From where I’m sitting three roads meet.

            Towards the sea

             a wave

             Towards a hill

              reaches its peak

             Towards the ancient town with its view of the landmark spire

             ghost of a sunken church

 

Diana Webb

My favorite entry in the old encyclopedias,
its inclusion meant they must exist:

Ann Boleyn and her head pacing the tower,
the vanishing hitchhiker at the roadside.

My grandmother, in a white nightgown,
white haired, rearranging clouds.

Headlight-glare in bubbled window glass, fragrant
explosions of lilacs bursting around us in the dark.

Those wild geese that flew low over your head
as your dear friend passed away on the other coast.

A Civil War soldier who paced a friend’s room
when he was three (though he was a liar).

Resonant piano notes that bring back
his hands on my body, those long nights.

In a desert ghost town, late: coyote’s howl,
then later still, low notes of an owl, a summons.

Voices within the churn of the waves,
like a radio’s murmur I only hear at night.

In the rented farmhouse, moans of winter wind
from the open barn door’s black throat.

the dire fate
of the monarch
butterflies

Kristen Lindquist

The small synchronicities make me laugh: “rosemary,” HERB, your mother’s name; SIRENS, “naval hazards of mythology,” the name of the movie we just saw; ANSEL Adams, after we have just discussed his books. Then “bound together,” JOINED, as you talk of my infidelity. “‘Sea of Love’ actress?” Well, that must be me. And also the Shakespeare quotation, “Faith, as cold as can be.” But why is Galahad here, and Venus? And “Jerk,” should I take that personally? 48 Down: “On a ____ (carousing).” 100 Across: “Existed.” I don’t know the answer to “Outward moving muscle,” though I have some ideas, a few telling letters. 99 Across: “Comes ashore.” 66 Down: “Utterly beat.”

the sky before dawn
nothing as simple
as black or white

Kristen Lindquist

Martin had a fitful night’s sleep when he heard that a new tenant had moved into the flat next to his. There was no noise coming from the tenant’s flat as yet, which was somewhat reassuring. He locked his door and went to the local cafe, which is something he did every afternoon. It was an end of terrace house and as he turned the gable end sharply he bumped into a man who was standing with his back to the wall. He was a huge man wearing a T shirt and shorts and flip flops even though it was near winter. He was smoking a cigarette, taking several puffs at a time. Martin apologised for bumping into him and before he could stop himself he asked if he was the new tenant? The man nodded.

– I’m sure you’ll like it here, it’s very quiet.

Martin thought he should get that in straight away.

– Don’t like noise, the man said.

– The last tenant in your flat was a nightmare. I’m sure it damaged my health; partying every night until all hours!

The man didn’t say much. Indeed it wasn’t much of a conversation. Martin decided to continue on his way to the cafe.

– No doubt I’ll bump into you again, he tittered.

– I spent ten years in jail, in solitary, so I’m not much good at talking, the man said.

Martin was flummoxed! He could think of nothing to say.

– Do you dream, the man asked?

– I don’t think so. I don’t remember them if I do.

– I have enough dreams to fill two rooms! You snore!• Do I? Does it disturb you?

– Yes!

– Oh, I’m awful sorry. I’ll have to do something about it.

– Get a ring!

– Oh, yes. One of those brass rings. I’ve seen them advertised.

– I like silence.

The man flicked his cigarette butt onto the road sparking among several others and turned to go back into the house.

– Don’t forget the ring!

Martin walked on. He, the noise detector, was now the noise maker! He felt sick.

he awoke from a nightmare
nobody was there –
just the peeping moon

Gerry McDonnell

Don’t go there, really, seriously, don’t go there. These hills and plateaus of mine are not for you. I don’t want to see you as an intruder, but I will. You the hunter and your wish to kill, hunting down this shadow, this grey cloud in the blinding mists. Sifting through the meat, the curtain of red raindrops of this corpse. You’ve come looking, spoiling for a blind fight, spoiling the battleground on which I stand upright. You’ve cut this land wide open and I’ve given you too many words. What I really want to say is, “Don’t go”. But honestly, it’s all OK, now you’ve seen me, and you’ve decided not to stay, for I have some spare oxygen tanks and I can keep myself softly breathing, keep myself inflated in this little world, whilst I watch your late evening and your star, going.

too late
beyond the distant horizon
the world falls away

Colin Dunn

A week before my surgery, I hear the news. It spreads quickly, like the virus. I have my knee replaced anyway. How bad can it be? As I lie in my bed high on oxycodone and Ed Sheeran, I am oblivious to the coming storm.

fever pitch the world dancing out of tune

It is a cold rainy morning, and I am late for my PT appointment. The walls in the room are
circus-blue and green, and everyone wears the mask. I slowly pedal my bike and wonder if anyone has considered the effects of long-term oxygen deprivation.

wall of mirrors the bearded lady takes it off

The therapists are having a conversation about the masks. They are cautiously optimistic. The young one warns about a new variant, the coming spike, and the fourth wave. Yes, I think, and the fifth, and the sixth, and the seventh.

apparatchik crushing the seed pods

It is a cold bright day in April. I wake up forgetting who I am or what I look like. I live alone with the television, just in case. I can still remember a few words and something about

red death behind the masque only eyes

after The Masque of the Red Death
Edgar Allan Poe

Susan Beth Furst

There’s a rare blooming
of sakura this fall
the trees cotton-candy-sweet
antipsychotic-sweet
Blossoms descend in batches
soon to cover the asphalt road
like spilled Pepto-Bismol
I swallow my pill with regret
drift into oblivion
the petals blur in my vision
the whole world tinted pink
by my medicated brain

rectangular window
a new piece of sky
every day

Jackie Chou

…..and joining me now is the Pry Minister.

Thanks, Kirsty…..my latest unelected advisor’s brainchild is an utterly foolproof vaccine passport that’s sure to appeal to all right-minded listeners as a means of excluding the damaged and the scared, while our nouveau elite is guaranteed a warm welcome at the cinema, the nightclub, the polling booth…..

hospital bus
a stony
silence

Helen Buckingham

Hers was a lonely life. After dad’s passing, she stayed alone. Soon her dog died too. My two sisters and I were married and away. Mom would get up early every morning, make herself a cup of tea and talk to an apparition of dad. The dementia was kicking in…

for years
the same morning stillness
déjà vu

Mona Bedi