4/2/2019 3 Comments Poetry by Nicholas TrandahlSTANDING ON THE SIDE OF A MOUNTAIN Late autumn dusk. I am surrounded by the quiet of dead things. Winter claws at the edges. Creaking ponderosas-- tall and black against the overcast sky. Darkness is the oldest thing in the universe-- I watch in silence as it swallows the whole mountain. THE MORNING MARY DIED dedicated to Mary Oliver Dawn-- soft and pink. A deer walks from the frosty trees and wades out into the North Platte. Geese float nearby. She’s already gone by the time I drive over the bridge. Her white soul takes flight into the radiant morning colors like a great silent heron. The winter sunrise breaks over the cold darkness of the prairie. HONEY GIN A bedroom window brightens with silver-grey morning light. Winter’s almost over. When the thaw arrives, I’ll stretch with the tall pines. I’ll take greedy swallows of April and May-- ethereal and fragrant honey gin. I’ll leave my boot prints behind me, in the mud of the trail, and you’ll know I’m somewhere alone on the mountain-- free and happy. Nicholas Trandahl is an Army veteran, poet, outdoorsman, journalist, and traveler. A member of WyoPoets and the Bearlodge Writers, he finds inspiration in new adventures, nature, good books, and the understated beauty of everyday life. Trandahl lives in Wyoming with his wife and daughters. Trandahl’s poetry collections are published by Winter Goose Publishing, and his poems have also appeared in various journals, anthologies, and compilations.
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4/2/2019 0 Comments The Big Nothing by T.A Young Judd McCullum CC
The Big Nothing The world killed him My brother, that is. Heroin will be made the cause. Cowards, liars, hypocrites. Failed school. Stupid. Inattentive. Worked from fifteen, moving lumber, Living in a trailer sitting on blocks, Wood for windows, a cooler for a refrigerator. Sitting on a milk crate, he’d smoke and flick the butts at a tree trunk or aim them at a KFC bucket holding rain water from an ancient rain. As easily as his parents Our parents Lost him, heroin found him. In his twenty-three years, he never knew a moment’s happiness. His parents Our parents Our parents Turned away from him To embrace me. To hold me. Who was I? Smaller, younger, taught to smile, taught to I would see him once or twice a month. He lived in PA most of the time, Just over the border. I would spot him a fifty. For food. Or beer. Or cigarettes. Or rent. I knew what for, really. The world killed him, my brother. My mother said it was “merciful,” his death. My father said he never had a chance. Broken from the beginning. I, too, am dead, now. Those arrows went through both of us. Once, when I popped him a few twenties, he gripped my hand. God forgive me for ever letting go. T.A. Young's poetry appeared in the October 2018 issue of Anti-Heroin Chic. He lives and works in New York City. 4/2/2019 0 Comments Poetry by Luke Kuzmish David Clow CC Chris Chris is a poet short stature and kinda permanently sad but not seeking any medication any quick fix because I don’t think he sees the world or himself as broken, as needing to be fixed he fishes and smokes light menthols when he can and he shares what he can even when he can’t Chris is a sparrow pecking rocks in front of St. Patrick’s anxious not about death but about returning to a place he’s not sure he has ever been. wooden teeth just like mom said they would I didn’t brush my teeth & they rotted & fell out of my head food just isn’t the same when you have wooden teeth and a vague guilt about not learning a lesson or caring enough to recognize a blessing Luke Kuzmish is a new father, recovering addict, software developer, and writer. He was born and raised in Erie, Pennsylvania. His work has been featured by Dope Fiend Daily, Octopus Review, Beatnik Cowboy, Poets’ Hall Press, Rye Whiskey Review, Ink Sweat and Tears, and Transcendent Zero Press. He will be featured by Rigg Welter and Mojave River Review later this year. His first full-length poetry collection, “Little Hollywood,” was published by Alien Buddha Press in 2018. http://lukekuzmish.com/ 4/2/2019 0 Comments Poetry by David BanksonChartreuse as a Feeling I regret, like coiled flowers I burst when loosed, but the loosing is part of who I am. I could never stop that sort of liquid: a river rushing through my teeth, rushing through my veins, leaving an imprint on the memory-foam mattress, crusted with a coat of flesh where I used to lay my heart. It's the voice of second-person recognizing my fervent thoughts-- You aren't good enough for the love which you seek. I regret, therefore I am salt in a potted plant. It is vined like pothos, dropping leaves between the floorboards as they yellow and fall away. I look for every one. But you swear you heard the weeping willows outside my gaping door. They sucked away the entire sky, leaving nothing but