DRAGONFLY

You’re expert
at skimming the
pond’s dank surface.

Whatever it is
you feed on
I can’t see
so I don’t miss.

You squeeze so much colour
into such a small frame.

And, so instinctive,
your wings beat
without bothering your brain.

THE CONTRACT

On an overhead wire,
a flock of crows
pauses between
roadkill feasts.

There’s a contract
between these black birds
and the speeding vehicles below.

It’s all there
in strips of white-lined asphalt.

Cars and trucks
don’t brake for anything.

Squirrels, raccoons, possums,
sign their names in blood.

No worry where
the crows’ next meal is coming from.
So many fast cars.
So few smart animals.

THE DATING GAME IS FOR THE BIRDS

I’ll be an eagle for a while, soaring
on the thermals, ready to dive down
and grab the mousey one in my talons.
No, I’ll be the vulture, feasting on
the dead ones, or preferably,
the ones that just think they’re dead.
I tried being a cute bird, a chickadee
with an appealing song but
who wants to be fed seed
out of a gentle palm
or fly away at the first sign of movement.
So bird of prey it is,
a hawk because it’s what they’re used to,
a condor because they’re rare,
an owl because the hunting’s better at night.
I’ve tried being a parrot.
But “I love you” never sounds sincere
when someone has to teach it to me.

WHY THERE MUST BE A GARDEN

Without a garden,
there are no peonies
garlanding my back doorstep,
no deep fragrance
to set off a nostril swoon,
no soft white petals
for touch to reassert itself
in gentleness,
no spritely stem
to feed off earth and sky,
yet recognize in me
a seeding, watering,
fertilizing parent.
Without a garden,
the beauty is all wild.
And, as much as I love
wild beauty,
(and you know who you are)
I am always up for
a modicum of taming.

A COUPLE PARKING

Parked high on Bishop Hill,
we look down more than at each other.
for we’re confused as to what we’re doing together
but the sights are ever-present, unimpaired.

There seems no reason
why light should make a downtown beautiful,
turn its suburbs into stars,
its traffic to passing comets.

We’ve seen it all in daytime,
unlovely, nondescript.
And yet, at night, it takes on the chimera
we had hoped for in each other.

Better to be fooled by the eye
than the heart I suppose.
As lovers, we make little progress.
But as witnesses, we prosper.

MANHATTAN FROM BROOKLYN HEIGHTS

I watch, the city dazzle from afar.
No warriors. Only lights.
No one in a panic.
No loud deafening noises.
Just shapes.
A work of modern art
crossed with an ancient fresco.
Nobody trying to get the better of another.
No politicians. No cops.
No laws either
except for those of architecture
and, in the city’s upper strata,
astronomy.
No slaves to the clock.
Or savage tongues.
Or wealth. Or poverty.
No one ignoring somebody
who needs them.
No subway smoke.
No theatre crowds.
No priests either.
Everything’s celestial
without their help.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Lost Pilots. Latest books, ”Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in California Quarterly, Seventh Quarry, La Presa and Doubly Mad.

You can find more of John’s work here on Ink Pantry.

Here I am,
on the deck of a ship. It’s 1933,
and the passengers who surround me are waving, frantically.
I’m afraid that their arms will fall off and I will be called
to provide emergency services.
I’m a doctor.

At least I harbour the delusion that I am.
Actually, I dropped out of med school before the end of my first term.

Those who have come to see us off
are also waving, and smiling so broadly that their faces threaten to split open.
You could almost forget that we’re in the Depression,
and that so many people are suffering.
From the deck of the ship we cannot see the bread lines
which stretch from New York City to Hoboken
and into the City of Brotherly Love.

But people are always suffering, said the Buddha,
It’s the essence of life.

I see myself as from afar,
as if part of me were a bird,
a seagull, flying above the harbour
elegant in its flight, sharp-eyed

The part of me that is the seagull wonders if the other parts are edible
as my body seems to be unravelling
My skin flies off in pointillist bits
and my organs and the fat surrounding them
stretch into streamers
like those hung in a social hall at a birthday party
or an anniversary

I am unravelling in other ways as well
My life story is no longer my autobiography
Who was I?
It takes an effort to answer that question
so I don’t try

There’s no centre to all these floating streamers.
No connective tissue wires them together
I remember “connective tissue” and many other technical terms
falling from the lips of my beloved teacher, Dr. Gall Bladder,
who was one of the first female professors of medicine in the world,
following only a Frenchwoman and a Bulgarian
She was celebrated,
her story appearing in newspapers and magazines
with stunning black-and-white photos.
She became so full of herself that her organs and muscles
swelled to four times their normal size.

