David Coldwell



You lift our new daughter from the car
as I place the bags down and shout
for the boys. Our neighbour is already
upon you, leaving her garden
to fend for itself in the excitement.
And I watch the three of you from the window
seeing you wipe away a tear as you
speak her name out loud in the hope
that passing clouds will deliver
all the wishes you secretly made
and the sound of birds will remind you
of this day. The boys race to your side;
too young to hold me to account
with all the promises I ever made.



David Coldwell is an artist and writer based in the village of Marsden in West Yorkshire. His poetry has been published in a number of print and on-line journals and also featured in various poetry anthologies. His debut pamphlet, Flowers by the Road was published by Templar Poetry in 2017 www.davidcoldwell.co.uk.

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Darren Ryding




Master Chef?

Press in and twist to ignite gas
Whoosh as orange flame fingers
retract into acute fire
a conflagration of blue-white.

Retrieve your non-stick frying pan
pour on a drop of cooking oil
heat until it starts to sizzle
lay sausages out on the pan.

Bollocks too much oil too much heat
skin turns milky and translucent
viciously bubbling until
they burst and spit livid juices.

They bespeckle my exposed skin
I twist the knob from high to low
and move the sausages around
try not to burn down the kitchen.



 Darren Ryding is from Ireland and has just competed his MA in English and American Literature at the University of Kent. He has been shortlisted for the Hot Press Young Journalist award and his poetry has been accepted for publication by The High Window Press. He currently lives in Indonesia and yes he can eat spicy food.

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David Riley




Bit Parts

I want to ask you,
do you think we’re in a film?
If we get our lines wrong
will someone step out from the Golden Mile,
put us back on track –
though they haven’t done yet –
the director’s a secretive sod.

You smile.
I like it when you touch my face
I don’t say, just wait
for your fingers to move from my skin.
Like all the other takes, you begin again
look out to sea, wait for your cue.
I remember what you haven’t said yet.



David Riley is studying for an MA at the Seamus Heaney centre, Queen’s University Belfast. He has had several poems printed and in shop windows,


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Roddy Williams



in the hospital 

the fish man told me secrets 

of life and catfish 


we watched malawis 

in a brief feeding battle 

while the catfish lazed 


nonchalant fin frond 

easing like giants through 

the desperate young crowd 


the catfish grow big 

from eating the malawi eggs 

and dead malawis 


malawis grow big 

and have to compete for food 

with their greedy babes 


eventually they starve 

the catfish perform their role 

deal with the remains 


that is how it is 

it’s a self contained system 

then he was silent 


we exchanged a look 

before turning back to glass 

watching the frenzy



Originally from North Wales, Roddy Williams lives and works in London. His poetry has appeared in Magma, The North, The Frogmore Paper, The Rialto, Envoi and most recently in the Great Weather for Media anthology  The Other Side of Violet. 

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John Grey






When she died,
her possessions lived the more,
memories glistening in crystal,
served on bone china,
ticking in the works
of a souvenir wall-clock.

Even the most useless of her things,
like the shoe with broken heel,
a scratched Andy Williams album,
were difficult to toss,
felt like the most grievous insult
when they were bundled in green bags.

Some things found new homes
though more out of duty than of need.
For she lived her life
without accumulating anything of value
except, that is, for the life itself.

We have a doll that she was given as a child,
to be passed on eventually, I expect,
to the offspring we do not have.
It lies, buried between blankets, in an attic trunk.
When tipped over, it says “Mama.”
Famous last words, in this instance.





John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in the Tau, Studio One and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Naugatuck River Review, Examined Life Journal and Midwest Quarterly.


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Richard King Perkins II




On Harrow Gate Drive

We’re convinced we have everything—
complementary patterns of color entwined with sleep,
the possibility to rise above earth,
captivations to entertain in your own private prisons,
hazards to stumble upon during your midnight walks,
discs and reservoirs laid out somewhere in time
and fearsome mannequins taken from mechanical forests.
An eyeball at the edge of possibility,
harbingers of stolen light,
caskets for dying plants,
even some useful objects to hold—
simple things offering the false promise
of a second life.




Richard King Perkins II is a three-time Pushcart, Best of the Net and Best of the Web nominee whose work has appeared in more than a thousand publications.

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Maxine Rose Munro




A Simple Dish

Bones of the sea pour out
a salt shaker into the pot.
Delicate, desiccated hedge
from far, far away adds flavour
and aroma. Dried fungi float,
neither plant nor animal,
unique in this world – trick
of evolution or God’s touch?
Shattered sticks of pasta
become agile eels as h2o
transubstantiates into
ephemeral gas. All the while
everything is stirred by a hand
formed of multitudes of cells,
each and every one a one
in billions chance miracle.






Maxine Rose Munro is a Shetlander adrift on the outskirts of Glasgow. Her work has appeared in The Open Mouse; Ink, Sweat and Tears; and Pushing Out the Boat among others. Follow her here facebook.com/maxinerosemunro



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