Poetry
Journey to the End of the Night
by Jana Putrle Srdić
I thought it would come in the form of
grief or loss
or a sharp continuous pain
but nothing is long on the
journey to the end
stale urine smell
no blood visible
torso an eggshell,
half-boiled febrile
slime within.
The body’s final glow
is a yoke-yellow sun
in the eye of her restless dog,
in her own eye – this woman
clung frantic to the bed-rail
shouting into the night.
Such was her past –
already lone
the aloneness of trains
that no longer steam
no longer chug
but cross and part
on silent electric tracks.
No pain,
just wearisome waits in a clinic’s
endless corridors that snake
in the cold strip-lit night
and the desperate scratch
of a bitch as she seeks escape
in the half-dark of dog-cataracts,
running round in circles
till the calm hour,
dawn’s dead-to-the-world hour
when, worn out, head rolled against
the rail, the woman dreams
of a mass of luminous grasses,
how they sway before sunset
shushing, their sound
a global drone
how, woman and bitch, you’d tunnel a way
through the long grass and tree-trunks
how the air’s scent
how cheek how sun-kiss how
it embraced you, this path
like a cow’s long tongue
stretching out –
this life.
Summer Rain
by Lillian Heimisdottir
Lightning shatters the darkness
like gunfire from on high
and roaring thunder disturbs
the stillness of the night.
Frightened birds are shrieking
while humming fills the air.
Then all is suddenly quiet
and silence is everywhere.
Silence – And moments later
the rain comes gushing down;
falling with rage and fury
like fire on the ground.
Nightfall
by Lillian Heimisdottir
It is late and night is falling,
sombre darkness settles down
on the world and mantles nature
in a dusky velvet gown.
Now it’s time for us to seek a
sheltered refuge for the night
and to rest our tired bones
until the dawning of the light.
Even though our steps are heavy
and we’re weary from the way,
we will go on with our journey
at the breaking of the day.
November Evening
by Lillian Heimisdottir
Cold and bitter wind is blowing
and the streets are soaked with rain.
Chilling autumn has decided
to torment us with disdain.
Even though it’s only six o’clock
it is already dark.
Not a single star illuminates
the night sky with its spark.
Now the fog comes creeping in
and shrouds the world in deepest gloom.
And it carries with it
a foreboding of impending doom.
Hopefully the weary vagrants
that are still out there and roam
the deserted streets of this
forsaken town will find a home.
Mad to Live
by Ashley Andresson
The only people worth our time are those
who never yawn or say prevalent things;
The ones who are desirous of the world
and those who yearn for everything at once.
They burn like Roman candles in the night,
before exploding bright across the stars.
They glow and burn to ashes as they chase
their lofty dreams with wild tenacity.
And as we watch them going up in flames
we know that they have drunk life to the lees,
and with their charismatic force they have
forever changed the landscape of our hearts.
Haiku
by Lillian Heimisdottir
Rain clouds hide the sun
Leaves are falling from the trees
Soon the summer's gone
Walking with my dog
Near the old, enchanted pond
No sign of a frog
Languid summer pace
Not a worry in the world
Sunshine on my face
Sunset and a crow
Like a cut-out silhouette
In the afterglow
Evening falls and I
Am awoken from my thoughts
By a barn owl’s cry
Counting flocks of sheep
Grazing in a meadow field
Soon I'm sound asleep
Clouds of golden hue
Sail across the evening sky
Still so much to do
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Wreckage
by Sydney Lea
Driving a wire-thin road
on my way back home from a local trout stream
I braked, no traffic behind me,
in fact not a car in sight.
Backlit by lamplight, her shadow
showed on her cabin’s window blind.
O Lord, how stooped.
O Lord, how ungainly.
A miracle some twenty years since,
it was as if she’d dropped from a cloud
to her place in these back woods,
well after few remembered
–if they ever knew, that is–
what a legend she’d been. I remembered.
I instantly summoned her face
from my red-lacquer LP’s jacket.
