Bonnie’s Crew writing & art helping hearts of all sizes Issue #4 August 2019
Issue copyright © 2019 Kate Garrett Writing and art copyright © 2019 individual authors and artists Cover image is ‘Love’ by Tina Edwards Copyright © 2019 Tina Edwards
A Month in Summer
7
Sea window
8
The Prime of the Grass
9
A valid reason
11
Tune
12
1964
14
In search of my shadow
18
Dog Days
19
Man Contemplates Luna
21
The Octopus Lady
22
Acrobat
23
Garden Helper
24
Garden in Light
25
Expanding Universe
26
Ultrasilent
27
Still born
28
Nameless
29
The Last Time Making Love
30
Hospital Bed
31
Time stands still
32
Seeds
33
Perpetual Motion
34
Bagasse
35
Martha’s Relief
36
To Be A Brilliant Woman in the third world
38
knight in shining armour
40
Mothering
41
Language Acquisition: for Katie
42
Pedal to the Metal
43
Love as a prose poem
44
When I Told My Mother
45
Claire de Lune
47
Astronaut
49
From a Burn Unit
50
Blue Baby
53
The last day of summer
55
A Month in Summer On this day there was nothing to mute the laughter of wind chimes playing in the wind; even a blackbird was drawn to their music having alit on my windowsill beating its wings. A streak of golden red in the late sky, a world that could be captured in a clear globe of life, graced by golden strokes of light from God's thumb. And I melt, a ginger and pear salad waiting behind me on the table while the sun, quiet as a feather, patiently in the sleepy heavens beds itself down. Bobbi Sinha-Morey
♼7♼
Sea window Premonition mud – and cold enough for snow. The beaches path – the planking underfoot is waterlogged, submerged better if these mounds were snow: a plunge is nearly certain and I would prefer to fall among unbroken banks of snow. The sea wall drops beside my bed a varnished sill at high tide I could almost flop over the ledge to ride around the moonlit bay, swim into the ocean’s still, but I allow the tides’ delay: am wary of low water marks, the estuary flood. Dominic James
♥8♥
The Prime of the Grass Coming down the mountain, on the side closest to the city, the sunlight seeped through the filament-leaves of bamboo. The jointed stalks were golden, also: thick, and heavier than anyone’d expect. Some were too weighty for their shallow roots and they fell across the passage, leaning angled against the boughs of the pines so that there was a tunneled arch above the gilt rock of the path. You walked ahead, wearing the quizzical, bear-like, focused look I saw in the photograph your mother showed me the first time we met. You were twelve or thirteen: a blonde plug of a boy crouched over a tide-pool, poking a crab with a stick. But you didn’t look like a boy on the mountain. You aren’t the smooth, unmarked almost-child you were when we met. The light was golden and it gilt you. It caught in your hair. Your eyes were green as agates in it. I could see what you will look like ten or fifteen years from now when you start the long descent into middle-age. And I stood on the path, a little behind you, not quite ready to make the journey home. The light was too perfect. The trees were too tempting. There was a bamboo stalk angled directly over my head. The joints were as thick around as my knee and the shaft was smooth
♥9♥
as frozen butter. I hauled myself up and sat with my legs straddling the pole, waiting for you to shake yourself free from whatever dream you were lodged in and finally look. Bethany W Pope
♼ 10 ♼
A valid reason She demands to know why I’m late and I tell her ‘I have a broken heart.’ She looks at me; my messy hair, my puffy eyes that used to meet her gaze, the too-big clothes that used to fit; and she nods, gesturing for me to sit down. I realise that she knows, she understands more than she’d like to, and a hand on my shoulder, a gentle squeeze, reminds me that this is the most human of pain and that it isn’t as fatal as it feels. Beth O’Brien
♥ 11 ♥
Tune It was on a diner jukebox. Eggs over-easy. Coffee strong and with a kind of urgency. I hummed along as an intense waitress shoveled hash-browns onto my plate. There was something about a two-timing woman set to the percussion of the garbage truck emptying barrels out back. My heart knew it. My head tried but failed to block it out. Then the country crooner and I found the one voice, a united zeal. No way we’d ever again trust another of the opposite sex. Yeah, there were truckers on the other stools. There always are. And a family in a booth with three brat kids. But they seemed oblivious to the heartbreak, the guitar twang. For them, life would never break down into verse, chorus, verse, chorus, bridge, last verse and chorus sung twice. If it wasn’t for that jukebox song, I’d have been alone in the world…totally.
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The food was cheap. It hit the hungry spot. The music was raw. Nerves too must have their fill. John Grey
♥ 13 ♥
1964 When Dawn saw the Beatles on Ed Sullivan she understood what those women in her mother’s dirty books were talking about. Her life changed from sunshine and lollipops to a screaming fit of juvenile ecstasy more powerful than an atomic bomb. Bye, bye, Frankie and Annette. Hello, John, Paul, George, and Ringo. Dawn squealed from the front seat of her father’s black Cadillac de Ville. She glanced back at her best friend, Judy. “Look,” she said, feeling her braces scrape the inside of her cheeks. She winced and pointed to the Hollywood Bowl’s marquee. Tonight 8:00 P.M. “The Beatles In Concert” Sold Out. “I think I’m going to faint.” She lifted the Brownie to her eye and clicked the camera’s button. Hundreds of kids rushed along Highland Avenue. Police guided traffic, waving their arms, blowing whistles. “My God,” Dr. Murphy said. “You’d think it was V-Day.” He drove his car into the side entrance and rolled down the window. “My wife’s on the board,” he said to the security guard, pointing to the sticker on the windshield. “I’m dropping off my daughter. I’ve never seen anything like this. Kids all the way down to Hollywood Boulevard.” “They camped out overnight,” the guard said, shaking his head. “It’s crazy.” “Dawn, don’t do anything to embarrass your mother.” “I’m not a baby.” “Hang on to that camera. I’ll pick you up at 10:00.” “Thank you, Dad. You’re the best.”
