Wrought inside a cherry centre, made-up from love-bound wind Just while shit razors cry, I bend up for inexplicable owls whose spind skin Gets woofing after dizzy eyes and pained breads and haloers for xmas wind? O, you appear now to ask All about the Ides of midmarch and devilries and abaddons and kicked limb And we will starve for a slit as we gabble after Domed dragglers that must come forever home to a mod casementer for failure (And if I could have just one cool dreamtime, perhaps dead buckrabbits will Beget bereft hair from huge mares and sea-sanders that render holy pets from liveliness and pure Love).
Jim Bellamy was born in a storm in 1972. He studied hard and sat entrance exams for Oxford University. Jim has won three full awards for his poems. Jim has a fine frenzy for poetry and has written in excess of 22,000 poems. Jim adores the art of poetry. He lives for prosody.
You can find more of Jim’s work here on Ink Pantry.
an incredulously rich crimson— flamed flamboyantly where it had risen arching above the emerald defiantly hailing Spring in Jharkhand joyously… flames of fire blossom blossom fiery flames
bold and beautiful are they in season growing in the jungles rampantly, Palash is the beauteous one exuding a primitive raw beauty, that caught my heart so exuberantly, flames of fire blossom blossom fiery flames
brave and beautiful are the one who live in the shadow of the Palash euphorically uncoated by the plastic veneer of urbanisation exuding a primitive raw beauty… living life in synchrony with the flames of fire that blossom in the heavens
far from the reaches of civilisation no concrete roads reach them vitally no motorised vehicles reach anyone no piped water reaches them instantly no thick mattresses cushion their bodies comfortably… their bed of hardships infusing in their backbones, steel warships
and, yet they know the joy of the season… the Palash springing to life vividly in the colours of life, crimson that thrums raw in our veins exuberantly, smearing the colours of life ecstatically… flames of fire blossom blossom fiery flames
Avantika Vijay Singh is a communications professional wearing the hats of a writer, editor, poet, researcher, and photographer. She is the author of Flowing… in the River of Life and Dancing Motes of Starlight (ebook) and editor of five anthologies. A recipient of the Nissim International Award Runner Up 2023, WE Gifted Poet 2024, and WE Illumination Award 2024, she has been published in national and international journals. Nature’s beauty, sustainability, life, spirituality, and humanity are her muse, lending immense depth to her poems.
You can find more of Avantika’s work here on Ink Pantry.
Underneath the rain bridge, you mimic the river in perfume, glass lamps after glass lamps illumine your forehead with a mark of clear water.
The rain drapes fragrant sheets we garment in the water of your hands, we vigil for the pure light as you willow the river and incense the lip of a jar.
We drink from the stream beside the grass path where the sky powders wild violets, the sky floats on a stone flame.
The Rose Sphere
Blood flower, fire flowers set the moon on escutcheon, you walk on embroideries, the sky a tapestry falcon, the cup of your breast spills from a river red tunic.
We drink the wine from your side, glow horses and run as the rose sphere jewels the night air, persimmons drip like your necklace from a wet branch.
The Moon Vine
A river of light sparks in the night trees, the sky willows bend anemone, our hands blur at the surface of water.
You rain in ink to purify the lanterns, cup to cup we wash exalted, the sky lights clean through a bracelet of trees, you sever pomegranates from the moon vine.
John Swain lives in Le Perreux-sur-Marne, France, and has published two collections of poetry, Ring the Sycamore Sky, and Under the Mountain Born. His chapbook, The Daymark, was recently published by the Origami Poems Project.
Jianqing Zheng is the author of several poetry collections including The Dog Years of Reeducation, recipient of the Mississippi Arts Commission poetry fellowship, and professor of English at Mississippi Valley State University.
I woke up looked out my window and saw green pouring down trees cascading over emerald grass
This noon swollen wet bursting water now even heaven is tinted jade as birds linger under branches listening
When I Was New
When I was new and the world was new.
So many roads to wander under a cerulean sky. Forbidden fruits to savour, forbidden lips to taste.
Full of promise, flowers budding on the vine. Their perfume covering my fingertips.
I hurried through each day alive with my songs. The moon rose just for me and stars burned just for me
Every morning brought sunshine to my window. Another day filled with wonder waiting at my doorstep.
Spring was greener then. When I was new and the world was new.
