Poem by Alan Catlin

GUARDIAN ANGEL

His guardian angel must
have been packing some
serious heat, must have had
a small arsenal and enough
ammo to take out a small
army secured beneath her
flowing black robes.
She used a flaming sword
instead of head lamps to show
the way on dark, moonless nights
patrolling the deserts of his
life, a life that was soon-to-be
a ravaged wasteland
of stripped malls, gutted wild
animals hunted for their tusks,
their fur, then discarded and
left to rot beside lost pitted
highways that lead South
into the unknown.

Poems by Joseph Cooper

OFF THE PIANO ONTO THE ETHER

Dear Radioland, hello. It’s 5:45 a.m. I squat here
watching the whole thing from the position
of watching television. Pitying the morning light,
the ringing of the telephone, the blowing of the wind,
the infant screaming in its crib renouncing all limits
of a musical coda. It’s anyone’s story as beautiful and
inscrutable as a young person from Mars in love
with memorable endings. Werewolves seeking exotic
friendships. I want to go home and immediately
become a message in a bottle. Anything to not be
omitted. Meditating on the cold holes in my socks.
I am molten, stupid, dangerous driving out of the city,
past farms, river and fields, just waiting to be heard.
I don’t need to know every moment you consider leaving.


TEATIME ON THE SHOWBOAT
                for Andrew K. Peterson

Tap damp cigarette along the tub edge
like someone in a terribly sophisticated play
proclaims, “I don’t need a piano to sing!”
My soul is a small boat lost at sea, a crude
radio going full-blast all day drumming
its energy medicine as I grow old by the great
whale of the piano’s immortal solo. The sinking
oar of a colossal adagio an inch or so above
the waterline adorned by a suppressed heaven
of kisses. The marvelous starlet’s beautiful despair
setting axiomatic waves over this absolutely ceaseless
saga. I can hardly see what good it would do
to cry out darling, darling, to cry for the sorcery
of the open sea, the stoic Romeo of the shark.

Poems by Jeffrey Side

IN JACQUELINE'S ARMS

In Jacqueline's gaze a truth resides.
Within her soul I find my silence.
Throughout life’s whirlpool our love remains true.
In her smile I find my embrace.

The years have passed but memories recall
the moments we shared in our concealed retreat.

In silent nights I recall her voice.
in Jacqueline's arms I find my sleep.

CYCLING

Cycling with you in summer 1989,
I am riding close behind you,
with the breeze in your hair,
and I can smell your scent
as we ride downhill towards the river,
with the sun in front of us, forming
a halo around your body and making
you almost a silhouette.

In your summer shorts and shirt,
that is tied in a knot above your navel,
your beauty enlivens my spirit, and
my soul yearns for your love.

You are the queen of my heart,
and the mistress of my soul—
an angel of delight sent from heaven
to show me how to love.


OUT IN THE WORLD

No one sees the darkest hiss of rain
or the authority of selfish tears
in the rattle of liquid night
like timber packets

Alone hot struggles of kitchen fire
that is her trade
driving her rampart
a woman unconsciously witnessed
with auburn hair low from time’s complexion
that nobody watched

The boatman passes like a gust
absently he comes scratching
cursing all the time
always afraid
strolling to him feels like plunging

Mud errands high hair unmoving
flat time downriver from uninterrupted
books I came not to take employment
for the room had not changed

Able herself supported
she walked with undercut pride
or perhaps with something better

Admit the truth
open the window
goodbye to houses and hello to farms
this is the way things are
out in the world


I SUPPOSE WE’LL WORK SOMETHING OUT

Nature charms you
outside the temple were things
will be understood though wrongly directed.

Unhappy idealists discover
doubts about principles or
otherwise confuse themselves.

Mansions bare the parched streets
where visitors gather by
statues with ironclad
stepping stone traps.

Accented people in the thin city
with frustrated friends
find destiny tumbles
in terror.

Deep in love like resentment
dragons and hyperbolic death
women remark that
men go out
on winter mornings habitually
balanced yet visible
in the way of the spent
room.

Gathering like the rest of society’s
house bought off with chairs
and wine congratulations
and with barbaric modesty
cultivated in vapours
my teachers come to me.


