Wednesday, April 26, 2017

3 Sonnets ~ Akaky Akakievich

A Sonnet to the Siren Aurora
High Heeled Sandals, Small fangs, large mouth

Especially total from the harping on control which thrusts out over the grain
And still will flatten the mighty not yet set to fill out over the musty plight
Was a chance to gather up the taunting from her not covetous prompt eke
Of the chilling but perpendicular sapping can be to truly hide the recent sane
Of whomever is a trill of the perpetual stalked along the roadways is tight
That blinking has elevated the toast of the more so her shoes were not weak

From the same mountainous ravished by the storm of the fluent pushed past
The resident must prevail over the alterations have seemed to resist the womb
Which centers on the wasting of the mere perilous how it can be the salty
Of each of the rather mere figurines are a proud until there is no more fast
Of the larger side of her mouth must be prepared to envelope the eager tomb
That hastens a filled with the rapid ease is not the reach to distill the bulky 

A Sonnet to the Siren Bella
Somewhat pregnant, black boots, black leggings 

Seems to have forgotten much of what she remembered to be the start
This captivating the grievance from about how you could tell each flippant
Towering caught between the stomachs of heartaching and just to realize
The scintillating has pushed past the tunnels of what can heap on a dart
To the frequent exercised and moments were most forgiven with a distant
Calming allegiance was there to attain the leggy smarter for her to idealize

Here around the flocked to contain only the hapless victims were a solid
Enough relentless and poured onto the framework was still to meager over
The eating away at the bulbous filled to assume the milky presence knows all
That seems to bite into the hardly made for her size was the leftover and pallid
To continue the running about was not a faster race to heed the flow moreover
Can restrict the actual pagan testing is present to find most of the shattered fall 

A Sonnet to the Siren Bethany 
Excessively tall, headbands, extreme jealousy 

Positively elated by the mere chance of the beholden to a stretch must
Make the lasting endurance pale with the gleaming headway made choice
To flounder about the streak of the mildest forms of revolting kind of spots
Have dreaded her extreme height with the lure of a castle and not a thrust
What else can have to remain with the revolved and so petty it can be a voice
Which matters most to the heeded and starlit convention knows not the blots

Whatever can handle the dignity of another to surround the really meek
Is the cheeky foremost proud enough to conduct like the hibernated of what
Has entailed the frosted over emotive stance takes not a verily stood to ease
The reign of who was the headbanded and proud with the masterly so sleek
It can prevail with the windiest of the sorrowful here it can blame the shut
Of what is up to stand over her sleekest memories have proudly made the tease 

Akaky resides in Pittsburgh, PA.  He writes only Sonnets. His current cycle, of which these are a part of, is a cycle about Sirens. He has  also written cycles of Sonnets about Witches and Goddesses. A number of the Witch and Goddess sonnets have been published during  the last year in various publications.Akaky enjoys fast cars and listening to Mozart and Bruckner. He also enjoys 19th century Russian and French literature.

Wednesday, April 19, 2017

Disaster ~ Sally Barrett

Forget it
I said
To, said
He and I
Cried and
Wept and said
Fuck you
Then I don't
Care any
More but I
Did in
You should leave
He said
I don't want
To said
I and he
Grew cold
And frosty.
He said please
I can't
Cope tonight
No I
Won't I said
Let's sort it
Out I
Said. I can't
He said
I don't trust
You. And
I shouted
Please I
Love you so
Much but
He looked far
And said no.
I walked out
The door,
The door that
He paint
Ed and I
Slam it, I
Shut it
I'd taken
More care
With the love.
I went to
The pub
I hadn't
Drank for
Years and I
Knew it
Wouldn't help
So I
Turned and walked
To the
Park. It was
Dark and
So lonely
I sat on
The swing
and swung for
A while
And I was
Scared but
Not because
Of the
Dark in the
Park but
Because I
Had lost the
True love
Fuck I said
Fuck it's
Bad now this
Time and
The tears rolled
Like salt
water and
I thought
What should I
Do now
So I phoned
My friend
And said help
Ok she
Said come
Round and stay
Here if
You've got
No where
To go. Thanks
I said
But fuck I
Said. She
Said I know
But she cared
Even though
I hated
Myself and
My life
And my fuck
Up world
And I knew
It was
My own fault
Which made
It all a
Lot worse
He sat in
The room
Head in his
Hands and
Thought what did
I do
Wrong. Oh god
He said
I can't take
Her back
That's the end

