Paul Tristram- Three Poems

Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography
published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids
instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet.
Buy his books ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press)  http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1943170096
‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326241036
And a split poetry book ‘The Raven And The Vagabond Heart’ with Bethany W Pope
at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326415204
You can also read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/

The Well

If only they’d had a light,
if only they’d been able to see
that everything was now futile.
The inside of the well
was throat like
and their little scrapings
meant nothing.
There were no finger grips
in the bricks and stones,
the corners had been rubbed
smooth with eagerness
and frantic desperation
by the first few
without light or hope
all those years ago.


© Paul Tristram 2005


Published in Purple Patch, No. 112, November 2005

The Road

The straight edges kept him going,
he ran his fore fingers around the grooves
he had been patiently digging
and coughed a dirty, excited squeal.
A paving slab is easy to lift
but to push it from underneath
is a different story all together.
He grasped the edges tightly,
focused completely upon the middle,
which broke and spun away
in two different directions.
Upon determined, bandaged elbows
he started up out of the hole,
the miracle of moonlight and fresh air
sent exhilarating spasms through him
as he crawled in indescribable agony,
one arm length at a time,
closer to the road.


© Paul Tristram 2006


Published in Chillout, Issue Seventeen, Winter 2006

The Silver Ghost

Traipsed the midnight graveyard pathways,
in and out of ivy smothered tombs
and lichen, crumbling marker stones.
Unhurriedly, un-purposefully
and without set course or direction.
Melancholy under the full moon light,
deep in meditative thought, always,
transfixed to a nagging problem
which troubled deeply her spectral mind.
She often scared the village folk, unwittingly,
with ghostly pacing back and forth.
This was indeed a wretched afterlife,
since swapping her two-penny boat ride
for a thousand year solitary wait,
trapped within this hallowed place.
Where she had vowed to meet him again,
upon passing over, at that long ago harbour,
battered by a cold and windy Winter’s morn.
Should he not return to her loving arms
from the terrible seas and distant lands.
His mind must have become lost and muddled
for him to be still other-worldly ship sailing?
For it has been a hundred and fifty years
of grieving and singing this sad, silent song.


© Paul Tristram 2015


Published in The Literary Hatchet (USA) #12, Sunday the 16th of August 2015

Stefanie Bennett- A Poem

Stefanie Bennett has published several books of poetry, a novel and a libretto and her poems appear in Illya’s Honey, The Camel Saloon, Snow monkey, Shot Glass Journal, The Provo Canyon Review and others. Of mixed heritage [Irish/Italian/Paugussett-Shawnee] she was born in Qld., Australia in 1945. Stefanie’s latest poetry title “The Vanishing” 2015 was published by Walleah Press and is available from Walleah, Amazon and Fishpond Books.

 

 

 

BECOMING VINCENT    

 

I am becoming Vincent... I am

Only midway through

My writing season –, and

Already I address myself

To the nom de plume.

 

It seems strange.

It is strange.

Half alive, half dead.

Half word-impressionist

And half anyone’s slave.

 

Since I am half Vincent

  And he is half me –, he

Won’t mind if I speak of stars

  And sunflowers –, and

Bare-boarded rooms.

  I know he won’t mind...

He was someone with little

  To say... there was too much

Of the poet in him. He tried

  To ‘paint it out’.

 

I wrestle with the images. The gold

That polishes the sun. The gold

That belongs to a banished

Love. The gold belonging

To a lock of hair...

 

I tell you, he would have been

  A word giant! My God,

The co-ordinated language colour!

  The world missed out: badly.

As it was, it killed him with love.

  It killed him with hate.

He wasn’t  perfect enough

  Then. I can’t be

Perfect enough

  ... Now.

 

I wrestle with the word image.

The gold that engulfs

The treasure of our

                Shared despair:

The gold of too much caring:

                An empty

Coffer. An empty chair.

 

I am becoming Vincent... I live

In a bare-boarded room.

My brother sends me

                      Sunflowers!

The heavens send

                       More stars!

There’s no-one to talk to...

 

I make gestures. I cast out

Lines to

The Centaur’s light

And the wall’s

Stone ears.

 

 

Alan Catlin- Three Poems

                                                                       Big Foot

What can you say about Big Foot

that hasn’t already been said?

He’s like this weird character

from an Edgar Allan Poe novel

no one ever reads, set in a frozen

wasteland inhabited by all these

previously unknown, hostile creatures

that, once sighted, seem to disappear

into the subconscious where they

refuse to leave. And you’d be hostile

too if all these alien invaders arrived

at the shores of your homeland

in tall ships and started planting

flags and claiming shit, as if it were

their own, as if anyone could just

land grab it in the first place.

