My crazy paved heart. Jagged shards. Unmatched patterns. Unnumbered memento mori to floral fragments of time. Pierced, mismatched, shattered again. On the rough edge of forgotten. Momentum suspended upon filamental fears. Hope filling spaces between: glue holding broken porcelain pieces together. Like layers of greying newspaper. Feathered pages placed between chipped plates, mugs, and bowls every time we moved. Until we stopped bothering to unpack.
Below the bridge
From the deck, I appreciate the view, but sliding alongside the bridge there’s a living thing. Connective tissue. Monumental, vulnerable. Piers and piles driven into the bedrock lost beneath the surface, looking like tide-marked, ring-barked, mud-implanted concreted legs, squat thighs, old knees obscured in dark water. Substructures: the under-bridge world, absent even of blinks of reflected light from unceasing ripples passing boats like mine leave in their wake.
Shadow
We take it in turns. Sometimes I follow, then I am followed. As above, so below. When I can’t see you, we converge. We’re not the same, nonetheless our pattern forms the dance.
Rebecca Dempsey’s works are forthcoming or featured in Elsewhere Journal, Ligeia, and Schuylkill Valley Journal Online. Rebecca holds a Masters of Writing and Literature from Deakin University, lives in Melbourne, Australia, and can be found at WritingBec.com.
We moved into a house within the grounds of a psychiatric hospital where the fine Australian poet, Francis Webb, was incarcerated many years earlier in rural NSW, its streets bordered by majestic European trees. My wife had accepted a key managerial position in the health service. I buzzed with a fervour to write, so preferred privacy, no next-door neighbours, while I looked after our toddlers, the terms ‘biological clock’, and ‘house-husband’ neologisms to me then.
Using a backpack and pusher, I took our boys for walks around and across the central golf course, balls sometimes cracking over our fence into the backyard, or under elms, past wards where a middle-aged man sat outside waving a grubby teddy bear, addressing us, voice guttural, unintelligible, his large pale penis erect as I increased the pusher’s pace.
Ominous resentment seemed to surround the hospital, miasmic despite the English village postcard effect. Motorised groundsmen stared from a distance. When I approached them about something they shared sly glances, monosyllabic, ignorantly difficult. I thought at first these sullen men meeting my politeness with antagonism were patients allowed to work, and I felt the presence of our laughing children exacerbated their pique.
Needing to understand the reason I became a bit paranoid in my sheltered world of the imagination. Was it my wife’s managerial position? Did they know I wrote, so the vanity of this? Was it about a man caring for infants, or the time we asked them not to spray weedkiller around the edges of our yard where the boys romped? I wondered if all these reasons became enlarged in their collective psyche. I also remembered tough times when their pleasant work would have been a godsend. My wife simply said it was because they had to go out to work and I didn’t.
When I passed professionals, easily identifiable by their smart appearance, they avoided eye contact. I dressed roughly, cut my own hair, knew they saw me as a trusted patient. I like being left alone, even ignored, so this guise both suited and amused me.
Passing the wards, 1930s brick softened by those trees austerely impressive, some closed due to asbestos, I heard eldritch screams, tantrums, saw damp bedding dropped from a high window, but mostly the loneliness of its eerie quiet chilled as every turn, every building, made me feel trapped in misery, even the neat collections of beer bottles and tops around bases of tree trunks. The more I walked, the more I sorrowed. The more I sorrowed, the less I wrote.
Not understanding future’s nostalgic gusts I searched for echoes of Webb, possibly Australia’s most spiritual poet, but felt only an absence of happiness, believing his melancholia would have become entrenched in wretchedness there. When the time came to leave, although glad, I also experienced a sense of loss accompanying the end of this, one of many periods in my strange life. Always finding endings difficult, I wondered if Webb, stubbornly writing, recalled hopes, wishes, happier days, ended.
Ian C Smith’s work has been published in Antipodes, BBC Radio 4 Sounds,The Dalhousie Review, Griffith Review, San Pedro River Review, Southword, The Stony Thursday Book, & Two Thirds North. His seventh book, wonder sadness madness joy, is published by Ginninderra (Port Adelaide). He writes in the Gippsland Lakes area of Victoria, and on Flinders Island.
