Gustav Holst Considers a Pebble While Composing ‘The Planets’

He cradles its convexities
in the palm of his hand,
feels its significance,
weighs its bulk.

Striated it could be Saturn,
whose drawn lines
are deeply scarred
from hard-earned experience.

Pockmarked with craters,
it could have been Mars.

Cold, it could be Neptune.

Its sudden jollity
is the playfulness of Jupiter.

Broken open
he hears music

How did it get inside?

Rivers in the Dorian Mode

In that see-saw Margery Daw
ocean of a morning,
red poll bullocks near a barbed wire fence
steer clear of the flood –
all that collective improvisation
driven by the height of tides –
not the happy-go-lucky flow
you sometimes see in summer –
but one that shifts into
a faster pace –
an orchestral outburst
of tidal manoeuvres
surging up from the Channel –
so we listen to fenders
shielding blows
that, and the willows weeping.

Coln St. Aldwyns

In 1953, ‘Gardener’s Question Time’
with Franklin Engelmann
came here. The programme was recorded
in the Village Hall (now defunct)
by the BBC.

I was two years old.

I have a shrub that doesn’t want to flower.
(but not all shrubs do!)
How do I identify my soil type?
(clay, silt, peat or chalk?)
How can I get rid of slugs?
(you never will).
Is it safe to move my peony?
(yes, but it won’t like it).
Can you suggest some plants
that will grow in the shade?
(snowdrops, dog tooth violets,
hydrangeas, hostas
and the hart’s tongue fern).
How can I attract bees?
(foxgloves)….

Between the Norman church
and the cottage gardens
these same questions are asked
and answered
year after year.

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), Penn Fields (Littoral Press, 2019), and ‘Reading Between the Lines’ (Littoral Press, 2020). His work has been translated into several languages including Dutch, French, Romanian, Spanish and Swedish.

You can find more of Neils’ work here on Ink Pantry.

the grimacing tree

once i buried
some of my pain
but years after
after i thought it
was long decayed
it broke the surface
& stretched into
a tree of pain
each blossom
a bouquet of bayonets
w/ boughs full
of razor-blade leaves
& on many
a sleepless night
i hear its poignant
pointed music
beneath my skin
this terrible tree
my twin skeleton
swaying & jangling
like murderous
wind-chimes

one for mrs. t.

in second grade
i used to imitate
arnold horschack
from the tv show
“welcome back kotter”
when the teacher
asked a question
i’d stab my hand
up thru air
& yell , ohh! ohh
ohh! ohh!
it was a brief
period of acting out
i was usually quiet
it probably had
to do w/ my grandmother
dying in my room
while i was moved up
to the unfinished attic
full of exposed insulation
& incoming nails
& a third-hand bed
from one of my cousins
& my brother
getting arrested
for burglary
& all the fighting
& screaming
but anyway
mrs. t. always sent
me to “the timeout nook”
where there were
big soft pillows
a shelf full of books
& colourful curtains
around the whole thing
my classmates thought
it was a punishment
being away from others
but i felt like a prince
we didn’t have books
at home so i read
& lay on pillows
i didn’t feel the need
to be in the group
or answer questions
or imitate tv show
characters
i was my true self
& i miss that nook today
& mrs. t.’s kind punishment

snouts

i don’t get writer’s block
b/c each cell in my shape
is a bloody screaming wound
a misfit achilles heel chorus
of haemorrhaging snouts
that i translate one-by-one
into the blackest of ink

my wish

i want my deathbed
to be a far off forest floor
no walls or roof
no voices or hands
just a whippoorwill song
while across my upward palms
the light of the milky way

Rob Plath is a writer from New York.

Weather Patterns

In a thunder storm,
the skies slowly darken.
Thunder explosions
fill the sound waves,
first from a distance
then closer and louder;
closer and louder.
Flashes of lightning
paint jagged danger signs
on the moving horizon.
There is a drying sun coming
if we can just be patient.

Anonymous Confidential

You permeate my heart
like infectious nuclear pheromones.
When you glisten from the sun,
my olfactory balance
overloads in knee bending compliance.
Your arduous tease glances
trigger kaleidoscope pulse sensations
that shiver shake nerve endings.
And as of this date,
I don’t even know your name.

A Climatic Courtesan

whose cumulus cerulean eyes
can scan simple calculated lies
like soaking rain swept skies
establish immediate sighs
allows the moment to crystallize.

Her breath like the pace of sunrise
arrives as a bold chromatic surprise.
Her kiss, a sweetened dew disguise,
holds my pursuit with no need for replies.

R. Gerry Fabian is a poet and novelist. He has published four books of his published poems, Parallels, Coming Out Of The Atlantic, Electronic Forecasts, and Ball On The Mound.

