They’re all saying today is the year’s coldest day. Anxiety, yesterday’s snow’s converting to ice, dirty and slippery and hard. Ominous, the wind’s gaining fresh vigor, roars of gusts herald violently that a difficult day this remains, p’aps behind the horizon concealed is faint relief. Now is not the accepted time to be roaming the streets, I’d better go inside. That’s the thing, inside where? |
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He knew foul weather was due yet still set sail on his tragic journey at Lerici with his boat Don Juan perishing in a sudden summer storm. Shelley's body was found 10 days later with poems from Keats in his pocket and after a month his corpse was dug up, pitiful remains burnt on the beach though the heart was not consumed, kept by Mary until her dying day. It must have been a terrible scene immortalised by a poignant painting, the flames on the sand devouring his form but his fine words survived the fire and storm. Astrologists and psychologists share mutual cosmic alignment await each total solar eclipse anticipation mingled with elation. words catapult over linguistic barriers life lessons influenced by zodiac signs on the Major Arcana, each card tossed reveals momentum, aids spiritual evolution. Cartomancy aficionados contrast tarot deck divination to “six-five beat” lunar month patterns while therapists predict personalities promote self-reflection based on moon phases. Mid phone call the office shakes. Things start to fall but by the grace of God I have survived! The news highlights collapsed buildings and the inevitable tragedies of the unlucky ones. Yet for the likes of me the day and life go on: the phone calls resume, those emails are sent. For we must forget that our fate rests on random movements of tectonic plates. Ian is a headteacher in Taiwan, felt the earthquake, but has confirmed that he's safe. I remember the eclipse from tweny-five years ago, the dawn of a new century none of us realising the horrors which lay ahead. We stepped outside from the workplace to view the darkening heavens. Was it my imagination or did birds cease singing from the trees? Some people smoked, some I have forgotten but the survivors so different today, all ghosts, many not here anymore. I recall my old self staring in awe then return to reality once more. WINNER SIDERIUS SHORT POETRY COMPETITION, 2024 No label I knew fitted Mr Gann
No dogma as written, no social plan. No policies, no hashtags, Real smiles for tough kids with fags. His handclasp was warm, affirming Like an old habit, a way of life. His eyes held truth, as he knew it. No plaster saint, no compromise. His imperfections, revealing. His self-compassion, healing. A teacher’s heart, for every kid Did he ever judge? He often did. NOMINATED, SIDERIUS SHORT POETRY COMPETITION, 2024 She says,
it’s a used bicycle not an old car that would have trade-in value, we’ll get you a brand-new Schwinn, no matter the cost. Maybe you can sell the old bone-shaker for $100 tops, look around in your circle or figure out Plan B. My circle: depressos, food thieves, social workers, middle-aged L’s perpetually between jobs, abandoned women with three gym memberships, binge-drinking PTSD veterans, “actors” and “writers.” Plan B then, whatever that is. NOMINATED, SIDERIUS SHORT POETRY COMPETITION, 2024 Amal, whose name means ‘hope’, has starved to death.
At checkpoints, laden lorries were delayed (what few there were). Her final gasping breath amidst the sound of rifle-fire was stayed. Ahlam, whose name means ‘dreams’, has lost her home. Her neighbourhood got bombed and was destroyed; the roads, her school, the mosque’s protective dome. Her life that was, is now an orphan’s void. Barak, whose name means ‘blessèd’, lies stone still upon a mattress, in a makeshift tent. His legs got amputated and the chill of fever points towards a life soon spent. When crimes ’gainst children’s guiltlessness take place, what light can tarnished innocence embrace? COMMENDED, SIDERIUS SHORT POETRY COMPETITION, 2024 I visit Mother every month
She always serves me watery coffee and bitter complaints She says that I want to put her in a nursing home She says I don’t visit enough She says I don’t give her enough money I always go home feeling tired and guilty COMMENDED, SIDERIUS SHORT POETRY COMPETITION, 2024 They tarried, bookends by the earthed up mound -
The wife, her children closely gathered round; The lover, with a rose bud – only one - To place upon his grave when all was done. Each loss was shattering, but not the same. The wife still had his children, house, and name; The lover had lost all. Her face, drawn, thin, Spoke of the anguish raging deep within. The wife reached out and touched the lover’s sleeve, ‘Please be at peace; I know you also grieve. Come, lay your rose bud here, right next to mine, And let us share his love this final time.’ COMMENDED, SIDERIUS SHORT POETRY COMPETITION, 2024 There is a shiny crescent moon of skin on the back of the child’s head
where her hair did not grow back after the machete strike A scar, a badge, a tattoo, a reminder of what happened in that church They were seeking safety from their neighbors, packed in rows of pews Perhaps you saw the photos? Bodies piled upon bodies Perhaps you think it only happens somewhere else (but you know) There is a notebook in the church The visitors are supposed to write in it, the child says pointing It seems a flimsy memorial to what happened here The empty pews scream silently: Genocide So in the crypt, they lay the bones on top of bones so many, so carefully cleaned, preserved Mothers, fathers, sons, and daughters (like you and me) Silent visitors press a pencil down on the notebook’s lined paper “Never again,” they write Again and again and again COMMENDED, SIDERIUS SHORT POETRY COMPETITION, 2024 Comfortable in my own life
Only concerned with my own strife Meeting you opened my eyes Perceiving now another’s sighs Awakened to the unknown cares Surprised I was so unaware Shocked by all the suffering I am still recovering Opening my heart and mind Now I see where I was blind And I try to make amends Telling everyone, including friends Everyone deserves compassion; say it loud and with passion COMMENDED, SIDERIUS SHORT POETRY COMPETITION, 2024 Late for the show. The glare of theatre darkness