Through the winds of December
And the magic of May
Through a million tomorrows
I’ll remember today
. I played that one song again and again
so often that one winter morning
my mother, hoarse and hung-over,
threw the record down and smashed it.
I’ve long forgiven her
for that and for other random explosions
as I strive to pardon my own.
My rage, to be sure, matched the moment.
And so did hers.
But that silhouette on the blind,
no matter how quickly gone,
sent me back to those scattered red shards.
O Lord, what a trail of ruin.
Eternal Winter
by Erin Jamieson
I trace your chapped lips
in the center of a town square
snow blanketing streets
& naked branches
reaching towards us
like the ghosts of lovers
who now live in eternal winter
you pull away
so our last moments
will be forever distilled
in sepia: shadows, misty streetlamps
homes burdened with
Tanka
by Sarah Sands Phillips
Is It Obvious
The geometry?
We are all this in spaces
of gathered angles
Corners hitting measured hearts
that must move worlds, and be moved
Do You Remember
Do you remember that time in the studio?
It fell out of me
dropped and rolled quick past my tongue
“I feel like I’m not living”
Cockroach
There is just something
about him that unsettles
me, makes me obsess
become a helpless digger
a shadow’s corners keeper
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Shallow
by John RC Potter
You remind me of a lake I once
stood at the edge of long ago:
shallow, so shallow,
lacking depth
but to the touch just cold.
You are that lake:
not very deep,
seemingly calm on the surface
but the dirt churns below;
somewhat beguiling,
somewhat elusive,
as smooth as glass
and almost as
transparent.
I could walk across that lake
but I cannot walk to you;
a cold lake in winter
is more inviting
and less dangerous.
You push me away from your shore.
I want to plumb your depths
but you won’t let me enter
even your shallow end.
I know that if only you’d let me
I could cross the shallows
and reach out to touch
your other side.
You remind me of a lake I once
stopped to take a drink from long ago:
cold
so
cold.
Two Ecopoems
by Özge Lena
Coral Colours
Call it orange, call it peach.
Call it rosy, crimson.
Or call it simply pink.
For every evil under the sun,
But they are bleached.
Morphing into a dead white.
Slowly withering.
there is a remedy, or there is none.
They are ill, stressed.
After blasted heats and toxins.
Fading as colossal colonies.
For some evils under the sun,
Their candied colours now
belong to the old memories
of their cruel culprits.
there is no remedy, not even one.
------------------------------------
Bronze Giant
Arctic dawn.
By the warm sea.
Pink as sun’s blood.
Dropping on the pier.
Over a circle of cloaks.
Made of falcon feathers.
Blazoned by golden chokers.
As alive as Freya the goddess.
A big lump in the middle.
Hidden under a velvet veil.
Until an uncanny polar breeze.
Blows to reveal a bronze giant.
Statue of an euthanised beauty.
That was named after Freya.
Bright as her red gold tears.
As dead as Freya the walrus.
Pied Ballad
by Linda Ann Strang
The plague came to town a Pied Piper
This isn’t an asteroid, it’s a pancake.
and we all ran after it dancing,
This isn’t a fig leaf, it’s a cure-all.
wearing masks – a festival Venice.
This isn’t a bedspring, it’s a rock star.
We thought we were birds, exotic,
This isn’t a pip, it’s a landslide.
with long tails of opal and rainbow
This isn’t a torment, it’s a catwalk.
and beaks of chased silver, beat gold.
This isn’t a pair of tweezers, it’s a stop sign.
We dressed in our velvet and best
This isn’t a gill net, it’s galangal.
with ruffs of Brussels lace and pomanders.
This isn’t a Munch, it’s a pompom.
On our feet were slippers of cut glass.
This isn’t a hanging garden, it’s a high five.
The wealthiest wore specimen amber.
This isn’t a big top, it’s a spade card.
And everyone sang this pied ballad
This isn’t a strapline, it’s a popgun.
while we drowned in the ocean with nosegays.
This isn’t a dress pattern, it’s starlight.
And we were rats, or perhaps only children.
