The Can Can tickets
removed from a November
the hour of entry.
Inside people squinny
nine courses of an exhibition.
a world inside bars,
the black boa of nightlife,
and a youthful Emile Bernard.
Friends in tender
yellow and white,
recognised attacks of ill-health,
those fractured comments
articulated in preserved
frames of art.
Byron Beynon's work has appeared in several publications including Poppy Road Review, London Magazine, The Yellow Nib, Crannog, Plainsongs and The Muse (India). Also the human rights anthology In Protest (University of London and Keats House Poets). He co-ordinated (on behalf of The Dylan Thomas Centre, Swansea) Wales's contribution to the anthology Fifty Strong (Heinemann). Collections include The Sundial (Flutter Press), Cuffs (Rack Press) and The Echoing Coastline (Agenda Editions).
July 13, 2017
July 11, 2017
An eerie glow pervades the sky
The eastern gale rushes in
Racing over the bow
Carrying with it the songs of lost sailors at sea
Memories of ancient voices
Echoes of the forgotten past
Ghost ships laid quiet by time
Drift amid their once vibrant stories
Seagulls circle overhead
Crying out their warning
To all who will listen and heed
Waves crash on rocky shorelines
The light keeper climbs the spiral stairs
Setting the beacon
At once, Mother Nature wails
All hell breaks loose
Her Unbridled Spirit
Gypsy blood flows in her veins
there is fire in her soul
fevered music beats in her breast
stars sparkle in her eyes
She clothes herself in
a kaleidoscope of swirling colors
as she joins the dancing flames
of the raging campfire
The night is her only lover
a nomadic life is all she knows
an unquenchable lust for freedom
consumed by wanderlust
Ann Christine Tabaka was born and lives in Delaware. She is a published poet, an artist, a chemist, and a personal trainer. She loves gardening, cooking, and the ocean. Chris lives with her husband and two cats. Her poems have been published in numerous national and international poetry journals, reviews, and anthologies. Chris has been selected as the resident Haiku poet for Stanzaic Stylings.
July 10, 2017
The Incinerator Mirror
Today is burning day.
The incinerator will lift
its hat for cardboard, paper,
letters, newspapers and magazines.
Sometimes political leaflets
will be pushed in via the spout.
The smoke bellows then drinks
itself to a thinness only smoke
can explain. Near white exhaust before
limestone, then pigeon grey.
A breeze will pat it either way
as it doesn’t want any straightness
to come out of it. Ash builds up
at the bottom, a month’s worth
of pointless knees bends, dry oven
food and wasted words. The bin
changes complexion as the flames
go by. The steel bin becomes a mirror
and the time wasted on the unremarkable
ages my skin like sea salt on brinks of land.
It’s my time now, picking up,
wiping clean, mopping yesterday.
Opening out, locking in
bringing the sun to the door
as and when. They sit
watching the photo albums
fall from their minds. Voices
been and gone, their lives
falling back down their throat
into a pit of darkness that they
are trying to stay away from.
It’s my time now, picking up
the dead skin that has built
and hid in the corners of settees
thickened on window sills
greyed the in between on remote
control buttons. Clouded the light
bulbs that hang and sit.
It’s my time now, picking up
the timeline they have seeded
and I ready myself to walk alone,
until the next time.
Gareth Culshaw lives in Wales. He has his first collection by futurecycle in 2018.
July 7, 2017
In your body is the garden of flowers
after The Songs of Kabir, IV
Time pauses in your glance
and your eyes blossom.
Hydrangea petals sparkle
in the swirl of beauty blowing
through the gate of your lips.
Love pulses through the stem,
quickens the emerald flowering
of beauty as it travels, down,
down, to the tangled hunger of roots
in the fertile soil of your heart.
moonlight comes screaming down
pure vertical—cold like the drop
of a solid steel elevator
pounding into the ground—splat
making the barn, trees, hedge, fence
cower into pale, flat shadows;
above, against the scattered dust of stars,
an airplane circles, fringing the horizon
so high it seems a wayward star
sucked in by the vacuum of space
so high the raw explosion of its engine
is reduced to the distant growl
of an angry hound
quiet only in comparison
Diana L. Conces is a native Texan whose poetry has appeared in numerous print and online publications, a newspaper, and a city bus. In addition to writing, she enjoys jewelry making, knitting, embroidering poetry onto fabric, and various crafty things she has been lured into by Pinterest. She writes a humor blog at https://dianalconces.blogspot.com/.
July 6, 2017
Walls, white-washed, white floor
white ceiling: shroud, corpse sits through
days, life-long, alone.
Days are long, short nights.
Lights dim help slip down the slope-
Sleep, you wake to die.
Crossing long deserts
of pages, poetry-oasis.
I reach; forever stay.
Rajnish Mishra is a poet, writer, translator and blogger born and brought up in Varanasi, India. He is the editor of PPP Ezine, blog on poetry, poetics and aesthetic: pleasure: https:/poetrypoeticspleasure.wordpress.com.
July 5, 2017
Poppy Road Review’s Annual Print Edition, 2015, is now available from Createspace and Amazon.com. This stunning 122-page book features the fine poetry of William Cullen Jr., Donal Mahoney, Marianne Szlyk, Danny Earl Simmons, Martin Willitts Jr, Laura Lovic-Lindsay, Paul Tristram, Corey D. Cook, Rick Hartwell, Steve Klepetar, Rachel Nix, Byron Beynon, Michael Keshigian, Ernest Williamson III, Richard Schnap, Michael Lee Johnson, Diana Decker, Arlene Mandell, Joseph Lisowski, Kasie Lee, Joan Colby, Don Thompson, Bobbi Sinha-Morey, Douglas Polk, John Grey, M.J. Iuppa, Helen Losse, Mary Jo Balistreri, Michael Holme, Linda M. Crate, Harika Kottakota, Ute Carson, Jane Beal, Laurie Kolp, Akiva J. Savett, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozabal, Jessica Simonetti, Donald Brandis, J.K. Durick, Maryam Mir, B.A. Varghese, Joan Cannon, Anderson O’ Brien, Joan McNerney, and David Chorlton.
Cover art by Sandy Benitez
July 3, 2017
A Family Thing
Someone broke in the house
Someone broke in the house
the weekend the elderly couple was
out of town, a family thing.
The TV, the couch and
computer were gone.
Someone took everything.
Even the silverware,
tables and chairs.
The couple had everything
insured except for the new
photos of their daughter.
They were in the computer
emailed by their son last week.
Kate was all smiles in the photos
and the couple wanted to have them
printed and framed and hung
on the living room wall
above the fireplace.
The weekend of the robbery
the elderly couple was out of town
at her funeral, a family thing.
Redbud and dogwood have blossomed
above the tulips and jonquils where
Alice's house used to be.
A possum and raccoon nose around
where the garage was before the tornado.
An armadillo has joined them.
Someone has hung a red feeder from
the old clothesline. No hummingbirds yet.
Spring has brought new life over there.
Donal Mahoney lives in Belleville, Illinois. He writes poetry, fiction and nonfiction. Some of his work can be found at http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html.