Water Horse ~ Sally Barrett

Beautiful light brown
beer water with
white froth
racing down stone stairs
like a waterfall

Running water,
where have you been,
And what's the rush?
I'm sure you'll get there
You're not like
wild horses at all
More like liquid poured
From a giant drip tray

Sometimes, I wish
I knew more
about physics.

But physics
cant tell me
why ghosts
might be
time glitches.
Not yet anyway

So, water,
run if you like,
but there's no hiding
only dispersal,
And that process
I can't remember
the name of from GCSE.

Sally Barrett lives in Manchester though is from Leeds originally. She is currently working on a sequence of poems about the experience of voice hearing. She enjoys reading female poetry, classic literature,THE NEWS and Facebook. 

Wednesday, April 5, 2017

Five poems ~ Andrew Taylor

Receipt ink fades the porter’s chilled correctly though served in a pint glass ponytailed jogger uses the canal bank 6.23 p.m. not fully dark


Red chief 4016 take an apple from the breakfast table wrap in a napkin save it footpath near the station echoes yellow line burst of photos


Daffodil scent tyre dust in alloy grime drip tap drop gutter clouds roll west to east insect highway luminosity border flowers rail clang


Scared to jump sparrow aire de la Baie de Somme 10.56 am short sleep sky trails cross further south quieter roads colours change sun warms


aire Des Haras refuel automation exit route we visited 8 months ago new species on the wing where we sat with early morning breakfast tea

Two poems ~ Sarah Bernstein

    a graph
We don't begin at the beginning
But somewhere in the middle
And that is,
I mean that is not,
Zero point


you must speak
ill of the dead.
the comfort zone
of no voice.
This is a partial

SARAH BERNSTEIN is a New York-based violinist, composer and poet whose work incorporates
improvisation, vocals, electronics and original text. She is known for her fiery multidisciplinary
performances, and has garnered international acclaim for her distinctive recordings. Nominated "Rising Star" in the 2015 and 2016 DownBeat Critics Poll, she is a recognized innovator in forward-thinking

Monday, March 20, 2017

Open for submissions

Delighted to announce that we will be open for submissions again as of April 1, 2017 until December 1, 2017. We look forward to seeing your work

Monday, October 3, 2016

High Tide ~ Steve Smythe

Draw a line in the sand:
one side scribe those things you
love about me, down the other
those you don’t.    

Take care the once-blank column,   
which now goes on and on,
is closest to the breaking waves,
and what remains from our heyday

is not washed away
after I have gone.

Steve Smythe started work as a reporter on local newspapers, before earning a living in local authority public relations and communications for twenty five years. He started writing poetry two years ago and is a founder member of the Manchester (City Centre) Stanza poetry group, as well as performing regularly on the burgeoning Manchester spoken word scene. Steve now works with young people who are in care, and is writing a novel. He lives in Stretford. 

Thursday, August 4, 2016

The Noose ~ Amy Huffman

around my neck is feathered
white.  As night
descends, it hackles high,
glows.  This
                    nameless devil
in a church of despair  -- mine
signals its desire to the moon.
I am the loon who will pay
for a stray bullet’s
        King,           three,
                   ten,              all
spades.  I am playing
gin with the gods.  I know
I can’t win.
                    For starters they have
no [but all] hands and eyes
that see through stone.
            I intone a meditative
chant, an attempt to count
er this prolonged night.  Minutes
tick like years (or vice versa), as steel-
eyed still awake, the corner of dawn
a smile, offers
no hope

              of/or reprieve.

