A Poem by Denny E. Marshall

Later Tonight
She is not the first woman
That has told me good-bye
She is the first one
I still dream of
And pretend she is mine


Denny E. Marshall has had poetry recently published and rejected.

A Poem by James Owens

Lost

But how could I have

returned to you?

How? When

the memory

of fingertips

still burned my face

like bars of sunlight

falling heavily

through autumn shadows,

and behind ordinary

things the colors

of the world

were memories

of the angels’ touch?

I am trying to speak.

I couldn't return ---

not with this desire

shivering in me like a drenched

child. This longing

for a breath

to tear me open.

This lust that will

slice me into color.

I didn't speak. I turned

from you. I drifted

into the trees. I saw

the lovers kiss, and they

fell into each other

and blew away, sand

on the ancient wind,

turning deeper

into the blue wind

and the sky

and the sky

and the sky

 

 

 

James Owens divides his time between Wabash, Ind., and Northern Ontario. Two books of his poems have been published: An Hour is the Doorway (Black Lawrence Press) and Frost Lights a Thin Flame (Mayapple Press). His poems, reviews, translations, and photographs have appeared widely in literary journals, including recent or upcoming publications in The Cortland Review, The Cresset, Poetry Ireland, and The Chaffey Review. He blogs at http://circumstanceandmagic.blogspot.com

A Poem by Nicole Yurcaba

Objectified

the dynamics shifted in your favor

so that you could spill your thick ink onto my unlined pages,

exposing half-truthed confidences between my spread-open covers.

you creased me, broke me at my well-stitched, leather-bound spine.

eventually you tore, ripped, shredded my corners.

how could i--the diary whose pages you gently fingered--ever have fallen into abused disarray?

Reach into the Darkness and Feel

stretch your blood-licked hand to grasp the glass

shards littering the rain-kissed asphalt--

remnants of a wreck formerly known as "Love".

and as I lie motionless, glassy-eyed, concussed,

I'll forgive myself for inadvertently jerking the steady wheel

from your guiding, all-knowing hand;

headlong-sending us into a guardrail disguised as "Reality".

Nicole Yurcaba is a backwoods feminist hailing from West Virginia. Her childhood icons were Daniel Boone, Bettie Page and Rosie the Riveter. An adjunct instructor, farm hand, and substitute teacher, her work has been published in a multitude of places including Referential Magazine, VoxPoetica, Rolling Thunder Quarterly, The Literary Burlesque, Floyd County  Moonshine, and many others.

Two Poems by Sarah Flint

Your Eyes

You believe your eyes shine light

And that no one can be blind to you

You believe your head touches the stars

And millions are left behind you in the clouds

Where they ought to be

No one can touch your heights of aloofness.

You believe your words are the choicest

And rarest of jewels

Only you can have the last one

And it will always be the best and most precise.

You are ablaze with your self-belief

It sits in you like a fat toad

Or a yapping dog

It is undeniably persistent.

I look for my reflection in your eye

Finding none my soul shrinks

Away from your bright bluster

And moves towards a gentler and softer light.

Look into my eye and tell me

what you see in your blindness.

Speak your truth

Your words were like a singing

Stream in the cwm.

Bubbling ,swirling, ceaseless.

They tickled me. They were fresh.

Your words were like a

Sell-by date passed.

Stale, sour, wasteful.

They bored me. They annoyed.

Your words are a sickness

Ready to infect.

Foul. Obnoxious. Toxic.

They poison me. They make me speechless.

My words were like a freshly

Formed butterfly.

Carefree. Colourful. Simple.

They empowered me. They danced with yours.

My words were like a cornered rat

Down a hole.

Aggressive. Uneasy. Ready to run.

They screamed. Then they hid.

My words are like gold dust

Cupped in the palm of my hand.

Precious. Pure. Honest.

I show you a fist.

Sarah Flint has been trying to put words into good order for a while. Originally writing about all things green and horticultural she now has had success in the world of poetry and flash fiction. She has been runner up in the Scottish Mountaineering Council poetry competition for 2 years running and is a regular contributor to The Pygmy Giant.

