I am no phoenix, whose resurrections can boast an infinitude. My heavily bombarded system has not attained any hardihood. Frayed are the nerves that have not been forged with steel, and no brakes have been installed on my constant tears.
I am no serpent, who can slough her aged skin. I cherish every wrinkle that maps my plighted years. I spew no poison at foes or peers. And I still nurse my deep-rooted fears.
Cartoons
“My life is a children’s cartoon,” he used to reiterate in a vehement voice, a bachelor whose name I fail to recall.
I think of his statement as an appropriate metaphor for my own complicated discourse, with Tom and Jerry as an adequate trope for my domestic turmoil, with Remi and Heidi, whom I used to adore, as tales of the orphaned, but who would grow into a world as callous as a whore.
Don’t bury my candles
Don’t bury my candles in the dunes of your sand. They’re bound to scorch your barefooted feats, your roaming beasts, your scarcities.
Don’t suffocate my candles with the debris of your sands. They’re bound to flare up in your fitful sleep to contaminate your dreams and submerge the residue of your sanities.
Don’t enshroud my candles with the palls of your sand. They’re bound to leave holes in your troubled discourse in your diffident pauses.
DrSusie Gharib is a graduate of the University of Strathclyde with a PhD on the work of D.H. Lawrence. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in Adelaide Literary Magazine, Green Hills Literary Lantern, A New Ulster, Crossways, The Curlew, The Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Ink Pantry, Mad Swirl, Miller’s Pond Poetry Magazine, and Down in the Dirt.
Susie’s first book (adapted for film), Classic Adaptations, includes Charlotte Bronte’s Villette, Virginia Woolf’s The Waves, and D.H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover.
You can find more of Susie’s work here on Ink Pantry.
a hollow, deep, and wide, Amnesia took all bit by, no latest in my thoughts, sounds bloom like delicate petals, never do they depart, but chase and cherish tranquility.
Twilight
Star clusters under pool of visions Side by side at twilight, murmurs under Sparks cloud their route, gusts push back Waves in their calm basin, space grows
Beneath
Here, where earth and art intertwine, a mosaic of blues, greens, and reds, light moves through them, alive.
Golden spires, sharp and towering, pierce the sky, casting shadows that dance along green surrounding trees. On another side, long, slender stalks of deep blue glass emerge from the soil, stretching in thin, elegant lines
Beneath the vast glass dome, flowers bloom in pink and violet, mingling with the orange and red tendrils that curl and arc, wild and free, where boundaries blur and blend.
Here, where I stand beneath a canopy of glass, a man demonstrates an ancient craft of glassmaking, as a searing, molten orb turns to a sculpted form, glowing with the intense heat of its transformation.
Jennifer Choi is a passionate high school student whose love for poetry began at an early age. She finds inspiration in exploring themes of identity, love, and the complexities of the human experience through her writing. Jennifer aspires to connect with others through her poetry and hopes to contribute her voice to the literary community.
On Martin Street, the bakery still stands Its signature blue door faded by years of sun and rain Joe’s Bakery, established in 1976 But the scent of sweet bread stays the same, Wafting around the block every morning The baker, Joe, still works the ovens While his son now runs the register He greets every face like a friend Knowing orders before they are spoken “Two croissants and a coffee, right?”
Down the street, the new building stands Casting long shadows over the Han River Park, Where kids once played under the blazing sun until dusk Now the light reflects off of sharp angles of glass A reminder of a world of speed and progress
I overhear a woman at the benches, Talking to her friend about the latest development “They’re building luxury townhouses next door. Where will we go? We’ve been here for years. They say the rent’s going up again.” Her toddler, oblivious, chases pigeons and plays tag Laughing, not noticing the changes around him
In the market on the corner, there is always a warm hello The grandmas in white aprons Sell vegetables and produce. They gossip with each other like always. They know who has gotten married, Who has gotten a new job, And who has had a hard time “Did you hear about the old bath house?’ she asks “They’re tearing it down next month. What a shame, It’s been there for years. They’re putting some kind of pilates gym, As if we need more of those..” I nod, remembering the days at the bathhouse When my mom would carry me inside Because I would throw tantrums to not go inside.
