Poetry Drawer: Lone Folkie: Shine on: Winged Ones by Tom Pennacchini

Lone Folkie

There is a squat/stout duffer in a windbreaker and a Mets cap on the outskirts of the park
playing a rickety 5 string and hoot’in and holler’in.

I have no idea what he is singing.
There is no discernible melody.
Every now and then he stops/ freezes/ puts his forefinger in the air
to take some sort of measure
before plunging back into his flailing guitar.
After another stuttering burst he will stop/
then let loose with an elongated cry to the sky/
punk operatic/ style

nobody seems to stop/and listen/he does not have a container for contributions and probably would not get much trade/
he is playing/for his own/self/and that is / enough
It’s/utterly senseless/ wholly out of key.
Beyond the realm of anything/
resembling cohesive musicality
/rambunctiously obtuse

yet imbued with an innocence that casts proficient excellence into a pallid light.

His songs/ performance/ like life/ a messy and inconclusive/ thing/

You can have/ your polished practice and Carnegie aspirations/
and make of that an evening/ with class
but I like the way this codger lets her rip/
this ragged chanteur/
airs it out/ no class/ no talent/ but lotsa / style

Shine on

Shine on oh perishing republic of dreams
oh community of outcasts
Art in the essence with no need
for product or commodity
Convivial souls rabid rebels minds afire
Provincetown dunes Christmas Eve
Greenwich Village the 20’s to the 50’s
Innocent fervent glass of beer cafeteria a quarter
Shine on oh perishing republic of dreams!

Winged Ones

Bustling old fella dashing biddly bop by dressed to the nines
with briefcase stuffed under his arm equipped with fixed maniacal grin jabbering to himself while confirming his expressions
to an equally jazzed and jaunty westie he calls Ralph trailing exuberantly behind
let’s me know
that there are actually still some living beings out there
to learn from

Tom Pennacchini is a flaneur living in NYC.  Has had stuff published at The Free Poet, Mojave Heart Review, Jalmurra, The Scarlet Leaf, Poems for All,  Free Lit Magazine, Backchannels, Loud Coffee Press, Mason Street Journal,  Portsmouth Poetry, the Fictional Cafe KGB Lit Journal and the upcoming issue of Synchronized Chaos as well as the end of year issue of Every Writer Magazine.

Poetry Drawer: Dazzling Poesy by Paweł Markiewicz

Daphnaie
becoming she-conjurer
Thou – ethereal enlightenment
You are a sunflower
The elixir is tender poetry
And You are longing for wisdom
I wish, she had hope for destiny
Rumination

Epimelides
bewitching she-seer
Thou – bucolic romanticism
You are a violet
The solitude is delicate poesy
And You are yearning for acumen
I wish, she had desire for circumstance
Contemplation

Hamadryad
comely she-hex
Thou – demure existentialism
You are a rhododendron
The epiphany is supple verse
And You are yenning for foresight
I wish, she had aspiration for fate
Cogitation

Meliae
knockout she-sorcerer
Thou – dissemble impressionism
You are an Azalea
The aesthete is breakable ode
and You are thirsting for insight
I wish, she had expectation for future
Reflection

Phoebe
resplendent she-magician
Thou – effervescent stoicism
You are a begonia
The plethora is dainty song
and you are spoiling for caution
I wish, she had ambition for inevitability
Celebration

Chrysopeleia
amazing she-prognosticator
Thou – stunning Epicureanism
You are a hyacinth
The delicacy is frail rhyme
and You are itching for judgment
I wish, she had plan for afterlife
Consideration

Dryope
sublime she-charmer
Thou – vigorous Platonism
You are an iris
The felicity is effete rime
and You are hankering for poise
I wish, she had aims for fortune
Thoughts

Erato
statuesque she-enchanter
Thou – glamorous nihilism
You are a lily
The nemesis is feeble minstrelsy
and You are aspiring to prudence
I wish, she had belief for hereafter
Meditation

Eurydice
graceful she-prophet
Thou – halcyon eudemonia
You are a primrose
The scintilla is weak rune
and You are lusting after sanity
I wish, she had faith for paradise
Attention

Tihorea
dazzling she-diviner
Thou – idyllic historicism
You are a marguerite
The ripples are soft lines
And You have eye on sophistication
I wish, she had achievement for karma
Intuition

Paweł Markiewicz was born 1983 in Siemiatycze in Poland. He is poet who lives in Bielsk Podlaski and writes tender poems, haiku as well as long poems. Paweł has published his poetries in many magazines. He writes in English and German.

