oddly deformed into heart-shaped suitor’s rose bud As I wandered the windswept hills I chanced upon a timeworn redoubt Cloaked in a brooding bramble veil Clutching its secrets tightly within From behind whose dour shoulders Emanated a soft, mellifluous voice Like the expectancy of springtime But the walls were tall and barbed Engrailed with the cruelest thorns But the Orphean tones of the voice Compelled my captivated thoughts To see who was ensconced therein So, I fought past the wicked thorns And scaled the treacherous height And when I reached the top at last I gazed down into a secret garden Where you waited amid the flowers Smiling as if you had expected me atop the rock wall dripping with bog water the Frog Prince NOTE: Unitalicised text is the work of Edward Cates. Italicised text is the work of Anna Cates. About the authors:
The late Edward Dana Cates (2/23/69-11/12/23) was a disabled househusband and writer/poet from Seymour, Indiana. He attended George Fox University and served on Deviant Art’s literature committee, where he acquired many mutual fans and friends. The original versions of his poems are fully illustrated a viewable at his online gallery: https://www.deviantart.com/barosus/gallery. Dr. Anna Cates teaches writing, literature, and education online and has published a variety of books (poetry, fiction, and drama) through www.cyberwit.net, prolificpress.com, redmoonpress.com, and wipfandstock.com. Her full-length poetry collection, Love in the Time of Covid, won an Illumination Book Award. She resides in Wilmington, Ohio with her two cats.
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(For when the leaves our summer friends have fallen)
newborn faces up outdoors beneath the trees skysent resonance swishes limbs respond by raising knees Skysent old images haunt me summer is no more angels, fairies sent to soothe me lie dead upon earths floor more falling ever daily the ground is gold and red brown dead veins are crisping revealing that they’re dead Lucifers angels fallen tuatha de danann’s on the mound A jealous god deceived them my god he can’t be sound then some who turned mid fall looked skyward bleak and bare there was no pull cept downward no hope and just despair but then the Cailleach fetched them she winters underground They nurture TREE forever now truth it knows no bounds the leaves they tell their stories, to worms, roots, and a breeze their mission is to nourish new growth for humans ease, and yet how could they do it if they did not know of grief when every angel blossoms when under some-borns sleep Their purpose is for spelling those born with life for hope angels always round us so that we always cope im grateful for the memory from the ground those faithful days I no longer believe in fairys or hawthorns special ways but I’m grateful for the magic of natures tale spun faes Faes=phase Oldest memories and their origins, the highs that once roamed my dreams. Forever stuck in the photo frames, it is harder to smile now. Having held onto a long-lost self, he does not seem to let go. Lullabies play in the background, while I lay dozing in his blood drenched arms. Dreams fill the red canvas, the noose inches closer to the grey clouds. Long distances and the ticking of the clock, the clockwork has wound once more. My sleepless nights and my snoring cat, holds me in their blanket of comfort. Nelly stares at the crippling world around him, or so it seems to me. His thoughts and his desperation, just follies in my imagination. Always delving into the painted dreams, the sky have lost its warmth. Stuck in the cold, I wait for the warmth to return. About the author:
Gautham Pradeep, currently 22 yrs of age, was born in Kerala, India, in a town called Thalassery. He did his schooling in Bangalore and is now pursuing his MBBS course from Srinivas Institute of Medical Sciences and Research Center. He tries to explore the existential dilemmas of the present generation. Apart from writing poems, he indulges in butterfly breeding and painting occasionally. Lost in those early morning whispers, thinking about a childhood, where darkness was just an illusion. Hands of the dusky sunrays, playing with the paltry foliage, too surreal to witness in this rational construct. Muddy puddles and the earthly aroma, both engulfing the confused, ill-tempered child. Holding onto the blessed heights, ethereal frames pass by, too quick to realize their inherent grief. Tearing up, after a lost childhood, feels better than the sunken ship, whose torn sails lay still. A forgotten comrade confiding in the solitude all around. Those gentle strokes on a dark, moonlit riverbank, lost in a self that I can talk to. Chills run down my spine, while I converse with the forgotten shores. Her eyes, soaked in centuries of disregard, covers her face, in a pool of bluish-white. An eternity of hiding, away from settlements built on sinking sand. Intoxicated by her anonymous disposition, those sea-shells glimmer in the midnight gloom. Shallow dreams I once harbored, oblivious to the cradle within my reach. Building a home near the seaside, loses her presence once and for all. The green gleaming leaves on a rainy day, seemingly confides in its private, lonely moment. Just as the waterfall in the distance, life looks as misunderstood as the greenish hues on a Pacific mussel. Bubbles we must cocoon ourselves in. A world to sink in the volcanic crater, lest we embrace the folly we must endure. In lieu of tethered feet, few continue to fly into the endless expanse. Flying into the hummingbird’s nest, she hears the cheerful chirping turn into mournful silence of the indifferent green. Well, I guess the silence would stay. My weary eyes looked at the moody sky, ever so slightly covered by the frosty clouds. Living into the afterlife, often confused between the latter and its anonymity. About the author:
Gautham Pradeep, currently 22 yrs of age, was born in Kerala, India, in a town called Thalassery. He did his schooling in Bangalore and is now pursuing his MBBS course from Srinivas Institute of Medical Sciences and Research Center. He tries to explore the existential dilemmas of the present generation. Apart from writing poems, he indulges in butterfly breeding and painting occasionally. I can’t grow a poem – I can only pick it up, blindly from the ground or from the ether, writing off the heaviness that hangs about the heart. A SOFT LANDING I sigh softly with the earth her heartbeat in my centre and when all is lost and broken she gives me yet another in-breath! Lights the skies in colours of love - and I can’t turn her away. FOR ÉIRE Ireland I am lost in your cool damp greenery where ancient rocks relax on big fields and sunset is a wild card I wish to catch. I’ll never truly know you though you call yourself my turf. I’ll never know of another place so mysterious and yet so safe, so sound. SHADOW Sorry that you haven’t always seen the sunniest side of me sorry I’ve lately been bathed in dusk. All I ask is that you see, it’s simply another side to the same ‘me’. FORESTED The spiralled vine loves a tree to climb. And me, well, I am forested. My mind plants roots in things long past grows leaves before the season. About the author:
