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

Fostered, aligned
Along the walls of
Guilt…

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

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

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: Microwave by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Granite by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Trick by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Coal by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Poetry Slam by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Between Jobs

I don’t have long in this world
My wife will keep me going for a while
and I’ll keep her
But then it will be as she suspected
and as I suspect
Again I’m drunk in the afternoon
on red wine
She’s at work
I look out the back window
The forest rises like a mountain
The mountains rise like the white-capped waves
coastal travelers see

Not Me

I made you pregnant
Early the next morning you suffered nightmares
Hideous Parisians were coming after you
men with shaggy wolf heads
Huge black men cut the air with glinting sickles
I took a meal in an elegant restaurant
I thought of everything in the world with equanimity
A golden waffle with very small holes
was served on a china plate
Coffee was served in a gilt-edged cup
I made you pregnant
Early the next morning you twisted in bed
suffering nightmares
We were at my parents’ home
When I got up to piss
my mother trapped me in an alcove
and persuaded me not to marry you

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. 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

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: Microwave by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Granite by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Trick by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Coal by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Poetry Slam by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Our desktop, age 12, expired quietly
Last night, after a long illness,
Surrounded by loved ones.
Win32k.sys
Address BF801276…
In its declining years
It was still able, slowly and with
Great difficulty, to find
The best price on gas,
The route to Nova Scotia.
But twelve is pretty old, even in doggy years,
So when we saw the dire language
On the blue screen,
We despaired of heroic cures
And entrusted it to the Cyberhospice
Who thought they could save
My e-mail list, some files;
Other things gone,
Like certain memories, irretrievable.

I used the library’s computer today—
New operating system—
And saw a list of files
Not meant for my eyes:
Resume update,
Draft for Mum’s obituary.

If our new computer should last twelve years…
Better not to speculate.
I do hope they’ll return the
Old hard drive.
I plan to keep it
In an urn
On the mantle.

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.

The tutor

I listen close, knotting thread through my fingers,
focus on the disruntled cock of your head:
“you’re fidgeting again”,
shrug the shiver of wanting to hold comfort in my grasp
but fuel thirst for scrutiny.

Tremor of hand, you analyse to alienate me until–
I feel my limbs disconnect and
fall heavy
weighted by your speared pupils:
a broken woman picks, picks, picks away
at the fleshy upturned belly of a young girl,
soft skin–with time
she will grow the armour to fight this woman.

Florence tourist

Quiltwork faces collide
we witness, feel
stomach swelling
toasting, square
stuffed with selfie sticks –
there a man lies supine painting film
her slow-motion street dance,
flashing backdrop of cathedral.
Brash voices shoot code
new language of Google maps
hands navigate bars to golden doors
future
worship flicker on Facebook
as night pales to calls
distinctly English
we wonder where locals hide
from storming feet.

Isabelle Kenyon is northern poet and the author of Digging Holes To Another Continent (Clare Songbirds Publishing House). She is the editor of Fly on the Wall Press. Her poems have been published in poetry anthologies by Indigo Dreams Publishing, Verve Poetry Press, and Hedgehog Poetry Press. Her book reviews, articles and blog posts have been published in various places such as Neon Books, Authors Publish, Harness magazine and Five Oaks Press.

Attention: This manifesto has in itself a magical power and it can finally refute the communist manifesto (1847/48) and its successors in the form of communist states.

It burns a peaceful campfire!

I am part of the pink eternity.
I enchant the poetic stars.
I dream with ghosts of melancholy.
I am a magician of dawn.
My wing is called Apollo.
I’m so enchanted, so dreamy.
I am a sky dreamer.
I am shrouded in the most beautiful enthusiasm.
My dream enchants the beautiful world.
There is a magic dream in my wings.
My wings can do magic.
I like my dreams.
My dream is hotter than feeling.
Philosophical thoughts are waiting for me.
Philosophical sparks shimmer at me.
My philosophy is infinity.
I am in love with the infinity of politics.
I like a druidic fire.
I want to become a druid priest.
Modern druids beautify my existence.
An eternal spark rests in my poetries.
I am spiritualized thanks to poetry.
In politics you can be poetic.
I never quarrel with muses.
I fly in pairs like muses.
My wings would need starry rays.
With beautiful sounds fulfilling my dream of melancholy.
Poetic moments enrich my soul.
There is an Osiris chalice in my soul.
My friend Loreley is a philosopher like me.
In tender tears my magic life takes place.
I sometimes quarrel with tears of finiteness.
I would build a school for Druids.
The imagination unfolds in the moon.
I adore Osiris forever.
My friend Osiris likes the original beauty.
In my chalice there is Osiris’ soul.
I fly to the land of Osiris.
I write a legend to the Osiris.
I drink a dew of eternity.
In the dew, I can refresh my soul like muses.
I warm myself in a gentle dew.
I cool my wings in the magic dew.
In the dew falls my little shooting star.
Ambrosia is eternal for my sake.
In Ambrosia I feel infinitely beautiful magic.
I love to perpetuate this Ambrosia.
An idea about the Ambrosia is waiting for me.
My tender thought must be enchanted by Ambrosia.
I, sitting, wait for spiritualized moments.
I sit there as if I were a musical angel.
I philosophise as if an angelic muse had touched me.
In the wind, my moment becomes like a star-shaped existence.
This touch reflects my eternity.
The tender poetry becomes my temple.
In the most beautiful stamp of feeling I belong to you.
I can love all the fantasies of the dawn.
I’ll show you my freedom of mindlessness.
I like to collect coloured shooting stars of the angels.

Pawel 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 Pawel’s work can be found on Blog Nostics.