In a thunder storm, the skies slowly darken. Thunder explosions fill the sound waves, first from a distance then closer and louder; closer and louder. Flashes of lightning paint jagged danger signs on the moving horizon. There is a drying sun coming if we can just be patient.
Anonymous Confidential
You permeate my heart like infectious nuclear pheromones. When you glisten from the sun, my olfactory balance overloads in knee bending compliance. Your arduous tease glances trigger kaleidoscope pulse sensations that shiver shake nerve endings. And as of this date, I don’t even know your name.
A Climatic Courtesan
whose cumulus cerulean eyes can scan simple calculated lies like soaking rain swept skies establish immediate sighs allows the moment to crystallize.
Her breath like the pace of sunrise arrives as a bold chromatic surprise. Her kiss, a sweetened dew disguise, holds my pursuit with no need for replies.
R. Gerry Fabian is a poet and novelist. He has published four books of his published poems, Parallels, Coming Out Of The Atlantic, Electronic Forecasts, and Ball On The Mound.
You can find more of Gerry’s work here on Ink Pantry.
Despite his friends’ warnings, he fell in love with a red-haired girl. He took his feelings outside in the open, beat up a kid who said she had cooties. And was suspended from high school for his troubles.
The red-haired girl is in tears is at the funeral of her grandmother. The old woman’s hair was also red before it went white. A kid was sent home for defending her honour. But the news hasn’t reached her yet. Besides, she’s moved beyond the awkward years. She’s staring at the end of life.
She Was Eighty Seven When She Died
There’s a walk-in closet It’s empty within. Stale perfume flutters out like the wings of a moth.
The four-poster bed leans to one side. The comforter is faded. The pillow cases yellowed.
A small cameo with a rusty pin rests on a lace doily atop a dressing table.
It’s watched over by a black and white photograph of a young woman in theatrical dress, her face half-bleached.
The room struggles to be who she was but the hug, the kiss on the cheek, are missing.
And more than that, it doesn’t even know I’m here.
Whatever Happened To Freeform Radio
Driving through the Midwest, I’m struggling to find a radio station that isn’t talkback, or isn’t programmed by accountants or country or religion or doesn’t play the same songs over and over.
But, on a straight road, across a flat land, every station is straight and flat.
On a Stretch of Arizona Highway
Behind the wheel, straight ahead, sixty miles an hour, I see myself there in the distance, as far as the heat haze that blurs the foot of the mountains, until, somewhere in that purple crag, I disappear completely.
The Carved Giraffe
Should I buy the carved giraffe? It will impress the folks back home that we have indeed been to Africa. And the workmanship is adequate.
Sure everyone in the marketplace is selling the same rhinos, elephants, buffalo and zebras.
But I don’t see the words ‘Made In China’ anywhere. And I did look. This really is African wood. So should I buy the carved giraffe? Two continents await my answer.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, Leaves On Pages and Memory Outside The Head, and Guest of Myself are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Ellipsis, Blueline and International Poetry Review.
You can find more of John’s work here on Ink Pantry.
I once lived in Sydney, the Venice of the very Far East, where boats glide on ancient waters that mirror a kaleidoscope of things, some yachts, aeroplanes and fairie dwellings, all basking in coves and bays of tranquility.
There was one particular bay I haunted that had a house so close to the beach with a wooden seat, where I sat fantasizing about being part of that unattainable idyll. My bedroom would be the one that faced the sea with the waves my lullaby every moon-lit evening. My eyes would greet the sea-born sun every sunrise and before it sets in, and all the shells that deck the sand would remain where they could inhale the brine of the deep, no holes to puncture their hearts, no strings to imprison, no roofs to cloister their singing.
When I was a child
When I was a child, I came to the rescue of ants by ferrying them across puddles on tree-leaf rafts, and prepared a funeral for those that perished in the aftermath of a storm that had no rainbow or a covenant-pact. One of my brother’s matchbox cars served as a hearse. Flowers were placed where a hole was dug and a solemn face served as a prayer for the newly interred.