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“Thank you, Dr. Murphy,” Judy said. Dawn and Judy walked down the incline, the strap of the Brownie gripped tightly in Dawn’s hand, photography as much a mania for her as the Beatles. Girls dashed out from the underground tunnel. They jammed the footpath, bodies spilling over inside the moving walkway—a stampede of teenagers with zits, headbands, and Aqua Net flips. Their mothers’ Jean Nate perfume whiffed through the frenzy. A yellow haze circled the warm August evening below a pale blue Los Angeles sky. “Everyone’s gone ape,” Dawn said. “Including me,” she shrieked, grabbing the sides of her head. “Let’s go, Judy.” Dawn squeezed her chubby body through the crowd, dragging her friend behind. At the gate, she reached into the pocket of her lavender peddle-pushers, pulled out two green tickets, and handed one to Judy. “I know where to sit,” Dawn said to the attendant. “I come all the time.” Dawn hurried through the gate. Reserved Section Row J 17 38. “Eee, look at our seats,” she cried, sweeping her blonde bangs out of her blue eyes. “Box seats. Second row. Center,” Judy said, clutching her heart. “I am so stoked.” Inside the box were four seats. Dawn and Judy took the front two. Dawn turned and snapped a picture of the rising tiers as thousands of girls crammed the aisles. She took photographs of people in trees and the surrounding Hollywood Hills.
♥ 15 ♥
Giddy she aimed the Brownie at the stage with the pool in front. She took a picture of Ringo’s drums sitting high on a platform. The sun ducked behind the canyon as teenagers reached their seats. The lights in the Bowl turned on. Dawn wriggled her shoulders and moved her bra straps—something new since she’d grown boobs as big as her mothers. She straightened the pink bow above her bangs, made sure the clip was tight and centered—just in case Paul looked at her. Because of her braces, she refused to smile when Judy took her picture. At 8:00, a man walked on stage. When he said the word Beatles, Dawn and over 18,000 girls screamed a mating call to their heroes. The host introduced Jackie deShannon. She sang her hits. The Righteous Brothers followed. Dawn clapped politely, drummed her foot, propped her flip with the palms of her hands, and waited for the fab four from Liverpool, England. When the last act left the stage, a hush spread around the amphitheater. The host came out and presented the KRLA deejays. In unison they said, “And now here they are, The Beatles.” Dawn and everyone erupted into screams. The noise so great Dawn couldn’t hear herself. Girls stood in the aisles. Camera bulbs flashed. The Hollywood Hills twinkled with lights. Tears rolled down Dawn’s baby-fat cheeks. She raised the Brownie, but with the emotion of seeing her idols up close—the sexy way John sang, Twist and Shout with his legs slightly spread and, oh, Paul, so dreamy—Dawn stopped snapping pictures and just let herself bawl.
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She peeked at Judy pulling her hair, wailing. If Dawn wanted to be another Margaret Bourke-White, she thought, she’d better get with it. She wiped her eyes, lifted the camera, and aimed it at Paul. But the girls in the first row kept jumping up down, waving their arms, and the clutz next to her was jabbing her elbow into the side of Dawn’s head. Dawn pushed past the bozo and grabbed the edge of the box-seat. Girls ploughed into each other. Dawn forced her way down the steps until she stood behind the pool. She lifted the Brownie. Bad angle. Standing on tiptoes, she held the camera above her head. Someone shoved her, and the Brownie went flying over the pool. Dawn lunged, caught it in midair, bellyflopped into the water with her arms extended saving her camera from ruin. “Ohh,” she yelped. Drenched. Her teeth chattered, face hot. But what a vantage point. Dawn waded to the ledge, put her elbows on the platform, and clicked pictures a pro would be proud of. She saw a cameraman in the wings with a press pass pinned to his shirt taking pictures of her. Oh no, if her mother found out she’d ground her for a year. Fans leaped into the pool, splashing and slopping water, trying to heave themselves onto the stage. Guards arrived and fished the girls out. Dawn looked up at Paul. He winked at her and grinned, a smile that gave her heart wings. DC Diamondopolous
♥ 17 ♥
In search of my shadow
Penny Sharman
♥ 18 ♥
Dog Days Stretched out on the swirly rug in your best pose. Front paws crossed, a plinth for your shiny nose. The tiny feathery curls, temptations to ruffle your ears. I left you alone, half asleep between canine dreams and the reality of where you lay. Chasing foxes, leaping through heather, your raspy breaths dancing in the dawn. Snapping at butterflies on the lawn, your paws dewy with morning's shroud. Lids heavy, your lashes brushing, fighting sleep, soon they'll all come back with different footsteps a different batch, handshakes, offers of tea while you're consigned to the shed to whine alone out of the way, of all these strangers, whose heads are low. Your lead hangs on the key holder, for two days now, long days where light folds into darkness, the seams a velvet frost. You don't protest nor wag your tail, feeling lost, yet safe at home. The tail that has a mind of its own knocking over fragile things, unlucky in its path. I saw your eyes, your tail thumped the timber floor, with a solemnity that roared. I heard you whimper in the dark, asleep beside her, remembering too.