You can find more of Paweł’s poetry here on Ink Pantry.

Poetry Drawer: Enjoy It While You Got It: Living In The Now: Lost Again: Hey Baby: The Language Is Everything: Far From Home: Existing in the poem by Joseph Farley

Enjoy It While You Got It

I was young once,
Although I felt so old.
I should have been
More childish,
Soaking up the wild morn.

Now what am I?
Old and fat and bald.
Yet still younger
Than so many
Who only exist in the past.

Living In The Now

As we continue our slow destruction
Of the only planet
Where our species lives,
Remember to pause
To display a middle finger
To all of your neighbours
And every plant and animal you see.
Especially remember the little children
That still run and play.
Give them both barrels
And your cruelest laugh.
As for infants in bellies
All those yet to be born,
Bare your ass to their future.
Let them and others mourn.

Lost Again

With sorrow I looked
At the road ahead
And the road behind.

How did I get here,
This place that is
So other?

Ah well, what is life
Without mistakes?
Sometimes the best
Memories come
From bloody errors.

I will continue moving
One foot after another
Until I get to
Wherever I go,

Whether it is
A shining city,
A place not worth
Mentioning,
Or more of the same
That was and will be,

Regardless of
My best intentions
Or my failed sense
Of direction.

Hey Baby

Yes, I am your baby.
Goo goo goo goo.
I love it when you feed me
All your juicy stuff.

Yes, I am your baby.
Goo goo goo goo.
I love it when you hold me
And when you treat me rough.

Yes, I am your baby
You better not have another one.
If I find out you do
It will be the end of all your fun.

Yes, I am your baby.
Goo goo goo goo.
And I will always be your baby
So long as you stay true.

The Language Is Everything

A poem is a short story.
A short story is a poem.
This is not always known.
It shouldn’t be.

All these words,
merely outflow
From that lake of sewage
Deep inside.

Come and take a swim.
Dive in.
Practice your backstroke,
Doggy paddle, and crawl.

You may want to shower
After you climb out,
But you will never feel
Completely clean again.

Far From Home

In the world but not of it,
You are merely a tourist
Far from home.

You watch, you listen,
You taste all the flavours
Of good and evil.

You hope your credit card
Will pay for all your crimes
With a single swipe.

If not you may need
To wash dishes
Or go to prison

Until you are pardoned
Or a sufficient bribe
Of prayers and offerings

Set you free enough
To return home
To rest, recuperate,

Work and save
For another trip
To lands forbidden,

But so much better
Than more
Of the same.

Existing in the poem

These verses
And so many others
Seem hardly worth it,
Both to write and read,
But they come anyway,
And go where they go.

They are seen by eyes
Unprepared for
Such foolishness.
The reader howls
Before crumbling paper
And throwing it away.

Oh, to be a banker
Or a plumber
Instead of a poet.
That would be
A solid life,
More easily understood.

Unfortunately
I have this curse,
This infection
That will not go away.

Words are the life
Of a poet.
There is only
Their sound
And how they look
On the page.

The rest of life
Is an illusion,
A mirage
A hand might reach for,
But never grasp
Or comprehend.

Joseph Farley has had over 1350 poems and 140 short stories published. His 11 poetry collections include SuckersHer EyesLonging For The Mother Tongue, and Yellow Brick Pilgrim. His fiction books include Labor DayOnce Upon A Time In WhitechapelFarts and Daydreams, and For The Birds.

