Dirty Devil Soul

I called you angel
Almost from the beginning.
You were
No angel,
The winds through the trees
Have whispered to me,
You
Dirty devil soul
Driving me to the brink
Of abdicating
Some of
My most tender dreams.

I try to think of the
Possibilities of the new her
And smile
But I can’t because
You stole that ability
Along with my dignity
And the bulk of my faith,
My heart
Shattered

And now bloodless,
Sitting slumped
At the foot of
What was once
Our bed.

I will go home tonight,
Her voice on the phone
So fleet, so tender and so weary
Of the world.
Her cadence
Still in my mind,
I will

Open bottle after bottle
And imagine her body pressed to mine,
Her lips pursed and thirsty for mine,
Her ears opened and hungry
For the aural dance of my words.
I won’t think of you for more than a dry rustling
Moment.

Her eyes are there when I close them
And I suffer knowing I am
Without much hope,
Admitting my meritless existence
Would only erode her heart
Eventually
Like water on a stone
But maybe
Just maybe it’s different
This time.

Different than every
Other
Time.

I contemplate that
And I pretend her
And I smile
But because of you
It’s a smaller smile
And when I see it in the mirror
I call myself
A no good
Willful
Liar.

The Freedom of Dreams

Just in from the rain,
Hair dripping down,
Popping open a beer
And sitting in front of the window,
The darkened sky staring back,
Wet and tired
In a home that does not belong to me.

Beard wet with rain and sadness,
The night stalks on.
I close the blinds
And turn on the music,
Hoping the room will vibrate
With the clicking of the keyboard,
The filling of the virtual page
On the computer screen,
Knowing it probably won’t
But hoping anyway.

Begging for your love
Like a beggar begs for coins,
A waif begs for bread,
A homeless cur begs
To see another sun
As he shivers through another night
On the street.

Your love is a viola
From the hallway.
Your love is vines of crisp black hair
Pulling me toward the light.
Your love is tears on the page,
Blood on the cage,
The freedom of dreams,
The vast expanse of fantastical imagining.
Your love is your legs stretched out along the bed
As I caress them from top to bottom,
Knowing I have wanted them before I knew
You existed.

My heart bursts in the air
In spirals of sparks and colours
When you love me.
When you love me.
But now I am alone.

The rain picks up as the night carries on.
The beer is gone.
I fall naked to the bed
With my snarling mind
And my broken feet,
My hair dry now,
No music in my ears,
The words unwritten

As I wait for your eyes to meet my eyes
When I close them
Until the morning.

I am only free
In the dreams I make
But cannot remember.
Somehow I know
You are there
In these unremembered dreams
And you are holding me
And we are safe and home
And that is why
I am free there
And want to stay there
Even when another morning
Comes.

So Cold Here and There

It’s so cold here
And I cannot afford to turn up the heat
So I shiver and open another bottle of beer
While listening to Caruso sing Je Crois Entendre Encore
in Italian then in French
And thinking about your own loneliness
And how cold you must be
Huddled in your bed with small dogs and your
Casual loneliness
As a wind so much colder
Than the wind that freezes my feet hits you
As I drink and type,
Not knowing what Caruso is singing
But liking it as much
As I like imagining
Your open legs
And open smile
Even though you’re so cold right now
Where you are,
Without me.

Your Flanks

Now you are here
With your flanks in my bed
I imagine
While William Bell sings
“You Don’t Miss Your Water”.
I listen while I vomit,
Waiting to finish so I can drink a little bit more.

All this American music coming from the church
Or from avoiding church
And the Louvin Brothers might have thought
That Satan is real
But I know better

As I hang upside down
Listening to The Christian Life
And knowing that, at most,
Jesus was a good guy

And I imagine that you are here,
Naked and wonderful,
Your flanks in my bed
And half as beautiful as Parsons and McGuinn harmonizing

In a mere moment
Before life does not matter much again
For 8 hours

Or more.

