There’s a big pain in your window by Marcel Herms
The Old Homestead by Mj Saucer
Restless by Terry Chipp
There are ghosts here. They breathe
in unseen spaces behind walls,
under floorboards, in shafts of light
filtered through dust motes. At night
they drift into fields where once they
put shoulders to the plow and tended
cotton. Their shape, if you could see
them, is amorphous as cotton fruit,
diaphanous as gossamer with glints
of light like fireflies. They are more lonely
than scary, tethered to the windowless
homestead with wind-sanded fieldstone
and peeling paint. They wait for souls
long gone, beloveds who worked the land
side by side, peeled potatoes for supper,
sighed as they tucked children into bed
to cicada lullabies, rubbed salves
and embrocations into cuts from cotton
bracts and aching muscles, smiled
through wavering firelight before making
love under a diamond sky. Now fields
overgrown with weeds hide once furrowed
earth, sculpted by generations through life,
death and birth; a claim on humanity,
still longed for. Memory anchors them.
— Gayle J. Greenlea
(The Old Homestead)
This photo’s not sepia in tone
Just how it looks is just how it is
With little chance of monetary reward to be had from ressurection
That’s not what we’re here for
We’re here for when the sun catches the red dirt to pass it to the wind to throw it in our faces
The dangerous veranda
Roof with no enhancements and
The tree that’s definitely haunted
A graveyard of unfinished projects behind where I live up a steep incline
Mind how you go
Don’t be sad, no need to mourn
These projects can come back to life
(There’s a Big Pain in Your Window)
A piece not like any other sits awkwardly within the frame
The collection of uniform squares bow down to the chosen one
I curl around,
my coiling place.
So tight and knotted
For I was born
under the sign
of the water snake.
And my hour is 9am
when the sun warms
and I wake.
I need to feed
so I can sleep again
calm and deep.
And the dream-flow
will carry me
into my tomorrow.
Where I will wake
tight and knotted.
Looking for prey.
-© Dai Fry 25th November
we all know
your story’s told –
want to walk away
There’s a big pain in your window
Glass does not fill sash
and frame, what passes through
portal of light, wind, ache
of porous bone, rain softens
the bitter light,
sitting empty, in a room
of emptiness, slick
with scrubbing, weekly
sometimes an eye
at the door window,
sometimes a word
falls from my mouth,
scurries on smooth floor,
skittering fills my sleep,
they never turn off the light.
We unfold ourselves
from a narrow space,
motion was all, riding
his bike across causeway
and back, hands on his waist,
road vibrating up through thighs,
sometimes out by the airport
watching planes descending
never so elegant as pelicans,
or out to Gulf,
counting the lights of shrimp boats.
He liked to drink on the porch
feeling, not just seeing,
cars passing by, momentum building
till it was time to ride,
one last cigarette
then we’d be off.
The Old Homestead
a galvanized roof
and a porch, he’d grown up
with a dirt floor, still thatched
when he was small, palmetto bugs
dropping out at night
rustling in the dark
above mosquito netting.
They grew citrus, ran a few cattle
and hogs, she loved bougainvillea
and guavas so he planted as many
as he could find room for,
in the wet season the road
was a causeway of sorts,
out to the hammock from hardtop,
nothing for shade but cabbage palms,
a few cypress and scraggly pines,
all bulldozed now
tract housing, fast food,
so much light
so few stars.
They are wisps of voice, whispers traveling
through rooms and corridors, black panes
of time, suspended in planes, alternate or missing,
they still exist, swim, climb, laugh,
lack, bleed and lean toward love, yearning,
remembering. Stimming their restlessness,
they walk through the night, stalking,
full of backward glances, regret. A stork
in the pond beyond turns one eye
toward the house. They try to escape
these carotene walls but the stodge
of cement cakes their hands and faces.
The open windows are memory, are time,
are lives left behind. They can’t find
their way out. With open mouths, they call
and call. Their cries recede as summer storms
hammock through the house. Their faces
become the frozen stone of statues.
