A New Ulster 79

ISSN 2053-6119 (Print) ISSN 2053-6127 (Online)

Featuring the works of Mick McGann-Jones, Alan Britt John Doyle, Antony Watts, Attracta Fahy, Anne Mac Darby-Beck, Michael Lee Johnson, Neil Ellman, Gordon Ferris, Kasey Shelley, Helga Keogh, Jackie Shortland and Edward Lee. Hard copies can be purchased from our website.

Issue 79 April 2019

A New Ulster Prose On the Wall Website

Editor: Amos Greig Editor: E V Greig Editor: Arizahn Editor: Adam Rudden Contents

Editorial Mick McGann-Jones;

1. The Five Moons of Pluto Alan Britt; 1. Whiskers 2. Poyson Tree 3. Hour 4. Pretending We Are Two John Doyle; 1. The End 2. Song for Annette 3. Réasúnaíocht 4. County Fermanagh 5. Returning from Kilcloon, April Evening Antony Watt; 1. Communion 2. Dandilions 3. Graveyard Attracta Fahy; 1. After You Left 2. I Watch You Speak 3. Tír na nÓg Anne Mac Darby-Beck; 1. Almancil 2. Flight 3. Gateway 4. Goldfnch 1 5. The Devil Was On the Road Micheal Lee Johnson; 1. Chicago Street Preacher 2. Fig Tree 3. Reincarnation 4. Lorie

Neil Ellman; 1. Aged Phoenix 2. Clown 3. Fairy Tale of the Dwarf 4. La Belle Jardiniere 5. Small Fire Devil Figurine Gordon Ferris; 1. Urban Fox Kasey Shelley; 1. Breathe 2. Place I Went to Feel Better but Ended up Leaving feeling worse 3. What’s The Difference 4. Why Did Ya’s Leave?

5. When You See Your Ex Helga Keogh; 1. Me 2. The End Jackie Shortland; 1.

Drained 2.

The Last of Last Blessings 3.

All in Together Girls 4.

Joy On The Wall Message from the Alleycats Round the Back

Micheal Lee Johnson; 1.

Street Preacher 2.

Riencarnated Frog Prince 3.

Fig Group 4.

Lorie Edward Lee; 1.

Bike and Wall 2.

Branches, Sky 3.

Locks, Wall 4.

Broken Glass, Peeling Paint 5.

Toppled Barrier

Poetry, prose, art work and letters to be sent to: Submissions Editor A New Ulster 23 High Street, Ballyhalbert BT22 1BL Alternatively e-mail: g.greig3@gmail.com See page 50 for further details and guidelines regarding submissions. Hard copy distribution is available c/o Lapwing Publications, 1 Ballysillan Drive, Belfast BT14 8HQ Or via PEECHO Digital distribution is via links on our website: https://anuanewulster.wixsite.com/anewulster Published in Baskerville Oldface & Times New Roman Produced in Belfast & Ballyhalbert, Northern Ireland.

All rights reserved The artists have reserved their right under Section 77 Of the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988 To be identified as the authors of their work.

ISSN 2053-6119 (Print) ISSN 2053-6127 (Online) Cover Image “Shore Défense” by Amos Greig

“It is during our darkest moments that we must focus to see the light. ” Aristotle Onassis.

Editorial April truly is the cruellest of months it offers the temptation of change on the horizon, teases us with longer nights and waves its final nights away in floods of rain. While the days are longer the suffering of sectarianism continues to be a threat. The death of Lyra McKee in Derry/ Londonderry only highlights how far we still have to go as a society towards a lasting peace.

The riot was started because a camera crew was in the area and was a show for the media. The fact someone brought a gun to the riot is worrying and the lack of empathy in some circles is frightening. I’m reminded of an oily rag which given the right conditions can spontaneously catch fire if they are folded over enough as with the right amount of oxygen to oil the fumes can heat up. Not too dissimilar to how some of the sectarian troubles around the world can flare up because of a word or deed.

A New Ulster was built upon the concept that we are all equal we try to treat all the people we engage with respect and dignity surprisingly though I’ve seen a rise in what I would call racially motivated or hate based work being submitted to us. Our guide lines are fairly clear we cannot and will not publish anything which constitutes the speech or promotes sectarianism in any form. At the same time we recognise free speech which makes sending rejections challenging at times.

I apologize for the melodrama I’m just a bit down at the moment what with the health issues and the constant reminders of how much we still have to do as a community.

Amos Greig Editor.

Biographical Note: Mick McGann-Jones

Mick McGann-Jones: formerly an orchestral viola-player for the BBC, relocated to Kerry in 2004. His creative output includes music composition, arrangement, essays on music technology and more recently... poetry. His poems have appeared in Riposte, Revival, Anthology for A River, Skylight 47, and the 2016 centenary issue of Boyne Berries. He has read in venues across Munster and has been a featured poet for 'On The Nail' in Limerick.

THE FIVE MOONS OF PLUTO Mick McGann-Jones

Charon Stubborn disarray, the price of death's vile duties, endless Stygian days; aching from the pull, drawing heavy from the coast, his boat full and foul.

Charon sheds no tears, those angry eyes still piercing, feasting on your fears.

There is no release for Pluto's cruel companion, dancing without cease.

Slave and master both go whirling through their two-step, bound by Death’s fell oath.

Nix She will enslave you who is herself a captive of curse-bound Pluto.

Treacherous daughter, deceiving the ferryman seducing us all; in her dark garden, I’m picking betray-me-nots whose hearts have hardened.

Weaving through shadow, mother of all fantasy vanishes once more; I pick ripened oaths from that forbidden garden, the black of her throat.

Hydra Slippery moonchild, leaves no track or vague imprint, no cold clue to hold; orbital crawling, clutching a poisonous void nine times appalling.

Venomous curses hiss through thinning fluid space, death in rehearsal.

Pluto and Charon ever keeping their distance from pain deep frozen, merciful snakebite; an agonising prelude to permanent night.

Kerberus Snarling cosmic dread bent on spreading misery; crazed hound of despair.

Three-heads bays at death, chases after slithering snakes bites on empty space.

Barking maddest moon yaps and snarls at Pluto’s heels, sniffs at fetid doom.

Grinning dog, drooling, teeth of poisoned syringes gorging flesh and rock; triple-headed cur howling at his master’s feet, stench of blood on fur.

Styx Pluto’s river slave meanders dutifully through her master’s grief, scarred by filthy chains, Damnation’s fifth concentric flowing thick with pain; her weary waters carrying hate and blood-spill, Styx never falters.

No-one here to tell or help escape this evil fifth circle of hell; oath wracked, ice-burnt rock, curse-borne circular river, Pluto’s paradox

THE FIVE MOONS OF PLUTO – Notes:

Pluto was discovered in 1930, by Clyde Tombaugh - and named after the god of the underworld.

Following years of debate, Pluto is now classified as a ‘dwarf-planet’, but is also locked in a remarkable binary system* with Charon, the innermost moon. Charon, largest of the five moons (approx. 750 miles in diameter) is roughly half as wide as Pluto itself. The other four satellites are much smaller.

The names of the five moons are also drawn from classical mythology.

Charon, (discovered 1978) Named after - The Ferryman - who oversees the souls of the dead voyaging to the underworld.

Nix, (discovered 2005) The embodiment, or goddess of night.

Hydra, (discovered 2005) The nine-headed serpent.

Kerberus, (discovered 2011) The three-headed hound.

Styx, (discovered 2012) The river which forms part of the bounds of the underworld.