John Tustin Poetry

Poetry Drawer: Always Almost You: Before I Knew Love: Gentle and Fierce: I Might As Well: My Poems Arrive by John Tustin

The Trouble with Pronouns

Two reasons to avoid pronouns:
First, inclusiveness,
Something preachers have learned:
God has God’s plan for God’s people.
Second, liability.
Legal makes you spell things out:
Do not take Zoltoff
If you are allergic to Zoltoff
Or to the ingredients in Zoltoff.

But then new uses for familiar words,
A way of saying who you are:
She, her, he, him, they, them.

The school association was meeting
In Chattanooga.
This was 1960.
The Latin teachers were packed
Into a tiny hotel room
To hear a paper on some obscure grammar.
A man about 40, a priest, I think,
Turned to the group, smiling
As if to reveal a monstrous secret:
You know the trouble
With the relative pronoun,
Don’t you:
They don’t always agree.

Basket Weave

Memory, that persistent puff of lint
Caught on the edge of the kitchen counter,
Preserved to no good use:
At the supermarket I lurk
While my wife considers cleansers,
Idly eyeing a shelf of
White plastic waste baskets.
Where in the world, a clerk once asked,
Did you find that beautiful basket-weave?
This was 40 years past,
In a discount store long since
Gone belly up,
Many towns and houses ago,
Along Route One,
Strip malls bulldozed out for condos,
Maybe just inside Fairfax County.
What has become of the
Basket-weave waste can
We bought that day
And the woman who sold it to us,
Remembered out of so much not,
How many check-out lines stood in,
How many white waste baskets yet to buy?

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.

Poetry Drawer: At Exit 50; The Shade Oak; Wedding Song by Robert Demaree

Poetry Drawer: REQUIEM FOR A DEAD COMPUTER by Robert Demaree

Poetry Drawer: Turnover: Foliage Tour by Robert Demaree

Poetry Drawer: At The Post Office by Robert Demaree

Poetry Drawer: Probabilities of Living by Robert Demaree

Poetry Drawer: New Organ by Robert Demaree

Poetry Drawer: In The ICU: Lakefront Property: Prognosis by Robert Demaree

Poetry Drawer: The Bartender’s Tale: Approaching 82 by Robert Demaree

Poetry Drawer: Golden Shovel Exercise: Chateau Frontenac by Robert Demaree

Poetry Drawer: Rush Week: Knowledge by Robert Demaree

Golden Eye

“Riches will rain,” the beast declared
And heard their whispered dreams.
With golden eye, he watched them work—
A charge atop the beams.

The dragon’s breath did light the fuse
But to their feet, no rain.
In dragon’s wings, the treasure piled
While flames consumed the plains.

“Your wings could blow the fire all down,”
Their cries cut through his glee.
“Just douse your hearths,” he fired back.
“It’s no concern to me.”

The village fell around the spoils.
The flames grew stronger still.
The dragon stayed and swam in fire.
No treasure would he spill.

Lightbulb Moments II

Chadwick’s neutron, Fleming’s penicillin
and Dalton’s law of multiple proportion
was a GLS BC/B22 Opal Energizer
lightbulb moment.

Orville and Wilbur Wright’s petrol-driven aeroplane,
Daimler’s petrol-driven car and Becquerel discovering
the principles of photo-electric cells
was a JCB LED Built To Last instant start
lightbulb moment.

Cartwright’s power loom, Davy’s safety lamp
and Newton discovering the laws of gravity
was a Halogen linear instant full light 240 watt
lightbulb moment.

The invention of the lightbulb by Thomas Edison
and Joseph Swan
was an incandescent tungsten filament
lightbulb moment.

This poem is a white wax sentinel night light
with eight hours to burn.

Unslaked Summer

Punch-drunk in Rio you want the first breeze that comes along
to sweep you off your feet; whirlwind love
in the eye of the storm-
that burning testament of human endeavour
that opens windows on
a man and a woman
who are in the territory of the deeply-loved
will outlast all ends.

Lapa

Dangerous in daylight
you stray into Lapa.
It’s just to look at the Arches
built in the time of the Viceroys-
to stand and behold
the narrow gauge streetcars
rumbling above
but it straddles a haven for muggers;
hop-heads, filchers;
land-rats; drunks
so you spend the day
jumping at shadows:
learn to live in terror
back pinned to the wall.

