosmos, and roses.

It was my birthday Monday,

and my husband brought me

flowers: a bouquet

and a single pink rose

nestled in baby’s breath.

The rose’s leaves turned brown and brittle.

I’ve re-cut the stem and refilled the vase,

but the rose’s pink petals are locked,

beautiful in their way

like the damaged daughter

he gave me,

forever    a bud. 


 

 

The Bird and the Cymbals

an ekphrastic response to music


Caught in the pulse of the percussion

somewhere between the bells and the cymbals

is a silver bird with a single note

that pleads, Hear me. Listen to my song.

This sky-flyer is held by a repeating beating cycle.

The music calls the winged one,

but leaves her afraid.

Here comes the shimmering shower of the cymbal.

Percussion man, are you playing with this silver bird?

She wants to look again into your cymbals, find

the source of the sound that reminds her of the sea.

She needs to see who she is–who she was

before this song seduced her.

As the music rises to crescendo,

the silver bird spreads her wings wide

beats empty air

then refolds her wings and settles

tries to become a peaceful

one-note bird again.


                                               Linda Leedy Schneider


poems taken from Some Days: Poetry of a Psychotherapist ( Plain View Press 2011)


LINDA LEEDY SCHNEIDER is a poetry and writing mentor, writing workshop 

leader, psychotherapist in private practice, and recipient of a Pushcart nomination. 

Her poetry has been published in over 200 literary magazines.  Linda has written five collections of poetry and edited two poetry anthologies by writers she has mentored privately.

 


 The Anthropologists


Together we walk through a flight
of trees and the sound is late.
Below us the wind is like a fountain
of green mist practising to become
water.  We follow its history with
high powered glasses, where the last
rays of sun burn in a valley of wood.

We camp on the floor of its destiny
with the distance of art.  You restrain
my imagination.  I see the sign of a
struggle, where animal blood licks my
skin with a tongue of dark paste.
It smells of rational noises.  I rip open
its belly to rid myself of its secrets and
wine.  Its breath twitches in a mouth
of dead sparks.
I show you how to cut slices of raw air.
We take samples of its light.  On the pencil
of my finger we draw pictures of its vision.
On mystic prairies we part like blinds of dust.
I choke on mysteries.  I wind a clock that
sparkles like a tin of stars.  The soul
approaches rock and sand, where hope
guides us and my home is scattered with joy.

 

Memories of Auschwitz

Beware the son of voices
blowing
through a hall of flames,
where the dead pass in a
furnace of continuous light.

Speak of nothing other than
the state of air.
Find among pariah’s of stone
a vast stadium of wells and
drink from the
depths of its bearded mouth.

Its jaw is blinded with pictures
of love.
Its eye is torn with feet of knives.
Its wooden flag is
lowered with charismatic kisses.
Its soul is filled with
the graves of God and children.

The sound of blood is clean, where
bodies of smoke
with sweet juices from rags of meat
burn like
rivers out of endless resurrections.

 

The Endeavour

On the carcass of water by a rock
of mouthing falls
I bring the seaman’s tide, sweeter
than blood, destroyer of my wood.

I see the truth of silence but its hand
is cold with trees and flowers.
In the bush I see far away on tracks
of light a pool of drowning colours.

I dream in green pictures of ropes and
space to tie each sailor’s eye to water.
I pray to each desolate
sound the return of my blinded guests.

The anchor I root out of undrawn sand
is like a foot with sails.
I release all its secrets in ribbons of air.
Sharp as fate the
wind on my sea of disappearing voices.

 


                                                                     Austin Mclarron


Austin Mclarron is  from New Zealand but has lived in London for many years.  Austin's work has appeared in various magazines in the U.K. over the past five years.


  The Woman Who Rescued A Kitten I Later Adopted



She's in L.A.
I'm in Boston.
We phone each other every week
 
but we've never met.
She argues that point.
"It's the universe, dear. We've all met."

Twenty minutes in and we are telling secrets:  
She once snorted coke with a guy twice her age.
I was caught at fifteen stealing socks from a Sears.

"Maybe we can meet next year," I say.
"How about Miami?"
"Hold on,” she says while letting out the dogs.
 
I listen to her world. The mockingbird
trills in her lemon tree. Her crippled
German shepherd reprimands the huskies.
 

Static.
She’s in the garage.
 
"What about the Serengeti?"
"Brilliant," I say. "We'll meet on safari of all places."
"Don’t forget mosquito nets, okay?”

We could shorten these calls if we wanted
to avoid a string of interruptions —
the cries of the feral cats she feeds,
 
the calls waiting that beep in my ear.
But I need to tell her
things:  
 
I had my eyebrows tattooed on
a business trip to Vegas, and Friday
is fancy coffee day.
 
And she needs to divulge her latest
plan to sell the house, and hubby’s recipe for Eggs Oscar, how they
hold hands at
 
the hardware store and haven't had a vacation in twelve years.
We'll talk ‘til we strike that spark
of recognition:

Her mother, listening.
My mother, sober.




