God’s on vacation
Bombs fall, people die, Earth bleeds
The wars never end
Bombs fall, people die, Earth bleeds
The wars never end
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Sometimes I imagine
that I’d continued my piano lessons beyond primary school. I imagine that the upright piano in the dining room were more than an ornament. I imagine that, each December, I’d play classical Christmas carols by various composers. I imagine that, each other month, I’d play songs from further genres such as Alicia Keys’ ‘Fallin’’ and John Lennon’s ‘Imagine’. I've escaped claustrophobia
enjoying crisp Christmas Morning air, my breath drifting like mist as I dwell upon those who'll never view this Christmas remaining locked in my memories yet as I cross the quaint bridge over the stream the splendour of nature is the main theme observing the rivulet's seductive flow under a mild partially blue ether Cardiff stretching far below and imagining excited kids and hungover parents. Walking up here beats any pill, melancholia is cast away wandering with wonder on Christmas Day Windstorms rattle my bedroom windows
accost cars, buildings, and pedestrians toss rolling tumbleweeds that inspire me to hum songs by the Sons of the Pioneers from “Ghost Riders in the Sky” to “Cool, Clear Water,” never once do I contemplate moving from my home, rambling like sagebrush, invasive Russian thistle, or winged pigweed; my mind marvels as each wind witch somersaults across the prairie, sticking landings, trembling silently before pulling loose, doing cartwheels as I seek sanctuary in song, freedom of motion, and reluctance to change; thank-you for gust resistance as darkened skies fork, followed by thunder’s rumble, dropping desolation’s seeds like calling cards as rain strikes and sinks in dirt. In an old purse
cards Medicare pension Seniors… all out of date and an assortment of loyalty cards from shops she’ll never visit again I know I should cut them into small pieces toss them into the bin, but it feels like I’m throwing away part of her. There were two names
inside the freshly painted heart. Pierced with arrow, bloody, but so alive! Now the heart is tainted with countless layers of paint, dirt and dust... Desolate, but still alive... The party girl set a grand table
And cooked the best foods she could find; Spent money on those who'd be coming, Spent hours - no, days - of her time. The party girl dressed in her finest, Stood awaiting the guests by the door; Waited 'til dinner was spoiled, Waited, and waited some more. The party girl phoned all the numbers But nobody answered her call, So she tidied away all the clutter, Took the food to the garden wall. The foxes and badgers were waiting; Hare, deer and fieldmice as well, And they partied until the dawn chorus Blessed them all with a Joyous Noel. In Berlin, but especially Hamburg
wealthy teenagers danced to jazz condemned as degenerate by the Nazis and instead of the Horst Wessel song they listened to Benny Goodman. English style clothing they preferred to wear and I watched them dancing without a care in film footage now so long ago taken in an underground club, an hour for magic back in 1939. But some of those beautiful youthful souls were incarcerated in concentration camps, the music died and the bleak sounds of war then replaced the rich music of before. I, bruised from healing your wounds, can heal you.
Sometimes you let me, sometimes your sorrow and grief against hate transition to anger, aiming at me. She struts in and out, back and forth, basking in the red carpet that was none other than your life. Sometimes you let me help, sometimes you listen after hearing my words, but only if they were said by someone else. You needed opinion from an outsider, and I searched for insight on your behalf, only to discover that I am in the same situation with you as you were with her. The forests bleed
to feed the dragons raging in my stove. An old yellow cup
memories of you return Winter at my door December’s midnight
Silence—the telephone rings The baby’s a girl |
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. Please feel free to comment (nicely!) on any poems – writers appreciate it.
Just at the moment, though, we're moderating some of them so there might be a slight delat before they appear. 
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November 2024
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