‘My Father as a Fly’ by Marion Oxley He came from a place where sunlight was goldenspreading across the first burnt crusts of the day. A shredded, bitter-sweet place where generations movedup from stinking gutters to sit at crisp, white tablecloths. He’d wanted none of it once the lid had been lifted offthe black-faced, curly headed dolls, wide smiles, red banana lips. He didn’t want to be stuck in this place of labels, tokens, badges.A lifetime of lip service, syrupy sweetness making him vomit. So over time he changed. Found sustenance in the outdoorsbecame more in tune with nature. Feet walking over dead-eyed sheep. Tasted kitchen waste, sucked in, thought only now of air miles.I find him wrapped in a silk shroud, swinging gently caught in the breeze between a dangle of white, Bleeding Heartlike her earrings and the yellow floribunda Peace rose, he always loved. Meet the Poet! Marion Oxley lives in the Calder Valley, West Yorkshire. She has had poems previously published in a wide range of poetry magazines, journals and anthologies. Most recently Atrium, Obsessed with Pipework, Bangor Literary Journal, The Alchemy Spoon, Smoke and Channel. Her debut pamphlet In the Taxidermist’s House was published last year with 4Word Press. Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Like this:Like Loading...
‘A Town Without a River’ by Peter Donnelly Once a politician thought it had a beach,perhaps because their conference was there,in old times a watering place. You can still bathe at the Turkish Baths,see ducks in the pond in the Valley Gardens,hear the ripple of tiny waterfalls along the Elgar walk. No longer may youdrink water at the Pump Roomthat tastes as salty as the sea, to be polite. I’d like to have asked them the name of the riverthey thought ran through the town, or if theyspelt it Harrowgate. Good questions for an MP. Meet the Poet! Peter J Donnelly lives in York where he works as a hospital secretary. He has a degree in English Literature and an MA in Creative Writing from the University of Wales, Lampeter. His poetry has been published in various magazines and anthologies including Dreich, Black Nore Review, High Window, Southlight and Lothlorien. He was awarded second prize in the Ripon Poetry Festival Competition in 2021 and was a joint runner up in the Buzzwords Open Poetry Competition in 2020. Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Like this:Like Loading...
‘Over the Moon’ by Swetha Amit I asked mama how far the moon is from my window, if there was a man on the moon and she says I don’t think so because no one can live on the moon, no water no air, no place to build a home silvery glow and milky white like creamy cheese on some days with my binoculars I get a closeup of this circular wonder, impeccable with its silvery glow, illuminating the dark streets and nights and then I see those pockets like patches of dark clouds hollow and appearing bruised I ask mama if the moon is hurt and she says that’s how it is I want to comfort the moon I want to heal it the way it has by beaming and smiling at me whenever I’ve felt sad thinking about my father wondering if he’d come home after performing his duty at the border when I see the moon after a few years no longer creamy white, just remnants of hollow black has the moon really changed I wonder or that my eyes have lost their sheen? Meet the Poet! Author of her memoir, ‘A Turbulent Mind – My journey to Ironman 70.3’, Swetha Amit is currently pursuing her MFA at the University of San Francisco. She has been published in Atticus Review, JMWW journal, Oranges Journal, Gastropoda Lit, Full House literary, Amphora magazine, Grande Dame literary journal, Black Moon Magazine, Fauxmoir lit mag, Poets Choice Anthology, and has upcoming pieces in Drunk Monkeys, Agapanthus Collective, The Creative Zine, and Roi Faineant Press. She is one of the contest winners of Beyond Words literary magazine, her piece upcoming in November. She is also an alumna of Tin House Winter Workshop 2022 and the Kenyon Review Writers’ workshop 2022. Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Like this:Like Loading...
‘The Mussel Speaks’ by Christian Ward Though our shells are the perfect shade of grief, one taste of the meat confettied with herbs and doused in white wine is enough to make even grey clouds politely bow and head away. Yes, naysayers will say it looks like a wad of chewed gum, but these are the sea’s ear bones. Listen to its secrets, how they can dissolve you among the currents and rebirth you as a basking shark or the humblest of anemones disguised as stars. Meet the Poet! Christian Ward is a UK-based writer whom has recently appeared in Open Minds Quarterly, Obsessed with Pipework, Primeval Monster, Clade Song, Uppagus and BlueHouse Journal. Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Like this:Like Loading...
‘IF ONLY IT WERE ALL GOOD’ by John Grey Autumn reds,a colony of yellow tansy,on roadsides, goldenrod,though, when I was born,wattle flowered from the day beforeto the day after. I sit on the porchat dusk,humored by color,though I’d prefer to be cured,as house shadow,drawn out by the western sky,crosses my face, my lap. Sun speaks to each of us in turn –my light is certainly worth having but you can’t take it with you. A mother, father,three sisters,I’ve lost for good. I prefer the sun that shines,not the one that speaks. Meet the Poet! John Grey is an Australian poet and US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review and Ellipsis. Latest books, ‘Covert’, ‘Memory Outside The Head’, and ‘Guest Of Myself’ are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Washington Square Review and Red Weather. Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Like this:Like Loading...
