Wednesday, 11 September 2019

Floodlit Poems by L. Ward Abel Out Today

Cover photograph by L. Ward Abel


L. Ward Abel, poet, composer, teacher, retired lawyer, lives in rural Georgia, has been published hundreds of times in print and online, and is the author of one full collection and eleven chapbooks of poetry, including Jonesing for Byzantium (UK Authors Press, 2006), American Bruise (Parallel Press, 2012), Cousins Over Colder Fields (Finishing Line Press, 2013), Little Town gods (Folded Word Press, 2016), A Jerusalem of Ponds (erbacce-Press, 2016), Digby Roundabout (Kelsay Books, 2017), and The Rainflock Sings Again (Unsolicited Press, 2019).

Floodlit
L. Ward Abel

Beakful, © 2019

ISBN: 9780244816636
96 pages

$7 buy it from the printer's website

****

Tranquility Base

It was July 1969 down on Lake Sinclair.
Outside was a night as loud as Mombasa.
Inside the astronauts came down a blurry
black and white ladder, likewise the old TV.

My crewcut years then at ten were just
a clutching of books near two-hundred-year-old nesting-oaks.
I lurked at the edge of reddish water and miles-dark
hardwood

under yin/yang skies. Later in that cabin
I tried to sleep maybe channel astronaut
dreams, but settled on the hawk
dreaming floodlit over the boathouse,
her shadow pouring out to find me.

Sunday, 18 August 2019

The Trip Back Home by John Grey



Look at that,
kids he went to school with,
pumping gas at Andy’s Auto,
bussing tables at Denny’s.
And there’s Chad,
twenty years added to his face
when it should have only been ten,
his nose already red with booze
and scars on his chin
from his latest crackup.
Dale’s sweeping streets.
Ernie’s bouncing off the running board
of the trash pickup truck.
At least, Bobby can afford a pickup…
just not four good tires
And Lucy sure looks cute in that pink uniform,
with Bert’s Diner stitched into the pocket.
Veronica’s pushing a pram.
Can’t tell if there’s one or two in there.
She was as smart as the teacher
when she was in school.
He’s only home for a few days,
staying at his mom’s house,
catching up with friends.
But how do you catch up with kids
who’ve fallen so far behind?
Mostly by keeping how well he’s doing
to himself.
So he has no college degrees.
No six figure job in the city.
No snazzy apartment overlooking the river.
He’s learned you can go home again.
But only if someone’s willing
to take your place.

*****

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in That, Dunes Review, Poetry East and North Dakota Quarterly with work upcoming in Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Thin Air, Dalhousie Review and failbetter.

Saturday, 13 July 2019

All That Glitter by Lynn White

Photograph by Quincemedia from Pixabay


First published in ‘All That Glitters’, Silver Apples, Issue 10, 2018

It glitters
like gold.
But is it
gold
or base
metal
being worked on
by an alchemist..
undergoing
transformation,
perhaps
with a touch
of magic,
with an elixir
of immortality,
an illusion.
Or perhaps
base oil
transformed
to
sparkly
plastic glitter
with
all too real
immortality.
Glittering,
littering
with
everlasting life,
all that glitter.

*****

Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud 'War Poetry for Today' competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and a Rhysling Award. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/

Sunday, 7 July 2019

The Janitor’s Art by Danny Barbare

Mop & Bucket by Phil Parker from Flickr

Whether
a
broom
or
mop

as
this
is
it

a
work
of
art.

Tuesday, 2 July 2019

Sunday Afternoon by DS Maolalai

Goldfish by John O'Sullivan from Flickr

and all day
music plays
and all day there are poems
and all
day, light
through the blinds
striking like piano keys,
brash and loud as crockery dropping.

sometimes you feel like a goldfish,
satisfied in its bowl,
boxed off from unnecessary strife.
gods with red wings rise on horizons
and scorch the earth
red in search of prayer,
people go mad in the streets and rant about angels,
death and everything in the next century,
all outside,
all very much
away -

sometimes you just lie in bed
scratch your belly
and eat cheese crackers.

*****

DS Maolalai has been nominated for Best of the Web and twice for the Pushcart Prize. His poetry has been released in two collections, Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden (Encircle Press, 2016) and Sad Havoc Among the Birds (Turas Press, 2019)

Sunday, 23 June 2019

The Silence by Bobbi Sinha-Morey

Image by Ralf Kunze from Pixabay


In the out-of-sync silence
I watched in an aura of
wariness my drunken
mother alone in her room,
ashes from the tip of her
cigarette falling carelessly
in a shallow bowl of heirloom
china, an ugly dark hair on
her chin that stubbornly
stayed no matter how much
she shaved. Years of growing
up I'd seen her let out her
inner rage on me and my
father, leeching any happiness
that had clung to my bones,
an embalming of the spirit
that made me want to hide
away and not be known,
so used to my mute tongue,
too afraid to tell anyone.
It was only today, at this
time, my dreams had knitted
into a dark tie having grown
up with the belief that all
fears are permanent; that,
like bone fractures, they
would heal but leave a
hairline shadow.

*****

Bobbi Sinha-Morey lives in Central Point, Oregon, in the U.S.A. Her poetry has recently appeared in Vita Brevis, Cascadia Rising Review, Woods Reader, and Lost and Found: Tales of Things Gone Missing.

Sunday, 16 June 2019

To the Finish Line by Fabrice Poussin

Finish Line by Andrew Hurley


In the thick crowd of suits and heels, she runs
the shadow is relentless on her tracks
imprint of the minutes passed on the asphalt
what is she trying to evade in the early mist?

Eyes transfixed on the vision of words to come
impervious to the cries for help
her glide continues in a vertiginous slalom
she feels a chill upon her fragile nape.

So much impatience, so little time to spare
and they pursue the beloved aura
in their spring dresses of flowers and love
she knows not to stop or slow for anyone.

Where does the path end, when will she find her peace
for the moment the unspoken plea remains unheard
as an apparition she floats without unanchored
while below cries beg for her to give solace at last.

*****

Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and many other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications.