Thursday, November 29, 2012

Three Poems by Phil Barnes

Unrelated Events
And then my heart was frozen
To the point of non-existent spring
But behind my eyes I bubbled and hissed with passion that both sickened and quickened me
The noise was alarming to passersby, who made wide circles around the pretty thing writhing on the concrete.
A few threw change
And it stacked up around me like a tiny little wall making the separation between us brilliant and more profound.
I tried uselessly to synch the madness growing inside me with the relatively ridiculous chain of unrelated events
Cause you left
Cause she left
Cause he left
Cause I left
Knowing that nothing this perverse could be that simply simple
The Imp
And your face and the silence and the war
because of course there is always a war.
And the wet heat of your chest against my back and the evenness of your breath
because of course you’re always even(which makes our arrangement comical)
And the plain way your love is so free and mine is like spikes sticking through my palms tearing my skin, tearing your skin, tearing…
And the shit grin on my face and the sun and its mocking and the people and their aha’s and your persistence and the fact that day always has to follow night even when you’d rather not and the burning fucking burning fucking burning fucking burning and your face and the peace or the piece and the truth and the unfilled space and the lack of air and the pain and the beating in my head and the loneliness and the charade and the hook and the moment and the need and my lines and she’s gone and I’m tired and its futile and the push and the drive and my twisted insides and the seed and the quiet that isn’t quiet just loud in another way and the weight under which I can barely move.
And your hand on my hair and your soft and timed strokes, careful so as not to rouse the dark imp in me
and me gnawing at my own insides
and of course the war
Around the corner
on a mattress filled with tears and tasteless excuses not to try
lies who I was before you
you see it
smell it even
but act as if it exists not
Who wouldn’t respect you for that?
on these sheets we purchased
we may meet for the first time
wide eyed
speaking nothing of what we know
brandishing our combined filth like if only we had neon
I can’t really see you
but I can hear you just fine
and sometimes
when you and I
have luck on your side
I can feel you
Always feet first
Gingerly requesting so little
You fit into the tiniest space I have ever seen
Feels like I could take you anywhere
what you think
you need
and what you request
will have such a gap between them
that I can build a shelter big enough to hold my woe
And it will go unnoticed
This may be the perfect combination

Tuesday, November 27, 2012

A Poem by Lance Sheridan

night into day/goodnight till the morning sun

night into day


innumerable stars written in light
i often dream that the night is more alive
as it walks down the sky with darkness in its hand
and what I take from it I add to my days¯

silently, one-by-one from its twilight meadows
i cannot walk through the suburbs of solitude 
without reverencing the night
for it helps to banish the logic of humanity¯

to them never a time yet but seemed far duller than the day
how long will the night continue to window their pain
dreams reflected in the day but not in the night
blackened illustrations nonetheless, sleeping while awake¯

second course – the death of reasons, ordinarily observed
in the night – insomnia, a symptom of deprivation
filled with paradoxes – they sheep flock to it with reluctance
the repose of my night, my dreams, my sleep – do not belong to it¯

it does not possess me, it is not my soul’s keeper
yet it does not boast of freedom
it walks down an inoffensive path removing all obstructions
in a world of my own, a good night’s sleep is the best oblivion¯

a new day twists the arm of the night and bades it farewell
like a weary pilgrim, it unlatches the dawn
and it chases away the darkness and the weary worn
everything takes a breath of the morning air, but not to ‘err is human’¯

for in the morning dew, the little things in life are awakened…

goodnight till the morning sun


walking upon white sands
imprisoned by thoughts and narrow walls
that hold no comfort within right now¯

walking beneath the sun
yes warm
but feel embraced by the coldness¯

as hands touch loneliness
down on hands and knees i go
to touch the warmth once more¯

but through clouds of smoke
i search for you
and the sun¯

oh hear my voice upon the ocean
within your dreams
till the morning sun appears¯

and as sunshine warms your face
open your eyes in joy
and know my thoughts are with you¯

but for now i am walking
walking upon white sands
imprisoned by narrow walls¯

thoughts hold no comfort
as I walk beneath the sun
upon white sands within a dream¯

as I say goodnight though
my heart belongs to you
till the morning sun¯
Lance Sheridan is a published author-Bits and Pieces to Ponder; published poet - in an anthology; have been writing poetry since 2002. Website: *read the 'About' page. Poet Interview on November 8, 2012 by a Salisbury University Journalism Major. 

Saturday, November 10, 2012

A Poem by Marilyn "Misky" Braendeholm


She staggered
perfumed of gin and lime
toward stoic
candlelight – All that
remained, all that
was left of her plans
for unrestrained romance.

Marilyn 'Misky' Braendeholm lives in the UK surrounded by flowers, grapevines, bubbling pots of sourdough starter, bottles of fermenting vinegar, a Springer Spaniel, and a small camera that she keeps in her pocket. She never buys clothing without pockets.
Misky’s poetry and flash fiction are at and Misky Cooks at

Wednesday, November 7, 2012

A Poem by Victoria Fryer

Really Coming

I remember watching you
Stepping out of the shower with
Nothing on but a towel
Barely held up your narrow hips.
Your skin looked warm,
Your hair dripped wet.
It almost hurt to look.

The hurt is different now, with no reward in sight.

I have the urgency of old
Women on their knees,
Praying to God for what could be.
The unencumbered flow of their tears.
The beating of their breasts--
I miss you like that.

Like the old devotees who
Receive the stigmata,
I think I could wake up and
Bleed from every pore you touched.
I feel about you like that.

Where do I put you now?
Where do I sew myself up to keep you out?
Where do I let my wounds gape to leave room for you?

In heavy and blinding black habit
I would fall down, rub
Symbols of you between my fingers.
I would live a constant prayer to you,
Waiting for your great return
If you could assure me that

Like Jesus, or not like Jesus,
You are really coming.

Victoria Fryer lives in north-central Pennsylvania with her husband and two pit bulls, and writes to stay sane. She has work forthcoming in the anthology Open Doors 2: Fractured Fairy Tales from Wayman Publishing. You can find out more about her at her blog,

Friday, November 2, 2012

A Poem by Marilyn "Misky" Braendeholm


Fall to pieces,
A house of hearts deconstructed.
Nor shall I weep, no, not a trickle, I’ll
Dance as you waltz away.
Nor shall I deprive myself
Of joyous sleep,
Even though my eyes be saddened,
Stricken and smutted with tearful grief.
Trust me; I’ll dance as you waltz away.

Marilyn 'Misky' Braendeholm lives in the UK surrounded by flowers, grapevines, bubbling pots of sourdough starter, bottles of fermenting vinegar, a Springer Spaniel, and a small camera that she keeps in her pocket. She never buys clothing without pockets.
Misky’s poetry and flash fiction are at and Misky Cooks at