* http://www.latimes.co m/science/sciencenow/la -sci-sn-pluto -charon-binar y-syst em- newhor izons-20150714-ht mlstory. html

Biographical Note: Alan Britt In August 2015 Alan Britt was invited to Ecuador as part of a cultural exchange of poets between Ecuador and the United States. In 2018 and in 2013, he served as judge for the The Bitter Oleander Press Library of Poetry Book Award. He has been interviewed at The Library of Congress for The Poet and the Poem and has published 17 books of poetry, his latest being Ode to Nothing (bilingual English/Hungarian: 2018) Crossing the Walt Whitman Bridge (bilingual English/Romanian): 2017; Violin Smoke (bilingual English/Hungarian: 2015). A graduate of the Johns Hopkins Writing Seminars he now teaches English/Creative Writing at Towson University.

ALAN BRITT: Library of Congress Interview: http://www.loc.gov/poetry/media/avfiles/poet-poem-alan-britt.mp3

WHISKERS (Alan Britt) Quantum mandibles resembling those from fantasy novels plus at least one dewclaw capable of tearing the shit out of everything in sight while soldier claws goosestep like a parade of millipedes.

Whiskers that left bubbles in the middle of a puddle, a stream, a river, or an ocean, even, whiskers that take a lifetime to shiver a single moment’s ashes into one quantum ripple over a single algae-coated mangrove microorganism of truth.

Whiskers that twitch once every fourscore & twenty years or so, whiskers.

POYSON TREE (Alan Britt) (After W.B.)

Sunbursts of sunflower pollen.

Sunflower’s zebra seeds represent the tears of every aberrantly large or infinitesimally small country on this blue planet if you get your news from black & white TV. But the invisible worm / that flies in the night seeks out thy gooey undercarriage while shuffling our organs atop shaved ice holiday buffets just before it pierces them with his dark secret love.

Shortly thereafter finding ourselves outstretched beneath the tree.

(Quoted lines from William Blake

HOUR (Alan Britt) An hour is a cough of every day.

An hour is pastrami wrapped in deli paper with pumpkin-colored stuff oozing grease stains across morning prayers plus acorns falling from black walnut into hymnbooks shielded behind ebony slats that say I’ll walk with you as long as you promise to walk with me.

An hour is a gypsy with a scorpion thorn clouding its better judgement, bareback gypsy that confronted us during recess when we were busy planning trips to sideshows & grinding our country into sawdust two generations ago.

But an hour sports porcupine quills.

An hour stretching its one-piece—one quarter cheetah, one quarter Roaring 20s, one quarter Mod Generation, plus one quarter what in god’s name are we doing here?

So, what’s with all this mass self-hypnosis; I mean, who could possibly have painted us into this godforsaken corner we find ourselves in?

One hour brings home Olympic gold while the next emerges from the fingertips of pinecones, while another hour, one more forsaken hour, finds itself in the middle of something it simply cannot explain.

But just wait.

One more hour.

PRETENDING WE ARE TWO (Alan Britt) Woman is the pearl of the world— woman is the reason that we like whirling dervishes twirl inside our REM typhoons— woman is the pearl of the world.

Woman is the reason we swatch TV, & woman is the reason we scream about it, yet we handcuff her to the wrists of aberrant men designated to deliver us from bondage.

Woman is the answer.

Woman embracing the grail.

Woman burning in the flames, flames that enveloped Joan, flames that cajole us into igniting a crocodile river, burning, burning, burning until we’re forced to let it go.

But, I’ll let it go.

All I must do is return the knife to its bloody sheath; that’s all I have to do.

Then I’ll have the freedom required to bribe the shaman disguising me to be precisely the same as you, thus, erasing any memory that you & I were never the same no matter how many times, including all the times we pretended that we were two.

Biographical Note: John Doyle John Doyle, is from County Kildare, has recently returned to writing poetry after a considerable absence. He was educated at N.U.I. Maynooth, and is influenced by a diverse range of writers, many of whom do not adhere to canonical peccadilloes.

The End (John Doyle) Michael Douglas - Defcon 2, Rolling Stone - April 1979.

All through the pizza joint the ashstacked smalltalk, fallout, Hollywood waste, a bubbling blurb about the China Syndrome Oscar’s hands gloved, frightened face sterile.

There's a girl orbiting the booth below. 4/5 years old maybe, her, her dad. All she and Michael have in common is the exact same hair, his not quite 70s, not quite 80s mop, her accidental undecided mess.

It saddens me, how otherwise far removed they are, how prehistoric this makes me feel, Michael too, no doubt.

As I leave, walking Russell Street, I brace myself, meeting students. I’m not there, not really, but bless them, they like to listen.

Russel Street's railway bridges look so very tired, apocalyptic;

I visualise them gone, vanquished, like housing developments with lifted railways, embankments crushed between, telegraph poles nude and toothless and so horribly frightened and alone like Michael, like me, stitched like flies in dust-choked webs of time, in

former Soviet Bloc states where the Geiger Counters chuckle like bumblebees, high-summer, 1970s.

Her midlife crisis burns 40 years away.

And trains, who know where or what they’ll be, and Russell Street as always, says nothing like its cats and crows and tune-free bins, and the rustling leaves of students’ feet, its apocalypse syndrome.

The sun is God’s nuclear reactor, I remember Ms. Taylor say something strange like that, 1980. I was 4, maybe 5 years old, and

Michael turned to me and said It’s My Turn the rising flames ignored him, Ian Campbell started prowling...

Song for Annette (John Doyle)

Night drifts us north; we the toughened birds of Yukon, and Northwest Territories and starlight the softness that we need;

and I fall in love with tomcats, like the hooded bandits orphaned - from the torch-lit shawls and saddles of Sandy Denny's April and August songs.

You're electric blue like the bronchioles of night, and I like that: I like it a lot you and me, we've been born in sands that dare the wash of angry sea,

ghosts that dart and haunt the faces in lives from office blocks and drunken taxis that we may belong here

in the clasps of dipped Latin blue, the Da Vinci verandas and the coolness overhead, that breaths and whispers wings over wood-shacked Yukon, eastwards until we stop at Yellowknife -

and Dublin - that's our corner, the fold and rippled nest that Gods having given us, hold and burn the bastard darkness from this throbbing cobweb night

Réasúnaíocht

Sa fharraige bí na focail ciúin i gconaí,

sa spéir tá guthanna callánach i gcónaí,

i n-áit éigin i lár, dún muid ár chluasa, agus oscail muid ár mbéal

County Fermanagh (John Doyle)

The curlew siphons Tuesdays from lake’s decanter song,

morning scoops remnants of dawn

from the lake’s stiffened shrine of weed;

a few cars pass, the engines’ hum picks ears from sheaths of screeching grass, all as masts un-bending

Returning from Kilcloon, April Evening (John Doyle)

We inhale these town's smiling rivers all of them - Lyreen, Joan Slade, a simmering Rye; and the curlew's chuckled prayer rotates the neck-tie washing lines, telegraph poles garters like the sheet music sunset promised.

I'm sure you've got a thousand poems for me, baked-scone evening I'll take just this one and let it breath all around me - farmers all content; the rattling tractors making precise - the arrangements for their concertos April 2018

Biographical Note: Antony Watts Anthony Watts has been writing ‘seriously’ for over 40 years. He has won prizes and had poems published in magazines and anthologies.

His latest collection is The Shell-Gatherer: http://www.overstepsbooks.com/cat/the-shell-gatherer/ . His main interests are poetry, music and walking.

Communion (Antony Watt) Willing that a poem may be willed By close exposure to another’s craft – The blizzard of existence stilled As in another’s visionary shaft – I keep always to hand Poems I’ve downloaded, typed or scanned – Poems I understand Because they understand me, lend me their tongue.

When I stand dumbstruck by the Great Unsaid, I bend an ear to what was said or sung, Communing with the living and the dead, They are the wine, the bread.

