Today at breakfast Sister Mary has pulled out from her cupboard A blue box filled with crispy crosses – edible rice bran the colour of amethyst Trix.
She pours the milk over her wholesome “t’s” and watches them float miniature crosses buoyant on a purple sea, the envy of all Carmelites.
Sister bows her head and prays over her tiny morsels, each infinitesimal snap, crackle and pop, giving thanks for some rangy white-haired Diva back in Rome whom they’ve named Product Manager.
Hunter Boone was published in Sappho Magazine under the pen name of J. Hunter O’Shea, has a BA in Creative Writing, studied with Stuart Dybek, Eve Shelnutt, Herb Scott and Jaimy Gordon whilst completing a MA of Fine Arts at Western Michigan University, and plays a Fender Stratocaster.
As we step in to our own role We surrender to our true soul Path and calling for all to see Living as one in harmony!
Fearless beings of love and light Who truly have been in a fight A clash of ego and the deepest pain Now to rise like a phoenix again
It is the test of an enduring root We seek no glory or toot toot We jest in banter as much as we cry Most of our life, it’s been a lie
We told ourselves that all was real Then we discovered it was not the deal Or agreement we made many moons ago It was time we created an eternal flow
Across time and space we drifted most Many a time we felt like a lost ghost To find the inner power and desire Cutting the cords and etheric wire
Which bound us to a chain so strong Now we see what truth was all along Through experiences we had need to make And connections with others we got to break
It’s clear as the sun will shine each day Our inner calling guiding us all the way From here and now, and forever more We venture both sides of a swinging door
To be as One in balance with all that is We will live a life of love and bliss In pastures green and skies so blue, We are here, wondering where are you
Each of us who knows the truth It’s not the time to be aloof Change the thoughts and open your mind You will see us there, look, come and find
Let’s make it fun just like a game Trust us, it’s a new life for you to gain To be as free like a pure white dove That’s the essence of unconditional love
Deane Thomas is a former corporate executive who had the pleasure of living in many different countries and cultures. He currently lives in Croatia with his two teenage daughters. In August 2014 a set of life changing circumstances led to his own awakening and to finally lifting the veils of illusion.
Deane stepped away from corporate responsibility, relocated to another country, and began his own spiritual journey, and life as a solo father. He is continually healing and growing spiritually, and now dedicates his time to helping, healing and teaching others.
His inquisitiveness into historical events and places, as well as witnessing them in the present time, has led him to truly appreciate all that life has to offer. A deep fascination with indigenous cultures and their way of life, how they function and more importantly, live without religions.
Always challenging and questioning societies forced indoctrination and expectations of man, he has become a philosopher and writer, something he has been in previous incarnations.
I am programmed to help human beings: If I see them in difficulty, I must help; My maker said what I represent Is smooth machine bureaucracy, A hidden net of support, for the common people. I am proud of that. I do my job as best I can Which is very well: my circuits are faultless Devised and manufactured by real men; So, I am authentic as well as useful, Not a fake copy from the printing factory.
Well, yesterday I saw a human being, sitting on a train, A newspaper upon his lap, and pen in hand. He clearly was in pain: he frowned, he scratched his head, He pursed his lip; crossed out what he had written. I sought to help, as I had been advised Was proper to my role. I should say now I am a trusted guard Collecting tickets for the Southern Rail; a company, so I am told, Which carries commuters to and from their work.
This human being was doing Sudoku, a game for relaxation Which also, I believe, demands some concentration From the gamer. He had not made much progress. Well, I could not do less: I fed the grid into my circuit board, Filled in the blanks, projected them to the page. He should have smiled. He did not. Instead he cursed, Said “Damn” and worse. I must have dozed off. Did someone borrow my paper? I must check with my maker –
Did I do something wrong? Impossible! My circuits all prevent it.
