‘Who Is That Bird at the End of That Rope?’, ‘Crisis in the Lighthouse’, & ‘Jack-O'-Lantern’.

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Who Is That Bird at the End of That Rope?

I feel as if I am always in camouflage;
Last of my species? Damned to this, fakery collage.

Another time, or place...a cruel fantasy.
Unique—a blessing tainted with insanity.

Retrained? On the verge of extinction? Already
Gone like the fabled dodo—or mass dignity?

I tend to glide above, while most seem to slither.
Ostriches is as close as I have gotten hither.

Seem to be birds of the feather—of flight at first glance;
Do elect not to fly, given the delusive chance.

Some seem to be rats of sorts; I rear to fly—soon
The ones who tramp, drag me to the gallows at noon.

Crisis in the Lighthouse

Reach my hand outside the lighthouse window. The haze,
Thick. An albatross lands on my finger—so vague.

All I seem to receive is omens as of late;
I feel like a mackerel; no relent—teased with bait.

Always riddled viz. "You will wake and be deemed blind."
I'm left to wonder; blind of the eyes—or of the mind?

Lighthouse keeper; beloved, nurturer of the flame;
Has no light to guide him; his black horizon to tame.

The blind leading the blind; or the delusional,
Who forgo the cane. His peerless sight—fictional.

Are the other keepers up the shore just as lost;
Finding sole solace in the verse of Robert Frost?

"I have been one acquainted with the night." What it
Is to be a keeper? Light the way—mind, dimly lit.

Save poor souls, from a fate you crave in seclusion.

Tame the wild ocean—or at least give the illusion.

My weapon against the sea—a lowly, lone match;

I should be on the other end of the "help!" dispatch.

Jack- O’-Lantern

I see my sanity roll off my fingertips;
Do they know how slippery it is? It seems that
They never risk it. A Mental apocalypse—

The mind endures; flames ravage its crevices; My
Cerebral disaster. Soon enough those who prey—
Pillage will arrive; gutting the pumpkin—bone dry.

They leave my face perverted; eyes jagged; mouth hacked.
Set fire to my core; Soul arsonists—no remorse.
Outlet for emotional pyromaniacs.

Used for one chilly night; then violently tossed

Down, the juxtaposing, peaceful dell; I roll—squash!
Left to rot, in a state of decay. Will I frost—

Or will I have decomposed by winter? From now
Till next autumn, my kind will be seen as passé.
No longer useful for laughs—scares. Death under boughs.

They wash their hands of my seeded blood; wipe the knife.
"This stuff never comes off." Longer to dwell—regret.
Throw the remains in the oven; burn off the life.

William Olson is a young aspiring artist in multiple fields; such as writing, music, film, and poetry. He also most likely enjoys John Keats too much for his own good, in this poetic landscape. He currently resides in Birmingham, Alabama.

“Lucky Cargo”, “Exit Point”, & “My Girl, Athena.”

Photographer - Tobi Brun

lucky cargo

Bury me at sea in the mouth of a lion.
There I will squander the cargo for anchor.
Make me a list of their sisters and mothers,
and watch me return to the warm South to thank her.

Bless me with sand at the feet of Elijah.
Here I will make good the boundless prairie.
Build me a tall ship to sail California,
or carve me your phone number under the blue tree.

Break into a car where the flowers are burning.
There I will paint you a cold Dionysus.
Write me a Pope at your earliest convenience,
but make no apologies over the wireless.

Bring me the white whale who started creation.
Here I will peel you a red pomegranate.
Spell me your favourite hour in the waters,
as proof that it’s not such a dubious planet.

Book me a table for Boot Hill at sundown.
There I will make lunar landings a habit.
Pour me the Rolling Stones into fine china,
if ever you find a bar lucky to have it.

exit point

A brown spider crawled out of my dream,
full of hard threaded heart-strings.
Sleepy with Satie’s Gymnopedies.

Could have
sailed again.
that world
I travelled
from.

How
time slipped
every
screen
and,

taught dead
fish
to
jump
an empty

reel as my dream
reclined
in the arms
of some

lonely, adult
actress.