Dandelions (Antony Watts) And if she loved me I would never know, For it would be a love she’d not admit; And I’d be none the wiser if she loved me not, Because she’s kind and would not tell me so.

And since I have no head for dandelions, I’ll go my ways in perfect ignorance, To the secrets of her heart as blind as chance And no more try to read between her lines.

For loving her is loving the unknown – And that I’ve always loved, it being all There is. So – world and time and she (She whom I cannot help but love) made whole And inlaid on the starry mystery – This unknown shall be all I’ve ever known.

Graveyard (Antony Watts) I am a walking graveyard of poets’ voices; their muffled music fills my ears.

They want me for their resurrection; they want me to give them back their wings, but I cannot help them – they are too faint and too many, their words breaking like bubbles in the chilly air as I go my own way, stammering my own songs.

Biographical Note: Attracta Fahy

Attracta Fahy’s background is Nursing/Social Care. She works as a Psychotherapist, lives in Co.Galway, and has three children. She completed her MA in Writing NUIG in 2017, and participates in Over The Edge poetry workshops. Her poems have been published in Banshee, Poetry Ireland Review, The Blue Nib, Poethead, Coast to Coast to Coast, Orbis, Crossways, The Curlew, Picaroon, Dodging the Rain, Honest Ulsterman, and several other journals, and magazines. She has been included in The Blue Nib Anthology, shortlisted for 2018 Over The Edge New Writer of The Year, and is a Blue Nib nominee for Pushcart. She was one of the winners in the Pamphlet series competition with Hedgehog Poetry Press, and will have her first collection published in 2019. Having grown up on a farm, Attracta is inspired by the intricate world of nature, and how it reflects in humanity. Her particular interest is in myth, symbolism and ritual.

After You Left (Attracta Fahy)

For a long time, I was numb, the shock of it, no time for goodbye, I tried to reach you. My hand would not extend.

I searched for a sign to know you were safe. Never the kind to sing with blackbirds, you’d say, ‘When your gone, your gone’. Still

you never missed mass. I think of your kindness, see the calloused skin of your hands when feeding our lambs, calf’s separated from mothers. Suspended in grief,

I watched others get on with life. Days protracted in petitions, pleas, believing you lost in God’s wilderness. I prayed, you’d be horrified, maybe laugh, as I practiced,

in desperation, the Tibetan rituals of Bardo Om Mani Padme Hum

For eighteen months grief thundered, rained in surfs, spraying like Irish weather, switching sun to rain. A constant falling into a sea of despair. Slowly, winter passed,

its obscure suffering eased, my body let go.

After, you arrived in a dream, said the “I love you” I’d waited forever to hear.

I watch you speak (Attracta Fahy)

Your lips tender to each other, kiss-loaded words, your cold pained eyes frayed my turquoise linen heart, kept silent protest, as you explained what I already knew, “I am not in love with you.”

My head refused, body like vacuous air, volcanic force of blunt truth, glass wall - two storeys high – may shatter if I speak.

I watch the river tumble into former self, waterfalls somersault, spill, stretch out to sea, common gulls, terns, swoop past, feel their cries.

You think you know love, a balled up shopping list, used for mothering, a web of need. I, a saved sinner in your rejection ground my flying thoughts.

Stagnant canal, water green reflection, white froth moves, long reeds swim up the channel, roots in deep mud, grow where they are planted.

We crossed paths, patterns, your dark slowed me down, turned me back to self.

Put my brave coat on, twisted smile to street, turned left into slipway between the waters. Somehow love is always loss, takes us from our own belonging.

Looking back, a lonely figure reads a book. You can’t see, four cycles of moon above your head.

What if this was different, if you could scent wild rose growing in my garden?

The skyline takes the Corrib into ocean, I give up my own way, to follow its path.

Tír na nÓg (Attracta Fahy)

Little was said of my echtra after the stag bolted, gone, long before I could give him my white horse.

I could not feel the pain a widow feels, work to be done, children, bills, no time to wallow, this golden haired girl, taking him, blanketed, a choir of airs, our song of forever.

Lost in a fog, lonely for home, my body bewildered fighting our fate, forewarned, I surrendered, the land of promise, Tir Tairngire vanished.

I couldn’t leave fatherless children, sons of his blood, heroes born from my womb, my Plor na mBan daughter, forged on.

I heard he’d aged in conflict, lives in a world I’m forbidden to see, my tears the raindrops filling Lough Corrib, a cauldron of seanós, wailing, gulls whooping their wings.

Message the gods – ‘I will never be a wife again, a scar in your need, bleeding the love you defiled, my shipwrecked eyes,

you heard nothing of my cry, pleas for our children, abandoned, we are at war.

They didn’t tell you that I was a fawn too, innocent, believing in love, left in this land of youth, finding myself, a crone playing harp to a heroine sea, birds and trees my companions, the Celtic skin on my feet finding their ground.

*Echtra is an older version of eachtra, meaning in Gaelic – adventure – or a venture. *Tír Tairngire – another old gaelic name for Tír na nÓg – land of eternal youth – promise. * Plor na mBan – Flower of women *seasós – gaelic song or dance –

Biographical Note: Anne Mac Darby-Beck

Anne Mac Darby-Beck lives in County Kilkenny, Ireland. She writes poetry and short stories. She has had work published in various anthologies and magazines, in Ireland and abroad, such as Poetry Ireland Review, Cyphers, The Shop, Crannog, Kilkenny Poetry Broadsheet, The Stony Thursday Book, Skylight 47, “1916-2016 An Anthology of Reactions” and Nourish Poetry. She won a first place in Syllables Poetry Competition. .

Almancil (Anne Mac Darby-Beck) Portugal, 2002

Hairpin exit off the motorway, dusty old road circles back to the now quiet village of Almancil.

We arrive as neighbours flock clutching sprays of flowers, while between two men a woman stumbles up the hill,

like a black wailing bird supported by her kin, sagging towards the ground, picked up and carried again,

towards the hilltop church with its plain grey walls is it worth the risk of stirring local wrath?

But having come so far ahead of the deceased we slip in

to a cool interior, heavenly blue from floor to arch of ceiling,

the story of São Lourenço, his life and death in azulejo, accompanied by angels in glory to his final rest.

Flight (Anne Mac Darby-Beck)

So many candles burned, their heat brought the butterfly out of hibernation; she watched him flutter about the room,

willed him to land on her outstretched hand and made it happen: slowly folding and unfolding his wings, long lips stroked her skin,

searching for something to feast upon, he probed her hand, found nothing.

As suddenly as he landed he took flight; she went in search of something sweet to lure him back.

Vanished on her return, she imagined him gone back to sleep, wings folded neatly like

the fin of smiling Delphinios;

but when she stood up to blow all her candles out she found him floating, wings unfurled, in the scalding candle wax.

Gateway (Anne Mac Darby-Beck)

Another procession to the graveyard someone else's mother, brother, friend.

Square walled field three-quarters full, the dead laid out neatly beneath rows of regimented headstones.

A sign pointing towards the graveyard dump has shifted direction God has a strange sense of humour.

Every morning at half past nine the old man cycles down the road, props his bicycle against the wall, sits on his hunkers by the graveyard gates to have a smoke and wait for the farmer who owes him ten bob he has waited thirty years; the farmer never came, he'll hardly come today.

With a large black key the gravedigger unlocks the graveyard gates, throws them wide open, turns and says "Good morning everyone" and listens for a moment before he picks up his shovel and his spade, another one today; someone else's mother, brother, friend.

Goldfinch 1 (Anne Mac Darby-Beck)

He arrived in a fine old cage made of wood, red paint chipping, its bars curved like the roof of a grand Victorian building.

He hopped about from perch to perch, pecked at a toy, scattered seed, enthralling in red and yellow, adored on sight, pampered, cherished.

