I lament my life as a pecan sliver – by Helen Freeman

 

a fragment of residue, fractured
at the bottom of a bowl, rubble
with the butt-ends of party chaw.

I know you’ll say that I was the one
who bemoaned the boxes, the labels,

but I’m not even honey-roasted
or maple-glazed. And where’s the sea salt,
the cinnamon, the granola?

I want to be whole again, in my shell
on a tree, eyed by Nubian Nightjars.

 

 

Helen Freeman published  Broken  post-accident in Oman. Since then she has completed several poetry courses and has poems in some online magazines. Brought up in Kenya, she now lives between Edinburgh and Riyadh.

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LISTEN SILENT – by Chris Hardy

 

LISTEN
SILENT

Everyone round here’s asleep
also dogs birds foxes cats.
The wind has dropped
and the fridge is off.

Aircraft are landing
somewhere else and
no one is driving down my street.
No one doesn’t exist.

My house is old
and settles on itself
peacefully as if
after a large meal.

I listen to silence
and hear it all.

I also hear myself
hissing like a fountain
in a dawn piazza.
Bronze dolphins

arch their backs
as the sun
reaching out
from side streets

opens windows
in wet paving,
before people wake
and buses run.

 

 

Chris Hardy’s poems have been published widely in magazines, anthologies and on websites. They have won prizes in the National Poetry Society’s, and other, competitions. A fourth collection will be published in 2017. He is in LiTTLe MACHiNe (little-machine.com). The best music and poetry band in the world”. Carol Ann Duffy.

The Sisters – by Alec Solomita

 

The nun instructs her passing brood,
taming them with a wooden rule.

Compared to humility – obedience, chastity, and poverty
are child’s play.

Her intimates dazzle – sister of St. Joseph!
bride of Christ!

When nuns gather together to pray,
their devotions skitter like bats over lakes,
riffling the water’s surface.

Housed in her habit, the nun feels at ease when,
after vespers, she unfastens her rosary,
slips her underskirts and sits by an open window.

In the night, she dreams of a water lily.

What she believes is scary and ravishing
Credo in unum Deum, Patrem omnipotentem,
factorem caeli et terrae, visibilium omnium
et invisibilium

Mother Superior perches on a bough
above the snow, her eyes everywhere.

Sister Francesca, cranky as an old wife,
reads John Greenleaf Whittier
to a roomful of ink wells.

The mortal remains of Sister Marie Perpetua
disperse in St. Patrick’s Cemetery
while her soul slow-dances with the Lord.

 

 

Alec Solomita’s fiction has appeared in, among other publications, The Adirondack ReviewThe Mississippi Review, and Southwest Review. He’s published poetry in MockingHeart ReviewLiterary OrphansSilver Birch Press, and many other venues. His chapbook, DO NOT FORSAKE ME, is forthcoming, to be published by Finishing Line Press.

Sonnet 1-800 – by Drew Pisarra

 

In 1989, my friend Mary
worked for the sex line 1-800-DUCK
where she more often took calls from scary
coke addicts than horn-dogs lacking the pluck
to approach girls in nightclubs. Back then
I smirked at the dialed-up idiocy
of convos billing jerks by the second
for not-so-hot hotline intimacy.
Yet where are we now? With our lovelorn apps
(Grindr, Tindr, Tingle, Scruff, and Diskreet)
that spell out longing via finger taps,
our hammered-out virtual meet-and-greets.
Goodbye, chatterbox – so lonely, so high.
Hey, emoticon heart… r u nearby?

 

 

 

Drew Pisarra worked in the digital sphere on behalf of such TV shows as Mad Men, Rectify and Breaking Bad. His work has been produced off-Broadway and appeared in Poydras Review, Thin Air, and St. Petersburg Review, among other publications. His collection of short stories, Publick Spanking, was published by Future Tense eons ago.