Angel With Light Fingers
So delicate the moths wing,
Black birds are anything
detesting the sea.
Delinquent magpies picking
Ashamed of man,
Bind hand into claw.
Cement hair into feather.
Stitch mouth into beak.
Hone muscles into wings.
Bind foot into talon.
I’ll hover above and observe.
And when the time is right,
Black hole et al.
Whom can ever have the choice of womb?
I would have chosen fauna
That’s my corner.
Whoever makes a poet
out of himself gets rid
of the pain of
being a man
They need that to give them the words and the reign
Spokesperson for the G.I. raffes
Charlie Chaplin hushed when
Volume was invented.
Everyone always says:
"There's plenty more fish in the sea"
But I've never been a fan of bestiality
You say Hope does not exist?
Then why will people eternally wait at bus stops?
Because they know eventually it will come.
From what compels
you don't need it
I'll drown in the Dead Sea
And let the salt make
a miracle of me.
Even the fish will walk on water.
I'm trying to draw the perfect circle
But only reaching messy triangles
First man to draw it went mad
I have everything I could ever need
Because I have hypochondria
Even this rhyme,
of the broken rule
Life is all about
Transferring one addiction,
Aesthetic is curse,
Which we all should not nurse.
Liam Butcher lives in Highams Park in East London. He started writing poetry around 2 years ago and has 'really got into it recently'.
He describes his style as mainly lyrical and confessional as most of his poems are about himself or the way things in the world make him feel.
Liam's poetry has quite dark undertones but doesn't intend to depress anyone who reads his work. He 'just want them to think about what his writing.'
Liam's favourite poets are Sylvia Plath and Phillip Larkin but he also get a lot of inspiration from songs and lyricists, be it reggae or hip-hop music.
Released on bond from decency
in DuPage County, she returned
to Cook to righteously cook
her carved mother's kosher heart.
Family, foul or fair, is a lie
to biology. DNA has no devotion.
Evolution may bind by deformity,
but Darwin was devoid of love.
After draining its warm blood
for a basil and garlic gravy,
she chopped the organ that played
life into her own flesh for stew.
Frankenstein was not a monster.
A botched parental experiment
poorly treated by born humans,
he never had half a chance.
The doted-upon daughter devoured
the matriarchal meal -- ingesting
her benefits depleted cash-cow --
her caring cannibal cuisine.
Naively ignored is a nursery rhyme
which nurtures babes about slime.
NATURE HAS AN UNNATURAL SPIN.
SLEAZY SURVIVAL KNOWS NO SIN.
Mike Davidson is a criminal defense attorney and former college English teacher who enjoys fast food, beer, and old TV shows.
To let the poet know of any comments on the above poems click on the image below.
No More Nightmares Now
I moved into a little cabin
next door to them one summer
I could hear him yelling
through my open windows
in the wee hours as I sat up writing
They slept in separate rooms
as it was never safe to wake him
or be too close to him at night
because he spent his dreams back in Korea
at the Chosin Reservoir trying to survive
The story came out one piece at a time
as we played cribbage
hunted our springers in the lower fields
sat waiting on cold November deer stands
worked on projects in the wood shop
and after several years I could put those pieces together
Dogs would gravitate to him
cats would vie for a place on his lap
but even they knew not to wake him
if he napped in the afternoon
Me, I listened to the story he could never tell his family
he said it made sleeping easier
maybe it did though I was never sure
if he saw my lights on
he’d come over in the middle of night
for a cup of tea and to talk
until his hands stopped shaking
and he’d go back home to bed
to fight it all over again
Tom Diegoli is a freelance writer living in Gorham, New Hampshire, with his daughter Peg, Roxanne the Springer Spaniel, and two obnoxious but endearing Siamese cats. He writes technical articles, short stories, and poetry. His other interests include cooking, cross country skiing, shooting, hunting, gardening, and making wine from the wild berries of the region.
An active member of The Poetry Society of New Hampshire, he has been published in several anthologies including The Other Side of Sorrow, The Poets’ Guide to New Hampshire, Vols. 1 & 2, magazines including The Café Review, The Color Wheel, and Touchstone, and online at www.windinthetimothypress.com. He also makes regular appearances at area open mics to read both poetry and prose, and spent many years working in the local schools giving workshops on writing poetry.