Ailbhe is an emerging artist and writer from the west of Ireland. She recently completed a Masters in Authorial Illustration at Falmouth University. Her background in yoga teaching, mindfulness and living in the wild informs her current poetic practice. Through her words and art she seeks to magnify the ordinary, everyday, sublime - to find wonder in the familiar. 28 bowed heads before me Eager eyes scanning across pages Confidently drinking in the text Or slowly deciphering word by word Each page a labour and a triumph Two whose fingers dance Across rows of raised dots Finding meaning in a different code As fading eyes give way 20 minutes of silent reading Tales of adventure, love or sorrow Heroes in fiction or in fact Brought to life through ink or Braille Living for a time in youthful minds This short time to enrich the mind In the bounty of the written word To be immersed in imagined lives Or carried in the ebb and flow Of poetic voice These are moments to savour About the author:
Though he was born in Nigeria and brought up in Botswana, David Babatunde Wilson has lived in North Yorkshire for the last 32 years. He divides his time between his jobs as a Dad, household cook, taxi driver to his daughters, writing poetry and, despite his own disabilities, working as a Special Needs teacher. Countless chameleon faces pause briefly blend into surreal versions of oneself. I see Wilfred Owen coming over the hill towards the Somme. A crow near a marble pillar stares at a lycanthrope’s head, where a man and woman are dead in a hanging tree. A black swan dissolves, while a woman plays hide and seek with a lover. The rabbit watches Pegasus in half gallop bursting free from the banks. A wendigo grimaces from the cobwebbed floaters of an illusionist. (Poem based on the black chalk drawing by Henri-Joseph Harpigni.)
Doth write to thy heart's content- dare I,
Maketh thy nation a safe place to speak. Command thy people I beg thee, Doth not rede then; "How to love a nation thee?" Bestow upon us the key, Maketh thy people free. Mouths turn'd mute whilst hearts grown cold, stoned in fear.a Grace- Sire! Feel us thy people, See us thy people, Pity! Hath not? All this but a plea, For a soul shall perish lest free, Mercy- Sire! ---- *Note: My heart sings through letters. Lost beneath hopelessness and despair unwilling to understand the difference between wanting, caring or seeking help for hurts we all sometimes feel being alone in our pain. The cost is too much, the thought is so deeply buried under pounds of countless attempts to bargain for relief. Waiting for proof, validation anything to lift the unbearable certainty wanting life to be worth more than this, this discarded buffet of flesh. Dumped to be sifted through by laughing callous hands looking for parts to be salvaged for repurpose. Will this storm never end? Misfortunes dawdle within exhausting memories. Can there be a glimmer, a ray of hope? Drenched, defeated, wrung out, lost and burning for answers or where to look for something to hold on to, something worth more than this flood of perceptions. Standing at an intersection one way a cliff the other shrouded in obscurity. A choice can bring peace or more pain. Not choosing is a choice. Enduring the moment brings no relief only memories of the countless attempts lost to choosing not to choose. Will this time be any different? Wringing our hands dreaming for a sign, motivation, a notion that may bring movement one way or the other. The cliff or obscurity? The discarded pound of flesh or the flood of painful perception? We’ve been here before, touched the ray of hope, discarding hopelessness, to know the rainbows are real. About the author:
Rick Slottow has a self-published book of poetry. It has been over 15 years since he has thought about sharing is work with others. Most has been lost due to technology. Some was printed on paper, but most not gone will never be read. Rick just started writhing again. He is a retired Drug and Alcohol consoler. Recover alcoholic and drug addict. Living in Rhonert Park Ca. he shares his home with his wife a housemate and three dogs, 2 small under 15 pounds and one 0ver 50. In the early stages of Primary Lateral Scleroses, he wants his voice to again be heard. Content Warning: illness, trauma, mental health, blood, fertility, self-harm, death & abuse about being in the bathroom for hours in the blazing heat, hammer it to a fairy tale, let me sleep for years, all those winters for evil, bury it, bury it, under the snow, I really can't do it justice, no windows because I'm screaming or it sounds guttural, that pull before bearing down or death, and I feel it, in my thighs and my back and my hips and my throat, I couldn't eat all day and I had to run or stumble or crawl, bile, lumps on my tongue, tablets half-dissolved, never timed well or strong enough so sit on the toilet to empty the whole of my body until it is a sliver of flesh, sweat, ash or ghost or I used to have a face, vomit over and over and over in the sink and my insides are beaten with echoes or glass or burning, shaking until the room is barely a shell for existence that breaks away in hot atoms, lie down for the afterlife, see what the blood could have been, count another number of days, yes, a month is a lie, as is everything, that this pain feels deserving, is punishment for all future sins, the psychiatrist they sent me to made sure of it, then he sat back and laughed, kissed the money and watched the tide swallow the red dusk. About the author:
Louise Mather is a writer from Northern England and founding editor of Acropolis Journal. A finalist in the Streetcake Poetry Prize, her work is published in various print and online literary journals including The North, Acumen, Fly on the Wall Press, Dust Poetry Magazine, Cape and Ink, Sweat and Tears. Her debut pamphlet ‘The Dredging of Rituals’ was published in 2021. She writes about ancestry, rituals, endometriosis, fatigue and mental health. Twitter @lm2020uk IG: louise.mather.uk |
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