Hiatus

 

The blog and the press will go on hiatus for some time. Do not send work to either of them, it wouldn't be considered but put to the trash directly.

Previously sent work can be submitted to another venue, I won't consider it for now.

Check later for a possible awakening. 

Thank you.

1074 Errements en terre d’ombre II par CeeJay

La rue par Jean-François sur Flickr

 

Vaincu par mes chagrins je me pose
en cet antre sombre où le jour ne peut atteindre
et me prends ce repos qui éloigne la folie.
Une brise ravive par ses caresses les roseurs de la peau
il fait un froid sépulcral qui laisse réfléchir
et calme les ardeurs des foudres du destin.
Enclin à baisser les paupières, se clore et ainsi ouvrir
les portes à Morphée
et à ses vaisseaux de rêves qui insufflent les pensées du lendemain.
Ici, protégé des humains, je goûte un répit calme
loin de leurs guerres, meurtres et tromperies
certain d’avoir pour un temps échappé
à leur traque éternelle de cannibales.
Recueilli je me confie à la nuit
mon corps plus grand que l’humanité entière
repose comme Atlas jusqu’aux bords de la Terre
En songe mes ailes touchent les étoiles
je frôle l’astre de feu au retour
vêtu  de la cape faite de voiles lactés.
Le sceptre de foudre brandit dans mon poing
doté d’une force nouvelle digne des olympiens
je repars sur les voies de mes injustes royaumes.

I Am, So What Am I to Think by John Grey

 

Juan Valverde de Amusco's Historia de la composicion del cuerpo humano (Rome, 1560).

 

the meaning of within
is mostly belching & gurgling
& that relentless heartbeat
that keeps sending blood to my brain –

thought’s about as real
as it is ephemeral –

& dreams
are all regret,
no prophecy -

tendon & muscle
are merely there
to be stilled eventually

meanwhile, the certainty of the end
can flex itself in the mirror –

I’m still impressed
with how the bones are put together,
organs stuffed where they make the most sense,
flesh packing them in,
skin stretched tight to hold it all together -

but I understand
nothing by it –

all I know is that
I occupy this space
and no one else does –

I’m a law of physics –

the kind
not even the worst of us
ever get to break - 

*****

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Soundings East, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in West Trade Review, Willard and Maple and Connecticut River Review.

Hummingbird Heart by Paul Ilechko

 

https://www.scitecheuropa.eu/what-determines-the-colour-of-hummingbirds-feathers/99150/

 

Scoundrel dog smiles heart like a hummingbird
there is a weight to his affection that overwhelms

we walk miles to end up in the same place
that we started the only response is joy

we walk across a desert we walk through a forest
we memorize the paths that take us and the paths that don’t

hearts wrap around each other like a strangling vine
we are mostly muscle and ligament

feeling the sorrow of ancestry deep within our bones

we pass the fire we breath in the smoke
our bodies churning in constant motion

we pass the place where the road collapsed
we pass the place where the bridge collapsed
the world standing ready on the edge of collapse
the world is whose world the place is no place
where the fire once burned

there used to be a bus that came this way
there used to be cars and lights and the sounds of music
escaping from inside their metal shells

now there is only silence and walking and the plumes
of smoke and walking and the dog still filled with belief
in the restless seething of his hummingbird heart.

 

***** 

Paul Ilechko is the author of the chapbooks “Bartok in Winter” (Flutter Press) and “Graph of Life” (Finishing Line Press). His work has appeared in a variety of journals, including Juxtaprose, As It Ought To Be, Cathexis Northwest Press, Inklette and Pithead Chapel. He lives with his partner in Lambertville, NJ.

Theater of Reality and War Baby by Howie Good

 

Theater audience wearing 3-d glasses
Burns Library, Boston College

Theater of Reality

Many in the audience shift uneasily in their seats as the sole surviving member of the crew describes in hyper realistic detail the dropping of the A-bomb. “Spare us your life philosophy!” a voice finally yells at the stage. German oompah-pah music starts up somewhere near me. The floor, I now notice, is littered with discarded face masks. This might not be hell, but it definitely isn’t heaven. I smile at my own wry humor. And though the smoke chokes us, and the heat of the fire scorches our eyeballs, we stay to watch victims of police brutality in their last moments.
 