Joan McNerney’s poetry is published worldwide in over thirty-five countries in numerous literary magazines. Four Best of the Net nominations have been awarded to her. Her books The Muse in Miniature,Love Poems for Michael I & II,At Work and Light &Shadows are all available at Amazon.
You can find more of Joan’s work here on Ink Pantry.
Wherever you hang paintings, the walls are willing.
And every heavy sculpture the floorboards are eager to hold up.
Wherever you put them, all are there to please you.
If works of art were lovers, you’d be the one they kiss.
BANQUET
I have an urge for everything forbidden from the lick of an ice-cream sundae to the blessed, unspoken parts of you. Sweet-bread and flesh. Lush tomatoes and the pleasure of your tongue. Peach juice dripping and saliva captured in a bright pink curl. Honey and salt from the jar, from skin.
What if… now there’s an unforgiving beast that never saw a feast it didn’t turn its back on. So many kept apart over the years. Opportunities sealed off. Possibilities banished. More regret than a heart can hold.
But forget the tempting foods and let’s concentrate on you. The pleasures of the table have their place but the bedroom is a banquet for the soul. You are ripe And I’m feeling adventurous. Now’s not the time to be tentative. Remember, safe means unfulfilled in my language.
FAMILY GALLERY
I keep the bastard locked up in a photograph just for old time’s sake. The eyes glare. The nose rises, mouth jerks sideways, in a snarl.
I get like him some times. I feel what he felt – that life can be a wretched, cruel and debilitating way to live. So I understand why he preferred a more honest reaction than a smile when the camera clicked.
But I have a marriage to sustain, friendships to maintain, a job to hold down, and an obligation not to burden other people in the world with my gloom and anguish.
So I keep the bastard locked up in a photograph. As a warning. As a stand-in even.
ALGEBRA
as wobbly as wounded soldiers we headed back to campus, smelling of smuggled beers, as prepared as we ever were for our afternoon class
me knotting fingers, you burping, we took algebra at its word, with A the finger divided by B the furrowed brow equaling X the endearing mind multiplied by Y the blurred vision times Z –
when the value of Z is Zzzzzzzzzzz
THE BOXER
He spent twenty years of his life trying to knock some guy to the canvas.
Now he’s brain-damaged, his ears ring constantly, and he doesn’t even know his own name.
He won fights and he lost fights. And he lost the fights he won.
A HOMELESS MORNING
Morning holds on to its darkness for as long as it can, resisting the early efforts of the sun to burn off shadow. In six a.m. catacombs, the homeless rise warily, their territory about to undergo its daily transformation into the site of an invasion. They cling to the pockets of black, alleys, doorways, subway corridors, the last shreds of shelter. But eventually, commuters hit the sidewalk like armies. Hands reach out, begging for change. Faces hide from the light.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, New English Review and Tenth Muse. Latest books, “Subject Matters”, ”Between Two Fires” and “Covert” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Amazing Stories and River and South.
You can find more of John’s work here on Ink Pantry.
A silvered whisper caressed an old deer path in a woodland then faded into shadows as the night was transformed into the morning as the sun edging slowly over the mountain shinned its golden rays onto meadows where softly flowing streams awaited. Then far way in an ocean, the last greyish ray of moonlight skipped across the incoming tide filled with briny whispers as an apricot-coloured thread draped over the sand dunes, unraveling time as it approached. Then the tiny flame of morning, flickered into being, and dreams were swallowed up by a yawn.
The Night’s Beginning
As the evening neared, I listened to the lonely frogs croaking in a tiny pond: They seemed to be serenading the moon. As the day slowly whispered into shadows, and the night began its dark tour of duty to protect the hours from crumbling, I retired for the evening.
Stars, those tiny sparkling lanterns, were penetrating the sky. The breeze was balmy and soft, the country road silent, and night birds were singing softly. As the clock chimed twelve, the day vanished into the night and the moon became a mere glowing silver orb bouncing against the crimson horizon.
I watched the last hours of the day vanishing into silence, as the stars gazing from millions of light years away, were splashing in the sky. I waited for the night’s long hours to cover me, and as my breath mellowed, I faded into sleep, and memories turned into dreams.
So Much Forgotten
Fading visions of borrowed prayers, forgotten truths, and the faint quivering images of all my yesterdays floated inside luminous clouds like butterflies flitting in the breeze. Then as they merged with lonely songs of night birds, stars, flickering like Chinese lanterns, dimly glowed through dreams of whispering voices, and everything vanished into the past.
