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Vol. 5, No. 4
In this Issue:
Richard Collins – Starlit Mystique
Tim Covell – Sometimes at Night
Joan Dawson – Lime Trees in July
Jim Hoyle – Rainbow on Loch Coruisk
Mike McFetridge – The Word Came Down
Dyrell Nelligan – To Be a Child
Jaywant Patil – Lord Have Mercy
C.J. Pellern – Hurricane of Her
Hailey Stapleton – Portrait Photographer
Ryan Taylor – what’s this feeling called
Robin Young – The Middle String
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It’s a rhubarb kind of day
Rain streaks across my windows
Making rivers on the panes.
I stare at them
With eyes unfocused
Blurring their damp display.
Remembering days when the sun’s
Warm rays
Chased all my blues away.
My eyesight sharpens
As I see
What has happened.
The rain has stopped falling.
The wind ceased its howling.
No need to be carried away.
After all it’s the season
For rain, mist and freezing.
Just another Rhubarb kind of day.
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The Word Came Down From The CEO
by Mike McFetridge
The word came down from the CEO
That door-to-door delivery just has to go;
They’re going to plant CMB’s near my block;
They said I need exercise, go take a walk.
Or I can just drive to a CMB,
Instead of one vehicle delivering to me,
Each one of us travels,
No matter the weather,
In rain, sleet or hail,
We’re in this together.
And the pollution that is caused
By the “you’s” and the “me’s”
Driving each day to all those CMB’s,
Fouls our precious air,
The air that we breathe.
And it doesn’t have to make sense,
‘Cause this Government says so,
The word came down from the CEO.
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Portrait Photographer
by Hailey Stapleton
crisp black and white images:
lips parted like flowers
blooming for the first time
to consume
to steal humanity
eyes like brass door handles
the incandescent glimmer of two silver dollars
a witch burning
a house on fire
the cosmic collapsing of time
face
…peeled
back
like an orange
every pore is a landmine.
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Lillian lists lightly just brushing the frame
Wooden screen blowing hard on the porch
Briefly unbalanced she fingers the grain
Pressing skin into grooves in the stain
She steadies herself and a smile slips her lip
A brilliant sun grabs the blue in her eyes
She lifts up her face with a sparkle and grace
Embraced and adored by the skies
Lillian was born to old money all spent
A scandalous bunch with a particular bent
For hard liquor and licentious behavior
Her mother on her own at the birthing
Screamed loud for the lord’s blessed savior
No souls to hear and no sinners came
Lillian was born barely breathing and lame
The Townies tell listeners she lives all alone
In that huge place at the end of the lane
And late at night you can hear muffled moans
Of the spirits as they swallow her pain
Lillian softly sways on the last wooden stair
That leads to her rundown abode
And as the sun fades away
and the dusk dusts her hair
Lillian smiles at the awe in my stare
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Hurricane of Her
by C.J. Pellern
Night born lady by my side
another storm on the rise
riding it out has golden rule
wheelman must be certain fool
White out on the tundra
typhoon on the sea
dust bowl on the prairie
hurricane of her moving me
Moon full delirious wise
sweat on sweat into overdrive
bound together on the curve
acceleration into blur
travelling between stop and go
in her deep night’s mighty blow
White out on the tundra
typhoon on the sea
dust bowl on the prairie
hurricane of her moving me
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When the morning came,
they took up their shovels and picks,
went out
and
cracked open the black surface
of the choking tar,
tore up the asphalt
and peeled away the grey layers
of pavement
until at last
they found the earth again.
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Rainbow on Loch Coruisk
by Jim Hoyle
The graying sky and glen foretold travail
and mists fell down. Though few, breaks revealed
wet shining rocks, a running stream, a field,
when suddenly a beam shone through this veil
and sired a child of rain, a shining frail
display upon the lake, with feet concealed
in heather tufts. Its gentle tread will yield
no imprint. Is it all to no avail?
And rare the man who makes a mark that lasts
for future generations to enjoy,
since small achievement’s seldom history.
But every man can gild his life with casts
into his inner pool for spawn which may
be nurtured into lasting memory.
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Small nuclear bombs
Twilight bravado
War in a holster
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what’s this feeling called
by Ryan Taylor
we do this thing sometimes
and hate to admit it
feel strange or hesitant
but we look through old messages
read through text conversations
read over what she wrote
read over what she meant
trying to see to it
trying to find her acts
her change of heart
her lies,
and the truth you often find
is you cannot tell
cannot know her intention
and mostly you’ve forgotten yours
miss the meaning of your words
and it is certain
she hadn’t known hers
either then or should she
look back over them now
reading for peace of mind
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4 AM. Wake up then.