*****

War Baby

A war ends. But what changes? The magician, after all, doesn’t actually make the card disappear. On the birthing table, the ghastly queen, legs spread apart, mind full of pus, pushes and pants and pushes again. I’m not marching, but I can hear the chants of protesters. When I go out into the street, the sky that burns at dawn bleeds at dusk. I try to seem like just a regular guy. I call it box, snatch, snapper, muff, beaver, pussy, honey pot, cooch, slit, hoo-haw, and never what it is, the rushing buzzing of everything.

*****

Howie Good is the author of THE DEATH ROW SHUFFLE, a poetry collection forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.

Road Trip by Vince Barry

Photograph by Dr K.

 

 

 “‘A road trip?’” the father asked, and the daughter said, “Yes. Let’s take a road trip.”

“Hmm,” mulled the father, “a road trip,” and the father thought, “‘The road is a word . . . made of concrete and thrust among us.’”

But the father didn’t share this with the daughter. Instead, the father said, murmured really, of On the Road, “‘The air you can kiss.’”

Of course, K.— ’s what the father always called Kerouac, K.—was talking about warm and palmy California air. But since they lived in California, the father figured the daughter had something farther in mind. . . .

So the father said to the daughter, “You know, K. said ‘the road is life’?”

“Exactly!”

“So where—?”

The daughter handed the father an itinerary— from Valley of Fire on Day l to Zion and Bryce on Day 2 to Kodachrome on Day 3 to Arches on Day 4  and so on, to home on Day 10.

“Why—,”  the father observed to himself, “Arches National Park?” And, as if reading the father’s mind, the daughter said, “Why—?” and the father said, “Bold, I mean,” then, “look— you put it in bold.”

With Emerson’s passion of youth that “makes all things alive and significant,” the daughter blew right past the father’s inquiry and said instead, “Awakening in a strange town. . . rocking out, . . .   not knowing what lies ahead . . . starting, breathing  . . . I mean, Dad! To get away and chase!”

“Like,” the father said simply, “wake up and live,” and the daughter said to the father with inexpressible delight, “Exactly!”



And the father thought, reflexively, “‘Dying is a wild night and a new road,’” of
of the picture the daughter said she wanted to get with her new Canon Camera with Zoom Lens at Arches’ first trembling light.

Over the years the father often hurled into the darkness the daughter’s words: “‘I just wanted to get a good picture,’” and touched the back pocket wallet that held the crisp and yellow Moab Times news clipping he never removed, but knew by heart:

“Authorities responded to the bowl area under the popular Delicate Arch around 7:30 a.m. When they arrived on the scene, they discoverd a 21-year-old woman dead from her injuries.”

“‘And the concrete word thrust among us?’” the father asked park officials, and from them, not a bit nonplussed, as if congregants well-versed with K., in a low key, “‘I just wanted to get a good picture in day’s first trembling light.’”

And with that the father appended, as if it were some totem that invoked enough, sincerely enough, heartbreakingly heartfelt enough, would bring her back, “with her new Canon Zoom Lens.”

And he still does, for that matter, of the good picture in day’s first trembling light that the daughter wanted to get with her new Canon Zoom Lens—the father does, pleads as he bleeds, so to say.

“My daughter,” goes his supplication to one deaf to the laughter of the gods, “always put clicking a shutter above clicking with people, you see. Which is to say,” he goes on, his entreaty retreating further into the cave of delusion and imagery, “she cultivated the state of being alone— she had in her imagination what she wanted to shoot, then found it. She instinctively knew, you see, the picture was not the subject, but her. In brief, a true artist, my daughter.”

Then, for his close, the prophet’s simple exhortation: “Misericordiam et judicium”
for one who lost her breath to capture a fleeting reality.

*****

After retiring from a career teaching philosophy, Vincent Barry returned to his first love, fiction. His stories have appeared in numerous publications in the U.S. and abroad, including: The Saint Ann’s Review, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, The Broken City, Abstract: Contemporary Expressions, Kairos, Terror House, Caveat Lector, The Fem, BlogNostics, The Writing Disorder, whimperbang, The Disappointed Housewife, The Collidescope, and Anti-Heroin Chic. Barry lives in Santa Barbara, California.