Or St. Cecelia in ecstasy, (is that the place?)
I never looked to find. All over
the city, blue flies ferry fever.

Takes time to cross, two years of traffic lights,
dealt underneath the bridge.

At the exit point
of memory, there is always,
this expectancy.

Like driftwood, Holy days
when I still wait for you.

My girl, Athena.

The Gods have abandoned you.
She’s not there, (but vengeance is)
some spray-paint joker cracks.

You are no Goddess
on a good day.
Not my girl, you say.

How your eyes
stay quiet like a house,
that will grow

into a garden.

Let us speak to each other,
a simple list of words
in no particular order.

Though my language be small as a wager.

Our first day in the park as the jet planes
roared above your dark, gold hair.

and you spoke
to me, slowly.

distant with conviction.

Jonathan Jones lives and works in Rome where he teaches English and American literature at John Cabot University.

Stuck

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Stuck

If I am impaled on the side,
Will the crows come and pluck out my eyes?
I am frozen and stuck in place,
Bites were taken out of my unmoving face.
My blood boils,
The thick putrid liquid in my chest,
It roils.
People are passing,
My eyes follow them, unblinking.
Time is flashing,
I keep sinking.

How long must I remain this way?
Will the passers-by stop?
They will not stay.
Gawking maybe, asking a question or two,
They lose interest quickly,
It is not enough that it is just you.

“Where is the tribe?”
“They are about.”
“Have you even tried?”
“A lot,” I try to shout.
They only smile in pity, and glee maybe?
Floating away, content, lazy.

Watching the blood pool beside my pole,
It freezes quickly, out of control.
Still looking on, my unmoving face,
Tight, stiff, and stuck in bitter space.

I look to my left, there is another.
Her eyes are astray.
With speaking I do not bother,
she cannot hear me anyway.
The blood has dried.
Given up, she has died.

My eyes begin to bulge,
In panic, I try to shift.
Sorrow too long indulged,
Where is the will needed to persist?
Remove the spike long sat in my chest,
Cannot get upright,
Only pain left to ingest.
Tired, more tired every day,
Waiting to be discovered and taken away.

Strikes like a storm,
The crooked lines of my shoulders,
When fresh dripping blood is keeping you warm.
The small stones feel like bullets,
A raindrop like hail,
A pinch like a punch,
On life's path impaled.

Iram Nisa Hussain is of British-Pakistani descent. Hussain is a passionate newcomer, who has always indulged in poetry. Born and raised in the Northwest of England, Hussain has always used words to capture the essence of life's moments.

‘These Late June Evenings’, ‘Nyctinasty’, ‘Drift’, ‘February 19’, & ‘Am I The Only One’.

Photographer - Christine Trujillo

These Late June Evenings

This coastal mirage slips its moorings
in the silver late evening light, the diamonds
on the sea dulling as gently as controlled light-emitting
diodes in a newly formed seaside room.
Driving around, parking, watching, I look at the
houses sketched into the hillside, hidden in
overhangs of western Irish rock and root, holding
their contents with gloved hands, curving around
familial ritual. Thriving, occasionally flailing.
How long do we have I wonder aimlessly, noting the
houses emptied out of generations, supplanted naturally
by the next and the next. I strangle a breath and there, just there,
above the white line of the shore, below the hushed bog cotton,
in front of the limpid sun slipping way down, beneath the gulls
screeching retreat,
I see my absence.

Nyctinasty

Yesterday the dawn chorus seemed heightened,
taut, strung out on its own anxiety. Quivered and
strewn it catapulted me from my bed pulsing with
an unknown fear, a shadow partner moving swiftly
alongside me.
Outside in the half light, waiting for my four-month
puppy to show some affinity for toileting, I studied
the ocean to try and fathom the invasion of a near country.
How the people are being corralled, displaced, murdered
at will, how evil achieves a mundaneness, how shock
turns to fusion, becoming part of our DNA.
When I cannot look up or out for fear of blinding guilt, I
look to the ground and am stilled by an armada of daisies
hunched into their own being, closed to all interrogation.
How had I forgotten that daisies close at night.

