this is the way the thing began flickering in the shallows turquoise, violet, lemon, half- seen, caught in jade water the effect of refraction was to make it seem closer clearer than it really was perhaps the tide ebbed, or perhaps the rocks advanced: sunlight is tricky Mandy Macdonald is an Australian writer living in
Most of that day is blurred. Shimmers in and out like an old film, stuck in the projector until it blurs in disintegration. Having her haircut sticks; A small turret room. Straight-backed chair. Queue of new girls twisting down spiral stairs. Gingham dresses segmenting the line. In coloured, caterpillar slices. She sits, tresses bottom-length. Shining.
The memories are paler now. It feels as though I’m on a ship, waving to you on the dock as you grow smaller, fading into sea haze and the wake widens. (in response to March 2015 Slant Poetry Prompt Challenge: Distance) Susan Castillo Street is a Louisiana expatriate, who lives in the Sussex countryside.
Startled by a vixen’s cry the legionnaire shakes cold dawn into his head and stares out over the moors. Black scraps of crows circle the hill. Streams clatter with mountain ice. Yellow flecks of whin snag his eye. He tugs his rough cloak close against the chill conjures an azure sky above golden groves. He
Pick a commonly used word and cough up copious amounts of phlegm every time it is uttered. Anything written about poetry is purely speculative since nobody ever reads it. All this bio-yogurt virtue and financial self-righteousness are just filling the gap in the market. Each day in the mirror I watch death at work. Police
Infinity’s in the palm of my hand Distance is nothing but air Far is made near by a grain of sand The world is closer than I had planned It surges in to meet me where Infinity’s in the palm of my hand Never would I in my dreams command A tour du monde without
Everything here is further than the moon, this house minds its rarity of air in little things. Boxed memories, inner emigrants. I sew pieces of reality back to back, the stuff of families, frayed facts, darned and underpinned, unpicking old threads. Look, that handbagged rectitude of granny’s posture, hands cool as pious fish, a brown
We fall blinking in to darkness to the unravelling of trees pits of dying yellow deforming our blindspots. With our hands tied, fields are flooded, new bodies of water taking shape in an undignified manner. Treasures are buried deep in to a merciless ground. Nothing speaks out, resigned to grey after the decadence of summer. Sometimes
One ice axe, well used. Three snow anchors suitable for approach slopes. Set of ice screws still in box. Pitons and pegs with plenty of use in them. One each adze and narrow hammer. Two blades, one with holster. Various leashes. Range of thermal gear – to fit medium size man. No longer required due
I have cold hands. You press your back against them but the adage does not hold – my heart would thrill a cryogenicist. There have been men before you who set up such a wailing when I palm-printed their bare shoulders. One I gave a pair of frozen wings, feathery veins cracking into
i’m going for the clarity of flawed crystals. complex in clear waters, shining with all the promises of some given truth. & this is evident, that words will stutter & that silence is a last breath Reuben Woolley was born in Chesterfield. Now working as English teacher in Zaragoza, Spain. Poems published in Domestic
Inside the dogger: knotted nets, entangled fins and red-rubbed scales where hooks tore cheeks; the old bulb fails and sinks the scrimpings of South Wales’ scraped waters into darkness, wet and slippery as an elver’s neck. A trawlerman, unorthodox, concealed in this caliginy of mangled plunder from the sea a vervain-scented treasury a simple unwaxed
I was spun from sunlight, starlight made me. I was sown of silk, a firefly’s lifeline stitched golden. Dyed and dried, weaved & smoothed and soothed ‘til I shimmered soaring, an eaglet’s feather never softer, I was stripped and measured, snipped & slip- ped into service, my purpose to adorn, to heighten, en- hance –
yes & no are not sufficient. the click on accept or cancel like climbing a stile & rejecting binaries. am going both ways & neither perhaps. tracks are rarely straight am suspicious of short cuts, missing the simple sight of deer in the wood hare in the meadow Reuben Woolley was born in
How, what, where, when, who, why not? Use all these questions. You have all the answers; the meaning of life? Life has no meaning, it just is. All the answers have no meaning. The logic then is that the questions are also meaningless. Therefore you know not of what you speak. Reset to default. After
The side of me I fear kicks their teeth in and she is never sorry. Hidden, queen of snakes, she never takes the high road. She dances through me wearing only a bangle made of molars & finger bones gloating like Kali, her feet trample the gored body of memory. Kate Garrett writes poetry
Patricia M Osborne poems have been published in Ink Pantry’s Field of Words, Brian Wrixon’s, Rhyme with Reason, Poetry Anthology 29, and has a commendation from Writers’ Forum. She also writes short stories and is in the process of writing her first novel. Photograph of reef courtesy of: PublicDomainPictures.net.
Ganesha offers a lotus from this temple wall above prayer cushions draped in tangled knots screen-print splayed over black sheets. Cave paintings of Bruce Lee, skulls shot down in flames remind us of what’s to come: faeries wearing only their skin beckon you in to their Otherside. The mantra here has no words; it is the
The Work Last night I finally finished In Their Own Words by Helen Ivory and George Szirtes. Yes, I was reading it last month and, yes, it has taken this long to finish, partly because I lack time (I wish I had) to read and partly because I have terrible tendency to try and read
Sunday Pale Sunday father of the bygone week yet born again Morning hung Leaves washed Cradling indigo Trading news…..stoop talk Curious leaned in to listen doorway jargon feeding him Lament he may not start until enough suns have risen or whisker hairs bloom Yonder by way of northern travel is his gentlemen’s distance though age