♼ 19 ♼
That glossy coat, she brushed and washed the softest sheen with subtle hints of blue, like coal nuggets snatching light. You sensed the loss, I know you did, that warm, black August night. Lorraine Carey
♼ 20 ♼
Man Contemplates Luna Saturday night the apricot moon skylarks across the black ocean sky, leaves the horizon undefined. Later, she shinnies high, vamps into a lemon slice, drops seeds over shore and spills gin-clear nectar across the rolling shoulders of the sea. Sunday morning the drowsy moon sleeps off the labor of night. A boy in tropical trunks on a neon blue surfboard conquers the waves, his father watching what the moon and the mother had wrought. Jo Barbara Taylor
♼ 21 ♼
The Octopus Lady I don't have classical bone structure. My skin is wrinkled thin by walking three times a day on a Maryport sea-wall. I am 94. I like to watch the way my two arms blllllllluuuuuuurrrrr into eight, stretch out, tense up and transport me across the shore. I do not enjoy being decanted through a bottle-neck at 'the home for old folks' not like me, I am not old. I am only 94. I do not enjoy being decanted but if I am forced into a tight corner or locked in I will find creative ways to escape. Sarah L Dixon
♼ 22 ♼
Acrobat I teeter downhill nearly head over heels tipped by your tumbling weight. No safety net, Glasgow spreads below. The lollipop lady opens arms wide. The steep street’s a tight-rope, two hearts dance on this high wire, my blood a memory in your veins. Upright uptight I fight gravity’s pull, coiled you wrestle the waxing moon. On tiptoe I balance our hopes and let love steady our way. Finola Scott
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Garden Helper
Cynthia Glover
♥ 24 ♥
Garden in Light
Cynthia Glover
♥ 25 ♥
Expanding Universe For David In the summer months before you were born my stake in the Earth grew as you did, as our shared mountains built and shifted. I turned from astronomy to geology, to the shove, groan, snap of seismology, scoffed the lot as others fed their cravings. With only weeks to go and sleep elusive, my appetite swept skywards to taste the stars. That was the year of Mars in perihelic opposition – immense, close, absurdly red – and August’s Perseids, a delectable sport. I plodded with you, my eight month lump, over the fields, to spread ourselves in dew, to sparkle and sizzle at the meteor show. Sharon Larkin
♥ 26 ♥
Ultrasilent With a shroud as a belly home, some gel and an echo, you came alive, bouncing off harder things, even then. Across a screen, where in some other life there was the calling of church bells, you desecrated the pixels, hailed each pulse as yours, knelt if you could in prayer that you might be spared. You ignored the chant of hope, the clattering beads of expectant new relations, the roots of a family deseeded among rituals, planted in every yesterday by the righteous. Then, you bounced harder, too hard, flinging yourself against the wail of why me on her breath, told her this isn’t because of you, and fell out. Maeve McKenna
♥ 27 ♥
Still born There is a sign on the door; a warning to those entering with a misplaced smile, or a How do you feel now she’s here? But you are here. Smaller than expected, more beautiful, quieter than we would have guessed. I think I spent too long holding my breath; you didn’t learn how to take in your own air. But you are here. Despite the sadness and condolences, I’ll be grateful you were born. Charley Barnes
♥ 28 ♥
Nameless What can be harder than making the phone calls? We’ve lost the baby. Yes, yes, another. Yes, four months again. Pardon? Yesterday. A Please don’t cry, I’m fine, no, really, I am. He’s fine too. He sends his love. Can anything be harder? Being alone when the door bell rings, persistent blasts declaring a crisis, discovering a parliamentary candidate. Refusing to discuss policies, being forced to explain why; being too weak to resist the arm that propels me down the long hall across the green shag pile of the lounge and forces me into an armchair. Declining glasses of water, offers to ‘fetch someone;’ defending my husband’s absence. Refusing to be driven back to hospital; enduring the patting and the fussing. Can anything be harder? Looking into his shiny, earnest face; seeing that wet mouth insisting that my child has reincarnated, into a lovely, lovely, little boy somewhere in south South Africa, where he is so very happy that it is my duty to be happy for him. Being told to remember that God works in mysterious ways.
♥ 29 ♥
Marilyn Timms
The Last Time Making Love He is still — unable to move. The work you used to do together now yours alone to do for you both. The laundry, the cooking, the shuttling of the children to and fro, the furniture rearranged, and now your husband lifted by you and moved where we now must go. You look into each other’s eyes knowing there is little time for such things in these last bare hours; there is barely enough air to pass through him to achieve the goal -- what you could early on spend a weekend enjoying, you had to later achieve in quick fixes before the young steps on the stairs or the sudden tap at the door disrupted all. But here, now, you grip the bar that helps him move and climb his body knowing every smooth and bristled surface, you repeat in your mind not to ever forget his warmth, his scent, or the crevice in the center of his chest where you found your home. Do not avert your eyes – know that this has to be forever. The leverage of the bar becomes part of both of you as you, willing to do everything for the man you love will these punctuated moments: be beautiful, be perfect, be the lasting few minutes to an end that makes you both whole. In the temporary joy that comes, you both experience a release, a pleasure knowing that this time, at least, time did not matter and the parting was satisfactory. Spent, you lie on his chest, beads of sweat joining in the crevice, and you both rest in the last after love made with the assistance of a hospital bed equipped with railings and a bar for leverage. It is the final respite between hospice visits. After, the children will enter this doorless dining room and return you to the movements that will remind you your eyes are no longer able to gaze at the same horizon.
