Paul Tristram- A Sketch

                                                           "Magic Mushrooms"

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 book ‘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/

Stefanie Bennett- A Poem

Stefanie Bennett has published several books of poetry & has poems appearing

in Illya’s Honey, The Fib Journal, Pyrokinection, Ink, Sweat & Tears, The Provo

Canyon Review, Eskimo Pie, Poetry Pacific & others. Of mixed ancestry [Irish/

Italian/Paugussett-Shawnee] she was born in Qld., Australia. Stefanie’s latest

poetry book “The Vanishing” [2015] was published by Walleah Press & is

available from Walleah Press, Amazon & Fishpond Books.

 

 

 

 

HOME GROWN        

 

The Dust Devil Family

Spins

       Like a top –,

Kicks

       Like a mule –,

And won’t

      Ever forsake

      The past

      For last.

 

 

Kyle Hemmings- Three Poems

Kyle Hemmings has work published in Pure Slush, Your Impossible Voice, Abstract Jam and elsewhere. He loves manga art, pre-punk garage bands of the 60s and The Cramps.

 

 

In Her Sleep, She Became a Toy

While the night exhaled clusters of swallowtails,

 the little girl's plastic bear, one with eyes

that glowed a radioactive yellow in the dark,

awoke her and led her by the hand.

 Under the empty playground of sky,

they ate the scraps of this afternoon's picnic,

 or sucked the ragged rinds of honeydew.

They became giddy at the thought

 of owning the left-over world,

scavengers of candy fish and lost shoes.

When morning slipped in hues of insidious blush,

 the grown-ups remained sleeping.

 Or they dreamed of eating

 until their bellies went bust

and they would never be too bloated to fly.

The bear and the little girl prepared a breakfast

for two and sat across from each other, eating in silence.

They knew that the only thing that would rise now was the sun.

 

The Orchard Saint

It will cost you your life, if you embrace thorns & cabbage patch roots. For you, they are two reflections on either side of a dewdrop. Your mother prayed for twenty years that you would not get wet. Dust motes appear between the lines of the psalms she sang. But now the hang-dog king of make-believe boundaries & fantastic derivatives believes that you have a green thumb& a golden tongue. Rumor has it that he caught syphilis from the maiden of wishing wells. At the insidious edges of dawn, dogs yowl the insanity of hunger. The barbarians leave footprints in the night.

 

Saint Abha, the Amphibious Queen

She married three disposable kings of Siam & left each one dreaming of flying fish. Incarcerated for infertility, she tricked the guards with a flash of mermaid eyes. Fifty miles from shore, she invented her own island. There, she fed bits of herself to the sharks, nurtured Beluga whales. She mistook a wasp for a wisp, a bird for a telegram. Carrier pigeons carried to her bits of mainland. At night, she slept next to open coconuts. She heard the drip of voices--someone from afar still loved her, perhaps a prince-in-waiting with shoes imported from Lombardy. She wished he had wings & could share a span of warmth. She wished she could shunt a cold lonely wind. Legend had it that when war came to her tiny island, she turned into a sunken treasure ship or to the glistening dots upon saltwater. Some said her name stuck like taffy to their teeth. But not before leaving the enemy with a mouthful of scorched earth.

 

 

Stefanie Bennett- Three Poems

Stefanie Bennett has published several books of poetry & has poems appearing in

Dead Snakes, The Fib Journal, Shot Glass Journal, Pyrokinection, Ink, Sweat &

Tears, The Provo Canyon Review, Eskimo Pie, Poetic Diversity, The plum Tree

Tavern etc. Of mixed ancestry [Irish/Italian/Paugussett-Shawnee] she was born

in Qld., Australia. Stefanie has been nominated for The Pushcart & her latest

poetry book “The Vanishing” [2015] was published by Walleah Press & is

available from Walleah Press, Amazon & Fishpond.

 

 

 

ANYTHING GOES: for Macaque’s Menagerie   

 

Moving house:

The snails

Are out

In droves –.