He chirped at his own reflection and when put outside on the wide window sill, enclosed In his cage, he sang.

While down in the garden his wild tribe tore at the seed heads of groundsel, mated, fought and foraged, scattered at a passing shadow.

The Devil was on the Road (Anne Mac Darby-Beck)

“Oh shit! The baby!” were the first words out of her mouth as she slammed on the brakes and tried to swerve to the left, away from the other car. It was too late and she was driving too fast. She did, however, manage to avoid a head-on and ended up grinding the other car down its side. That helped slow her down. She pressed the brake to the floor and angled the car into the ditch. Everything was suddenly quiet. She hung onto the steering wheel and swallowed hard.

“Oh shit, shit, shit, shit!” In her head she could already hear her husband going mental, raving about her speeding and she “with child”. Her heart thumping in her chest she felt her six month bump. She was fairly sure she hadn’t banged into the steering wheel. Her seatbelt fitted exactly. Seamus checked and adjusted it every week against her growing stomach to make sure it was neither too tight nor too loose. She tried to be patient with him.

She came from a family of seven. His mother had several miscarriages and a still birth. He was the only one who survived.

She eased back her seat and moved her legs. No damage done. Relived she unclipped her seat belt. Maybe the baby had slept through the whole thing.

She almost jumped out her skin; there was a tall, mad-looking man banging at her driver’s window, shouting.

“Get out of the car quick”, he yelled. He began jerking the door handle but she had the door locked as always, on strict orders from Seamus.

“No I’m fine,” she said, “just let me sit here for a few minutes, get my breath back.

I’m really sorry, I …….”

He frantically pulled at the door.

“Get out of that car”, he roared.

Then she thought, oh God, the car must be about to blow up! She fumbled with the lock and he nearly fell over himself pulling the door open. She began hauling herself out of the seat.

He grabbed her arm and pulled her.

“Hey, hold on a minute,” she gasped, “not so rough; I’m expecting.”

He seemed to take no notice and was roaring a woman’s name and began pulling her towards the gate.

“Mary, pull our car into the drive, quick.”

A small frightened looking woman came running towards them as he pulled her through the gateway into the drive. She looked back. Her car was in the grass verge and mostly off the road, far enough in to allow another car to pass.

“Hey, look I’m actually fine. There’s no need for any drama. I just need to get my phone to ring the husband” He wasn’t having any of it. He marched her past three round-eyed children into the house.

His car followed them into the drive, piloted by the woman. It was then she remembered he had been indicating right. He was stopped just beyond the bend on the narrow road, indicating into his drive. If it weren’t for the bloody bend she would have seen him. She tried to wretch free of his grip.

“Look I just need to sit down for a minute and ring my husband. I’m actually fine and of course I’ll pay for your car. I don’t have any intention of running away or anything. I totally accept it was my fault”.

He took no notice of her, dragging her through the front door, through a dark hall and into the kitchen. He pulled out a chair from the table and pushed her into it. The three kids followed and stood at the other side looking at her as if she was some exotic creature their father had brought home. She almost jumped out of her skin when he roared, “Mary, will you get in here quick. The devil was on the road. We have to pray for the Mother of God’s help and protection.”

She gaped at him, not sure she had heard him properly. Mary appeared in the room and before she knew what was happening a large statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary was placed in the middle of the kitchen table. The man’s wife and the children quickly took their seats. The

man grabbed her hand. She came to her senses and tried to pull her hand out of his. This had to be a piss-take, she thought, some kind of set-up. She tried not to laugh.

“Now look here”, she said, “I don’t know what you’re up to but I want to ring my husband and go home”.

Ignoring her, he closed his eyes and began to keen, deep in his throat. It took her whole strength not to burst out laughing. The man squeezed her hand tighter.

“Hey hold on a minute. What the fuck are you doing?”

“Don’t you blaspheme in my house”, he roared, glaring at her.

He took the hand of the child nearest him and the rest of them formed a circle. His wife tried to take her hand but she pulled away.

“Take Mary’s hand”, he ordered, “we have to form a circle and pray to the Mother of Almighty God to protect us from what was on the road. That child you’re carrying is in grave danger.”

Her stomach lurched. Her heart began beating so loudly she thought her ears would burst.

She took the woman’s hand without further comment. He began to pray, his eyes closed, the children not taking their eyes from his face.

“Mother of Almighty God we ask your intersession. Protect us this day from the evil outside our home. Save this woman and her unborn child and do not allow the devil to enter her and take possession of her child.”

She thought she was going to be sick. She felt panic rise in her throat like bile. She swallowed hard and bowed her head, not wanting them see how rattled she was. Come on now girl, she told herself, cop yourself on and get yourself together. But his voice droned on.

She suddenly heard silence and, looking up, realised he was looking at her, his eyes glaring under a hooded frown.

“I said we’ll say the glorious mysteries. You say the first decade.”

Her husband said he would teach their child its prayers even if she had no interest. Right now she could not, for the life of her, remember how to say the rosary even though she remembered saying it at home as a child. Her parents were not overly religious but they did go to mass and said the rosary every Saturday evening.

“I …. I ….. can’t remember ….. “ His disgusted look should have made her angry. She lowered her head and heard his wife begin. She mumbled along until suddenly she found herself crying. Tears ran silently down her cheeks. She looked up briefly and saw the three children staring at her. Not knowing from where she got the strength, she wrenched her hands free of them and ran out of the house. She could hear him shouting after her and hear his wife’s entreating voice. She ran down the drive and up the road, clutching her stomach. Soon her legs became too heavy to run. She had to stop and look behind. No one was following her. She stood a few moments and got her breath back. She just wanted to get home to her husband. She saw a house up ahead and began walking towards it. **** She waited anxiously for Seamus to come home. She felt he’d been gone too long.

Surely it wouldn’t take his cousin that long to drive him to the car, check it and hand it over to the recovery men. When Seamus eventually got home she heard him open the door and put his keys down on the hall table. He walked into the kitchen. He was pale and still a bit cool with her even though she had promised never to drive fast ever again.

“Well?” she asked.

He shrugged.

“They seemed ok to me.” He said, flicking the switch on the kettle, “the man said he’d get the car fixed as cheaply as he could so as not to hammer us with the insurance. He asked after you, hoped you were alright after the fright you got”.

He opened the cupboard and took out two cups.

“He made no mention of any devil being on the road.”

Biographical Note: Michael Lee Johnson Michael Lee Johnson lived 10 years in Canada during the Vietnam era and is a dual citizen of the United States and Canada. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, amateur photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois. Mr. Johnson published in more than 1042 new publications, his poems have appeared in 38 countries, he edits, publi shes 10 poetry sites. Michael Lee Johnson, has been nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards poetry 2015/1 Best of the Net 2016/2 Best of the Net 2017, 1 Best of the Net 2018. 183 poetry videos are now on YouTubehttps://www.youtube.com/channel/UCNQ4oRHf8Zz0TOc-9zr3Q9w.

Editor-in-chief poetry anthology, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze: http://www.amazon.com/dp/1530456762; editor-in-chief poetry anthology,Dandelion in a Vase of Roses available here https://www.amazon.com/dp/1545352089. Editor-in-chief Warriors with Wings: the Best in Contemporary Poetry, http://www.amazon.com/dp/1722130717.

Chicago Street Preacher (V4)

By Michael Lee Johnson Street preacher server of the Word, pamphlet whore, hand out delivery boy, fanatic of sidewalk vocals, banjo strummer, seeker of coins, crack cocaine and salvation within notes.

Camper on 47th from Ashland to California promoting his penniless life, gospel forever Kingdom drifter here comes your reward.

