buzzing lights and humming pipes
synaptic fizz from coloured pills
for double vision and cracking lips
a train through the brain
pulls apart seams
to find empty thoughts
and misplaced images
that lie on the bed
or in a sponge for a head.
(Image is I Need a Private World, by Dutch artist Marcel Herms – marcelherms.nl)
(Henry Bladon is a writer of short fiction and poetry based in Somerset in the UK. He has degrees in psychology and mental health policy, and a PhD in literature and creative writing. His work can be seen in Entropy, FridayFlashFiction, thedrabble, Mercurial Stories, The Ekphrastic Review, and Spillwords Press, among other places.)
Life needs a testimony about love. It teaches us – either you control
your mood, or it takes power over you and to pain you have to answer,
to fidelity you have to answer, to braveness you have to answer and
you have all these answers - to friendship, you answered with a smile
and to fidelity, to pain, you answered with silence and tears, to meanness –
with indignation, to loneliness - with living for others, to abomination –
with disgust, to braveness you answered with your full heart and it is
and it was and it always will be your guide, your best friend, your God,
your loved one and your way and your home, your heart is your journey
across the cross-roads of human faith and darkness, human faith and
calmness, across the whole universe of solitude or joy every answer is
the price we pay for operating out of our automatic images of mind
and it’s telling you now: “This is actually called life and a man can
not prove love, a man can only experience it with his heart.”
January 15, 2019
I Go Away
The silence acts through our brains,
opens the world by our hands - I go away
and let go of radiant brainwaves.
The silence dreams of us, we are its dream,
when it wakes up, we vanish from him - I go away
and let go of noisy darkness.
The tale ends and then begins anew,
we go through death again into life - I go away
and let go of empty dirtiness.
Fall in love, we will again,
I see your hand is on my hand - I go away
and let go of magic spell.
When I woke up, you were beside me,
somehow I thought the night so deep – I go away
and let go of sleepy nakedness.
You are with me resembling the snow,
I know the answer for the secrets you know – I go away
and let go of holy silence.
May 8, 2018
( David Dephy – The Georgian/American poet, novelist, essayist. An active participant of the American and international poetry and artistic scenes, such as PEN World Voices, 92Y Poetry Center, Voices of Poetry, Long Island Poetry Listings, Bowery Poetry. His poetry has been published in the USA by the several literary magazines.)
Sharp edges of fire waved in front of her.
A long reed-like arm reached through the smoke and grabbed the small of her arm.
It pulled her.
She held close to the wall,
steadying herself with one hand.
The smoke fingered her hair,
filled her lungs.
“Where am I?” she asked,
The smoke rose.
The color of an egg-yoke,
peered back, parting the smoke.
“Welcome,” it said,
“To the kingdom of ashes,”
And began to laugh.
I have parable-like dreams of a better world.
Cougars and foxes dance with Billy-goats and wild geese, but
I can’t see myself,
Only my footsteps--
For a moment I am there--
Then washed away
By the wind
And the water,
Marking a time that does not pass.
I can feel the warmth
Of horses running past me.
I smell their skin.
And I know,
I know that I’m loved.
A thin red string
Mingles with dust and dead skin,
Like a snake slithering in grass,
While dry silverfish and German roaches
Curl up into a nest,
Entombed in the corner,
Where they’re never seen.
Across the way,
Strands of loose carpet reach over the wall which separates,
Inside from outside,
Civilization from jungle.
The old linoleum lifts,
As if the the earth were yawning
And pulling us in.
I look in the mirror.
A strand of hair
Forms an “S” in the middle of my reflection;
Milky white spots dance on my forehead,
Where age and worry rest.
And I’m getting old.
I put the brushes and the cleaners away;
I turn off the lights,
And let nature take its course.
( Maryam El-Shall teaches writing and lives in Florida. Her work explores a spectrum of themes from solitude to war and empire. This is her first published poem.)
The Small Dance
The day has come at last,
the day for hope and answered prayers.
Joy to the toiler! Joy to the sturdy trees!
The little lost wind
wanders through the meadow,
finding little to fear.
Disillusionment disperses over the sky,
enabling frogs to sing their truth in forgotten fens.
It’s high time to reject analogies!
There are too many of one sort,
too few of those that matter.
Philosophy, what of it?
Psychology, too obvious!
The absorption of energy persists
to make electrons positive
so they may behave like normal electrons.
It’s called the small dance,
whether it’s big or small.
And it’s my job
to make sure every girl has a partner
but no one partner for too long.
It’s the quiet of a loving eye
that pines for what is not.
It’s the danger that disappears
because you have turned a corner
and can no longer sense it.
(Paul Brucker, a marketing communications writer, lives in Mt. Prospect, IL, “Where "Friendliness is a Way of Life." Active in the early 1980s Washington, D.C, poetry scene, he put a lid on poetry writing when he went to the Northwestern University grad ad school to learn how to think like a businessman and secure a decent income. Nevertheless, he has succumbed to writing poetry again. He has been published somewhat recently in "Crack the Spine," "The New Plains Review," "The Poydras Review,""The Taj Mahal Review," "Inkwell" and the anthology, "The Pagan's Muse: Words of Ritual, Invocation and Inspiration.")
The Beautiful Space-