GOING HOME

“Looking in the mirror—

mirror

mirror

mirror

Tomorrow—bright light.

I will see God tonight.”

Thanks for running after that bus for me, Dad.

Poems by Jeffrey Side

WHERE YOUR LOVE BELONGED

I’m sitting here thinking
of a time I could have been
love-friend to her
about life

Pretty girl facing me
from the corner of a room
forward stretching over it
my bridges burnt

She said never leave me
as if I ever could
that was just something
in her mind

There were good days
and there were bad days
but the sun shone brightly
and the sky was blue


PRECIOUS REQUESTS

It was a Sunday morning.
And all the bells were ringing.
I work my fingers to the bone for you.

I want to buy you something new.
You can’t have that many things,
even if I say so myself.

There’s plenty of time, and there’s work to do.
What you hear in the dark,
always repeat in the light.

There’s no gold or silver for your belt anymore.

I shall never forget these things.
Your mother knew about them.
Let your light shine on these special gifts here.

Don’t keep your treasures all that near.
You can’t take them with you too.
Your father knows you need them all.

Is there someone asleep in the doorway?
My legs won’t keep me up:
not in the house we stand in.

Your precious requests have not gone unnoticed.


THE CROSSING OF THE BRIDGE

Dimness is here
followed by regiments
recoiling from containment
armour in Europe
remembering fire-eaters
absorbing what was put down
with great trouble along the bridge
while the rain saturates everything
the enslaved more furiously
throughout fictions and incredulity.

I remember my friends on dry roads
and wagons coated in perfume
memories on the ferryboat
love that is the distance
and the eternal clock
democracy and earthquakes
and women for all the troubadours
shuddering hearts and brains
that heat this world
and rulers furnished by other arts
when I was alone in Charleston.

Poems by Joshua Martin

HOOKED BOWL IS A BROTH

built to add an anger
index witch seesaw
squinted shoulder hex
back off STD offered
highs & lows & toes &
why Wake the Silence
dusted Nose Red Noise
previous makes a Yak
Attack field Boy Pointed
bottom Grim Bonkers Set
strayed interior thigh blade
Typified warbly grovel bacon
Back is cyst & ossification
ganging quack shrinkage
smell that Covers Silicon
& greens the cob Spoke


SAND STORM HOLLOW WHIP

Lost tattoo toothpick realm
Seldom scar glorified nail
Once bitten Thrice high
gig a bit thought market
under valuable stapler haven
heaven Near a Bucket
spine lustful tingle
Ring that singularity
truck preventing twit
witticism provision laugh
a NightMare spare tire
mire wire sire liar
sun stroke strobe rope
neo logistician gulp


MARCH MARCH STARK

Wed said redesign
necessitating slab poison
Air Raided Invader
tank grass grin
an owl noticed sparks
giver Of The Shiver
asked a Fan to Split
clock Repacking Shellfish
wish as ish ish ish
amuck cluck buck
a tooth a Trench a Vlad
disappear Dear speak spot

Poem by Jimmy Crouse

INDIRECT SOURCE OF EMBITTERMENT

The with of are by to and from
On is than an as at a in
In a at as an than is on
From and to by are of with the

The with of are by to and from
The with of are by to and from
On is than an as at a in
In a at as an than is on

From and to by are of with the
The with of are by to and from
The with of are by to and from
On is than an as at a in

In a at as an than is on
From and to by are of with the
The with of are by to and from
The with of are by to and from

Poems by Neil Fulwood

MICRO-PUB, KELSO

Man walks in, leans on the bar.
Flat cap, olive jacket, shapeless trousers
boot-tucked - the tick-box cliché
of the half-arsed farmer fallen on
hardscrabble times. Asks of the barmaid

“Is Jim in? I’ve got a chicken
if he wants it.” Jim’s out; the fate
of the chicken shades into mystery.
A pint later, halfway down Memory Lane,
he’s slinging drinks in the trademark

Seventies rock ‘n’ roll joint that made
the fortune he squandered. Sounding
off to anyone who’ll listen, voice
like wet gravel turned by a shovel,
he remembers that Robert Whatshisname

not Palmer, the one who did Stairway
to Heaven - he used to come in, order
a beer, proffer a fifty pound note
dead sure it’d be waved away, his drinks
on the house. Emptied the till, our man

recalls, counting out a rock star’s change.
And that’s the length and breadth of it,
his once dined-out-on anecdote,
his claim to a cocked snook at fame.
The song remains the same, the audience

glazing to indifference down the years.


