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Begin with the stardust in your never- empty throat, search through sinew electric and constellating different from us but the same in fierce in wrangling. Search unfamiliar arrays, gaze beyond Orion to unearth novel strands, unshackle our daughters from our daughters from our mothers’ DNA. May you search different angles of the same enduring sun—unstitch tendons from tenuous ribbons of rheumatism. May you search for and find our heart chambers rearranged for a feast of hope trimmed in wing and facet. for Kathryne Marks, PhD, immunologist and daughter of the RA Warrior, who is searching for a cure for RA. (Pam Sinicrope served as an editor for Howling Bird Press and is an MFA candidate at Augsburg University. She is a senior poetry editor for the new Journal, RockPaperPoem. Some of her poems are forthcoming or found in SWWIM Every Day, Spillway, The Night Heron Barks, The Muse, Aethlon, Indolent Books: Poems in the Afterglow, Literary Mama, 3 Elements Review, and Appalachian Journal. Pam lives in Rochester, MN. She has a doctorate in Public Health and engages in research to eliminate health disparities with a focus on cancer prevention. She enjoys time with her family, hiking with her dog, tennis, and independent films.) Our brain
Our brain, as old as the sea, carries the footprints of our every activity, of eternity; carries a shape carved by our experiences, our ancestors, our culture. Like a cask of memories carries our, identity, heirlooms, our universe filled with our own sunshine, clouds, people, and beasts. Like a parliament, our brain, debates endlessly about our conflicting, endless, desires. A shape-shifter, our brain, constantly rewrites its circuitry. Every day our brain tries to break free from its reptile instincts, its ape behaviours, its Neanderthal desires. All the nectars for our ecstasy, anxiety, depression, fear, and love, spring up from the recesses of our brain. Despite all the hyperbole about the human logic, most of our activities run on an autopilot, by-passing reason, by-passing consciousness. (Dr Javed Alam- a UK based Kashmiri poet and physician. He uses a pen name to separate his professional life from his literary work. He likes to write in the language of ordinary people, about their ordinary thoughts and about their ordinary insights. Dr Javed likes to use poetry to explore the philosophy of life, neurosciences and Kashmir. His work has been published in print and online literary journals as well as in anthologies in the UK, USA, India, Canada and Ireland. https://www.poeticnoesis.com/) The colonized
like stones thrown skipping glassy eyes glazed looking beyond within out between hazy shimmering mirage programmed by destiny to destroy and goodness bring forth. A Mile Past Despair
A lonely wanderer retrieves the trampled newspapers from the street. She gives free rein to her untethered thoughts and conjures up meanings beyond the pages. From these crumpled up pieces of trash, she dares to create her secret world In her faded shopping cart, she scavenges grimy cans and bottles. while she mumbles her magical prayers and stares at numbers and signs. She sojourns the streets cursing and blessing depending on her encounters and moods. At night, she crashes behind the rusted green dumpster till dawn. Sometimes she gets captured and confined, but she refuses the pills that make her obese and withdrawn- a mile past despair and nobody cares What can it be? What can it be? Where can it be? Who is this monster that still follows me? Am I too trusting or am I a threat? Is it some weakness or is it some test? Maybe my feelings are too self-involved, Or maybe I’m lazy or just getting old. Can I escape from this prison of thought? Can I break free from my backsliding God? Perhaps all my questions are nothing but fear That twists up my feelings And makes me seem weird. Perhaps in this moment, I can free myself And find out some purpose That helps me reach out. But I know this monster That comes every day, So I will keep vigil and patiently wait. I have nowhere to run and no place to hide. I must face the creature before it’s too late. (John Zurn has been faced with the challenges of bipolar disorder and anxiety disorder for his entire adult life. He gradually learned that: medication, exercise, meditation and creative writing were vital for his long term recovery. Despite this challenge, he still worked as a teacher and counselor for thirty-five years.) Cerebral Lament
It’s lonely here for my brain cells they used to have some fun but now they go for days on end not seeing anyone First they would sing and then they’d dance with bubbles like champagne electrically charged and bursting now they're circling the drain Creatives in the right brain with their colors and their words the logicals gathered on the left what a boring bunch of nerds But now the sounds of silence are like echoes off a cliff mumbles indecipherable as an ancient hieroglyph I'm not sure what could have happened oh brain cells, where are you? there must have been an exodus not much that I can do All that's left is a sad refrain it's lonely being in my brain (Siri Espy is retired from the corporate world, where her publications included two books, numerous articles, and innumerable reports and bullet points. She has been published in Global Poemic, Sparks of Calliope, Persephone’s Daughters, The Society of Classical Poets, and Lighten Up Online. She is delighted to rediscover her creativity.) In praise of …..Mind – Less