Deirdre Fagan
♥ 30 ♥
Hospital Bed You sit next to my bed and hum. I am quiet. The sheets bind me to the mattress. You hum so sweet as if knowing it would be well, as if knowing I'd walk again, as if knowing all was not lost, and it was not. I wept from your hum. For your tone was angel like and it forced my tears. A beautiful song, You reassure fantastically and I am forever thankful. Rickey Rivers Jr.
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Time stands still
Tina Edwards
♥ 32 ♥
Seeds Can you touch the stars at night, Gather sunlight in your hand? Can you spend the love within you, Or help a flower to grow? Do you know the time to come When you breathe your last breath? Can you say for certain, What comes after death? Do you know where you have come from, Can you say where you will go? The purpose of your journey, Tell me if you know. When you find a truth In time of need, Something you should know, A little here, A little there, In the seasons of eternity, Seed has time to grow. Bruce Mundhenke
♼ 33 ♼
Perpetual Motion the phone
rings
awake now I do not answer I need my book the television the radio
quiet closed black still
I stop to think in the hospitals in the bars in the theatres in the churchyards in my dreams
babies cry folk dance actors play mourners dwell nothing Alan Parry
♼ 34 ♼
Bagasse Life-enhancing sugar cane stripped of its juices. Fibers remain. Fuel for the kiln, stuffing for mattresses in third world patrias. Barely suitable for repose. Can’t be tamed. Tastes like vinegar while convulsing the tongue. Split in its decision between economy and necessity to spitefully escape the seams. Prickly affair. Roll, pitch, yaw, blighted child. No sleep for you tonight. Saint or sinner all day, your crime, poverty. Your punishment, me. Robin Ray
♥ 35 ♥
Martha’s Relief Martha pyjamaed sits at her kitchen table light-headed in the thick of it her life is full of kippered love small bones set to catch her throat twins Jade and Joe build Duplo towers walk plastic kangaroos around her feet Martha is excluded from their games their coupledom but if her mind wanders if she makes brief notes they throw bricks spill drinks until her attention is restored love is safe once more and she can be ignored it’s nearly lunchtime Martha hasn’t shopped the cupboard’s nearly bare Jade’s nappy hangs low sodden and ripe Joe pulls his sister’s hair she squeals and in this frazzled fog poetic lines fill Martha’s head
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her slippers stick on spilt Ribena she empties a final tin warms tomato soup slices bread thinly cut in fingers Martha needs to pee as small mouths chew she takes her chance with pyjama bottoms pulled down low to biro words upon her wrist whilst she sits enthroned Martha relieved lets her poem flow Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon
♼ 37 ♼
To Be A Brilliant Woman in the third world to be a brilliant woman in the third world you have to not be! if you want the basic tips kindly listen to me put your mind in a box be ready to say every moment “I agree” announce your eternal silence stop whirring like a curious bee act like a bird in a cage never dream of being free don't consider obedience guilt it is an honor getting down on your knees and about your gifts quite enough to know all the electrical appliances — do you know about dishes and how to make tea? nobody cares about gifts it is not necessary, they are too wee don’t try to laugh aloud it is perfect to be a tree and understand that argument is so dangerous that the best a woman can do is flee! to be a brilliant woman in the third world you have to obey! your family, your husband, your neighbor, your president whoever he or she may be! you have to stitch and cherish and nourish and never expect the chance to flourish! you have to maintain silence never crying whee! when you succeed or if you finally see! in the third world all you have to be is not be
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nobody cares about your gifts it’s enough to have a degree in lessons of obedience or cooking purée! Amirah Al-Wassif
♥ 39 ♥
knight in shining armour Oh, how often have you been aware, but chosen not to care, little one? How many times have you handwoven fine tales and spectacular stories to cover up the many mistakes of your knight in shining armour? How many days did you waste // handcrafting a new reality where you are the saviour and you are the knight, just to have it collapse back on top of you? A consistent reminder that to him, you are one of many, and that to him, you have no place, when it's he // who ought to be reminded of their place. How many times have I covered his back?! One, two, three too many? How many times have I cried in his lap And found hope where there wasn't any? How many nights have I awoken, afraid you'd be waiting outside. Once upon a time I would fear you'd get cold // then I was afraid you’d come to hurt me // but now I just can't stand the sight of you. How often have you wished him dead, little girl? How well did you plan it out? Well I didn't, and that's entirely the difference, as I imagine you've got it down. arabesque douglas
♥ 40 ♥
Mothering I dont listen to her I grind dark matter the grist of our lives burn toast, burn toast like seasons scrape soot into the bin there are words here I find their shapes in my phone her mouth is moving yes, yes − in a minute Susannah Violette
♼ 41 ♼
Language Acquisition: for Katie You are learning the rules of syntax: With a diphthong, you call Mama In English (or yeye in Chinese), & In a single syllable, you pronounce Go after your favourite (winnie) pooh Unaware of an world overly crowded With nouns as subjects, you know it is A verb that helps to convey a meaning It is a subject followed by a predicate That makes you a statement of innocence Yuan Changming
♼ 42 ♼
Pedal to the Metal
Marissa Glover
♼ 43 ♼
Love as a prose poem I’ve been holding my heart in a spider’s web its dew-silvered veins laden with dust and straining beneath the weight. That this net doesn’t break isn’t testament to my heart’s size but the glass case where I store this pulsing red mass. It’s not that I don’t care, more that last time I balanced my heart in my throat, then his mouth, it throbbed so hard that I couldn’t breathe myself out of his kiss. When he swallowed it, as if to help save me from choking on my own flesh, it took me two years, three weeks, and more, to prise my heart free. One second of instinct then to find the spiders, and the strongest casing with high transparency. When I visit my heart, distanced by glass and writhing in its netting, the only reflection is his face staring back at me. His wide-eyed piercing blue turns everything purple. S.A. Leavesley