Two Poems by Brandon McQuade MOWING The distant smoke of burning leavesand the heavy scent of gasoline smothers the late-summer air. He stops to watch wings scatter aimlessly from the trees. His forearm glistens in silence and the mower grinds to a halt as he wipes his brow, seated on a bench in the half-mown grass. Nothing but the wind to witness his chest tightening like a fist around his heart. RED TRACTOR in memory of David Bowring A bright red tractor sputters and dies on the yellow horizon. The spider plants on our kitchen table died years ago—green leaves spilling from the bowl like milk tongued from a saucer, until they folded in on themselves like immolated sheets of paper—the way you can almost hear them screaming and curling like singed hair, the crumbling ash of something living. Right now, chemotherapy is tearingat your uncle’s vitals like a controlled fire. The red tractor may yet turn over,and the farmer might save his field. But the fire inside your uncle’s pancreas will never extinguish or ignite again. Meet the Poet! Brandon McQuade is an award-winning poet, and founding editor of Duck Head Journal. His poetry collection, Bodies, was the recipient of the 2022 Neltje Blanchan Memorial Writing Award. He lives in Northern Wyoming with his wife and their children. Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Like this:Like Loading...
‘Newcastle Morning, Early September’ by Tracey Pearson Had ya horses man, the day’s in no rush to start,Mrs Kelly’s shooing next door’s cat oot the yard. Morning still wears its dressing gown,tied tight round the midriff,grey and downy, soft and fluffy, Tyneside foggy. September sighs in the back lanes,bairns and mams bicker their way to school – If I’ve telt yi once, I’ve telt yi a thoosand times,don’t poke ya sister in the eye. The weather changes when the bairns go back,baking taties on offer at the Community Grocery,a 45p tea, for me and Olenka, a Ukrainian refugee. Meet the Poet! Tracey Pearson is a poet and flash fiction writer from Newcastle upon Tyne, UK. Her work has been published in print anthologies, magazines and online. Tracey’s recent writing appears in Poetry Wales, Dreich, Culture Matters and Visual Verse, and is forthcoming in Briefly Write. Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Like this:Like Loading...
‘Experience’ by Gareth Culshaw There was a time inside a lettuce leaf I found the crinkles enjoyable to walk. I traipsed songs lost in headphones found trees upside down in winter. Heard birds in the yawn of a cat and caught a train for a bus for a hike. It led me to this, a place of rock and stone. Nothingness sits outside a window until you leave the vehicle and walk. Things appear in the nostril before your hands have left the crust. Your soup stays on the lips, cola burps a crow, and crisps wear away fence posts. But each walk brings you closer, closer to the life you live inside. The life you live before you found this place in the crunch of a carrot one salad afternoon. Watching a sun biscuit-dunk into a mountain wait for the warmth to leave you behind then see your fingerprints smudged on the moon, the end of your nose. Meet the Poet! Gareth Culshaw lives in North Wales. He has 4 poetry collections, most recent by Hendon Press called Memory Tree. He is a winner of Backlash Best Book Award 2022. Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Like this:Like Loading...
‘Climate’ by Mike Doherty That yellowing mould of surrender Like soft vows Subsides on the kerb as a light wind makes the leaves Skittish With those most recently released from the bough Falling through shafts of sunlight and forming, casually A duvet against the stone, against the cold of a coming night This heat has made the trees distress and shrug off their ornaments Those leaves Fluttering dependents in need of drink and so they are Expendable. It is the rule of law. Long grass warped into dry and brittle threads Susceptible to fire. All these indicators of change Gather here in plain sight to form a queue of warning signs Do Not Proceed. One Way Only. Danger of Death Another turning point goes blind to history All the common sights forgot and nothing left But burning twigs Meet the Poet! Mike Doherty says: “I have always tried to express myself. School reports exhort you to “try harder”. Poetry is the only medium I have found to reach into the corners of my soul and shed some light. It’s never easy and often not terribly good. But, I love it.” Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Like this:Like Loading...
‘Canals of the Back Streets’ by Martin Potter Glints in the city sun andTown-breeze ripples rainbowTouches in the oily filmRunning behind and under-streetBrick-sided trough canalsFloated industry wall-screenedBut inconspicuous door-gapsDisguise steps down to the tightTowpaths that shelve overThe patient loitering watersDown-flow interrupted Waiting on sleeper leversTo be wrenched hinge-swingCirculation rebootedVeins in need of dredgingDrear-grime to dark heart’s blood Meet the Poet! Martin Potter (https://martinpotterpoet.home.blog) is a British-Colombian poet and academic, based in Manchester, and his poems have appeared in Acumen, The French Literary Review, Eborakon, Ink Sweat & Tears, The Poetry Village, and other journals. His pamphlet In the Particular was published by Eyewear in December, 2017. Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Like this:Like Loading...