The Sea

by Christian Ward

   
  Walking down the street, 
  I empty my pockets
  of the sea I was looking
  after for you. Mussels
  come tumbling first, 
  cracking open their castanet
  shells on the pavement.
  Acres of seaweed and oysters.
  Taking a deep breath, 
  I pour saltwater into the middle
  of the road. Islands of people
  and cars bob in the newly created sea.
  Somewhere amongst this
  is an old trawler. You are inside, 
  sending signals back to a lighthouse
  forgotten in a trouser pocket.
  
            

*Previously published in the Ballard Street Poetry Journal.

 

Moth

by Christian Ward

Landing on a photograph
of my father, it must have thought
the bulb of his scalp was a source
of light; just as for years I thought
the transmissions from his heart
was love.

*Previously published in Decanto

 

Christian Ward I am a 28 year old London based writers currently moonlighting as a freelance journalist. My poetry has appeared
in Diagram, The Kenyon Review, Word Riot, Cider Press Review, Poetry Salzburg Review and Denver Syntax amongst others.

 

 

 

Shadows

 by C.P.Stewart

 

                           Some people have gone.

 

                           You meet them every day.

 

                           Or, rather, you don’t.

 

                           They call; you stop.

                           You knew them once -

                           but, whoever they were,

                           they are no longer there.

 

                          Some people have gone

                           and thy will not be back.

 

                           The sun beats down upon the square.

 

                           You withdraw, in circles, checking your shadow.

 

 

*Previously published in Monkey Kettle Magazine ( U.K. )

C.P.Stewart lives with his family in North Yorkshire . Formerly singer/songwriter with the cult band Laughing Gravy, his poetry has been widely published in England, Canada and the United States . He is currently Poetry Editor for Sotto Voce Arts and Literary magazine (U.S. )

 

 

 

Writing Butterflies on the Wall

by Zachary Kluckman

 

She wrote butterflies in red letters
on the wall behind her bed.

Drew her name in black crayon
to see if the texture of stucco made it look velvet.

Closed her eyes one at a time,
blinking rapidly to fashion a sense of movement.

Better wished;
her silence a signal to whoever might be watching
that she was holding her breath.

Waiting for

someone

some eye catching hand gesture
or dropped roll of bread in the grocery store
to detail a direction
for wishes she read
in the bottom of her drawer
once all the notebooks were filled.

A casual catastrophe
waiting for the moment when the butterflies
on her wall could catch a ride on her breath.

 

*Previously appeared in Plain Spoke, Vol. 2, No. 1, Spring 2008.

 

Zachary Kluckman lives in a state of animated suspension in Albuquerque , where he publishes and produces poetry for television, page and stage. Kluckman is the Executive Director of the world’s first Slam Poet Laureate Program, as well as Executive Director of NM Poetry Tangents, the world’s only poetry advocacy agency. Known for his self-defined style and vivid imagery, he is also a poetry teacher and work-shop facilitator, poetry reviewer and contributing editor to several magazines and an actor. Past publications include the Dos Passos Review, Cutthroat and Plain Spoke among others. Kluckman, who has published and performed broadly, is currently hard at work on his new book, The Bone-Fly Files.

 

 

A small bird has flown into my chest

by Linda Albert

 

He flutters there;
trapped.
I swallow around twigs,
try to ignore the nest
mistakenly built
in my belly,
the planet's extra revolutions,
my limbs becoming lakes,
the helpless beaks,
the frozen sky.

My husband waits
for brain surgery
while all I can do
with my dizziness,
with the somersaults,
with the frantic bird,
is to hold as still as possible,
eyes fixed on the horizon,
and pray not to fall.

 

*Previously published in Borderlines Vol. II Literary Anthology, a publication of the University of Portsmouth, United Kingdom, Summer 2008. 

Linda Albert is a corporate trainer and personal communication and life coach with a Master Certification in Neuro-Linguistics. A lifelong member of the theatrical community, Linda has acted and professionally directed as well as worked on play adaptations.  An author and poet, her academic essays, creative fiction and non-fiction short stories and poems have appeared in many publications, including McCalls Magazine and The Wall Street Journal. Among Linda's awards are the Olivet and Dyer-Ives Foundation Poetry Prizes and her manuscript, “Helping to Chart a Lost Continent”, has received nods from both Poet’s Corner and Black Lawrence presses.  She is a recipient of the International Merit Award in Atlanta Review's 2007 International Poetry Competition. Linda resides in the United States at Longboat Key, Florida with her husband.  Visit her online at www.lindaalbert.net

 

 

In Passing

by James Keane

So have you wondered lately
where the turtles we buried
have gone to? I have
for some reason. In this timid season
of budding discontent (as memory
skulks away to pettier days, when
concern loomed heavily mainly over my pleasure, my
food and my rent), suddenly I remember:
In summer, the couples strolling by cannot know
that we ourselves could happen by and not know
where the turtles finally, somewhere, settled in a somber
December of coffin brown, cradled by the one stream left to
trickle from the season when the park was leafy wet,
and we screamed each other down. So, night years away, do you

hanker and sway at all for the sunnier days, plinking
atop a concrete wall? Or still
consider them – as you cried out then –
“My babies!”? Or did you bury
yourself in the yawning gape of seasons stretched endlessly,
relentlessly between us, where others I’ve known have
settled comfortably in crypts of upholstered poison,
leather and chrome? I hope you haven’t decided for yourself to
uncover any last-known graves. If you should
want to, let me save you. Cradle you. Kiss your face again
in a warming cup. Wait till green grass or yellow leaves return to discover
love left for buried with the brown and the stream
and the turtles. Or forget I ever dug any of this dead stuff up.

