where everything’s candy
the winners get vegetables
at the politician’s funeral
you had to push your way in
your delicious perfume
gave me a migraine
that never ended
all my adult life
I have waited for the word:
watermelons and onions—
a feast that keeps on feasting
how sorry how sorry
is the hiker
who set the forest ablaze?
E. Martin Pedersen, originally from San Francisco, has lived in eastern Sicily for several decades. Some of his publication news can be found on his blog: http://emartinpedersenwriter.blogspot.it/
if my fridge is a cat:
it is indifferent unless food offered,
its little eyes light up in the night,
it is time I went to sleep.
John Alwyine-Mosley is active in various poetry networks and workshops nationally and in the south-west, he is currently working towards his first collection.Read More
There is no news on the TV.
The Apocalypse has happened;
it has been as bad as it can be
so nobody’s watching.
But there is still TV.
Re-runs of old cop shows
in the wrong order
with no continuity announcements.
There is no need for continuity
after an apocalypse.
I almost missed it.
I should have been sleeping
but I got up in the early hours
for a glass of water
and picked up the howling
of death as it stalked the neighbourhood.
I pulled back the curtain
to see the streets run with blood
while fires seemed to start
out of nowhere.
As they do
when there is an apocalypse.
Now, few survivors dare venture outside.
And my years of hoarding tinned goods
and bottled water
turned out to be just the right thing.
And with the Apocalypse over
There’s not much to be done.
But carry on
with my usual schedule
though the programmes
Vicki Stannard is a poet and translator, currently studying for an MA in Creative Writing at the Manchester Writing School, and has performed at the Poetry Cafe in London as part of the Poetry Society’s South West London Stanza.Read More
Sunlight leans on half closed curtains, slants
across a table, laid last night for breakfast.
A knife-blade’s twinkling snatches at his eye.
He steps into the empty room. The warmth
it’s gathered in the hours since dawn has made
a tiny increase in the day’s potential.
Today, he says, will be a good one: things
today are starting to get better.
Without her there is no such hope at all.
Thomas Ovans has had poems published in Smiths Knoll, Message in a Bottle & London Grip. He sometimes reviews poetry for London Grip.Read More
Sid, hyenas and me
12 noon, we cross another culvert, silently.
Sid is brooding.
On my left, out the window
the Canary hill flash past.
I look at the speedo, we’re hovering
around 100 kmph.
We’re going straight- to Bagoder. Then we’ll turn right- to Topchanchi.
There’s a beautiful lake out there. . .
I ask Sid.
To loosen up the heaviness.
He looks at me, smiles, a childlike smile- says nothing. . .
I look straight. Ease the accelerator a bit.
It’s going to be a full moon night.
They say hyenas still roam by that lake.
Kanchan Chatterjee is a 46 year old male executive, working in the ministry of finance, government of India. He is from Jamshedpur, Jharkhand India. Although he does not have any literary background, he loves poetry and scribbles as and when he feels the urge. His poems have appeared in various online and print journals, namely, ‘Eclectic eel’, ‘Mad Swirl’, ‘Shot Glass Journal’, ‘Jellyfish Whisperer’ , ‘Bare Hands Poetry’ , ‘River Muse’, ‘Decanto’ ‘Ygradsil’ , ‘Off the Coast’, ‘Red Booth Review’ ‘Electric Windmill Press’ ‘Under the Basho’, ‘Oddity’, ‘Coldnoon’, ‘Randomly Accessed Poetics’, ‘Cease Cows’ ‘A hundred gourds’ , ‘Camroc press’ etc.
He was one of the nominees of the Pushcart Awards, 2012.Read More
Chester’s Ship Gate
This hole in the City Wall was not cast aside
but borne, piece by piece, to the Park,
a stone’s throw away, and re-assembled
as breath held across a path.
Its grainy sandstone frame, braced
against weight of sky, rainbows
an open space that lacks the gate
to separate ship from city.
Scabbed over with slabs, the Wall
is unsettled as all torn places
when mended. Gaps, transplanted
to discreet glades, lace through lives.
They seep memories, mapped by scars,
wince under strangers’ stumblings,
are anointed by their listenings. Spaces
honoured, enfleshed alike by sun and rain.
Julia D McGuinness is a therapeutic Counsellor and Writing for Wellbeing practitioner based in Cheshire. She has just started a Writing Group in a Cancer Care Centre and just finished a Creative Writing MA at MMU with a poetry portfolio themed round Chester’s City Walls. Website:creativeconnectionscheshire.co.uk Twitter: @CreatConneChesh.Read More
And so it began
For me back in seventy eight
On a thick set T.V.
Way out past bedtime.
The commentator’s sotto voice
The colours, so vivid
Splashed on green, orange
Adorned in blue and white
And a long haired, long sleeved God
The anointed number ten
Super Mario Kempes
Spinning, stopping, turning
A shot, the checker ball
Slow motion rolling
Beyond the Oranje -
Ticker tape immortality
I’m standing, shoeless
In pyjamas, and i don’t know why
And so it began
For me back in seventy eight
Steve Mearns 52 lives in Shropshire with his partner. Steve has been writing poetry for 3 years and has had poetry published in Down in the Dirt and Mudfish magazines. His work has also been performed live at the Poetry Cafe in Chicago; he is looking for his first published work in the UK. Twitter – @stavmrontzRead More