The desert in June. It bedevils me:
an approaching paper cut. A singing stone.
Dry riverbed where quotation marks
lie down to dry. Where I escape.
Hot breeze on the back of my neck,
dogjaw dropping from the sky.
The van of paper cuts heaving.

the hour of slumber
mumbling the nights
of great proportion

Keith Polette

While memory still proffers
While faded parchments still offer hints
As old laments still haunt the hallows
Each twilight slowly fading
Hear my song and know
That I am in you

I hid in Himalayan heights
Emerged from the depths
Lingered in jungle shadows
Passed from darkness into light
I am in you

As histories converge
I, too, am part of everything
Not as wild as you thought
Bards wove me into melody
You joined me in cosmic harmony
See me again

I hid in Himalayan heights
Emerged from the depths
Lingered in jungle shadows
Passed from darkness into light
I played my part
I am in you

rawhide silhouette
Sirius burning down
the wolf’s howl

*The “monkey people” of Hindu mythology

Anna Cates

Martin had a discussion about cars with a friend the other day. It seems Martin’s in the luxury bracket with his Audi A6. People are variously aghast, outraged or envious.

– How can you afford it?

The fact of the matter is, Martin’s car has an 06 registration making it sixteen years old. He bought it for two thousand euros and spent another thousand or so on repairs.

– Why don’t you buy a smaller car? Cheaper tax and insurance! There’s a fellah down in Eastwall who sells Japanese imports. You could buy a Honda Jazz or a Nissan Micra. Great cars!

– I wouldn’t be found dead in one. Old dears’ cars!

– I bought one.

– Sorry, I don’t mean to offend.

– You should be more down to earth, Martin.

– Funny, I could never achieve that.

– What???

a full moon
in the winter sky –
black ice

Gerry McDonell

You ping-pong your lullabied charm into my life. Each thought you catharsis a blow to my psyche. You cross stitch, embroider your ideologies, your threads too intricate to undo.

writer’s block
my brain a dark canvas
of wordless thoughts

Jackie Chou

downwind from the cattle ranch, cooking hash on a campfire, smells like nuclear fallout, the time for mourning the cows—over and done—we milked the last one before slicing her throat yesterday, moo-town blues, harmonica melted in the blast, no lips anyway, half the world gone, the other half going, better for the cow, no slow slow death by rad poisoning, snow and rotten apples on the trees, up to my knees in shit

stock market plunge
the rising cost
of a cheese sandwich

Richard Grahn

What even is a poem
if not a word sculpture
of carved absences
you assemble yourself
a commentary
on the loss of white space
a hand-hewn quiet
made visible
a sight for sore ears
a hush that keeps
months in the root cellar
a hush

year’s end
starting a new glow
of honey jars

Peter Newton

The architect makes use of all three miracles at his disposal. To calculate the span the side-rule of a kingfisher’s flight. To draw the curve the compass of a swan’s wing feather. To gauge the height the spirit-level of a heron poised for the catch,

flintstone bridge
a channel between
one moment and the next

Diana Webb

(for world ballet day)

i know it sounds silly, sissy even, but there’s nothing like an arabesque  and a touch of sequin to lift the mood.

grey morning
sparkle of rain
on headlit tarmac

You mean the pirouettes, fouettes, the thrill of watching such brilliant techniques?

the turn
of turning leaves
aswirl in the wind

And the stories, fairytales like those of Tchaikovsky , romantic oeuvres like Giselle, both chilling and sad.

low cloud
so many layers
a more beneath

Diana Webb