White Man’s Burden the invaders

would say once the natives got rowdy

and they had to use superior force to

quiet things down.  You could look up

White Man’s Burden and you can see

how it could be use to justify just about

anything and that  most of the ills of

the last few centuries can be traced

directly back to this notion. Anyway,

around now readers are saying, ”But

Edgar Allan didn’t write any novels.”

And author can say, “Oh, yes he did.

You can look that up too.” Not that

Poe actually mentions Big Foot but

he did creatures exactly like them,

kissing cousins you might say.  Other

kissing cousins are The Black Feet

who appear in many Westerns, certainly

in movies, so I presume in novels also.

Those suckers were always tossing

big ass boulders, no doubt made of

painted paper of some kind, in those

black and white movies popular way

back when.  They must have been as

strong as Big Foot is reputed to be.

No doubt they are still tossing stuff

about like nobody’s business. Look out below!

            Crab Monsters

Remember all those black and white

movies in the 50’s?  The ones that

came out in the wake of the atomic

bomb, fear of the red menace,

like every two weeks with a different

giant something: Attack of the 100 Foot

Woman, giant ants, shrews, cats

(though, as I recall, in that one, they

shrank the people so the cat just

seemed huge but it amounts to the

same thing). No giant dogs, though.

I wonder why? Maybe the shrews got them?

That was a joke, son. Anyway, those giant

crabs were scary, man: a bunch if dudes

(scientists) and dudettes (assistants)

in this deteriorating island ( kind of a

locked room mystery only outdoors

and the room keeps getting smaller…)

all these guys and gals getting chomped

to death by these hordes of ravenous

land crabs.  Who really knew how they

got this big other than it had to do with

radiation, and there was always some

flimsy plot twist/ weak point that led

to their demise.  All of it completely

ridiculous but scary while it lasted.

The whole bad scene should have been

enough to make all the real scientists

stop monkeying with atomic power and

bombs  and stuff but it wasn’t.

            Ball Lightning

What comes to mind when you see something

 like that?  What else? Jerry Lee Lewis, of course. 

Yes, sir, “Great Balls of Fire” is a classic played

by a wild man abusing a piano like no one

before or since with the possible exception

of Yanni.  Jerry Lee and Edgar Allan P. would

have hit it off. They both liked them young,

marrying girls just past puberty but, at least,

Eddie’s Looked older, and it was almost legal,

though where Jerry Lee comes from, its

probably legal there too. Well, none of their

respective marriages lasted long.  How could they,

really?  Which concert movie was it that the drummer

caught fire? “Spinal Tap”, that’s it.  I don’t recall

ball lightning being mentioned as a root cause for

that tragic immolation, but it makes a whole lot

more sense than spontaneous combustion. 

Seriously, does anyone actually know of, heard of

first hand, or even knew someone, who could

actually claim to have seen combustible

combustion? I didn’t think so. No one does,

Because it doesn’t happen.  It’s like alien abduction.

Much rarer, actually. There ought to be a game:

Five Degrees of Separation from Spontaneous

Combustion.  I’d play, for sure.  I wouldn’t mess

with ball lighting, though. That stuff is lethal.

John Pursch- A Poem

John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. Twice nominated for Best of the Net, his work has appeared in many literary journals. A collection of his poetry, Intunesia, is available at http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/whiteskybooks. Check out his experimental lit-rap video at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l33aUs7obVc. He’s @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook.

Almost Everywhere

Billions gaze at shifting skies,

held in awe,

ready to believe in anything.

Capturing the effect isn’t easy,

so newscasters settle for an

admittedly ersatz rendition

of the eighth wonder of the world.

Exactly what it is,

no two people can agree,

but everyone is sure it’s

what we’ve all been waiting for.

Good or bad,

healthy or deadly,

transient or permanent,

no one knows;

actual or hallucinatory,

fact or fiction,

solid or gaseous

or liquid or plasma

or some new state of matter,

no one can say.

Some wish it would just

disappear and never return.

Some say it’s been here all along;

others say they don’t see a thing.

Denny E. Marshall- Micro Fiction- A Twabble

(Twabble-100 characters)

4/8/16

8,000,000 aliens have been on earth 16 years. Then on 4/8/16 their leader said, “Time for attack.” Troops go to surface.


Bio Denny E. Marshall has had art, poetry, and fiction published. Some recently. Mostly does artwork. He is plain. If he was paid for rejected submissions he would be rich. See more of his works at www.dennymarshall.com

David J. Thompson- A Photo

                                                  "Goggles"

Jonathan Hayes- A Photo

                                               "Shadowboxer"

David J. Thompson- A Photo

                                                   "3 Pillows"

Ken Allan Dronsfield- Two Poems

Vessel of Silent Death

Awakened by a jolt
misty queried fantasy
cold strangled soul
icy grip on the marrow.
Seething under ground
crispy labored breaths
buried alive it seems,
in a vessel of silent death.
Life bequeaths its poison,
coolish vampire's decree
I was hated in my day but...
Now, everyone loves me.