Change drifts in quietly at first A new shop, a different face on the block. Then suddenly, it’s everywhere— The electric scooters lined up by the curb, The sleek cafés replacing old corner stores, And yet, amid the shift, some things stay steady Mr. Kim, still in his pajamas, Sweeps the sidewalk in front of his grocery store every morning
But the passing of time is overwhelming The familiar faces that fade with time, Replaced by new ones who don’t nod hello The mural on Third Street, where we all came together To put a piece of ourselves forever into the neighborhood Is now a blank wall, soon to be part of a parking lot As i observe this place, Where I have lived all my life, I notice the changes that are both unsettling and inevitable
Still, there is one constant on Martin Street The bench in the playground Where the paint is chipped, and the wood is worn
He is not lost
In the city, he walks. No destination in mind, Open to the world around him
Children laugh and chase, Street vendors call out Buildings built like a maze
His steps are aimless but deliberate. Each glance adds to his curiosity.
He doesn’t seek a path to follow But finds wonder in the chaos, Wandering and randomness He is not lost in this journey
Things We Carried
This is where a stray cat pooped on the field Everyone avoids sitting near it Because of the smell
These are the bleachers where everyone sat Where girls gossiped, Hiding from the sun
This is the bean bag That everyone would fight over Wrestling for a chance of comfort
This is the pencil that I always lost Finding it in between couch cushions And randomly on the ground
This is the pond everyone would stop at To gaze at orange and white koi fish And the frogs jumping around
These are the pinnies. That everyone hated Because they were rarely washed And smelled like sweat
Katie Hong is a middle school student based in Seoul, South Korea, whose love for poetry is surpassed only by her passion for baking and spending time with her puppy, Loki. With a gift for words and a keen eye for detail, Katie weaves intricate tapestries of emotion and imagery in her poetry, inviting readers to embark on self-discovery and introspection. When she’s not immersed in the world of poetry, Katie can be found in the kitchen, experimenting with flavors and textures to create delicious treats that delight the senses. With a zest for life and a boundless imagination, Katie is committed to sharing her voice with the world and making a meaningful impact through her writing.
i have walked these streets so long reality filtered into pixels. sometimes i wish the world were a carousel, lagging behind the changes trying to hold onto its unblemished beauty we want to preserve its soul to watch old streets transform into new dreams we want to be a part of this city
Garden
this is undignified, this sprawl, this teetering stack, these beautiful flowers are creased, the windows are blocked, the laundry is clean, i swear. i am clean, i swear. just tired, just waiting. i am a pile of me’s and it’s getting mixed up and a little wrinkly and if this goes on much longer none of the me’s will pair with the good jeans and then who will clean the garden?
and frankly i’ve been nauseous all summer. maybe it was a premonition, some light foreshadowing, i was dry heaving my way to now, a threat building, like morning sickness, only i’m giving birth to a real monster of a crisis, one i certainly did not want.
it’s much easier to use my laundry as a metaphor, because i cannot pick up my selves and fold them into a poem. but i should put the pile away and dry them outside, shouldn’t i?
Our Car is Totalled
There are no rental cars available. The closest hotel is a 30 minute drive from This exit.
i want to go home. if we take this exit, we’ll be home in like 20 minutes. is that okay? my head presses against the forest green pillow.
We get out of the car. Shorts. I have shorts on. mom, i’m cold.
She hands me sweatpants. Blood drips down her nose.
she looks fine. why does mom have blood all over her nose?
We don’t know where the tissues went. There’s no other car like ours. What happened?
you need someone to call the police? yes. i don’t know who’s talking. mom, what happened? i ran over a deer. is it okay? no, it’s dead. it died.
Nobody sounds normal. Mom sounds weird. The deer is dead. That’s the saddest part.
Sigrid Kim is a student attending a high school in Virginia, where she actively engages in writing, drawing, and caring for her two beloved dogs, Oliver and Cooper. In preparation for her future academic endeavours, she is currently assembling her portfolio and has recently secured admission to Juniper’s Young Writers Camp and Sewanee.