You can find more of Gerry’s work here on Ink Pantry.

Adolescence

Despite his friends’ warnings,
he fell in love with a red-haired girl.
He took his feelings outside in the open,
beat up a kid who said she had cooties.
And was suspended from high school for his troubles.

The red-haired girl is in tears
is at the funeral of her grandmother.
The old woman’s hair was also red
before it went white.
A kid was sent home for defending her honour.
But the news hasn’t reached her yet.
Besides, she’s moved beyond the awkward years.
She’s staring at the end of life.

She Was Eighty Seven When She Died

There’s a walk-in closet
It’s empty within.
Stale perfume flutters out
like the wings of a moth.

The four-poster bed
leans to one side.
The comforter is faded.
The pillow cases yellowed.

A small cameo
with a rusty pin
rests on a lace doily
atop a dressing table.

It’s watched over by
a black and white photograph
of a young woman
in theatrical dress,
her face half-bleached.

The room struggles
to be who she was
but the hug,
the kiss on the cheek,
are missing.

And more than that,
it doesn’t even know I’m here.

Whatever Happened To Freeform Radio

Driving through the Midwest,
I’m struggling to find a radio station
that isn’t talkback,
or isn’t programmed by accountants
or country or religion
or doesn’t play the same songs
over and over.

But, on a straight road,
across a flat land,
every station is straight and flat.

On a Stretch of Arizona Highway

Behind the wheel,
straight ahead,
sixty miles an hour,
I see myself
there in the distance,
as far as the heat haze
that blurs the foot of the mountains,
until, somewhere in that purple crag,
I disappear completely.

The Carved Giraffe

Should I buy the carved giraffe?
It will impress the folks back home
that we have indeed been to Africa.
And the workmanship is adequate.

Sure everyone in the marketplace is selling
the same rhinos, elephants, buffalo and zebras.

But I don’t see the words ‘Made In China’ anywhere.
And I did look. This really is African wood.
So should I buy the carved giraffe?
Two continents await my answer.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, Leaves On Pages and Memory Outside The Head, and Guest of Myself are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Ellipsis, Blueline and International Poetry Review.

You can find more of John’s work here on Ink Pantry.

I once lived in Sydney

I once lived in Sydney,
the Venice of the very Far East,
where boats glide on ancient waters
that mirror a kaleidoscope of things,
some yachts, aeroplanes and fairie dwellings,
all basking in coves and bays of tranquility.

There was one particular bay I haunted
that had a house so close to the beach
with a wooden seat,
where I sat fantasizing about being part of that unattainable idyll.
My bedroom would be the one that faced the sea
with the waves my lullaby every moon-lit evening.
My eyes would greet the sea-born sun every sunrise
and before it sets in,
and all the shells that deck the sand
would remain where they could inhale the brine
of the deep,
no holes to puncture their hearts,
no strings to imprison,
no roofs to cloister their singing.

When I was a child

When I was a child,
I came to the rescue of ants
by ferrying them across puddles on tree-leaf rafts,
and prepared a funeral for those that perished in the aftermath
of a storm that had no rainbow
or a covenant-pact.
One of my brother’s matchbox cars
served as a hearse.
Flowers were placed where a hole was dug
and a solemn face served as a prayer for the newly interred.

When I was a child,
every object I beheld instantly came to life.
I was able to commune with stone
and pine trees were my confidantes.

Because I could no understand the sky’s native tongue,
she scribbled messages to me in the form of clouds,
the alphabet of the skies,
which I was able to imbibe.

The stars, the blessed souls of my departed pals,
kept a watch over me
and shed tears, falling lights,
when I for the irretrievable pined.

Schooling and the religious establishment
instructed me to strangle whatever beliefs I held
before they became poisonous to my mind and faith.
And when I could not prove to my friends
that those objects were not inanimate,
I intimated to them in later times
that man was more capable of being insensate.

I dread the hour

I dread the hour when I shall learn
of another inevitable betrayal to come
in this never-ending, treason-driven turmoil.

It’s in the way you lower your furtive eyes,
mobilize your lips to force a smile,
then shuffle your feet to assemble a departure
that evades the encounter,
for the Judas kiss is not a part
of this forecast.

I dread the hour when I shall feel
your poison seeping into my veins
like an invisible disease
to contaminate my streams
with the venomous filth of treachery.

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

Susie’s first book (adapted for film), Classic Adaptations, includes Charlotte Bronte’s Villette, Virginia Woolf’s The Waves, and D.H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover.

You can find more of Susie’s work here on Ink Pantry.

