Beyond the welcome mat The north living room wall Is a charred memory
Through its spacious show Of eviscerated lumber Still whip-cracking the years
For Las Vegas parents Who relax on the couch Next to the blistered wood
Honoring birthdays or Celebrating school sports With commemorated smoke
Inhaled around homework And breathed through seasons Around chopping potatoes
Since this house embraced fire Like a young sibling Snapping at family
Dane Karnick grew up by the Colorado “Rockies” and lives near Seattle. His poetry has appeared in Poppy Road Review, Ephrastic Review, Bluepepper and is forthcoming in El Portal. Visit him at www.danekarnick.com.
The shadows cannot find you now, Or pain to tease your soul, The earth has consummated you in death. The cold wind that hunted you, To cut you to the bone; Has now to turn back upon itself.
I hope the lake retained its stillness? It did the last time I was there; When I ran with breaded hands, to feed the swans, We watched trees reflect a frosted beauty, As we walked along the grassy knoll, But we cannot restore the echoes that have gone.
So the shadows still continue, They even haunt your grave, But never penetrate beneath the clay, They cannot speak or trouble you, Despite of how they try; Yet are persistent in returning day to day.
John Anthony Fingleton: He was born in Cork City, in the Republic of Ireland. Poems published in journals and anthologies in Ireland, UK, USA, India and France as well as three plays produced. Poet of the Year (2016) Destiny Poets International Community. Poems read on Irish and American radio as well in Spanish on South American broadcasts. Contributed to four books of poetry for children. Has poems published in numerous national and international journals, reviews, and anthologies. Poet of the Month (March 2019) Our Poetry Archive. First solo collection ´Poems from the Shadowlands´ was published in November 2017, which is available on Amazon. Web https://lostvikingpoetryjohnanthonyfingleton.wordpress.com/
It comes in waves – the grief and pain. The loss of our imagined future now forever relegated to the confines of my fantasy world.
The multitude of exploits I was so sure we were destined to share, remain unrealised. The Sunday afternoon walks we won’t do, the unbought gifts, the selfies with my head resting on your shoulder that we won’t take, the unspent Friday nights and Saturday mornings, the weekend trips to the country and holidays abroad we’ll never share, the uneaten restaurant meals and home cooked dinners, the music we won’t listen to together, the unwritten Valentine’s cards, the hands we’ll no longer hold.
There’ll be no more daily text messages with updates of the minutiae of our respective days nor the phone calls with my heart quickening at the sound of your voice, no butterflies at the sight of your face. The cruel ceasing of those Tuesday evenings lying on your sofa with our bodies effortlessly entwined, reminiscing about kissing under the Moroccan stars – oh the stars!
‘We could be great together,’ you said back then. Do you remember that now?
It comes in waves.
Kate is based in London and has a postgraduate degree in Classical Art and Archaeology. She is currently working on her first novel.
“My feet have hiccups.” she said. I was not sure I wanted to hold a vision of that. I didn’t want to contemplate what feet could choke or Reflux on. Oh well…
Wait a minute! Where would the stomach of a foot be located? There I was “thinking” about it. I tried not to.
She was not seated in my direct line of vision. So, my imagination went wild. It ran like a 3-year-old liquored-up on candy.
I grew a tuba-nosed-cartoon vision of hands that could cough, fingertips with eye balls. A tiny-eared-humpbacked droller. Suddenly, she got up and walked pass me to relieve the cramps in her feet.
Why didn’t she just say, “I have cramps in my feet?”
Beverly M. Collins is the Author of the books, Quiet Observations: Diary thought, Whimsy and Rhyme and Mud in Magic. Her poems have also appeared in California Quarterly, Poetry Speaks! A year of Great Poems and Poets, The Hidden and the Divine Female Voices in Ireland, The Journal of Modern Poetry, Spectrum, The Altadena Poetry Review and many others.
In 2012, Collins won a prize from the California State Poetry Society. In 2015, she was nominated for both the Pushcart Prize and Best Independent American Poetry for her piece that appears in the Anthology entitled, Rubicon: Words and Art Inspired by Oscar Wilde’s De Profundis. In 2018 she was “short listed” for the Pangolin Review Poetry Prize for her poem, “Shredded” and also gained her 2nd Pushcart Prize nomination for her poem entitled, “Ice.”
If my shell splinters or crackles Spiderwebs into tiny minuscule pieces Any further My contents will emerge Splatter melt tumble aloft The rubble that’s left Memories of me scattered onto the floor
Tracy Houser has written poetry and short stories much of her life and has always dreamed of publishing. She is from Oklahoma and lives in the country with her two young daughters, two dogs (one very special three legged pug) and a crawfish named Cupcake.
Making love for the first time we lost the ability to speak, grunts and groans guiding us as we explored this new language of the body, bringing each other to the precipice of ourselves, before, sated, falling over, the wet ground rising eagerly to meet us.
Edward Lee’s poetry, short stories, non-fiction and photography have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen and Smiths Knoll. His debut poetry collection “Playing Poohsticks On Ha’Penny Bridge” was published in 2010. He is currently working towards a second collection.
He also makes musical noise under the names Ayahuasca Collective, Lewis Milne, Orson Carroll, Blinded Architect, Lego Figures Fighting, and Pale Blond Boy.
The night is long, long as the stars are falling apart and so my tears are the rain on the child cheeks I thought that love would make us lucky, and happy until I realized that one of us must pretend that I’m dead Trust was the most beautiful word we have had in our talks sadly, it was replaced with a betrayal and dangerous faith The invisible spirit forgot to teach me how to die without weapon, nor a case of twelve beers, yet the night is still long
Ahmad Al-Khatat, was born in Baghdad, Iraq on May 8th. He has been published in several press publications and anthologies all over the world and has poems translated in several languages. He has published two poetry books “The Bleeding Heart Poet” and “Love On The War’s Frontline” which are available on Amazon. Most of his new and old poems are also available on his official page Bleeding Heart Poet on Facebook.