Vol. 3, No. 4
Writers
Jonathan Burchill – The Sad-eyed Man
Donna Davies – Forsaken
Robert Dawson – Honorifics
Mike McFetridge – The Working Class Rant
Hugh Morrison – Too Little Too Late
Robert Lee – It is OK
Erica Lewis – Tending
Ayesha Mushtaq – Anybody & Bumbling Bees
Nicola Patterson – Fish Printing
Giavonna Rossi – The White Sand
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These are but wild and whirling words,
No matter what they make.
Where anything is possible
and nothing is mistake,
Where life can change within a blink,
And then return to norm.
These are but wild and whirling words,
No matter what they form.
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some roads
are built at night
star-spangled innerstates
of mind travel
on wide thick ribbons
of nerve-drenched cement
wet in a romantic rain
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The Sad-eyed Man
Poem by Jonathan Burchill
I once lived in dreams like a child
Which the shroud of idle talk had defiled
……I drank in the pain
……In a poisoned pop brain
While the child left his feelings unbeguiled
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Words written in scripture, colors across the page.
Blurred in chaotic theory, the burning of some sage.
.
Guarded by barbed wire, emotions under lock and key.
Meteors fall with an eerie beauty, masters of mind using chi.
.
A smell invokes a memory, sunlight sent across the stars.
Imagination could never be so deadly,
musical notes that are held behind bars.
.
Twisted rods of candy, raindrops to wash away the pain.
Collecting universal frequencies with a jar on a window pane.
.
A voice that does not carry. A bird that does not fly.
Flowers never seemed so scary,
snowflakes that seem to be too dry.
.
A kiss that goes on forever, a candle burns an eternal flame.
Borderline psychotic trying to master life’s amazing game.
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I woke up from this nightmare and see emptiness around
and I’m in pain
I see in the mirror what you have done
and I wonder why you did it
I wonder why you were so furious with me
and hurt me so bad
I ask myself: why have you FORSAKEN me
You tell me you love me, you want me,
there’s no one else, I’m the only one
Yet you hurt me, hit me, call me names
You say you’ll be here 4ever and won’t ever leave me,
that you love me
And yet you have FORSAKEN me
You say I’m beautiful and sexy, you say beautiful things
but you have FORSAKEN me
Was it something I said, was it something I did
Did I hurt you, was I bad,
was I not there for you or pay you enough attention
I can do better and yet you have FORSAKEN me
I loved you the best way I knew how
Was I not beautiful or sexy enough
Why have you FORSAKEN me
I love you and yet I hate you
I miss you yet want to scratch your eyes out
You cause me pain and hurt and suffering
And yet I need you and want you
Am I crazy or nuts
no I’m not
Why have you FORSAKEN me I scream
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Honorifics
Poem by Robert Dawson
The honorifics of Japanese speak
eloquently, even to the untuned Western ear,
of propriety and formal protocol.
O-bento, the honourable lunch-bucket,
shallow, black, lacquer-glossy,
subtly divided in expectation of complexity:
who could slight such an august bearer
with a baloney sandwich and a donut?
Truly the message is in the medium.
Fuji-san: one must not render this
as “Mr Fuji” lest the mind’s eye evoke
a slate-blue triangle, black-outlined,
with a white apex, hands holding a cane,
resting sedately on a black park bench
as brightly coloured circles chatter past.
Properly, rather, consider san
to be the only word in any language
that can translate, depending on the context,
as Mr, Ms, or Mt.
O-mi-o-tsuke can be translated
as “honourable honourable honourable soup.”
Alas! How can even miso cumulus,
drifting in morning-sun-lit serenity above
one perfect mushroom and three cubes of tofu
satisfy expectations thus created?
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Peace
Poem by Marjorie Favretto
Would that we could all be blind
To the color of our neighbour’s skin.
Better still, with eyes wide open
We could recognize our kin.
And if his place of worship
Is a different one from ours,
Thank God that both of us believe
In a higher power.