You can find more of Ian’s work here on Ink Pantry.
Between college and the Army I had some time to kill at home And discovered quite by chance That my parents watched soap operas. They tried to make it look accidental. “Let’s see what’s on,” my dad would say As he turned to the channel That carried their story, And the afternoon coffee Came to a boil in an aluminum saucepan. Now, at 83, I wonder what our girls Have figured out of their parents’ lives, The rituals of two people Together almost sixty years, An accrual of idiosyncrasies, Toast sliced in thirds, The favourites bookmarked On the internet of our lives.
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.
You can find more of Robert’s work here on Ink Pantry.
a single black crow caws from his perch atop a mesquite tree deep in the Mojave Desert.
it watches me pass as i wander by, waiting on my collapse and a skull upon which to feed.
gillian anderson
she sits across from me uninvited late night at a Starbucks near Hollywood
hi, i’m…
yeah, i know i say, voice cracking suddenly 15 or 18 or something less than 58
you dedicated something, to me
yeah, i did
she takes a bite of blueberry muffin
i slug back the remains of my coffee
congrats on the Emmy,
congrats on the book, can you sign my copy?
yeah, of course
i follow her up a long driveway, in a town that’s not Bel Air or Beverly Hills she unlocks the front door, kisses me in the foyer holds out her hand at the foot of the stairs
i keep it in my bedroom, she says, red hair cut short, blue eyes sparkling
next to the Emmy?
yes, of course
her main bedroom is massive king bed, couch, fire place sitting area, treadmill, walk in closet,
wanna shower first? she says, unexpectedly her clothes bread crumbs leading to her silhouette
before i sign my book?
yes, before that
i follow quickly, just as my fever breaks
and i wake up
norm
i keep thinking of this old man this old poet a man i barely knew other than a few notes traded back & forth
this old man down in the Village he’s dead now almost a year maybe two i can’t keep track
lots of folks die
i think about his words legacy how everything stopped when he died
maybe that’s how it’s works
everything stops when you’re dead
but maybe if one person keeps thinking about an old man an old poet
more than just words carry on
maybe that’s legacy maybe that’s enough
for norman savage
victim
the thick wet sound of shotgun blast rips from the apartment next door and i race
ten steps down the hall to investigate.
Cecilia stands in the doorway, her cigarette smoking as much as the end of the shotgun in her hand.
she smiles at me through broken teeth, skin bruised; clothes torn takes a long drag and says,
maybe now somebody’ll listen to me?
cops tramp up old wooden steps guns drawn scream in unison, get down, get down
and Cecilia turns her head and says,
then again, maybe not…
jack henry is a queer writer based in the high desert of south-eastern california. in 2020 jack’s third collection, driving w/crazy, was released by Punk Hostage Press.
I believed love would transcend all fashion and outlast all time and surpass all distance.
Memory would always recall the “once” even though that moment’s lovers would change.
Memory, I thought, forged eternal chains. Now, none of the jigsaw pieces will match.
They repose, inert, scattered, unattached, though I recall some names, some body parts.
I can’t make out their shadows in the dark though I know they once lit up my passion.
Opiates of the Masses
Crucifiction, Failosophy, Hisstory: Tomorrow is a myth. And so is yesterday. Now is all. Physicks, Asstrology, Isometricks: Yourself, as you are at present, is your only guide. Medisin, Accupunkture, Sighchiatry: There is no cure for reality. Litterature, Statuwary, Musick: Art is a grand mirage — and it takes great pride in being so. Soshellism, Dicktatorship, Demockracy: All government systems are synonyms for slavery. Kingdumbs, Milittearism, Onerousship: Allegiance to others is suicide. Noosepapers, Liebraries. Educashuns: “Knowledge” so-called is mere pretense. Relashunships, Guarantease, Freedumb: Promises are illusions. But illusions may also be promises. Ambishun, Suckcess, Sellebrity: Self-promotion is the greatest deception of all. Syphillisation: Truth is what you trust.
