I didn’t know you but I’d seen the photos in Hello, believed in the bloom of your body next to your sons’ downy skin.
I breathed the fragrance of your motherhood as you exalted breast feeding on This Morning and silenced Katie Hopkins.
I loved the sassy, savvy, baby-toting grace of you though sleepless nights shadowed your cheekbones and I ached to hug you the way
I’d hugged my daughter five years earlier; wanted to walk your boys around the park while you chilled on the sofa with a tub of chocolate Haagen-Dazs.
I thought you’d make it despite the bitter-sweetness of your last Instagram post- you in your Mum’s arms when she was still golden.
I didn’t know you but I couldn’t believe you’d return to familiar ghosts, lift the lid to your heroin stash and reach inside.
Sheila Jacob was born and raised in Birmingham and lives with her husband in N.E.Wales. Since 2013 she’s had poems published in various U.K. magazines and webzines including One Hand Clapping and Atrium. In 2019 she self-published a small pamphlet of poems about her father’s short life and working-class upbringing.
When we would go home for Christmas, It was to my mother’s town, Where I was the cousin with the Yankee accent, Who didn’t like grits: A gentle, Southern place: Gracious lawns, winding drives In our grandfather’s Buick, past the golf course.
I see a dim American past, parts best forgotten: Cedar Christmas trees, trackless trolleys, Water fountains “For Coloured Only”, Maids summoned from the kitchen with a bell, Bearing trays of puffy rolls.
Christmas would be over and we’d go back north, New toys stored away, my mother crying.
Metairie 1977
A child’s Christmas in Metry We called it then, Until our girls, teachers’ kids, would catch on. A plumbing contractor Lavishes new wealth To display for children and parents Along the sidewalks of a subdivision The lights, the moving creatures of Christmas: In one room, Santa’s helpers, In another, an animated crêche: He watches, approving yet sullen, Dimly seen behind the picture window.
It does not matter that his home is darkened now, That other families Who did not live in Metairie then Now drive by another spectacle All the more preposterous Further up the same street: Thousands of lights blinking, Reindeer, elves, angels, God knows what, A parish policeman sourly chants: Keep moving, keep moving.
Shreveport 1982
A downtown church on Christmas eve, Well loved, well cared for, Worshippers in fine clothes crowd together In the old walnut pews– it is too warm for furs: Married daughters, handsome nephews In from Houston, people we do not know: Of all the places one could be this night, As lonely as any bus station or manger. But there is this: The particular tears of Christmas, The precise fragrances, the harmonies That make it palpable, That release memory’s stubborn catch Differ for us each And for every home far from home. I hear the sound, thin and sweet, O Holy Night, Scored for the voices of teenaged girls, The white light of candles Dancing on their faces.
Cedar Trees
Christmas night: A potato-casserole weariness Settles in upon the land. We are ankle-deep in tissue, Love and Lego, Lists of who gave what to whom, And I am wondering what became Of those cedar trees We would cut and trim Christmases ago, Those trips to my mother’s home, The grits, the black-eyed peas, the puffy rolls. Cedars gave way to Scotch pines, then to Fraser firs that fill a room.
Years later two cedars grow Outside the door, wider and taller, With strings of white lights That do not reach as high As last year, Unmindful of the sacrifices Of their forebears.
The Day After Christmas
Tree smaller this year, Lights burned out, Not replaced. Garbage can only half full The day after Christmas: Children grown, gone.
Christmas Night 2007
There are twelve of us for Christmas, Three generations, ours the oldest. A benign weariness: Food and gifts, family jokes and tales, Small stresses let quietly pass. Cousins cavort, careen, compete. Our daughters, friends too, consider vegetables; Their husbands assemble a soccer goal While the gravy cools. As we are leaving, I think I see Traces of a tear on Julie’s cheek; Her smile lingers, quiet, faintly moist.
Robert Demaree is the author of four book-length collections of poems, including Other Ladders published in 2017 by Beech River Books. His poems have received first place in competitions sponsored by the Poetry Society of New Hampshire and the Burlington Writers Club. He is a retired school administrator with ties to North Carolina, Pennsylvania and New Hampshire. Bob’s poems have appeared in over 150 periodicals including Cold Mountain Review and Louisville Review.
