The Invisible Man by Lynn White

Invisible Man Seen in Whitehaven by Alan Cleaver from Flickr

 first published in Praxis, November 2019

There was a large handwritten sign
‘Invisible man - naked and destitute’
I could see where he was standing
he was wearing shoes
naked except for his shoes.
In front of him was a cardboard box.
It was almost full.
not only with coins
but also an apple,
a woolly hat,
a sandwich,
a cup of coffee.
A cup of coffee!
The rest could wait,
but the coffee was slowly cooling.
Perhaps he’d fallen asleep.
I stretched out a hand 
to wake him
but it met no flesh.
How strange.
It must be
that he was only there in spirit.
Do spirits drink coffee?
I shall soon find out.

The Difference between a Homeless Man and Studying Poetry at School by John Grey

Homeless by Psyberartist from Flickr

You’re not Walt Whitman,
just some homeless guy 
who scours trash barrels for sustenance
and sleeps under a bridge.

As long and white as it is,
your beard grows 
for lack of a razor 
and your hair’s so tousled
because it never sees a comb.

As much as you wander
the river bank by day,
the park at night,
you don’t respond 
to what’s around you,
merely body-jerk, mumble,
from the faulty wiring 
in your brain.

Yes, your eyes are 
heavy enough to pass
for the bard of Camden’s
and, stick a broad band hat 
on your head,
you could pose for 
a Whitman house-tour brochure. 

But your art 
is blinkered and private.
Your poems are secrets
so long-kept,
you don’t remember them.
And kids laugh at you.
If you were Whitman,
they’d groan.

Eleven Crackers in the Pack by John Tustin

Potter's Crackers by Amanda M. from Flickr

There are eleven crackers in the pack.
That’s what’s left.
I folded the open part of the inner sleeve over
but they still get stale fast.

There is a woman’s clothing drying
on someone else’s line.
The neighbor’s cat doesn’t come anymore.
He’s found another home-away-from-home.

The ducks will come back here soon.
Until then, it’s still night becomes day
becomes night becomes day.
The moon folds into itself by morning.

There are eleven crackers in the pack.
That’s what’s left.
They may be stale now.
Eleven crackers tonight – all for me. 

***

John Tustin’s poetry has appeared in many disparate literary journals since 2009. His first poetry collection from Cajun Mutt Press is now available at https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0C6W2YZDP. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.

The Wasp at Midnight Whispers by Matt Dennison

Wasp Guarding Nest by Mark Chinnick from Flickr

First published in The Collidescope, September 8, 2019

My gladlings, you spinning blades to be, close brood

of a hot front porch: There is no you, no I, only Nest

and Queen; for it is Nest-making by Nest for Nest,

Queen-making by Queen for Queen. We are but wasps,

sleek machines of sexless Fate. Though infinitely invested

by Survival’s right indulgence, use your stings wisely,

for only one fertile among us endures—And here I tap

upon your leathered heads so thinly egged together:

Be food for no one but feast on many. Acknowledge

neither fly nor moth in passing—they are beasts, inelegant,

lacking our furious halos; fit only for bellies and scat.

Ignore as well the squirreled rumors of cold to come,

the exchanged supremacy of Sun and Moon, for Sun

is the metal of excellence, beaten, my revving engines,

upon and by the blistering wings of Strike, Moon

its dull sister. Know this too: house lizards lick

the mud dauber’s nursery seeking pupae of the absent.

Know this in gratitude from your unwritten tomes

of hot-papered youth: We are present. Though wasps

are never thought to piss or dream, I piss and dream

on you. Accept. Think only of your next sting,

your next little necessary. Fall openly upon your prey,

their arms breaking backwards. Make a bit of wind

about them, snake vessels exploding in chests,

for it is in murder we delight, be it of Moth or Moon

or comely Sap. Our hum upon Nest is ours alone,

quickened by Sun’s needleization of Grace, that scurry-cat

stalking the madness of summer only to pause at the edge

before pouncing—I tap thus on Nest to inform Eternity.

Thoughtless in our replete, the small-breasted tree

with her singing frogs is of no use to us, only the friable

wood of those who hate. Wish and hope death on those who,

as snakes whose venom wounds their mouths must strike,

would crush, would poison us. Though we come in glory,

they think we come into this world to make a hell’s-ditch

of the window box, the desiccated scarecrow, our nimble-

quick descent into violence worse than their clock’s

man-whip of reverie. Ask them, those proud snails of Not

with their fat lips dripping rust and the gathered mud

upon their young: Can you, as the wild goose barks

across the sky, embrace Helios? Can you, as we,

sail a ship through your face in the middle of the night?

Remember, though we do not remember: They know not

of Nest, the eternal among them, the one true architect

on the gold-fired lip of Sun sitting in gold encased in gold

suckling and throbbing and drowning in gold until gold

is gold no more, is Nest Queen of stung delight.

***

Matt Dennison lives in Mississippi and is the author of Kind Surgery, from Urtica Press (Fr.), and Waiting for Better, from Main Street Rag Press.

Shall I Go Gently? by Lynn White

 

Sunsetting behind mountains in Chirbasa, Gangotri by Dhruv Mittal

First published in Light Journal, Finishing, September 2019

I’ve always been indecisive
and I’m still undecided
but soon
I will have to choose
whether to build my ship,
and furnish it
comfortably
and sail with you
gently
into the dark
into oblivion
gently
or to rage and fight
scratch and bite
kick and scream
so that you have to drag me
to where I will not follow
gently
into oblivion
into the darkness
the inevitability
of the end
whichever way I choose.

***

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/

The Ex Files by John Grey

 

There’s something outside my window.
The shades are drawn
but I can see a shape, a wisp,  
a shadow on the glass.

There never were such sightings
when this bed was shared.
The world beyond the house
was as it should be.
Nothing coalesced into a face.
No eyes peeked in.

Most folks get the moon at night.
I suffer through a collage.
For isn’t that a strand of her hair?
Isn’t that silhouette
just crying out for her features?
She had a certain way of sauntering.
So does that starry outline
in the pane.

If only memory would stay in my head
where it belongs.
Why must it exist outside of me?
I could call on it when necessary.
Instead it shows up as it sees fit.

*****

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Lost Pilots. Latest books, ”Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and  “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in California Quarterly, Seventh Quarry, La Presa and Doubly Mad.

Undertaking by Susan Shea

Nina Baldwin from her Women Gathering series
from her website

 

That gathering was a downpour
of easygoing, so why did I see
too many wanting sunbeams

why did I feel drained

when it was over, watching
the hostess sweep the floor,
maybe hoping we might get
the hint that it was time
to move along
like all good fragments

Susan Shea is a retired school psychologist who was raised in New York City, and now lives in a forest in the mountains of Pennsylvania.  Her poems have been accepted by Ekstasis, Across the Margin,  Feminine Collective, New English Review, and others.