Electioneering
The pigeons coo and nod on the raven’s coy oration.
The Mythic Archaic Cub, His Mandalas, and Me
I wait here still for the wise old man and his chatter of universal traits, how they shape my acts like hands on a potter’s wheel (but hereditary, innate).
“Archetypes are to psychology as instincts to biology.”
I sit in his psyche, peeling my mandarins, and wonder, is this a proper asana? Some tables down someone plays a green mandolin and my self stifles respondent hosannas.
My me was always confused by the we, and I was never the one I used to be.
I used to take my tea with cream but now I prefer lemon. Why do I have all these dreams about so many different women?
Decades have passed like clouds over seas as I searched for any available lee.
The minutes pass like birds in flight and my shadow cowers in shadows I interpret as monstrous daytime nights. Mandolinist fingers dissolve into adders.
Duane Vorhees writes after teaching University of Maryland classes in Korea and Japan. Hog Press in Ames, IA, has published 3 of his poetry collections, HEAVEN, THE MANY LOVES OF DUANE VORHEES, and GIFT: GOD RUNS THROUGH ALL THESE ROOMS.
It wasn’t that her parents wouldn’t attend because the wedding clashed with Remembrance Day and poppies exerted a powerful hold; nor that my Best Man was newly diagnosed as a schizophrenic cum manic depressive – though we were both in two minds about that. Neither that my sister’s husband turned up in a T-shirt bearing the legend BULLSHIT overdid the bevvies and insulted my mother, obliging me to step in and suffer the traditional wedding day glass smashed over my forehead, a visit to Casualty and several stitches. And in retrospect I can see it was funny to be trapped in a lift for 2 or more hours with a freshly bought packet of fags and no matches. But the worst of all was when Path of Peace, a horse I’d followed with more faith than reason, triumphed at 25-1 in the last big race of the season. What with one thing and another I never got to put the bet on. 40 years later and I’m still chasing losses.
Ray Miller is a Socialist, Aston Villa supporter, and faithful husband. Life’s been a disappointment.
You can find more of Ray’s work here on Ink Pantry.
The cat came out of nowhere, jumping out of the bushes, hissing at the pit bull. “Poor Rocky,” Carol said, stroking his trembling ears. Dumped on the side of the road, battered, bruised, and left for dead. That’s how the dog rescue people found him. He was a bait dog that had outlived his usefulness. When the vet discovered rocks in his stomach, the rescue agency named him Rocky. A starving dog will eat anything. Even rocks. When he was ready for adoption, Carol applied. She’d never had a dog before. But she couldn’t resist his sad face. Pampering Rocky became her new hobby. She fed him premium dog food, dressed him in stylish sweaters, and walked him every evening after work. There was only one problem. The neighborhood cat. It loved to come out of nowhere and terrify Rocky. A timid giant, he never defended himself. His past had beaten the fight out of him. Carol could relate. She’d also escaped an abusive relationship. Therapy had healed her wounded soul. Maybe it could heal Rocky too? She decided to try. Every night before she went to sleep Carol would read empowering books to Rocky, his head resting on her shoulder. “We become what we’re attached to,” Carol read, turning the page. “You’re a survivor, Rocky. Attach yourself to courage, not fear.” Winter arrived, and Carol slipped Rocky into a warm red hoodie for their walk. On the street, the man came out of nowhere, hurrying toward Carol. “Why haven’t you answered my calls?” he demanded. Carol stepped in front of Rocky. “Our relationship ended six months ago,” she said. The man grabbed her arm, pressing his fingers into her flesh, bruising. “That’s unacceptable,” he threatened. The growl came out of nowhere. In a flash of red, Rocky moved between them. The man jumped back and ran away. Carol looked down at the leash in her hand. She was the only one trembling. “Let’s get a snack,” she said, stroking Rocky’s soft ears. “My treat.”
‘Attachments’ was first published in The Rye Whiskey Review.