RED DIESEL

Lumbers out from concealed entrance
absorbing horn blast, flashed lights
and window-flung wanker sign
with a minor deity’s casual indifference.

Drags shit-spattered aluminium trailer
behind it, combined wheelbase
closing in on the road-hogging length
of some C&W-ready American rig

not that its ten forward gears push it
anywhere near a Mack or Kenworth’s BHP.
No blue collar balladeer would verse-chorus
its field-to-farm B-road odyssey

in steel guitar cadences, no filmmaker
frame it against sunset or storm.
It treats movement as a shrug, tyres
the size of an outhouse kicking up dirt.

The word juggernaut does not apply.

Poems by Martin Stannard

TO ALL APPEARANCES 

As per Janie’s suggestion
I’m changing my appearance
So as not to be recognised
At the border when we cross
From whatever this is to
Whatever that might be. I’m
A brunette and I don’t know
Why we are going although
I know we have to. Most of
The time it’s guesswork.
I’ve not eaten for days
In an effort to lower my
Cholesterol levels. The world
Is a little shaky. If I lay on
The grass and stare at the sky
Pretty soon the sky begins to
Slip away. I maybe ought
To drink more. Then maybe
I would start to see things
Differently. I’ve not always
Liked my hair. Soon we
Will be leaving and I will
Be forced to stop writing
Perhaps for ever. There may
Not be paper or pens where
We are going wherever that
Turns out to be. Happiness
Is only possible if there is
Stationery. Stationery and
A lack of movement suits me
Absolutely fine. I’m a blonde
Rapidly becoming silvery.


PINK 

1.

I was wearing the frivolous handcuffs
But The King called and told me to take them
Off. It was after a concert: we had been ordered
To celebrate The Gods but had long known
Not to expect too much. Having spent the best
Part of the day in bed soothing a variety of
Frustrations it’s time to get up and at ‘em.
But only if you feel like it, which I don’t.

2.

The years are starting to weigh
Heavily upon the old men of the town
Who have taken to laying on their
Backs near the swings in the park in
The hope of seeing girl secrets.
When it rains—as is its wont—
They don’t mind because they don’t notice.

3.

I took off the handcuffs (pink
Don’t suit me) and swapped them
For a special kind of twine
Guaranteed not to break
Until the cows return from their travels.
We have been alone for a long time now
And grown used to not expecting too much.

4.

The day I received your letter—the letter
You sent from the island of make-believe
Where worship of the Sun and Moon
Coexists with worship of supreme wealth
Alongside cold-hearted callousness—
Was the day of The Games and I had a lot on
My mind. I had mislaid an attractive girlfriend
And needed some toys to throw out of the playpen.

Poems by G. E. Schwartz

WILL WE REMEMBER A WORLD INSIDE

… All outside of flesh is only our ambience to consciousness,
mere flotsam and jetsam in the river of space/time:
here a father, there a lover, here a stranger, there a friend
as the river of extent/of continuity, of eddies and cataracts
from its Big Bang beginning to its Apocalyptic end,
mountains, continents, oceans, and stars all in collision,
omitting, temporarily abiding together then gliding away
into disorder and dissolution for nothing, nothing will stay.
We are lights to ourselves alone, watts in our own dark,
and we guide ourselves deathward, our thoughts photons
shot light our understanding of every lepton and quark
accompanying us on our pour along in currents of chaos,
this light the magic of imagination, the fire of dreams,
our sentience itself an unquenchable metaphysical spark.


FREEDOM

My room is decluttered, and I can advance
Freed from death, now twisting its slow course
In time. Talk to me before time grips us. Death
Will be long and no one will come to free us. So
Evade the years with seething. Drift into Spring,
Or stay as stones at the breach of the valley.