On The Forlorn Apathy of Summer Air

You never get used to this weather
the sort that says
what’s the point of tightening up
those isobars then throwing
away the spanner…
even the weather girl
has run out of passion
she leaves you thirsting for
rainy day showers
Jacuzzi skies
the hip-hop sparkle of wave water
careening into the Bay.

Neil Leadbeater is an author, essayist, poet and critic living 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, Scotland, 2011); The Worcester Fragments (Original Plus Press, England, 2013); The Loveliest Vein of Our Lives (Poetry Space, England, 2014), Sleeve Notes (Editura Pim, Iaşi, Romania, 2016) Finding the River Horse (Littoral Press, 2017) and Penn Fields (Littoral Press, 2019). His work has been translated into several languages including Dutch, French, Romanian, Spanish and Swedish.

Waiting Only For Spring

We point out all the different birds to each other
like teenagers naming constellations:
anhinga, gold finch, chickadee
tiny juncos
entranced by the influx of new life along the river
summoned by the melting ice.

The air is filled with their tiny songs of joy
as clouds of insects rise from thawing mud
as though they had been frozen in just that spot
dormant and sleeping all winter long.

Diane

When I was 13, my best friend was a rock. I used to carry it with me everywhere
small and round in my hand, dream of having the courage
to hurl it at people who said nasty things about me. My palm polished it
to a near-reflective point, I could almost see myself in its surface
see myself the way I wanted everyone else to see me
or really, not see me at all.

If I had been cooler, my best friend would have been a rock
but I’m just lying, because really, it was just another girl
who didn’t actually like me, got me into all sorts of trouble
things she could walk away from but I couldn’t. If I had had a rock for a friend
instead of that girl, the one who ruined everything
things would have ended up differently. It would have been better.
I would have been better. I know I would.

When They Go

I open my arms and call my children to me, remind them
that nothing bad ever happens so long as I’m holding them.
My daughter wrinkles her nose at me and rolls her eyes, my son
just ignores me and walks away. I am no longer regarded as sanctuary
a bulwark against precocious misery and frustration, they don’t need me at all.
I close my arms, wrap myself in an empty embrace

dream of being the sort of mother children flock to unquestioningly
a fish mother who opens her maw to engulf hordes of trusting fry
a scorpion mother carrying her ravenous children across the hot desert
a snake mother nested in a knot of wriggling coils of tiny tails and teeth
all of these things but what I am: incomplete without a tiny hand in mine
a sweaty head pressed against my chest, the constant need that only I can fulfil.

The Chemical Fire

they found the dead janitor in the back of the warehouse
curled around himself as if against the cold. His skin
came off in handfuls of ash when they tried
to move him

black, greasy ash that would not wash off.

the two boys who first found him had gone through his pockets
only to have what remained of clothes, his wallet, disintegrate as well
dried out past leather, his face was barely recognisable
as human

mouth stretched out in a forever scream.

The Next Day

The alarm went off and we found that the world
hadn’t ended, that all the ramblings of the church elders
weren’t true. My husband sighed and rolled out of bed
found there were only dirty clothes left for him to wear
sighed again, dressed, went to work.

I could hear birds chirping in the yard
a squirrel on the roof, cars
passing on the road out front.
I held onto my dreams of apocalypse
for a few moments longer, savouring vision
of the angels, the devastation
that could still be waiting just outside the door.

Holly Day’s poetry has recently appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, Grain, and Harvard Review. Her newest poetry collections are Where We Went Wrong (Clare Songbirds Publishing), Into the Cracks (Golden Antelope Press), Cross Referencing a Book of Summer (Silver Bow Publishing), and The Tooth is the Largest Organ in the Human Body (Anaphora Literary Press).

the dreamed red sun of the morning –
thus I get tender letters.
On wings of the morning glow –
I fly into lands of butterfly-like hearts.
In my vans – the poesy is indeed fulfilled.
I am looking at starry starlit moonlit night –
each starlets enchanting me on ways into ontology.
The silvery fantasy – heralds my ways to the dreamiest moon.
I am seeking the brightest star – the philosophical
as well as druidically poetical.
I will become blissful and Apollonian.
A meek elf showing me the moon
full of comet dust – the ambrosia
for dreaming souls.
Long live my auntie – the sibyl
with propitiously weird
magic!