He has self published three chapbooks: One With The Land, Interface, and What The Cat Dragged In, two DVD’s: The Skunkskin Session and Live At Acoustic Coffee, and several audio cds. A collection of his short fantasy stories, The Book of Scratch, is due out sometime next year.
The wind took it; was whipping it from my grasp
Stronger than I was, needing that sheet to dance with.
Wrestling it back onto the line, pegging it hard down,
It flapped against me, wrapping me, then lifting suddenly free.
Always that shadow in the corner
Even in passion, even at sunset, holding hands, a child’s eyes
‘Don’t forget about me, I’m still here, waiting for you’
Nowadays I don’t seem to mind so much
It’s been there so long, I’m on familiar terms.
And now and then, when my bones ache
And the night-time sheets feel so smooth and cool
I wonder if it will feel as if a friend has come to fetch me
To whisk me away, like the wind and the sheet,
And I will unpeg myself, at last,
To go dancing.
Jane Francis is an ex actress, writer and teacher, now Therapist. She has written all her life, poetry plays and short stories. Having been very caught up in family life for the last 15 years or so, she is now divorced, living in Deal by the sea with her kids and is dipping her toes back into the water of writing, and loving it....
thrashing arms threshing air
or snowdrop on the bright horizon.
Lost to night,
spinning like the wheel of a ship near wreck
or ponderous, arms on a clockface.
A crucifixion on the hill.
breaking across the Earth
with the dawn.
Note to Self
Don’t be afraid to forget.
To forget a sense of place,
awareness of time,
the sensation of being oneself:
to become no-one.
In the moment before you remember,
the wheat field
is a massed choir
and the Earth
a spinning eyeball.
A road in tree shadow,
a space between pines,
a Welsh voice rising
produce the nuclear flash
a world atomised in an instant.
And the next
a road in tree shadow,
a space between pines,
a Welsh voice rising.
James Kilner is a freelance writer who lives in the north-east of England. Previously, he worked as a newspaper journalist, but left this profession to pursue PhD research on the poetry of Ted Hughes, which was completed successfully in 2009. His own poems have appeared in Aesthetica, The New Writer, Words-Myth and other publications.
Antinomian I have not been,
nor cursor to another, flagrantly for myself, indulgent, then, spare, happily absorbed in minutiae, effusive when general. Although vaguely unsupportive, courteous when leaned upon. Indifferent wit, in difference quick. Sometimes, low, very low, and, yet, indistinguishable from merry. Say, steady, constant, say, contrary.
How Long Becalmed. Waste for horizon. That's right, it's winter, the young smirking plummeting to where zero might have been, again, might have been! Numerology eludes me; no taste, no finality, nothing. I have been bitten, breached, split, no renunciation of yesterdays, neither country, giant still ferns, nor salt drenched marshes, salmon or bear. I wanted to say, be witness to protracted gratuities. Poppycock! My cage - mine! - rocks and rattles.
Further Gratuities Mine, my wife's, a hornet's hive, a stone's stillness - possessive conundrums, a desacralized tallying of parts. Resistance to the unforeseen so great the summing up, green, lavender, umber fade. Bewildered, pixie hopes extinguished, left an aching lower back, paralyzing neck pain, an irregular beat, a scarred, an enlarged heart - a clutter dwarfing my inside. Hear, whispered gratuities in a chattering of squirrels. Novices shuffle in place, speak to others' inadequacies, while an evening passes away, residual fragrance of privet, flight of a bat, and, wholly unexpected, those dark times in bed.
When I Grow Up
I want to be superman and wear my undies on the outside.
When I grow up
I want to be a dandelion
so people will pick me.
I want to be as beautiful as Helen
send a thousand ships across the sea,
I want to be as beautiful as Medusa
so you cannot look at me.
Yet I remain
I am a lost toy on the island of misfits
I am a lost boy headed to the star
Van Gogh never dreamed to paint.
I am the words you can’t seem to find
at the sight of something astonishing;
little footprints in sand, ripples in bath water coming from your beating heart,
a lovers note left on the pillow.
I am a sock lost in the wash
I am that song you can’t remember the name of
even though you know all the notes.
I am afraid.
I don’t want linger on the 13th floor.
Don’t wanna be every silent E wishing to be heard.
If I don’t find my way I will be the vanishing point
Mona Lisa’s smile.
I’ll be the sound of a tree
falling alone in the forest.
I’ll be February 29th on a common year.