James has published five collections of poetry, and over 1850 poems in scores of national and international publications, such as The Ink Pantry, Sparks of Calliope, Nebo, Miller’s Pond, Penwood Review, Front Porch, London Grip, Minetta, The American Aesthetic, El Porto, Badlands Journal, Sparks of Calliope, and hundreds of others. He was twice nominated for The Best of The Net award, and four times for a Pushcart award, and was the featured poet, of the month in literary magazines, eleven times. He earned his doctorate from BYU and his BS and MA from California State Polytechnic University.
You can find more of James’ work here on Ink Pantry.
The great blue heron is a complex fantastic mystery to me, More grey than blue, with awkward elongated neck, Standing in the conical pond like a statue, Completely motionless, moving nary a muscle. The pond is grey the colour of a battleship And stands dark and still on what was once a golf course. As I stare, the pond turns ever darker and more impenetrable. The pond is Hardyesque—dangerous pond In which Eustacia Vye came to the end of her tragic days. The great blue heron reminds me of a pterodactyl, Flying through the air of millennia past. The bird finally stirs, slowly spreads its question wings, Gradually lifts the weight of its body, Which rests on skinny pickle wings. The great blue heron spreads those wings, And the creature lifts and careens Toward the cluttered gray skies and Skims against the low-hanging clouds and Flies into the reality that sits on me. It flies on, up—unhurried, unrushed, elegant, Grotesque, impervious, and beautiful.
Stronghold
I remember like a blazing star the driving to and hiking through Cochise Stronghold in southeastern Arizona, driving down a woebegone gravel bumpy road that appeared to collide with the Dragoon Mountains but the turned left and dove deeper.
Into the Stronghold, which as the name says was where in the mid-1800s was where the chief Cochise the Chiricahua Apaches lived and defied the U.S. government and the U.S. cavalry.
The hiking trail into the Stronghold is rugged but not impossible, climbs steadily and then passes magnificent colossal boulders that stand like the ghosts of Apache families.
If you let your imagination run wild, you imagine the boulders running free like the spirits of Apache families frozen in time.
The enormous boulders lean against one another, supporting one another, standing tall, conjuring apparitions of the past— A past that was both bucolic and tragic.
Never before have I felt a place so strong, so evocative, so powerful, so spiritual, so all- encompassing, so annihilating.
The ghosts of the Chiricahua still inhabit these boulder environs, these rock esplanades, still inhabit these precious and mysterious and lost canyons.
Still The People ride their pale horses and wave their mystery baskets from the strands of the cacti that line the floor of the canyon.
Still the Spirits of the Chiricahua follow us and surround us as we steadily climb the trail to an outlook that reaches all the way to Tombstone.
We pass a dammed-up pool where cattle slake their thirst.
We pass cacti that stand guard like lookouts on the side of the living breathing mountain.
It is a place that is dangerously silent, a place in which spirits and dreams float like weapons, their invisibility something palpable.
Lying on night in the Yates’s potent hot tub, we face the eastern wall of the Dragoon Mountains that capture the rays of the moon and shine like an enormous radioactive wall, shimmering and shaking and seducing our spirits
The moon is resplendent, alive, sly, awake,
Lighting the side of the cliff so that the infinite rocks glow, shine with extraordinary and mystical brightness, as if the boulders themselves burned with an internal light.
And we, gazing, captivated by the cliff, and the glaring mystic-rock, know that the inner light of past is glaring at us through the eyes of Cochise.
Christopher Johnson is a writer based in the Chicago area. He’s done a lot of different stuff in his life. He’s been a merchant seaman, a high school English teacher, a corporate communications writer, a textbook editor, an educational consultant, and a free-lance writer. He’s published short stories, articles, and essays in The Progressive, Snowy Egret, Earth Island Journal, Chicago Wilderness, American Forests, Chicago Life, Across the Margin, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Blue Lake Review, The Literary Yard, Scarlet Leaf Review, Spillwords Press, Fiction on the Web, Sweet Tree Review, and other journals and magazines. In 2006, the University of New Hampshire Press published his first book, This Grand and Magnificent Place: The Wilderness Heritage of the White Mountains. His second book, which he co-authored with a prominent New Hampshire forester named David Govatski, was Forests for the People: The Story of America’s Eastern National Forests, published by Island Press in 2013.
You can find more of Christopher’s work here on Ink Pantry.