Paweł Markiewicz was born 1983 in Poland (Siemiatycze). His English haikus and short poems are published by Ginyu (Tokyo), Atlas Poetica (USA), The Cherita (UK), Tajmahal Review (India) and Better Than Starbucks (USA). More of Paweł ’s work can be found on Blog Nostics.

Poetry Drawer: The bee in the calyx by Paweł Markiewicz

Poetry Drawer: My dreamy manifesto under the starry sky, cometward by Paweł Markiewicz

Poetry Drawer: Poem about Prometheus by Paweł Markiewicz

Poetry Drawer: You, springtide by Paweł Markiewicz

Poetry Drawer: Pearls-Dreams by Paweł Markiewicz

Poetry Drawer: Some Commandments for the Dreamy Erlking by Paweł Markiewicz

Adventure Travel

I have too much to eat
I take food from the mouths of children
from all over the globe
I am gleeful as I fatten

I’m a trust fund baby
so I don’t have to work
I take up silly hobbies
as past-times

I watch all the food shows on TV
I am a virtual glutton
I lick the screen clean

I masturbate to images of
the food
and the food show hosts

I like the chubby, spicy Sicilians
I venture into homosexuality
with the male chefs

I have too much to eat
but I don’t eat it all
A lot of it I throw out
I get carnal pleasure
from tossing food into the garbage
I have servants to dispose of it
but I like making expeditions into the alley
to dispose of it myself
I call this “Adventure Travel”

Glue

As a teenager
in his bedroom retreat
he built model airplanes
got lightheaded on the glue
listened to Odetta while he built
listened to Ledbelly
Muddy Waters

His schizophrenic sister skulked in the hall
Her complexion was pitted
and she wore thick glasses with black rims
but I found her attractive
an older woman
with secret knowledge
I feared I would never have

I wanted to be misled
I wanted to be detoured
by someone whose life
was a detour
I wanted to get high on airplane glue
without ever building an airplane

God Created Fledglings

The neighbours across the street have seen
the woman with the dead eyes
in the tree
and have called the police again
How many times has it been this year
the woman asks her husband
He shrugs

They think she’s dangerous to herself
or others
They’re less concerned about her
and more concerned about the others:
them

The police stroll through the house
of the woman with the dead eyes
as if they have the right

The woman with the dead eyes doesn’t mind
because she has a fantasy
that she is having a threesome
with these police officers
They are so tough and virile

The red-headed officer sees the fledglings
five of them
laid on a board across her bed
He says:
What’s that?

Those are birds, she says
God created them

What are you doing with them?

Teaching them, she says,
indoctrinating them into the new morality
leading them into the next stage
of their evolution

In fact, she’s going to decapitate them
because it will give her a thrill
and make her feel better
The neighbours don’t know that
but they are afraid that she is dangerous
to herself and others
especially others:
them

Winds of Santa Ana

The Santa Ana winds shaped me
Their power snatched the cigarette from my fingers
and drove it deep into dry chaparral
The resulting fire was preordained
I could have lived in Hoboken NJ
and the fire still would have been preordained
still my fault

The western winds overwhelmed me
They blew my garage open
sucked my tuba out into the pebbly road
dragged it down the street
Sparks flew from its brass
I was trying to teach myself to play it
so I could join a Mariachi band
with my friends Pollo Murillo and
Hector Delgadillo

My father was a half-Jewish Rumanian
but passed as Mexican
He knew all the love songs
all the songs that started with Mi Amor
and ended with
Mi Corazon
He never sang them to my mother
I knew he was not singing to her
though she was his wife
She was as beautiful and upright
as a statue of a Madonna
carved from pinyon wood
by a Colonial sculptor

When she was around, he shut his lips tight
or twisted them like a bad ventriloquist

He sang his songs to someone else
someone in a different country
he hadn’t met yet
someone he was preparing for
like preparing for the Second Coming

My mother was a Christian woman
though she didn’t love Jesus
It wasn’t that she didn’t believe in Him
She was merely indifferent