There I go
in transit
between America and Europe
between being myself and being someone else
sailing across the sea

Now the streamers have flown together, reunited
but only for the purpose of having me appear as a man
in this wood-panelled nautical bar

The bartender is jolly as he juggles three bottles of the finest Scotch
and the male passengers thunderously applaud

Without warning, Dr. Gall Bladder appears
I had no idea that she was a passenger on this ship as, later in the evening,
I would be surprised to find that she would be sharing my cabin
However, I am delighted, as she makes me feel nostalgic

She strides up to the bar and issues a challenge:
she will arm wrestle any woman brave enough to come forward
After she easily defeats the five who respond
she challenges the men,
all of whom she destroys
Their faces turn red as they briefly struggle
They are like small insects being pinned down by a praying mantis

Finally the bartender tires of Dr. Bladder’s bullying and hits her on the head
with one of the bottles of Scotch
but it has no effect.
There’s a clang, like metal against metal.
Dr. Gall Bladder glares at him and he flees from the room
locks himself in his cabin
and stacks all the furniture against the door

Dr. Gall Bladder leaps over the bar and resumes his duties
Her mixed drinks are incredibly potent and delicious
as she concocts them from intergalactic recipes

In my stateroom
Dr. Gall Bladder wastes no time in fucking my brains out
Afterwords I must sleep deeply for 18 hours
until she wakes me to repeat the act
After that session, I must sleep even longer
When I awake, I ponder whether one can actually be “fucked to death”
It does seem more likely when your lover is an alien
whose organs and muscles have now swollen to six times their normal size

As I ponder, she says, “I may have something wrong with my kidneys, perhaps because of their enlargement but, at an opportune moment, when I feel ready, I will heal myself.”

I ask, “Can you heal me? The elements of my body have developed a dangerous
tendency to fly apart into colourful streamers that eventually fall into banks of blackened snow to be corrupted beyond redemption”

“Heal you?” she says. “What do you think I’ve been doing for the last several days?”

I feel an odd sensation. I look down at my dick—it is about two feet long. Previously it was about three inches, maybe not even that “What the hell?” I say.

She says, “That’s something we are able to do on my planet.”

“Can you do this for other humans?” I ask, imagining this as a source of immense income we can share.

“No,” she says. “I can only accomplish this for men whom I love and who love me in
return.”

“I’ve always been infatuated,” I say, “but I’m not sure that I love you.”

“If there were a God,” she says, “she would not have made you humans so greedy. Greed will destroy your species. But, before that happens, I will have transported you to my planet, where we will live in peace for eternity.”

“You’ve been reading too much dime-store science-fiction,” I say.

“Maybe,” she says, “Much of it, I’ve written. That’s how I got myself through med school. Let’s go back to bed, where I won’t be able to read or write.”

“No, no!” I cry. “I need a break. You’ve exhausted me. I need a day off, maybe three.”

“Ok,” she says, “Let’s go to the bar.”

“We can’t go to the bar,” I say sorrowfully. “We’re banned.”

“Banned? Why would we be banned? After all, I’m an eminent doctor who has cured thousands of people of the most heinous diseases.”

“Nevertheless, you broke three men’s arms wrestling them. You were as vicious as a weasel. Do you think that that’s the behaviour of a compassionate doctor?”

“That’s a ridiculous question,” she says.

Mitch Grabois has been married for almost fifty years to a woman half Sicilian, half Midwest American farmer. They have three granddaughters. They live in the high desert adjoining the Colorado Rocky Mountains. They often miss the ocean. Mitch practices Zen Buddhism, which is not a religion, but a science of mind (according to the Dalai Lama). He has books available on Amazon.

You can find more of Mitch’s work here on Ink Pantry.

Asking Directions

I took the Road less travelled by,
and I got completely lost.
Not even Google Maps could help me,
thanks a lot, Robert Frost.

