By Lynn White
I know what Poe said,
but can the raven
really call ‘nevermore.’
I have heard many a ‘caw’ from the crows
and ‘cacks’ from the jackdaws.
And I have heard many a raven call,
but never a
‘Never say never,’
maybe says Poe.
But ‘naw,’ say the crows.
‘Cack,’ say the jackdaws.
Lynn White’s work has appeared in anthologies and journals such as Vagabond Press, Apogee, Firewords, Indie Soleil, Pilcrow & Dagger and Snapdragon.
By S. M. Saves
Within these walls
reside broken gods
cast from their pedestals
left to ruin
all who practice
within their dreamscape.
Awash in Viking’s blood
candy painted foxes
frolic upon waves of peacock feathers
who fall from the starless sky.
How far you float
depends on the tea you drink
from ritual writing
to cultivating the ingredients.
Blink and become the sacrifice
to the bewilderment
of all chemical-based things
that crumble into atoms
at the base of rusted pedestals
to the broken gods.
By Sandra Arnold
I remember the day you said you’d had enough
You asked what sound a bear makes when it’s stung by a bee
I said I didn’t know
You laughed and said but you know everything
If that were true I’d know
You were in the sound of stags roaring in Autumn
In cantering horses on moonless nights
In star-slicked skies and wind in the trees
In the smell of hay and oiled saddles
In abandoned lambs waiting in ditches
And the newly planted rowan overlooking the Plains
Because you said when you saw the mountains you’d know you were home
Sandra Arnold is a Pushcart Prize and Best Small Fictions nominee. Her novel, Ash, is forthcoming from Makaro Press (NZ) in 2019, and her flash fiction collection, Soul Etchings, is forthcoming from Retreat West Books (UK) in 2019.
the summer before we left home
was a stifling one;
a bucket of teeming snakes,
writhing for freedom.
she dropped into our muggy lives like the whisper of fall,
but she wasn’t anything less than a shout.
she was fire and Coca-Cola
and on her back she carried the whole universe,
wrapped neatly in red hair and restlessness.
that summer we screamed to the sky,
cursed its void,
and took oxygen for granted.
before we knew it
she was gone like the whisper of fall
leaving behind strands of red
and the echo of something
that could have been greater.
By Mark Tulin
My mother died, but don’t worry,
she’s all right, doing just fine,
spends her days in a wooden box
with me sleeping on the grass outside.
She’s calm. Doesn’t say a word,
doesn’t eat a thing, doesn’t move an inch—
Nothing seems to hurt, plenty of fresh air,
warm sunshine and cool nights.
She’s where she wants to be,
her son by her side
deep in the woods—
The perfect place to reside.
Ashes burnt from the past,
memories drifting in the sea,
no longer flesh and achy bones,
no longer cataracts and hammertoes.
Mark Tulin’s poetry chapbook is titled Magical Yogis.
By Lynn White
Do you dream in colour,
or are your dreams grey,
pale imitations of reality.
Are they flat almost featureless
in a blurred mist,
or are they stark
black and white?
Are your sleeping eyes prisms
to reflect the outside in,
in a spectrum of rainbowed glory?
Or are you afraid.?
Afraid to let it enter
Afraid to set it free
to make a kaleidoscope
of shades and tones
a new reality
in glorious colour.
Do you remember?
Lynn White’s poems have been appeared in anthologies and journals such as Vagabond Press, Apogee, Firewords, Indie Soleil, Pilcrow & Dagger and Snapdragon.
By Dana Al Rashid
It is the slightest of things
That have the most profound of effects
It is the invisible bite of an insect
It is the enemy you least suspect
It is raindrops piercing through stone
It is the little seeds you have sown
It is the silence of words left unsaid
It is the monster hiding under your bed
It is the grass growing under your feet
It is the invisible wall of deceit
Dana Al Rashid is a writer and poet from Kuwait. She published a poetry book last year under the same name as her blog: “Reflecting Moon.”