Love, we stumble and shout, Though we act like rivals, We trip over joy, giggle, In the end, we realize, Aren’t we a joyful mess?
We Yell
love, we yell and hoot, jumbled up, all about now, who knew we’d bond everyday?
debate on top, no claim, a title, yet we win, all of it, no fight?
wild, loud fights, we laugh we find a way, laugh, so, who needed peace anyway?
though we act like foe, family feed me well, too, ain’t love but a fête?
in the end, we know, with love and tangled path, ain’t we a happy muddle?
love, we yell and hoot, though we act like foes, we find a way, laugh, in the end, we know, ain’t we a happy muddle?
Heartbreak Anniversary
Balloons once vibrant now sag in despair— Are we mere whispers in desolate air, Deflated joys linger; Guess the revelry was a mirage in the night, They promised—now absent from sight. Look around—solitude’s grip is tight. Lifeless echoes of mirth that never was real, Like spectres of a friendship, no warmth to feel. Me, alone, with the deflated balloons forlorn appeal.
JK Kim is an ambitious student at Virginia Episcopal School in Lynchburg, VA. His interests lie in creative writing, particularly in short stories and poetry. During his free time, he enjoys playing golf and pursuing photography as a means of expression and inspiration.
The mint-painted walls peel And flower with Expo marker Like fish, we flood the hallways Schools of puny power The tank runs out of oxygen, And we float up for gasps of air But gills are meant for water
Second Chances
I’ve gotten, I know, Another thousand chances. But on most days I breathe better, I’m still holding on for life. Sometimes God should give us more time.
Salad Without Dressing
Only you and I nibble on the salad. Our sweat drips onto the napkin. It leaves a salty trail. The vegetables look so vibrant on the platter, It paints over your pain.
Olivia Park is a high school student who loves storytelling. She enjoys writing poetry, short stories, and essays that explore themes of identity and the human experience. Olivia has been recognized in school literary magazines and local competitions. When not writing, she finds inspiration in art, music, and nature.
The autumn colour warmth needs to be reprogrammed. The approaching winter equinox dictates recipes for hearty soup connection. Grey chill skies demand a closeness absent in the other seasons. Soon depth of winter will encapsulate and the coding must be secure.
Prehistoric Allure
I am going back to the caves. The cool dolomite calls me. Autumn is a good time to go. There’s a freshness in the breeze and it is too early for the bears. I need the Native American paintings especially the one of the man and woman cooking over the stone-ringed fire. Last year while hiking, we found them. I know you remember. Love was strong then and promises held so much hope.
No One To Hold Tonight
Most of the time after a hard harvest, it simmers and spills over like some neglected Marina sauce with dried red splotches staining aluminum until the need for the through scrubbing clean up.
But tonight like a scalding broth falling from the stove, without logic or intent, it just spews. And the residue is everywhere.
R. Gerry Fabian is an published poet from Doylestown, PA. He has published five books of poetry: Parallels, Coming Out Of The Atlantic, Electronic Forecasts,Wildflower Women, Pilfered Circadian Rhythm as well as his poetry baseball book, Ball On The Mound. In addition, he has published five novels: Getting Lucky (The Story), Memphis Masquerade, Seventh Sense, Ghost Girl and Just Out Of Reach.
You can find more of Gerry’s work here on Ink Pantry.
My house-mate’s wallet was full of cash when he threw it at the sliding sash, busting a hole, fragmenting everything with the glass.
Colder and colder draughts of Wednesday morning ricocheted in a strumming bass thudding in with the glass.
The false gold halos of coins winked and plashed at our feet burying into the shag-pile carpet’s tufts, permeating the room, needling it with glass.
We pulled blunt edged pounds, two and ten pence pieces out from beneath the sofa and attempted vacuuming the glass.
He didn’t say anything much after that and I moved on a few months later. The window between us becoming a crevasse shattering with glass.
