7/5/2016 1 Comment Four poems by Katie Lewington1. how do I write now how will I have an accurate measure if I rarely ever do. 2. who am I what makes me me how am I content - fat on bread and lush with company am I to improve be stunted by growth - maybe. 3. who is to notice to recognize on the same level - perhaps but we can mark each others progress instead encourage the competition as stimulation that draws one another further up ahead of the other. 4. and how does this catalogue of poems end connect with another I suspect and lament perhaps simply move on isn’t poetry for teenagers and melody how does one mark their success when so many scribes stay hidden believing they are inept. 5. I could leave this blank page open in a book and not ever write again scrabbling for the words to picture to tear this feeling from my insides but if I stop nobody will be aware or care so I must keep on pushing. 6. Is writing selfishly Iiiiiiii memememememe soothing to type a bugger to write give me a prompt tell me a story and I will pen it into something marvellous that you can skip over with your eyes. 7. scribbles barely legible - might have trouble reading later does it matter much to me when really I would like to dash off- to use the loo I am afraid to share writing is like flowers - drying onto pages flailing shapes compressed to be dug out again right now I feel my writing hasn’t purpose so then where does my voice lodge until I am braver? And even if Age, that’s all you and anybody else talks about - age how old is she... and he? ooh, fifteen years gap? That’ll never last, you’ll see what is in an age but numbers +, - and x a marker, organization we can’t all be born at once, you see dare I say it – ask OK- whisper what about love what if he and she love one another? love is a new-born babe an adorable cat meme transparent soap bubbles the view from the window of an aeroplane what if it is love do you think before you love how old, ah wait too young- too old what a shame fall first and reassess later our heart has more sense than our prejudice. I Wonder I ain’t fussed about dying but what if I don’t ever write again what if my hand protests – my mind blanks and refuses the muse finds somebody who treats him better and pays him too what if one day I just don’t anymore? You Know much like a new smartphone tablet or computer 6 months into a relationship soon you will be muttering to yourself ‘come on, you bloody thing’ Bio: Katie Lewington likes to review the books she reads, listen to music, daydream, watch Cary Grant films, help The Pithead Chapel journal and Transcending Shadows review and Punks Write Poems Press sift through their submissions, sniff 50 year old poetry tomes and enjoy the aesthetic display of many literary magazines (she has been published in some of these) Contact her through Twitter @idontwearahat and her blog https://katiecreativewriterblog.wordpress.com
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Masterpiece My masterpiece is still wet It will not burn I have a while to wait until it is burnable I have thus far left no trace of myself of my “talent” I have not given in to ego I have not contributed to genocide or war My people have always been victims That gives us a false sense of moral superiority Strength has its obligations Weakness does not If we had no obligations we would all be in Heaven Superheroes Americans are callous hard-hearted killers guilty of genocide and mass murder One million Iraqi civilians dead in our War Against the Wrong Country We should all abandon our lives and go live in monasteries and weep copiously night and day and repent Instead we entertain ourselves with superheroes and cooking shows Creep My high school friend gave my son a ukulele he made by hand from rosewood and redwood and an exotic black wood whose name I cannot pronounce It was beautiful but my son dropped it on the floor and its face shattered He had learned only one song on it, by Radiohead I think it’s called Creep But I'm a creep, I'm a weirdo. What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here. My son strummed it over and over while his two-year-old daughter sat on the floor and played with her toys Bio: Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois has had over a thousand of his poems and fictions appear in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, The Best of the Net, and Queen’s Ferry Press’s Best Small Fictions for work published in 2011 through 2015. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for Kindle and Nook, or as a print edition. To see more of his work, google Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois. He lives in Denver. 