I’ll be the wrinkles of disappointment my father wears.
When I grow up
I want to be
so I may have a place in the world where I fit
Would the sidewalk notice if I were gone?
We are not the soft drip,
drip of raindrops
falling on cement,
coalescing into one
In the city we are cold,
hard and rigid
we are hail.
Scattered on sidewalks:
I gather them in a bucket
and listen to ice crackling
don’t want to be frozen alone.
The city is an orchard,
people; apples dangling.
I want to be a pie,
Lord, make me into pie I’m ripe
I’ll be sweet
If sand could speak
in the splash of salty waves
I would say the same:
“I was here once.”
Sarah Anne Stinnett was born into a family of artists. Poet, visual artist, thespian, and musician, she has plunged head-first into a multitude of disciplines of expression. As a senior at Berklee College of Music, Sarah has had her work published by FUSION Magazine. Simultaneously, she has been actively involved with the community of poets at Emerson College. In the spring of 2011 she received the honor of representing Berklee’s student body by reading original works at the college’s convocation ceremony.
Wishing for the time, deep into our garden
I will hear you playing Albeniz on the guitar
Under the red shade of a Scots Pine
And if that proves too big a venture
Do not despair, there is always
The Kylie songbook.
Spears of grass, relax your guard
And embrace my settling body
Basking with a dangling
Blue ancient tongue
One eye heavy, stuffed with sand and white foam
The other an empty porous cocoon
Collecting your strayed cultural threads.
Whirling musky sheets of jasmine scent
Cooling the sunned skin
Or a storm may whip sprinkler-like
The essence out of the shy lavender.
It doesn’t matter
Just let the deep night serve
Your eucalyptus tasting lips
To again prove to one another
The greatest pleasure of all
Is its giving.
For you and your homeland
Will go back to minimum wage
Be the immigrant again, fresh out of the boat
Work 10-hour days in a sandwich sweat-shop
With their 48 products an hour minimum;
Cannonballs-of-mayo-firing golden scoop!
Boomerangs of perfectly sliced tomatoes!
How passionately Perfect! am I to be
To use the relevant company propaganda.
I will take the rough
Together with the smooth
I tell you now!
To see you smile at peace
Under the red shade of a Scots Pine.
Nick Tsaldaris was born and raised in Greece. 10 years ago he moved to England to study a degree and has now settled in North London. Nick is a Quantity Surveyor by profession and poetry is his main escape from the everyday tediousness of his job. His aim is to publish enough work in order to wave goodbye to the mind-numbing number-crunching once and for all.
This spring is going to see the first publication of a poem in Neon Highways.
He was so good at life, that-
As one who is adept at cribbage-
He was the first to peg out.
Flaring up into the ether like magnesium
Extracting an exclamation of awww,
While I fumbled clumsily around the board
Cursing the dice with their ophidian eyes,
Jutting their tongues in ridicule of me
Struggling to reach the other side,
slowly oxidising to an exclamation of Oh!
Anthony Ward is an AutoCAD operative from the North of England and has been writing in his spare time for a number of years. He finds himself extremely contemplative about the world around him which often invokes him to have to set his thoughts to rest.
Victor Hugo in the Place des Vosges
Sunlight breaks through,
opulence mirrors privation, MP3,
camera dangling at wrist,
blare from sumptuous apartment
pick up a programme, dust it
down, that was kid's bikes,
scribble across, think
watch the delight, speak,
break through language.
The party crosses, poses
under arched splendour:
a stub to record this
life advances, routinely,
sandpit mums come and go,
men down tools, hunger
undermines old foundations,
sky darkens slender frames.
Is there something wrong?
sun spins fallow showers
coating the café terrace roof
like paint for exterior surfaces,
purposes, cup breast, lip nipple
of the existence of flesh
is there something, you babble,
turn back to the screen
where a trial shows – is there?
but friends often never ask
that is for me to ask
the café is emptying, the rain
has left the city black and blue
old charred clouds shifting
on to new territory
is there any thing left rest
your limbs the cycle repeats
cannot catch you
slip into night
Patrick Williamson is an English poet who lives near Paris. His most recent poetry collection is Three Rivers/Trois-Rivières (Harmattan, France, 2010). He has edited Quarante et un poètes de la Grande-Bretagne (2003). In 1995 and 2003, he was an invited poet at the Festival International de Poésie at Trois-Rivières in Québec.