My cap flew from my head
My grandfather’s fedora blew off his dead head
his head a block of grey clay
awaiting the pinching of my fingers
to truncate the seven generations
of suffering deemed necessary

by the Holy Book
to wear down sin

I’d take it down to
maybe four

My grandmother reclined on a tree limb
holding a Russian ukulele and
the eternal flame
of youth
It glowed orange
like the eyes of a tabby cat
The wind blew her out of her tree

The wind blew carom boards
down Topanga Boulevard
out to the ocean
They skimmed across the surface
like plywood torn from houses
in a hurricane

I didn’t understand the meaning of youth
or age
All I understood was the wind

The wind would blow everything away
everything of value or lacking value
It would all end up stuck
on the branches of some bush

I didn’t need to go to high school
The wind was my teacher
The wind was the wisest teacher
The wind would get fiercer every year
All human life would disappear

The wind blew
like it never did in Patterson New Jersey
like Dr. Poet William Carlos Williams
never experienced
But Dr. Williams kept his wooden tongue depressors
locked in a glass jar anyway
He never knew what might be coming

The wind blew out the windows of our stucco shanty
the one Old Man Dengler allowed us to live in

The Electrical Engineer
had come from New Jersey
to remake the San Fernando Valley
in the image of a Diode
had come to cast Aerospace
in the image of the Aztec gods
with hordes of his
self-replicating spawn
who enrolled in my school
and looked down on me

This engineer sat at his desk and
the wind
sucked open his drawers
scattered his papers
financial papers
technical papers
He had no idea wind could blow like that
Those papers were his life

The wind turned coffee beans
into bullets
The Santa Ana winds stripped tomatoes from their vines
the grapes from theirs

Italians and Jews cried together
Tumbleweeds are weapons of mass destruction

In the future recreational marijuana would be legal
in Colorado
but in the meantime
I was going to prison

where I could not be touched
by the powerful
destructive wind
I can’t say
I wasn’t grateful

Janice M.

I wear a crown of spark plugs
crash a wedding party

I am bald
and my head shines
like fresh chrome
on the grill of a classic Buick

The bride will have to work hard tonight
to prove to her beau
that he made the right choice

and I will uplift my tits
as the Governor of California
mounts his white horse
and comes to rescue me

Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois has had over fourteen-hundred of his poems and fictions appear in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad. He has been nominated for numerous prizes, and was awarded the 2017 Booranga Writers’ Centre (Australia) Prize for Fiction. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, is based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for Kindle and Nook, or as a print edition. His new poetry collection was published in 2019, The Arrest of Mr Kissy Face. He lives in Denver, Colorado, USA.

Inky Interview: Author Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois from Denver, Colorado

Flash In The Pantry: Serotonin Reuptake by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Flash In The Pantry: Mandela Warp: A Moment in History by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Flash In The Pantry: Cooking Shows by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Love Bird by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Five Hundred SCUBA Divers by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Stoned by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Flash In The Pantry: Still Wet by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Loch by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Photogenic by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Mea Culpa by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Microwave by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Granite by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Trick by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Between Jobs & Not Me by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Coal by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Hygiene by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Poetry Slam by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Wailing Wall by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Blessed

I’m blessed with eyes that look inwards,
that see the departed and joys to come,
that sifts the beauty that’s foiled with smog,
that keeps a gallery of lakes and fjords.

I’m blessed with ears that vie with shells
for capacity to echo the wanton waves,
to resonate to the whistles of roaming whales,
to capture the breaths of slumbering pearls.

My nostrils dilate to the hidden scent
that stone exudes and inanimate gems,
that stars transmute to ethereal winds,
that words transfuse with the warmth of a friend.

My skin vibrates to the water-drop’s silk
to the velvet of petals, to the lace of trees,
to the fluff of clouds that seep into veins,
to the texture of flames that penetrates.

Interlocking

My mind interlocks with that of the tree
of a thousand rings and thirty-three,
with that of a falcon who grieves at night
for having kidnapped the sacred trout.