You can find more of Bob’s poems here on Ink Pantry.
The world was covered in the gloom Of swirling snow. A candle glowed in the room, A candle glowed. Like summer insects swarm to flame In buzzing clouds, The snowflakes at windowpanes Would thickly crowd. The blizzard painted icy plumes In frozen rows. A candle glowed in the room, A candle glowed. And on the ceiling, now dim The light was tossing The shadows of hands and limbs – In fateful crosses. The cloth would slide, the bed would creak, Light shoes fall down. The candle’s waxy tears streaked Her cast-off gown. The winter scattered its white bloom On high and low. A candle glowed in the room, A candle glowed. Temptation readied its hot sting -The candle burning – And crossed above its angel wings Aflame with yearning. All February fell the gloom Of swirling snow. And then the candle lit the room, The candle glowed
Inky judge Andrew D Williams writes: A poem apparently inspired by Boris Pasternak’s “A Winter’s Night”, and likewise focused on a candle glowing in the February night as two lovers surrender to their passions. Yuri and Lara find something between them that neither has found in their unhappy marriages – yet the cold indifference of the world will snuff out that candle all too soon.
Rachel Cohen practices law in Canada, and says that writing is an inoffensive hobby.
Andrew D Williams writes psychological thrillers with a streak of dark humour. His stories question the nature of reality and those beliefs we hold most dear – who we are, what we think is true, whether we can trust our own minds – and combine elements of science fiction with philosophical questions. When he isn’t writing, Andrew’s time is split between swearing at computers, the occasional run and serving as one of the cat’s human slaves. You can find more of Andrew’s work here on Ink Pantry.
A dark leaf runs, toyed by a winter’s wind, away from my grasp towards the train and my father’s body bent on the track.
In the dim room, I recall only scents of candle smoke, and notes of fruit wood, a melody which winds like cotton, around my wrists, to touch beautiful Lara, then flee ragged, a whip of time singing sparks, screaming steam from mourning breaks and shots of vodka that ricochet past Komarovsky like a snake of black bent on the track.
I huddle on my tram, which rattles like my old teeth, and again touch her memory which butterflies into words to write, to fly, to her lost grave and kiss that sorrow’d soil where my dark leaf lies on its broken back, with my father’s mistakes bent on the track.
Inky judge Andrew D Williams writes: A poem that touches on an early moment in the story, as Yuri’s father falls to his death from the train. The short lines echo the sound of the train on the track, while the images and events flash past. A train can only go where the rails will take it, and likewise Yuri’s life is a series of unfortunate events that he has little control over.
Mark Sheeky is a surrealist artist in paint, music, and writing. His poetry has moved on hugely in the past couple of years, partly by knowing more poets. Mark’s latest poetry book, The Burning Circus, was published in 2020 and includes a foreword by former Cheshire Poet Laureate, John Lindley. Marks’ book, 21st Century Surrealism, is a successful contemporary re-examination of the First Surrealist Manifesto. You can find more of Mark’s work here on Ink Pantry.
Andrew D Williams writes psychological thrillers with a streak of dark humour. His stories question the nature of reality and those beliefs we hold most dear – who we are, what we think is true, whether we can trust our own minds – and combine elements of science fiction with philosophical questions. When he isn’t writing, Andrew’s time is split between swearing at computers, the occasional run and serving as one of the cat’s human slaves. You can find more of Andrew’s work here on Ink Pantry.
When Roy first mentioned his bizarre idea of flight, we were sitting on the parapet wall on the roof of the community college building where he worked as a telephone operator (yes, it was back in those days) during the week and as a security guard on weekends. “What the fuck is a parapet wall,” he wanted to know when I used the English term for ledge. He said, “you mean the ledge?” We had a minor argument about it and I said “that’s what I was taught to call it.” In typical Roy fashion he settled the argument saying, “You are in fucking America. Speak American!”