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

Poetry Drawer: Heaven and Hell: Foolish Understanding: Redacted: Close To Me by Claudia Wysocky

Heaven and Hell

Silence fills the air,
as I sit, alone,
among endless rows of graves.

I wish for heartbeats,
for laughter,
for tears.

I miss the noise.

But I know that I can’t have it.

I can hear the footsteps of the living,
but there’s no sound for me.

Silence surrounds me,
as I lay in my own void,
a void of life,
eternal and silent.

I will never know happiness again.

But I accept it,
lying here, alone,
among endless rows of graves.

It was fun being dead for a while,
to feel the quiet
and the peace.
I thought hell would have fire and brimstone,
but I guess that’s only what they tell us.

I’m moving on now,
accepting my reality.
And I know that one day,
I’ll find my meaning,
In the cold abyss.

But for now, all I have is silence,
a silence that never ends.

And I bet there’s fire in heaven.

Foolish Understanding

The things I thought unmeetable—unattainable—as if from Eden—
Forever luring us with what could never be pure in value as it might have been—
  Or so we’ve all been told:
But why should my heart believe it this for so?
This is what I know!
My dreams!
As clear as the words of my own ears—
Unencumbered by notions of what I was or would be.
Just a child at that point in time;
  Unaware of the traps or whims of foolish understanding.
Always trying, always striving.
And now, standing here–where was I standing before?

Redacted

Routine is the devil of a stranger:
   A death spell is different only in name.
18th century England–the rise of industrialisation,
   the first factory system—the spilling out of a Satanic rage.
Alone, for I sought you everywhere.
  In Spain, at five paces away from me,
 Your torso moving gracefully like a flower blooming—
So perfect you were; I should have found a way
to grasp the beauty in it:
  To be with you was to be good, filled with God’s love,
But in that moment my heart dared leap out of my chest
    In the franticness to make time stop for us… To make us both strong enough to last
 eternally
— To love us amidst the world’s fear of each other— It is not as easy as it seems…
  It is enough that we are together.
  You are here beside me. And that’s enough.

Close To Me

It’s lovely, the number of times
you look down on me and forget to see,
 as if from your corner of the sea—
   You could not hear once I begin to plead;
It takes a little time before you come,
 To coax me back again up to the dreams.
  That there is no moon,
 only we are nearer the stars—
    I am but asleep. And yet, here we lie: Far apart.
At some point I think to wake myself up,
   To make sure I haven’t been lying,
And when finally I realize it’s true—
    I find myself so faint; Holding too tight; Too cold.
I think it may be time for a change after all.
  But as things are today—or so it would seem—I’ll sleep here alone under the covers awaiting you to come, more closely to me at last…

Claudia Wysocky, a Polish poet based now in New York, is known for her ability to capture the beauty of life through rich descriptions in her writing. She firmly believes that art has the potential to inspire positive change. With over five years of experience in fiction writing, Claudia has had her poems published in local newspapers and magazines. For her, writing is an endless journey and a powerful source of motivation.

Pantry Prose: Something Clicked by DL Shirey

Gershwin was not his favourite, but Blakey had no choice in the piece selected. Blakey’s job was to sit up straight and act like the music enthralled him. He kept his eyes closed to give the appearance of being spellbound, but in truth Blakey couldn’t bear to watch the hands at work.

Blakey’s arms swept back and forth across the keyboard, fingers landing on the black and white keys as if they had their own eyes, which could be true for all Blakey knew. He had no talent—whatever controlled his hands commanded movement. Blakey tried not to think of the hands as parasites, even though that’s the way he felt. The comparison wasn’t fair to his sister, nor to the legacy of music she gave to fans.

Endure one more performance, that was Blakey’s goal. And to do so, he let his mind wandered while the music played.