1073 Errements en terre d’ombre I par CeeJay

 

Rainbow by Wing-Chi Poon
Alberta, Canada

 

Je m’allonge vers les cieux
me courbe en arc immense
je suis ce cristal qui diffracte la lumière
et de couleur, je repeins l’horizon.
En mai, j’enjambe les forêts
fais signe à Vénus accrochée à la lune
qui nous regarde tous, prostrés
dans une lente immobilité.
Aucun ne se souvient de la grandeur du monde
de la force d’Éole
et de la puissance sans borne de Râ.
Tous ont oublié le chant de l’eau
le fracas des cataractes
la sagesse qu’ont les montagnes
pour se mouvoir en millénaires
avec la lenteur des astres.
Tous ne pensent qu’à avoir et empiler
ce qu’ils ont sorti de la terre
ne sachant rien de la véritable richesse.
Sur le gazon que je foule
couvert d’ambroisie déposée par les dieux
mes pas laissent des empreintes sombres et lourdes
Je me prépare aux visites de Morphée
sur cette couche céleste
harassé par mes errements en terre d’ombre
dans les sables lourds.
Il sera toujours temps ce demain pour exhaler ma fureur.

Picking Pieces by Mir-Yashar Seyedbagheri

 

Hiding in the Stacks by Angie Garrett from Flickr.com

They teach me to clean. Wash the dishes, dry them, stack them in order. Be a good boy.

But what do you do when dishes are hurled with words?

You’re always working too hard, Herman. What does that mean, working hard?

You have all the time in the world, Betty.

I’m running on a hamster wheel. Be a good mother. Comfort, comfort. Why don’t you be the parent, Herman?

What do you do when you have to pick up the pieces?

What do you do when your attempts to glue them together look grotesque and out of place?

Everything breaks again.

*****

 

Yash Seyedbagheri is a graduate of Colorado State University's MFA program in fiction. A native of Idaho, Yash’s work is forthcoming or has been published in WestWard Quarterly, Café Lit, and Ariel Chart, among others. He lives in Garden Valley, Idaho.

Blurred by Meghana Karanjkar

Blinding by Elias Quezada from flickr.com

As Ethan opened his eyes, he looked at the black ceiling fan moving slowly on the pale white ceiling. The sun had hit his back while he was sleeping and now his shirt stuck to his body, drenched in sweat. The humidity was thick, and it made him even more cranky. He turned to the left and clutched the night table for support as the room became blurry again. A sheet of haze appeared in front of his eyes. The doctor had warned him that this would happen. The half empty bottles of meds lay disrespectfully on his dresser as he looked at them with disgust. Everything tired him now. Heaving himself off the bed, he searched for his slippers in vain. Groping with his feet, he finally found them and squeezed his feet in tightly. With a deep sigh, he got up and moved towards the kitchen. The coffee machine was waiting patiently for him as he poured the water and dropped the filter in. It kicked off with a splutter eager to please its master. Drumming his fingers on the countertop, Ethan waited impatiently. The smell of the coffee beans wafted through the thick morning air. His jagged nerves began waking up.

Walking slowly towards the small dining table, he placed his thin frame in the chair. This time he had not tripped and fallen.  Curling his fingers around the hot coffee mug, his hands began to gather sweat. The sip of that first morning cup of coffee warmed his throat and hit the walls of his stomach. As the caffeine coursed through his veins, he began waking up, easing a little. Kiara would come in crashing through the door any moment, he thought. He quickly patted his disheveled hair down and tried to look cheerful.

She breezed in with a casserole of warm apple pie that had just come off her oven. Looking crisp and fresh in a white cotton dress, hair tied neatly in a pony tail, she gently placed the pie in the centre of the table. It was like clockwork. For the last four months, she would come in every morning at the same time and they would have coffee together. This was paired with fresh croissants, warm pie, a cup of chopped fruit or baked zucchini bread. Over time, breakfast spilled over to lunches and an occasional glass of wine on the small patio overlooking the crowded Manhattan streets. Kiara lived two floors down and they had initially bumped into each other on the elevator. Neighbors became friends and now they meant more than that to each other. His dry wit and incisive analytical mind bought interesting discussions to the table. Her read on a wide range of topics offered contradictions to his theories which made their conversations rich and diverse. Often, this lead to bitter arguments and loud voices which kept getting louder till the neighbors would bang on their common walls demanding quiet. She was well aware of his disability and growing threat of partial blindness. She was even more aware that he did not want her pity. Nevertheless, she found herself opening doors for him or holding his arm while walking on the busy sidewalks.

