"The Magician"I get a strong desire to ask a woman any woman if she will have my children if she got upset I could say they are outside only joking but what about if it worked I could say that I don't have long and would like to leave something behind Why not it worked for Crowley "Enough"look there it is it is everywhere but nobody looks too much me I look and sometimes I see and I can feel it too. The birds sing in Cantonese a certain woman has a certain sweetness the swirling white helicopters that come from the lollipop flowers sweep the garden and all seems right with the world just for a little bit but it is enough "The Laughing Man"I see a man bent slightly forward hands in face as if he is putting on a mask He sobs the only way a man who wears boots and cream shorts can screams with misery then he takes his hands from his face he starts to laugh and his face changes then he looks at me and laughs even louder "The Lodger"I lost it yesterday that demon that is inside me came out it is like the cobra in the pot all it needs is a flute playing to bring it out then when it does it is like a nuclear explosion I haven't seen him for a while thought that he may have moved house and moved in with someone else but oh no he is still there. "Reborn"I am just a man not an honest man not a particularly good man I drink I fornicate I do very little but every day I have a hope that I can change I can become that butterfly I can bring something so great to the world that everybody will accept it so you see that is why I write and that is why I can never become a Christian as much as I want to believe that that guy died on the cross to save the world from sin to give everybody the chance to start again as each new day starts I believe I really can be different but know most days will end in the same ultimate fashion so it is a circle one that cannot be broken not for a man or a god Marc Carver has published some ten collections of poetry and over two thousand eight hundred poems on the web but his worst nightmare is to have to sit in a room and listen to poets read their poetry again.
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"Submit to Us"Submit to us Your longtime friends Crept in in the gaps Seeped through the pores Established deep Submit to us How long we’ve stayed Though you try to push us away Close by your side Inside we kept Submit to us When others approach With lips of laughter Cling to us Don’t slip away Submit to us From the back of your prayers Lining your throat of song Devotion Hope Submit to us Come to bed Whispers in your ears Tumbles in the sheets Tumult in your dreams Submit to us Though you push And drink forgetfulness And swallow paralysis And cope unsuccessfully Submit to the dusk Submit to the fragmented Submit to the forces Submit to the fixations Submit to us J.T. Spivy is an English teacher in Parkersburg, West Virginia. While he always encourages his students to be creative and try new things, he typically fails to heed this directive.
"Creature of the Depths"i used to like you until you revealed yourself to be the knife in my back, a creature of the depths without mercy or consideration, always expecting me to drop everything at a moment's notice simply to spend every moment with you; and you wouldn't respect the boundaries i put up so i cut you out now you won't leave my mother alone wish you could just take the hint don't want any balls and chains dragging me down your negativity was toxic to my health, and i am done crucifying myself; i'm over everything to do with you just realize that our garden of friendship has withered and died i'm not coming back to chains-- no longer enslaved by your negativity i have found a peace that i am not willing to surrender for your sake, and a happiness that i have friends now that appreciate that i need some alone time but they also include me in ways you never would. "From Being Shattered"i remember seeing the eyes of a creature in the field looking at me, and it turned out to be a little red fox; our eyes met and we looked at one another for the longest time until he ran away retreating into the long grasses-- sometimes i find myself in unexpected places in fields real and imagined running from the dangers of this world, and so i could identify with this little fox curious but also afraid; running to prevent his ruin-- sometimes, though, perhaps it was unnecessary maybe i would find a kindred spirit in an unexpected place; but i've met too many devils with the faces of angels to take anyone at face value i retreat deep within myself to prevent myself from being shattered. Linda M. Crate is a Pennsylvanian writer whose poetry, short stories, essays, etc. have been featured in many anthologies and magazines both online and in print. She has five published chapbooks, the latest of which was titled splintered with terror (Scars Publications, January 2018).
     Honey Noon: "In Russia, females for centuries were oppressed, trapped, and the price of freedom was never obtainable. A camera lens was the only true way to reveal what most are afraid to discuss with 'taboo' subjects such as abuse, entrapment, overt sexuality, and nudity. This current series shows the post-abused period in women’s lives. Each model represents a tradition that proves happy life for a couple: Rose’s petals in the bouquets that men presents on a first date, rice that guests throw during a wedding in India, or bloody sheets that husbands have to show to the relatives after the first night with Chechnya. These are components of traditions that are still in our cultures and thoughts." Anay Avoravu at a young age would travel abroad in search of clients and subjects that would satisfy her obsession with bringing reality to print. Unaccepted in Russia after traveling from Egypt to UAE and around the globe, she has found her home in Miami Beach and through her lens, creates visual art that exposes the world as it may exist behind closed doors, in dark allies, or even in plain sight. This artist describes her works as dark, ugly, and raw -- just as real abuse is. To her, it is not about what happened in the past, but how people carry it now.