I was drinking beer and he was drinking beer and smoking pot. He got up and started walking along the ledge with arms spread wide. He turned around and said, “If I jumped off the building now, I’m pretty sure I’ll start flying.” My hands had gotten clammy when he started walking on the ledge. When he talked about flying, my knees started knocking and I immediately got off the ledge. Laughing, he got off too.
That was Roy. He was short, sinewy, and steely tough. I have seen him lift a 300 pound engine with just his bare arms from under the hood of a car. And he was a wizard at fixing cars – foreign, domestic, no matter. We were first year engineering students at the local state college and he befriended me – a foreign student – for some reason. We did our assignments together either in his apartment or mine. I taught him thermal equilibrium and unit conversion and he taught me how to get class work done while drinking heavily and listening to loud music in the background.
Roy was, by turns, charming and crude. One evening we were at the local 7-11 picking up beer for the evening. As we were leaving, this highly attractive young girl pulled up in a black Corvette next to us. Noticing Roy, she flashed a sweet smile. Roy said to her, “What are you looking at? I won’t put my dick in your mouth.” The girl started crying and I pulled out of the parking lot fast as I could. I felt embarrassment, shame, guilt, anger. “What the fuck did you do that for?” I shouted and he simply laughed. Later, he admitted he was being a dick and promised he would make it up to her. He made it up to her by dating her. He had found her by following any black Corvette he saw on the road until he found the right one. He put on his best clothes, brushed his flowy blonde hair and waited outside her workplace. She tried to avoid him but he caught up with her and told her that he showed up just to say how sorry and ashamed he was for what he had said in his drunken state. A couple of days later, he showed up again and saw her this time with another woman, a colleague, maybe a friend. He could hear the other woman ask, “do you know that loser?” and saw the two of them walk away laughing at him. A week later, she smiled as she walked past him. A month later, they started dating.
After Wendy came into his life, Roy lost all interest in school and I saw him less and less. Both Wendy and I tried to convince him he should pursue his degree in engineering, but he was adamant in his belief that the professors were all morons and he knew more about engineering than any of them did. I tried telling him knowing auto mechanics is not the same as knowing engineering, but he knew better.
Although he gave up education, he didn’t give up alcohol, pot or hard drugs. Wendy began losing interest and soon found another guy – someone from work, one of the white collar types. One day, Roy stopped by my apartment looking a total wreck. But he claimed he felt happier than ever because he was freer than ever. No school work, no work work, no girlfriend bullshit. He was thoroughly enjoying his primeval glory.
A month later, I got a call from Wendy saying Roy had jumped off a building and killed himself. But only I knew he didn’t kill himself. It was his first (and last) attempt at flight.
Balu Swami is a new writer. One of his pieces is in Flash Fiction North.
Many thanks to all you creative Inksters who submitted. Amazing! 90 international submissions.
Results are in! Congratulations to our winners.
A note from our judge, Claire Faulkner…
After reading, and re-reading and then reading again, I’ve finally managed to select three poems. It was difficult to pick an overall winner. It’s not easy being a judge in a poetry competition, and I would like to thank everyone who entered for sharing and trusting their work with me.
I enjoyed reading all the entries and it has been wonderful to see how the theme of Krampus has inspired so many different types of writing styles and structure.
OUR WINNER: Krampusnacht by Amy Cresswell
Our tale takes place on December the Fifth, On a suitably freezing cold night, With a creature you’ve heard of, from olden day myth, Eyes aglow with malevolent light.
The snow is disturbed by his cloven footsteps, His grey beard, all matted and long, Swishes as he stalks past the darkened doorsteps, To the houses of those who’ve done wrong.
A red hooded cloak covers up his horned head, Fur trimmed, just like old Saint Nick’s, His first victim, cowering under her bed, Gets a swipe with his great birchwood stick.
The next, vainly dreaming of presents and sweets, Hears the deafening clanking of chains, Downstairs, not Saint Nick, but Krampus he meets, And the blood freezes inside his veins.