‘Good Morning’ she said, pulling back the dining chair hastily as it scraped against the musty beige carpet.
‘Good Morning’ Ethan replied. He grabbed a paper towel and wiped down the dining table full of coffee stains and food crumbs.
‘ Coffee?’ He asked.
She nodded while he poured her a hot cup of coffee as the microwave warmed two big pieces of apple pie.
‘You don’t need to bring a snack or dessert every time’ Ethan said.
She looked down at her coffee.
‘It’s not a big deal. You know I love cooking’.
She noticed his red and swollen eyes and remembered that he had the follow up appointment today. She wanted to be with him. Not wanting to bring attention to his eyes, she looked outside the window.

The bright sun rays touched their faces with a glow as the caffeine gave their brains a kickstart. Ethan took a big spoonful of the pie and swallowed the warm, sweet and juicy treat. He closed his eyes for a few seconds to let the sweetness trickle down his body. For a brief moment he forgot about the restless night, surgery and his eyes. He did not want this perfect moment in the  bubble of comfort and peace to end.
He knew it was time. Shuffling his feet uneasily he said ‘ I have to leave now , the appointment is in an hour’
‘I can come with you, if you like’. She knew the doctor’s visit would be hard on him. Plus it would give her a chance to spend some more time with him.
‘Thank You so much! I think I should be OK.’ He said, wanting her by his side more than ever.

The Ophthalmologist's office had pale green walls and a dark grey carpet. Magazines were piled neatly in a rack next to the navy blue comfy chairs. A large plant took a corner of the room, and looked like it had grown roots there for years. The front desk lady looked at him suspiciously above her pointy glasses. He was the only patient in that office and felt very alone. A cold shiver ran up his spine as he imagined the doctor giving him the worst news of his life. He wished he had taken up Kiara’s offer and asked her to come along. Digging in deeper into the chair, he wanted to be invisible.

‘Ethan Miller’ the receptionist called loudly and a startled Ethan jumped from his chair.
‘How are you doing?’ the doctor asked softly.
‘It was hard waking up. Everything was blurry’
‘It will take time. You had a major eye surgery 2 days ago.’
Ethan fidgeted with his fingers and looked expectedly at the doctor.
‘Your results are in’ the doctor said ‘ the nerves in your eyes are progressively deteriorating’
‘ Over time, you might lose partial or full vision’ the doctor tried to soften the blow
‘How much time do I have?’ Ethan asked slowly.
‘Till the age of 50 – 55’. The words crashed on him like a wave and he felt that he was being pulled under. The room went blurry and the hazy sheet appeared before his eyes. This meant that he had only another 15 years left before he plunged into darkness.

He stumbled out of the doctor’s office and managed to reach his building. With the click of his key he shoved himself into his apartment and fell on his knees on the beige carpet. He could not hold it together any longer as his body shook and trembled in loud sobs. As he slowly stood up, he reached for the chair and flung it with rage against the wall. Reaching for the vase on the dining table, he smashed it on the floor as it broke in pieces. Stuffing his face in the pillow, he cried deep sobs of anger and despair. A myriad thoughts flashed. Darkness. Kiara. Loneliness. Blindness. Kiara.

She entered the apartment and stepped right into one of the pieces of the vase. Her eyes grew wide and she knew immediately what had happened. Instinctively she ran towards him and held him in her arms in an embrace. Ethan let go and crumpled in her touch. There was no safer place for him in the entire world.

Deadlock by Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad

Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad is an artist and poet from Sydney. Her recent artworks were published in Dwell Time, Otoliths, and 3 AM Magazine, and are forthcoming in Parentheses Journal, Club Plum Journal, Pithead Chapel, and elsewhere.

Going Home by Fabrice Poussin

Forgotten Road by Scott Blackwell

He found his way on the forgotten road
through the utter darkness of dawns
caught in unlikely chaos.

Terror assailed him from all sides
fields of golden grasses turned to ash
clouds of tar rolled on like a shroud.

On the edge of a certain death
he pushed on with one last breath
to return home to his home among giants.

Life lay beyond the threatening gate anew
awaiting the return of the most beloved son
cautious of unwelcome intruders.

A brief moment was his only reprieve
the massive citadel shut as he entered
blinded by the warm light of pure rains.

To the infinite depth above he saw
walls of pastels alive with thick nectars
and closed his eyes to rest in the eternal dream.

*****

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.

All She Can by John Grey

The Sick Man
The Quiver: An Illustrated Magazine for Sunday and General Reading
(London: Cassell & Company, 1891) 372

All she can imagine

is a city street,

late at night.