OUR NOVEMBER

What a roaring season! Best to stay low
Along the ground, dig in, pile heaviness
Between us and its swells on our rubbing
Bones, listening to each crest of sound,
That something running this show, through
Stubble-tortured fields cut by another season.
Hold tight in the house, its shaking wood,
Its steel aperture. Go to the kitchen where
Oven warmth will take you in even in this
Darkness to wrap about you, climb through
Time as the black clot of this season beats
At all it can beat at with all its heavy cries.

Poem by Jimmy Crouse

AN INTENSITY OF 1.4

The letters have been syllabically counted so that dictation is controlled at an intensity of 1.4.


We tried to handle these improvements ourselves. We believed
that they were our responsibility. We acknowledge the fact that
the expenditure was larger than we expected it would be.
It would be inconvenient if we had to demonstrate how the
assignments were made. Under the circumstances, the exchanges
should not be neglected. The investigation shows that some of
the expenditure was irregular but the administrators were not
irresponsible.

We acknowledge that we are doing this on behalf of our clients
and have no interest in the insurance company. Our investigation
shows that the first inspection was prejudicial to the interests of
our clients. We have no responsibility for the insurance company
and no jurisdiction over their investigations. However, our
clients have a substantial interest to protect and we must demon-
strate that there has been no negligence on our part.

The administrator is in need of additional information before
he can give you a certificate. Under the circumstances, you
should do all you can to establish identification. What you are
doing is not only peculiar; it is very irregular. Why not go over
everything with him now? I believe it would be advantageous to
you to do so, and the representative of the insurance company
cannot find it objectionable.

Poems by Jeffrey Side

I WON’T CHANGE FAWNGIRL FOR ANYTHING
For Rachel Lisi

On to Lincoln, Nebraska—
plumb in the middle of The Great Plains.

I wish I were back there again.

Tempests in the dark taunt
our exhibited drunken selves,
placing fallen yellow graves at our feet,
and waves stretching back liberty’s possession,
hand-cuffed under female felt and passion,
drift upon island animals and hidden
rebellions emerging.

There are many ways to lie when good
deeds and bad deeds follow you,
and you have everything you wanted.

Will you eventually be with me in that log cabin
in San Juan Valley, Colorado?

I wonder about a good deal in dreams and
dramas, half sick, half wounded, much around the
world, on sea and land, down among the first
arrivals while the worst was yet to come.

Another paradise lost,
but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

And I remember my old man, slaving away on
that lemon ranch in California, staring
across prairie land wandering
what the end would be.

Don’t worry Rachel,
I won’t change Fawngirl for anything.


TREES OF SORROW

The trees of sorrow
that hang over these graves,
mark the spot where you are hidden.

You flew away too soon.

And all the while I could not
see the larger picture.

Your hair used to breathe
like the autumn smoke.
And you let me keep the cherished
dreams that fed me.

All for the sake
of trying to satisfy the eternal yearning.

All for the sake
of feeling some warmth in the night.

All for the sake
of flying too close to the candle.

All for the sake
of swimming in the contagious sea.

Such futile joys
we strove for,
and which brought us both to grief—

me, in my glass-walled palace,
you on your barrier reef.

When the sensuous hand
of destruction tempts and beguiles you,
who is safe to touch?

Who is safe from the cuts that
are too small to see?

Someone always comes forward to
be the victim when
the temptation is too much.

And is it just me, or is there someone,
somewhere, always missing you?


GROVEL OF BABYLON

She did appease my oblivion
and anxious hose,
flailing with
tongue seductions
in the wreck of time.

Discarding chronicles
like sail foam,
data jobs,
or managerial endings,
she was a true love of mine.

But now it’s come to sunshine
regimens, profile
clouds, orphan windows and
nihilistic soundtracks.

All like mighty
wandering shadows,
unexpectedly impaired,
somewhere in the night.

I still got a thing about you.


VENUS INDIGNANT

The ejaculatory
life is
the salvation
meteor of
futility or
fidelity willingly
false more
by your
leave during
times of
cultural tautologies
other destinations
ready love
in the
breach always
ambivalent mystery
reality waiting
to be
defiled in
the uninterrupted
present wings
will be
effortless for
aliens needy
of platonic
mist or
evolutionary doubts
in music
pirate maidens

Poems by Daniela Voicu

1.

Let's dream of a better Planet...
where people never cry
where there is no hate,
where night turns to day,
full of butterflies and
fireflies and good fairies.