 

*Originally published in the Fall 2004 issue of the online poetry magazine,
Half Drunk Muse, then in the Fall 2006 issue of the print publication,
the Tipton Poetry Journal.

 

James Keane resides in northern New Jersey with his wife and son and a menagerie of merry pets. His poems have appeared in The Tipton Poetry Journal, Mississippi Crow, Taj Mahal Review, Southern Ocean Review, Gold Dust, Sage Trail, Mirrors, and the Silver Boomers anthology Freckles to Wrinkles. He was the Featured Poet in the August 2007 edition of Contemporary American Voices.

 

 

 

PICKING UP OLD VIETNAMESE WOMAN FROM DIALYSIS

by David Allen Bright

 

 

A small shadow appears through the glass
Moving slowly, haltingly
Bent over tired from hours on The Machine
And the weight of a hard life
A larger, more upright shadow waves goodbye
The nurses are compassionate here
As all should be
A feeble tap on the big blue button and the doors chug open
To reveal a lone figure
Red quilted parka in summer heat
Canvas bag with blanket inside
He gently takes her arm
Towers over her like a skyscraper as they inch along side by side
Looks down upon thinning gray hair
And leathery wrinkled skin
But her dark eyes are bright
Her face a grateful smile
She murmurs something he cannot understand
Probably hello or thank you
Were you VC he wants to ask
Were you VC did you shoot at us
Did you boobytrap us did you kill us
Did I pay you five dollars to lay with me
Did I pay your daughter your fifteen year old daughter
Or your mother or the ghosts of your ancestors
He holds the taxi door as if she were his own mother
Unlike his mother she does not speak but waits calmly
Five dollars five dollars! is all he gets for this run
Half for rent minus gas equals nothing
But it is not empty charity
It is not empty charity because in his heart he knows it is right

Small children swarm from the neat suburban home and surround her
Tug at her arms, dance around her
Chattering in delight as the rhythmic language takes him back
Thank you she says, louder this time and her eyes shine bright
Overseeing it all from atop the stairs is
An older man dressed in polite clothing
With the bearing of a colonel or general an enemy officer perhaps
But now simply the husband of a brave dying woman
And patriarch of a happy clan
He smiles and holds his hand up in a form of salute as if to say
All is forgiven my friend
All is forgiven.

 

*Originally published in flashquake.

David Bright has also published short stories in The Rose & Thorn, Artisan, The Scrivener's Pen, The Iconoclast, and elsewhere.

 

 

 

in Perspective

by Nabina Das

Earlier it was mile-long street-corner speeches
Popcorns peppered with stinging remarks

Holding hands standing close behind the bustle
Listening to arguments acrid as boiling oil

Partying after elders went home to sleep
Smoking, rehearsing lines for street plays

Riding a rickety bike through the outskirts of
Towns seen on TV - now cindered, broken

Lovemaking endlessly, sleeping in, sharing
News and rumors about paramilitary in town

How they called after lonely girls, after school
Clicked their guns, exhibited silly manliness

Before the cameras and boom mikes it was nice
Every one called every one a friend, at least once

Nagaon, Baramullah, Imphal had weekend markets
Veggies, flowers, knick-knacks people loved

Before insurgency, every one got happy and drunk
Now they have closed tea-shops fearing bombs

Clothes dried in the sun before threats were heard,
No one walks or plays in those courtyards now

Newspapers quote: ‘Things seemed calmer before’
And we wonder if they’re still stunned like the dead.

 

*Originally published in THE CARTIER STREET REVIEW (Editor: Bernard Alain).

 

Nabina Das lives two lives, shuttling between Ithaca, NY, and Delhi, India. Her short story “Tara Goes Home” has been selected to appear in a winning collection of fiction by writers from India as well as around the world (Mirage Books). Her poetry is featured in Kritya poetry journal, Lit Up Magazine, The Toronto Quarterly, Quay Journal, Liberated Muse anthology, The Cartier Street Review, Sheher anthology (Frog Books), and Muse India. A recent poetry commentary also appears in Kritya. A winner of the 2008 Book Pitch Contest at Kala Ghoda Literary Festival in Bombay, Nabina is also a 2007 Joan Jakobson Fiction Scholar from Wesleyan Writers’ Conference, Wesleyan University, CT., and a 2007 Julio Lobo Fiction Scholar from Lesley Writers’ Conference, Lesley College, Cambridge, Mass. Nabina was Assistant Metro Editor with The Ithaca Journal, Ithaca, NY, and has worked as a journalist and media person in India for about 10 years in places as diverse as Tehelka.com, Down To Earth environmental magazine, Confederation of Indian Industries, National Foundation for India and The Sentinel newspaper. She has published several articles, commentaries and essays during her tenures and continues to freelance. An M.A. in Linguistics from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi, her other interests are theater, film and music. Formally trained in Indian classical music, Nabina has performed on the radio, television and in theater productions in India.

 

 

 

Departure

by Anthony Kendrick

 

China
off in the mist
the pacific between, --
undulating blue-green seas wave
good-bye.

 

 

*Published in Amaze: The Cinquain Journal September 2007( on-line journal) and 2007 print Amaze Cinquain Anthology.

Anthony Kendrick is a graduate of Western Governors University with a BA in Education. He is currently working as a technical librarian in Somerset, Pennsylvania. He has been published in The Daily American, Expressions, Amaze: The Cinquain Journal, and Spokenwar.

 

 

 

 

*Previously published in Snow Monkey