The only sign of life

is a man she knows

stumbling from a barroom.

All she can attend to

is the man in the bed.

A granite bulkhead posing as flesh.

Face known only to

a pillow.

All she can hear are moans.

The bed is in pain.

The man won’t die.

His complaints are too theatrical.

He never once says her name.

Just, “Get me a bucket will you.”

All she can do

is plop a bucket down by

his side of the bed.

His cheeks are pale as tombstones.

His guts are on the move.

All she can see are walls.

Direction stops when the room does.

It’s almost a coffin.

The only sign of life

sprays the plastic bottom.

All she can feel is pity.

But feeling has to start somewhere.

*****

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Sin Fronteras, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in Plainsongs, Willard and Maple and Connecticut River Review.

The Process of Becoming by Shannon Cuthbert

Lita in the city
Surrounds herself with sound.
She grows tall as skyscrapers
Ascending always
Towards the unattainable.
Her eyes turn glass
Absorbing all.
The benches and grates and stone faced men.
The colors that pull themselves out from the mind.
The way the street sounds underfoot,
Its knowledge of her body, her careful steps.
Adaze,
She weaves it as one long dream.
Asleep,
The spell unbreakable.

*****

Shannon Cuthbert is a Brooklyn based writer and artist. Recently published in Gingerbread House, Chronogram, and Poetry Super Highway, with work forthcoming in The Writers Cafe Magazine.

Two Art Pieces by Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad

 

 

 

Comfort by Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad

Tea for One by Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad

*****

Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad is a Sydney poet, artist, and improv pianist. She has been painting and exhibiting for the past twenty years, and has published her art and poetry in several literary journals in Canada, Singapore, the US, and Australia. Her paintings can be found in many private collections. Oormila was a finalist in the Waverley Woollahra 9X5 Landscape Prize 2018.

A Love that Kills (an alba) by Michael T. Smith

Love Kills, stencil by Dr Case

I have felt now a mantra of love,
which was once like a wine glass too full,
which was brimming up over the edge
with what it does not want to let loose.

I have felt such a love that it kills,
so primeval in what it condemns,
who in comfort’ble trousers does stroll
and has only to let us alone.

But the light’s long, ethereal fist
must soon knock on a window’s shy pane
while the curtains do their best to hold
the young day at its bay from the eye.

And although we may fight it with grit
With a broken down eye and bent lid:
We are risers come before anon,
up awaking and meeting the sun

For it may not have been some way else:
us exsecting the haven of limbs,
us unwinding from warming embrace:
“I have felt, I have fallen, bereft.”

*****

Michael T. Smith is an Assistant Professor of English who teaches both writing and film courses.  He has published over 150 pieces (poetry and prose) in over 80 different journals.  He loves to travel.

(Some of) What a Graphic Novel Can Do by JD DeHart

As someone who frequently reads graphic novels, I am continually impressed with the variety of meaning that creators in this medium convey. In this post, I’ll share about five graphic novels I’ve picked up in the past few weeks, and speak briefly to how they work.

First, I will share about Lisa Brown’s Long Story Short. Brown has recently released a full-length graphic novel, The Phantom Twin, but will soon be publishing Long Story Short. Brown takes classic books and adapts them in three to five panels. It’s witty and engaging work, and Brown’s clever illustrations satirize these works in ways that should be shared. I can’t imagine teaching one of these books without sharing the comic strip as a preview or reinforcement.

I have also had the pleasure of reading both volumes of Strange Fruit by Joel Christian Gill. These books examine history by bringing to the surface “uncelebrated narratives from black history.” The books are highly engaging in the way they work visually, and the content is meaningful and powerful. These books most definitely belong in classroom libraries and tell stories that need to be shared. I am captivated by this idea of telling the story that is sometimes unnoticed.

The books go beyond simple narrative and reach into history, conveying strong stories in compelling and supportive ways, with pictures and texts. Gill then shares a Did You Know? section and bibliographies by the time the end of the books arrives.

In addition to these books, I would further recommend reading A for Anonymous by David Kushner and Koren Shaomi. This book is aimed at a more mature audience, while the books I have shared so far are a little more accessible across a range of ages. Kushner presents the story of the group Anonymous in an eye-catching way, and uses the graphic novel medium to do journalistic work. Can a graphic novel do that? Apparently so.