The cellophane we stretched over the break frayed into thin and thinner slivers like my memory of what we had sliding into a vanishing glass.
That apartment was in roughly in the middle of town, now cars rush where we once slept in the room still cracking with glass.
Vote
Can one mark matter? Can one X be a kiss and affirmation crossing lips or a voting box? Can one mark matter? Can one X change thoughts, score the path people fix do lives hinge on one decision? Can one mark matter? Can one X be a kiss and affirmation?
Fear is a Common Denominator
Stumbling through 5.30 AM and clasping a Tupperware container – instead of sleeping – I am saving a mouse
from my cats. It hunches, shivering amongst looming furniture fright’s seeds germinating beneath its fur scrabbling against the carpet.
I can’t tell it the domed plastic box isn’t a steel trap where air will expire spent breaths as blood filled chokes or that the day will not vomit scratched-up pain
I can only show it open alley-ways mazing behind the street and let it run from me back to dank undergrowth.
Jenny is a working mum and writes whenever she can amid the fun and chaos of family life. Her poetry is published in several printed anthologies, magazines and online poetry sites. Jenny lives in London with her husband, two children and two very lovely, crazy cats. You can read more of her poems at her website.
You can find more of Jenny’s work here on Ink Pantry.
I can feel you still ‘smiling’ when I (briefly) look away … and you caught my faint ‘stammer’ inside your delicate mouth whilst I was explaining the way my ‘insides’ dislodge and fall… the very moment you awake … and we conspire over re-introductional kisses … to neither dim ‘Trouble’ nor hide from its … cRoOkEd pathway… through the topsy-turvy Day.
He Killed Everything In His Garden ~ the short story which accidentally turned into a poem ~
Fingertips (slightly) bouncing off piano keys a-tremble at the edge of my nerves … and the morning blackbirds look the way double bass strings sound with arco… melting away heavy rainfall.
Sorry, I got distracted again … here’s your chance to do your jigsaw thingy and fit an ‘imagery embrace’ snuggled right up into my meandering thoughts. What I like about you best is that when I show you my ‘nice side’ … you instantly reciprocate, rather than… ‘Menu-Browse’.
“… Is the ‘Finger-walking’ cryptic?” Pausing to answer deflates MOMENTUM … work it out yourself or stay confused… my involvement stops. “You’re mistaking ‘Garrotting’ for ‘Disembowelling’… is it Lucy? Cool, send her my love. It’s sort of like ‘Lexical-Gustatory Synaesthesia’… I can taste the smell of old lady beggar hands which have been re-counting pennies whilst clumsily drinking Styrofoam cupped tea… whenever she says the word ‘Cuddle’… any other female and it tastes like cherries, or cake dough. No-no, I absolutely insist … you take ‘All of this/that’… I’m quite content with the Doorway.”
Top-heavy Indian Summer
I’m busy, psychically pebble-skimming the late afternoon … rippling pockets of peace and quiet with my curiosity and sideways view. I’m not, exactly, intruding, more observing with outside-the-box perception. Dipping my inquisitive toe into the rhythmic pond water which dwells in-between what’s yet to be said … in answer… to what has already been spoken.
To The Root
The excavation was a lengthy operation, to say the least. The emotional support beams buckled daily. Each cavern grew smaller in size… as the throbbing pulse drew her down deeper. There was a waterfall of thought, halfway in, where a dim glow, I shan’t call it a light, radiated melancholia, and a strange, eerie, out-of-tune melody strangled itself, over and over again, to the background drumming heartbeat. The shelf of regret, just below, was unstable to both foot and hand holds, and the moths of vertigo face-fluttered in demented, blinding, fury. At the very bottom, she found the essence of herself, at last… rocking back-and-fore, upon the floor of a hut made of the bones of memory. Cradling a snake to her breast, which emanated a beacon of false hope, whilst at the very same time, devouring twice the prize it was deceptively giving.
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, flash fiction and short stories published in hundreds of publications all around the world. He yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.