Laura Stamps loves to play with words and create experimental forms for her fiction. Author of several novels and short story collections, including IT’S ALL ABOUT THE RIDE: CAT MANIA (Alien Buddha Press). Muses Prize. Pulitzer Prize nomination. 7 Pushcart Prize nominations. Mom of 4 cats. Laura’s Twitter.
The sky loses all its colour- In the leisure of your eyes. My palm loses track to- Answer your phone call. The melody stops when- Your kisses appear. The broken tree collects- And shares the love. Love clings to the fallen leaves. Our love drops to the ground. Only the fingers remain untouched. The blackspots stain the diary. The waves of the metamorphoses- Floats in your blue eyes. The crisscross of the destruction- Spreads over the strings- Of the guitar, out of the blue. The memories stick to the thorns. The voice cracks to the last pitch. The lane drenches- In the damp of the dark. This earth is a daredevil, Galib.. I failed to be a part of it. So is with the innocent lives. I am longing for you. Millennium. I’m in my last move of this battle. Waiting for you under this dull sky.
Tiyasha Khanra is a poet and author, who lives in Kolkata, India. Previously published on Internation Times, Indian Periodical, Spillwords, Storymirror, The Lakeview Journals and elsewhere.
I don’t want you here. The void is a void. Sun a bright November forty seven ride. When I was last depressed I drowned myself in Tito’s. This was a gift from you. You won’t be there, but I want you there.
Endless Twine, so to Speak
every sentence can rebirth a hundred times correction fluid applied to my tongue I gag paint thinner thinker emotions, I’d say what a wondrous gift, a paperclip glinting in fluorescent sun, how endless sky turns fake the longer I stay inside
Hard to Think Around the Thing
I don’t want details. To paint the scene is the scene. I am trying hard to think around the thing. To forget the figure and face. But it was late October, your phone was booming This is Halloween– and my bed was on the floor then. And the baby blue walls before the High Street crowd, everyone in masks– with the scissors. You cut the hole in my pants. Because I was in silky green. I was alien alive in the wrong place, wrong time. There was the gold stage behind us. By garbage can makeouts. Groping hands reached into the city’s cheap costume. And there was chill in the wind except when everyone was bunched into each other. If we couldn’t stay warm we’d have to go inside. No one wanted the street. But we didn’t want inside.
Dental Care
is a drill I am filling holes in the days my worn-out jeans piled on plaids & flannels in a bag of old saliva
& I didn’t listen when you asked– no, pleaded– take care
the whir of the overhead light looms over every scrape
Cover
Skinny Love isn’t your strongest (red guitar grass blades, guzzles of beer)
the world doesn’t know your name still I walk infinity eights through
your friend’s backyard evading dormant dog droppings while the strumming lands
soft & sweet, butterflies on my cheek. I’ll find a blanket somewhere to sit on
under the awning, a shade for when it rains
James Croal Jackson (he/him) is a Filipino-American poet working in film production. He has two chapbooks, Our Past Leaves (Kelsay Books, 2021) and The Frayed Edge of Memory (Writing Knights Press, 2017). He edits The Mantle Poetry from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.
As you grow older, you feel the rain before the first drop plops upon your skyward face because aches in wrists & knees are the raging storm clouds unseen.
O, how it was to be young & without a care or worry, running through the rain because it was fun instead of trying to seek shelter.
Each drop a baptism to bring your spirit a sense of renewal you didn’t know you’d need before the pain.
I used to sit on the porch with my dad during storms; he’d tell me ghost stories that always seemed to fall on the current day’s date.
When you’re just a child, you don’t think of all that can be lost in a tornado while sitting in a bathtub with your bub, having the time of your life.
Tim Heerdink is the author of Somniloquy & Trauma in the Knottseau Well, The Human Remains,Red Flag and Other Poems, Razed Monuments, Checking Tickets on Oumaumua, Sailing the Edge of Time, I Hear a Siren’s Call, Ghost Map, A Cacophony of Birds in the House of Dread, Tabletop Anxieties & Sweet Decay (with Tony Brewer) and short stories ‘The Tithing of Man’ and ‘HEA-VEN2’. His poems appear in various journals and anthologies. He is the President of Midwest Writers Guild of Evansville, Indiana.