Drift

When it dawned on me, after all, that life is finite
I shed my carcass body, my soul armour, and went
down to the shore to purify soul in brackish cutting water,
to see where soul would go.
Resting back from awareness further into the shadows
I watch soul break free of me, frolic and swoop in the surf,
Defying and goading the deadly backwash, preening in the glint of the
salt on the sea and screeching along with the careening seagulls.
While soul revelled, I wept. For every time I did not disrupt more, go to
the edge of every bluff and soar. Wept to see what soul was and
how I had not seen the chaotic beauty within. Jackal shrieks came from all
around me, a chorus of fury and lament so deep the sky blackened and roiled,
turning in on itself.
Petrified I ran, calling to soul to come back and unite with me, to write a
chapter that spat courage and would turn the world upside down. Soul was
basking now, moving further away, out to sea in a clamour of foam and hubris
forgetting in its anarchic swing – the fantastical.

February 19

In grief and sinister joy I leaned
Out the window over the river Corrib
Searching for lack of malice as I had become
Used to.
Jealousy & hate darts thrown for so long, sick
Twisted plaits – your ladder to the stars.
Down from the docks, five swans purled their
Haughty way towards the Claddagh.
So blue-white in the dark. Why five? Why not.
Nothing about them begged me, but oh, how
I needed them on that night.

Am I The Only One

who upon waking September mornings inhales the
smell of yesterday fading faster than a meteor or climbs
the air stairs to find a fretty cloud to rest on whilst plotting
the flawless coup
The only one to grieve the imminent departure of burnt
orange Montbretia who nodded and danced for me daily
and asked for nothing in return save admiration which
I gave & gave
The only one to add a suspicion of autumn to my morning coffee
and drink from the poisoned chalice anyway
self-administered not imposed
The only one to know there is a September day that stops the straggly
rivers running through my head and for that one day of your birth
I celebrate wildly.

Marian Kilcoyne is an Irish writer. She has been widely published in Ireland, UK, USA and Europe. She has read her work on National Radio, RTE Lyric FM. Her poetry collection, The Heart Uncut, was published in 2020 by Wordsonthestreet publishers Galway. She lives in Belfast and Co. Mayo. Website www.mariankilcoyne.com

‘An American Fairy Tale’, ‘Whether Patterns’, ‘How to Diagnose Peripheral Neuropathy When You’ve Run Out of Backyards’, ‘Lorraine’, & ‘I Think We Can All Agree That Puppy Mills Are a Bad Idea’.

Photographer - Tobi Brun

An American Fairy Tale

Gone Girl has come undone in a true-life abduction &
rape scheme gone awry that was commandeered by
an otherwise noble Silverware Salesman in dark jeans &
a ski mask who, it was determined by the authorities (only
after all was said & done), acted alone & with reckless
haste, leaving behind evidence pretty much everywhere,
ultimately leading to understandable speculation that,
perhaps, he was hoping to be caught which, in fact,
he was, but only eventually and, believe it or not,
accidentally via an interview at Costco with
The Clueless Stepmother, following a long period of time –
indeed ten months – in which Gone Girl & The Boyfriend
were unjustifiably bludgeoned in the loop-de-loop media
by law enforcement & The Public because, of course,
The Public always seems to jump to conclusions on
the bandwagon of group-think righteous indignation &
moral superiority all over social media, a self-reinforcing
death spiral of truth destruction if there ever was one which,
in this particular case, resulted, through reliable &
predictable polling, in the unfortunate couple being
unceremoniously deposited into The Enshittocene –
through no fault of, or effort on, their own, everything
in existence having been gobbled up by it – where they
got married & are raising two kids on the beach, a boy &
a girl, & where, like all the rest of us in America, they
are just trying to live happily ever after, good luck with that.

Whether Patterns

I can’t help but wonder
whether what is left of me
will be enough for you

as the days pile up one
on top of the other, like an
unbound manuscript consisting

of blank leaves of unread
poetry left carelessly near
an open window in summer,

caught by a sudden breeze &
scattered throughout the rooms
of the house, floating down

the bottomless stairwell
of our lives out onto the
main thoroughfare that runs

east to west &
back again in the ancient
City of the Cloud Queen.