What stands out most about A for Anonymous is the possibility of the book for stimulating conversation. Kushner, working in true journalistic fashion, presents a narrative with facts, poses questions, and leaves it up to the audience to suss out where they sit with the issues that are shared.
Finally, I will share here about a book that is decidedly less heavy than the ones I have mentioned so far, and yet important. How do readers work up to books like the ones I have shared? A repertoire of lovely and tantalizing books, including graphic novels, can be offered at early ages.

As one example, see the work of Dav Pilkey. As another example, I invite you to consider Wilfrid Lupano, working with Mayana Itoїz and Paul Cauuet, as they present a story that is full of humor and merges the medium of picture book with graphic novel in The Wolf in Underpants Freezes His Buns Off.

The book is colorful and I most appreciated how the author and illustrators combine their efforts to interplay words and pictures in full-page examples, as when a conversation takes place among characters across a shelf that is laden with cheese.

All of these books, in the wide range of how they work, demonstrate a clear variety of the graphic novel medium – and yet only serve at the tip of the iceberg for what can be discovered. Graphic novels and comic books really can do much more than they are sometimes given credit for in the world of reading.

Le cri de ifpalide

Le cri d'Edvard Munch

Ce qu'il voit, je n'en sais rien.
Je ne sais pas ce qu'il entend non plus.
Est ce qu'il me reconnaît? Sait-il même qu'il y a quelqu'un, là, physiquement, qui lui parle?
Je ne connais pas les effets combinés de la morphine et de sa tumeur au cerveau.
Il a les yeux grands ouverts. La bouche, aussi , trou noir et ovale.
Il pourrait dire :" pourquoi moi? "
Ou encore "Je suis pas arrivé au bout tout de même?" comme il me l'a demandé quelques mois auparavant." Je sais pas , papa, je sais pas " j'avais répondu.
Ou aussi " Qu'est ce qui va se passer maintenant?" Je n'ai pas plus de réponse.
Son visage est gravé dans ma mémoire et invariablement, je pense à Le Cri de  E Munch.
Il faut que je rentre chez moi, loin ; je suis épuisée par ces quelques nuits à répondre à ses gémissements qui ressemblent parfois à des cris de panique. Je vais alors le retourner dans son lit, ne sachant trop que faire ni la cause de ses cris. Un bras sous les genoux , l'autre sous les épaules et le fait basculer doucement . Je le prends dans mes bras, lui dont je n'ai pas le souvenir qu'il m'ait un jour pris dans les siens.
J'ai vraiment le sentiment qu'il me demande quelque chose. Alors je lui dit que je dois partir. Si je lui touche la main ou lui caresse le front, je ne me souviens pas.
Aucun de nous n'est pratiquant ou croyant.
" Peut être tu vas devenir un cèpe, un gros, un cèpe des pins, brun profond, velouté, tu sais, celui qu'on voit de loin et qui ranime la recherche, juste au moment ou on se dit qu'on va rentrer à la maison." De tous les chercheurs de champignons du coin, c'est lui le meilleur . Il connaît les bons endroits et quand il revient, il nous raconte où il a trouvé chacun des plus beaux, à l'arbre près. Le plus drôle c'est que , chercheurs nous mêmes  , maman et moi , on voit à peu près où.
Petits cèpes qu il a confectionnés au tour à bois.
"Ou alors une truite, tu sais, la grosse truite qui te nargue et que tu loupes tout le temps." Grand pêcheur également, dans les rigoles qui parcourent tous les pacages. On se demande comment font les truites pour y vivre. Quand il nous dit qu'il l'a encore ratée, il sourit, probablement heureux de l'avoir encore comme partenaire lors d'une prochaine partie .
Dans mon dos j'entends les sanglots de ma mère. J'en suis surprise. D'abord parce que je ne la savais pas là, ensuite parce qu elle n'a pas craqué en ma présence jusque là, alors qu'elle lui permet si vaillamment de finir sa vie à la maison plutôt que dans une chambre d'hôpital, depuis des mois .
Je réalise aussi à quel point je l'imagine insensible .
Devant moi, il me semble que son visage s'est détendu. Ces mots l'ont ils rassuré ? Ou bien est ce moi même qui le suis? Je crois bien que je suis la première à lui dire qu'il va mourir, peut être renonce t il alors  à se battre.
Je ne sais même plus avec quelle voiture je suis rentrée, aucun souvenir du voyage .
Peut être une demie heure ou une heure après mon arrivée, le téléphone sonne.
Il est mort.
Ils n'ont pas réussi à lui fermer la bouche. Dans son cercueil, on lui a mis son bâton à champignons ( pour l'aider à trouver son chemin ?), dessus, une rose jaune pâle, celles dont il était le plus fier. Un jour quelqu'un a déposé un cèpe sur sa tombe .
Sur laquelle je ne suis jamais retournée. En ce qui me concerne il n'est pas la bas. Il est ici, dans tout ce qu'il a fabriqué (conçu par maman et lui, réalisé par lui) : les escaliers, les rambardes et gardes fous, la table à langer de notre fille; un acacia rose qu'il m'avait donné ainsi qu'un rosier, le même dont il était si fier.
C'était il y a vingt ans.
Il a disparu à peu près en même temps que son monde, celui dans lequel il avait grandi.
De rigoles dans les pâturages il n'y a plus, de truites non plus , autrement que lâchées par la société de pêche. Quant aux endroits où il ramassait ses champignons, ils ont tous été ravagés par des coupes sauvages, celles où une énorme machine fait le travail de cinq hommes tout en laissant de profondes ornières et un entrelacs de branches et de souches infranchissable.