"The Harem Gate Aviary"In Topkapi sheathed with ornate faux freedoms Iznik tiled foliage, glazed and unyielding Bars of gold curlicues’ constrain those within fresh meat for the sultanate, breasts and clipped wings; amidst these ornamented castrums, ringed doves hear the moons sighs, bathe in pearlized tears she sloughs.  "turtle towel" "The Pigeon Shed"In an unloved garden, grass blades penetrating compacted sod, like sparse hairs on a balding head, Granddad kept pigeons in a cack-coated shed. From the open door, I watched deft hands delve into wooden cells beneath barely remonstrating bodies, a frowsy feathered rumpling covering invading fingers. He retrieved opalescent orbs from nesting pens or cupped whole birds their heads protruding between bars of parted digits. The hens carnelian eyes startled from steely cocked faces while plumes of iridescent crops illumed the drab interior. Nestled in his grasp prized specimens pecked hardened skin on Granddad's grimed knuckle pads as he crooned, tenderness unknown to our flightless family. To a soft chorus of avian trilling Granddad processed the aisle holding wafer thin eggs to a votive flame seeking the iris-dark spot and bloodshot veins of nascent life. Motes hung in the fustered air and a hush fell as a blind-eyed dud is placed on a shelf. Smoothing the breast of a barren bird, tracing its upturned throat Granddad straightens stiffening joints; with a rasp of shock a lopped neck furls in a fluttered last caress.  "love bird" "If I Could Tell You about Cape Verde"Cape Verde Has No Indigenous Mammals a statement written by a mammal who is not indigenous to the Cape but…. dusks petticoats muffle the foaming sea, spume salting the archipelagoes limbs. Choirs pepper night’s unseen obstacles, fly with mushroom gill ears filtering echoes. Cassocked pipistrelles were here before man. And high tides gift produce, pets, the jetsam localized by crescent moons at ebb tide. Iridescent fans thrumb mornings ozone, skimming reflections and water tensions’ transparent skin; larval naissance beneath. Green rakes sift azure Op Art confusion. Dappled, I squint at floating coconuts by palm frond finger puppets. A sand dart skirts the shadow-play, beak needling morsels, preening feathers, beside tourist Castrums. A pelt of bleached reed tones ripples over muscle breezes. The feral tabby hunts. I can tell you about the Cape. Call it Cabo Verde. Come here by air and sea, find indigenous mammals, pipistrelles watched by Creole women, while dragon flies skim ponds and feral cats hunt beneath palms. Karen Downs-Barton is a neuro-diverse poet and student studying the History of Art with a Creative Writing BA while sofa surfing her way around the globe looking for somewhere cheap and interesting to live.
 "they think they know me but they don't know"  "Bajo la piel de la liebre"  "culto al sol" Wanda Fraga Sánchez de la Campa was born in 1994 in the city of Santa Clara, Cuba. Her work in the visual arts and literature in explores the human mind, emotions, and human behavior. Fragments of memories, people, situations, and objects that have determined her as a person are now presented in her work, alluding to them with the responsibility of sharing them, perhaps seeking to restore that bond that Wanda never felt, to have with the world.
You can view more of this artist's work at https://wandaartsession.webnode.es/ or on Instagram at @wandaartsession! "Overnight"Everybody is asleep There is an unknown silence Uncle’s snores break this uncertainty. The milk in the kitchen Is slowly turning into curd. The saplings in the garden Have grown a little. The hens are laying eggs And behind those blue curtains A lost soul Is trying to solve The puzzle of her life. "Sky"When I look at the sky I don’t think about its vastness Nor the changing colours. I only think how I can Climb so high How I can touch it With my own hands How I can colour it With my own painting brush. Sravani Singampalli is a published writer and poet from India. She is presently pursuing a Doctorate of Pharmacy at JNTU Kakinada University in Andhra Pradesh. She writes all forms of poetry and enjoys singing.
