Harold sits in his high-backed chair,
tips shells into his lap,
sprinkles the dayroom carpet with sand.
He lifts the tiger cowrie to his ear,
turns down his hearing aid to recall
the taptaptap of Dad’s pipe on the table,
Mom’s pastry-pin roll and thrap,
the budgie’s serenade to a swinging mirror.
He listens to the wentletrap,
makes out a Wurlitzer, the lift and fall
of Dora’s heels on sprung herringbone.
Smiles as she belts out Billie
over the thump of the twin tub,
the button tin rattle saving
his Sunday shirt from a ragbag fate.
Thumbing the ridges of an upturned oyster,
Harold tries to scoop out sounds
of hand-smoothed sheets,
the bedside monitor chirrup,
a last breeze of breath.
He scrapes the shells
back into their box,
clicks the catch
turns up his hearing aid.
Lets the tide rush in.
Sallyanne Rock is an emerging poet living in Worcestershire, UK. She has been published in various places online and in print, and can often be found tweeting @sallrockspoetry
A red balloon sailing
through patchwork skies
whisked my brother’s young feet
from the fairground. Day bled
to twilight before a cop found him
mangled in a ditch by the highway.
After the funeral, my Dutch au pair
led me down to our basement
and laughed when I told her
I’d never played baseball. Later
we snuck my father’s rifle
out to the train yards, and she
showed me how creamy breasts
of pigeons turn crimson, and
how nothing seems more alive
than in that moment
before it isn’t.
Ryan Stone writes after midnight. His short fiction and poetry have appeared in publications including Algebra of Owls, Eunoia Review, The Drabble and Silver Birch Press and won prizes in a number of competitions at venues including Grindstone, Writer Advice, Goodreads, Writers’ Forum Magazine and Poetry Nook. He lives in Melbourne, Australia.
All afternoon we drive
past No Hawking signs beside
orange sellers in full sun, dust
coiling round their toes, unsheltered
by the bony branches of the trees.
There are only oranges to sell,
the fruits clinging to each other,
an outbreak of harvest moons,
the tiny navel hanging from each apex
an ungrown twin. No-one can buy
such an overflow of oranges,
although we try, squeezing
the last taste of a dry season
into our mouths. All afternoon,
I pass you segments, the juice gluing
your hands to the steering wheel.
I lick at the sap
dripping from my lip,
let you spit pips into my open hand.
Fiona Cartwright is a conservation biologist, poet and mother of two young daughters who lives near London, but wanders elsewhere as much as possible. Her poetry has previously appeared in various publications, including Mslexia, Butcher’s Dog, Envoi. Under the Radar and Ink, Sweat & Tears.
In Miss Owen’s English class we learned about The Writer,
a local hero, or at least he’d come from a town near ours
we’d heard of, and had written poems and books, and died
abroad. He wrote a novel famous for being about fucking,
she told us – or something – and for having the word cunt in it,
and getting banned. Her fish-batter hair bounced as much as
hair as short as hers could, and her cavegirl face with its dark,
moon-lidded eyes, ground pepper as she said the swear-words,
and feasted on the bony silence they’d milked. After the bell,
we mooched about in the schoolyard like sheep just shorn,
our tongues and lips clumsy with disbelief, the crown jewels of
our vocabulary now strangely blunted in our mucky little mouths.
Robert Ford lives on the east coast of Scotland. His poetry has appeared in both print and online publications in the UK and US, including Antiphon, Clear Poetry, Homestead Review and Ink, Sweat and Tears. More of his work can be found here
a sink, cobwebbed with bubbles hands
coined with freckles a dishcloth approaches
lockets of spilled milk the door, booked open
like a half read thing a draughty wing of calendar
lifts, slices the week with forgotten things
by the basket, the gathered throat of a wet sock
pungent oranges jewelled with smell
an umbrella hooked like a dead life scribbled
words on an envelope scrap a letterbox
tongued with junk thumbed glasses make
a story of use a judgement of wax reminds
the room of scuppered light
Jane Burn’s poems have featured in magazines such as The Rialto, Under The Radar, Butcher’s Dog, Iota Poetry and many more, as well as anthologies from Emma Press, Beautiful Dragons, Emergency Poet and Seren. Her pamphlets include Fat Around the Middle, published by Talking Pen and Tongues of Fire published by BLER Press. Her first collection, nothing more to it than bubbles is published by Indigo Dreams.
The foal from the Batagai crater
lived two months before succumbing
to cold or hunger. Tamped into tundra
for over thirty-thousand years, it emerged
statue-perfect from its earthen skin, a marvel
of muzzle against foreleg. I see this pose
in every pasture I pass. Like the corpses raised
from peatbogs, I await some sleight of hand
to restore motion. If it could clatter away
from the cold table of the lab men, I could run
my hands over warm flanks in greeting.
Leaning in, I would breathe an earlier air.
Save yourself, I might whisper. Save us.
Yet if it had, I might never have seen
the delicate quick of its hooves, its mud-
caked lashes, its matted tail-tuft. Every cult
calls for sacrifice. Every poet requires a body.
Devon Balwit lives scarily close to the Cascadia Subduction Zone. She has six chapbooks and three collections out in the world. Her individual poems can be found here as well as in print and on-line journals. For more, see her website at: here
She was happier than ever,
that look had gone from her eyes,
the spill-angst frenzy.
She was quiet, we could relate,
she didn’t peck or jar.
I could breathe.
I rolled her a grape, she was grateful,
watched her ease around the garden.
I was so pleased for her.
No more church or paranoia,
no incessant nervous talk or hypochondria.
That’s when I knew there was a God.
Michelle Diaz lives in the strange town of Glastonbury. She has been writing poetry for a few years and has been published by Prole, Amaryllis and Strix. She ran a poetry group in Glastonbury for two years. She is a member of Wells Fountain Poets. She has a son with Tourette Syndrome and had a peculiar childhood. Both these things inspired her to write. Without poetry her soul would be incredibly hungry.