Just a few hours ago his sister, Eleanor, accompanied Blakey downstairs to wait for the towncar. The two of them sat in overstuffed chairs in the hotel lobby, wishing for a fire in the hearth, and held hands. They could have been mistaken for lovers. Blakey liked to eavesdrop on conversations and invent preposterous stories for Eleanor, trying to make her laugh; it helped him relax. When the car came, Eleanor kissed his hands and watched him go.

Attention made Blakey self-conscious, like when the driver opened the rear door for him. He felt the scrutiny of people’s eyes as they passed by on the sidewalk. Even with tint on the windows Blakey felt watched.

The black towncar left the hotel, turning from one busy street to another. He began to feel overwhelmed, so Blakey stared at the ornate braid of the woman driver’s hair. Eleanor often wore it that way. Blakey let the city streets roll by and focused on bringing Eleanor’s face to mind. And almost immediately, there was a click. Blakey couldn’t describe it any other way; something clicked, although it was more physiological than audible. In the early days of transfer, Blakey had to bring every ounce of concentration to click into Eleanor. Now, like muscle memory, it happened quickly: Blakey’s hands began to tingle, the pins and needles burning at first. Blakey flexed his fingers, balled them into fists. He flattened out his palms and rubbed them on the twill of his pants. Despite the discomfort, Blakey was relieved. He was always afraid the transfer wouldn’t happen.

Blakey made sure the driver wasn’t looking and turned his palms up. He watched the skin stretch smooth, creaseless for a moment. Then new furrows appeared in similar yet subtly different arrangements. Life line. Head line. Heart line. Fate line.

Someone in the audience coughed and it brought Blakey’s attention back into the auditorium. He couldn’t name the chord the hands just played. It sounded tragic and beautiful as it hung in the air. Next, a frantic pattern of notes searched the keys until a link was found to connect to the next big chord, this one soft and sad. Blakey knew enough about music to recognize the piece was coming to a close; a familiar melody returned in a joyful reprise.

But the only joy Blakey felt was in that long sustain that finished the piece, when hands splayed unmoving on the keys, when the breath of music lingered on the brink of silence, before the applause started.

Blakey opened his eyes, chin tucked down on his chest. Hands withdrew from the keys and rested in Blakey’s lap, changing back again. Life line. Head line. Heart line. Fate line. Calluses re-emerged from soft flesh; so did the scars from the automobile accident that started all this. He watched smooth, tapered fingers revert to ones that had healed bent and crooked.

Standing, hands behind his back now, Blakey bowed because that was expected of him. He left the stage quickly because he didn’t deserve the ovation. The sooner he exited, the sooner the applause would dissipate. Blakey rarely talked to the people at the venue, never signed autographs, and avoided interviews with the press at all costs. “He’s just that way,” they always said. “His music does the talking. Genius is like that. Runs in the family.”

Blakey had grown comfortable in remaining aloof. As long as his silence was interpreted as arrogance there was enough social distance to cope. Even if he could explain his newfound fame, no one would believe it: the auto accident, Eleanor’s career cut short, Blakey emerging with a prodigious talent even though he had sustained more grievous injuries than his sister.

Eleanor had recovered quickly with one small, but devastating, affliction that changed everything. But Eleanor worried less about herself than Blakey’s injuries. For a week he laid unconscious in the hospital, Eleanor at his bedside holding his hands. When he finally awoke, something clicked, and they discovered the gift they’d been given. There was no explanation or revelation how or why, just a car wreck, a before and an after.

He walked backstage and out the exit, hands stuffed in his pockets. The driver was waiting, and she opened the rear door of the towncar. She took her place in the front seat and offered Blakey a bottled water.

“Yes, please,” he said. “Do you mind opening it for me?”

“I understand.” The driver cracked the cap. “If I had those hands, I wouldn’t let them do anything but play piano.”

Blakey accepted the water. “Thank you.”

The bottle was cold. Felt good between his hands. A performance always brought—not pain exactly—discomfort and restlessness. Blakey glared at his old fingers as if to quiet them. Then he realized the driver had said something.

“I’m sorry,” Blakey said, “I wasn’t listening.”