When I was a child, every object I beheld instantly came to life. I was able to commune with stone and pine trees were my confidantes.
Because I could no understand the sky’s native tongue, she scribbled messages to me in the form of clouds, the alphabet of the skies, which I was able to imbibe.
The stars, the blessed souls of my departed pals, kept a watch over me and shed tears, falling lights, when I for the irretrievable pined.
Schooling and the religious establishment instructed me to strangle whatever beliefs I held before they became poisonous to my mind and faith. And when I could not prove to my friends that those objects were not inanimate, I intimated to them in later times that man was more capable of being insensate.
I dread the hour
I dread the hour when I shall learn of another inevitable betrayal to come in this never-ending, treason-driven turmoil.
It’s in the way you lower your furtive eyes, mobilize your lips to force a smile, then shuffle your feet to assemble a departure that evades the encounter, for the Judas kiss is not a part of this forecast.
I dread the hour when I shall feel your poison seeping into my veins like an invisible disease to contaminate my streams with the venomous filth of treachery.
Susie Gharib is a graduate of the University of Strathclyde with a Ph.D. 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.
Looking under the bed for what’s not there Dreaming of, climbing the Maypole Drinking juices of the Olive Press Kiss is the dark plot White Rose scent, passion silent wearing a Blindfold Making friends with a crying Robot Alabaster silent dark woman smile Violet stars but one, white star
Without half trying
Looms of sea moon light on Halloween Making friends without half trying to work Limp as a wet rag nobbling at her beer puzzler Turned up trousers and a white alabaster shirt Red stone nose rag old sloppy eyes guzzler Like holding water in her hand not dirt The moon sets before the clock’s muzzle
Pink Storm Kiss
Pink articulated lips, storm kiss of a Queen Double dark increasing vaster Moon Roses by a Bee was stung at noon Said over her shoulder drinking perfect caffeine Misty English steams of coffee from her canteen Tide sheeting the lows of the Blue Lagoon White rose ivory fur, sea cold eyes of a raccoon Deep velvet looms of sea on Halloween
Couth erg
Washed away somewhat Minitel scarcely mold Hostel forget-me-not Ireland’s west-ward cold Under illuminated spot Shriven Mass-old Couth erg irk not From out of the White Fire foothold
Yum Yum Gin
The Shepherd’s hour discipline Fliting Trip overhaul Sea-birds screaming at night fall Rhoda den feminine Penance for their broken chin Breathing slumbers snowfall Drunken women’s brawl Yum Yum Gin
Terry Brinkman has been painting for over forty five years. He started creating poems. He has five Amazon E- Books, also poems in Rue Scribe, Tiny Seed. Winamop, Snapdragon Journal, Poets Choice, Adelaide Magazine, Variant, the Writing Disorder, Ink Pantry, In Parentheses, Ariel Chat, New Ulster, Glove, and in Pamp-le-mousse, North Dakota Quarterly, Barzakh, Urban Arts, Wingless Dreamer, LKMNDS and Milk Carton Press.
You can find more of Terry’s work here on Ink Pantry.
She waits at the gate, a raven on her wrist. A wanton look lurks in her eye, though her lips have never kissed.
She bids the travellers follow, along the rutted track. She knows they will not falter and never once looks back
across the wide flat fields, where crows peck all around. The sky rides high and silent and sheaves of wheat lie bound.
She leads them to a cottage and opens wide the door. The travellers reach to touch her hand, but then are seen no more.
Slow The Dark Wind Blows
In the field a lone boy stands, a knot of thunder in each hand.
The cart comes rattling slowly. Slow the bone cart comes.
Cold lightning clenched behind his eyes, as in his head the wild geese fly.
The grey horse hobbles slowly. Slow the old horse groans.
The sky cracks wide, a dance of fire. His feet root deep into the mire.
