March 25, 2015

Grandma's Window by Ernest Williamson III

craven windows
inside out 
irksome 
crusty
stained orange,
brown along the sills,
hardly transparent
yet still a work of mystery. 
I see nothing but blackness;
as I still ponder 
Webster's definition 
associating darkness 
with blackness,       
and as long as I've been staring
at Grandma's window 
all I can say with confidence 
is 
that it's old 
dirty 
and black.
though darkness 
never tells me to include 
its application or connotation, 
I wonder why another man 
or another pair of eyes 
would 
disagree.







Dr. Ernest Williamson III has published poetry and visual art in over 500 national and international online and print journals. Professor Williamson has published poetry in journals such as The Oklahoma Review, Review Americana: A Creative Writing Journal, and The Copperfield Review. Some of his visual artwork has appeared in journals such as The Columbia Review, The GW Review, and Fiction Fix. Many of his works have been published in journals representing over 50 colleges and universities around the world. Dr. Williamson is an Assistant Professor of English at Allen University and his poetry has been nominated three times for the Best of the Net Anthology. Williamson holds a B.A. and an M.A. in English/Creative Writing/Literature from the University of Memphis and a PhD in Higher Education Leadership from Seton Hall University.

March 23, 2015

The Mermaid and the Rock Pool by Paul Tristram

The sleepy, fat, porcelain Full Moon
beamed down its silvery smile, shimmeringly
into the darkened, raggedly rocked Cove.
Lighting a match of sapphire and emerald
shading and colour to adorn and glimmer
this salty-fresh, natural, nocturnal palate.
Within this midnight radiance, she sat
waist deep within a canoe-shaped rock pool.
Braiding her hair, thoughtfully, with heart
shaped pieces of Mother-Of-Pearl, whilst 
humming softly an almost forgotten shanty.
Pondering the strange rhythm within herself,
she focused then unfocused upon the lullaby
waves lapping at the edges of her concentration.
Deciding at last that what the World needed was 
far more Seaweed mixed up nicely in its Poetry.
Her Great Grandmother had a long time ago 
given Laverbread and Cockles to the Welsh Folk
to help make them healthy, wise and strong.
Now, she in turn would serenade the deep, sleep
dreams of all sensitive enough to understand
the beautiful dark harmonies of Neptune’s songs.







Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.  You can read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/
 

March 21, 2015

Quantum Lock by Joseph Lisowski

An infinite black string
Connects the I
To the universe

For those who see
It is a rope ladder
Escape from a black hole

Whose depression is deep
Whose vortex is a chaos
Of promises unkept.

My twin is invisible
My hero a shadow
My enemy within.





Joseph Lisowski won the University of North Carolina Board of Governors Teacher of the Year Award (2013-2014).  His most recent poetry books are STASHU KAPINSKI DREAMS OF GLORY (Sweatshoppe Publications, 2013) and BLUE SEASON with Steve Klepetar mgv2>publishing, 2013).

March 19, 2015

Calling Hours by Michael Keshigian

Bouquets and blooms,
ornate displays that garnished the hall;
hair thickened with gel, slicked back with a sheen, 
eye shadow and rouge in an attempt to enliven his face,
manicured nails and a pinned stripe suit
that likened him to a mobster
in a 1930’s Chicago scene.
Everyone approached and said he looked handsome,
he who only shaved weekly,
occasionally groomed his hair 
and bit his fingernails to bleed.
He hardly left home or visited places, 
disliked gossip and was scarcely noticed,
barely talked even with something to offer,
who, blanch as the moon was pale, 
but much less traveled, wore out the carpet 
from his bedroom to the recliner
in front of the television,
the only voice ever acknowledged,
though the background noise 
included complaints of his laziness
and a desire for little save for TV Westerns
that induced him to snuggle beneath the blanket
and snore a path to oblivion.
On this day, he held the attention of all, 
a posture he would find disquieting,
master of a ceremony, for another, 
he would never attend, the day’s most honored
till the shiny, walnut, wooden cover, 
creased with white linen, closed.





Michael Keshigian’s ninth poetry book, Dark Edges was released September, 2014 by Flutter Press.  He has been widely published in numerous national and international journals and appeared as feature writer in over a dozen publications with 5 Pushcart Prize and 2 Best Of The Net nominations. (michaelkeshigian.com)

March 18, 2015

Wrens in the Poplar by Donal Mahoney

There are peeps 
from the wren house
high in the poplar 
as the sun peeks 
over the roses.
Or maybe I'm wrong. 

Perhaps I hear altar boys 
reciting their prayers 
at the foot of the altar
at the start of a Latin Mass
decades ago in a church 
silent now for years.

Whether it's peeps 
or prayers I'm not certain 
until I see the cat 
hunkered like a tank
under the poplar, hoping
to receive communion.






Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri. He writes poetry and fiction. Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com

March 17, 2015

Silhouettes by Byron Beynon

Often I have seen the dusk arrive
to form silhouettes of those patient hills.
The commune of stained clouds
jogging slowly across
the mid-summer evening
that went by without word,
neither lingered nor waited,
but brought a balanced
meaning to a higher philosophy,
a thought and vivid
image fully developed
on the blotted sky.
Machinery rusting,
stone buildings
open to the indifferent
scales of weather,
the dark invites you in,
fingertips of shade
that vary in tone
throughout the night.
I have heard the owl's voice,
a long cry through
the late hours,
lingering now
with the faithful present,
holding on to a solitary,
memory-possessed beat.





Byron Beynon lives in Wales. His work has appeared in several publications including Poppy Road Review, Kentucky Review, Lummox, The Tower Journal, London Magazine and the human rights anthology In Protest (University of London and Keats House Poets). Collections include Cuffs (Rack Press), The Sundial (Flutter Press) and The Echoing Coastline (Agenda Editions).

March 16, 2015

Two Poems by Rachel Nix

Of the Evening

The cicadas have been quieted—
caught in the humidity
of an Alabama summer;
even they cannot
make use of an evening
no more fit for anything
than watching the night sky,
still as the way hours move.

The dogs lay out in the yard:
their bellies full from dinner,
their coats wet from wading
in the neighbor’s pond.
The grass, the only cool spot
to be found, becomes bedding
for the three of them,
and I suspect the neighbor’s boy
will be along soon.

Too hot for coffee, I sit
on the porch swing with a glass
of sweet tea and wait for nothing,
content for more of the same.




Passing

Grief wrapped around me last night,
reminding me of the hardest ache
I’ve learned to live with. I curled
into the bend of the couch, recalling
silly things and finding solace
in the way the night moves.
Loss has lent itself to our family
in the same season it visited last;
the evening makes the same sounds
as it did then: crickets and cicadas
in the distance, cars crawling past
our homes—as if life is to carry on
the way it always does.






Rachel Nix is a native of Northwest Alabama. She likes coffee in the morning and bourbon at night but rarely knows what time it is otherwise. Her work has most recently appeared in Words Dance, Melancholy Hyperbole, and Bop Dead City. Rachel is the poetry editor at cahoodaloodaling; more of her poetry can be found at: chasingthegrey.com