:: really ::
it is a tangled affair
too many people talking at once
it is a messy affair
paint smudges and runs
eventually all comes clear
one having the final say
predictions come and go
days of our life
days of our lives
i feel some times that
the word unreasonable
though i react through
which comes clear
with my muddled
dare i laugh here?
who said that
what is it?
how will they know for thinking
comes silent inside our heads
unless we utter
which in my case is not often
who defines the different
level of thought
is there a manual
with charts and graphs
a litmus test to testify
that the thought got tangled
oh what is it like?
They run to the window, then out the door
over the sagging porch, bare feet slapping
on dusty red clay, to the shoulder
of Dixie Highway and there is Goat Man,
wagon thrown together in defiance
of gravity, pulled by a dozen goats.
PREPARE TO MEET THY GOD, the sign says.
A few yards down the road, bright giggling faces
bound from a Buick, its license plate from
out of state. “Ever seen a three-legged
goat?” he asks to gasps of wonder, pushing
aside piles of newspapers, license plates,
Coca Cola cans. He gently extracts
a tiny spotted kid. Pairs of bright eyes
all around examine each other, then
return to the Buick, the old homestead,
and the wagon.
-Holly York 2020
They are never still, the young ones
who pierce the mists of obfuscation,
the cynics and doubters who believe in the stars
but doubt the reality of golf balls
and the great never-never.
They make a noise, the young ones,
when they let the words pour out,
the joie de vivre, soaking in music
and good-time drugs,
but they never lose the north.
They will be there, the young ones
who see the truth, the stars,
who have the dreams,
when the jackboots drum and the batons fall,
defending you, me and a noble idea.
I would have been like them,
I think, once,
Bios and Links
grew up in Thurnscoe and ia now living in Doncaster via Wath Grammar school, Doncaster Art College, Bede College in Durham and 30 years teaching.
He sold his first painting at the Goldthorpe Welfare Hall annual exhibition at the age of 17 and he haven’t stopped painting since.
He escaped the classroom 20 years ago to devote more time to his artwork. Since then he has set up his own studio in Doncaster, exhibited across the north of England as a member of the Leeds Fine Artists group and had his painting demonstrations featured on the SAA’s Painting and drawing TV channel. Further afield he has accepted invitations to work with international artists’ groups in Spain, Macedonia, Montenegro and USA where his paintings are held in public and private collections. In 2018 he had a solo exhibition in Warsaw, Poland and a joint exhibition in Germany.
His pictures cover a wide range of styles and subjects from abstract to photo-realism though he frequently returns to his main loves of landscape and people.
Visitors are welcome at his studio in the old Art College on Church View, Doncaster.
Facebook: Terry Chipp Fine Art Painting
is a Dutch visual artist. He is also one of the two men behind the publishing house Petrichor. Freedom is very important in the visual work of Marcel Herms. In his paintings he can express who he really is in complete freedom. Without the social barriers of everyday life.
There is a strong relationship with music. Like music, Herms’ art is about autonomy, freedom, passion, color and rhythm. You can hear the rhythm of the colors, the rhythm of the brushstrokes, the raging cry of the pencil, the subtle melody of a collage. The figures in his paintings rotate around you in shock, they are heavily abstracted, making it unclear what they are doing. Sometimes they look like people, monsters, children or animals, or something in between. Sometimes they disappear to be replaced immediately or to take on a different guise. The paintings invite the viewer to join this journey. Free-spirited.