How to Diagnose Peripheral Neuropathy When You’ve Run Out of Backyards

Two years ago today I forgot to remember how to
walk. That’s a First World problem said my friend.
But I live in the Global South! No First World
problems here. Well he said it’s ... complicated.

The llamas near the ruins stomped on the ground.
I will never be able to do that again I thought.
Feeling sorry for myself, I shed a tear or two
because I knew no one else would. The tests and

biopsies proved inconclusive. I blamed it on an
interference of clouds and my failure to file taxes
while living abroad. My friend readily agreed,
equating it all to a sort of cosmic shadow band

phenomenon that is often created during a total
solar eclipse, except in your case the IRS is solely
responsible he said. With him, I felt like I had at
least one person on my side. That I wasn’t crazy.

I know what happened to the third tower. I did
the research, back when I could remember how
to walk. When the silent fireflies in September
filled our backyards with the faint glow of hope.

Lorraine

One fine spring morning
clean-shaven hard-working
Dudley tentatively
approaches me
beneath the sign for
the Lorraine Motel
with a familiar tale
of family hardship
looking for a hand-out
in our 21st-century
cashless society
when there arises
a ripe teachable moment
in which I ask him
where should I Venmo
my assistance mi buen amigo?

I Think We Can All Agree That Puppy Mills Are a Bad Idea

& I don’t even know that much about them.
I’m not a dog person either (or at least I don’t
think of myself as a dog person since I only
officially had a dog as a pet for less than a week

in my entire life), nor really a cat person or even
a pet person if such a thing actually exists (which
I’m sure it does in some odd Facebook group kind
of way I don’t know about & never will). Although I

did keep a fish named Brad in a glass bowl for about
18 months, once. I fed him the flakes every day &
cleaned his tiny home every other week & he
seemed as happy a creature as could be expected

for one who hangs out 24/7 in a small transparent
container for the whole world to see. No privacy
(that’s why they call it a fishbowl, I guess), nowhere
to go except in a circular infinity of what I often

thought of as some kind of aquatic purgatory, &
then of course he was, in the end, flushed down
the commode, replaced in his bowl by a plant that
promptly died as well. So, when the nice young man

with the trim beard from the humane society gently
accosted me outside Walgreen’s this afternoon, I
signed that petition to ban puppy mills as quickly
as I could without ever once making eye contact.

M. F. Drummy holds a PhD in historical theology from Fordham University. The author of numerous articles, essays, poems, reviews, and a monograph on religion and ecology, his work has appeared, or will appear, in Allium, [Alternate Route], Anti-Heroin Chic, Ars Sententia, Deal Jam, Emerge, FERAL, Green Silk, Main Street Rag, Marbled Sigh, Meetinghouse, Poemeleon, Rituals, Scarlet Dragonfly, Winged Penny Review, and many others. He and his way cool life partner of over 20 years enjoy splitting their time between the Colorado Rockies and the rest of the planet. He can be found at: Instagram @miguelito.drummalino Website https://bespoke-poet.com

Poker with Nanny

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Poker with Nanny

Nanny dealt the cards with a twinkle in her eye,
Five years old, I sat across, a sucker for a lie.
Two unmatched socks, a fistful of coins, my whole fortune there
She raised an eyebrow, muttered a crooked prayer.

Dice rattled loud, a plastic cup on the floor
Nanny with her ciggy, muttering hexes by the door
Snake eyes rolled, my hand shook, a tear welled in my eye
“Bad karma, child” she’d wink with a loving smile in her eye.

And Merle sang in the background
And Waylon played along.

Five years old, knees scraped from climbing too high
Nanny dealt the cards with a twinkle in her eye.
Five card-draw, a lesson with a playful disguise.
Pennies and dimes, a world turned upside down
But poker with Nanny, that’s where love was found.

And Merle sang in the background
And Waylon played along.

And Nanny would yell “Sing it, Merle”
Even when it wasn’t his song.

Pennies and dimes, a world turned upside down
But poker with Nanny, that’s where love was found.

Leigh Ann Raab a Virginia-based photographer and poet. Leigh Ann's creative journey spans over two decades. Her poems delve into themes of healing from an abusive childhood to navigating her own mental health. Known for her constant companions-a pen and a camera- she captures the world through both words and visuals. This poem honors her grandmother, who taught her to gamble at the age of five.