Fig Tree (V2)

By Michael Lee Johnson Fig tree, fruit to all those come and gone, stare down your branches with your human eyes: God give us this day; distressed fathers, deceased motherschildren chatter on sidewalks, play hopscotch.

In the forest, construction men cut the wood, make naked landscapesstrong men, strong lives.

We all stop to contemplate this theorem.

Reincarnation (V4)

By Michael Lee Johnson Next life I will be a little higher up the pecking order.

No longer a dishwasher at the House of Pancakes or Ricky’s All Day Grill, or Sunday night small dog thief.

I will evolve into the Prince of Bullfrogs. Crickets don’t bother me.

Swamp flies don’t bother me–I eat them. Alligators I avoid.

I urinate on lily pads, mate across borders and continents at will.

Someone else from India can wash my dishes for me.

Forward all complaints to the Ministry of Religious Affairs.

Lorie

By Michael Lee Johnson Lorie, you want to see me clearly through this joy of my naked body avoiding the sweat of my emotions, just breathing on my neck rubbing this baseline of my groinwill not find us here again.

Go away, leave me thinking louder than your breathbody moves quietly in a lazy sway of indifference.

Biographical Note: Neil Ellman

Neil Ellman, a poet from New Jersey,has published more than 1,200 ekphrastic poems in journals and chapbooks throughout the world. He has been nominated three times for the Pushcart Prize and twice for Best of the Net.

Aged Phoenix (Neil Ellman) (after the drawing by Paul Klee)

Having risen from the flames one too many times the aged phoenix exhausted, feathers worn, rarely leaves its nest and barely flies.

Its second coming and then its third and fourth drained its spirit and, like the sun, its will to live and soar above the clouds and give testament that another day will come.

Clown (Neil Ellman) (after the painting by Paul Klee)

There was a time before the makeup, floppy feet and ironic frown that I walked among more common men who spoke without exaggeration of their faces and their limbs peculiar in their normalcy as life around them came apart and the world unglued, It was only then that I took to motley, somersaults and pancake masks for them to see what they became— I, a clown, like every man.

Fairy Tale of the Dwarf (Neil Ellman) (after the painting by Paul Klee)

Dwarves as well have fairy tales to tell their children how to play in a world inhabited by witches, trolls and gnomes so much larger than themselves; to breathe in dragon-air and talk to elves and unicorns in antique tongues; to use the magic of their human ways to tame with fantasy the darkness in their dreams.

La Belle Jardiniere (Neil Ellman0 (after the painting by Paul Klee)

La belle jardiniere her beauty the sun brings light and new life to the wilt of our lives and our dry earth.

How soft her voice falling like rain on impatient skin waiting for spring and the lady in blue to be born again.

Small Fire Devil Figurine (Neil Ellman) (after the painting by Paul Klee)

It was created as a doll in the shape we chose with goat-like horns, braided, whip-like tail and skin as red as the bloodied moon; and then, as is its nature, it assumed a life its own with acts of treachery, villainy and deceit.

We would know him if we see him now more than an old acquaintance whose face we barely recognize in a crowded room because we made him and released him to the world as just a toy, a figurine with the heart of a devil and its eyes on fire— our child, our creation with a soul as black as ours.

Biographical Note: Gordon Ferris

Gordon Ferris is a sixty-one-year-old Dublin writer living in Donegal for the past thirty-six years. He is a member of the Dublin Writers Forum and has had poetry and short stories published in A New Ulster and The Galway Review and poetry in Hidden Channel

Urban Fox. (Gordon Ferris) Dad steps out into the chill evening air, turns the key obsessively, pushes the hall door a few times to ensure it was securely locked. Closing the gate, he then gets into the driver’s seat of his spotlessly clean Ford Cortina. Mother is seated in the passenger seat. I am leaning on my elbow’s in the rear seat of the car. Dad hadn’t got around to putting in a driveway, so the car was parked on the street. It would be great if he did put one in, one less bit of gardening for me to do.

Ignition key turned and we were away out of the estate, onto the back-roads. These back-roads between Cabra and Finglas are like a different world altogether, surrounded by the colourful sights of old established farms with their well-cultivated lands with some wild areas filled with trees and bushes and paths leading to the wonderlands of our childhood. There you would find the small streams we leapt over on our ventures meandering softly to the Tolka river. None of this was visible from the car, only from my imagination with night falling and the rain starting to get heavy.

The squeak of the windscreen wiper distracted me from my daydreaming, or should I say evening dreaming?

Before long we were pulling up outside my Sister Mauve’s house. My dad was a terrible driver, as soon as he got in the seat it was foot down, to full speed, Mothers white clenched knuckles holding on to the seat for dear life, me rolling around in the back.

Mauve my elder sister was at the door to greet us, her baby Dora at her ankles. Mom and I went on into the living room as my Dad rubbed the already spotless windshield with a yellow cloth to clean an invisible streak on the glass.

Sitting now with Dora at my ankles pulling at the laces on my shoes, I try my best to ignore her. Godchild, have you no potty to go and train in, I thought. Dad came in just in time as an idea to pinch her with my shoe was starting to form in the back of my head, he headed straight for Dora who beamed when she heard his voice at the door.

“Ah where’s my little segosha, are we trying to hide from yar old Granada, where’s me lickle angel gone then, ah there she is, the little rascal,” he said entering the room and making a beeline for his granddaughter. He had a great way with children, seemed to be able to speak their language, had endless patience. He picked Dora up and sat himself down with her bouncing on his knee roaring in laughter, the rest of us ceased to exist while he was in Dora’s spell.

Mom and Mauve smoked with the ashtray between them on the settee, leaned into each other as if to tell each other sensitive secrets.“Yusar probably talking about me, I’m sitting right here ya know, I’m not bleedin deaf.” I moaned.

“Sure, we know all there is to know about you, nothing left to gossip about,” Mam said, smiling in Mauves direction.

“Ye might be surprised, I could still have some hidden secrets that might shock you.”

“Sure we know all there is to know about you, you’re finished school now, you will be able to go out and earn a few bob from now on, and you have a secret girlfriend from the south side” Mom finished by whispering.

“And we know you started drinking and smoking recently, better hope your Da doesn’t find out about that.”

“I don’t smoke “I hastily replied, proving to my Mom that I did in fact drink by not denying it. ” About what, what might I not want to hear about, if it’s going to cost me money, don’t want to know, everything else is sound as a ding dong.” My father jumped in entering the conversation. He put an ashtray from the mantelpiece on the arm of my mother’s chair as she lit another cig up, talking to me at the same time, making the fag bob up and down in her mouth missing the flame from her pink lighter.

“We were just saying how he has a girlfriend now and will need all the money he can earn to entertain her with having to travel all the way out to the wilds of Drimnagh, or is it Crumlin, never did know the difference between those two.” Mom said with Dad quick to reply.

“There’s no difference between any of the areas, north or south of the Liffey, they were all built to house the working-class tenants the near-derelict tenements of the inner city, should have been done years before it eventually was, there quick enough to take the money off us in tax not so quick to spend it, not on the working class anyway” “We better be headed out soon before you start on one of your political rants you’ll be doing enough of that when you get a few pints and a couple of Goldie locks into you.”

Mother said in a mock scolding tone. She then turned to Mauve and asked was I going to have to babysit for her.

Mauve turned struggling trying to get Dora off my Dad to get her to go to bed, saying.

“Ah no, Dave’s sister is on her way over from Ballyfermot, he’s gone to collect her, should be here any minute. Sure, go out there and put the kettle on while you’re waiting.” For some reason, they all looked at me when this was said, I got the message and went out to the kitchen.

Dad was out on me heels, rooting around the fridge like an urbane fox furtively foraging through the bins looking for any scraps that would keep him going for the night.