His novel “Crazy Like Emotion”, short story collection “Kicking Back Drunk ‘Round The Candletree Graves” and poetry collection “The Dark Side Of British Poetry” are all available from Close To The Bone Publishing.
Alice was not expecting any adventures. She was just going to Slumberland. She was after a new mattress because she wanted to get a good night’s rest. The old mattress had lumps in it and the springs and coils within its interior had given her more than a few sleepless nights.
Getting to Slumberland was fairly straight forward even though it entailed a fair amount of walking from the bus stop. It was one of those places that was just outside of town in a big retail park. She stopped to check the street atlas every so often to make sure she was not taking a wrong turn. On one of these occasions, just as she was folding away the map her attention was distracted by the sudden appearance of a white rabbit wearing a waistcoat. It was a lovely rabbit and it reminded her of her childhood. Spotting a white rabbit in your path was supposed to bring you good luck and urge you on toward new beginnings. The rabbit spent some time looking at her with its whiskers twitching. She assumed it must be somebody’s pet that had escaped from the confines of its hutch. She looked around but there was no one else there. The rabbit turned on its heels and bounded off but then it came back to her feet again. What was it trying to tell her? The next time it bounded off she decided to follow it. As it happened, the rabbit did her a favour because it led her down a ginnel which brought her out right opposite the entrance to the retail park. In other words, it had shown her a shortcut to Slumberland.
‘Thank you, rabbit’ she said and then hoped that nobody had heard her, except the rabbit of course. An adult caught talking to a rabbit would look a bit odd, she thought, but the rabbit seemed pleased to have been of help to her and bounded back the way it had come.
For some reason she had difficulty getting through the revolving door at the entrance to the store. It was not that she was large, it was more to do with the doors being small. After a great effort, she managed to hold herself in and walk through the door.
Once she was in the store, she was greeted with a plethora of beds. There were bunk beds, ottoman beds, divan beds, guest beds, sofa beds, day beds, beds of all sizes that were just waiting for her to try them all out. The same could be said of the vast range of mattresses: hybrid, spring, foam and queen mattresses all seemed to vie for her attention. There was not a salesperson in sight. In fact, she seemed to be the only person in the store. After walking round the beds for a while and sitting on them to test them for their comfort, she settled for one of the queen beds, 60 x 84 inches which, according to the label, was for two people. It was certainly nice and roomy.
It was not long before she fell into a deep sleep. You might by now be thinking that she was as mad as a hatter. Who would walk into a store, sprawl across a bed fully clothed and fall asleep?
A lot of people seemed to come into the room which by now had turned into a milliner’s shop. Couples seemed to be mingling together in high spirits. She couldn’t see their faces but she could see their hats. Every one of them, despite being indoors, was wearing a hat. There was a man with a baseball cap with a rounded crown and a stiff, frontward-projecting bill who was handing a cup of tea to a woman in a bell-shaped hat from the Roaring Twenties. Someone who was wearing a fascinator made with feathers and flowers was pouring tea into a cup and passing it to a man in an Australian brand of bush hat. Two teenagers, one in a sun hat and another in a rain hat were conversing with one another in the corner. She couldn’t make out what they were saying but she wondered why one of them thought it was raining while the other one was enjoying being in the sunshine. The whole group erupted when a harlequin appeared in a brightly-coloured, conical party hat emblazoned with patterns and messages. He seemed to be inciting them to throw custard pies at each other. To Alice’s amazement, everyone ransacked the tables and started hurling cake crumbs, cherries and whipped cream at each other’s faces. It was absolute bedlam but nobody seemed to mind at all. It was a complete free for all. Even the gentleman in the bowler hat from Lock’s of St. James’s was joining in and seemed to take great delight when he succeeded in knocking his acquaintance’s top hat straight off his head. A woman in a pill box started to bombard her friend with fruit which finally dislodged her peach basket dashing it to the ground. A boy in a beanie was shivering in the corner, trying to stave off the cold. A long-legged girl in a flat-topped straw hat was strolling through the proceedings as if she were at a regatta. It was all most extraordinary.
Dreams are, of course, quite illogical.
