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

 

 

Twisted

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?

 

Tonight

on these sheets we purchased

we may meet for the first time

wide eyed

ready

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

cautious

Gingerly requesting so little

 

You fit into the tiniest space I have ever seen

 

Feels like I could take you anywhere

Like

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

 

A Poem by Lance Sheridan

night into day/goodnight till the morning sun

night into day

him¦

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

she¦

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: 

http://deadheadingpoet.wordpress.com/ *read the 'About' page. Poet Interview on November 8, 2012 by a Salisbury University Journalism Major. 

A Poem by Marilyn "Misky" Braendeholm

GIN AND LIME

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 http://miskmask.wordpress.com and Misky Cooks at http://miskcooks.com

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, http://makingwordshappen.blogspot.com.

A Poem by Marilyn "Misky" Braendeholm

WHEN YOU LEAVE I SHALL NEVER…

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 http://miskmask.wordpress.com and Misky Cooks at http://miskcooks.com