“I just wanted to thank you for letting me hang backstage. I was always a big fan of your sister. How’s she doing, anyway?”

Blakey had heard this question a thousand times. It made him feel uneasy, so he didn’t answer.

“Excuse me. None of my business,” the driver said. “I’ll shut up now.”

He felt shame warm his cheeks. The woman was only trying to be nice and the silence between them was forced and awkward. Blakey noticed how she tightened her grip on the steering wheel and used her side mirrors to avoid the rear view. She was trying hard not to make eye contact.

“Actually, she’s doing pretty well these days,” he finally said. “All things considered.”

The driver looked at Blakey in the mirror. “I never heard you play before, but I have to say, it really reminded me of Eleanor. I mean, like, a lot. Must be amazing, two great pianists in the same family. A thrill to play together, I’ll bet.”

“Unfortunately, her hearing hasn’t returned since the accident,” said Blakey. “In the meantime, I don’t mind taking the lead until she can return. While we’re here in the city, we’re going to see another specialist.”

“Well, I hope it works out. I truly do.” The driver leaned back and handed Blakey a card. “If you need a ride, don’t hesitate to call.”

They didn’t talk for rest of the ride, but the silence was comfortable. Arriving at the hotel, a doorman opened the car door. Blakey did not extend his hand to be helped out.

Eleanor was waiting in the lobby, reading Mrs. Dalloway by the fire. In the adjacent bar a raucous crowd had gathered, cheering at a sporting event on TV. Half a dozen fans spilled out into the lobby, drinking and laughing. Blakey skirted the hubbub and approached his sister.

She looked up and asked, “How did it go?” At least that’s what Blakey assumed. Since the accident, Eleanor couldn’t modulate her voice properly; she was hard to hear even in the quietest of rooms. But Blakey was getting better at reading her lips.

“Fine,” he said, “the audience seemed to enjoy it.”

Eleanor stared hard at Blakey’s mouth, shook her head and pointed at her ears. Blakey had to laugh at his oversight, reached out and extended his hand toward his sister. As their fingers touched, something clicked.

Blakey repeated himself.

“I’m glad,” Eleanor said, her voice now clear and loud above the noise from the bar.

Blakey helped Eleanor to her feet. Just then, the bar erupted with shouts and cheering. Eleanor swung her head toward the noise, startled by the volume. She clamped her hands over her ears and nearly lost her balance.

Blakey grabbed Eleanor’s waist to steady her, then pointed at the hotel’s front door. She retrieved the paperback and stuffed it in her purse. He didn’t touch her again until they got outside.

Blakey folded his hand around hers. “That’s better, too noisy in there. Feel like a stroll?”

“Actually, I’ve got a better idea,” said Eleanor. “How about we grab a cab and go to this piano bar I was reading about. I haven’t been out all day.”

“Can we walk there?”

“I don’t think so.” She dropped Blakey’s hand and opened her purse. “I’ll get my phone and find the address.” The volume of her voice had dropped precipitously.

Blakey couldn’t see her lips as his sister bent over her purse, so he shrugged and stepped toward the curb. He was always happy to acquiesce to his sister’s wishes, so Blakey waved at an approaching taxi three lanes over. The yellow cab accelerated and careened toward Blakey. It sliced through traffic cutting everyone off, receiving a trio of car horns and shouted expletives for the maneuver. The taxi was traveling too fast, and the brakes screamed as it fishtailed toward the curb.

Blakey lurched back beside his sister. He glared at the man behind the wheel.

“What?” the cabby shouted. Palms up, feigning innocence.

“It’s in here somewhere,” Eleanor muttered, unaware, face still buried in her purse. “There. Found it.”

She reshouldered her purse while her brother opened the cab door. Blakey helped her inside and never let go Eleanor’s hand as he slid in beside her.

“Where to?” asked the cabby.

“Melody’s. Lexington and 73rd,” said Eleanor.

“Promise me one thing,” Blakey whispered to his sister, “Promise you won’t make me play.”