King of Hearts Might Not Have One

Photographer - Tobi Brun

King of Hearts Might Not Have One

Card games in Marianas Trench don’t feel the same without you-
Anyway, the monsters like Rummy more than expected.
Crustaceans play fair for the most part, but the sharks like to cheat and ruin the mood
I sip on a seaweed cocktail and pray waves swirl me into the abyss where you seem to have
disappeared to

Just in time to beat you at your own game.

No rules, right?

Anyway, the monsters laugh at me
I ask if they can solve a riddle; they can’t, and neither can I.

A good man is gifted a fiddle, but it doesn’t play any music.
None of his instruments do anymore-
Not the tiny violin in the corner or the piano or our favorite song on the jukebox
Is the fiddle the one playing him or is he simply not a good man?

Marinah Inman is a personal banker, bartender, and poet. She has published poetry in Northland College’s magazine, The Mosaic (2018), Anthology Turning the Corner, New Adventures (2021), and was co-editor for Prayers for Women by Women (2022), a Thrivent prayer book. She is a Washington State native but grew up in Oklahoma and Minnesota. Marinah now resides in the small town of Hartford, Wisconsin and enjoys being an aunt, daughter, and friend.

‘Where is My Son of a Preacher Man?’, ‘Fog’, & ‘High as a Kite’

Photographer - Beth Cole

Where is My Son of a Preacher Man?

Whose words would heal the cynic
Whose gifts I’ve heard in lyrics
Embraced and gentle-faced
would make mine glow
I fear only time knows,
but time has not been kind
each passage a newfound wound
each promise, a broken oath
that follows from womb to tomb
that hurts to love to loathe
I have not wished to live by song
To twist your words sweet for me
to feel your touch and still find longing, in such sacred company
I need no artist to be a muse, a lab man to be a tester,
Musician to share the blues
Lovelorn to rot, to fester
I only want my son of a preacher man

Fog

Fog engulfed me
Fog thick and cold
Fog stole my sight
Fog freez’d my eyes
Fog hid something
that terrifies
Hands were reaching out searching
Somewhere out there it’s lurking
Rapid quivering my hands, feet, whole body quakes
Something awakening
Panicked and dazed, my head it aches
Though Fog has blurred all space between
I know what I heard what I have seen
Intoxicated by misty dew
I have discovered the murder clues
Fog trapped me no clear escape

I scream and cry in pure blind rage
I scream and ache and drown in shame
Fog has trapped me, in the monsters maze.
In acceptance of my fate,
I feel the cold concrete as I lay
down on the ground
but make no sound - inhaling fog
And I admire the maze the monsters design
Hands on my face as it’s face meets mine
Dinner time
It’s chipped claws rip into my skin
And tears me apart limb by limb
It’s heavy teeth shatter my bones
The crisp snap makes the monster moan
It must’ve been starving
No piece of me left
No blood, hair, eyes teeth or flesh No clothes, thoughts, sound or pain
Yet in the void
Fog remains

High as a Kite

I fly a kite to greet the stars
The sun she kissed my left cheek
burning bright, she scolds me
the guard that keeps the gods
I feel her glow, but not her blows
For my song delights the flowers
they stand and bloom when magic leaves my core,
Entranced they dance for hours, and lift their limbs to greet me at the door
The birds they sway in flocks
both hugged by the wind
Their beaks speak but they sing in squawks, perhaps that’s why they grin
We pass the shore,
the matte flat of the rocks calms me
The plush Cush of the grass kneeling, my golden string reeling
My belly dropped, my song paused
rays stinging my sight

Nails flayed in the sky
as the sun laughs, my song is gone
As each second passes, the land revealed the blues,
Her violence in her wind
Reclaiming all her kin
She yanks me by my limbs
And makes me her dessert
This gift she steals for earth.

Janesia Stillwell is an Australian writer from Melbourne. A political science major at the university of Melbourne, She fills her time by watching hour long video essays and of course writing. Her poem ‘through the looking glass’ was published in ‘The Crow Journal’ of Ginninderra press.