STONEHENGE
Here where the wind imbues life within stone,
I once stood
and watched as the tempest made monuments groan:
as if blood
boiled within them.
Here where the Druids stood charting the stars
I can tell
they longed for the heavens ... perhaps because
hell
boiled beneath them?
Michael R. Burch’s poems have been published by hundreds of literary journals, taught in high schools and colleges, translated into fourteen languages, incorporated into three plays and two operas, and set to music by seventeen composers.
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THE DOERS OF THAT
We very rarely do this
for we are the doers of that,
we are almost impossible to kiss
and we wear incredible hats.
Yes, we are the doers of that,
we tease whoever we please,
we hiss at bees high in the trees
and wheeze at inedible cats.
To be a good doer of that
it helps to swap fleas with things
or flit and flap like a cricket bat
that has suddenly sprouted wings.
Our bicycles are truly organic
with bold noses mostly titanic,
mighty big sneezes plus sea breezes
will trundle us along in a panic.
But rather diffuse are our ears,
they operate best in low gears,
when listening uphill they thrill
to the trill of squirrels drunk on beers.
Soft are the beds we lie on,
their shapes based on dandelions,
slick are the knees that we freeze
in cold teas and biscuity their caps.
For we are the doers of that
and inordinately proud of the fact.
Yes, we are the doers of that,
expressionless and very abstract.
TWO DETECTIVE INSPECTORS
The fox said to the owl
“When it came to
choosing a career
most of my options were defective.
I wanted something proactive
so I was very selective
and decided to become a detective
because murder most fowl
sounded very attractive.”
“I too joined the police
for gustatory reasons,” replied the bird,
“and now I do battle against
gangs who shoot, stab and smother.
To be perfectly candid
I am always enthralled
when we catch them red-handed
and the perpetrators rat on each other.”
THE RHYME AND THE MIME
The rhyme and the mime were friends
but drove each other
round the bend, taking it in turns.
They never learned!
And in the hay one day
one rolled around until he was far away
and the other was irate:
too late to berate the fate of his mate!
Which was the unfortunate explorer?
Was it the quiet mime
or was it the rhyme with perfect time
twanging in a corner?
Obviously it was the mime, otherwise
logic is endangered
and strangers who range on the plain
will dissolve in rain.
The rhyme and the mime are laughing
with their little faces,
eyes of the mime, sequins bright: those
of the rhyme, lower case.
Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.
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THE SOUND OF RAIN
The way it makes everything
inside seem dry
and yet vulnerable.
Lovers love the rain.
But to the lonely it hurts,
like withheld tears.
Strange, the present
and cyclical passage
of time: this rain now.
It dies. For an instant
aware you say, “It’s stopped.”
Cautiously, as if a hazard.
Listening to the rain
in pajamas,
eyeballs tired from reading,
Outlasts the sleeper
who wakes, wonders,
“Has it rained?”
SYLLABLES
She only sings four syllables
but that doesn’t irritate me. Because
I say the same words
over and over: “We’re together.”
CIRCLE OF CLOUDS
Clouds are circling fast
come in from the coast
and the blue makes
the cold less cold
but you went away
in the middle of the night
rolled away on a bus
all day inland
you’ve been gone longer than you said
a man without sleep
is like a man dead
I see everything gray
though the clouds have been pushed
by some invisible oar
I won’t feel it
till you come through that door
David Francis has produced seven music albums, Always/Far: a chapbook of lyrics and drawings, and Poems from Argentina (Kelsay Books). He has written and directed the films, Village Folksinger (2013) and Memory Journey (2018). He lives in New York City.
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COLOURED ROOFS
a storm visited the area yesterday
all the houses were roofless
as the tins were blown away
to the fields
the people
hid under anything they could find
in their moment of desperation
the next day, the officials came
for inspection of the area
they marked the houses
by the colour of the roof
saffron-- fifty nine
green-- forty
one month later
all the saffron roofed houses
got a message on their phones
“Your bank account xxyyzzzz have been credited
with 50,000 only”
whereas the green roofs
just imagined what it would be like
to live in a saffron roofed house.
Sutputra Radheyeis a young poet from India. He has published two poetry collections — Worshipping Bodies (Notion Press) and Inqalaab on the Walls (Delhi Poetry Slam). His works are reflective of the society he lives in and tries to capture the marginalised side of the story.
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A CONCERT ON THE BAY
Debussy’s Dialogue of Wind and Sea
Flows from the shell.
The water in the bay reflects the setting sun.
A lone seagull soars smoothly above the crowd.
The dialogue is muted, the wind a gentle breeze.
The low rumble of the engine on an outgoing fishing boat blends with the timpani.
We are transported from the realities of the world.
The music and the bay have achieved their raison d’état.
There are two harps, Two!
Everyone watches the big screens.
The conductor becomes physically involved – emotionally.
His hair flows with the excitement of the music.