Eleanor giggled. “Silly boy. If you borrowed my hands to play, whose would I hold to listen?”

DL Shirey‘s work has appeared in 70 publications including Reflex Fiction, Gravel, Confingo, and Citron Review.

Poetry Drawer: Like Wile E Odysseus: This Could Be Enormous: Short Story by Paul Smith

Like Wile E Odysseus

When you put on your mask
your glasses fog up
as your nose exhales
all that super-saturated air
and the world acquires a halo
putting Homer’s
early-born and rosy-fingered dawn
to shame
but you cannot see
pulling off the mask solves that
the areola fades
the world sharpens
it is still beautiful
but with risks
Sirens still call your name at Hooters
Scylla and Charybdis whisper in one ear to sell
that stock you bought last week
and to buy more of it in the other
nothing has changed much
risk is everywhere
mask or no mask
antibody or no antibody
take your pick
be like Wile E Coyote
that manhole at your feet may be
a figment of your imagination
or maybe
your gateway to the netherworld

This Could Be Enormous

I’m not saying we have to be exact
what I’m saying is
try to be accurate within certain limits
I mean
how thorough are they?
they’re going to give this the once over
they’re not fact-checkers
or CPA’s
they are bean counters
and you know how they think
it’s all about the head bean counter
and as we all know
he knows nothing
except what is whispered to him
when the lights go out
this could be the next big thing
if we don’t blow it
there is no such thing as a
national average
even they know that
but they are stuck with their
protocols
the only one we have
is to make it look good on paper
now, here’s a ream of Grade 3
put your mark on it
and do us all a favour
don’t look back

Short Story

Eternity
long as it may seem
is like a short story
Beginning, middle & end
conflict, struggle and resolution
Guy de Maupassant
could have written it

In the Beginning
there was just Him
with all this time on His hands
He wasn’t lonely
but He fretted a lot about
His omnipotence and
what to do with it
a lot of it had to do with
miniscule details
what atoms He favoured
the chemical structure of hydrocarbons
and He kept wondering which one
would work out the best
although He should have known
this went on a long time
in geologic time yes it is
pretty lengthy
but in story-telling time
only a third of the whole
the conflict was His alone
that probably made Him grumpy
as there was no one
to blame
yet

Then He made up his mind
Bang!
Which was nothing but a diversion
designed to rid the universe of
the Evil One
and it didn’t work
He thought it might
but deep down knew better
and the Evil One prospered
due to us
after all
we had the common bond
of both being kicked out of somewhere
so we all struggled
and He fretted some more
having underestimated
our cleverness our intransigence
and our insatiable lusts
and watched as His plans
headed downhill

Finally things will get resolved
we aren’t there yet
but He, having whipped out His
slide rule
sees that about 15% of us
actually followed His rules
and the rest of us
are like Pop-Tarts in this
huge toaster
cursing
part of the resolution
is what they call the
denoument
the outcome of a doubtful series of occurrences
which now leads to sadness
and this is where He finds the culprit
and says:
‘I knew it was carbon all along’

Paul Smith is a civil engineer who has worked in the construction racket for many years. He has travelled all over the place and met lots of people from all walks of life. Some have enriched his life. Others made him wish he or they were all dead. He likes writing poetry and fiction. He also likes Newcastle Brown Ale. If you see him, buy him one. He is a featured poet at Mad Swirl.

