Christine Taylor

 

 

 

*

fledglings leaving a robin’s nest broken

*

his car peals

out of the driveway

shattered ice

*

a frenzy of finches

at the feeder:

disquiet, here

*

prayers on

her pearl rosary

a frayed noose

*

a lone

hummingbird at the feeder

suddenly spring

 

 

 

Christine Taylor identifies as multiracial and resides in her hometown Plainfield, New Jersey.  She is an English teacher and wannabe librarian at a local independent school who often dreams of dragons.  Her work appears in Modern Haiku, 3Elements Literary Review, Menacing Hedge, and The Paterson Literary Review among others.  She can be found at www.christinetayloronline.com

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Sanjeev Sethi

 

 

 

For my *Grand-Nephew

In anticipation of your stopover
I am dressing my deftness at
gamification. Even if I flounder
in arresting your attention, my
toothless one, slay me with
your moue so I sidestep this
inadequacy like many others.
*I’ve no progeny.

 

 

 

Sanjeev Sethi is the author of three books of poetry. His most recent collection is This Summer and That Summer (Bloomsbury, 2015). A Best of the Net 2017 nominee, his poems are in venues around the world. He lives in Mumbai, India.

 

 

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Hélène Demetriades

 

 

 

This vast heart of space

Life condensed
In a speck of bumble bee
is vast;
she bats herself
against a pane of glass.
I catch this fireball in a drinking cup
and like a bomber jet
she plunges into endless blue.
My breath is caught
at this tracing truth
so gracefully deployed,
that we are always free
without the intermediary
of thought,
no pane of glass to bang
our brains against,
only this vast heart
of open space

 

 

 

Hélène Demetriades  studied English at Leeds University, went to drama school and worked as an actor.  Later she trained as a transpersonal psychotherapist.  Recently she started to write poetry.  She has had poems published in Reach Poetry and Sarasvati magazines, (Indigo Dreams Publishing), and in the blog Clear Poetry, (edited by the poet Ben Banyard).  She lives in South Devon with her family.

 

 

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Belinda Rimmer

 

 

 

Orchard

No more greenfinch,
no more treecreeper,
no more sparrow hawk;

hedgerows slashed
to make way for roads.
Orchards torn up for houses –
confused woodpeckers
still seek dead-wood and bug.

On a single patch of grass
in the midst of brick and slate
two apple trees remain.
One scarred black as dried blood,
the other, gnarly eyed
for staring into windows.

 

 

 

Belinda Rimmer has worked as a psychiatric nurse, lecturer and creative arts practitioner. Her poems have appeared in magazines, on-line and in anthologies. She won the Poetry in Motion Competition to turn her poem into a film and has read at the Cheltenham Literature Festival. www.belindarimmer.com

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John Looker

 

 

To Love Thy Neighbour

So still, the street. The single patrol car
stationary, the team from the hospital
standing beyond the trees, the neighbours
behind their curtains. And the doctor
one foot on the step, frozen.

You’ll let them take me away, he’d said,
pulling the window shut, his voice
burrowing into her mind like a weasel,
digging out memories of a previous occasion,
hunting her conscience down.

Her eye fell on rubbish that was spilling out
from the cluttered porch to the patch of garden:
bottles and cans, wrappers – and something
that was surely the remains of a chicken. Softly,
I promise I won’t, she said.

 

 

 

 

 

John Looker‘s work has been selected by print journals including Magma and Artemis (USA), online journals such as Poetry Breakfast and two anthologies. The Human Hive (Bennison Books, 2015) was selected by the Poetry Library for the UK’s national collection.

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Helen Sheppard

 

 

Walking with Dad

 

Dad says, when we are first born
our stomachs are size of a walnut.
He spews up his gut full of tiny
cannibals who eat and eat and…,
shares his cheese pickle sandwiches.
He is empty

Dad teaches a child to slide a rule.
He tells me Logarithm and amoeba
are proof of existence, computers
will devour our facts and remember
pies are always square never round
He dims down

Dad lies belly down over cliffs
at Land’s End. A child straddles
his ankles. He reaches for rocks
for his rockery. They body pivot,
stretch. Rocks splurge into squall
They are budgies

Dad sleeps behind door locks
Hospital ghosts float too close
He puckers to kiss and spit pills
Pockets full of drop stitch holes,
trail crumbs from chair to bed
He has forgotten

 

 

Helen Sheppard has worked as a midwife. Fascinated by birth and those unheard. Published in Hippocrates Prize 2017, I Am Not A Silent Poet, Blue of Noon. Performed at The Nuyorican Poets Cafe.

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Patrick Deeley

 

 

North Mayo Haiku

 

 

Our latest clearing –

Nephin keeping its distance

travels with us still.

 

Wild roses, raindrops;

the stone quarry stands open

to blossom and fall.

 

A ditched toilet bowl,

a streamlet flowing through it

high on Sralagagh.

 

All the sun-shot geese

falling now on Annagh Marsh –

a child’s flamingoes.

 

Fern and celandine,

a mattress printing its own

celandine and fern.

 

A picnic’s leavings

around Rathlacken court tomb,

the bog closes in.

 

 

 

Patrick Deeley is from County Galway.  His poems have been widely published and translated.  Groundswell: New and Selected, is the latest of his six collections with Dedalus Press.  His memoir, The Hurley Maker’s Son, appeared from Transworld in 2016.

 

 

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