I got the tea and brought it into my mom, Mauve had just slipped up with Dora to get her down. She wasn’t long up there, descending the stairs in silence, listening for a second before she sat down, thanking me for the tea. Dad arrived in with of all things a cabbage and brown sauce sandwich. “The News, somebody put the news on, for god’s sake. Does no one care what’s happening in the world” He said.

As the newsreader read the word of senseless deaths at the hands of terrorists my brother-in-law Dave and his Sister entered the room, explaining how the heavy traffic was the cause of their delay.

“AH Winny, how-are-ya. Dora’s just gone up, shouldn’t be any bother with her, she usually sleeps all night.” Mauve said, getting to her feet and putting her jacket on, she was wearing the jacket from a navy dress suit that she used to use for work over black corduroy jeans that hugged her slender figure. Her shoulder length natural blonde hair needed the touch of a brush, would have made no difference, her beauty was deeper

than physical, it was in her permanent smile, the quick lowering of her eyes that put you at ease and melted the heart as soon as you were in her presence.

“Ah she’ll be grand, sure what odds if she wakes. Away ziz go and enjoy yourselves.”

Dave’s sister Winny said.

Dad reluctantly rose from the chair, “I’m looking at the weather forecast” which was promising four seasons in one day. He headed for the door, still watching the forecast.” Let’s go, are yous right” he added, holding the door for the three of us to exit.

Leaving the house, you could see the orange glow of the sun as it went down over the buildings opposite. Dad adjusted his trousers pulling them up and walked alongside Dave, idly chatting, sorting the troubles of the world out as they walked. Mom and Mauve walked, linking each other, I surmised to prevent either one from falling over, while precariously perched on, what seemed to me, like enormous high heels. I walked alone behind them, wondering where this place we were going to was going to be like. A late bar big sister Mauve had said, late licence because they served food apparently. I doubt very much if we will be eating food, there’s no wedding or funeral on. Other than the odd bit of chipper food, that’s the only food we eat out.

After about ten or fifteen minutes we were walking through the heavy solid wood doors of Blake’s Tavern. It was situated just outside the town, on an isolated spot in the middle of nowhere. The smell of food hit you as soon as you walked through the door. We followed the two male elder lemons down the carpeted hallway past the public bar and into the spacious lounge bar. There was a seated area circling a small dancefloor fronted by an unusually high stage. There was just a handful of people there so we moved to a table quite near the stage.

They had comfortable armchair type seating, I just let myself sink into it completely relaxing. Dave and my Dad did that ‘I’ll get the drink in’ dance where they both tell each other to sit down and offer to buy the drink. Not that it made any difference, they end up buying in rounds anyway.

It wasn’t long before the place started to fill up becoming noisy and hard to hear what was being said. As soon as the music started all conversation ceased, being replaced by one or two-word sentences mixed with a kind of sign language-facial gesture. Dad dominated the proceedings as usual with his mild insult kind of humour. Never anything too offensive, usually casting up some embarrassing event in your life you would prefer to forget.

This was all new to me. The only time myself or my siblings were ever taken to any drinking establishment was for a wedding or funeral, and as far as I knew no one had been hitched or buried recently.

It’s funny the idle things that run through your mind when you’re left to your own devices, observing the surroundings, the people and the behaviour. I wondered about my future recollection of this night, would the room appear bigger than it is because I will have grown bigger, would all that I see now around me take on a whole new meaning.

I could see my dad standing behind my Mom and sister, arm around their shoulders, talking, smiling, looking in my direction. I had a feeling he was talking about me, he had my attention and I caught the end of his sentence, “He’s away in cloud nine that boy, look at him. Come on and join in, why don’t you” he said in my direction.

I wondered what my recollection of him would be when I was his age.

I smiled, moved closer, leaning in, pretending I was enjoying the evening and knew what they were talking about. I think my Dad thought I hadn’t heard what was said, or maybe he hoped I didn’t. He moved over and sat down beside me.

The night carried on in much the same manner, progressing from mild-mannered conversation to frenzied shirt open, swinging around the floor, dancing crazy like mad wans. Near the end of the night, Dave got up on stage and joined in with the band singing and playing guitar with my gang clapping and cheering. Mother and Mauve at different times mouthed in my direction to ask if I was enjoying myself. I was enjoying it but was as yet not well versed in the act of letting one's hair down, needed a few more inches on the hair length for that.

Before long the night was at an end with the music finishing and last orders being called over the sound system The bar was packed with the crowd getting the last order in. Dave and my Da ordered two rounds each and sat down continuing on enjoying themselves ignoring the pleas of the bar staff pleading for us to finish up as they collected empty glasses.

Our exit out the door, with me in the lead, I, of course, using my great sense of direction headed to the left instead of the right with my Dad leading the jeering to get me back on track. The formation walking home was the same as our journey getting there, Mam and Mauve arm in arm leading, Dave and me Da following them, then there was lonesome me holding up the rear.

With the banter back and forth between the five of us, we were back in Dave and Mauves house in no time. Dave's sister jumped up into a sitting position, having been lying down having a sleep.

“Are yur back are yiz. Did yiz have a good night, Not a sound out of Dora all night, as good as gold she was. Did ye not get any chips, I was looking forward to having a bag of chips ” She said going out to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

“There was nowhere open , unusual, the one on the corner is usually open late.”

Mauve said plonking herself down on the couch with Dave landing after on to her knee. “ For fuck's sake you, you're like a baby elephant there, you'd want to lose a few pounds ya would.”

Mauve playfully said slapping him on the head. ”That's from all the chipper food I have to eat making up for your cooking,” he replied with a cheeky grin, with Mauve giving him a bruising pinch in the arm scolding him with.

“Ah is that right, we’ll see what you have to say when you come home from work without your dinner on the table and me painting me nails, see how you like it then.”

Coats on, and all the "good nights see ya during the weeks, don't forget to ring me’s" done and on our way across the back roads where spectors glared out over dew dripping hedges inviting nightmares. By the time we reached the house, I was starting to doze in the back seat.

The house was in darkness and silent, obviously, if the others were home they were in bed.

My Dad went straight into the living room and poked the fire to make sure it was safe before going to bed. At the bottom of the stairs on his way, he turned and said.

“Off to bed with ye now, just because you're finished in school doesn't mean you can lay in bed all day. Ye have a weeks holiday, then it's off to work with ya.”

“Thanks for reminding me, better make the most of the week. My last bit of freedom.”

I answered following my mother into the kitchen where she had put the kettle on.

We both sat down at the kitchen table. Mother smoking one of her numerous cigarettes and sipping her sugary tea. I didn't bother with tea taking a half glass of red lemonade from the bottle in the fridge. If my Mother hadn't been there, I would have taken a swig of-of the bottle, I used the glass instead to avoid being chewed out over something silly like not using a glass.

We spoke a bit about how it would be different for me now not going to school any more and working full time. I reminded her of Dad's promise that if I did well in the exams I could stay on, but she just dismissed this as if there was no hope of that happening. Soon I was lying in bed this on my mind but decided there was no point in dwelling on it and tried to get off to sleep.

Biographical Note: Kasey Shelly

Kasey Shelley is a writer and poet from Dublin. She has been performing in the Irish spoken word scene for two years. Her poems touch on love, heartbreak, mental health and being a woman. She has been published in Flare and Harness magazine as well as the Selfies & Portraits anthology. She is behind the scenes of open mics, The Circle Sessions and Dolcáin’s Cellar. She is currently working on her first poetry book and novel (if she can stop procrastinating!). Her Facebook and Instagram pages are Kasey’s Scribbles.

Breathe (Kasey Shelley)

Once in a writing exercise we had to choose an animal that represented us.

And while others said things like “I’m a bear because I’m always hungry for success”, I hadn’t a clue.