He collaborates with many different authors, poets, visual artists and audio artists from around the world and his work is published by many different publishers.
writes novels, short stories and lots of poems. Among her publications is her first chapbook of poetry, thicker than water. She is also a regular contributor to Visual Verse and the Ekphrastic Review. You can find her on twitter @MJDougherty33 and on her blog https://janedougherty.wordpress.com/
is a queer poet from Tampa, Florida. Infatuated with what remains of the undeveloped Gulf coast. Former cook. Has had poems in Cypress Press, Feral Poetry, IceFloe Press, Petrichor. Can be found on Twitter@Peach Delphine
is a poet living on the south coast of England. Originally from Swansea. Wales was and still is a huge influence on everything. My pen is my brush. Twitter:
Susan Darlington’s poetry regularly explores the female experience through nature-based symbolism and stories of transformation. It has been published in Fragmented Voices, Algebra Of Owls, Dreams Walking, and Anti-Heroin Chic among others. Her debut collection, ‘Under The Devil’s Moon’, was published by Penniless Press Publications (2015). Follow her @S_sanDarlington
lives in Atlanta, Georgia with her two large, frightening lapdogs. A PhD in French language and literature, she has retired from teaching French to university students, as well as from fierce competition in martial arts and distance running. She has produced the chapbooks Backwards Through the Rekroy Wen, Scapes, and Postcard Poetry 2020. When she isn’t hard at work writing poems in English, she might be found reading them in French to her long-suffering grandchildren, who don’t yet speak French.
-Gayle J. Greenlea
is an award-winning poet and counselor for survivors of sexual and gender-related violence. Her poem, “Wonderland”, received the Australian Poetry Prod Award in 2011. She shortlisted and longlisted for the Fish Poetry Prize in 2013, and debuted her first novel Zero Gravity at the KGB Literary Bar in Manhattan in 2016. Her work has been published in St. Julian Press, Rebelle Society, A Time to Speak, Astronomy Magazine, Headline Poetry and Press and The Australian Health Review.
Like someone who tries out hats or other samples before making a final decision, experimenting with different ideas and techniques is how Lydia spends some of her time. This allows for other portions of time to speak through the lens of fiction, creative nonfiction and art. You can find her work at Cargo Collective , Lydia Wist Creative and on Twitter @Lydiawist.
lives in the wild, wet, south-west of England, surrounded by mud and apple trees. She writes poems to make sense of the world, and would rather weed than wash up.
-sonja benskin mesher
holds a bachelor in English Literature and Creative Writing and is a secondary school teacher of English and Creative Writing. Liam is currently writing his first, professional collection of poetry entitled Borders that explores poetry from all around the world. Liam also Co-Hosts a movie discussion podcast entitled: The Pick and Mix Podcast. Liam writes under the pseudonym ‘Michael The Poet’
Links: WordPress: https://michael-the-poet.com/
Instagram: Michael The Poet
is 54, married and a mother of two, who has been writing and telling stories since childhood. Over the last decade she has utilised writing not just as entertainment, but as a means to improve personal communication skills. That process unexpectedly uncovered increasingly difficult and unpleasant feelings, many forgotten for decades. Diagnosed as a historic trauma survivor in May 2019, Mental health issues had previously hindered the entirety of her adult life: the shift into writing as expression and part of a larger journey into self-awareness began to slowly unwind for her from the past, providing inspiration and focus for a late career change as a multidisciplined artist.
is a Northern Irish poet from Belfast. She has two poetry pamphlets, and a full collection, from Hedgehog Poetry Press, they are Circling the Sun, Memory Forest and Venus in pink marble (2018, 2019 and Summer 2020 respectively). She is co-author, along with Karen Mooney, of Penned In a poetry pamphlet written in response to the pandemic and due for release 30th November 2020. Follow her on Twitter @gaynorkane or read more at www.gaynorkane.com.
is the author of Walk Like Monsters (Paperwall, 2016) and City of Water (Sahitya Akademi, 2010). Her work has appeared in anthologies and journals such as Plume, 580 Split, One and Breakwater Review. She is Contributing Editor, Poetry, at Barren Magazine. She has received fellowships and awards from the Charles Wallace Trust India, the International Reporting Project, TFA India and Muse India. She currently lives in Los Angeles, California. Her website is http://aninditasengupta.com