7/3/2016 0 Comments Four poems by Claira FloresThank You From An Operation Table Sometimes I want to drive over just to kiss you and leave. All of the time I dont, even though I know it takes less than a moment to feel love and my heart is ripping open, but only because it's growing/healing and I love you, because you are divine chaos and once I had incorrect thoughts but I see the errors now clearly and I recognize the blindness that was formed from my insecurities. I grow every moment that I allow myself an attempt to envelope you in comfort. I want to wrap myself around you, but only tight enough that you can easily release yourself from my grasp. My heart. My gut. My soul. They all sing, love, synchronized. I have been hoping to be open, and you've gently cut me, feet up. For the first time in a long time, I see my insides. From here, I can heal so much more. Thank you. A Mothers Love Promise. You don't want my scars. They're drive bys with invisible cars. Thank goddess for disassociation when I need it. She called me unlovable, untouchable, slut and cunt. She says it doesn't matter. She did her best. Fuck you. Fuck you. The reason I'm piecing together this mess. Over a decade of counseling. Onoffon. You have the audacity to make fun of me. "Detachment disorder! Detachment disorder! Daddy issues daddy issues! Get over yourself!" I have the fear of saying something wrong. Triggering your hate, Your "daughter" "Cold hearted cunt." I have lost most will to fight with you. Instead, I am finding my own two feet. I am no longer caving to your metaphorical belt. The hat. The loan. Oh god, I groan. I am getting out of emotionally bonding debt. I am breaking up with you mother. It's a hard thing to do. This said, I can't talk sense to the senseless. Still, I promise to call. The Deepest Secret An introvert, Thrown out of my comfort zone. I wrapped my personality around peoples acceptance of me as: Bubbly, edgy, constantly friendly. I recognize my mistake. The right people and time is all it takes. I do not like the party. I do not like the rock and roll show. I thought I should, I thought I could, you know. What a relief, knowing myself again. Untitled My words linger on your skin. Awareness because they're missing from my tongue. Oh what a relief it is to have options in terms of language. Bio: Claira is a gender queer, witch and public servant. They spend most of their days working on temple devotion, cooking for loved ones, working and petting cats. They are complex, yet simple.. A juicy and honest contradiction. Also referred to as an enigma. 7/2/2016 0 Comments Three poems by Brenton Booth Beyond The Horizon I haven’t been able to lift my right arm for 3 days it’s 7AM and the sky looks like a painting-- all that’s missing is you, I take a handful of painkillers with a glass of water and wonder if they will work today. Utopia Is there anything better than being young and alone believing you are a great writer, living on cheap food or no food with the occasional bottle or pill or line and occasional sex (very occasional) and nothing but small rejection slips filling up your mailbox from all the magazines-- big and small sure that any rejection is absolutely wrong and an insult to your unique ability working odd jobs to have a roof electricity paper pens and stamps with no thoughts about tomorrow or savings or serious relationships or anything other than the next story or poem and several of each coming every week; is there anything better than being young and alone believing you are a great writer: if there is I haven’t found it yet and don’t really want to. Friday The pink flowers turn brown in the driveway and my neighbours are yelling at their kids again I have music playing loud to kill the sound but the memories it brings can’t be silenced the sky grey and idols fallen the catcher left the rye and no one on the watchtower a couple of Catholics knock on my door I tell them: “God can’t save us, only we can, but we are weak, history and our lives proves this.” They walk away in silence and I wonder about the editor at Penthouse magazine the crumbed lamb cutlet on the white plate the pebble in the stream the dead wombat on the side of the highway happy to finally be alone on this Friday afternoon in Sydney the music now off and screaming ended looking over the fence trying to see past the mountains. Bio: Brenton Booth lives in Sydney, Australia. Poetry and fiction of his has appeared in many small press publications. His poetry collection " Punching The Teeth From The Sky" is available from Epic Rites Press. To read more of his work visit brentonbooth.weebly.com 7/1/2016 1 Comment Photography by Francine WitteBike Lane Lace Nevermore Leaf Carpet and Squiggle Trees Straight up Sky Wash Bio: Francine Witte is the author of the poetry chapbooks Only, Not Only (Finishing Line Press, 2012) and First Rain (Pecan Grove Press, 2009), winner of the Pecan Grove Press competition, and the flash fiction chapbooks Cold June (Ropewalk Press), selected by Robert Olen Butler as the winner of the 2010 Thomas A. Wilhelmus Award, and The Wind Twirls Everything (MuscleHead Press). Her latest poetry chapbook, Not All Fires Burn the Same has just won the Slipstream chapbook contest and will be published in summer, 2016. Her poem “”My Dead Florida Mother Meets Gandhi” is the first prize winner of the 2015 Slippery Elm poetry award. She has been nominated seven times for a pushcart prize in poetry and once for fiction. A former English teacher, Francine lives in New York. |
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