I still remember your hands, thin as winter branches, holding that porcelain teacup, fingers trembling, but stubborn, never letting go.
Steam rose between us, a soft whisp of jasmine, twisting with words unsaid, your eyes watering from the heat— or maybe something else.
You asked me to sit awhile, though silence did the talking. The world seemed smaller, shrinking to the pattern of leaves on that old cracked saucer.
I watched as you sipped, pausing for breath, for memory, for the weight of the past pressed into the lines of your palms, folded away in every quiet sigh.
When you set the cup down, it made the smallest sound, a final note on an unfinished song, and I wondered how it is that some endings can break without ever making a noise.
Now the house sits empty, the teacup still on the table, waiting for a hand that won’t return, and the scent of jasmine lingers, traveling from room to room.
The Empty Chair
In the garden, a chair leans back, peeling paint, splinters of memory, a forgotten book resting on the arm, its pages curled like waiting.
Wind plays through untended herbs, thyme and basil spreading wild, their fragrance sweet and uncontained, like stories spun from the air itself.
A cat circles, then stops, ears flickering, tail suspended— an unheard call drifts through the trees, carried away with autumn’s yellowed breath.
Dusk settles in folds of orange, clouds unraveling like loose yarn— shadows stretch and take their places, the chair holding secrets or simply nothing.
Blueprints
They never finished building that house— a foundation poured and left to set, weeds threading through cracked concrete, framing rooms that will never hold warmth.
I walk there sometimes, over brittle beams, counting empty windows like ghosts, each one a chance to see out or in, each one a choice never made.
A rusted ladder leans like a prayer, reaching for rafters that embrace the sky, where stars pin blueprints of what could be, etched in constellations no architect planned.
Once, a bird nested in the hollowed walls, bringing twigs to cradle new life, and I wondered how she trusted the wind, how she believed in beginnings without endings.
I trace the outlines with my fingertips, a ghost in a half-made dream, feeling both loss and something deeper— a strange grace in the unfinished, where hope clings like ivy, never quite letting go.
Jeffery Allen Tobin is a political scientist and researcher based in South Florida. His extensive body of work primarily explores U.S. foreign policy, democracy, national security, and migration. He has been writing poetry and prose for more than 30 years.
Below the horizon the sun reaches up to touch the clouds once grey now brilliant orange and red sands splashing against the sky.
Then calm, fading back to grey as the sun emerges from below in a hemisphere orb scaring darkness into stretched shadows longing to merge again.
But patience…
Beneath gathers, extends over the ground toward a coaxing moon; the sun descends with red scratches on jet contrails, and orange-cloud pools flow into the night ocean, echo in abandoned shell.
BRIDGE MUSINGS
I want to be an old wooden bridge with slats missing, broken in dangling pairs in mid-air dive suspension.
I want to creak or crack warnings that never materialize or maybe they might. Creaks and cracks tickle my joy.
I might sacrifice a slat to test a hiker’s reactions. Oh, crap! They hung on. Whoo hoo! You’re gone. Bye, bye. It’s never my fault.
I’m an old wooden bridge; I can do what I want!
GRASS MUSIC
A field of brown grass sways in the wind; many girl concert-goers near swoon close to the rock-star singer.
Final wisps of smolder smoke spiral into the sky; dreams dissipate after the blaze burnoff.
Last night’s snowfall splotches the field in black-and-white motif; Holstein cow ghosts rest in herd mentality awaiting milking time in the barn.
Spring rain tamps ash into the ground quenching thirst for green sprouts to slice upwards separate then clumps conjoining into a field renewed; daughters and mothers sway to the music transmitted in wind rustling through air floating across the field.
FENCE GAMES
Down the wooden fence line rails hold hands as posts yell to the fence across the field, “Red Rover, Red Rover, send Lucy right over!”
RAINBOW BIRD
Two birds glide through the waterfall’s mist arcing rainbow colours separating one side from the other. Birds soar through the droplets beaded on feathers shimmering iridescent reflections.
Diane Webster‘s work has appeared in Old Red Kimono, North Dakota Quarterly, New English Review, Studio One and other literary magazines. She had micro-chaps published by Origami Poetry Press in 2022, 2023 and 2024. Diane has been nominated for Best of the Net and a Pushcart. She was a featured writer in Macrame Literary Journal and WestWard Quarterly. Her website is: www.dianewebster.com
You can find more of Diane’s work here on Ink Pantry.