chartreuse. Cyclical a blade's growing tells or rainbow sky or midnight blue which of many coalescing veils black bordered black, space or infinity colors gray matter. Tells if flesh reknits like a snowman in life's blizzard; or bones mend straight and rigid, July sun waiting-- flesh a peach's flush, blood an electric line. David Bankson lives in Texas. He was finalist in the 2017 Concīs Pith of Prose and Poem, and his works can be found in concis, (b)oink, Thank You for Swallowing, Artifact Nouveau, Riggwelter Press, Five 2 One Magazine, etc. 4/2/2019 0 Comments Your Photo by Kirsty A. NivenYour Photo I saw your photo today – a face I have tried to forget. You observed me coolly through the screen; smiling, white teeth exposed, lips poised, as if ready to say something – some snappy comeback imminent. There is no coming back. A creaking rip in my stomach, a sickening sensation that sinks; but I can't help noticing – you appear almost human here. Note the telltale pink of too much sun, the curl that wouldn't be flattened. Hardly the portrait of a demon. And yet that's what you are – at least within my story. The monster. Six years ago – or was it seven? – I held my exorcism, reciting prayers over your grave, barricading you in with spells. There will be no coming back. That's what I remind myself as I see your eyes sparkle darkly and your fists harden in anticipation. A violent scene. A flashback. A picture of you burnt onto my eyelids, branded eternally into my retinas. You'll never be dead entirely. Risen again in an image; spectral, but you haven't lost your edge. The bruises of previous punches flood to the surface in inky blotches. The scars you painted so delicately weep crimson tears at the sight of you. This is your final comeback. I thought it was finally over. I thought I'd moved past this. The sulphur nightmares, the skittish fears – all of it gone, for the most part. I had come back from the broken brink, and you had been vanquished. But then, I saw your photo today. Kirsty A. Niven lives in Dundee, Scotland. Her writing has appeared in anthologies such as Landfall, A Prince Tribute and Of Burgers and Barrooms. She has also featured in several journals and magazines, including The Dawntreader, Cicada Magazine, Dundee Writes and Word Fountain. Kirsty's work can also be found online on sites such as Cultured Vultures, Atrium Poetry and Nine Muses Poetry. 4/2/2019 0 Comments Poetry by Catherine KellerA Night Where Nothing Bad Happens in Buffalo Bubbles floating out of the top corner apartment on Allen St, Buffalo breweries and wings with a bite You weren’t prepared for. My silo city People that posh don’t really venture Passed the mall, They don’t know my city like I do, They only go to Canal Side While I’ve walked right up to the fence of Love Canal, The burial ground of toxic waste, Drove through the numbered streets with squatters, Seen the homeless sleeping under highways, If you seclude the city to two streets, How much are you really exploring? There’s more to Buffalo than booze. Tied shoes dangling on wires Like the city’s windchimes, Black Lives Matter banners and Rainbow flags adorn front porches. Bumming cigarettes off strangers outside bars, Chatting about the universe, A man asks my friend if he can draw A caricature of him while I’m talking to a non-local about astral projection Over a cigarette and A poet comes by and offers a trade A poem for a cigarette, And I listen to him spit wisdom Thinking he deserves more than The toxins I hand over. Spark meets inhale, Smoke rises to meet the bubbles Reaching for the stars. Buffalo is a place where strangers on the street Will tell you they believe in you When you need to hear it, But aside from the hipsters Who are here for the aesthetic, This is the city of misfits And you can leave, But you can always come back. Private Astral Plane of Pen & Paper Feeling like a fraud Not writing and waiting for the weekend Only looking forward to 104 days Out of the year, aside from holidays, 156 counting Fridays This taunting timeline. When I finally find moments of peace And put my puzzle of a brain In some kind of order, And my fingers reach for pen and paper. When the calling comes, Ink travels time and space, Transcending dimensions Drifting through my private astral planes Constellation chariots connecting energies Tapestries woven by wonder. Subconscious seeping through ink-scribbled pages, Searching for something less superficial Kaleidoscope of confusion, Flashes of fractals my mind pieces together. Sometimes feeling more like a fraud When I write Maybe because I’m not accustomed To being so honest with myself It’s not for the viewers and I’m not a spectacle Trying to make me sound poetic is like Trying to extract honey from hornets I don’t want my writing to be A form of wallowing It can’t always be my saving grace But it can at least serve as a parachute to