The hanging air sways slowly. Slow as silent stones.
Lost voices twist his bitter tongue and will not heed the distant drum.
The dry dust rises slowly, and slow the dark wind blows.
Soon We Will Be Bones
Soon we will be bones. This robe of flesh will fade away, no more to dance in forests green, to taste the kiss of hidden streams, to wander lost in misted hills, to suffer fever, loss and ills – but still walk on
to lie again in languid sun, to feel the touch of sudden rain, caress the joy of other’s flesh; until at last all this is done and only bones lie quiet, alone.
Waiting For The Rain
We wait for the rain to stop falling. It came to us just before dawn. We wait for the first light of morning and the blackbirds to start up their song.
For here it must always be raining; the faces that pass pale and long, as if they all know nothing’s changing and no-one remembers the sun.
For my dear, we will always be waiting, now that the storm clouds have gone. In the courtyards and taverns we dance with abandon, then wait for the sweet rain to come.
her iron tongs grab frackers, drillers, extractors
by their stock options. She hammers hot metal
with the intensity of all the teenage Gretas
whose voices sere the ears of Wall Street financiers,
of politicians who ignore crackling ice, drowning
islands, dying phytoplankton, gasping seals.
At Kildare her flame burns bright with creation—scent
of hope fighting for breath even as carrion rules the day.
Killer whales’ whistles haunt the Irish sea, barn owls scream,
a school of herring darts under her wing.
Nan Lundeen has published poetry, fiction, and nonfiction at, among others: Atlanta Review, Connecticut River Review, Steam Ticket, Illuminations, Yemassee,ThePetigru Review, Evening Street Review, patheos.com, and U.K.’s Writing Magazine. The retired, award-winning journalist lives in southwestern Michigan and holds an M.A. from Western Michigan University.
You can bleed out in the heartland and never find a pulse, turning dials on odd contraptions that almost turn themselves, dustbowl feathers for the screeching Thunderbird of myth, this sorry welling of brackish bail water, silly corn maze competitions where no one ever wins and this homely bramble bush woman standing by a long-cracked window, her hair up like a personal laundry line, that lumpy oatmeal cold of an unshared bed, dripping faucet from adjoining bad breath hovel – falling out of love, out of tow job repo cars dragged out of this dying garden.
Commensurate
All this talk of proportions and not a single usable scale in sight; not coral-worn under the glance-a-lot sea nor forsaking this long grand laze across galloping lands – if I were a betting man, I would lose it all to the house and move in under an assumed name, charge everything to a room that is really just a view with mini bar, sit up on hind legs like a skiffle band of nerves and polyps; the tar for the feathers and everything gone birdie up, a tear in the awning so that you know nothing is on the mend: moth-eaten haberdashery, bumper car lisp, this dusty lint trap fire in waiting.
Bust of Revenge
Move the plaster around all you like – this bust of revenge, the hair falls away like everything else you never really had, the blood squawk of distant crows across cold winds, shake shake booty trees bare as coming into the world; force the hand, rub sleep from tireless eye, build cheekbones high as ever-prominent mountains, a valley cleft chin to sooth the sayers: show the sweat, no one ever sees the sweat involved, the wine of thinning lips, these many hours of compromise; build the man into a city you can call home, if only in the mind, count these many gardens that refuse to grow.
Quartz Parking Lot, Ontario Street
Just tiny pieces in the mix, but I find them, take my time as if making fluffernutter out of the marshmallow horizon, in that quartz parking lot of the Scotia Bank along Ontario Street, across from the Soliel Dental Center that overcharges for shoddy work, kicking stones against the curbing as old timers come and go, drive off in cars that will outlive them almost 2 to 1, the windows rolled down like dollar store parchment paper while I feel my belly for a tricky hunger, for growths that could be the end of me.