The third, hoping for a bit of good luck, Squares his shoulders, prepares to attack, But Krampus’s claw swiftly snatches him up, And then bundles him into his sack.
Just like this it continues, and when dawn draws near, He retreats, a full bag on his back, Hurls the wicked children down to Hell for a year, Then enjoys an ice cold glass of Schnapps
I enjoyed the style and structure of this poem. I feel that it tells us everything we need to know about Krampus using fantastic storytelling and imagery.
HIGHLY COMMENDED:Krampusnacht (a triolet poem) by Tracy Davidson
On Krampusnacht, bad children quake as anti-Santa stalks the streets, cloven-hooved, with a chain to shake. On Krampusnacht, bad children quake and rue each sin and sad mistake, receiving swats instead of sweets. On Krampusnacht, bad children quake as anti-Santa stalks the streets.
A strong example of writing to a theme within a set form. One of the shorter entries, but still a story full of imagery.
HIGHLY COMMENDED: Krampus by Lel Meleyal
Krampus stole my grandchildren. No goat ever threatened my son. Just the mothers’ ally threat ‘Santa does not visit naughty children’ was enough, at least in December
Vienna is as beautiful as the girl Who captured my boy’s heart Who took him home To celebrate life, love and Christmas Held on the 24th December.
Which is not really Christmas Where my boy grew up But is where his boys now excitedly Hope for a visit from the Christkind And Saint Nicholas
My mince pies Do not meet the approval of Großmutter Anna Though I like her Lebkuchen. Thankfully, no-one likes carp.
The kids in accented giggles Call me Die Englische Großmutter When they tease my Yorkshire inability to ski. I ache for Granny, or Grandma Closeness cleft by air miles.
A different style and approach to the theme of Krampus, but one which captured my heart about the impact of myth in different lifestyles and cultures.
Angie Dribben’s poetry, essays, and reviews can be found or are forthcoming in Cave Wall, EcoTheo, Deep South, San Pedro River Review, Crab Creek Review, Crack the Spine, Cider Press, and others. A Bread Loaf alum, she is an MFA candidate at Randolph College. Everygirl, her first full-length collection, is due out 2021 from Main Street Rag.
Upon Waking by Angie Dribben
Once a wildebeest calf fell behind the herd fell prey to a spotted hyena who had fallen to instinct to survive or so we’re taught And it was hard to hear a mother’s child scream But I did not change the channel
And the mother stayed with her herd One glance back A single clockwise canter to witness her calf submit And then the mother walked away and it was hard to watch a mother walk away but I did not change the channel
and the hyena took the hindquarter, tore the calf at the hip leaving her untenable and the hyena drank from the wound of the calf and it was hard to watch one take what isn’t theirs
sometimes I dream I am wildebeest, when I wake, I am hyena and I cannot change the channel
Poet for Hire, Jena Kirkpatrick, is editor of the poetry anthology Writing for Positive Change for the Boys and Girls Clubs of Central Texas. Jena tours nationally as a member of the Trio of Poets. She writes poems for clients worldwide. Jena is an artist instructor for Badgerdog Literary Publishing. Her work in the classroom was featured in Teachers & Writers Magazine. Over the last three decades, she has self-published seven books, co-written, three multimedia performance art shows, competed in two National Poetry Slam competitions and released two poetry CDs.