Three Poems by James Owens

a thousand encounters in the sky

i used 

to wonder 

why i never 

meet people 

like me

lying alone 

on the hot roof,

watching clouds

merge and part

i understood --

it’s because 

they are like me

there were 

clouds 

the next day

too

and the next

 

 

 

abandoned house, manitoulin island, ontario

she was a doorframe

she was the window in his blood

she breathed slowly by the sink

and thought of a tree in bloom

a warmth in her thighs

against the snow of the day

sunlight quavered in a bowl of water

he held the phrase matrimonial privacy

a mouthful of nails to hammer a stair toward the bedroom

winters later

he curls no larger than a loaf of bread

under strips of wallpaper

mewling for home

 

 

 

late in the year

shelterless bird song

floats through rain,

darkens clouds

still, you can find me

the dandelions I dedicated to you

shine in wet grass

*

like young girls, one after another,

trembling --

each skittish tree

lights and rustles 

under the sky’s

reckless caress

*

still in the mind of the beloved

the leaf is trembling

green on the black branch

even after

this sky swallowed

the winter wind

 

 

 

James Owens divides his time between Wabash, Ind., and Northern Ontario. Two books of his poems have been published: An Hour is the Doorway (Black Lawrence Press) and Frost Lights a Thin Flame (Mayapple Press). His poems, reviews, translations, and photographs have appeared widely in literary journals, including recent or upcoming publications in The Cortland Review, The Cresset, Poetry Ireland, and The Chaffey Review.  He blogs athttp://circumstanceandmagic.blogspot.com

Two Poems by Maurice Devitt

Vanishing Point

In the faint shake of evening
you pick a thread
from my new blue suit
fidget silently
with the syllables
of a name or a face
whisper nothing
that will matter
in the retold history
of our lives --
when you step away
I see for the first time
that the suit is too tight.

 

 

Leaving

 

Her zipped bag

is on the bed

and she is trying

with words

to reach out

one last time.

He is studying

a luggage tag

and thinking

how sticky the handle will be

when she tears it off.

 

 

 

Maurice Devitt is a graduate of the Poetry Studies MA at Mater Dei, he has just been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and was runner-up in the Cork Literary Review Manuscript Competition. Earlier in 2012 he was short-listed for the Listowel Writers’ Week Poetry Collection Competition, placed third in The Joy of Sex competition and long-listed for the Doire Press Chapbook Competition. During 2011 he was short-listed for both the Fish Poetry prize and the Cork Literary Review Manuscript Competition, and was also runner-up in the Phizzfest poetry competition. Over the past twelve months he has had poems accepted by Orbis, Abridged, Moloch, Revival, Boyneberries, Paraxis, Weary Blues, thefirstcut, Spinoza Blue, The Galway Review, Other Words: Merida, Stony Thursday, Ofi Press, Bluepepper, The Weekenders and Smiths Knoll and is looking to publish a first collection.

Three Poems by Miki Byrne

Trophy Wife.

When the jagged edges of your life cut me to slivers

and the depths of your pre-occupation drowned me

in their chill. I feebly staunched the wounds.

Till all I was lay splattered and you dipped your fingers

into what I was. You daubed yourself in war-paint

from the palette of my love. Drew the warriors mask

upon you. Then left me torn and bleeding as you carried

my heart away. A trophy on your belt. I bumped against

your thigh as you strode like an invader through my life.

I meant no more in captivity than I had in the chase.

When we Argued in Public. 

 

That night, the air shattered,

when you hurled your words through it.

I bloodied my feet trying to walk away.

With the shards of your lies

stuck like thorns in my skin.

Other people put their days in glasses

and settled into the armchair hours.

Conversation shoaled about us.

Yet I could not speak because your comments

filled my mouth. You thought that I

was adorned in embarrassment

and would not take my clothes off in public.

Anger was my evening meal that night

and I ate till I was sated.

Let its nourishment form a new skin

over the places you had touched.

Made it pad out my feeble arms with muscle

and give strength to my trembling thighs.

I became a colossus. Stepped over you.

and left you as desert for the hungry crowd.

Dining Gaffe.

Conversation ebbs and flows.

Equal emphasis from each person.

Cornered around a laden table.

Words are swapped. Vocal tennis.

Mixed doubles cheered on by a good dinner.

Then one becomes competitive.

Sees her happy with another.

Breaks the unsaid rule of table talk.

Hits a verbal volley, painful in its speed.

His opposite is taken down.

Precariously rocked by the unexpected swipe.

Hurt by the probe of questions too deep for etiquette.

Dislikes the hard thump of intrusion. She sits.

Held uncomfortably in place.

Unable to disrupt the social balance.

As she becomes the butt her partner sits mystified.

A subtle shift has trembled through the room.

They rise to leave. Give cool thanks.

Yet burn with the building warmth of anger.

 

 

 

 

Miki is the author of two poetry collections. She has had work included in over 120 poetry magazines and anthologies. She has won prizes for her poetry and has read on both Radio and TV and judged poetry competitions. She has a BA (Hons.) in 3D Design and a PGCE. Her new collection ‘Flying Through Houses’ will be available from Indigo Dreams Press in 2013. Miki is disabled and lives in Gloucestershire, England