In the belly of sentient beings are black holes and worms, Postures; worthy and unworthy gestures, raisons d’etre, longings, tentacles of regrets, fuselages of desire below puffed-up bloated hearts poked-through with sticks and twigs; red and blue blood wrapped in twine hanging from meaningless empty bottles of preparedness.
This is where the soul sits and rests hanging from the nearest cavity wall until the last chime rings announcing, “Times up!” where the door slams and the whistle blows.
Suddenly there are no plans to make, no hearts to break, no solemn longings half-baked.
Humiliation barely registers in those downcast faces. I dare you to imagine where they come from, feel the beatings, suffer the horrendous rape, then watch the beatings, the rape of others. When were you ever woken up by soldiers in the middle of the night, with huts aflame all around you, and rifles pointed at your heart while your children huddle behind you? Where’s the constant movement in your life, not of choice but forced, clutching a baby in your arms, ragged possessions strapped to back, limping down an overgrown jungle trail, hungry, thirsty and in constant dread? No red blood on your cheeks, no dark stain on your floors. You sit back in your pleasant home, as pleased with yourself as some general in his fiefdom. You might even go to church come Sunday, pray to a God suitably neutered for the occasion.
i liked the way my arms bent around the weight of a world not mine i liked the angles of my wrist bones moulded for consistency there was nothing sharp in my mountain shapes we made monoliths of the present to carry into what might become.
we built a castle on the sea an impenetrable hull of stone that wouldn’t sink or bend to the tug of the waves.
strong straight lines and five year plans knowing where you want to be is fine if an eye on the horizon brings it close but curvature doesn’t take account of the storms.
still i liked the simplicity in that predictable back and forth my bones could take the heavy salt laid in your tracks and our waters always had that heady quayside scent that’s born of decay;
sulphide lungs bleached wood and bladderwrack hair made bodies on the sand
i rose from the wreckage when the castle sank and spread like grit to the wind no more built on froth-rimed swell nor shackled to the same tide
no more a tower doomed to spoil nor fall beneath the waves.
This poem is taken from Kezia’s first full length collection, solipsist: poems for breaking bonds, (Moonshade Publishing), a volume of free verse themed around personal experiences with abuse, trauma, depression/anxiety, and progressing through healing from toxic and unhealthy relationships.
Kezia Cole is an author, poet, artist, and freelance editor, mostly found dividing time between the wilds of southwest England and the mountains of northeast Pennsylvania. Scribbler of words, dauber of paint, and fighter against chronic illness, Kezia is also a passionate animal welfare advocate, and fosters rescue dogs. Work has been featured in prose anthologies, mixed media exhibitions, and on national radio. She is also an Open University alum 🙂
The stink of tradesmen soils our air. Square eyes yield to cynical “cheer”, while Mary’s flight in Joseph’s care is fast eclipsed by wine and beer and the only type of spirit shared.
The poor dig ever-deeper holes: gathering debt for children’s smiles. Rather than nurturing their souls they blithe succumb to market’s guile and smother crucial Birthday goal.
Irish writer, Perry McDaid, lives in Derry under the brooding brows of Donegal hills which he occasionally hikes in search of druidic inspiration. His writing appears internationally in the Bookends Review, Red Fez, 13 o’clock Press, Curiosity Quills, Aurora Wolf Literary Magazine, Amsterdam Quarterly, SWAMP and many others.
Mike Garry: The Arndale was an important place for me growing up in Manchester. It was the closest thing to an American mall we had. It was glamour for the kids of Manchester, from Moss Side to Fallowfield, and Moston to Miles Platting. You’d socialise there with your mates, pass the time with a pasty and checkout the latest knits.
I also worked at Stolen from Ivor
selling burgundy jeans, but it wasn’t like going to work, it was
like hanging with your mates. And these days, the centre is better
than it ever was.
Mike’s other well-known verses include ode to north Manchester, God is a Manc, and St Anthony, which is dedicated to the former Factory Records boss and TV presenter Tony Wilson. Mike has now turned his attention to another famous Mancunian with his piece commissioned ahead of The Arndale’s anniversary.
David Allinson, Centre Director at
Manchester Arndale: Manchester Arndale has been one of the UK’s
most popular and exciting shopping destinations over the years –
welcoming 40 million people through its doors every year.
The opening of the northern
extension in 2008 led to the arrival of the country’s largest Next
store and attracted international brands such as Apple, Monki,
Victoria’s Secret and Pink to Manchester for the first time.
The centre remains as popular as
ever today, highlighted by Japanese fashion brand Uniqlo’s decision
to open its flagship store for the north at Manchester Arndale last
month. Our position as one of the UK’s leading fashion hubs has
also been boosted by AllSaints’ decision to sign up for a further
10 years at the centre, and the arrival of Quiz, alongside the
centre’s more established fashion retailers such as Superdry, JD
Sports and many more.
Manchester Arndale continues to attract new shops, restaurants, and leisure brands, and we expect to announce more exciting signings in the coming months.
Special thanks to Suzanne Armfield, PR & Social Media Manager @ Manchester Arndale
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).