Acquaintance



When I knew her, I never knew her very well. Well, I knew her
family was poor. Just a thin corduroy coat with too-short sleeves
exposing bony ungloved wrists. No winter boots. I’m part Cherokee,
she said, wearing her shiny black hair in braids.
 
She fidgeted with an unlit, half-smoked butt. Beaded bracelets cuffed
both arms. (I made these, she bragged. Cool, I thought.) Descriptions
of her weekends were incomprehensible to me — the cop she blew
(you blew?) to avoid a misdemeanor. The winter beach party
 
campfire, green Jeep, dope. The realtor she laid after he found her
that studio on Marlborough Street. I hooked up with this guy
from Philly, she said. He took me on an amazing trip. Wanna see
my tracks? she said, eyes flirting, then glanced away as if I were
 
an old boyfriend. I can’t believe it’s you, she said, All this she spilled
at Boylston station. Trolleys squealed on rails around us. I tucked
my hair behind my ear, cleared my throat to draw her eyes
away from Friends Don’t Let Friends ad, back to me.
 



Deluge



Let’s take some pictures of your eyes,
the doctor says.
 
I rest my chin. I fight the blink.
Blink, he says.
 
I blink. The light.
Both sockets river with tears,
 
uncontrollably.
I think Dublin.
 
Liffey waters rushing and we
cresting, too.
 
Swell of May.
So much, so fast. 


                                Susan McDonough-Hintz


Susan McDonough-Hintz published her first poem in her college literary magazine, Fountainspray, and won the award for best poetry in 1979. She didn't pick up her pen to write poetry again for nearly 25 years.

But these past few years have been extraordinary for her. Two of Susan's poems, "Tattoo" and "Noose," were published in the 2008 Routledge anthology, Queer & Catholic

Shortly thereafter, She met poet Barbara Helfgott Hyett and joined the Workshop for Publishing Poets in Brookline, Massachusetts,
and hasn't put her pen down since.

A Squirrel And I

you squirrel upon the tree
you are looking down and hissing at me
you say it is unfair
that I am eating a peanut butter sandwich
and you aren't

don't be so quarrelsome
I just do the eating here
you just do the hissing there
it is not unfair
that life is not fair

 

                     Suchoon Mo

 

Suchoon Mo  is a Korean War veteran and a retired academic living in the semiarid part of Colorado, USA.   His poems and music compositions appeared in a number of literary and cultural publications.
 
 

Will it be birdbath

or puddle today?
The basin is dry and algae-stained
red as an insomniac’s eye
a mouse corpse soaked in cat spit
lays before the omen-heavy pedestal.

No need to dredge for the drowned slug
bloated at the end of an oily trail
limp horns entwined and one tired leg
kicked at death through its fringe
praying to be with its seacousins.

We’ll wash in a rain-filled sump
a kerbside tarn sliced by pram wheels
outside the rooms where men must live more
and read less, their tongues lolling
like sedated horses’ harnessed upsidedown.

The architecture of fountains chafes
let’s dust ourselves in sand
peck out lice like Petruchio plucking
ticks off his spaniel, then ask me
tomorrow: will it be bread or worms?

 
                
Crying Journeyman

 

Another blow to the head, Mr Booth, and who knows –

perhaps you won’t walk out of the ring next time,

you’ll be stretchered through the ropes instead.

 

Even if you do make it to your thousandth round

is it worth spending the rest of your days

glassy-eyed and gibbering on the end of your bed.

 

Remember what happened to Joe Louis, Mr Booth?

Your speech is already slurred, one more punch

could shake your brain loose!

 

I was there when you fractured your hand, the knuckle

halfway up your fist after eight rounds with Sheika,

the endless broken ribs and realigning your nose.

 

Heaven knows I would shut up if I didn’t care.

It could happen in the gym or the ring, why not retire?

You’re no longer a contender.

 

Mr Booth, you’ve fought some of the greats:

two rounds with David Haye and Johnny Nelson

bringing guts and comedy to the cruiserweight division.

 

Think of your family. Growing old, a grandchild

on each knee, regaling those epic battles with Bruce Scott,

sipping Guinness rather than being drip fed through a tube.

 

Oh, I didn’t mean to… Here take mine. Look, Mr Booth,

I accept you know no other life, but others do.

Please, Tony, at least consider your wife.

 

  


Premature Nativity.

Narrow pavements forced him into the charity shop,
dank paperback and dirty china fouling the air,
somnolently (shirt and suit familiar as pyjamas)
searching through other lives, less bloody,
less biblical, giddy – like the life cycle
of frog ornaments shelved near the till
or the swallows arrowing across an oriental parasol,
leaning unopened, bamboo spokes
poking through the paper.

Out he walked, five minutes later, wearing
a woollen tie, a collection of novellas holstered
in his pocket, clutching a porcelain tortoise
with a bobbing head and limbs –
each used item negating new grief,
one a gift for a person who once nurtured another.
 
 


                         

 


                                                     Mathew Stoppard

 
 
Derbyshire-born poet Matthew Hedley Stoppard has been published in international anthologies and magazines and is a regular on the West Yorkshire performance circuit, reading verse influenced by surrealism, murky nostalgia and cannibalistic hedgehogs.