Only then and not until,
Will the world know peace
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Fire and Ice
Poem by Bill Hanrahan
The fire pond was uphill from the orchard,
twelve run-out , lichen bearded trees,
water sprout fingers clawing the sky,
gnarly trunks strafed by woodpeckers,
apples small and wormy.
From the willow-ringed pond a rocky brook
splashed through a thicket of ash
down past the orchard, house, and barn;
down, down , seven miles down
to the Northumberland Strait.
In May the brook went underground,
shrinking to a secret spring that gurgled
between sweaty rocks down the dug well,
But the fire pond held water year round;
mirroring daffodils in spring,
lilacs in June and bulrushes
and the flaming leaves of autumn;
kids skated there till winter died,
the ice gone spongy, the edges melting.
Then suddenly on a March night
all hell breaks loose.
One peep then another
Soon a thousand horny frogs
mobbing the rotting ice,
an all male choir clamoring for the girls,
their frantic love songs ravishing the night.
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Dear Darling
Poem by Sarah Kester
Hiding in the woods, is a little girl
she knows not of fear or grief
as the prettiest smile lights up that her face
society, with its greedy hands, has not yet touched her
She’s sparked with creativity, lit with passion,
and filled with a heart that knows no suffering
this naive girl has no scars upon her frail body
as the marks of the past have not disgraced her mind,
with their dwelling memories
Her laugh sends shivers down our spines
it’s alive, real, vivid.
It is her soul that spirits us to think
to wonder if we’re lifeless creatures,
while, those who walk alone,
are not plagued by yesterdays burdens
This little girl is merely lost; a survivor
and we’re… life’s mere robots?
Her untouched soul puzzles us
With piercing eyes, and a few words,
her innocence is shaken
“Darling, be human.”
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He wore a nondescript beige sweater.
Front and back in handwritten blue.
Jesus and Mary are coming back in two years.
I admire his willingness to share his thoughts and
beliefs.
What would I write on my shirt…first thought.
It is not what you think…not even close.
Then up popped the devil screaming.
It’s OK…how could it get any worse?
Mr. P. Correct added…Jesus saves!
I can only say I have opened to the possibility.
That it is OK
to accept and appreciate the joy of being.
What do I have to lose…my shirt will read.
It is OK…to open my heart.
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To your wound, I am tending,
and with your wound,
you carry me
to this chasm in your flesh,
to the space between us
held together by stitches.
Stay here with me.
Let the scab form,
let the smooth hard shell of it
cover us, the edges
forming new flesh,
tearing me away.
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The Working Class Rant
Poem by Mike McFetridge
He burst through the door, newspaper in hand,
“They’re crazy”, he said, “we must take a stand”;
“We just can’t afford another penny”, he said;
And with that he sat down, and from the newspaper read;
‘Another rise in our taxes’, ‘another rise in our fuel’,
‘Another rise in electricity’, and just like a mule
He kicked his right foot to the floor with a stamp;
And that’s when he started the ‘working class rant‘
I work every day as hard as I can
To pay all of my taxes to live on this land;
But I can’t get ahead, though try that I may,
It’s all I can do to get by, through the day.
And try as I do, to scrimp and to save
It all is for naught, though I work like a slave;
What’s the good being honest and pulling my weight?
What thanks do I get? None for me, is my fate.
And I see the ‘fat cats’, CEO’s, and their like;
Milking the system for more and more hikes;
Making the working man’s life more severe,
And what from our politicians we hear?
Tighten my belt, stop the waste and reduce;
Money, like morals, sometimes get too loose;
Make do with less, thank your employer for work
Stop your complaining and don’t be a jerk!
It’s really not fair how the working man’s treated;
Corporations abuse him, and he often is cheated;
And all that he wants seems a simple demand
Just food, shelter and love (for he’s just a man).
The working class rant can be heard every day
Somewhere in our country, but it shouldn’t be that way;
When will we realize, and not act like a mule,
And live by the wisdom of the old Golden Rule?