My fingers interlock with those of the wind
who shrieks the pain that dwells within,
with those of a lingering, pensive cloud
who contemplates the cerulean skies.

My teeth interlock with those of thorns
who have impaled all types of scorn,
with those of a squirrel who loves to crack
the nuts of wisdom on aprons of grass.

My eyes interlock with the halos of stars
an agglomeration of cosmic lights,
with the rays of Helios when he departs
the spheres of the earth in his orange ark.

Solemnity

An Englishman’s home is his fort,
a law established by Sir Edward Coke
to emphasize the sanctuary of one’s abode.
The assimilation to a castle had struck a chord –
when I was only thirteen years old –
in someone whose house was like a port
accommodating galleys, ships, and boats.

There were always visitors around to probe
the deepest abyss of inmost thoughts,
prying, interrupting, and disrupting discourse.

I always sought the furthest room
when the kitchen congested with drink and food,
with preparations for a banquet that would conform
to the social etiquette of being a host.

The bustle and babel created discord.
The aromas of strangers who chattered and fumed
would linger for hours on eves and morns.

There were always people around the house,
neighbours, relatives, acquaintances and bores,
fingering the solemnity of my private world
with greasy fingers that relish the sauce.

Heritage

Before me lies a kingdom, submerged
in the ugliest form of camouflage.
The castle is a mill and the mill has ash
and every nearby stone is draped with trash.

I walk the narrow lanes, each roofed with an arch.
It feels like roaming the heart of an ark.
I look for traces of submerged stonework
amongst a vineyard of pots and pans.

The din of transactions is maddening my mind.
There’s no way of silencing the gaping mouth
that craves for profit from the merchandise
that usurped the throne of scripts and chants.

On the top of a hill, a temple perches
whose walls had withstood all types of archers,
whose star was erased from stone by scratches,
but whose winding stairs attest to its heritage.

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 multiple venues including Adelaide Literary Magazine, Green Hills Literary Lantern, A New Ulster, Crossways, The Curlew, The Pennsylvania Literary Journal, The Ink Pantry, Mad Swirl, Miller’s Pond Poetry Magazine, and Down in the Dirt.

Poetry Drawer: Four Poems by Dr. Susie Gharib

Poetry Drawer: The Apparition/ Anchor (For Berjouhi) / Amends/ A Student’s Reminiscences by Dr. Susie Gharib

Flash In The Pantry: Taciturn by Dr. Susie Gharib

http://www.inkpantry.com/flash-in-the-pantry-a-blemished-slate%ef%bb%bf-by-dr-susie-gharib/

Poetry Drawer: Joan of Arc in Thomas De Quincey’s Eyes by Dr. Susie Gharib

Poetry Drawer: Moonbeams by Dr. Susie Gharib

Poetry Drawer: Complacency by Dr. Susie Gharib

Poetry Drawer: The Cerulean Lore by Dr. Susie Gharib

Poetry Drawer: Exuberance: Black Dice: Charlotte Mew, a Nemophilist: Sacred by Dr. Susie Gharib

Rush Week

Thinking now
Of the barbaric rites
Of our young days,
Fraternity rush at Chapel Hill,
A kind of ritual mutilation:
Invited, I suppose, because I’d been to
Boarding school, but quickly turned away,
Not at all like them, tailored heirs of
Planters, silver flasks,
Harris Tweed sports coats at football games,
Kinston, Goldsboro, Rocky Mount,
The place that would have me—
Frame house without Ionic columns—
Refuge for northern boys
Come south to school.
A year later I was the brother who escorted
Two or three baffled freshmen to the porch
To explain we had not gotten
To know them well enough.
I am ashamed of that
And much else besides.
Have only been back two or three times since.
Once a young man found our picture
From fifty years before. Is this you, he asked.
I had to say it was.
I still keep up with two or three of them;
With one, a neighbour now at Golden Pines,
I share a glass of port
And rue the passage of time.

Knowledge

People come to the cottage now
To help us with different things,
Fix the computer, cut down trees,
Cost of being seventy-two.
The computer guy brings no special tools,
No Allen wrench with which to probe
The hard drive’s dark insides,
Except for which I might leave
My brain to science,
Only keystrokes, clicks of the mouse,
Things some do for themselves.

