Poetry Drawer: Cabin Crew by Kathy Hoyle

To you, I am a lipstick-slicked smile.
A branded automaton.
A stocking-topped fantasy.
A bring me, serve me, filthy joke.

To you, I am there for the calling.
Push the corporate button,
Watch her dance.
The strings are invisible.

To you, I am a peripheral bauble.
A wanton waitress.
A pocket for a business card.
A bringer of brandy.

You cannot imagine
What I’ve seen.
What is required.
A head for heights, and hearts.

The hands I’ve held, the tears I’ve wiped.
Gentle comfort to a stranger,
A colleague, a child,
When fear or pain or death takes flight.

To you, I am a lipstick- slicked smile.
A clouded view.
I hope I never witness your descent.

Kathy Hoyle was a former Creative Writing student at the OU, graduating last year, and is now completing her MA at The University of Leicester.

Poetry Drawer: A BOWL OF JESUS CHRIST RICE by Hunter Boone

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.

Poetry Drawer: As We Step Into Our Own Role by Deane Thomas

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.

Check out Deane’s new book, Expressions of Love and Light

I Am Programmed by Rob Lowe

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.

Poetry Drawer: A Sonnet to the She Wolf by Lenore S Beadsman

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).

Poetry Drawer: You, springtide by Paweł Markiewicz

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.

Poetry Drawer: Poem about Prometheus by Paweł Markiewicz

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

Poetry Drawer: Even Big Guys Cry by Dan Provost

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.


Poetry Drawer: I Will Be A Ghost One Day by Louise V. Brown

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.

Poetry Drawer: Mea Culpa by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

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

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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