*****

Ce que j'exprimais confusément à l'époque n'a rien à voir avec la réincarnation. Je crois que nous sommes bel et bien finis. Notre infini se trouve entre notre naissance et notre mort, dans ce que je nomme  "les moments d'éternité".
Le cèpe et la grosse truite faisaient référence à cela. Je voulais ramener mon père à ces instants où nous nous sentons très exactement à notre place, aucune usurpation ni compétition, n'étant que yeux, oreilles et peau. Un élément du tableau aussi légitime que tout ce qui y figure, dont la vie n'a ni plus ni moins de valeur que chacun des autres éléments.
Ce moment très précis où le temps n'existe plus. Nous ne sommes tous que la vie, celle de nos cellules, végétales ou animales, celle du sang ou de la sève qui voyage inlassablement dans nos veines.
Que je voie ou non le cèpe ne change rien à son existence, que quelqu'un me voit à cet endroit à cet instant ne change rien au fait que j'y suis. C'est pour moi un voyage dans "l'épaisseur " du temps. Ma place y reste gravée et j'y retourne à volonté.
"Le temps est un fleuve qui m'emporte, mais je suis le temps (...)" (1)
De pouvoir être à la fois consciemment et inconsciemment vivant, une particule de tout ce qui est, a été et sera, me semble ressembler à l'éternité. Car la vie, comme la mort sont immortelles. Je n'y suis qu'une anecdote, maillon noyé dans la chaîne, mais indispensable par le simple fait que j'existe.
Si mon père a pu retrouver ce moment, alors il y est pour l'éternité.
S'il ne l'a pas trouvé ou même cherché, il y est aussi.


(1) J L Borges. Nouvelle réfutation du temps (1947)

Viva la Diff... by Gary beck

Psychologists assert
that people are the same
everywhere, differences
trivial compared to
prevalent similarities,
accents, beliefs, attributes,
practitioners of crime
preying on the weak, infirm,
elderly, the helpless,
the poor facing the same struggle
food to eat, a place to live,
a future for their children,
while the rich dwell in comfort
regardless of language,
regardless of country,
united in abundance,
united in luxury,
as everyone else struggles
for a basic existence.

*****

Gary lives in New York City. His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines and his published books include 26 poetry collections, 10 novels, 3 short story collections, 1 collection of essays and 1 collection of his one-act plays.

Moon Pool by Lynn White

First published in Indie Soleil, Black and White, June 2017

I have left behind me the dark deep lake
with the threatening shadows waving,
with the wild waves crashing and
breaking on the rocky shore.
Walked away from it all.
Taken the path to the sweet water,
to the pool bathed in moonlight.
Bathed in smooth bright light.
Free of ripples.
Free of shadows.
Smooth and clear.
As if it has swallowed the
tranquility of the moon.
Taken in all it’s peace
so I can wallow in it.
I will not go back
to the dark lake.
Not this time.
Not ever.
Never.

No more.

*****

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/

Twenty Years Later by John Grey

Your eyes have a plan.
Revert to what they were.
Same with your mouth.
Kisses revisit the first time.

Your nails are painted
a color they clearly remember.
And hair falls on shoulders,
a previous accommodation.

Clothes are from the
comfort zone closet,
tattered jeans,
Blondie t-shirt.

