There in the depths of your womb, lie all the children you could have had – said the Oval Lady. They are invisible, intangible sea angels; glass squid lost in the darkening shallows. They swim in blue nightshirts with their eyes and mouths firmly closed. Sometimes when a storm breaks you can hear their fins rake across the roof tiles.
hard rain
a swollen river runs
to barren waters
An ekphrastic haibun based on Leonora Carrington’s painting ‘Green Tea’ (1942)
Alan Peat & Réka Nyitrai
She’s never touched a drop of LSD but maybe on the threshold of seizure
…from amethyst to rose to aquamarine delineated by reflected boughs a stained glass window segues into a canvas by Degas…
a gust
shatters the surface
fragments
Diana Webb
feeding the tree
a thimbleful
of ashes
“What if I told you those squirrels you feed shelled walnuts to dug up and ate bits of you?”
“Hell yeah. I love those squirrels. Remember when they dragged away a pizza slice someone left in our alley? And that time they found dinner rolls in the trash? What a party.”
“Yes, I remember. They’ll eat anything.”
“Yeah. They’re great.”
“So, if they ate pieces of you, you’d be OK with it?”
“Definitely. I sometimes wish to be a squirrel.”
“Good. Because they did.”
almost hearing your drums almost
E. L. Blizzard
that key on the floor doesn’t open my mind
mirror in loop
the reluctance to choose
another mold
Richa Sharma
me decreasing through the mirror’s corridor
darling cloud
i have once again failed
to be your portal
Richa Sharma
The topmost arc of the double rimmed postmark intersects the corner of the fern green stamp just catching the chin of the profiled Edward V11
‘Julia is far from well … Effie is better I am glad to say and please excuse the pc ‘
space
for the word
reverse side of dark
From an 85 percent plain chocolate tint the foreground shadowed water brightens beneath a rustic bridge connecting banks of trees more trees which reach from the murk towards the cloud tinged sky
full moon
through a century’s eclipses
deciphered ghosts
Diana Webb
At the end of the string I am holding there is a cloud. I walk a puddle on a lead. Above my head dark balloons gather. Soon it will rain cats and dogs.
thunderhead—
clay dolls
in children’s tombs
Alan Peat & Réka Nyitrai
The moment I slipped out of the womb I was slapped around until I cried. If I hadn’t cried, I would’ve been slapped around some more.
quiet night
the creak
on the stairs
Bob Lucky
I break open a thought the sky has compressed since long. It is the one from the manuscript of your dream.
beyond looking
a butterfly jigsaws
into my identity
Richa Sharma
I found out much later that I was the last to know. She said she’d only take items that were of emotional significance. A couple of weeks later she came for the emotionally significant sofa. Two men I’d never met before carried it out to the waiting milk float. With some difficulty they manoeuvred it on. And, from the kitchen window I watched as it silently progressed down the lane.
wilting moustache
the heat from a
blazing giraffe
Alan Peat
the other bunny 
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