The catch between the tick and tock Where time lapses Boundary free The page reverses Background foregrounds Words recede Spaciousness breathes Peace expands and illuminates Opens the flow Beingness radiates Clamours are subdued Healing rivulets Soothe and restores Unifies selves within (The Philosophical Pigeon fell to grace into poetry as a way of healing from mental health issues. Fascinated by life and all that jazz poetry is a liberating tool of expression. Content and style are eclectic and mirrors the multidimensional beauty of humanity.) One-Way Ticket
As hearts go, Mine is an easy one captured. And indeed, it will always be captured, By the uncertain hope of a one-way ticket. I heard it this morning, He manoeuvres heavy suitcases. His exertion manifests, In warm, sweaty breaths. “One-way ticket to Dublin”, he gasps, His breath fogs up the glass, misty eyes. Perhaps his bags were too heavy, That could be why. Or perhaps he is going to leave and never come home And to start a new life! This bus stops at the airport, And from there there’s the world, Unimaginably wide. There’s nowhere he couldn’t go, An infinity of bus stops are there, right out there! I’ve gotten a one-way ticket before, I came back of course, But when I decided to leave, I didn’t know when my return trip would be. I just went and then was, How exciting was that? And then I was stuck in an airless beige house, for a year and a half, (How exciting was that?) So I went on a voyage, And unearthed a new me, Spent long days, restless nights, Seeking, eking every bit of me out. Gave unloved parts love and untended parts care, Ugly parts too got compassion, Then I pruned them away and replaced them with roses. Slowly, slowly, but every day. I was bone-tired sad once, hated every small bit of the world, And especially me. And now I’m writing a poem as I sit on the bus, And I revel in peace, How exciting is that? I took a one-way trip, I am whole now, complete, I have reached Dublin Airport and here is the world, And there’s nowhere I cannot go. How exciting is that? (Emily is a young scientist from Donegal, Ireland. Completing her final year of university during a national lockdown took a significant toll on her already ailing mental health. This prompted her to seek medical attention for her depression. Over the past months, joy and abundance have returned to her life). The way we go
Were his eyes growing dim or was he already shedding, his once so solid mind crumbling like a leaf in autumn? I felt him reach and fumble, not quite finding me, though I myself hadn’t moved. Each time he tried to connect I got less of him until all that was left was a heap of rust. (Diana Devlin is a Scottish-Italian poet and fiction writer who formerly worked as a translator, lexicographer and teacher. Her work has been widely published and anthologised, for example in The Lake, The Blue Nib, The Poets' Republic, The Poet Magazine and Ink Sweat & Tears). THIS POEM REPLACES ALL PREVIOUS POEMS
So we're born and the rotting process can't wait to begin. Could be leukemia at three, car crash at eleven, overdose at twenty-one, AIDS at thirty, suicide at forty, heart attack at fifty... the doctors tell you none of this. Even if we stay clear of the big stuff, there's little acts of random decay happening all the time to our bodies. What can heart and mind do? Complaining gets them nowhere. Look around. Yes the deciduous forest mimics the process but it gets rebirth for all its troubles. Once human spring is behind us, there's no more spring. I'm a gangrened branch of a family tree. Arthritis is my joints' step-children. Dementia carries on my mind's forgotten name. Sure there's love but have you checked its EKG lately. I'm at another funeral. "Dead before his time," they mutter. But isn't death the only time? "In life there is death," intones the priest. Yes, and that's all there is. Okay, so I'm a pessimist. But I was born an optimist. More proof as if it was needed. (John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, “Leaves On Pages” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Lana Turner and International Poetry Review.) Choosing What to Say
I must have fritted away a dozen chores today, inattentive to their insistent need. I watched a stunned fly waver and die. Every word that needed to be said remains unsaid. There is luxury in entering the Stillness, quiet like the building of a bird’s nest. That silence tells me what I need to know. I’ve learned the value of completing tasks. When I was sixteen, a friend had a cardiac arrest, dying mid-sentence. At seventeen, I witnessed thousands die in Vietnam. At each death, a vacuum is created, and emptiness filled it. Nighttime swirls above my house, bringing every word that should have been said. I need to construct words like foundation stones, to use words that strengthen and console. (Martin Willitts Jr, edits the Comstock Review.. His 25 chapbooks include the Turtle Island Quarterly Editor’s Choice Award, “The Wire Fence Holding Back the World” (Flowstone Press, 2017), plus 21 full-length collections including Blue Light Award “The Temporary World”. His current book includes “Harvest Time” (Deerbrook Editions, 2021). |
The Beautiful Space-
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