The cottage next door is for sale,
Realtor’s sign incongruous on our dirt road.
My parents’ friends, also long gone,
Left it to four children who have reached
That tired, timed impasse of heirs:
Those who would keep it can’t afford to
And vice versa.
So there are grandchildren
Who will not know
These New Hampshire woods, this pond.

Still I would protect them and us
From the dead white pine
By the turtle rock—
I remember the storm that took its life,
Years ago,
Lightning running up and down the bark
In a silver-black night.
The woodsman, of course, does have special tools—
Bobcat, chainsaw.
More than that, he knows
Exactly where the tree will fall.

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.

Poetry Drawer: At Exit 50; The Shade Oak; Wedding Song by Robert Demaree

Poetry Drawer: REQUIEM FOR A DEAD COMPUTER by Robert Demaree

Poetry Drawer: Turnover: Foliage Tour by Robert Demaree

Poetry Drawer: At The Post Office by Robert Demaree

Poetry Drawer: Probabilities of Living by Robert Demaree

Poetry Drawer: New Organ by Robert Demaree

Poetry Drawer: In The ICU: Lakefront Property: Prognosis by Robert Demaree

Poetry Drawer: The Bartender’s Tale: Approaching 82 by Robert Demaree

Poetry Drawer: Golden Shovel Exercise: Chateau Frontenac by Robert Demaree

Perfection

In many ways,
I never learn.
Coaxing dead bruises.
Corking my skin.

Sewing love into hems.
Yearning for a reviving touch.
The walking wounded
in nature’s glory.

A love that bruises

Welts in line with flinching
An exit beleaguered by blind adulation
As harpies hang from dying trees
Frothing at the mouth with maudlin song
Dropping their dread like breadcrumbs
Haranguing me to flee

You are not bullet proof

Let me sing to your ribcage
Blessing your breath
Soothing you with love, quietly
I am your goddess
With mettle, love forged its way
We in these wastelands
Our secret Brigadoon
At last, I am feeling alive in a love so robust
My organs riot
Your order and will pull me closer
Nothing can save me from you
A guest inked on your skin
Hunting for my final resting place

Love’s loss

shirking responsibility
bathing in foolish want
lounging in dreams
eyes blazing in unison
a sighing universal
walking to walk
breathing to breathe
waking to each new dawn
with little surprise in store
holding onto fragments of hope
in respect of the promise made
we keep living to love
with fingers now talons
scratching at skin
digging to feel something other than nothing
you made the nothing
something
we grew closer as
love knocked us sideways
stoking the hearts of us
flooding our bodies with joy
love in a country made for two
we sealed it and ran
you with my sadness above you
me with your mouth on mine
breathing quick to save time

Remind me when I forget

Remind me that you love me
Even when I blaze through
Singed at the seams
Untouchable
Remind me that you love me
I forget

Rebirth

I’ve made so many mistakes
Given myself to the lost
Hoping to find home
Suffered the wrath of the cruel
Left in pieces of grief
I want a rebirth
I want a riot of butterflies
To take me back
Back to that air heavy with colour
Muted sounds comforting
Nights steeped in the wonder
Of my mother’s belly
Back to the beginning
Naked in a church font
Blessed in morning light
Mouths whispering promises to protect me
A baby up in arms
Demanding only love

Transgression

I do not want your attention.
The shouts of heraldry are misplaced as I squint at the sun.
I hide in the dark.
Waiting for empty pavements to exist.
Do you know how it feels to stalk the earth in vain.
To watch the rain and want to be the raindrops?
The only joy is knowing I’m not alone in my exclusion.
I am part of a pack.
A misunderstood teeming line of souls.
One day, we will have favour.
We shall have glory.
You and yours will bow.
Holding your wicked tongue.
Your unclenched fist signalling hope.

I am an unfinished opus

I am an unfinished opus.
A work of art in waiting.
Life composes me.
The seasons work in tandem.

Rain dampens wrath.
Cold brings hiatus.
Sun warms the binding.
Adding essential strength.

Anne-Marie Silbiger is an Irish poet living in London
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