Poetry Drawer: exit stage left: he picked up the rock: Fruit Bowl: A Golden Ale Sky: the remedy by Danny D. Ford

exit stage left

he worked there too
I would see him
in the foyer
coming in for evening class
asking me about open mics
chatting scenes & actors
mouth wide
goatee curling
like a thick black
hedgehog
under attack
always a laugh
a long toothy laugh
& then his tall man’s hand
extending & shaking

& then I stopped seeing him
& then I didn’t work there
anymore
anyway
& then
I heard the news

a balcony somewhere hot

he picked up the rock

expecting to find
perfection

but instead found
dead bugs
& happiness

he didn’t notice either

because that’s not what
he was looking for

Fruit Bowl

she rearranged
my furniture
while I was out
& later
tied me
to a chair
& used a blindfold

she bought me
a fruit bowl
blue fairy
lights
and
a Paddington Bear coat

I regretted ever
letting her
have a key

wealthy daughters
come along like rain

too much
& not enough

after I’d finally found
an umbrella
her father
remarked
that I hadn’t been
up to standard
in the first place

twenty years later
I still have the fruit bowl
& I’m still laughing

Mum Shagged the Milkman

but it’s not
as bad as
it sounds

she married him
& he was a barman
when they first met

then later
at some point
my brothers
& I
attended
their wedding
in pin stripe shirts

I still remember
the day
I found out
I was the dictionary
definition of a bastard

I still remember
feeling a little surprised
disappointed even
that the words
had no effect on me

but maybe that was when
I first learned
words can
just be
words

& nothing
at all

A Golden Ale Sky

the horizon
is pouring
itself
almost
imperceptibly
slowly
westward
shifting
its
every
thing
fraction by
fraction

either that
or I’m more fucked

than I realise

the remedy

for most
things

sleep

& the warmth
of someone
you’d
die
for

Danny D. Ford’s poetry & artwork has appeared in numerous online and print titles. He has sixteen chapbooks to his name, including the recent collections Rum Lime Rum (Laughing Ronin Press 2023) and Sucking on a Wet Pint (Anxiety Press 2022). He can be found in Bergamo, Italy.

Poetry Drawer: I am not barren: Don’t avert thy gaze: How to fulfil dreams there? by Shafkat Aziz Hajam

I am not barren

I am not barren.
My fecundity has not dwindled yet.
Enough as before to bring forth blossoms of all sorts and I do.
Alas! Frequent invasions of atrocious autumn
Debilitates their potency to bloom in full
To show my greatness in their daintiness and redolence
That would once captivate aves from overseas
To warble in praise of my nature.
O God! Free me from this brutish autumn,
Can’t endure it any more.
To glitter with my flair
Let clement spring reign over me.

Don’t avert thy gaze

Don’t avert thy gaze, behold these cemeteries!
The voices for peace and averse to slavery
Are interred here.
The eyes anti to tyranny and the altruistic hearts
For the persecuted are interred here.
Don’t avert thy gaze, behold these cemeteries!
The buttresses for the decrepit and the comforts for the pained,
The joys for the dejected and the glims for darkness are interred here.
Don’t avert thy gaze, behold these cemeteries!
The gallant patriots of my nation- moral for the coward Slaves
The upshots of the tyrannous reign and even of the traitors are interred here.

How to fulfil dreams there?

How to fulfil dreams there
Where one often takes breath in the net of fear of disappearance and of death
And where one carries more coffins but palanquins few.
Not many raiments for weddings
But more shrouds one has to sew.
How to fulfil dreams there
Where each moment is spent in jails and yowls
And youths decay in dingy jails.
Where one while fishing, fishes out a corpse
Of a mother’s only progeny and succour
Beheaded or mutilated or putrefied
Or still from his wounds, is dripping blood of innocence.
How to fulfil dreams there
Where one’s childhood is caged, divested of its joys
Where deranged mothers (as if their sons) are lullabying toys.

Shafkat Aziz Hajam is a poet from Kashmir, India. He is the author of two children’s poetry books, The cuckoo’s voice, and The canary’s voice. His poems have appeared in international magazines and anthologies like Wheel song anthology (UK based), Prodigy, digital literary magazine USA, PLOTS CREATIVES online literary magazine USA, Inner Child Press International USA, AZAHAR anthology in Spain, SAARC anthology, Litlight literary magazine Pakistan etc. He has also written more than a hundred funny limericks for the children and adults’ poetry book, The Unknown Wounded Heart.