strikes my eyes dumb. They can no longer tell me how the room maps. I fumble for foothold, fingers groping black air, stumble against uncompromising edges, muttering apologies until the usher moves in to take my right hand in her own. I clutch its steadiness like one drowning. Applause, lights up. And she is at my side like an appointed guardian. I don’t need her, say so. But she’s made me understand how I will need a guiding hand at last to bring me safely through the world of shadows to whatever haven. COMMENDED, SIDERIUS SHORT POETRY COMPETITION, 2024 She fell in love with all the wrong men
Trusted all the wrong people to be her friend Her once plump and loving heart Has been picked clean, torn apart Her heart had needs, but filled their cravings Like an all-you-can-eat feeder for scheming ravens COMMENDED, SIDERIUS SHORT POETRY COMPETITION, 2024 Whenever I offered my two-year-old new food,
I gave her dessert afterwards if she tried it; I stuffed her high chair tray with everything good (to me), then left so she could savor in quiet. That crafty child played cool ’til I wasn’t watching, then flung all those morsels to drooling Bombur, already a pudge, with my interest in snacking; picture a sumo wrestler, swathed in brown fur. Excited by my kid’s adventurous palate, I dished out okra, avocado, and eggplant-- it took me a few weeks to realize that our dog had begun resembling an elephant. One day I heaped the tray with all sorts of morsels then held my ground, watching my child like a hawk. She knew that I knew; delighted with herself, She screamed with glee, threw her hands up, and whooped, “Walk!” Living in the sticks
lips worth kissing seem distinctly lacking. It’s in cities, bright-lit like demented Argento neon that smiling mouths invite. Tripping kids, dripping beauty. One can only go so far, for few care for curfews. The last bus home leaves unfinished business. Maybe tonight I’ll finally miss it. Their house was a red-brick battlefield;
Their souls bled out on polished floors While frightened children prayed for peace. Their house was a red-brick battlefield Where only the shadows witnessed The violence between its walls. Their house was a red-brick battlefield; Their souls bled out on polished floors. We will not forget the winter day,
In total blackness listening to sirens, Waiting for the morning, shy and grey, In cold, in hope, in silence. We will not forget the quiet sighs Over books and lukewarm teas, The deep sky of Mother’s eyes Fading into greenish seas. The loud blasts, the rush in our veins, Thoughts of those who took the hit, The farewells, the cries, the pains, How can anyone forget it? You don’t know this, but it’s true For us all and every member: ‘Are you okay?’ means ‘I love you’ And ‘goodbye’ means ‘I’ll remember.’ Thus began a word-war between
The Truth and the Lie. The Truth said to the Lie: “People hold me in high regard.” “No,” retorted the Lie, “People hold me in high regard.” Just then, a wise man intervened: “Why do you quarrel? First fact-check yourselves. A truth manipulated, no matter how little, Looks like a lie, And a lie repeated a hundred times Looks like a truth." When bad things happen,
like car accidents or cancer, people always ask, Why me? Why did this bad thing happen to me? What have I ever done to deserve such bad luck? Yet, when good things happen, people take it for granted, brainwashed into believing good luck is a right, not a privilege. Today, on the highway, a speeding car careened into my lane, missing me by a hair, and when my terrified heart stopped pounding, I looked to the heavens and asked, Why did this amazing thing happen to me? And it felt great. It wasn’t his good looks
that cemented her love for him not his athletic build smiling face his interest in her hobbies nor the fun places he took her… it was the kindness he showed to his widowed mother ensuring his father’s example continued… and she knew he would do the same for her I remember how it used to be
I saw you as difficult I saw you as demanding I saw you as outrageous But Now I see You were afraid You were broken You were hiding You were trying to be strong This was how you showed you cared And In order to have a piece of mind I must forgive I Forgive You! It was designed to be ultrachic--
filled with down, surfaced with shimmer, ticketed for sale in a high-end boutique. It was the talk of the town in fancy places, until another, more trendy, forced it to retreat in one of the basement closet spaces. Colder than usual weather unsettled winter. Pleas for warm clothing for the homeless filled the airwaves as frosty nights lingered. She who bought into luxury gathered, contributing much for the charitable cause-- among the items her down coat untethered. Long ago, you came to my life in Spring
Jilted in love, needing someone to hold. I gave you comfort, I gave you my word. In the following months, I gave my body too – In my bed I welcomed you, I let you Use me, take me. And then, one day I heard You were still seeing your Spingtime love of old – You’d cheated. I was just your Summer Thing. "Where is dear Arthur?" Mom anxiously cried.
"He's gone to the store," I blatantly lied. "They stole my purse," Mom angrily whispered. "We'll find the thief but first tea and custard." "I want to go home," Mom tearfully moaned. "The painters are getting it properly toned." "No, I don't need a bath," Mom retorted aghast. "I'll just wash your arm gently and fast." "I love holding my baby," Mom smiled cradling her doll. "She's lovely," I answered carefully draping a shawl. "When will my daughter come?" "I'm your daughter, here, Mom." Mom looked into my eyes But we'd said our goodbyes. |
PoetryThis is the section where fiction prose becomes something else. We still expect the poems to be short, though – sonnets, perhaps, or around that length at the very most. Archives
April 2024
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