Dangling Propositions My friend, my neighbor refuses phrasal verbs, their dangling prepositions. We go, but not out. At the party, when it’s her turn for seven minutes in Heaven she chooses me. Because you know Heaven isn’t my name, she says. She is eager to feel, to be felt, but not up. We breathe. We breathe. Her father waits on her outside inside. She admits a preposition. I don’t want to wake up. Anymore. But only one. When he’s drunk, he feels me. Give me the out. I pray but Heaven doesn’t hear me. That’s not her name. Anymore. Bio: Chad Musick is a mathematician, writer, and editor who lives in Japan with his family.
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6/2/2018 0 Comments Ageing By Lynn WhiteAgeing I was young once, unbelievably young, almost a child playing. Oh I was young once, waiting for life to begin to grab me take me up and over. Yes, I was young once playing waiting. No end to it just waiting playing ageing waiting. Bio: Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. Her poem 'A Rose For Gaza' was shortlisted for the Theatre Cloud 'War Poetry for Today' competition 2014. This and many other poems, have been widely published, in recent anthologies such as - ‘Alice In Wonderland’ by Silver Birch Press, ‘The Border Crossed Us’ and ‘Rise’ from Vagabond Press and ‘Selfhood’ from Trancendence Zero - and journals such as Apogee, Firewords Quarterly, Indie Soleil, Midnight Circus and Snapdragon as well as many other online and print publications. Vine & Barbed Wire Window Frost Split Feather Branches My focus is mainly scenic photography, photographing nature through the seasons as well as capturing the shapes, textures, and natural design elements found outdoors. My photos appear in online journals, magazines, and print anthologies, including An Ariel Anthology,Blue Heron Review, Midwestern Gothic, Off the Coast, Portage Magazine, Presence, Quill and Parchment, WisconsinFellowship of Poets' Bramble Literary Magazine and elsewhere. To learn more, please visit my website at www.jrcreative.biz or my Instagram gallery at https://www.instagram.com/jeannie.roberts/ (@jeannie.roberts) you were wrong i can still remember running from you, seeking shelter beneath the soft needled pines; how the howling wind masked the sound of my breathing and the trees made me feel peace and security as they shielded me from the hiss of your voice—i recall how you could never find me when i hid in the trees for hours and hours to avoid you because the trees became a mask and the crows became my friends, and i would laugh when they cawed and woke you up; you would curse them but i fell in love with their dark wings because i realized that sometimes things that people consider ugly really aren't ugly at all—those crows offered me understanding because i, too, was misunderstood by everyone including you; i was judged unfairly just as they by everyone including you—one day you will see heaven shining in my wings and you will see that you were wrong. Bio: Linda M. Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. Her poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. She has five published chapbooks A Mermaid Crashing Into Dawn (Fowlpox Press - June 2013), Less Than A Man (The Camel Saloon - January 2014), If Tomorrow Never Comes (Scars Publications, August 2016), My Wings Were Made to Fly (September 2017, Flutter Press), and Splintered With Terror (Scars Publications, January 2018). Rotten And I have eaten nothing but the dust rising off of old photographs I am flipping through empty photo albums after ripping up each of our pictures and I am regretting every tear The only thing to pass my lips since you left me is coffee Because I am so tired in this empty house I am falling asleep every time I try to find hope or joy in any other home The old wood smells like rot and mold and love and you The splinters in the pads of my toes feel less like hurt and more like comfort It feels like you are sleeping in the next room and I can just call to you to say Baby, It happened again Help me pull the pain out Except I somehow I have forgotten that you are not here anymore I somehow forgot that you put tacks on the floor Broken glass in my pillowcase You took a hammer to the light bulbs in every room And you let my ribs shatter as you stepped over my body and kicked me on your way out the door And breathing hurts and eating hurts and thinking hurts But crying does not And writing poems does not Seeing echoes of your body in my mattress does not I am snuggled in to your side of the bed It doesn’t smell like you anymore Now it just smells like the god damn wood in this rotting house I still cannot talk about how you forgot to shut off the sink when you walked out of the home we built together And now I am drowning in my own body Waking up and calling to you still But I forgot that you left me here No food in the cupboard, No appetite anyway Flipping through photo albums with empty pages But the captions still scribbled below My handwriting and then yours Baby Don’t we look happy here? Baby Look at how much I love you Baby, baby, baby Look at this house we built together. Rose If I weren’t so tired I would write you a better poem I’d tell you about how even after all the clouds in the atmosphere have congregated over my head I can feel you holding me like the first raindrop holds my attention when it hits my hungry skin I feel you even from 1,000 miles away If I weren’t so tired I’d tell you that I wish I could be better for you I’d tell you how when I think of how broken I have been I’m nervous to give you something with so many cracks in it I wish that when you looked at me like every good day was packaged up into my ponytail It was true If I weren’t so tired I would say thank you Because even on sucky days when I cry at three in the morning simply because I’m so happy you are you I can almost hear your heartbeat bumping at just the right pace to calm me down I’d tell you that no one has ever made a lazy Sunday sound so life altering No one has ever touched me so soft I had to question if you were really there If it doesn’t hurt how do I know if you’re still next to me? But I am so tired tonight Even all the lightning bugs are fast asleep and the bats are getting ready for day break So before I finally let all this baggage I’ve been holding onto hit the ground With a thud that echos all night I want to tell you that you are all the good days packaged up into a ponytail You are the first raindrop after the longest drought You are the softest kiss but the hardest laugh And I wish I could write you a better poem So you could understand That I am exhausted But not with you Never with you Bio: Samantha Cole-Reardon has recently found herself at Florida State University studying Higher Education, but her heart lies in Massachusetts where she graduated with a B.S. in Psychology at Bridgewater State University. Sammy has loved to write her entire life and lives for cheesy poems. In her free time, you can find her staring into the abyss and thinking about life, or eating a healthy diet of ice cream and popcorn. Sammy is made primarily out of bubble gum and glitter, but could not do so without coffee and an internal dialogue that just won't quit. |
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