 

 

 

PLAINS’ DRIFTER   

 

... Upon my

Grasshopper

Friendly

Work-table

It’s 3

Hops

To breakfast

And back.

 

 

 

PERCHANCE    

 

The tortoise waits

For the post

To shift

Of its own

Volition...

 

 

Noel Negele- A Poem

About My Good Friend John

It happened usually

at dawn, while the sun started to come up

and we all wished the night lasted for two days-

when we came down from

the drugs hard,

our feet feeling like truck tires

instead of feathers

that we talked about the really serious stuff-

Syria, Hamas, immigration problems

world hunger, pharmaceutical companies

extremists, conspiracies, enviromental downslides

and there was always this bold guy telling us

about economical wars going on

and that we were really close to something awful-

this in truth was only a way of coping with sadness

talking about worse things

though we were, and still are, poorly educated

and the majority of us with criminal records.

But anyway, this is about my good friend John

leaning over the plate- a plastic straw jammed into his right nostril

just after I've told him to it call it a day,

that we had done enough self destructing

to last us for two life times,

my good friend John falling on the ground

flapping like a fish out of water,

foam coming out of his mouth

his eyes nowhere to be seen-

death rocking him hard before

taking him from us,

my good friend John

the more good looking one

the kinder one

dying in front of our eyes

bringing a flash in my mind

of him laughing at fourteen years of age

all rose-cheeked and careless,

remaining still, suddenly, at last

like a puppet whose strings were released

as if someone up there got bored

or disgusted more than the usual,

my good friend John

who is no longer

like so many good people out there

leaving us behind, remorseful and horrified

for all the chances of kindness we missed,

for all the love we came short.

 

 

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.

Clockwork Dogs

It turned out to be dogs coughing, all this time, these eons. They were patiently, steadfastly, marking the minutes as a sort of public service, keeping time for humankind. A best friend, not so easily replaced by wristwatch after all! How fortunate that bark was far more accurate than bite. The dilatory canine phlegm fixation, day by hidden hour, by translucent sunrise silhouette, by carefully shepherded human trundle into pewter fasting, hobbled by irregular rhythmic groans and mottled cream in cobbled cacophonous dialects of interspecies interface, relying on denormalized unitary lurches of penny-ante lorries, waxing wagon wheels, turpentine evaporating in midday sun. Meanwhile, way out west, random bipeds were slinging lead at a thousand feet per second, staggering from dry deserted ghastly wooden towns to rivers full of foolish pyrite wishing wells, pressing fat of hand to iron butt of cigarette polonium, speckling the years with flecks of splintered wood, bleaching bones, quiet horses, and the vast uncounted dispossessed of canyon, plain, and forest; shrouded wanderers who calmly went the way of coughing clockwork dogs.

Michael Ceraolo- Two Poems

At the Ball Park (2)

Eventually,

the parks' public-address systems

were done away with,

                                leaving

the fans at the park with three choices

of how to receive game information

(and the constant music,

                                     though

some of the choices allowed one

to reduce or eliminate the music,

                                                 and

there were those few who chose

to eliminate the information):

                                       

                                           one,

to read it off the many smaller video boards

that had replaced the single giant board

(ever-declining literacy levels

made this the most esoteric choice);

 

                                                       two,

audio/video apps for one's mobile device(s)

(the most popular choice);

                                        and three,

audio/video streams implanted

directly into the brain once a person

had reached the age of majority

and could legally choose to do so,

                                                  though

of course there were those who didn't wait

and had it done illegally

(this was the least popular at first

as the bugs in the new technology

were worked out,

                          but it eventually grew

to be solidly the second-most popular choice)

At the Ball Park (3)

Another innovation

was the excess section

This was not for standing-room fans

once the park had reached

its seating capacity,

as it had been in the old days,

                                             but

rather a special section

for those dedicated to excess,

whether food or drink or real or

simulated game situations

There would be vomitoria,

overnight accommodations for those

no longer able to drive or teleport,

                                                 with

those who chose this section

knowing they would be subject

to strict scrutiny of their sobriety

if they wanted to leave

(it has never been noted

how much wisdom was found

by those who traveled this road)