Nocturnal Creeper

Newspaper on a table
obituary section open
whilst tepid tea greets
my rose colored cup.
Today they found Harry
floating in the Creek
nocturnal creeper and
keeper at the old farm.
Twas a Monday last June
whence his Mary passed
Harry's been lost ever
since her burial service.
Alone, cold, not a spark
in his eyes, nor a reason
for taking another breath.
Roaming the roads while
seeking and freaking
upon the questioned
reasons for her death.
On this day in a note left
upon her grave, just before
leaping into the icy depths,
twas Harry who finally
lovingly confessed.



Ken Allan Dronsfield is a Published Poet originally from New Hampshire, now residing in Oklahoma. He has been writing for many years but has only recently begun seeking publication of his work, these appearing in a number of print venues. He enjoys writing, hiking, playing guitar and time with his cats Merlin and Willa.

John Pursch- A Poem

John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. Twice nominated for Best of the Net, his work has appeared in many literary journals. His first book, Intunesia, is available at http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/whiteskybooks. Check out his experimental lit-rap video at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l33aUs7obVc. He’s @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook.

Relics of an Inner Sphere

Hobbling toward the horizon,

a perspectival leap in store,

our nebulous longings

confuse the afterlife

with deified portals

to another world.

Attempts to grasp

the overarching entity,

doomed to infinite regress,

shape our days

to cratered relics

of an inner sphere.

Automatic yearners

plunder the scalar skies

for heavenly drops of delight,

but render only the furrows

of yet another fitted brow.

Jennifer Lagier- A Photo

                                           "Cypress Inn Patio"

Stefanie Bennett- Two Poems

Stefanie Bennett has published several books of poetry, a novel, and a libretto. Her

poems have appeared Carcinogenic Poetry, VerseWrights, Provo Canyon Review,

The Galway Review, Illya’s Honey, The Fib Review, Shot Glass Journal, Snow

Monkey, Ink, Sweat & Tears, The Lake, Poetry Pacific and others. Of mixed

ancestry [Italian/Irish/Paugussett-Shawnee] she was born in Townsville, Qld.,

Australia. Stefanie’s latest poetry title ‘The Vanishing’ was published in 2015

by Walleah Press and is available from Walleah, Amazon and Fishpond Books.

 

 

 

SIGNS       

 

... You remained the same

For 40 years:

You – put the cat out

Instead

Of the milk money –.

The squatter’s chair –.

The imaginary Diva

From next door –.

The Pilot light,

And a picture

Postcard

Of Pompeii.

 

Always, you strayed

My way

As before...

                Tramping

Grand Elysium Fields

And more

Back then

              When

It was ‘we’

Who were

 

The living.

 

 

 

MIDNIGHT PASTORALE    

 

From my perpendicular

Slope

Yesterday

Comes rushing

Towards me.

 

 

David J. Thompson- A Photo

                                              The Red Carpet

Richard Schnap- A Poem

PERSON OF INTEREST

He glides slowly by
Like a secret agent
From another planet

Receiving transmissions
To guide him to complete
Some classified mission

And sometimes he smiles
As if he’s discovered
Something that will please

His faraway masters
Relaying the orders
Only he can hear

Joseph Victor Milford- Three Poems

63

it rains on my heart for eternity and it is fucking awesome. you are jealous and you should be.
guitar headstock rests neck on window-pain. my knuckles are made of metal and wood. kisses.
umpfucteen bad things. shooting pool. lying to myself. morning is landing like a UFO. crime.
mailbox and lunchbox. Keats and his handkerchiefs. i saw a gaunt coyote run towards the abyss.
only starfruit grew in eden. eve had no vagina. she had salvation between her legs. Adam ran.
oracles throw bones and we break them pulling plows. our women die in childbirth. damn holy.
i tried to strangle autumn. demons came and pissed golden-red blood everywhere. i freckled.
snapping green beans into the copper bowls while squash men waited to become casseroles.
cut the grass. slur. laugh. dogwood heaves under a hailstorm. recovers. mocks you. need oil.
quarry dive on drunken memorial day. tattered tags of tongues. sunscreen salt and copulations.