♥ 44 ♥
When I Told My Mother When I told my mother that I was a woman who loved other women she couldn’t meet my eyes. It was a chilly spring outside and her body stiffened, but not because of the cold. She looked out of the window, past the daffodils and beautiful bluebells, and she said, ‘I think you’re choosing a difficult path: this is something that will make your life so much harder.’ I wanted her to give me a hug and to say that she was happy for me: that she was sorry I even had to tell her this because loving somebody because of their gender shouldn’t be a thing anybody needed to talk about. I wanted her to tell me that she loved me the same as she did before and to mean it. She didn’t do any of those things. My mother and I aren’t estranged: we see each other regularly and she tells me she loves me often. When I have been in long-term relationships with women she has bought them Christmas presents, invited them to theatre trips and dinner. This is my mum trying. She is uncomfortable that I am ‘different,’ disappointed that I have ‘chosen this lifestyle’ and she wants me to settle down with a man, long term, because it is safer. This is not true, of course, and I know this from experience. But being with a man is conventional and she won’t need to worry what her neighbours think when they see me holding hands with my girlfriend when I visit. She is ashamed about this part of me because this is what the world has taught her. The stares on the streets from strangers when I hold my female partner’s hand; the reaction of her friends when they say, ‘but Hannah has long
♥ 45 ♥
hair, she doesn’t look gay’; when people assume that my partner is a man: these things teach her to be ashamed because I am different. And sometimes, on a bad day, it makes it harder to love yourself too. There’s a pressure to show the world that you’re ‘normal’, that there is nothing sinister or provocative about the way that you love, because it’s just like the way that they love, and it feels the same. One day I hope that people won’t stare at me when I kiss my girlfriend because they think it is strange or unusual. And if I tell them I live with my partner and I say ‘she’ rather than ‘he’, I hope they are not surprised. I hope that people understand that all love is a good thing. And I hope that one day my mother too will believe this, and stop worrying about how I am a woman who loves women. Hannah Stevens
♥ 46 ♥
Claire de Lune The moon rises above wisp clouds, large and luminous, an orange disc in the spring air. Night deepens, the butter-colored lamps coming on over the sidewalks, up and down the avenues, where a swarthy man walks, head turned toward the moon, lips in a small, crooked smile, a smile that wobbles like a falling cathedral, ignored by the others who pass. Ignored by the strangers and friends talking of booze and impending hangovers and how much pot they can consume, the night whose energy is blossoming like the pink and purple in the skies, exploding with dreams. The friends absorbed in their networks, smiling, laughing, exchanging secrets. Secrets murmured low so he cannot snatch them, absorb them. But he turns to that luminous lady. He follows the moon in her tender flight, transfixed by orange comfort, soft luminous smile, the moon knows of the sorrows, the smiles, the good things. His day dissolves before her luminous glow, as he tells the luminous lady so much, the anger of a mustache man who thinks him no good, bad son, crippling him. He tells the luminous lady of the people who cannot know what it means to be in that in between place, thirty-two, between graduation and professionalism, the undergraduates still young enough to make mistakes and relish naivete. He tells the moon all this and she smiles her luminous smile, even as she hangs over him on a higher plateau. On he walks, and the moon rises higher, higher, orange turning to luminous ghostly white, the skies deepening from lavender, to navy, and navy to the blackness. He cannot help but wonder what her story is the moon, with her mysterious luminous smile. Does she know sadness too? Has she lost the things she’s never had? Still the moon smiles, as he walks among the shops and restaurants where the friends, the lovers, the cliques all congregate, where he can only stare through lit windows. He needs only the moon, walking up and down the streets, through sloping campuses, along lonely train tracks. Too soon, the night will darken more and
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the moon will set, behind the hills and the curves of the world, and the swarthy boy will trudge home, the tears exposed. No one to listen, though, the lovers and friends now slumbering together, sharing hangovers, the dangers of this night, things the swarthy boy cannot have. But tomorrow night, the swarthy man will find her again, and she will listen to his stories, silent, but a friend, that luminous lady. The lady with her moonlight beams. He smiles, his crooked smile, even as it dissolves. Mir-Yashar Seyedbagheri
♼ 48 ♼
Astronaut Far from home, so light you lie almost weightless, a feather on your bed. The count down: weeks, days, hours. A button is pressed: your bed is adjusted, and your back is raised, so you can see the stars through the hospice window before your final journey. Peter Clive
♼ 49 ♼
From a Burn Unit Your dandelions are dwindling. I can picture them going skeletal beyond this stiff cotton on my lids. Soon they’ll be nothing but shadow. Feel their seedlings poof? Picture them clear as dew. It’s a sort of mirror. The intricacy of these interiors lifts me. I circle fairy-like in air just as these fleecy white bits do. How can something so commonplace seem noble? Their shoots take root in wind, blow almost anywhere. Lit within, I am there too, outwardly gaping vacant. The stare has been turned inward. Lighted by such sights, I remember how well-trimmed hedges, the appropriately planted palms, let shadows converge in a wilderness across this hospital’s stark parking lot. At dawn it happened, the shades so given to the sun’s risen splendor no space could fence them in. Instead, they extended. Now, though the light’s thinned and retreated, I grasp them like talismans. Blackness proportions instinct. I adjust like one who lives within tinted windows.