 "What Lies Hidden" "Unicorn"I shouldn’t have done it. I’ve always shunned the spotlight, always feared it. Unlike the horses and dogs who play the game, perform, do what’s expected by their human providers, by their audience. I’ve always been afraid of being seen onstage just in case I was taken short and golden notes fell from my arse and made rainbows brighter than the spotlight, upsetting the lighting engineers. I think we’re all the same, we unicorns, shy creatures. That’s why we’ve survived, hiding in dreams. "Tomorrow Never Comes"The orcas decreed that the dolphin’s wedding should be delayed by a day. Delayed till tomorrow, if tomorrow ever came. This would give more time, they said, to decorate the wedding gowns, to weave more shells into the kelp, the tiniest of muscle shells for him in every shade of blue, sweet pink cockle shells for her, sometimes veering towards red as if warning of danger. The music was to be rock ‘n’ roll, played by the Killers, of course on improvised pianos. The octopus was responsible for the wedding breakfast. He had enlisted the help of every friend to enlarge and beautify his garden. To transport rocks with anemones attached and bring a multitude of coloured pebbles and shells to enclose the fishy tidbits collected especially for the feast. But in spite of their reassurances, still he worried about the guest list. So many orcas and dolphins who did not have a good reputation so far as the octopuses were concerned. But the garden was beautiful and surely it was a fact that tomorrow never came. He had always believed it. Now time would tell. "Caterpillar"When I was nine, by accident I stepped on a caterpillar. Stepped on one end of a caterpillar. And it’s caterpillar shape, bright emerald green, shot out the other end. Since then, I have taken great care never to step on a caterpillar again. Lynn White lives in North Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places, and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. Her poem 'A Rose For Gaza' was shortlisted for the Theatre Cloud 'War Poetry for Today' competition in 2014. This poem and many others have been widely published.
You can find more work by Lynn at https://www.facebook.com/pages/Lynn-White-Poetry/1603675983213077?fref=ts and lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com! "Heaven"Its breath on spiral staircase rolling in waves of unread paragraphs; the sleeping giant distant as a myth is given by rite of spring. Listen. Witness visions of infant baptisms in holy chrism, the cries of which rile the beast with childish echolalia. Notice its mass, its sheer dominance motionless, fearlessly. Another instance, notice the rolling hills behind gentle foraging massive, playful. Prairie lizard frolic in the autumn mist a spirit scent of children laughing. The rolling hills behind perpetual perfect service provider. Forked tongue flames lick the air for best reception over clear channel broadcast. Dredge through fledging story in stammering manner against inherent flanerie; open doors wedged with sworn oaths by pledge of alleged sledgehammer. By dark and by silence, espy the snye astride the riverrun, past Eve and Adam’s, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, at bay, and stray not wayfaring stranger. Seek the open landscape batwing flutter. Exalted One once exhumed once hatchling prepare for takeoff, weather permitting. Speak once upon a time upon the launchpad; one small step and puff and gone in a cloud of smoke and away we go in leaps, unbound. The stars beckon. The clouds (a shroud of sky) belie heaven. What chain of command goes hand in hand and step by step side by side with a basilisk! What cloying pacifist ploy to destroy its temple cave, save a gravedigger, but a masochist? None but a blasphemous cleric don the tetragrammaton, so to speak. And so, to boast is bleak and thus barren. So black and radiant and severe, thus explosive. From three to seven headless allegories scorch the course of farsighted challengers; structural integrity compromised by ball of fire. Fall, aquarius moon, into the jaws of the Leviathan (an alms to the olm). It’s been a long, long, long day. Angelo lives and writes in Philadelphia, where he serves as founding editor of Empty Set Press and hosts Oxford Coma, a nihilist poetry reading series. His work has appeared in Yes Poetry, Luna Luna, Occulum, Be About It, Mad House, Apiary Magazine and elsewhere. His chapbook, HEROINes, was released in March 2017.
"Hood Canal, Sub Rosa"It must have been May-- the wild roses mounded over rickety fences in dirt track Dewatto and we pulled over for the smell of it the road tapered to a lane, wild rhododendrons pink-lighted the forest with candelabra arms so it must have been May in western Washington, under blue sky seal, ruck sack lunch for us and Watson, two hundred pound St. Bernard, lazy beast, but good for a few miles of woods and water, cliffs and beaches perfect Hood Canal hiking day on the long Puget Sound inlet, the white brushed mountains of the Olympic Peninsula on the western side, so quiet we heard the mouse scream and the falcon wing rush of avid eyes and talon thrust it must have been May, summer’s promise the Bernie alerted, stiff and intent, deer? Roosevelt elk? seal on the beach below? We searched, spotting nothing, Watson an immobile guard out of the cobalt sea a conning tower, dead black, surfaced-- a movie flash of run silent, run deep-- nuclear death cruising, Pacific bound Trident sub Victoria is a poet living in Chiang Mai, Thailand. Most of this artist's published poetry is about ecology and narrative in nature -- some journals that have included their work are Califragile, the Hawaii Pacific Review, Wildflowers Muse, Eastlit, and the Ekphrastic Review.