Let's dream of a normal, green Planet
to wake up from this bad dream
called war
sadness
and hate...
to be better.

Let's start with
We
first.
Let's reap what we sow...
Let's begin
Let's count good things
good deeds
then let's judge
others!

Let's dream of a Planet
where it exists
People!
There exists?

And it's not Mars
is this Planet Earth
this is where we are firmly rooted.

Creepers grown
inverse to the
heaven.


2.

I'm so down
so I can walk on the Earth...
with all dreams
well-rooted-lianas
in the wing-traces that I can no longer
fly...

and I gave so much sky...

I am the poet stuck to the temple
of the dreams of the Earth,

the poet who loves
every sunrise
from every eye of clear water...

I memorize the alphabet of solitude
rolling words
opposite your smile
and the flight of the last white rooster
what never concerns
back
but it always comes back to the place
solitary...


3.

There are departing birds
and birds that come back
so are people
like birds
migrate by destiny
some return clandestinely
others remain anchored
in other dimensions
steal from these
seasons


4.

my tree has tobacco mornings
hung in some
which are only an attempt to be
and the rest of us
from cover creators
we became the cover ourselves
scrawled by time without imagination

this tree
it is read not between the lines

it's the only tree in a range that grows blood instead of poppies
from all kinds of veins of the whole world
without any suicide


5.

I love you
and winter still sparkles with
locked dreams in a crystal globe.

Make a wish
towards the west,
when birds chased by wind and mist
all will come together
on my skin...
forgotten by time in a corner of heaven
on Earth.

And the Sun slowly kisses itself...
children on the forehead...
immortal.

And repeat in thought:

Let's not forget
Let's forget
Let's not forget
All.

We will be the children
of this
immortal Sun,
in the same
crystal globe...

on the same
Earth...

Poem by Sushant Thapa

SCRIPTING

The shallow ruins
Of an empire
Needs more
Creative happiness
Than a wildfire of misery.
In creative happiness
We all dwell
Because we are still alive.
It is a sheer happiness
In what we do.
Release of misery
Is an unyielding loyalty
That makes contagious bread
Of ill will.
Although we may be brimming
With life,
We cannot remain unblinded
With misery.
We would still want to be alive
If someone is to read us
In the days to come.
Once a voice is written
It speaks louder than the meanings.
The empire of tomorrow
Runs in the veins today
And we are alive to script by design.

Poems by Kushal Poddar

THE PRACTICAL PRANK STORE

The sunbeams enter
through the duple doors
of the old corner store
and forge a rhombus.

An alley cat sheds
its silk of sleep at the centre
of what reminds me -
the 'geometry of chance'.

The keeper says nothing.
The cat doesn't rub
a customer the wrong way.

The keepers die. The store
stays open, grim, grotty.
I swear I see the cat, the same

since my knickers and gumball days,
ignoring both the dead and alive,
dare not ask others if they too see it.


VERMICOMPOST

Two magpies flare up
their fifteen minutes of flame;
this duet raps on for its own sake,
no information is exchanged.

The squirrels chumble their micro food
in the cleavages of grass.
One man syncs his sinking flesh
with a bench and his unemployment.

The park lights up;
early afternoon burns around;
an one-winged crow crosses the field.
its curiosity meets a gray cat.
I have lived one lifetime here; now, I leave

Poems by Ian Ganassi

FROM THE ROOF

It was a story about
Two contrary motions: like rubbing
Your belly and patting your head,

Or being relevant and irrelevant
At the same time.

Then there were various
Two-steps.

He learned one of them
And did it whenever he faced
A dance floor, no matter
What time the music was in.

But when you’re young,

As long as you keep your wits about you,

A kept man.

A long time ago. Once upon a long time ago.

Scrambled eggs and ketchup.

And as for words,
Just don’t use too many of them
Or you’ll run out.

The view from
The 20th floor is “awesome,”
But it gives me vertigo.

And I already had vertigo.

BELATED EPITAPH 

He heard what I was saying but could not admire it.

They do not deserve wealth, because they do not desire it.

Either way, the remains of the day

Are directing traffic in the shipping lanes.

They are the assault of thoughts on the unthinking.