Padlocks and Tattoos

There are hundreds of couples,
who paint their initials on a padlock,
and attach it to a bridge,
for strangers to see,
decades from now.
Some men have tattoos,
of a love they hoped would be forever,
but is now a reminder
of the one who was before
the one before.
Some people have no tattoos,
no unused padlocks on bridges in a big city,
but like EE Cummings
will keep their memories of love
Inside their hearts.

Insomnia

When sleeplessness pounds
like spooked black Horses,
and the Night-Mare rears her hooves
calling across a canyon,
the hooves are a drum on the ground,
and pointed teeth and fetlock
are the blur of a shutter speed,
shadows are the shapes of fear
the sky is tainted black,
and the pin pricks of stars
mark the surface of a dream,
wake up.

For the shadows are only trees,
knocking against the window,
insistent you pay them attention
and the spooked black horse is calm,
carrying the eternal foot-man
who holds your coat,
but smiles and waves,
saying it is not time, just yet.
You know it was either the rain,
or the pipes that woke you,
but somewhere, out there,
is a Spooked Black Horse,
and unanswered questions.

Ben Macnair is an award-winning poet and playwright from Staffordshire in the United Kingdom. Follow him on Twitter.

Here’s a newsflash. Rachel
has lost her sense of smell.
(Okay, sometimes I refer
to myself in the third
person.) But it’s true. Can’t
smell a thing. Can’t. It’s
this head cold. Fighting,
fighting, fighting it. I am.
And winning. Kinda. And
yet, and yet. My nose.
Dead. Pretty much. What
a bummer! And my perfume.
White Linen. Estee Lauder.
Love it. I do. But now.
You know. I can’t smell it.
Can’t. So I stopped wearing
it. I mean. What’s the point?
And then, and then. I got an
idea. I could slather myself
with scented lotions. The
ones I never wear. They’re
nice. They are. Just not my
favourite. But now. You know.
I can’t smell them. Cool!
And Etsy. Did I tell you?
Saw a vintage Coach purse.
Yesterday. Super cute.
Mint condition. $300 value.
Got it for $25. I did. Yeah.
What can I say? I’m having
too much fun. Really. I am.

Laura Stamps is a poet and novelist and the author of over 60 books. Most recently: THE GOOD DOG (Prolific Pulse Press, 2023), ADDICTED TO DOG MAGAZINES (Impspired, 2023), and MY FRIEND TELLS ME SHE WANTS A DOG (Kittyfeather Press, 2023). She is the recipient of a Pulitzer Prize nomination and 7 Pushcart Prize nominations.

You can find more of Laura’s work here on Ink Pantry. 

The Disagreeable Ocean Between Us

I wonder if my son, when he’s out getting the paper or a cup of coffee
if he stops and talks to squirrels or rabbits or dogs
like he did when he was little, like I always did with him
if he stops to chirp at sparrows, throw them bits of donut
or if he’s forgotten to notice these things, he just sips his coffee
thinks of grown-up things.

And I wonder if, when he’s out with friends late at night
coming back from the bar and laughing too loud for the quiet surroundings
if he points out the startled frogs that leap across their path
to huddle in the damp, dewy grass, trapped by footfalls on one side,
heavy traffic on the other?
Does he stop walking, stoop down by the grass
carefully pick up the frightened frogs and set them safely
on the other side of the sidewalk, where they can disappear
into the taller, dark growth of garden plants and hedges?
Or are these things invisible to him now, as they seem to be
to so many other adults I know?

And I wonder, if, among his friends
there is just one girl who sees him
almost stop to greet a squirrel
or rescue a frog
or toss a surreptitious pocket cracker to a lone speckled pigeon
and knows that she is not alone in her own love for this world
sees that same love hidden
in the eyes of this boy I used to know?

The Stag in the Lake

The stag stumbled out onto the lake in the middle of the night
fell through the thin crust of ice halfway across. He must have floundered
for hours out there, cut a path through the lake until the ice grew too thick
for his hoofs to crush through. He might have made it if it had been daytime
the sun might have kept him alert enough to make it to the far shore,
where he could have stumbled out, shook himself, jumped
and leapt to the beach until he was warm enough
to run through my parents’ yard to some safe spot in the forest next door.