 "El Lenguaje Figurado de Figueras por Seigar (3)"  "Pajaro Manchado de Azul (El Hierro)"  "Dirty Pink (London)"  "La Resonancia Catastrófica de los Dinosaurios (Tenerife) por Seigar (14)"  "Canillo, the iPhone files, summer 2015" Seigar is an English philologist, high school teacher, and curious photographer. He is a fetishist for reflections, saturated colors, details, and religious icons. He feels passion for the pop culture that shows in his series. He considers himself a traveler and an urban street photographer. His aim as an artist is to tell tales with his camera, to capture moments but trying to give them a new frame and perspective. Travelling is his inspiration, however, he tries to show more than mere postcards from his visits -- creating a continous conceptual line story from his trips. The details and subject matters come to his camera again and again, almost becoming an obsession. He has participated in several exhibitions and his works have also been featured in international publications.
You can find more of his work online on Instagram at @jseigar and www.facebook.com/jseigar! "Mooncalf"At night the isle is webbed with lullabies, soft spirit voices tangled in the mists of thorn and furze. They’re wisps of sound that gentle me to sleep. By day, the murmurs guide me to fresh springs, are at my shoulder as I creep between the trees, sing a celebration as I slit the warthog’s throat. They stroke the bristles on it’s coat; lick my blood-hot hands; breathe the stink of roasting flesh. The man in the moon beats fast above the trees. I met him once – O, years gone, when the wizard and the girl were here. He wore a sea-stained jerkin, tipped the liquor from a bark bottle down my throat. He sang of women with his piebald slave. I worshipped him, thought he’d kill the wizard, help me take the girl. She taught me words, but I could never sing. When the voices play, she’s all I want. To lick her shell-pink skin, to part her thighs, to lose myself. He kept her stoppered and secure. She wasn’t just stuff for me, not Sycorax’s son. She had a higher destiny. He saved her for a bald-faced, milky boy, a skinny prince who’d swam ashore when the sail-boat split. I never learned to swim. That’s all I miss: the girl. Her father made her see me as I am. But, when he went, he left the island’s song. "The Word-Worm"I’m a creature who’ll teach yer ‘bout language, all the ghost-verbs that wander about, cos I gobble the text that’s rejected - all the bits that the smart kids rub out. I eat up the unneeded adverbs, munch on wily waste words tilI I bloat; long-winded leftovers tempt me; surplus syllables slip down my throat. I lap up the lazy old letters that will never get into a book. I steal them from kids who write pages and give them to kids who are stuck. You might call me an alphabet freakoid (O, those unwanted words taste so good!) - but I see myself more as a hero: in my view, I’m the new Robin Hood. I’ll lick up the spare prepositions; I’ll guzzle and dribble and slurp. Once I’m full, then I give you fair warning: Sometimes a word-worm must burp… *&>£@}%+#…! Pardon me! "All Hallows' Eve in Alnmouth"Pink All Hallows’ light fingers the dunes, unfurling shadows across their shifting feet, down which the darker guests will tread. The bugle of the sweet, wild wind announces the first cobwebbed carriage, and stirs the marram and couch to a flustered applause. The moon lifts. White Hecate’s eye, composed above the blue-black sea, spotlights the first of the fae, in his silver and salt-green, stepping, light as down, through the parting of grass, threading his way by Jack-o-lantern to the place where the torches have just been lit. Behind him arrive his fellows, twisted in feathers and fronds, slips of turquoise silk and sea-glass glinting in the starlight, scraps of cloud and mist: a queen with a golden diadem, a girl in a scarlet dress, a tall man in violet-grey – the multitude stream across the smoky dunes, some dancing in giddy delight, some stately, some wrapped in unknowable thoughts, all trailing the sliver of moon-light through the smudge of elephant grey. The sea breathes out, breathes in. Far off, a lonely banshee wails. The leader stops between the flames, calls to the sea, his voice the shiver of pebbles under waves. He warbles out his welcome at the ocean’s edge, to the beetle-backed coracles that are suddenly there, powered by strangely-jointed arms with batwing oars, as they heave and pull towards the shore. A murmur whispers and whistles, the rattle of shells in a pocket, and spidery arms are raised. But one of the company turns, looks keenly up, and sees - the house overlooking the beach, the curtain’s sly spasm as a face pulls back, into his home’s soft shadow. One smiles like a scalpel; he saw the child’s face. The ceremony has begun, the crowd is surging softly forward, shrewd moths between the torch-flames, eager to greet their friends. One looks back, looks back and beckons with a rapier finger. ‘Come, child. We need a - guest of honour. Come.’ Yorkshire-woman Louise Wilford is an English teacher and examiner. She has had around fifty poems and short stories published in magazines including Popshots, Pushing Out The Boat, The Stinging Fly and Agenda, and has won or been shortlisted for several competitions. She is currently writing a children's fantasy novel.