Unintended, that is when
the portals to the next dimension
open – briefly, one should mention.
Listen to the city’s hush.
Its quiet voice is the one to trust.
Imagine you’re alive and free;
reality, merely temporary.
Haugh – Huh, sounds your breath.
Ride inside it, decompress.
Shrink your worries, become less,
till you see darkness’ tiny light jewels
obeying that most basic rule of rules
for each and any and all molecules:
Dance and dance and dance y’ fools!
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If I could once again be a child
To be carefree and wild
To bare purity
To roam the planet inspired by curiosity
To be ignorant with innocents
To be viewed as heaven sent
To be loved for simply sharing a smile
To be the reason loved ones walk down the aisle
To unknowingly bring joy
To see every object as a personal toy
To view the world in a different dimension
To be the center of attention
To have and believe in imaginary friends
If only I could be a child once again
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Lord Have Mercy
by Jaywant Patil
I have been in love with you
Ever since I remember you
Pain and love united in you-
On cross at Calvary
The sacrifice you did for us
Enduring the pain and suffering-
Lord have mercy Lord have mercy
Lord of mercy Lord of mercy-
You cure the people sick and lame
Opened the eyes of blind condemned
Helped the deaf to hear again-
Showed your mercy to all men
You’re moved by brother’s death
Raised him from tomb with breath-
Lord have mercy Lord have mercy
Lord of mercy Lord of mercy-
You spoke to us in parables
We understood your message of love
Found it hard to follow your teaching-
So you sacrificed yourself
Allowed torture, crowned of thorn
Even death by nailing to a cross-
Lord have mercy Lord have mercy
Lord of mercy Lord of mercy-
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The Middle String (Three Brothers – part 3)
by Robin Young
Largely ignored
but reliably steady
Does the job that no one else will
because no one else will.
he fills in those spaces … like silence…
where his family would fall apart
He knows that. they know that.
but he’s not one to go out of tune about it.
He’s a second string
the middle child
Not high enough to take attention
Not low enough to set the tone
but let it be known
like a bard with a song
that in the middle, he was never alone.
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Lime Trees in July
by Joan Dawson
On Sunday afternoons, when we were young,
We sat under the summer lime trees.
They were in the “square” at school,
More like a street, tree-lined.
At either side, the houses where we lived
Through the long term,
And we outside, free for a few short hours
From all the busyness that filled our schooldays.
We talked, we read, we dreamed,
We watched our little world go by. We breathed
The lime flowers’ blessed fragrance.
Today, the scent of lime flowers came again
As I walked through the Public Gardens
Taking me back again to far-off days
When we were young and sat beneath the shade
Of those old trees. Who planted them
I’ll never know, but blessings be on him.
As for the friends who sat beneath their shade,
Where are they gone? Scattered and mostly lost,
But brought to me again by the sweet scent
Of lime trees in the Gardens in July.
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Sometimes at Night
by Tim Covell
Sometimes at night she’d turn on the radio.
Trouble sleeping, she’d say
after conversation
after reading
after hugs
after it was time to settle
skin to skin
or
hand to hand
or
just near
I could hear her
In the dark
just breathing
and the low radio
I’d sleep soon and soundly
and now
Sometimes at night I turn on the radio.
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I met an old guy in Sobey’s one day
And he said to me listen and hear what I say
Go for your dream or learn to your sorrow
Though you’re here today you’ll be gone tomorrow.
My sad story that’s too often told,
Is: “I was too busy and now I’m too old.”
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a house in Laurel Canyon
full of Joni Mitchell records
walls lined with used books
hazy artists roaming the halls
&
the smell of slow burning incense
saved my life
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Being ill, sounds sick and gross.
Being ill, takes up a lot of your time.
Being ill, makes you feel weak.
Being ill, makes people feel like you are
carryaround, a sick look.
Being ill, is a club no one wants to join.
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Starlit Mystique
by Richard Collins
Starlit mystique, the scurry of mammals
Creeks brood moonbeam illusions
Flashlights glare sparkling stares from animals
Flies thud thoughtless, thudding, intruding.
There’s a calling and climax, opaque and black
A crawling cacophony cascading you back,
Craving and clawing, obscurities, love
Love for the prey… and the one there above.
Open Heart Forgery 