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Stained With Retribution’s Blood, by David Walby

27/8/2021

 
Fear the dark, malevolent rage,
blackened tar that stains your soul.
Retribution will not help your case.
His blood will not ease your pain.
The search to fill the hole he left,
the temptation to fill it with hate
and his blood
will drive you naught but insane.

An Oak's Secret, by Padmini Krishnan

27/8/2021

 
signs and initials
of lovers through history
an oak tree's secret

Oh America, by Sankar Chatterjee

27/8/2021

 
A twenty years occupation of a faraway historic land,
Three trillion dollars spent for the “war on terror” and “spreading democracy”
Your mighty military just surrendered to a regional extremist group.
The effort of two decades evaporated in a matter of a week.
Soldiers escaping, leaving behind countless patriotic collaborators
To be slaughtered by the madmen of the conquerors.


Similar defeat in Vietnam, two score years ago
The scene of army helicopters packed with defeated soldiers,
Escaping from the rooftop of the Saigon embassy.
History repeating itself, now from the rooftop of Kabul embassy.
Oh America, the world’s oldest democracy
Why didn’t your leaders learn from Russia’s defeat in the same land?

Brimham Rocks, by Adrian McRobb

27/8/2021

 
Picture
A walk in an elemental graveyard unsettling in its 'not quite dead' feeling
as you circumnavigate the stone garden, faces follow in quartzite curiosity
sculpted decades of wind and rain, structures hold knowledge magnetically
strangeness of a neolithic place of worship we can't seem to quite remember
no phone signal distraction just the hairs gently lifting on the necks nape
walking through this dead ground expressions slip and change grotesquely
natural things become spiritual, blooms of lichen with strange amber iris eyes
the same feeling in a shop with a manikin standing behind you
things are seldom what they seem, childhood phobias slyly visit our souls
Brimham Rocks release fear like a generator magnifying our senses
Nidderdale; an ancient place where older gods rule mist shrouded moors...

The Referee Should've Gone to the Opticians, by Alex Blaine

27/8/2021

 
If the zebra
doesn't see it
it's simply
not cheating.

In Praise of Denis Law, by Guy Fletcher

27/8/2021

 
It was not Bobby Charlton
nor Georgie Best I adored the most
from the famous team in red.
No, it was a wee blond Scot
who I tried to emulate on the park
but failed miserably I have to say
in my youthful days...now far, far away.

The iconic moment he back-heeled
the ball into United's net
when playing for City stands out,
he left the field in tears, United relegated.
How tragic that he is afflicted by double dementia
but his life is a wonderful story,
a golden player enshrined with glory.

The Balloon Girl, by Guy Fletcher

20/8/2021

 
She came to Cardiff from Bristol town
to fly over the Channel in an air show
but Neptune was despicable that day
blowing the balloon off course.
Louisa Maud Evans was only fourteen,
what horrors she must have felt
crashing into the indifferent sea
125 years ago.
Now she reposes in Cathays Cemetery,
her body discovered three days later
at Nash, in the vicinity of Newport
one minute soaring free amongst the clouds
and the next moment being blown to her doom,
the Channel a temporary tomb.

Hip Hop, by Alex Blaine

20/8/2021

 
Hip Hop didn't just come
knocking at the door it
kicked it down like a
lawless government gang.
Opportunity wasn't given it
it created it and took it
whilst flipping the bird.

The Rub, by Marjan Sierhuis

20/8/2021

 
I have an itch
Please scratch my rear
Your dog thanks you

Dark Horse, by Sterling Warner

20/8/2021

 
Meet me at midnight on the far shore
where fireflies compete with solar systems
lighting up black holes—twinkling, twinkling
twinkling—giving us time to recline
on close-cut fields of barley & rye,
plan for the future, reminisce about the past,
understand creation’s feet touch down
momentarily—at best—in this place & time
while we bask in immediate heavenly sights
yet glance off into the distance, uncertain
the adjacent coastline’s really been lost in squalor
& if plans for escaping our youthful cradle
amount to rebellious journeys, haphazardly
driven by impulse, desire, aspiration--
wistful fancy incessantly longing for exception.

Tyre Marks, by Adrian McRobb

20/8/2021

 
Picture
Rubber wheels are turning
jet blast drowning screams
fuselage is moving forward
it's bursting at the seams

Rubber wheels are turning
picking up more speed
scrabbling fingers imploring
ignoring humanities need

Rubber wheels are turning
skipping across tarmac
thanks for all the help
but...we're never coming back!

The Fire Shall Blaze, by Kumar Vikrant

20/8/2021

 
Oh, thee serpentine-like dragons
Thine fire shan’t smolder us
We wield the Excalibur
Thine doom inevitable

Gather ye demons, while ye may
Thine poison arrows can’t provoke us
Do as foul deeds as ye may, corrupting thine souls
We hold our ground in the wake of the tsunami

Ye can’t provoke us, try as ye may, despite thy spite
As resolute as the divine rock, the citadel of our divinity
Thine kingdom shall fall, the inner blazing fire to dust
Thou shall not pass, as iron rusts into harmless smut

Why are thee so cross? Why can’t thee stand happiness?
Oh, thine corrupt soul, obscene, the abyss of darkness
Ye aren’t the center of the universe; it was never about thee
Learn to see others’ divinity, the architecture of belief

Alter Egos, by Michael Leach

20/8/2021

 
as this virus spreads,
heroic people don masks
to save people's lives

    Poetry

    This 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.

    Poems submitted should be
    no longer than 160 words
    and contain
    no more than 16 lines.

    100 words remains the approximate target.

    Please submit using the Poetry Submissions Page.


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