"Murder in the Fields"grandpa's hands were curiously calloused even for a farmer my own young fingers soft, untrained i tried his patience, learning too slowly placement of seed along furrow we paused at noon. lunch was grandma's goodness thick-as-a-board slices of white bread fresh this morning from the woodstove, garden vegetables from just beyond her kitchen windows, chocolate cake suffocating under fresh cream even the field mice answered the aromas peeking cautiously over the embankments one young, overly curious fellow strayed too close and found himself prisoner to grandpa's empty cup delighted, i begged to keep this pet watched grandpa's clear eyes go cloudy full of anger and hate for the tiny destroyer the cup lifted mouse hesitated unsure where safety lay i stared disbelieving as grandpa's boot crushed down j.lewis is an internationally published poet, musician, and nurse practitioner. His poems have appeared online and in print in numerous journals from California to Nigeria to the UK. His first collection of poetry and photography was published in June 2016, and is available on Amazon (http://www.amazon.com/clear-day-october-j-lewis/dp/168073055X). His chapbook is forthcoming from Praxis Magazine.
 Unnamed: "My photo is born out of two of my passions, literature and photography. The Wizard of Oz has always been one of my favorite stories because it represents society, different kinds of people involved in a vital search for happiness facing troubles and difficult situations, and looking for that something we need to feel complete. If I had to choose one The Wizard of Oz character, it would be Tin Man. He’s looking for his heart. He lost it as we all lose our innocence, feelings, and innate good as is destroyed by society, personal relationships, and what makes us --little by little-- cold and indifferent." Raquel is a curious, Tenerife-based English philologist and school teacher who is attracted to intimate scenes. She finds photography a peephole in discovering others and herself, feeling passion towards suggestive shapes, lights, shadows, and sense-stimulating bodies which invite us to imagine that intimacy we only let "our chosen" discover.
You can view more of her work on Instagram at @rachelghe and Facebook at www.facebook.com/raquel.garcia.Tenerife! [Untitled]Grun knows where all music is, including CDs and tapes that music is on, including Grun heard your mom singing in the shower. Grun knows where digital files come from and how they get to your phone. Grun knows where your earbuds are but that’s as far as it goes with you. As far as Grun knows you can do one thing which is hear. You don’t listen. That’s not a problem. Sometimes you hold still. When you hold still, still gets up and goes to sleep on the couch. Still doesn’t need your breath on its ear all night, you know? Grun knows where your car is, if you have the radio on. Grun doesn’t care. Grun eats lunch in the band room at the local high school because it’s better than eating with you and Grun isn’t even local. You know that scene in that movie where traffic on the highway sounds like the ocean and the ocean sounds like the band at the beach bar and they finally have that moment? Grun doesn’t. Grun loved the weather the weekend you came here. Do you remember, it rained glass powder from the construction of the Comcast building and the wind blew away all your clothes? But Grun thought this would be a good place to live, and Grun is not wrong. Grun runs under the highway and only coincidentally doesn’t throw you off. If one day Grun didn’t come there would be trouble with bridge vibrations and an oddness to anyone rolling up the driveway But Grun does nothing for you Yet When they run the herd from a helicopter, the herd is like a river flowing through the gate Saying something obedient to a coworker. ‘I love walking down the escalator, you get so much closer to the ground so fast it feels almost like they’re burying you finally.’ One or the other was getting to me. The building was historic— Nevermind From the 16th floor— Nevermind Plants were hanging in pots— Nevermind There was one girl there on stealth who must be hiding from the helicopters— Where in the room did she sit? Must have sat on the bed. She must have sat on the bed, she wouldn’t want to miss anything that went on there. Every day at sunset she was in her room. Can’t remember if it was cold or warm but it must have been. No one’s looking for walking distance to a Walmart, what can you buy there that you can walk home? Now the plants are all dry and upside down and always hanging, silhouetted on projections for an art show that isn’t. More or less like that spider that dropped down from the ceiling on— What even day was that? What town? What could have brought a person around there? First you have to find it, meaning know where it is. There’s nothing that would get you off the highway except seeing the exit you were looking for already-- What would make this a whole place would be if you had a point, three, a plane, and a double line that leads to the moon. When you go somewhere and he isn’t there, it makes you like him More. Heather Dooley is an art model and poet from West Virginia, living in Philadelphia since 2007. She is writing about a character named Cupid. You can subscribe to her work at tinyletter.com/campfire30.