I wish you love & happiness…I guess I wish you all the best by Jena Kirkpatrick
I wish you love & happiness…I guess I wish you all the best (John Prine)
who lost me first? was it God or Buddha or my ungrateful lack of worth –alone or together reflections on the past not sure how many tears I have left last night in a furious rage I actually said I was grateful you were already dead because that was one less person I love I’d have to worry about losing –who who lost me first? –you you lifted me up you always stuck around you never left my side –from the day I lost my child now we’ve got this virus screaming bloody fucking murder endless echoes of a tool pitting one against another over fences –on TV screens panic attacks forged by violent dreams spooning with a psychotic ventriloquist everyone is scared scribbling ridiculous lists who lost me first? was it Christ was it heaven or hell was it the ability to practice free will was it set forth as a precedent carved in stone by some ancient was is illicit drugs or sorcery some flaw in personality every precious moment is countered by adversity maybe there are answers in pollution or abuse or all the callous judgments we throw like seeds to sprout on this earth maybe we have babbled long enough repeated beatings for too long ignored are the hungry children the sick all too often pushed aside in favor of elitist when given the chance will we ever correct what’s wrong who lost me first? stay at home and sing on your marble terrace have your slaves bring you your breakfast revel in the thought that what you squander makes you
somehow eccentric your dirty money won’t save you you will die like the rest of us do who lost me first? I was lost to the trees to the wind to the stars on my knees praying for forgiveness since birth
yeah I knew love. love knew me. and when I walked love walked with me. but friends don’t know. they can only guess –how hard it is to wish you happiness
Michael Whalen has been a member of the Austin Poetry Slam Team, and coached two Austin Neo Soul Poetry Slam Teams and four Austin Youth Poetry Slam Teams. He’s edited numerous chapbooks by young poets, and released 1.5 of his own poetry chapbooks.
M L Woldman is a GED graduate with a heart full of fire. Founder of Austin Poets’ Union, poet and playwright. Author of three books and numerous publications. 5th generation Texas.
autumn by M L Woldman
the fire recedes from the sky and we know it’s autumn four months of autumn and eight months of summer that’s what we get now in texas i relish these months when dusty coats can find their place in circulation again and you can see your breath: making each exhalation a visual affirmation that you are alive i write this poem every year a love poem to autumn in the hopes that she might stick around a little longer this time it’s an exercise in diminishing returns because the sun won’t be happy until it swallows the world
Expect childish words from children and broken words from broken people. Only the lonely hope to hear from the small, the discontent. Expect nothing. The guest speaker favours keyholes and tiny spoons of breath-cooled soup.
I expect the impossible.
What does not exist never / continuously disappoints. It comes from the sky like lightning or a slash mark or the new fall / fall fashions. The guest speaker used the phrase “cash cow” so offhandedly that, for a moment, the audience imagined itself collecting lactations in golden buckets.
Doctor Moreau
I used to go back and forth. On Brando’s insane portrayal. Of Doctor Moreau. I used to wear eyeliner to class. Now I insist on wearing. My own ice bucket. And other people insist. On staying away. It’s a lovely day. On some other green planet.
There are miniatures and echoes. I used to blow soap bubbles. From the open third-floor window. When you didn’t want to do so alone. It’s kind of neat to think. About that thin line. Between saving the world. And acting like such a fuck-wad. That only the most broken. Among us respond to our efforts.
Glen Armstrong holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and teaches writing at Oakland University in Rochester, Michigan. He edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters and has three current books of poems: Invisible Histories, The New Vaudeville, and Midsummer. His work has appeared in Poetry Northwest, Conduit, and Cream City Review.
Dragging a sorry-ass body to the studio riddled with pain I see there up ahead a Yellow Tiger-Swallowtail flopping around on the pavement bizarrely like something convulsing or someone improvising or a body working through a choreography.
I know this isn’t normal I am intimate with this poet-butterfly – it has made me aware as I bend down and unfold the massive flopping wings I see there the Bald-faced Hornet beautiful and black terrible and white clutching the body with its desperate and powerful and elegant embrace locked in the same brutal struggle,
And I know this never intervene don’t do it don’t who knows which animal is more rare? who knows what is beauty really and what is life and what is death?
but I can’t help it I am exhausted and riddled with pain I pry them apart
and feel better watching them fly off in opposed direction.
Hummingbird
The gaggle of kids burst out the door and flush the hummingbird from the feeder smack into the glass.
I lift the small bird from its awkward contortion on the concrete stoop into the palm of my hand and breath again because it lived.
I smooth the feathers. The little bird straightens out blinks its tiny eyes and struggles a bit to breath. I dribble some sugar water in my palm since I had read somewhere that it is possible to starve again in flight.
And I wait there with it this bird this poet this perfect work of art whispering and humming because it makes me feel fine.
