6 poems – 2


Mark G. Pennington was born 1985 and lives and writes in Kendal, UK.  He has poems in TL;DR and Poetry Super Highway and is set to appear in Poetry Pacific, The Oddville Press, Scarlet Leaf Review and Futures Trading. Previous to this, publications are under the name J. Rose including a first book in 2012, titled Lithium Clockwork. He is also currently writing poems for a collaborative project on David Herrod’s waters of Cumbria.

 

Electric Ladyfish

 

Awash with pills and booze,

heartbreak trombone flutters the radio,

the jazz initiative colours blue,

an absent cigarette and

easel dust gathers like raincoats at an ATM machine.

Love is an answer,

a green telephone shakes

and the world keeps on turning,

stuffed inside a broadsheet uniform.

 

The train plays its last exodus,

hearts hooked to an excess of ampere

tinker within the dentist’s waiting room.

Monochromatic seizures come and

the destination stuck like locusts

in aeroplane mode.

 

 

 

 

James D. Casey IV is a published author of three volumes of poetry: “Metaphorically Esoteric,” “Dark Days Inside the Light While Drunk on Wine,” and “Tin Foil Hats & Hadacol Coins.” His books are available for purchase through his Amazon Author Profile. Mr. Casey’s writings have been published in print and online several times at places like Triadæ MagazinePink LitterIn Between HangoversIndiana Voice JournalPoetry BreakfastBeatnik CowboyDissident VoiceScarlet Leaf ReviewHorror Sleaze TrashZombie Logic ReviewWhispersYour One Phone CallI am not a Silent PoetTuck MagazineOutlaw PoetryPoeTreeStory MirrorStanzaic StylingsSpillwords PressThe Micropoets SocietyLeaves of InkPoetry Life & Times, and Realistic Poetry International just to name a handful. Also, Poetry Super Highway have his website Big Skull Poetry listed in their online poet archives.

 

 

 

 

 

My Only Wish

 

Listening to the rain
Thinking back
To how it made you
Happy
I remember your face
Smiling

Gloomy days
Spent laughing
Talking about galaxies
Parallel dimensions
Insane gods
Our favorite books
How there can be
So many of each
And how they all rule
Our lives
In the strangest of ways
Ways we may never
Understand

In the evening
You’d dance around
While cooking supper
Drinking dark beer
Smoking herb
And those fucking menthols
While eating zoomers
And singing
At the top of your lungs
Without a care in the world

If I’d only knew
You were sick
What you were thinking
How scared you were
Knowing something
Wasn’t right
Ignoring it
Just trying to
Live happy
Much like I do now

My only wish
Is that we had more time
Because the pain
It doesn’t fade
It only gets a little
Easier to handle
I know
That’s selfish
But I’d still wish it
Just to see your face
A few more times
And say the things
I didn’t get to

I think about what I would say
What I would do different
If it would even matter
Because we all die anyway
Even the best of us
Which you were
Teaching me things
Like how to live free
And die with dignity
With all flaws included
Owning them
Like golden medals

 

 

 

 

 

Dennis Moriarty – I am 54 years old and live in South Wales UK. I am married with five children and six grandchildren. I run a contract cleaning company with my wife. I love to read, write poetry, walk in the hills of Wales and delight in the Welsh language.

 

 

 

 

 

Drunk

 

Moon smeared across windscreens
An orgy of cars

And the damp warm climax of
Warm summer rain.

Headlights tasting the over ripe flesh
Of the night’s dark fruits

And he, a casual heap at the side
Of the road,

An impromptu spillage, empty as
A rabbit.

His eyes wide open to receive
The rain.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Melissa Mulvihill writes poetry and creative non-fiction and is a self-identified dystopian junkie. She was recently published in the June 2017 issue of Poet’s Haven’s, Strange Land. She lives in Ohio with her husband, two sons, and labradoodle, Luna(tic). She detests writing in third person about herself more than having to eat beets AND really bad pizza.

 

 

 

 

 

Inside Out Pain

 

I sink in the slippery callousness
the lack of urgency
the smell of dry air and cleaning products

doors numbered
like jail cells
faceless

when the cold handle caresses my hand
the wooden door
creaks it’s complaint

escorting me where
everyone goes
eventually

the hospital room dark
with moans
quiet with adults

numb with acceptance
steeped in assurances
faking wisdom

while I choke back
nausea
hatred of inside out pain

that requires surgery
medication
interventions

paralyzed with the
ridiculous notions of
dinner

errands and dust
on the shelves
waiting at home

while I grow up
here and silently
beg for you

to not leave me
yet
because I don’t know
how to fold the towels

and I cannot
find myself
without you.

 

 

 

 

D L Hume lives off grid in the south of Tasmania. As well as poetry he contributes to the critique of ceramic art and has many years teaching and travelling. Many of his papers and other works can be found at https://www.davidlhume.com

 

 

Front Bar Waiting

 

He cranked

open the heavy door.

The hinges announced

his entry

as the light

from the small

round window

scanned

the almost empty room.

He planted himself

on a lead heavy stall.

The type made heavy

so drunks can’t

lift them over their head.

He ordered a beer.

As it settled

so he did,

propping his bag

against the trough

that once caught butts.

Being unable

to close his ears

he tuned in.

      And your next question

      for two hundred thousand dollars…

Inane quiz show.

Corporate puppet.

Gullible fodder.

      Coming up in tonights news…

…is absolutely nothing.

He thought to himself,

realising how long

it had been

since he’d watched

commercial TV,

and turning his attention

to the other end of bar.

      You got me into fucking trouble

      You fucker…

He refocused

      In what year did…

He shifted again

      You fucking told my wife.

      Said I’m always in here

      You old cunt…

1968,

he mumbled.

      Correct answer.

      Now playing for

      two hundred and fifty

      thousand dollars…

He surveyed

the top shelf.

      You got me into fucking trouble.

      “I know where you’ve fucking been

      you old fucker.” She said.

He recognised

some unusual labels

and some familiar

      How would that change your life

      What would you spend it on?

He watched diners

through the whole

in the wall.

Chicken schnitzel,

always chips

and untouched salad.

      What the fucks it got to do with you,

      you old cunt.

He swallowed

the last of his beer.

The reflection from the door

swung onto him.

He swung his bag

onto his back.

His lift was here.

      Henry fucking IV

He said,

leaving his stall.

She knitted

a quizzical brow.

He gestured behind him.

      Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars…

 

 

 

 Ash Slade considers himself to be a mysterious person. Poetry has been his passion since 12 years old in 7th grade. A poem can take minutes or days to write, each one is important. Ash lives in Connecticut in a small New England town. Hobbies included collecting notebooks and poetry books.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Untitled 8/15/2017

Cloudy, rain, no rain. Tall giants, dark green leaves
old shed faded red lantern in window years unused.

If you listen, it speaks to you, only you refuse to hear.

Weeds in yard wild, tangled too distracted,
blocks out rivaling specs. Sharply vigilant

don’t just walk away passin’em by.

Old deck splinter worn, stained in
fragmented photo reel.

It all changes, spans go by, still not adjusting
flow is not in the cards dealt.

Pick yourself up, dust off, gather your bearings
don’t pass over, not bought or sold.

Step in ‘n catch it, lock it in like a mason jar
contains fireflies lighting the night.