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Vol. 5, No. 1
Writers:
Catherine Contento – Ode to Homme
Samir Georges – Lonely Liberty
Jim Hoyle – Storm Stayed on Skye
Scot Jamieson – Trines on our side
Patrick Laba – on a first date
David R. MacLean – sharing words
Donal Power – You make a better window
Elzy Taramangalam – The Parade
Ryan Taylor – Escaping Inevitability
Wendy Watkinson – Ripple Effect
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Ode to Homme
by Catherine Rojas Contento
Your breath quickens,
The air from a balloon is squeezed out…
But gently.
Your hands grasp, your tongue
squirms.
What are you searching for? Fulfillment.
Here he’s hungry.
Hungry and foolish.
The world is spinning,
It’s black and deep and unsatisfied.
He lays drooling.
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Maven Mission
by Jaywant Patil
Maven to red Mars,
exploring the Martians air,
exciting to all.
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On a first date
by Patrick Laba
hey, hazy eyes.
we could have died on the highway.
I know you don’t
care, so neither do
I. your
teeth aren’t stained red, don’t
worry; although our lips are. my
cheeks are. my heart
is — suddenly.
it’s snowing now, and for the
first time in
years, I no longer feel an affinity with the
bare branches, the
chilled mornings, the
still, silent nights, the
frozen ponds; something is moving
beneath the cold,
numb surface. she presses her palms to
it, and she melts
through.
the snow is still now — don’t change
the record. let’s let it play once
more.
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Octopus, please, let me explain why
A group of you aren’t known as octopi.
It is my etymological nature
To right these wrongs of nomenclature.
Know when a Roman, of your phylum speaks,
You were not named by those Latin wusses.
You and your kindred were named by the Greeks.
Ergo, you will be called Octopuses.
But, if a Greek were writing you poems or odes
He would most likely call you all Octopodes.
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I always hear them, say never again,
yet it happens.
I always hear them, say never will,
I ever cause, that much pain.
I always hear them, say that no good,
ever came out of it.!
I will always, remember to remember,
them who have lost their lives, in france,
germany, poland, russia.
I will always, always Remember them.
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We are magnetically bound,
Where I go you will follow.
You retired your bloodhound,
You’ll find me on your own tomorrow.
We are anonymous, revelling in nothingness,
But how many times has nothing been wrong?
Nothing is the last straw,
The nameless go without an appeal,
The fringe keeps you hidden;
Hidden from your monsters,
Hidden from your salvation,
My personal Jesus;
Self-sabotaging,
Self-immolating,
Living on borrowed time.
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Lonely Liberty
by Samir Georges
A blank page
rests easily on my mind
plain as freedom’s grace
with all the hush of lonely liberty.
And my pen pricks virgin soil
and wherever my eyes stay
I am intruder,
nearsighted fool
that spoils the soaring rose
for its grounded nectar,
pens the promising page
in search of answers
buried beneath the words.
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Storm Stayed on Skye
(A wet hiker’s lament)
by Jim Hoyle
It’s raining now on Eileen Glas.
It’s fit for none to stroll the pastures
green, nor hike up Cuillin Hill
to shed the stress of city’s ill
by climbing fell and mountain pass.
But birds are flying; sheep trespass
the heathered slopes and fields of grass;
but I won’t venture out, for still
it’s raining now?
I’m loth to move, but Thearlich’s mass
with ridge and peak and deep crevasse
are calling me with Siren’s trill
to try my strength. Such lures fulfill
the island’s promise but, alas,
it’s raining now.
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The TV blinks a movie
And Mary seems enthralled
But next day they sadly say,
She remembers nothing at all..
They push the pity button
Dementia is their call,.
But Mary changed the channel
Watched another show instead,
Familiar places, long lost faces,
The movie inside her head.
She plays it now quite frequently
With shows this good this who needs TV.
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The Parade
by Elzy Taramangalam
Ghosts jealous of the living
Stay to sing the ballad of the calloused
In praise and passage of time
The haunting cries of leaving birds
Warn the trees, turning colours
Trembling in the brazen wind
To drop their leaves
Get naked to cover the ground
In phantasmagoric quilts
Until the snow blanket
Lulls the earth to deep sleep
Till the dense blue sky
Softly call in spring, ready to parade
The numinous moments between seasons.