Later, on my way home; I have a bedsit like a normal human being Where other helpers live, and we are overseen; I saw upon the street A five pence piece. Had someone lost it? That would cause distress. I picked it up and thought a bit: the police station, that’s the place! They will restore it to its rightful owner. The constable behind the desk, When he had asked how he could help, and I gave my reply; He looked me in the eye with a slight frown: “It is a crime to waste police time,” He said. “This time I’ll let you off, but don’t come back,” Perhaps there is some lack in him, or he is one of those Who do not love their fellow human beings. Perhaps he needs help?
I am not qualified for therapy. My maker says the time is not yet ripe. But, when I have learned the ways of human beings, a little better, He says there is hope I could be upgraded. I look forward to that.
In the meantime, my neighbour is a poet, I thought to have a look at what he wrote. Poor man! It lacked the elements of proper grammar, Showed some derangement in the way he thought, Speaking of moonbeams as translucent stories; Of course, I put it right, and then destroyed his former manuscript; I am sure he will be pleased. It is good to be a secret do-gooder, To do your kindest deeds and seek no praise.
Well, even machines need to rest. But I feel blessed To have done so much good today; and for no thanks; Even ingratitude. Yet I am puzzled still – Those I have helped should be happy – I believe I have done well – Yet some are not. Perhaps I should learn to programme human beings?
Rob Lowe has been writing for many years. He is a member of Colwyn Bay Writers’ Circle. Poems have been published in The Friend, Shire Magazine, and by Disability Arts Cymru.
A Sonnet to the She Wolf Aglaya Red curled hair, glittery eyes, modest
A quote by another of the names was still a listless debate While applying the softness of a makeup should round out each Reaching can be the element for which those carry out a twist Put through the heftiest of side to carry forward the most to relate How there is a future with the bemused side of the esteem to reach The moreover unlikely was the prudent to follow along the only list
However she must survive the elements of the cryptic and not low Within the parenthetical group is a loophole to seethe forward onto This could be the berated sounds have been presumed the lost cares Have alliteratively been her solid enough careful to resume the blow Must have to carry of the edge of the truly looked over for a same blue This the hype within the crusty and been the lengthy look for scares
A Sonnet to the She Wolf Arya Snake skin boots, baseball cap, high strung
Only to cope with the charging out of the stammering glows Has her complexion been the sorry result of another old squabble What must have to obey the stances are a rudiment of wishing not So elegiac as the taunting snow to the head of the peak for shows What can mystify the lumpiness of the driest of the heated wobble Has luckily been the stayed for what is the crimson and a very lot
Was to ramify the brilliance of the quaint is not inertia to her skin How was this a possible not lanky longing that impedes the dusty Was convinced to yield to the nodding is not here to stammer on sin This can be the winning cycle of her not so taken to treat a spin Was so likely to navigate about the changing can be a future misty Filled with the tepid heat of a hot clamouring and instilled to be thin
A Sonnet to the She Wolf McKayla Boots with zippers, long leather gloves, facetious
A true telling sign was not told for her to announce another Craving victimless taken to a hardship was ever known for The mystical zooming can be the leap to eke over a sketchy Explaining away the half side of the rather morbid sound other Can it pass from the seething to the hyperactive lurid is a chore With how one can compensate the pestering was an amused testy
Only to impact the other of the sidereal and mostly to flounder her Is the passing on of the blankly poured over the listening was a bait To catch on her lapses of the torrid enough can be the humility hence What should have to matter with the miraculous enough starry blur Was a change to have reached the utmost of the funniest can go fate Was a stance until it would have to grip the utmost of her pure dance
Lenore S. Beadsman lives in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She believes the Truth lies in 19th Century Russian and French literature.
She is very serious about her Sonnets. She has written three cycles of Sonnets; Witch, Goddess and Siren. A number of these have been published online and in print. She is currently working on a cycle of Mermaid Sonnets.
When not writing, Lenore enjoys driving fast cars and listening to Mozart (not necessarily simultaneously).
