Lyrical Wounds / Heavy Duty Ward by Sushant Thapa

Lyrical Wounds 

Come back
Like an angel.
Come back like
A river of wine.
You were the stars
That I played with.
Money cannot buy
Memories of a worthy while.
A smile is like a prayer,
I keep the gods by my side
In your holy absence.
Forgiveness is a battle
If you choose sides.
A life grows from memories,
A history holds the token of love.
It is the truth that seeks
Attachments.
A lie repels
Two survivors.
Take away the chair
From your lawn,
We will create shade.
These days no post arrives,
But a fresh poem
With lengthy lives,
Too much of a separation
Speaks in lyrical wounds.



Heavy Duty Ward

I walk on,
The forbidden path
Is my friend.
I see the world
Spinning on its own.
I question the supreme one,
Where is my heart?
Maybe my art will bandage
The wounds of the heart.
Healing is your name,
My being is
Like a throw of a net
Into the river.
We were gazing
In each other's eyes,
The whole cosmos
Was like a lake
In your eyes.
I have to cross
The road and
This heavy duty ward.
I am a recovering elegy
And maybe I will be
A living story.

Sushant Thapa is a writer and lecturer from Nepal with 10 books to his credit. He holds an M.A. in English from Jawaharlal Nehru University in New Delhi, India.

Contentment by James Aitchison

Through the eye of the soul,
I see your face in the sky.
Are you really there?
Are you my vision?
Clouds never conceal you,
your gaze is fixed upon me.
Is this how you said it would be —
nothing would ever separate us?
The forest whispers, and
a flute plays in the snow.

James Aitchison is an Australian author and poet whose work has appeared in the Australian Poetry Anthology, Quadrant, Aesthetica (UK), and Black Poppy Review.

Going Home in a Near-Blizzard / Green Mountains by John Grey

Going Home in a Near-Blizzard

With the slashing 

of sleet,

my eyes are half-shuttered 

by ice-tips on lashes,

whitewashed, 

as snow grows around my feet,

my bicycle wheels,

as I plunge forward

in whirling air,

beneath the agitated bridge,

with not a star to be seen,

just houses, here and there,

inanimate objects

but for a nucleus of light.

  

 

 

 

Green Mountains

 

I hike in green mountains.

My mind is as refreshed

as my lungs.

 

What better to do

but wander

with an eye out for the trees,

an ear for the birds

and the crackle of brush,

where timid creatures live.

 

My boots snap twig,

clip-clap on rock.

A breeze blows gently.

The trees rustle.

Softly, softly,

I walk towards what comes next.

 

 

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Shift, Trampoline and Flights. Latest books, “Bittersweet”, “Subject Matters” and “Between Two Fires” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Levitate, White Wall Review and Willow Review.

Treading a Path / In the Portage Bay Cafe by Robert Nisbet

Treading a Path

Nineteen-seventies half-heard-of place.

You needed to tread up through the garlic 

and the raspberry canes to the hall,

a sort of hall, with a lovely grained

and golden floor. Sometimes committees

of a kind would sit around there

on bean bags, but mostly there’d be

jazz and readings and swing and even theory,

the poetry of the impecunious.

The atmosphere was misty and loving,

not the hard coin of commitment

and convention, but un-metalled love,

as joyously unfocused as the garlic smell

and the raspberry-scented evening air. 

 

* First appeared in Jerry Jazz Musician in 2019

In the Portage Bay Café  

 

At breakfast time, the snow spins

its carousel through Seattle's winter streets.

Our meal out is an encampment

in America's gregarious heart, as waiters

teem, proffer their service's glad hand.

There are Rancher's Breakfasts, syrup,

pepper bacon, wafting coffee. In the midst,

in the steam of bonhomie, my grandson,

who is four months old, looks through 

and at it all, the ketchup bottles

and the cream-topped rolls, with utter

wonderment. Behind him, down town,

sky-scraping blocks raise their challenge

to the ferries and the islands and the inlets

out in the sound. On again, and there are

mountains, out in the countryside's

long reach, their peaks capped

by the brilliance of snow.