Take a shower, you’re seriously stinking.

Don’t look now but the boat is sinking.

A blind man groping in the dark for meaning.

There’s only one key, and he knows it well—

He plays it on his flugelhorn from the bottom of the well.

Either you’re busy being born or busy dying.

But sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.

“Real men don’t grow flowers.”

“My brand of intoxication is superior to yours.”

But not for ours.

With such friends, who needs headstones?

The worst of it is that they’re long dead.

Poems by Timothy Pilgrim

UNHERDED GEESE

Trumpet solo on the edge
of evening sky, candles unlit —
an enduring trait. Not quite like
not catching yourself on fire,
just to be safe. Forget flight
away from South, nooses black,
the rest, white. A safe pond,
by gaggle, by dawn. The hope,
survive night, maybe vote.
Put out of mind they shoot
at darkness until blindness comes.
Bullet after bullet claps
when you say it’s all done
with mirrors. Speed on,
honk when passing,
no tweeting allowed.


HINDSIGHT

An unnecessary comma near the end
of her fiery text creates temporary doubt,
much like an m left out of comma itself
would render me unconscious for months.
Causes rethinking the wisdom to reach out,
mention our sensual encounter last night —
passionate tryst after heated discussion
about eroticism in Rossetti’s Goblin Market.
Clearly prompted her to tap back with fury,
disclaim any romp with flibbertigibbet (me)
who dares to recount reputed nakedness
after nonexistent melt and drip. In hindsight,
understandable, a vicious digital flaming
intended to preempt early pre-supposition.


AUTUMN FALL, YAWN

Boring, Grand Canyon, deep,
ribbon-river below sheared
by sharp cliffs. Wearisome — desert,
parched, stretched out, flat,
red sky lured black. Mundane,
my eyes, swollen, throat cracked.
So pedestrian, the crawl to edge, the lean-out,
the drool, the regret. Very trite,
October light vanishing, gray dusk
swallowed too. Not to mention,
tedious, sleep coming at midnight,
fall reflected by the rising moon.


SURGERY DAZE

Nurse wheels me, gurneyed,
long hall — count back,
let go, dream. I drift to thrift store,
float near saws, buy a wit machine
for a song. Starts, runs, pumps out
slogans, puns, Google ads.
Bumper stickers — stupid, glib,
patriotic puke gagging me.
I aim spout down drain,
watch my blood lead the way.
Last gem to go, Americans —
tolerant, selfless, free.
I awake bandaged, mouth, dry,
tasting of phrase, hint of cliche —
brain, what’s left, half-decayed.

Poems by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

THE GENTLE EXECUTIONER

Without knowing my future,
there is this and that,
a gentle executioner
set to emerge from the shadow.

Living will be a thing of the past.
My footsteps have been measured.

Whether I go north or south, east and west,
a gentle executioner lies in wait.
The clock is ticking.
Luminous skies grow dim.
The bells are ringing.
The alley cat is down to two lives.
The gentle executioner never sleeps.


SHORT A DOLLAR

Break up with the life
that will not let you sing.
This is the time to
live life like you want to.

Others live in comfort.
I’m short a dollar.
Yesterday, I was short
a dollar and last week

too. This poet does
not expect riches.
I have many
poems. Crazy ones and

serious ones. Moon
and sun poems. Who can
forget the star poems?
I stand in my eyes and

watch heaven blurry.
I keep the light low to
imitate dark skies.
I’m short a dollar.

Poems by Veronica Javregui

THROUGH THE HEART

Everything must enter through
The heart one way or another
Our mind a labyrinth in and out
Everything must exit through
The heart as well
Living. a process of a two way river
Once at times we think they are the same
Sometimes the entrance and exit dance
So we must stay with things longer
Everything must enter through
Everything must exit out
The heart the river
Running through


THE DARKNESS HOLDING MY BACK

Suddenly everything lifted
I was tied to the bed for a week
The darkness holding my back
Everything lifted I myself could not
See or touch the ground
We must live if not once always
In these realms of possibility
Maybe edges will never meet
But to touch one is to touch a million
To release my soul to you bare it
Bare my mind not being scared or
Giving you the a chance to doubt
I show you everything and you SEE