So I said “Penguin, because who doesn’t like penguins.”

Today I’m came to the realisation that I am a shark Constantly moving forward because if I don’t, I’ll die If I’m not busy I will suffocate with my own thoughts Of family, myself, the boy I miss Worries about others, sometimes strangers, weigh me down Too heavy so I have to hurry on, leaving them behind Ruthless like the Great White But that brings its own baggage Keeping busy is important Attending open mics, working late, making plans with different friends Meeting up with guys I know aren’t good for me It all takes up time, energy Less of it to spend on sad things, sad people, sad thoughts I’ll make plans that stretch from one end of the ocean to the other Knowing there’s an end goal helps me to keep moving Helping others makes me happy Moving constantly through the waters you are always surrounded by others You can’t be lonely if you’re not alone, right?

So I follow the advice of a blue cartoon and just keep swimming Because the moment I stop I am alone in the dark The weight of the world above crushing me Taking every last breath I have

Place I Went to Feel Better but Ended up Leaving feeling worse (Kasey Shelley) The boy’s bedroom Because I thought I could do casual sex Because I’ve been told all my life good girls don’t do that Because he was shit Because he didn’t care The beauty salon Because I was looking forward to getting my brows done Because I didn’t know you had to point out my flaws to upsell a simple wax Because you didn’t realise I was an insecure seventeen year old girl Because after, instead of seeing my perfect new brows, all I could see were my imperfections The man’s living room Because I thought I was coming over for lunch Because I didn’t think you’d just come out and say it Because I let myself think this could be it Because I still can’t figure out if it’s your fault or mine The doctor’s office Because I said “I think I could be depressed” Because you said “well you’re heavier than the last time I saw you” Because last time, I was working two full time jobs with barely had enough time to eat Because even at ‘heavier’ I was still five stone lighter than I am now The counsellor’s office Because it took all the energy and mental power I had to make the appointment Because it was the first time I tried to truly open up to someone Because the look on your face as I spoke just broke me Because if a fully qualified sixty quid an hour counsellor can’t handle it How on earth am I supposed to?

What’s The Difference (Kasey Shelley)

An alcoholic and a social drinker walk into a bar. This is not the set up for a punch line, they just walk into a bar. But the barman cannot tell the difference. Which is odd, because they’re different right?

One is a dishevelled tragedy on Hapenny bridge and the other is in here tonight. But not everything is black and white.

You see, the difference between an alcoholic and a social drinker is the money in their bank account. If you have nothing to lose you can’t become nothing.

The difference between an alcoholic and someone who likes a few drinks with the lads is the company he keeps. Which is to say, you can’t have a problem with drinking if you’re not drinking alone.

The difference is the height you have to fall from.

The difference between an alcoholic and a social drinker is their support system. As in, can you even be an alcoholic if everyone around you is an enabler?

An alcoholic and a social drinker walk into a bar. The barman cannot tell the difference. You cannot tell the difference. I could not tell the difference.

Why Did Yas Leave?

(Kasey Shelley)

Screeching tyres, graffiti on the wall Racism, sexism and just good old fashioned bullying The gangs who were like cliques, are you in?

Or are you out?

The address on a CV, the bus to a different school The paedophile down the road, the rapist next door The junkie across the way and the gangster next to her

The girl punched in the face because Scum and violence don’t discriminate The ‘RATS OUT’ to the twelve year old Simply walking by

The flames from my Mam’s car Visible from the kitchen window The knife held up to my Dad When he tried to stop it

The life that would have almost Certainly only gone one way

When You See Your Ex (Kasey Shelley) When you see your ex And start to panic Your stomach sinks And you hope they don’t see you

I hope they do

I hope they see how good you look How well you’re doing And how happy you are

Realising you’re that happy Without them in your life

I hope they’ve learned I hope they’ve grown That they’re treating the next one better

And I hope they now see you And what an amazing person you are

More importantly I hope you see you

Biographical Note: Helga Keogh

Helga Keogh is new and unknown, but she is old and renowned by her friends, neighbours and family. She started writing poetry a year ago to help save her sanity and well being. She hails from Dublin and has lived in Co. Leitrim most of her life, a good forty years. She is inspired by the five senses and uses them in her poetry, not all at once of course. Just like Alfred Hitchcock, she likes to make an appearance in her creation. So you will always find her featured in her poetry. “Helga Keogh lives in Co Leitrim; you will never find her for the Sitka Spruce that surrounds her.�

ME By Helga Keogh My life is an old favourite handbag A hoarders house, a kangaroo pouch, A gaping Python, with flabby jaws, No strong clutch, green, or leopard skin, But bulging open with sense of worth, Life secrets, abound, to ancient pyramids, I’m stitched and sewn, a collectors vessel, Chock-a-blocked, a keeper and discarder From carefree satchel to wrinkled leather on a chair

The End BY HELGA KEOGH I saw you at the end How undignified Two sandaled legs extend I saw you at the end So hard to comprehend Poetic words denied I saw you at the end So undignified

Biographical Note: Jac Shortland

.

Jac Shortland is a Cork woman. Her poetry has been published in a diversity of journals. She has been shortlisted for Hedgehog First Collection’18, Red Line Festival 18 and Fish Poetry Prize’17, long listed for North West Words Poetry’16, Over the Edge New Writer of the Year’17 and Brian Dempsey Poetry Competition’18, highly commended for Blue Nib chapbook contest and commended for Westport Arts Festival Poetry’17. She is a regular reader at O’Bheal open mic nights. Her poems reflect the mind of a woman, who hasn't made her mind up about any of life’s mysteries and most likely never will.

Drained I am drained from the recycling of our Aims and Initiatives, the endless meetings to reform, revamp, reconstitute.

Put in white matting and filtered lighting for an Autism Sensory room.

Then rip it all out, for partitioned workspaces, for an Autism Computer room.

I am drained from the recycling of our Goals and Objectives, the endless training to re-train, rehash, restructure.

Put up shelving, for the latest trans-Atlantic Evaluation system.

Then rip it all down, for closed cabinets, for the Blue Forms system.

Meanwhile, Jimmy is standing outside the Office door, waiting for staff to help him find his sweat shirt, no buttons, with the green collar and badge for Ireland, no zips.

He has looked for it in his locker eleven times.

Chances are it’s been thrown in the skip, along with his old gear bag and mounds of black bags full of old New Initiatives.

Jac Shortland

The Last of Last Blessings I don’t specifically remember all the last times I have had.

I suppose I didn’t recognise them for the last times they were.

But, I know there can be last times and I often make rituals, just in case.

Throwing fuchsia or daisies onto the water in our wake, as we pull out from Sherkin island.

Whispering Arrivederci, each time we fly home from Italy, over the Alps.

At nearly dawn, in the back garden, quenching the campfire, humming another last tune ‘a marvellous night for a Moondance’.

When we buried our collie, Misty, one September I put a Christmas cake treat in with her.

A year or so later, I covered up our tabby Spirit, with some of the same earth.

On the doorstep of my mother’s house at the Lough, after we had cleared it out, we took a sup of her Creme de Menthe, even if it tasted like mouthwash, and even if I knew I might have to go back in, for something forgotten.

When I handed over my job in the Relaxation room, I did have to go back in.

I found myself ringing a soft secret bell, for yet another last time.

From all this I conclude that when my last of all last times comes, I will most likely have marked it, without knowing it.

Jac Shortland

All in together girls All in together girls Never mind the weather girls ...

It all comes easy to me.

Always neat, never out of beat.

I stretch out to call you in, trap you in, turn you out.

When I shout your birthday, please jump out, Is it January, February, March, April, May ...

But don’t miss your turn.

I don’t want girls who mess things up.