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Such dark is sensitive. Impenetrable you could call it. Before I existed according to rations: the hours for visitors, the medicine, the bed changing. Then I grew less devastated by the fact of my handicap, relearned how to feed myself. I was a wound, all hollow, surrounded by former shreds. They flaked off like the flesh did. I wondered what awful sin I committed to suffer such purgatory, to corrode like that. Through the ears’ watery roar came distant voices. They seemed big and strange as humans must look to the orphan eyes of a seal. Perhaps they never expected me to get better. I surely did not. Recuperation was miraculous. I learned it like truth, manipulation, the phenomenon of control and that passing mad stage of being without any. Now, dim to exteriors, as a shuttle I test depths, and plunge deft straight toward the unknown. Others bring radiance, those who came earlier to leave me exhausted, a spent balloon tent only aware of its own oxygen. The atmosphere was insular. I was capsulated like a fish, intravenously plugged. The console’s been switched off. I respire without aid. The intensity is close. Am I seeing as steam? Awash I’m all fluid. Moments lap and I wait for my presence to be encompassed entirely.
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It’s entered by touch. Look, the body fits. The senses return telepathic as a spiritualist. When I leave this place, I’ll be in orbit, my first step monumental: an astronaut on the moon. Unfold the flaps. Draw off the bandages. Deliver me to the new world as pure as a parcel. See, my heart’s still in it. Blindly I write, brilliantly guided as if by the fire which did this. Traveling light as your dandelions I give birth as if committed, choosing continuance. Stephen Mead
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Blue Baby …she discovers that she is pregnant. Upon hearing this surprising news, she asks her doctor: “How long do I have?” The doctor laughs and responds: “It’s not a death sentence.” —Mothers and Daughters (2016) I remember the fist size anger in my chest— my heart pulsing in protest at death. A bundled net of electrified nerves guiding currents of life through my fragile body. I was five. Tissue splayed open —a lovely pæony— the slosh of blood glistened under a sun-like lamp in the O.R., the glow not warm, just blue —aftermath of mother’s rejection, her Rh antibody persistent. The doctor clamped, sutured, and bridged the vertical septum in the left ventrical, blood no longer whistled through the hole in my heart. But not all things of the heart easily mend.
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Thirty years later, my mother sits in the waiting room, still persistent with bad blood between us. John C. Mannone
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The last day of summer why the sense of loss that only the seas repetitions can repair this is the last time this is the last time it becomes a mantra but I can’t contradict that push for a repeat not sorrow over losing summer days but the slivers of days past do not stay intact they slide away like leaves in a stream Mary Percy-Burns
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Biographical Notes Tina Edwards writes, whatever she can, whenever she can. Her love of words spans many years and she has been published online and on paper. Recently her poetry has been seen in Reach Poetry, Visual Verse, Amaryllis and Clear Poetry, to name just a few. When not writing she enjoys walking and photography. She currently lives in North Somerset. Bobbi Sinha-Morey's poetry has appeared in a wide variety of places such as Plainsongs, Pirene's Fountain, The Wayfarer, Helix Magazine, Miller's Pond, The Tau, and Old Red Kimono. Her books of poetry are available at www.amazon.com and her work has been nominated for Best of the Net in 2015 and in the Best of the Net 2018 Anthology Awards hosted by Sundress Publications. Dominic James lives near the source of the Thames and attends poetry meetings up and down the M4 corridor. Widely published, his collection, Pilgrim Station, was brought out by SPM Publications in 2016. He is currently reading up on Stuart Buck, Frank O’Hara and Elizabeth Bishop, again. www.djamespoetic.blogspot.co.uk Bethany W Pope has won many literary awards and published several novels and collections of poetry. Nicholas Lezard, writing for The Guardian, described Bethany’s latest book as 'poetry as salvation'.....'This harrowing collection drawn from a youth spent in an orphanage delights in language as a place of private escape.' She currently lives and works in China. Beth O’Brien is a third year English Literature student at the University of Birmingham. She has had work published with Foxglove Journal, Nine Muses Poetry, Dear Reader Poetry, BellaOnline Literary Review, Eunoia, Pulp Poets Press, and Peculiars Press. She runs Mad Hatter Reviews, writes reviews for Riggwelter Press, and has written articles for sheswanderful.com and the Graduate Recruitment Bureau blog. John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in the Homestead Review, Harpur Palate and Columbia Review with work upcoming in the Roanoke Review, the Hawaii Review and North Dakota Quarterly.