 

* First appeared in Atrium (Worcestershire, England) in 2023.

Robert Nisbet has been published widely over 15 years in Britain and the USA. His collection, In a Small County, appeared from Seventh Quarry Press (Swansea) last year.

Get Through / Kite by Byron Beynon

Get Through

I imagine myself 
inside an Edward Hopper painting, 
sitting in a diner 
alone and motionless, 
the black coffee getting cold, 
waiting for something 
within me to change 
when suddenly the atmosphere 
eases and I hear 
a trumpet sound 
played by a lean, 
cool Chet Baker 
embracing my silent mood, 
reaching out across 
the evening shadows, 
touching my sleeve, 
taking me along 
with those strong adjectives of music 
which climb and soar 
above the oppressive 
streets and traffic, 
telling me calmly of a way 
to get through.

  

Kite 

Her body is five months pregnant, 
she stands on a hill 
laughing to herself. 
Controlling the fresh 
strings of the kite 
she kindles a red 
swirl of ribbons. 
The movement of blind 
air carries towards a life 
soon to enter 
this fast world, 
touching it like purity, 
the gravity and pull of imagination, 
an innocent about to argue 
with dangerous time, 
the shining heartbeat of flesh and blood.

 

Byron Beynon lives in West Wales. His work has appeared in several publications including Poppy Road Review, The London Magazine, Galway Review, Poetry Wales and Black Mountain Review. Collections include The Echoing Coastline (Agenda Editions), The Sundial (Flutter Press) and Where Shadows Stir (The Seventh Quarry Press).

Whispers and Secrets / Mid-February by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

Whispers and Secrets

Whispers and secrets
fuel the moon’s avarice.
It is never satiated as
it inhales all it hears.

Its light is fixated on us,
a witness to all we say
and do. The only thing
it cannot do is read our

minds, which is why we
should not blurt out what
we are thinking. Sleep
talkers have no remedy.
Through open windows the
moonlight inhales each word.





Mid-February

In mid-February
the streets near the Flower Market
in Downtown Los Ángeles
are heavy with traffic.
What is normally a minute drive
from Maple to 9th Street
turns into the longest ten minutes
you have ever driven.

You think of buying flowers
for the woman who keeps your
heart burning for a love out of reach,
but there is nowhere to park
as your anxiety heightens.
Ten minutes turns into twenty
and still there is nowhere to park.
Your lunch break is nearly over.
So you make plans on coming out
here the next day before the sun
is out and most of the world is asleep

including the woman you love.

Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal lives in California and works in Los Angeles. His poetry and art has appeared in Blue Collar Review, Escape Into Life, Four Feathers Press, Kendra Steiner Editions, and Unlikely Stories. His most recent poetry book, Make the Water Laugh, was published by Rogue Wolf Press.

Sometimes by Robert Cooperman

Sometimes, when sleep eludes me
like an escaped balloon, I tell myself,
as if a parent reading a bedtime story,
the folktale of the Grateful Dead:

Sometime during the Middle Ages
a traveling merchant pays the debts
of a recent corpse who’d died a pauper.
The tradesman continues on his way,
and in the middle of a dark wood,
is attacked by highwaymen,
and just as the rogues are about
to kill him for having nothing left to rob,

a rider thunders out of the mist
and drives off the would-be killers,
the merchant gape-mouthed: the horseman
is the wretched pauper, the Grateful Dead,
returning one good deed with another.

My silent recitation calms, comforts me,
eases me into sleep, no matter
how many times I tell it to myself:
knowing goodness is rewarded,
if only in old stories.

Robert Cooperman's latest collection is An Oar for Odysseus (Kelsay Books). His most recent chapbook is To Tell the Tale (Grateful Dead Studies Association).