I’m seeing you here and now
and yet I travel by time machine.
I touch your cheek but my fingers
don’t know what year it is.

I hold you close,
where we are, where we once were.
If you’ve ever been young,
some things never grow old.

*****

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Transcend, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in Blueline, Hawaii Pacific Review and Clade Song.

After Panic by Stephen Mead

Volcanic Ash by Filter Forge via Flickr

After the volcanic shock,
the literal ash covering,
covering soft as leaves on any
body gagged by thrusts,
the rape of knives thrashing away…

After that, the extreme reflex
of what is trauma should not seeing
take a while?

Understand now I was rock
upon a walking aorta
& the limbs were my own.
Understand hope, a chance to trust
became the old tremors for a what if,
for a re-run, for a silent running.

One day Blues belted this out
& then Pride cried “Released,
I shall be” to believe in
what wasn’t just pain.

Maybe you understood it,
that my fear was an ignorance
that any one thing safe
could possibly exist.
Maybe I reacted badly,
had a minefield of reasons
& a gun of flesh down my throat.

If so, forgive me.
I didn’t know birds would return,
that skin wouldn’t always be metal
or that a garden could exist without brutalization.

Now the ruins have overgrown
though the wind may still show slices.
Now to love fully is to know
you will give that love elsewhere
so why not say
blessed be?

Once the Earth got angry
& had to show that somebody was killing.
Once I had to fight just like that
to push out the hateful knives.

Explosions, a misfiring, & the ash may fall
not at all where wanted.

Then comes the apologies & the gardens,
the Earth saving itself & what it can.

So I send you these roses.
Plant, give each one to whomever you will.

And so on, and so on.

The Flood by Holly Day

Jakarta Flood by International Rivers

The coffins float to the surface
like rebellious architecture, buoyed by the floodwaters
that have shaken everything loose. We pass sandbags
hand over hand to build a wall between us and the river
shouting panicked instructions to the trucks to bring more.

The water pouring in from the river is frigid and cold
numbing ankles and hands, but the water
running off of the bloated cemetery is warm, as though the water
is carrying the last breath and embrace of the dead
across the grounds to keep us from freezing.

*****

Holly Day’s poetry has recently appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, Grain, and Harvard Review. Her newest poetry collections are In This Place, She Is Her Own (Vegetarian Alcoholic Press),  A Wall to Protect Your Eyes (Pski’s Porch Publishing), Folios of Dried Flowers and Pressed Birds (Cyberwit.net), Where We Went Wrong (Clare Songbirds Publishing), Into the Cracks (Golden Antelope Press), and Cross Referencing a Book of Summer (Silver Bow Publishing), while her newest nonfiction books are Music Theory for Dummies and Tattoo FAQ.

One Day by James B. Nicola

The subtle aggregation of the years
is brought to light as sudden as the day
the couple arrives. Unnecessary things amassed
like popcorn kernels sitting on a flame:
occasionally, then regularly, and then
a steamy, thrilling bursting to a climax
just short of an explosion, the pot overbrimmed
right before the flame went off. Among which they find:

Paperweights and porcelains.
Kitchen gizmos, their use a mystery;
     refrigerator coated in quilts of magnets.
Figurines of elephants, giraffes,
     pink pigs and piglets, orange orangutans.
Gold-lettered cups and over-painted eggs.
Mementos of excursions unrecalled.
Walls frame to frame and shelf on spilling shelf,
     all corners hutched by corner hutches, snug.
Ceilings ribanded and dressed
     in hooks and pegboards, unrelieved reliefs.
No room but room she’d make—she always
     managed somehow for beloved things.

She could have eaten better, but the change,
as I said, was subtle, as her things took over.
Now she lies in a fetal fervor on the floor
lower than her credenzas, full of things
unknown surrounded by the known, which have visibly
fallen like plastic hailstones around her frame;
they’ll never melt, and so must be removed.
She looks like a gardener in love with flowers,
who decided to take a nap one day in spring
in a flowerbed, never to wake up.

The wife hangs up the phone to silence its tone.
The husband closes a window. There must have been
a wind, he says as he starts to move the things
nearest his grandmother—or will, one day.

*****

James B. Nicola was published several times in mgversion2>datura—which is proudly featured on the acknowledgments page of his second, third, fourth, and fifth full-length poetry collections, and will be again in his sixth. Born: Worcester, Mass. Lives: New York City. sites.google.com/site/jamesbnicola.