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DC Diamondopolous is an award-winning short story and flash fiction writer with over 125 stories published internationally in print and online magazines, literary journals, and anthologies. DC's stories have appeared in: So It Goes: The Literary Journal of the Kurt Vonnegut Museum and Library, Lunch Ticket, Raven Chronicles, Silver Pen, Scarlet Leaf Review, and many others. DC was nominated for Best of the Net Anthology. She lives on the beautiful California central coast. dcdiamondopolous.com Penny Sharman is a poet, photographer, artist, therapist, and fabulous cook. She loves wild landscapes and dances when her knees let her. Penny has an MA in creative writing and her debut poetry pamphlet FAIR GROUND was released by Yaffle Press in Spring 2019. Lorraine Carey is an Irish poet and artist. Her poetry has appeared in Poetry Ireland Review, Orbis, Abridged, The Curlew, Poethead, Prole, The Honest Ulsterman, Three Drops From A Cauldron, Atrium and many others. She was the featured artist in Issue 11 of Skylight 47 and Issue 9 of North West Words. She was a runner up in The Blue Nib Chapbook Competition 2017 and Trocaire / Poetry Ireland. A Pushcart Prize nominee, her debut collection is From Doll House Windows (Revival Press). Jo Barbara Taylor lives near Raleigh, NC. Her poems, fiction and academic writing have appeared in journals, magazines and anthologies, most recently, North Carolina Literary Review and Broad River Review. She has published three chapbooks and a full-length collection, How to Come and Go (Chatter House Press). She chairs the workshop committee for the North Carolina Poetry Society, coordinates a quarterly poetry reading series for a Raleigh, NC, independent bookstore, and leads a poetry writing “funshop” in Durham, NC. Sarah L Dixon is based in Huddersfield and tours as The Quiet Compere. Sarah has most recently been published in Marble, Confluence, The Interpreter’s House, The Lake, Obsessed with Pipework, Troubadour and Curlew. 'The sky is cracked' was released in November 2017 (Half Moon). Sarah’s second book, ‘Adding wax patterns to Wednesday’ was published by Three Drops Press in November 2018. Sarah’s inspiration comes from many places, including pubs and music, being by and in water and adventures with her eight-year-old, Frank. She is still attempting to write better poetry than Frank did aged 4! Frank’s line, aged 4, was “Is your heart in a cage so it doesn’t fly away?” http://thequietcompere.co.uk/ Slam winning Granny, Finola Scott's poems have won competitions and are widely published. A performance poet she has read in Rosslyn Chapel, St Giles Cathedral
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and the Scottish Parliament. Finola enjoys Poetry Tourism, reading at far-flung launches, making new pals. Mahjong, eating chocolate, playing with her wee grandgirls keeps her sane. Her friends disagree. Cynthia Glover is a garden coach who specializes in native plants that attract wildlife and are suited to the central Florida region. Cynthia is also a certified Master Gardener, freelance writer, and amateur photographer who teaches how to garden in Florida’s complex growing climate through her writing, local talks, and community events. You can find her work on Facebook at Hoe and Shovel Garden. Sharon Larkin has been published in a number of anthologies including Bonnie's Crew; in magazines eg Prole, Picaroon and Obsessed with Pipework; and in e-zines including Ink, Sweat & Tears, Amaryllis, Atrium and Riggwelter. She has a pamphlet recently published by Indigo Dreams, jointly runs Cheltenham Poetry Café – Refreshed, is Chair of Cheltenham’s Arts Council and Poetry Society and was founder/editor of the Good Dadhood on-line poetry project. She also has an MA in creative writing and publishes poetry as Eithon Bridge Publications ... but no achievement has ever eclipsed the birth of her only son who was diagnosed with a heart murmur shortly after he was born, causing much anxiety until he was given the all-clear when a year old. See Sharon's blog and website, Coming Up With the Words: https://sharonlarkinjones.com/ Maeve McKenna has been writing on and off for most of her life. Hailing from Dublin but now relocated to Sligo where she lives with her family. Although poetry is her first love, she also writes short stories, flash fiction and is a dabbler in haikus. More recently, she has started submitting work and was highly commended in the iYeats International Poetry Competition 2018 and shortlisted for the Redline Poetry Competition 2018. She has been published in Poetry24 and The Cormorant. Charley Barnes is a Worcestershire-based author and poet. She has recently completed her Doctorate degree and now spends most of her time wondering what to do with it. Her debut short story collection, The Women You Were Warned About, was published in 2017. This was followed by her debut poetry pamphlet, A Z-hearted Guide to Heartache, which was published by V. Press in 2018. Marilyn Timms, a writer, artist, and cancer survivor, is a great believer in beginner’s luck. The first poetry competition she entered won her a holiday for two in the Caribbean. Since then, she has performed her short stories and poems at four Cheltenham Literature Festivals. Her poetry collection Poppy Juice, is described by Alison Brackenbury as ‘a collection of brave and unexpected adventures, with
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intoxicating, sometimes threatening colours.’ Marilyn’s grandsons recently redefined her as retro rather ancient. Deirdre Fagan is a widow, wife, and mother of two who has published poetry, fiction, and nonfiction. Most recently, her work has appeared in Autumn Sky Daily, Dime Show Review, New Verse News, Nine Muses, The Opiate, and Rat’s Ass Review. Her poem, "Outside In," was nominated for Best of the Net 2018 by Nine Muses. Fagan is also the author to Critical Companion to Robert Frost and has published a number of critical essays on poetry, memoir, and teaching pedagogy. She teaches literature and writing at Ferris State University where she is also the Coordinator of Creative Writing. Meet her at deirdrefagan.com Rickey Rivers Jr was born and raised in Alabama. He is a writer and cancer survivor. His work has appeared in Royal Rose Magazine, Anti-Heroin Chic, Pink Plastic House, Marias at Sampaguitas (among other publications). Twitter @storiesyoumight / https://storiesyoumightlike.wordpress.com/ Bruce Mundhenke has financed this part of his journey by working as a laborer and a registered nurse. He lives in a small town in Illinois with his wife and their dog and cat. Alan Parry is a poet and playwright from Southport, Merseyside. He is an English Literature graduate and has been writing creatively since his teens. Alan is a proud family man, who is training to teach high school English in the coming year. He cites Dr John Cooper Clarke and Alan Bennett as his biggest inspirations. Alan has been previously pubnlished by The Literary Mark Review, Black Bough Poems, Peach Velvet Magazine and Visual Verse. Twitter: @AlanParry83 Robin Ray, formerly of Trinidad & Tobago, currently resides in the historical Victorian seaside town of Port Townsend, WA. Educated in English Composition at Iowa State University, his works have been published online at Red Fez, Scarlet Leaf Review, Darkest Before the Dawn, Fairy Tale Magazine and elsewhere. Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon lives in Newcastle upon Tyne, UK, and writes short stories and poetry. She has been widely published in web magazines and in print anthologies. She graduated with an MA in Creative Writing from Newcastle University in 2017. She believes everyone’s voices counts.
