this ghost and me, we’re both mourning the same thing we miss the smell of rain evaporating off hot pavement air conditioner blast shivering against sweaty air fingers sticky ice cream dripping soles melting onto pavement we miss our bodies in the city (Originally published in you are here: the journal of creative geography) About the author:
Meep Matsushima is a poet and librarian. Her poetry has appeared in Strange Horizons, Microverses, Liminality Magazine, and other fine publications. Say “hi” on Twitter @meep_matsushima or read more of her poetry at http://meep-matsushima.neocities.org.
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When everywhere is dark & silent - birds have slept in their nest, men have gone to the heaven, sky has been covered by the black cloud with little ashes, animals have taken a rest from hunting, eyes have left the watching mouthes have stopped the talking, legs & hands have hidden their appearances, noises are no where to be found, talk to me then _ I will be waiting for your call beside the river Where I could hear your voice like that flow of water Let us meet in the night, when we could hear our voices loudly & clearly. About the author:
Imam Sarafadeen is a Nigerian poet and writer with a passion for poetry and other literary genres. His works centers on grief, love, and nature and his works have appeared and are forthcoming in Poetry Soup, Baskadia, Words Rhymes & Rhythm, Sychronized Chaos, Academy of heart and mind, Poetry Planet and elsewhere. Sarafadeen is currently studying the English Language at Usmanu Danfodiyo University, Sokoto, Sokoto State. Nigeria. He is Imam Sarafadeen on Facebook and 11bamikale on both Twitter & Instagram.
i imagine you as a morsel while i place you inside my needy mouth tasting you before I submerge you… tasting you before i hand your delicate scallop like flesh over to my violent tongue as it swirls you around and around like a merry-go-round in the front of my mouth thrashing you so wildly that your skin starts to tear and flake off, falling upon my curious gums, like autumn debris brushing against my velvet cheeks. my molars grind you into a flattened flesh diluting you with saliva so that you can slide easily down the dark pit of hell where you truly belong About the author:
My name is Hannah Myers. I am originally from British Columbia and grew up in Glasgow. I am studying for an MA in creative writing at UCC. I adore writing poetry, game narrative, flash, scripts and ‘dirty rap’. Authors I am interested in and influenced by are Ludmilla Petrushevskaya, Raold Dahl and Sylvia Plath.
We start each day anew, and now we see how a song, story or rhyme calls towards the silver in the soaring trees with their early gleaming shadows. It is a single line from poetry whispering in the coolness of winter air when it is time for warmth and the days ahead to brighten. Creating a sketch or collage shaping silvery stars with pencils to fill the empty winter skies, we paint with silver, grey and blue for a new and captivating crisp horizon. Perhaps we will decorate our coats with fluorescent colours and glittering threads of silver that will illuminate our snow-covered clothes. And we will find our place in the books we chose. Favourite folklore creatures add their silvery song to our new poems, and their fables and traditions are still and not made to alarm or frighten. We start each day anew, and now we see how a song, story or rhyme calls towards the silver in the soaring trees with their early gleaming shadows. It is a single line from poetry whispering in the coolness of winter air when it is time for warmth and the days ahead to brighten. It became a part of winter as we dream of the distant memories of summer meadows. There is courage found in the stories that we find will enlighten. We speak and sing as freely as the changing winter outdoor scenes with songs and carols to invite in. It is time to celebrate the winter sun and share its wisdom in paper stories we can write in. We start each day anew, and now we see how a song, story or rhyme calls towards the silver in the soaring trees with their early gleaming shadows. It is a single line from poetry whispering in the coolness of winter air when it is time for warmth and the days ahead to brighten. 'Winter Silver' was previously published on the children's poetry website, The Dirigible Balloon.
so they came wandering from the woods hand in hand, the boy younger clothes like torn leaves their hair dry rushes and we broke off harvest dropped scythe and rake crossed ourselves in fear of their green their green skin as true as I stand their strange babble like corncrakes in the stubble thrushes fluting in the hedge refused our bread, chewed raw green beans, like cats lapped water from the hand years on, green no more the boy being dead the girl baptised and godly speech restored - or learned anew - she told her tale: she spoke of bells a river, sunless St Martin’s Land, of tending flocks, a deep ravine - truth or fancy? She married well. Time twists memory to legend - fragments jag, distort like a splintered glass - but this we swear: from somewhere unbeknown two green children came. About the author:
After decades teaching in Scotland and Yorkshire, Lynda Turbet now lives in north Norfolk, where she observes the world from her wheelchair and tries to make sense of it all through writing. Her work has won prizes, has been published in online and print journals, and in themed anthologies. This is the story of the green children of Woolpit, Suffolk, which dates from the 14th century and is depicted in a window of the village church. |
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