I am the rope that rules, each time I slap the ground.

When I shout your birthday, jump back in.

Is it on the first, the second, the third, the fourth ...

You see, I like the ones who are able and are faster and fitter than you.

You are that girl that trips up the line and then giggles, like she was five.

Will you be five, will you be six, will you be seven, will you be eight, will you be nine ...

I could wrap myself around your ankles and bring you to the ground.

But I keep turning, knowing you’ll get it wrong.

After all, I have only my own nature to judge you by.

All in together girls ...

Jac Shortland

Joy smells of oranges and sounds like bells.

But, if bells are pealing and oranges are being peeled then that doesn’t count for true joy.

Joy manifests itself when the sinuses are clogged, the nose, the ears, the eyes are dimmed and dulled and jaded.

Yet, there it is in the pulse.

Jac Shortland

Biographical Note: Gary Beck Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director, and as an art dealer when he couldn’t make a living in theater. He has 11 published chapbooks and 2 more accepted for publication. His poetry collections include: Days of Destruction(Skive Press), Expectations (Rogue Scholars Press). Dawn in Cities, Assault on Nature, Songs of a Clerk, Civilized Ways, Displays, Perceptions, Fault Lines & Tremors (Winter Goose Publishing). Perturbations, Rude Awakenings and The Remission of Order will be published

by Winter Goose Publishing. Conditioned Response (Nazar Look). Resonance(Dreaming Big Publications). Virtual Living (Thurston Howl Publications). Blossoms of Decay, Blunt Force and Expectationswill be published by Wordcatcher Publishing. His novels include: Extreme Change (Cogwheel Press), Flawed Connections(Black Rose Writing), Call to Valor (Gnome on Pigs Productions) and Sudden Conflicts (Lillicat Publishers). State of Ragewill be published by Rainy Day Reads Publishing , Crumbling Ramparts by Gnome on Pigs Productions and Flare Up by Michael Terrence Publishing (MTP. His short story collection, A Glimpse of Youth (Sweatshoppe Publications) and. Now I Accuse and other stories will be published by Winter Goose Publishing. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway. His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines. He currently lives in New York City.

The Lost (Gary Beck)

Winter comes closer.

The homeless shuffle faster on unkind streets, some still sane struggling to survive in a harsh land.

Others mumble to themselves, twitchy, staring sightlessly at distant demons brought closer by lack of medication.

The ravaged specters pass unnoticed, unless eruption inflicts them on passersby, desperation mounting as it gets colder.

Affair of State (Gary Beck)

Heads of state gather for civilized discussions of barbaric crimes that ravage the world.

Then they return home, nothing resolved, as the glib media builds the delusion of hope, while unbenevolent rulers torment their people.

Repeated Warnings (Gary Beck)

I wish to sing a song of awakening to our somnolent people lulled by our leaders into negligence of preparations for survival.

The volcano of our nation already erupting, spewing lava of destruction devastating the land, citizens no longer resilient, crumbling under the threats of constant terror, dissolving from disasters, unendurable demands leaving us helpless as we approach finality.

Appetite (Gary Beck)

Power and wealth have always been the guiding forces deciding the future, with or without consent of the people, ambition triumphing over decency, the fate of a nation, as the people suffer, the few revel.

Viewing Pleasure (Gary Beck) I watched a late night movie on my big screen tv with commercial breaks offering Iphones, Ipads, Ipods, just about affordable on my clerk's salary.

Then they showed a slick car ad, a sleek German convertible, a powerful machine so far beyond my income I could only fantasize racing along an open highway, top down, wind blowing, a beautiful blonde next to me thrilled by the ride, occasional looks promising delight when we arrive at a posh resort, but I came back to reality, bitterly accepting I'd never have the money to purchase such delight and could only imagine what I was missing.

If you fancy submitting something but haven’t done so yet, or if you would like to send us some further examples of your work, here are our submission guidelines: SUBMISSIONS NB – All artwork must be in either BMP or JPEG format. Indecent and/or offensive images will not be published, and anyone found to be in breach of this will be reported to the police.

Images must be in either BMP or JPEG format.

Please include your name, contact details, and a short biography. You are welcome to include a photograph of yourself – this may be in colour or black and white.

We cannot be responsible for the loss of or damage to any material that is sent to us, so please send copies as opposed to originals.

Images may be resized in order to fit “On the Wall”. This is purely for practicality.

E-mail all submissions to: g.greig3@gmail.com and title your message as follows: (Type of work here) submitted to “A New Ulster” (name of writer/artist here); or for younger contributors: “Letters to the Alley Cats” (name of contributor/parent or guardian here). Letters, reviews and other communications such as Tweets will be published in “Round the Back”. Please note that submissions may be edited. All copyright remains with the original author/artist, and no infringement is intended.

These guidelines make sorting through all of our submissions a much simpler task, allowing us to spend more of our time working on getting each new edition out!

September 2017’s MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS:

October is here and the hot weather has vanished. I’m afraid there has been some delays due to Amos’ asthma the doctor has had to change his medication. Where does the time fly? It seems like it was only last week when we were busy making the January issue meow!!.

Well, that’s just about it from us for this edition everyone.

Thanks again to all of the artists who submitted their work to be presented “On the Wall”. As ever, if you didn’t make it into this edition, don’t despair! Chances are that your submission arrived just too late to be included this time. Check out future editions of “A New Ulster” to see your work showcased “On the Wall”.

Biographical Note: Michael Lee Johnson Michael Lee Johnson lived 10 years in Canada during the Vietnam era and is a dual citizen of the United States and Canada. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, amateur photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois. Mr. Johnson published in more than 1042 new publications, his poems have appeared in 38 countries, he edits, publishes 10 poetry sites. Michael Lee Johnson, has been nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards poetry 2015/1 Best of the Net 2016/2 Best of the Net 2017, 1 Best of the Net 2018. 183 poetry videos are now on YouTubehttps://www.youtube.com/channel/UCNQ4oRHf8Zz0TOc-9zr3Q9w.

Editor-in-chief poetry anthology, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze: http://www.amazon.com/dp/1530456762; editor-in-chief poetry anthology,Dandelion in a Vase of Roses available here https://www.amazon.com/dp/1545352089. Editor-inchief Warriors with Wings: the Best in Contemporary Poetry, http://www.amazon.com/dp/1722130717.

Street Preach by Michael lee Johnson

Reincarnated Frog Prince by Michael Lee Johnson

Fig Group by Michael Lee Johnson

Lorie by Michael Lee Johnson

Biographical Note: Edward Lee Edward Lee's poetry, short stories, non-fiction and photography have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen and Smiths Knoll. He is currently working on two photography collections: 'Lying Down With The Dead' and 'There Is A Beauty In Broken Things'.

He also makes musical noise under the names Ayahuasca Collective, Lewis Milne, Orson Carroll, Blinded Architect, Lego Figures Fighting, and Pale Blond Boy. His blog/website can be found at https://edwardmlee.wordpress.com

Bike and Wall by Edward Lee

Branches, Sky by Edward Lee

Locks and Wall by Edward Lee

Broken Glass, Peeling Paint by Edward Lee

Toppled Barrier by Edward Lee

We continue to provide a platform for poets and artists around the world we want to offer our thanks to the following for their financial support Richard Halperin, John Grady, P.W. Bridgman, Bridie Breen, John Byrne, Arthur Broomfield, Silva Merjanin, Orla McAlinden, Michael Whelan, Sharon Donnell, Damien Smyth, Arthur Harrier, Maire Morrissey Cummins, Alistair Graham, Strider Marcus Jones Our anthologies https://issuu.com/amosgreig/docs/anu_present_voices_for_peace https://issuu.com/amosgreig/docs/anu_poetry_anthology_-april