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You make a better window than a door
by Donal Power
A door closes, a window opens
my grandmother Marion would intone
PEI rust dust wise
at the moment when it all turns arsewise
homes collapse around our ears
young ones chase rainbows
fortunes flee, jobs take leave, lovers leap
and all those dear ones decamp
this earth of love and torment and lilacs
for eternal razzmatazz of the galactic core
Four years ago we lit it up
the forge of the open heart
began to burn words in the mind of Halifax
searing our songs upon the lips of the people
who raised their own voices in reply
from the promethean fires in the belly
Thank you Halifax for all the loss and life
music and strife, debonair donairs
and such friends! you fellow forgers
smelting hard knocks into angelic cadence
But now Ro, Athena and I
must kick over the traces for parts unknown
though Rumi advised to open a window
in your chest
and let the spirits fly in and out
Marion knew that a door may close
but a window will spring wide
to open ever open
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Some people’s perspective is
All we do is take what there is
We fail to know where our place is
We are beauty
Fully destructive
And so disruptive
We neglect
Fully perceive our environment
Ignorantly disturbing its natural placement
We should care
Fully see our mistakes
And pay attention to the footprint we make
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If yet the rough winds
toss and hurl thou past,
And whirling rain
does baffle every step,
Still, let your print
be val’ent and steadfast…
If every second voice
is full of woe,
And all the words of tyrants
rant and rail-
Still, dare to speak
of liberty and hope…
If e’re the darkest villain
should attack,
And every knavish rogue
is in your way…
Push back.
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Sharing Words
by David R. MacLean
the words are what I write and do,
the patterns are what I see,
the words are a mix of mind and me,
the patterns are the world and you.
when the wounds are past glistening,
when there is time and space for listening,
poetry is my soul soother and mind cleaner,
poetry is my round-the-world gleaner.
tete-à-tete speech is the old fashioned jive,
different than texting, facebook, and twitter,
unlike kaboodling, imeem, or flixster,
tete-à-tete is talking to someone alive.
this week, I’m laid up and bedridden,
alone in my own world, hidden,
ideas and words keep coming, unbidden,
time for left bank and open heart,
I’m not kiddin’.
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Escaping Inevitability
by Ryan Taylor
Trying to escape from inevitability he weeps.
Sobs intensely when she arrives.
He was told moments prior,
as friends conceived a ploy
that he best break up with her
before things have gone passed
the point of “no return.”
Things far exceeded this point
and he only held himself together,
only talked rationally
to meet her rationality,
but when his lady came home he wept
fearsomely poured out tears of
disheartenment.
And the lady asked us all, why is he weeping?
The best friend could not speak,
we could not tell Alek he weeps for you.
For it was said, the inevitable,
that there would one day be an end.
Emma only pleaded it finish before death.
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A Room – Loud and Silent
Master of many noises
A Room – Cold and Hot
Does it have to be quiet?
This Room has its way with me!
A Room – Red, Blue and Green
Master of many colours
A Room – Yellow, Orange and Brown
Does it want to silence me?
This Room has its way with me!
The Room – Strength and Mobility
Creator of irrationality
The Room – Above and Beyond
What does it want from me?
This Room has its way with me!
The Room – Awake and Sleeping
Maker of deliverance
The Room – Beauty or Disaster
Should I let it bother me?
This Room has its way with me!
This Room – Aching and Breaking
Believer of goodness
This Room – Longing and Suffering
Will I let it set me free?
That Room had its way with me!
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Trines on our side
by Scot Jamieson
Are we happy or just hoppy?
I can take, hell, appreciate
your quirks, irregularities;
you inform me, I am great.
Not only because I overeat.
Not only as I take much space.
You console me in defeat,
you rejoice with me in grace.
Your little ways I do observe
with affection and amusement.
You contrive to put a curve
on my self-accusing comment:
“Limited in every conceivable way.”
“Except in dearness,” I hear you say.
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Ripple Effect
by Wendy Watkinson
I’m underwater
And I can’t breathe
And there’s no air
And there’s no leaving me
Find a bubble
Find some air
Only trouble is you’re not there
On the horizon
Maybe a sail
Or a mirage
Another veil in front of me
Find a bubble
Find some air
Only trouble is you’re not there
Is it the cold
Is it the sky
Touch the water
Feel the lie
Find a bubble
Find some air
Only trouble is you’re not there
To rescue me
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Power of Attorney
by Art White
Machines hydrate arid tissues,
Spark an exhausted heart
And fill my mother’s flaccid lungs
With the breath of life.
Life. You call this life?
I am here, is she?
And if here, for how long?
And if for long, does she know?
And if she knows, does she want for more?
Her hand is waxen and cold now.
It’s not her hand at all. It couldn’t be.
Machines hum away the measure of her days,
Days, ‘til now, that seemed to flow forever.
But…
Forever was quietly ending before my eyes,
Oblivious to tentacled contraptions,
Slipping away with nary a wink or twitch,
Leaving without a goodbye, without her son.
They’ve kindly asked: “Is now is the time?”
So now I’m asking: “Is it time, your time?”
Are you wanting more time, or is it only I?
Is now the fullness of time for you?
Mother?
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I assure you that these words
Once burned brightly in scarlet.
Blooms of life
Spilled slowly from the seams
And spread thinly over the heat,
Pressure
And purulence
Within.
Heat contracted to cold.
Lifeblood dried into lines-
Each letter a stitch across my white skin.
The spills have stiffened to obsidian scars
And eventually,
When the healing has finished,
They will vanish completely.
Open Heart Forgery 