The air is chilled, moist, flowing across the audience.
A Sea-doo race ends; there is a clear winner.
The music, the magic ends with an explosion of applause.
We leave changed slightly, better.
The dialogue encompasses much more than the wind and sea.
Dialogue between Wind and Sea by Debussy (1862-1918)
Ron Pickett is a retired naval aviator with over 250 combat missions and 500 carrier landings. His 90-plus articles have appeared in numerous publications. He enjoys writing fiction and has published five books: Perfect Crimes – I Got Away with It, Discovering Roots, Getting Published, EMPATHS, and Sixty Odd Short Stories.
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QUIETLY
Roses do not speak,
But spread sweet scents.
Cool calm lakes
Cast lasting spells.
High in the air,
Eagles fly.
Without a whisper,
Rainbows appear in the sky.
Quietly the sun rises.
Leaves grow on trees.
Stars shine in darkness,
Rocks stand against the roaring seas.
Quietly the moon shines,
Inspiring songs which the world sings.
And quietly the braves soar
Despite their wounded wings
Ashok Suri is a retiree and is settled with his family in Mumbai. He tries to convey in simple words what he wants to say.
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7 BLOCKS
7 blocks from an untenable position,
the boys in the service fill sandbags,
pack them high as the walls of the
county courthouse.
6 blocks of freshly paved roads,
the fowler’s avian arms outstretched
like the masts of barnacled boats
in the shallow harbour.
5 blocks is a fair distance for laboured breathers,
a peace offering in a brown paper bag,
the smell of the tobacconist’s all through
my clothes and peerless smoke signal mind.
4 blocks where the cramps set in,
I was once a young man:
sinewy, bothered, flooded as basement
apartments during the rainy season.
3 blocks of office tower stairwells,
long lines for all the food trucks,
enough polished shoes to never bang
on greasy thrift shop windows again.
2 blocks from a joint decision,
all that sobbing and tears over the phone,
switching ears with an impatient receiver.
1 block of small boutiques,
the chocolatier with crushed nuts over everything,
not a mother in sight nor strollered
push cart child.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Borderless Journal, GloMag, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.
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ROSE PETALS IN A DARK ROOM
I’m but a poet of this ministry,
rose petals in a dark room fall.
Everyone’s life is a conflict.
But mine is mastery of light and neon night
and I walk behind
these footsteps of no one.
RAIN
In the rain,
this thunder
on his way home,
he rebelled.
He a disco dancer,
High school dropout.
DECEMBER HOLIDAYS
December 24th
I find footprints
in this snow,
yours frozen,
with our
broken dreams.
Michael Lee Johnson is a poet, freelance writer, amateur photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, DuPage County, Illinois. Mr. Johnson is published in more than 2033 new publications. His poems have appeared in 42 countries; he edits and publishes ten poetry sites.
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Throughout the year, sunflowers bloomed.
The sunflowers opened petals even when the frosts formed,
Even if the snow fell, the flowers would bloom.
The flowers used to be the bread and hope for the people,
Used to be the silent landscape and peaceful pictures of the country.
It was on the day when the snows fell heavily.
The flower fields were burned to ashes with fierce flames.
Citizens escaped desperately from collapsed apartments.
The cannon smoke gushed out like the curse of devils.
Nightmares became the daily routine there.
Deaths spread like mysterious diseases in the cities.
The screaming snowflakes and the cries of sunflowers
Tore at the tranquillity of the earth and sky.
Streams of blood flowed from the heart of Mariupol and the
limbs of Donbas.
Now the red river of cruel history flows across the world.
The sunflowers always bloomed -- even on snowy days,
but now the blood waters flow across the lands.
The flower fields are filled with cries.
Golden sunflowers! Bloom brightly again like peace in the land of Ukraine.
Ihlwha Choi is a South Korean poet. He has published multiple poetry collections, such as Until the Time, When Our Love will Flourish, The Color of Time, His Song and The Last Rehearsal.
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ON THE BANKS OF THE BLUE RIVER
(After Mei Yaochen* )
A goose floats on the river,
so near I can almost touch him.
In an ugly mood, he honks at me.
It’s what he has to say.
On this wind-blown day,
leaves fall, denuding the trees.
I can’t see that wind,
but I feel its chilling breeze.
We only know what
we can see. But who sees
the atoms in a cup of tea?
Life is a brief fantasy.
Fat clouds drift insouciantly,
then disappear. The river
wanders ambiguously,
until it’s finally swallowed
by a distant sea. I gaze
at it with querulous eyes,
And see confusion,
but that is only me.
and I’m just a momentary illusion.
*Mei Yaochen (1002-1060) Poet of the Song Dynasty
George Freek’s poetry has recently appeared in The Ottawa Arts Review, Acumen, The Lake, The Whimsical Poet, Triggerfish and Torrid Literature.
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Borderless 