64

cookies. credit cards. cookies. credit cards. the dark ages. cookies. credit cards. the dark ages.
i have the glacier cellphone ap. i will deploy upon you. my three-year-old just threw up. i’ll call.
parchment is what i was wrapped in and it was also my burial shroud so libraries resurrect me.
your storm in me beginning creating dark seasons to come. damn you Donald Trump Star Trek.
wingspan in my chest cavity. a coma stroke embolism aperture. wingspan in my chest cavity.
blogs guns and gaga. i will never chop down my tree but my roots are in your evangelist mouth.
i am cannibal at flesh carnival. puff pastry roadkill. powdered sugar on my lips. turkey-legs.
the idiot comes in like a tycoon. he finds the penny on heads, and he’s happy. smokes his shit.
then he unleashes his tie. relaxes. he always sleeps with his eyes open. he orders beer for all.
and he can’t pay. and it’s Christmas. he has to walk at least twenty miles. it’s love; understand?


81.

it was after the abduction that the town Moreland began to ostracize him. the doctors’ gossiped.
it was like someone asked for rat poison at the pharmacy and then the whole town knew. Toby.
he didn’t want to go to jail—they have the wrong kinds of bars in their. dumb luck counts too.
nueral clusterings like gravel alleyways in a town before first snowflake falls. all is ceremonial.
in dream of great-grandmother she turned to wipe flour on the apron but it was bloodred blood.
he saw the afterbirth of the universe pour out of the interdimensional cervix and went pinwheel.
they still looking for proof of a giant squid. it’s like the lines that never got written by Rimbaud.
he thought Area 51 was where they kept geriatric huntsmen from accidentally shooting things.
lo and behold. tow & fold your hand. resolve and undermine. mow and sow gold. awe flowed.
hexes abundant. in pollen of the tigerlilies was the hexpollen. walked covered in this homeward.



Joseph Victor Milford is a Professor of English and a Georgia writer who is currently working on his EdD doctoral studies. His first collection of poems, Cracked Altimeter, was published by BlazeVox Press in 2010. He is also the host of The Joe Milford Poetry Show, where he has compiled an archive of over 300 interviews and readings with American and Canadian poets. Joe Milford also edits the poetry journal RASPUTINand he is co-founder and poetry editor of BACKLASH PRESS.

Alan Catlin- Three Poems

Radio Free Albemuth

He stood rubbing

the graying stubble

of his weather beaten

face with the stumps

of his fat, dirty fingers

wrapped in torn,

filthy rags, peeling

small black scabs

from the crags of his

face ,as he slides

small exact change

across the wood for

draft beer said,

"My handle is

Radio Free Albemuth.

Bet you don't know

anything about the

book or the place

that inspired it.

I've been receiving

transmissions from

outer space long

before any one of

you ever arrived

on this planet, and

will be, long after

you're gone."

I thought, maybe,

this guy was doing

some kind of Martian

two step through the tulips,

it was  better to refer him to

a higher authority outside,

closer to the landing site of

the next divine invasion.

I'd even give him change

for the public phone, on

the corner of Quail,

if needed to call

home collect for

a pickup.

He looked as if

he'd lost a solar

lottery, been drafted,

shipped somewhere overseas

and fought the good fight

he never had a chance to win,

and all he had to show for it

was a nine inch scar through

his blind right eye, and discolored

skin from all the back

blasting napalm he

had caught dead on,

in some jerkwater

jungle town on the

edge of nowhere.

He was drinking over

time now, all day and all

night, to get back in his mind

to the place where he’d left

the dead and the maimed,

back to where he belonged.   

They were like

unstrung cosmic puppets

walking around in some

kind of comprehensive,

self-induced, comas.

The leader of the group

spoke in a dialect of slur,

projected through cracked,

pale lips by an off-stage

ventriloquist, with an evil sense

of humor, making requests

for unattainable, alcoholic

concoctions that could only

be made in an off-world bar in

a cafe like the one Han Solo

did time in between

flights, waiting for the next

Star Wars episode,

or, at least, that was the way

I tried to explain his lack of

communication skills

in terms he might understand.

"We're not getting through

to you," he said, and I replied,

"At least, we agree on something."

and found something else more

important to attend to while

he awaited new messages from

home base.

John Pursch- Two Poems

John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. Twice nominated for Best of the Net, his work has appeared in many literary journals. A collection of his poetry, Intunesia, is available at http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/whiteskybooks. Check out his experimental lit-rap video at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l33aUs7obVc. He’s @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook.

Left Blank

Quiet canal,

warm cobbles,

decaying leaves…

Half-submerged,

a sun-bronzed hand

trails rust on stone.

Stained glass

connects my ribs

as sky dissolves

in teleported haze.

Silence As a Second Language

For the past ten years

I’ve been going to night school,

studying silence as a second language.

For my final project

I’m building a time machine

that will enable us to visit the present.