You are the first beautiful flower from dreams. Your times are like an ancient myth. You bathe in the dew at dawn – the time of the morning star. You are a miracle of romance. You are a friend of the most tender muse. The ancient druidic tale is in your soul. You are a spiritual insight. You are a mythical liberation. You smell the most pleasant fragrance. You paint a night rainbow. You love the morning star. You like a ball for the elves. You will love the ancient pleasure. You continue like the goblet of Osiris. You fill your soul with Osiris´ambrosia.
the fire is for You a beloved magic which You are easily able to give to the people like gold the love of the people is an overjoyed day-dreaming dear Titan You, like the people against Zeus, deeply, the human-being made from tears and clay is admiring You the eternal dreamer and the cloudy rider so delicately thanks to humane skills – we know them anyway with Apollo You go on a journey of silvery cranes
just Ibycus and Zeus-like voyage homewards through the spiritual eternity full of melancholy
mountains of Caucasus are no longer the mental curse an eagle as well as a vulture were forever killed by Heracles who counts always the Apollonian legends Your philosophy has revealed the bliss Be kind and dreamful my dear friend of poetries! the wonderful crane is leading thousands of Ibycus-men into dream where Prometheus and spring muses can live Your little charming shine seems to be infinitely beautiful
I lean into graffiti of hate, of despair. Where tears leave me to write shitty poetry and try to eliminate the thought from my mind of banging my stupid head against the wall…
Anger—king anger, Never smiles or looks for a postcard from Utopia
It fades along the late fall skies
The tremors of Plath
The worth of Judas…
Just wrong, so fucking wrong…
Dan Provost’s poetry has been published by the small press for many years. His latest chapbook Wear Brighter Colors was released by Analog Submissions. He lives in Berlin, New Hampshire with his wife Laura and their dog Bella.
I read a poem about you today.
I was nearly naked before my audience,
scarcely dressed in death-spattered rags of pain,
speaking of your dying by suicide.
Grief gave me downcast eyes,
and a voice that stuttered and broke,
like a rusty old chain on a bike,
the wheels not turning as they should.
My eyes tried to become blind
to the listeners sorrowing faces,
and my head lowered to this page,
eyelids now a rampart for gallons of oily grief.
After one lecturer said I must achieve catharsis
before I speak of you. That my reading was destabilised
by my grief, better get some stabilisers then
for this battered broken old bike.
He said I must control the material,
not let the material control me,
those grief spattered rags I wore today,
I need to turn them into an elegant gown.
They want me to turn my mourning for you into beautiful art,
all my messy grief erased and transfigured into
silken threads of understanding, cloths of gold,
instead of this jumble sale of sadness.
One day I will come back as a ghost
and haunt him with my swirling drapes of mourning.
I will bury him with my heavy sorrowing
and will whisper wailing poems of you into his startled ears.
Ghosts do not have downcast eyes or voices that crack, death is pretty good at ridding us of the troublesome past.
Louise is an MA student at the University of Leicester.
It was all my fault My immaturity got the better of me and I found myself less interested in finding a solution to our problems that in hearing her say You’ll not make an arse of me again in her rich British voice
Each time she said it was like a little thrill-spike to my rat brain a jewel in my diadem Or maybe it wasn’t— that phrase just popped to mind I don’t even have a fucking diadem
Our relationship was doomed due to nothing more than my penchant for colourful language
She was easily angered I was superficial I also didn’t care to develop a long-term committed relationship and said as much on the various dating websites I’d joined I’d even joined Christian Mingle because I’d been hooked by the poignancy of one of their commercials the one in which the dewy-eyed woman says: He’s my second chance
I guess my heart wasn’t in the game as much as it should be and when my new partner protested: I’m no one’s twat-waffle I couldn’t get enough of it
We would go down in flames on the Hindenberg of vociferously expressed non-twat-waffledom