But because it was night, he may have lost time swimming around in circles
thrashing against the same patch of ice again and again in an attempt
to reach a far shore he could not see, the flashing lights of passing cars
bouncing off the water as late-night traffic thundered down the nearby freeway.
Sometime during his struggle, he gave up and just froze in place
one foreleg stretched out on the ice, a pair of broad antlers
preventing his head from sinking below the ice.

There was a good month where one could walk out onto the ice
right up to the frozen stag, stare straight into its glassy, black eyes
touch it if you wanted to—I never did. My dad talked about taking a hacksaw out
cutting the antlers off and making something out of them, some kind of
outsider wall art, but in the end decided against disturbing the animal’s corpse
mostly because my son started crying about the poor deer, that poor deer.

It disappeared overnight during a freak thaw, slipped free from the ice
and carried away by some sudden current from the nearby spring.
My son was convinced that the deer had finally gotten free
and run away, swam to safety to the other side of the lake
and because I’m not a monster, I told him he was probably right.

A New Pattern

I feel the knots and scratches on my husband’s back
and I can’t stop touching them, tracing them with my fingertips
in a mimicry of romantic caressing. They don’t feel like
fingernail scratches, don’t feel like anything
but random bumps. “You should start putting lotion on your skin,”
I blurt out, wanting him to turn over so I can see his back
get a look at these marks I keep feeling, reassure myself.
“I can do it for you, if you’d like.”

“I bumped into a machine at work,” says my husband
a little irritably, he’s try to get me to cum
and I’m obviously distracted.
“You can take a look at them later.”

I close my eyes and tell myself that the reason I married this man
was because I didn’t have to worry about the things
bumping around in the back of my head, I force myself
to completely succumb to trust. I do trust him.
There are too many leaves in this book of mine
dedicated to past betrayals, heartbreak, denial, surprise
that being in this place, with this man,
is an unexpected happy ending, almost too good to be true.

Inhouse Mail

I’d find his letters to my mother in the most unexpected places
shoved under the mattress in their bedroom,
tucked between the desk and the wall
as if it had slipped and gotten stuck there,
sometimes, just lying out on the kitchen table, as if opened and read
just minutes before. I couldn’t help read them, because I was a kid
and I just read everything, I was a snoop.

From those letters,
I learned that all of their hand-holding in public,
the proclamations of love,
it was all a lie. It was a fantastic performance.

Years later, when my sister started drafting her suicide notes
she also would leave them in unexpected places,
half-written under her mattress, balled up in the trash can in our bedroom
folded up and stashed with her homework, shoved in the bottom of her purse.
Having learned already to accept all smiles and outward signs of happiness
as lies, the subsequent drafts never surprised me,

and, like the evolution of letters that led to my parents’ divorce,
the evolution of suicide notes into that last one
spread out on the coffee table, waiting for me
when I got home from school
barely needed reading, I already knew what it said.

Greasy

He goes out to the bar just so he can tell real women
all of the things that are wrong with them, point out
the dirt under their nails, their dried-out hair
the way half their lipstick is worn off after a couple of beers.
Because most women are conditioned to take such comments
as helpful instead of insulting, they just nod and smile
wonder why they aren’t even good enough
for this lonely slob at the bar.

When he gets bored of judging human women, he goes back home
to his apartment full of quiet sex dolls, all posed
in front of the television, which he left on for them
considerately. He doesn’t even bother getting a beer
when he comes home—he doesn’t need beer
to talk to these ladies. They already understand him
they already and always know just what he wants.

Holly Day’s poetry has recently appeared in Analog SF, Cardinal Sins, and New Plains Review, and her published books include Music Theory for Dummies and Music Composition for Dummies. She currently teaches classes at The Loft Literary Center in Minnesota, Hugo House in Washington, and The Muse Writers Center in Virginia.

Rus Khomutoff is a neo surrealist language poet from Brooklyn.

You can find more of Rus’ work here on Ink Pantry.

My mind’s a ribbon blue
Black hued parsley green
Ivy lead open
My further glance into
My Casanova smile
Delicacy lasts long
Old enough to fly
My cookies know that shape
Criss cross suburban South
Too ordinary for living
A motel of sky scrapers
Munich to Vienna
Topples into
Swimming nothing
My hats are over there
Hibiscus orange
Playing with fire
Rituals of ordinary ordinance
That shape still plunges
My mind’s a ribbon blue.

You can find more work by Sayani here on Ink Pantry.