peace When the world won’t stop dropping underneath me. My writer’s block is really my subconscious Refusing to be honest. When it’s midnight And I’m alone with the moon A waxing crescent The same phase as the night I was born But this is no phase And I’m impatient for it to pass. These lunar and planetary energies Led me to loneliness But I am called to conjure a cosmic shift That can redefine my destiny. When you are content And find peace with yourself Only then can you prosper. Born and bred in Buffalo, Catherine Keller published her first poetry chapbook, ‘Sonder’, in June 2018, which is available on Amazon. She has also had poetry published in ten literary magazines including Wilderness House Literary Review, Tipton Poetry Journal, The Stray Branch, and Hooligan Magazine, and articles in the Buffalo News, Esperanza Magazine and Buffalo Rising. She has been writing creatively for as long as she can remember and is also writing about ten other stories that will be novels and short story collections (eventually). Some of her favorite poets are Savannah Brown, Caitlyn Siehl, Rudy Francisco and Siaara Freeman. When she’s not writing, she spends her time chasing sunsets, waterfalls and free food, which you can check out on her Instagram @catiekeller. 4/2/2019 3 Comments Artwork by Bob McNeilAfter years of being a professional illustrator, spoken word artist, and writer, Bob McNeil still wants his work to express one cause—justice. Artist statement: This series of water encompassing the landscape reflects the inner turmoil of someone who is struggling with change. The title of the series is inspired by the classic tale of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde who too was struggling to find himself within several different identities. These photos were also taken on Jekyll Island in Georgia. Danielle Wirsansky is a photographer and writer. Her focus is on storytelling, no matter the medium. Her photography has been published in The Weird Reader, 805 Lit + Art, Genre: Urban Arts, Sad Girl Review, and more. You can learn more about her work at www.DanielleWirsansky.com! 4/2/2019 0 Comments Photography by Edward LeeEdward Lee's poetry, short stories, non-fiction and photography have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen and Smiths Knoll. He is currently working on two photography collections: 'Lying Down With The Dead' and 'There Is A Beauty In Broken Things'. He also makes musical noise under the names Ayahuasca Collective, Lewis Milne, Orson Carroll, Blinded Architect, Lego Figures Fighting, and Pale Blond Boy. His blog/website can be found at https://edwardmlee.wordpress.com Rick Harris CC The Flower and The Bee We watch the open window, falling sunlight, a red flower and an amber bee. This is just the start. Remember that. This is Venus raining diamonds above the black horizon in a damson sky. You have begun to breath the sea and your skin is a map of evenings and the moon will always rise, remember that. When my hand shakes with trying not to hold yours too hard, when we hold our breaths between words because this word, or this word, or this one. They are each a starfall and a broken bone. When I comb the spidersilk of your hair to help you relearn how to smile, we know they are lies and truths and that strange, heroic kindness going the wrong way. Remember this. I will lay photographs at your feet, scatter a lifetime geometry and we will marvel at it all. At the miles, the tiny endless joys. We will marvel at these too, the faces that are only there, in those pixels, and this is just the start, we will think. This is the space between the flower and the bee, we rush towards it dancing, and then we must find our way home. Come home, with memories of flowers to last your family through the winter, to give your children the taste of flight. This is the beginning. I will make your tea with too much sugar, and you will remind me to eat, and all the time we are echoes of ourselves, all our past selves. And this. We are echoes of each other’s selves. I am your echo, I will speak your words when you cannot, I will find your footsteps and follow them, I will trace your bones in my children. This is just the start. Rest now, you will need your beauty’s sleep. There are so many things we leave unsaid, but it is no sin, no shame. We will speak when you awake, if you wish, if you do. And I will sing. If you wish. And this breath is a gift, and this one, and this. And if I trace each line, each bone, it is to hold your echoes. It is to carry you home. Having spent many years working in remote corners of the world, Lorraine now lives by the sea in Scotland and write stories that are touched by folklore and the wilderness. Her short stories have been published in several anthologies. She tweets @raine_clouds about science, writing, cats and weirdnesses |
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