Getting Loose
Does the tiger lament its enclosure? You bet your stripes it does, but I’ve been getting loose for hours, this bottle here beside me like a tart purple warrior who couldn’t give two samurais what you think about swinging dicks in the field or anything else, the most obnoxious music the ears could find; you can keep your bloody date nights and company gas card, I can feel the great unwind; no filters, no fees… just this Joan Jett cherry bomb getting off as off as off!
Eye Flusher
Everybody knows about the careless man, how he throws himself around like a ledge jumper, a midnight automat leg pumper, every five-and-dime eye flusher dreaming fountains back into spout – I always wanted to die for as long as I can remember, never because of the dead, but rather this blotted untenanted living; that empty refrigerator way everyone slams the door, but never out of a serious lasting hunger… Don’t be so dramatic! says a handsome sandstorm of Ideaologues, but it has always been there, right behind the eyes like a bucket of stinking chum, like a building with a rooftop waiting for jumpers who bought what I always bought: that the inconvenienced store never stays open; those many long-haul miles the sleepy midnight truckers know so well.
Over the Hill
Just traversed, a simple cow town hill, more mound than Everest, really and stopping a few feet away on the other side I look back, not out of any misplaced sense of accomplishment, but simply to settle an unsteadied breathing; the affairs of the deceased stuck in probate, the living fighting over the dead as though no one wants to be stuck with the cost of the casket – if there was any love to be felt, I would want to feel it, standing on the other side of the precipice, hand on hips, watching the clouds in the sky and the sputtering rust wagon cars in traffic pass me by.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Ink Pantry, Impspired Magazine, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.
You can read more of Ryan’s work here on Ink Pantry.
Sit quietly apart. A server will approach wearing a red apron nothing else. Order champagne. The apostles dig it. Bubbles provide tingle that pass for euphoria, which in actuality comes later according to the imagistic. Bus your own table, be a nice fellow then depart.
Colin James has a couple of chapbooks of poetry published. Dreams Of The Really Annoying from Writing Knights Press and A Thoroughness Not Deprived of Absurdity from Piski’s Porch Press and a book of poems, Resisting Probability, from Sagging Meniscus Press. Formally from the UK, he now lives in Massachusetts.
Let’s us step into the dead-centre of some old country crossroads one hot and starry night, after drinking too much moon-shine and challenge the gods or ghosts of your ancestors to a fight just for something to do.
Let’s put the torch to the master’s crops tonight and call him out to his front porch and dare that old motherfucker to do something about it.
Let’s you and me put on our Sunday best, get some flowers and a heart-shaped box of candy and go a-courtin.’
You take Trouble and I’ll take Bad Luck, ‘cause Bad Luck is better than no luck and Trouble is just good fun.
All Throughout the Day
Steam is rising up from the newly laid tarmac on HWY D after a brief but intense summer thunder-shower this morning that came and went before the sun could even slip behind a cloud, and the radio is telling us to expect similar activity all throughout the day, and now it’s back to the music with Tommy James and the Shondells doing “Crimson and Clover” and I say hell yes to the prospects of both more Tommy James and the Shondells in all our lives as well as more sporadic bursts of thunder and lightning and rain while the sun continues to shine, brightly, throughout the day.
Meaner Than the Devil on a Slow Day
Hell, I read the good book, the Holy Bible, “the word of the Lord,” and
if there is a god like that and even half of that shit is halfway
true, then he’s a mean motherfucker, way meaner than the Devil, on
a slow day, even: one of those big types always answering “why” with
“because I said so, that’s why,” and it’s their way and no other, and they
want you doing what they say, when they say it, not what they do, not to
mention all the blood, floods, locusts and plagues, the rapes and the killing of
the first born male child and “if you don’t like it here, you can go to hell.”