Dark plot

Looking under the bed for what’s not there
Dreaming of, climbing the Maypole
Drinking juices of the Olive Press
Kiss is the dark plot
White Rose scent, passion silent wearing a Blindfold
Making friends with a crying Robot
Alabaster silent dark woman smile
Violet stars but one, white star

Without half trying

Looms of sea moon light on Halloween
Making friends without half trying to work
Limp as a wet rag nobbling at her beer puzzler
Turned up trousers and a white alabaster shirt
Red stone nose rag old sloppy eyes guzzler
Like holding water in her hand not dirt
The moon sets before the clock’s muzzle

Pink Storm Kiss

Pink articulated lips, storm kiss of a Queen
Double dark increasing vaster Moon
Roses by a Bee was stung at noon
Said over her shoulder drinking perfect caffeine
Misty English steams of coffee from her canteen
Tide sheeting the lows of the Blue Lagoon
White rose ivory fur, sea cold eyes of a raccoon
Deep velvet looms of sea on Halloween

Couth erg

Washed away somewhat
Minitel scarcely mold
Hostel forget-me-not
Ireland’s west-ward cold
Under illuminated spot
Shriven Mass-old
Couth erg irk not
From out of the White Fire foothold

Yum Yum Gin

The Shepherd’s hour discipline
Fliting Trip overhaul
Sea-birds screaming at night fall
Rhoda den feminine
Penance for their broken chin
Breathing slumbers snowfall
Drunken women’s brawl
Yum Yum Gin

Terry Brinkman has been painting for over forty five years. He started creating poems. He has five Amazon E- Books, also poems in Rue Scribe, Tiny Seed. Winamop, Snapdragon Journal, Poets Choice, Adelaide Magazine, Variant, the Writing Disorder, Ink Pantry, In Parentheses, Ariel Chat, New Ulster, Glove, and in Pamp-le-mousse, North Dakota Quarterly, Barzakh, Urban Arts, Wingless Dreamer, LKMNDS and Milk Carton Press.

You can find more of Terry’s work here on Ink Pantry.

The Rutted Track

She waits at the gate, a raven on her wrist.
A wanton look lurks in her eye,
though her lips have never kissed.

She bids the travellers follow, along the rutted track.
She knows they will not falter
and never once looks back

across the wide flat fields, where crows peck all around.
The sky rides high and silent
and sheaves of wheat lie bound.

She leads them to a cottage and opens wide the door.
The travellers reach to touch her hand,
but then are seen no more.

Slow The Dark Wind Blows

In the field a lone boy stands,
a knot of thunder in each hand.

The cart comes rattling slowly.
Slow the bone cart comes.

Cold lightning clenched behind his eyes,
as in his head the wild geese fly.

The grey horse hobbles slowly.
Slow the old horse groans.

The sky cracks wide, a dance of fire.
His feet root deep into the mire.

The hanging air sways slowly.
Slow as silent stones.

Lost voices twist his bitter tongue
and will not heed the distant drum.

The dry dust rises slowly,
and slow the dark wind blows.

Soon We Will Be Bones

Soon we will be bones.
This robe of flesh will fade away,
no more to dance in forests green,
to taste the kiss of hidden streams,
to wander lost in misted hills,
to suffer fever, loss and ills –
but still walk on

to lie again in languid sun,
to feel the touch of sudden rain,
caress the joy of other’s flesh;
until at last all this is done
and only bones lie quiet, alone.

Waiting For The Rain

We wait for the rain to stop falling.
It came to us just before dawn.
We wait for the first light of morning
and the blackbirds to start up their song.

For here it must always be raining;
the faces that pass pale and long,
as if they all know nothing’s changing
and no-one remembers the sun.

For my dear, we will always be waiting,
now that the storm clouds have gone.
In the courtyards and taverns
we dance with abandon,
then wait for the sweet rain to come.

Business as usual fights her fire—
            her reshaping;

her iron tongs grab
             frackers, drillers, extractors

by their stock options.
            She hammers hot metal

with the intensity of
            all the teenage Gretas

whose voices sere the ears
            of Wall Street financiers,

of politicians who ignore
            crackling ice, drowning

islands, dying phytoplankton,
            gasping seals.

At Kildare her flame burns
            bright with creation—scent

of hope fighting for breath even as
            carrion rules the day.

Killer whales’ whistles haunt
             the Irish sea, barn owls scream,

a school of herring darts
              under her wing.

Nan Lundeen has published poetry, fiction, and nonfiction at, among others: Atlanta Review, Connecticut River Review, Steam Ticket, Illuminations, Yemassee, The Petigru Review, Evening Street Review, patheos.com, and U.K.’s Writing Magazine. The retired, award-winning journalist lives in southwestern Michigan and holds an M.A. from Western Michigan University.