WE TRAVEL THE SAME PATHS

Now I see we all live the
Same street various times over
Once nearly dead once happy
Never wanting the day to end
Once with a love once alone speeding
Catching a breeze as an only friend
We travel the same paths trample
Those emotions with bare feet with
Boots we try not to look down
Not to remember those memories
When we were young only emotion
How has everyone grown a coat
Yet my eyes never stopped their ways
They grow more impassioned more fire
More knowing of every way they went

Poems by Owen Bullock

 RAIDERS

ram raiders
501s
cat containment
its gentle invasion
(of the bed)

           winter dew glistening in the grass

lanterns and leaves

           deep winter
           not all trees
           are bare

            hour before dusk
            the tattooist
            takes in his sign

            as bright
            as you can bear
            red of winter leaves

“Your creativity will expand into as big a space as you give it.” – Patti Miller

rich with
leafflurry
our walk to the café & cake
the shirt, scarf & papier mȃché pig I bought at Vinnies
(a Rescue Pig
with a money box slot
the plug taken out
liberated from the world of corporate finance
it will spend the rest of its days in meditation
contemplating Derrida’s idea of the absent centre)
new shoes
lasagne dinner
hot chocolate supper
the chess challenge
poems in Vallum: Bridges
grief

It’ll all be beautiful – and it was!


*

             20,000-year-old shelter
             the smoke paths
             through the rocks

             up mountain
             the man in front
             talking about taxes

             the hand slides
             down the stick
             these short steps

             tors
             orchids and forbs –
             we look out

             granite boulders
             some with rows of
             teeth

             the elusive lyrebird
             we find
             its sound

             down mountain the scent of cassinias

             downhill
             passing the places
             where we stopped

             return
             finding the map
             lost on the way


WORTH

          worth getting dizzy for
          I stoop to sniff
          the first narcissus

“Nobody on earth can prevent me from doing one particular thing: celebrating my lofty dreams.” Shri Chinmoy

today’s graffiti:
he didn’t do anything wrong

           gym –
           his muscles as he looks
           in the mirror

I accuse her of fears
also mine

blaming her for a complicated world
instead of accepting it’s complicated

“captured, distorted, breath & rain” – Valerie Kirk

         a bird flapping
         through this urban
         sky

maybe I’m some use
someone from Ukraine looks up
my bibliography on PTSD

           sun
           through the trees
           through trees
           

Poem by Adam Fieled

EQUATIONS #25

When I converse with N on the phone, in about my thirteenth year, our heads open up together, and we create an imaginative landscape out of nothing at all. Events around us, our classmates, notorious or boring or uproarious events of the days get used as fodder, parties, dances, and we hoist the whole rig up and sail it into the sky. We dance ourselves around our desire for each other: are we friends, or could we be more? When we broadcast together, other will sit and listen, spellbound. But to the left and to the right, even at thirteen, is the impulse to share our bodies as well as our souls and brains. N is conservative this way. She maintains a deep need to keep physicality light in and around her— she doesn’t play sports, can’t swim, is an excellent dancer but not a dab hand as a walker of city blocks, either. All her thoughts are of transcendentalizing past her own body, which is arrayed around her like marsh to wade through. The problem is a hold she wants to maintain over my emotions. We act, often, like newlyweds, but because she will not submit to me physically in any way, my emotions, unconsciously set at a skeptical angle, cannot cleave to her finally, like a ship docking in at a port. Sexual devotion often starts, I learn later, with the body, the physical mechanism. Our bodies are the primordial fact of who, and what we are. So, we talk on the phone for hours, imaginative leap follows imaginative leap, but imaginative leaps are not a basis for a man’s devotion. Not that I’m aware of this at thirteen. All I know is that our brains are doing something intense together, and I like the feeling, but my soul craves a reality somewhere between us that cuts deeper, from sharper, starker angles, into a sense of achievement, conquest, victory, a permanent sense of marking and being marked. Later, it is Trish who brings all these algorithms together. She knows only too well what I am, and what I want. We imaginatively leap all over the cosmos together, hand in hand or separately, but the climax, the final imposition of the most profound shared imagination into the most profound imaginative leap, is back into our bodies and, when we are good together, out again, out into a re-entry of the cosmos, as a finality.