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.
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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. Fog over all spread’s confusion. Is this for real? Up is more than just up right it’s a struggle to remain standing. Still? Each step a struggle, what foot goes - brain fog - In front of the other? Left then right wobble, teeter don’t fall right then left? Step stutter step wobble stand in place and wait. Now where am I? Am I where I was when the fog came in? Standing upright waiting, move. Forword? Just another step my destination in site. The door. Open! Move though, stay up right, sway, stand, wait in the fog for the boys. Are they in? Every morning’s the same as the fog waits, I stand wobble, teeter, and step? I let the dogs out another time. Another step, keep going one more! Back in bed. The fog fades. Again, a day begins first thing in the morning. 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. I'd stopped gone back to where I always was This home of no sky, cracked bottles, pain in just the right places except I lived & the world turned gold moons, sinew, shimmered doves & darkness was both static and changing Pain churned as death, humming body, hollowed out desolation, I lived through, decay in clumps, clusters, wasps on cold floors, numbness, sharp jaw, insides ripped, unclean surfaces, skin, breath, enough blood to drown the leopards, vomiting their names, violence towards myself, too many times to count or more than the rest, those days, so many, or that one hour that took away the light, oh silence, sometimes you are not sweet, not mountain air, not the slow ripple of water, sometimes you are worse than anything else 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 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 The pain runs deep with so much hurt carried on the current, looking back seeing all that was done, the suffering all at the hands of others, yet having no regret, no ill wishes for those at the helm of what was done. I see the beauty that was always surrounding me, the dew on the grass glistening in the morning sun, the hugs of the evening colors as they set on the horizon, wrapping me and caressing me to see all that is good. Sitting in the rain feeling and absorbing the tears of others so all would have less to bear. Each drop that strikes me awakens the soul, smiling as the water cascades down my face and arms, soon my body will be part of the storm waiting to subside and pass, able to move on. Storms and turbulence can last for years, always there, lurking and waiting, dark clouds sit on the horizon. Where all bad memories rest and sleep, there is beauty to be found, the beauty that lives, the beauty that longs to be seen and felt. This was you. When my days were full of misery and my soul so lost, you were the brightness that guided me to a haven, a place where love was felt. Your beauty was internal, your caring I thought unmatched, your touch so warm and kiss so gentle. I cannot hate you for what you have done, that is a job for others. I can only see you as who I knew you were, even if you didn’t. After each storm, there is a rainbow to be seen, in the darkest hours I see and feel all you created, never to be taken away. In time all will be healed the scars, though there will be harder to see, the pain will be less and less, and the hurt will be locked away. The beauty you created will live forever unobscured by all that was taken. The beauty of life knows no boundaries, escapes all hate, and repels the evil that so easily can be consumed. The beauty will create smiles, laughter, and joy when packing and leaving for the next journey. About the author:
After 31 years in banking, it was time for John to retire and follow his dream of owning a hotel in Southeast Asia. This led to many new experiences enabling John to see the world through a different lens, leading him to write his story through essays, poetry, and a yet unpublished memoir. John’s work has appeared in Native Skin, Runamok Books/Growerly, Post Roe Alternatives, Empyrean Literary Magazine, OMQ, Open Door Magazine, SCARS poems and short stories, among others. Nothing is as it seems, and experiences are meant to shape us not define us. Life has hope, truth, and adventure, all leading to stories that need to be written and told. “I’ll never hurt you” is the phrase I still hear The lies and untruths that were told The false accusations that were made So many people knew your truth No one spoke up and now I am here A year in prison because I found out Even now, I don’t blame or hate You did what he told you to do So now I wait and fight for me To gain my innocence and be free All my years I never thought I could be so betrayed All those times you called me dear Every word you ever spoke and said It resonates so loud in my ears All these years I never knew I kept my promise Made your dreams come true I look back on this past year Behind bars in a foreign land I used to wonder why, but now I know I still believe he gave you no choice To save yourself or me It’s hard for me to know what you’ve done But I don’t hate you, I guess that’s love Now I must think about how to rebuild To get back what was stolen and took I gave you all and had no regrets I thought I could save you but in the end The actions of you betrayed us all Life will go on that is for sure The wounds that were caused will never heal I have forgiven all that was done I will always remember being betrayed One thing will never change I believed in all that you could be I hope that in the years to come No one does to you what you did to me About the author:
After 31 years in banking, it was time for John to retire and follow his dream of owning a hotel in Southeast Asia. This led to many new experiences enabling John to see the world through a different lens, leading him to write his story through essays, poetry, and a yet unpublished memoir. John’s work has appeared in Native Skin, Runamok Books/Growerly, Post Roe Alternatives, Empyrean Literary Magazine, OMQ, Open Door Magazine, SCARS poems and short stories, among others. Nothing is as it seems, and experiences are meant to shape us not define us. Life has hope, truth, and adventure, all leading to stories that need to be written and told. A sky so bright this crisp morning of Spring Tulips are fading away and start their departure Lilacs await to appear, buds beginning to pop to present their fashion of white, purple, and deep reds. Closing my eyes, I can smell the essence of my aunts. The fragrance hugs and holds me tight, giving me a little pinch on the cheeks. I see them lining the streets in their Sunday bests, waving and smiling as I stroll by. Cherry blossoms of glory pink lie on the sidewalk in wait, creating a cotton candy carpet to wrap my feet. Trodden by hundreds before me yet fresh and luscious still the same, as if touched for the first time, a virgin to me. The beauty I’m surrounded by reminds me of all that has been taken for granted as I begin my sixtieth summer. I’m like an Oak or Maple that casts a canopy over this avenue I walk. So much has been seen and witnessed in all these years. The scars I bear upon my bark and within my rings. Arms outstretched as a protector for those who walk underneath. Shield all from the elements and let this encourages the being to open up and absorb the the warmth of all that lives and all that is being spoken through the beauty that exists. About the author:
After 31 years in banking, it was time for John to retire and follow his dream of owning a hotel in Southeast Asia. This led to many new experiences enabling John to see the world through a different lens, leading him to write his story through essays, poetry, and a yet unpublished memoir. John’s work has appeared in Native Skin, Runamok Books/Growerly, Post Roe Alternatives, Empyrean Literary Magazine, OMQ, Open Door Magazine, SCARS poems and short stories, among others. Nothing is as it seems, and experiences are meant to shape us not define us. Life has hope, truth, and adventure, all leading to stories that need to be written and told. |
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