The Buddha Comes to Belle, MO
I have only just recently noticed the old man sitting every
morning at the end of his half-mile gravel drive, just outside of town,
in a sort of sling seat he’s somehow managed to Jerry-rig on to his
walker, in which he will sit for hours, waving and smiling, in a sort
of blissed-out yet still serene Buddha kind of way at all the cars as
they roll in and out of town, until the mailman finally arrives
with his truck full of goodies, where it’s always hit or miss these days, and
then they’ll trade a few jokes and some local gossip and then he’ll shuffle
back to the house for lunch and a quick nap, we can safely imagine.
A Grand Old Time
Last night the moon made me get up from my kitchen table and my cracked bone china mug of herbal tea, put on my coat and my hat, walk out the back door and wander off into the hills to run with my wild cousins, the coyotes, through fields and backyards and gardens, howling, yipping and generally laughing it up, having a grand old time of it all, with no thoughts of tomorrow, when suddenly the sun began creeping up over the distant tree line and told us all to get on home.
Jason Ryberg is the author of fourteen books of poetry, six screenplays, a few short stories, a box full of folders, notebooks and scraps of paper that could one day be (loosely) construed as a novel, and, a couple of angry letters to various magazine and newspaper editors. He is currently an artist-in-residence at both The Prospero Institute of Disquieted P/o/e/t/i/c/s and the Osage Arts Community, and is an editor and designer at Spartan Books. His latest collection of poems is Are You Sure Kerouac Done It This Way!? (co-authored with John Dorsey, and Victor Clevenger, OAC Books, 2021). He lives part-time in Kansas City, MO with a rooster named Little Red and a billygoat named Giuseppe, and part-time somewhere in the Ozarks, near the Gasconade River, where there are also many strange and wonderful woodland critters.
Not known strains from eyes of green Tic pleasure of floral light Proceeded to the Jordan River at twilight Erin of Salt Lake Barges burning Kerosene Seismic disturbance brings the Nazarene She’s always a mass of ruins at daylight Violet atmosphere perturbation night Limb from limb drinking Caffeine
Sonnet CDLXVI
The sun was nearing the steeple that eve Under her clean shirt Tattoo of a Feather Old man who fished alone with a Tether Cheerful and undefeated to breath Nudging the door open with her knee to leave Dark lady and fair man wearing black leather Well so deep the bottom could not be better Wearing her snot green scrawled sleeve No two opinions on it lately Porters corner Red Bridge squelch Played Hopscotch there in Nineteen Eighty Beer with Erin’s belch Life begins with fishermen matai We went to Idaho to eat like the Welch
Sonnet CDLXIII
Faintly scented Urine of the Nile Running across the sweep of the wheel Boulders bones for my steeping stones kneel Gun Whale of a boat bit by a Crocodile Peekaboo molten pewter wrathful Dane Viking torch of Tomahawks Eel Stood pale silent during the meal White Rose Ivory vile Shrieked whistle thistle Tippet proper unattended risker Shadow lay over the rock brisker Darkness shining in the brightness missile Turned up trousers drinking Irish whiskey
Sonnet CDLXI
Vague loneliness of alibi Irish Face legendary beauty’s goal Lonely silence of the Tadpole Butt of Cigar smoking Bar-fly Vague loneliness she can’t deny Deep Velvet Azure through the Porthole Grim and aloof steel Maypole She whispered by the wind a lonely Lullaby Time stood still in these shoes Red Stone White Clay whirl Un-washed under car drinking her booze Mescal brooding silence with girl Like a burr sticking in a woman’s news Slope of sage thunder whittled Pearl
Terry Brinkman has been painting for over forty five years. He started creating poems. He has five Amazon E- Books, also poems in Rue Scribe, Tiny Seed. Winamop, Snapdragon Journal, Poets Choice, Adelaide Magazine, Variant, the Writing Disorder, Ink Pantry, In Parentheses, Ariel Chat, New Ulster, Glove, and in Pamp-le-mousse, North Dakota Quarterly, Barzakh, Urban Arts, Wingless Dreamer, LKMNDS and Milk Carton Press.
You can find more of Terry’s work here on Ink Pantry.