A.J. Huffman has published thirteen full-length poetry collections, fourteen solo poetry chapbooks and one joint poetry chapbook through various small presses.  Her most recent releases, Degeneration (Pink Girl Ink), A Bizarre Burning of Bees (Transcendent Zero Press), and Familiar Illusions (Flutter Press) are now available from their respective publishers.  She is a five-time Pushcart Prize nominee, a two-time Best of Net nominee, and has published over 2500 poems in various national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, The Bookends Review, Bone Orchard, Corvus Review, EgoPHobia, and Kritya.  She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press.


I Am Blue ~ Amy Huffman

light, a special
kind of cold.
Numbing indifference
has turned my nerves
to veins.  They read
                 & uncharted.
I am a universe
of waves and wonder, full
of creatures.  (They bite.)
So do I.
              I take
strength and sense of direction.
To navigate means to give up
the ability to breathe.

Sunday, April 17, 2016

6 poems ~ Howie Good

Politics as Usual
An apparition of the Virgin Mary appears on the window of an otherwise ordinary house in Jersey City. Angry white men pretend that it’s only frost. Faceless angels dressed in tinsel wander through the neighborhood, a way for them to ensure that they don’t miss out on the war. Women begin to sob when the TV news comes on. “Donald Trump won’t leave us alone,” one says with a tearful shake of her head. Saints and martyrs ride a shaft of starlight down to ground zero. And those not burned up by death rays become their slaves.

 Life After 60
The black tulips were open for only a day when a big wind bowled most of them over.  I gathered up those with broken stems and put them in a clear glass vase and put the vase on the table. This is what life is like after 60, the wind, wet and moaning, sprouting strange new black feathers. None of us remember how, or there wouldn’t be an interrogator pushing the old man headfirst into the wall or a pool of blood on the floor moving as if it were alive. 

The Small Hours
This is what I saw when I got home, monstrous miserable flesh-tints. Anything can happen in the land of childhood obesity. Prostitutes and clowns insist that I pay attention to them, yapping and whining and pushing against my legs. The small hours of the night are the worst. It’s nearly impossible to silence them. I ignore all pleas to proclaim the necessity of burning the museums. For the time being, nothing somehow becomes something, the terrified faces of passengers on a hijacked flight.

Black Threads
It snowed up here today. Dogs became capable of filling their own bowls. You sprawled on a divan with your bare back to the viewer.  Every time you shook your hair more poems fell out. You don’t know who I am, but somehow you have been affected by things I did. Asked what the light was like, you describe a carnival of shadows broadcast in HD, just as I would. We invent the world in the instance of seeing it. The country where my family was changed into threads of black smoke doesn’t exist anymore. Bruno Schulz lived, there, too, trying to cross a crocodile-infested street with a loaf of bread under one arm.

The Theater of Eternal Music
Cigar-smoking angels who shoot pink waves of peace from their fingertips are full of complicated feelings. The grumpy cat has too much coffee, which has a psychedelic effect on its appearance. Some villagers worship a giant machine that dispenses eyeballs. Franz Kafka, struggling to write the first sentence of “The Metamorphosis,” finds himself constantly interrupted by loud neighbors and strange door-to-door salesmen. Flowers rise up against their oppressors. Beings made from string unravel in a railroad car. Kafka’s self-doubt pokes through his facade of positivity. A middle-aged man takes the fact that his son doesn’t want to play the flute surprisingly hard.

 A Cooking Show for Cannibals
A simple change of a light bulb has far-reaching effects. I don’t understand why this should be so. Murderous puppet typewriters misbehave with deadly results. A shirtless tomato farmer sings a hypnotic ode to his favorite crop. In a drab city, the sale and purchase of emotions are strictly regulated, but not everyone follows the rules and a gangster has himself gilded in gold. Fishing is a metaphor for Alzheimer’s disease. An elderly man thinks he’s related to a cow. As far as I can tell, there’s no reason to despise the monkey with a helium-filled balloon for a head or the preteen girl playing a sax solo in front of a deer carcass.