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Too Little Too Late
Poem by Hugh Morrison
Unsinkable they said she was
Built of Irish steel and steam
But 1500 met their graves
That night April fourteen
The call went out SOS
To where those calls began
Nova Scotia Marconi’s home
A plea from ship to land
The Halifax ships raced from shore
To keep them from their fate
But Titanic was on her final throe
Too little, Too late
Well the band played and the captain stayed
As so few lifeboats were sent away
And heroes let the children flee
Knowing what it meant to stay
The ones who made the Halifax shore
Would forever relive that night
Of the horrors and screams beneath the waves
As Titanic slipped from sight
A hundred years have come and gone
But some things are etched in stone
Like the cold graves in Halifax
That mark all the unknown
And late at night by the sea
You can hear the toll of bells
Ghosts sing on the winds of time
Then are taken with the swells
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Anybody & the Bumbling Bees
Poem by Ayesha Mushtaq
Anybody can write if only
Anybody has a pencil in her working head
and ink in her passionate heart.
but Anybody isn’t a writer all days.
and people also, don’t push
or enthusia-size her complicated lingo,
they just know how to blabber and mumble,
and blabber and mumble they do,
which displeases Anybody and she
Permutates and shifts,
The ink to her head and the pencil to her heart
Against her Nature.
But then Anybody is sick
As the pencil bleeds and rips her heart apart.
And discolors the brain to look abnormal.
And people don’t push and people don’t notice
They gag and glut-ter
Some useless comments
And Anybody knows then,
Anybody is wiser
And Anybody learns the lesson.
Anybody turns her mighty head
And takes a final bow to a clap less mumble
Then Anybody does what Anybody should do
And puts her own self in her head and in her heart.
And now Anybody has no bumbling bees
Anywhere around.
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Fish Printing
Poem by Nicola Patterson
I run my forefinger across your cold bottom lip,
Smear turquoise paint from tale to spines tip.
My body curves as I lean over,
Skin touching fish, mixing paint, blood and water.
There’s something sensual in this.
Although on paper, there lies a dead fish.
Something in that hollow eye
that speaks of places I’d choose to lie.
Here on this table lying flat and quite still,
away from the salt spray though which it once flew,
through rainbow reflections and eternal sea blue…
Now I’m spinning a story I wish that I knew.
I’m creating a romance between me and this fish,
That’s beyond just this fish ending up in my dish.
As I trace my fingers through the paint on his scales,
I’m reaching though water for the touch of blue whales.
And next time I sit to a table set meal,
I’ll be thinking of him, lying quiet and still,
I’ll think of the fish I once knew as a lover,
as I painted his scales lying dead on newspaper.
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Seascape Dream
Poem by Felix Perry
I saw you in a dream last night
At the water’s edge, chasing a sail
Child-like laugher, joy of life
Waving to a distant big eyed whale
I saw you in a dream last night
On the beach, sun rising in the west
My arm around your shoulders
Your head resting on my chest
I saw you in a dream last night
A pink conch shell to your ear
You said you heard me calling you
Saying I had so much love to share
I saw you in a dream last night
The moon smiled down with pride
He knew he had a hand in this
The stars looked on and sighted
I saw you in a dream last night!
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The White Sand
Poem by Giavonna Rossi
The white sand looked so peaceful,
so still with only the steady beat
of the oceans waves
making it wet and a tanner color…
The sand brushed up against my toes
like sandpaper so course
yet soft and gentle
as it went on glistening
with the late summer sun.
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The creamy flesh of my woman
Smooth and resilient to my hand
Stirs my imagination
soothing my lust with langour
Her lilting vibrant breasts
Capped with sweet pink aureoles
Pulls me close
pulsing my blue red blood
Her soft voice, seldom raised
Her ready laugh and comely smile
Invites me to join
play and teasing conversation
Her homey ways of speech
In an unexpected turn
surprises my heart and mind
takes me home with her
Her colors and her garden
And all her many crafts
Dazzle my eyes
pleases my wish for place
I love her most
When she casts off convention
And pokes the eye
Of stuffed sobriety
And when she tenderly
Handles the babe and the child
Interpreting their babble
And calming their fears
She is the one I finally deserved
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Open Heart Forgery 