"Robert the Doll"Scene 1: Annette, as wraith, remembering when the emoticon of fear presented, when the savage effigy inserted himself, wanting nefarious dialogue between the two. It pleased him, as the loathsome renegade doll followed her shadow across the floor. Scene 2: Annette now wears her mantilla like a second scalp, especially in the storm-that of Robert’s great eye. Does she dare ask? Who decides where the plunge into the darkness will take place- Who measures the when and how long of Robert’s wild dance- Does she dare? Scene 3: In the new Millenia: Cemetery plots expertly cloned, raised higher than in times past, no more sprawling acreage; land in Key West is tight! And still, Robert “lives” on. He calls to them as well as the living. Again, does she dare ask? Scene 4: Let's roll the bones to find out. She tips her hand, she should never have lent voice to the name Robert The Doll even in these modern times. For even now, the insane ones spill into the street, lost boys and girls chewing up the scenery with their mad eyes after Robert’s introduction. Final Scene: That lion in his lap, the sentry of this oddity wearing the cursed cloth, reminds her: Didn't Robert once roam the halls of The Artist’s House alone? Well, didn’t he? "Sticks and Stones"There’s an odd place in an alternate dimension, where all wars are fought with skeletons. These subjects of osteology lie dormant until conscription, well-preserved in the interim. Adults only; minors never get to be heroic revenants, noble bones. Once wakened, they are fully conscious of their purpose, realizing that the burden and horrors of war have been put on their ossified cages only. They, without souls, but not without honor, the fleshed never harmed as these bony frames battle with bow and arrow, sticks and stones, knife and spear. All this, for the same reasons inhabitants destroy themselves on other worlds. "Music of the Medusa"One being, a bell with tentacles, having already designed and imagined all that exists, except for the best of musical sounds, sent every tentacle to travel through space, to travel through time, requesting each realm to develop their own unique sound, asking each world to discover that single note and keep it safe until the tentacle could return and learn it and return to the Medusa with that sound on its tongue. A tone to be added to a magnificent composition so that all places might share in a great song, enjoy divine, melodic bliss. So having been informed of the task, the music of the spheres began. Each world constructed Schelling’s frozen music and taught the sound to their children so that they could connect with nature and all that she provides. On our own world, man sang, but he found legion and each became unknown to the others, a free will gift. So, in time, there was much dissonance, too many sounds, all so different, and out of harmony. Discord became the status quo. But one day, Earth's tentacle will return and ask as it was instructed, for our world to provide, as one tongue, a single intonation that is striking, melodious, benevolent. For our sake, Mankind will have to find that voice together. For at the last and at the beginning , the Medusa, that source of all beauty that any have ever known or dreamt of, will combine all sounds, even it which man, as one world, composed, and will create a symphony of the ages, which will never cease. "The Looking"The woman, newly become a wraith, walks among the stones, seemingly lost, yet looking for something she vaguely remembers. The dimming day like all the others, this oncoming night, resembling many long past. What she wishes to find does not come easily to her mind, yet is all consuming on her psyche. The weight on her heart is painful, but she must continue, for once she sights it, she will have tranquility, after so much searching. So she seeks, seeks, seeks... Ah, there it is set in the ground, so common looking like all the others. Yet, this one is special because of him. And as she digs and digs down into the earth knowing she will once more finally touch him. 50 years of searching, and then she takes him into her arms. This tiny thing, once again to love him as before. Linda Imbler is the author of the published poetry collection “Big Questions, Little Sleep.” She is a Kansas-based Pushcart Nominee.
Her work has appeared in numerous national and international journals. Linda’s creative process and a current, complete listing of sites which have or will publish her work can be found at lindaspoetryblog.blogspot.com. |
Trópica Laced Literary & Art Magazine