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Amirah Al-Wassif is a freelance writer, poet, and novelist. Five of her books were written in Arabic and many of her English works have been published in A Gathering Of Tribes, Tuck Magazine, and various cultural magazines. She has 2 published books in English, a collection poetry "for those who dont know chocolate" and a children book "the cocoa boy and other stories". Arabesque Douglas is a non-binary, queer witch who writes about mental health awareness, relationships, society and the natural world. They currently live in Middlesbrough, England with their family and dog, Bonzo. They like spending time exploring nature and telling their nephew how important he is! Twitter @peachydouglas Nature is the blood of Susannah Violette’s work. Animals both within us and outside of us fascinate her and her poems become liminal spaces where the edges of these worlds blur. She was recommended in the Westival International Poetry Prize, shortlisted for the Frogmore poetry prize and has appeared in various publications worldwide. Yuan Changming published monographs on translation before leaving his native country. Currently, Yuan lives in Vancouver, where he edits Poetry Pacific with Allen Qing Yuan. Credits include ten Pushcart nominations, Best of the Best Canadian Poetry (2008-17) and BestNewPoemsOnline, among others. Marissa Glover teaches and writes in the United States. Her work is found in UK journals such as Nine Muses Poetry, Riggwelter, Amaryllis, Picaroon, Solstice Sounds, and Ink, Sweat & Tears. Follow her on Twitter @_MarissaGlover_. S.A. Leavesley, also published as Sarah James, is an award-winning poet, fiction writer, journalist and photographer, and occasional artist. Her latest books include the novella Always Another Twist, How to Grow Matches (Against The Grain Poetry Press) and plenty-fish (Nine Arches Press). Website: www.sarah-james.co.uk. Hannah Stevens writes short stories and flash fiction and has recently discovered the personal essay. She has a PhD in Creative Writing from the University of Leicester. Her book length collection of short stories 'In Their Absence' will be published in 2019. Her short stories have been widely anthologised and featured in literary journals. Hannah is currently in Thessaloniki, Greece where she is teaching and is involved in various freelance writing projects.
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Mir-Yashar Seyedbagheri is a graduate of Colorado State University's MFA program in fiction. He is the recipient of two Honorable Mentions from Glimmer Train and has had work nominated for the Best Small Fictions. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in journals such as The Fictional Café, The Ekphrastic Review, The Write City Magazine, and Sinkhole Mag. Peter Clive lives on the southside of Glasgow, Scotland with his wife and three children. He is a scientist working in the renewable energy sector. As well as poetry, he enjoys composing music for piano and spending time in the Isle of Lewis. A resident of NY, Stephen Mead is an Outsider multi-media artist and writer. Since the 1990s he's been grateful to many editors for publishing his work in print zines and eventually online. He is also grateful to have managed to keep various day jobs for the Health Insurance. In 2014 he began a webpage to gather various links to his published poetry in one place. John C. Mannone has poems in Artemis Journal, Poetry South, Baltimore Review, Pedestal, Intima: Journal of Narrative Medicine, Annals of Internal Medicine, New England Journal of Medicine, and others. His literary distinctions include the Jean Ritchie Fellowship in Appalachian literature (2017), Weymouth writer in residence (2016 and 2017), and Celebrity Judge for the National Federation of State Poetry Societies (2018). His work has been nominated for several Pushcart and Best of the Net awards. Also active in speculative circles, he edits poetry for Abyss & Apex, Silver Blade, and Liquid Imagination, has been awarded the Horror Writers Association Scholarship (2017) and chairs the Dwarf Stars Anthology (2019). He’s a retired professor of physics living between Knoxville and Chattanooga, TN. http://jcmannone.wordpress.com Mary Percy-Burns was born Mary Smith and wanted to be different. She has been writing poetry for nearly six decades, read English at UEA at 26 and completed an MA in Writing the Visual in retirement at Norwich Art School. Her writing is confessional and pastoral. She worked as a Teacher/Lecturer in areas as diverse as Sport for the Disabled, Counselling and English Literature and also as an Art Therapist. Her daughter is the poet Anna Percy (and she is her biggest fan) who often has to email in her submissions as she continues to find computers baffling.
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Previous Publication Credits ‘Dog Days’ by Lorraine Carey was first published in her collection, From Doll House Windows (Revival Press). ‘Acrobat’ by Finola Scott was first published in Shorelines, the Anthology of the Federation of Writers Scotland, October 2011. ‘Expanding Universe’ by Sharon Larkin was first published in In the Cinnamon Corners (Cinnamon Press, 2016).
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