*
In the next room, Alice found herself in maternity. The midwife was urging the Duchess to push.
‘Push hard,’ she said, ‘you can do it.’
The Duchess was not so sure. She thought that she was too posh to push.
‘Keep pushing,’ the midwife exhorted, ‘you’re almost there now.’
All this, despite the unbearable pain.
Eventually the pig appeared with all its trotters intact. It squealed and squealed and squealed.
‘Oh what a lovely piggy you are,’ cooed the Duchess, as the midwife handed her the pig.
‘There, that wasn’t so difficult was it?’ said the midwife.
Alice was shocked but everyone else seemed to think that this was perfectly normal.
*
Out on the croquet lawn, everything seemed to be fine.
‘At least it’s a mallet and not a flamingo,’ she said.
‘Not a what?’ said her friend.
Alice looked embarrassed. Where did the flamingo come from? She clearly wasn’t thinking straight. A mallet was nothing like a flamingo. You could strike a croquet ball hard with a mallet. A flamingo would just get in the way strutting round the hoops with its long pink legs. How absurd would that be?
‘A mallet is a mallet is a mallet’ she said, much to the growing consternation of her friend.
‘You’re talking gobbledygook,’ she said, ‘or was that jabberwocky?’
Either way, they both knew it was not plain English.
There was something wrong with the object she was trying to hit. Yes, it was round like a ball, but it appeared to be curled in on itself and its surface, far from being smooth, was quite spiky. She didn’t want to pick it up because its spines were sharp and looked as if they would draw blood.
‘That’s not a ball, that’s a hedgehog’ she said.
‘What on earth are you talking about?’ said her friend.
‘How did that get here?’ asked Alice.
She looked in horror as her friend whacked the hedgehog with her mallet. It was a gentle whack, of course, more like a tap really, because this was croquet, not golf. Alice felt for the hedgehog.
‘Hitting hedgehogs is wrong,’ she said, as if pronouncing some sort of official announcement. ‘There must be a rule about this. Anyone found hitting a hedgehog…’
‘What are you talking about?’ said her friend, ‘that isn’t a hedgehog, it’s a croquet ball.’
Alice peered closer. Her friend was right. It was indeed a croquet ball.
The white rabbit, who had been watching the proceedings from the long grass, chuckled to himself. It was all so highly amusing.
*
When Alice woke up she was surprised to see that she was still in Slumberland. Several customers were looking at her and talking among themselves. Flustered, she got up, smoothed down her skirt and walked over to the payment desk.
‘I’ll have the queen mattress,’ she said.
‘Very well, madam,’ said the floor assistant. ‘There’s no charge for delivery. Will you be paying by card?’
‘Yes,’ she said, and pulled out the Joker.
‘I’m afraid we can’t accept that,’ he said, ‘but we’ll take the Queen of Hearts.’
Just as she was leaving, she noticed the name badge on his lapel. It said LEWIS CARROLL.
Neil Leadbeater was born and brought up in Wolverhampton, England. He was educated at Repton and is an English graduate from the University of London. He now resides in Edinburgh, Scotland. His short stories, articles and poems have been published widely in anthologies and journals both at home and abroad. His publications include Librettos for the Black Madonna (White Adder Press, 2011); The Loveliest Vein of Our Lives (Poetry Space, 2014), Finding the River Horse (Littoral Press, 2017), Punching Cork Stoppers (Original Plus, 2018) River Hoard (Cyberwit.net, Allahabad, India, 2019), Reading Between the Lines (Littoral Press, 2020) and Journeys in Europe (co-authored with Monica Manolachi) (Editura Bifrost , Bucharest, Romania, 2022). His work has been translated into several languages. He is a member of the Federation of Writers Scotland and he is a regular reviewer for several journals including Quill & Parchment (USA), The Halo-Halo Review (USA), Write Out Loud (UK) and The Poet (UK). His many and varied interests embrace most aspects of the arts and, on winter evenings, he enjoys the challenge of getting to grips with ancient, medieval and modern languages.
You can find more of Neil’s work here on Ink Pantry.