Until suddenly, miraculously it bursts from my palm! Ohhh… look at that! sweetheart look at that! It’s fine it’s fine! The kids gather together close the little girl squeals up there the bird the bird look! settling in the cedar fluttering its wings and then off! into the Honey Suckle to feed.
Gorget
She will always be powerful. Small girl with these runes tattooed up and down her arms her legs. Life’s flame humming and dreaming.
And, iridescent purple gorget feathers flare out around that being. See here she hovers over the mirror-shine of Cloud Lake’s gloaming delicate composite of delight despair.
While we all suspect she has departed as the storm still traverses that ridge see there I will always be powerful small flyer beats back turbulence dissipates our torment.
These poems are from Henry Stanton’s collection, Pain Rubble, published Holy & Intoxicated Press. Henry Stanton’s fiction, poetry and paintings appear in 2River, The A3 Review, Alien Buddha Press, Analog Submission Press, Avatar, The Baltimore City Paper, The Baltimore Sun Magazine, Black Petal Press, Cathexis Northwest Press, Chicago Record, Down in The Dirt, High Shelf Press, Holy & Intoxicated Press, Kestrel, North of Oxford, Outlaw Poetry, Paper & Ink Zine, The Paragon Press, PCC Inscape, Pindeldyboz, Ramingo!, Rust Belt Press, Rusty Truck, Salt & Syntax, SmokeLong Quarterly, Under The Bleachers, The William and Mary Review, Word Riot, The Write Launch and Yellow Mama, among other publications. His book of Short Stories, River of Sleep and Dreams, is due to be published by Alien Buddha Press in 2019. His book of poems, The Man Who Turned Stuff Off, is being published by Holy & Intoxicated Press in June 2019.
His poetry was selected for the A3 Review Poetry Prize and was shortlisted for the Eyewear 9th Fortnight Prize for Poetry. His fiction received an Honourable Mention acceptance for the Salt & Syntax Fiction Contest and was selected as a finalist for the Pen 2 Paper Annual Writing Contest.
A selection of Henry Stanton’s paintings, published fiction and poetry can be viewed at the following website. Henry is the Publisher of Uncollected Press and the Founding & Managing Editor of The Raw Art Review. Check out more of Henry’s poetry on Soundcloud.
You were an only child, weren’t you? The look on the face, The tone of voice, Assumption, condescension, accusation: That you are wrapped up in yourself, That you lurk on the edges of greed: A minority group Without advocates to lobby For our interests. Don’t tell me what I missed Having no siblings, What I never learned to do. There were advantages: We never lacked for books to read, And when the time came To attend to the frail and failing, Lay them to rest, We did it by ourselves.
Iconography
I spent the morning Trying to restore the Zoom icon To the home screen on my phone, Not an unlikely way For an 82-year-old to pass his time. The grandchildren are some help And know to resist eye-rolling. We got a Facebook account So we could watch the church service Online. We did not add pictures or information. We have not listed friends And do not know If anyone has listed us. Someone I think I might have known In Kiwanis Keeps wanting to add me to his LinkedIn list. We rely on Zoom in this strange time. People carry on about it But it suits me fine. I thought I had restored the icon To the home screen. That’s not quite true, But I can get to it now With only one extra click.
Downsizing
Favourite authors dropped off For the church book sale, The passing of a friend. Easier to part with: Those memos to the file, Notes on events Of interest to lawyers. We did not succeed: A storage shed, tight With boxes, whose labels Have lost meaning; Somewhere in there Green Depression Glass That did not sell on eBay, The Chelsea we bought for Caroline.
Robert Demaree is the author of four book-length collections of poems, including Other Ladders published in 2017 by Beech River Books. His poems have received first place in competitions sponsored by the Poetry Society of New Hampshire and the Burlington Writers Club. He is a retired school administrator with ties to North Carolina, Pennsylvania and New Hampshire. Bob’s poems have appeared in over 150 periodicals including Cold Mountain Review and Louisville Review.
You can find more of Bob’s poems here on Ink Pantry.