Flash in the Pantry: Looking ahead (with dread) to turning forty by Angela Fitzpatrick

Holding up the champagne flutes, Di and I looped arms and tried to take a drink, laughing.

‘Happy New Year!’ she said.

‘Here’s to turning forty,’ I replied.

‘Oh God. Don’t remind me.’ She covered her eyes. ‘I’m dreading it.’

I knew she was. ‘I’ve had an idea. Let’s make it a celebration, a joint party. And I challenge you to do forty new things before you’re forty.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Is there anything you’ve always wanted to do, but not got around to, or been too chicken? Well, now’s the time. You’ve got eight months to do it in. Make a list.’ I opened the kitchen drawer to pull out a pad and some pens.

Di thought for a moment. ‘You mean like belly dancing?’

‘Yes. Exactly like belly dancing,’ I handed her a pen. ‘You’ve been saying for years you wanted to learn. Write it down.’

‘Okay, I’ll do it. What about you? Back atcha.’ She pointed. ‘You’ve got to do it too.’

‘Alright…I’m going to get a second piercing in my ears.’ I touched my earlobe. ‘My mum never let me when I was young – said it was cheap – and I forgot about it till now. I’m going to buy myself some tiny diamonds, stylish ones.’

‘Good choice. I’m going to read War and Peace. Always intended to, but never found the time.’

‘Good luck with that,’ I replied. ‘Life’s too short! I’m going to volunteer on a charity project for a couple of weeks, somewhere in Africa or maybe India.’

‘Great idea. I’ve always fancied seeing Dubai, so I’m going to quit my job and go work there.’

I frowned. ‘Won’t Jack have something to say about that?’

Di shrugged. ‘I don’t care, he’s never home. I think getting a divorce will make it onto the list too. How many are we up to?’

‘Oh, not even ten yet. Miles to go.’

‘Right then, I’m going to get myself arrested. Never done that yet.’

‘Too drastic! I’ve never even spoken to a policeman in my life,’ I said. ‘Don’t get arrested in Dubai – they still have death by firing squad. You might not even make it to forty.’

She thought for a moment. ‘I’m going to try smoking pot, or maybe something stronger. Pop some acid and go to a rave. Do they still do that?’

I shrugged. ‘No idea. It sounds a bit extreme. It’s not really what I had in mind…’

‘Well, now you’ve started me off. It’s your fault.’ Di laughed.

I tried to bring the conversation back to sense. ‘Is there any food you’ve never tried that you like to?’

‘Hmm, magic mushrooms. What’s that called? Psilocybin, yes that’s it. I’d give that a try.’

‘No, I mean like…trying Japanese food, for example.’

‘Nope. Though I’ve always wanted to own a katana: one of those curved, razor-sharp blades…’

‘Oh, well we can put that on the list.’ I smiled.

‘…and to behead somebody with it. Somebody famous, or obnoxious. Jeremy Clarkson, perhaps.’

‘Maybe this is getting a little out of hand.’ I put the pen down.

‘I’d like to learn to fly,’ Di said.

‘Oh, that’s a good one. Do you mean like a Cessna; pilot lessons?’

‘No. I mean like, flap-my-arms-and-launch-off-the-balcony. Fly. Like this.’

She lifted her arms like a football supporter watching a goal scored, then stepped right out of her silver glitter shoes and ran through the living room, her chiffon dress trailing and rippling like the skirt on a hovercraft.

Di shouted, ‘I’m going to fly!’ then crashed through the patio doors and straight over the balcony rail.

‘Wait!’ I sprinted behind her, almost grabbing the fabric of her dress as she slipped on the smooth floor where the snowfall had melted then refrozen into a thin sheen of ice.

I couldn’t bear to look over the edge; I live on the sixth floor.

-o0o-

The policeman passed me a tissue and patted my shoulder. ‘Don’t blame yourself, Miss. A lot of people take it hard at this time of year. Even closest friends often don’t see it coming.’

‘She was depressed about turning forty this year. I can see now: she was acting strangely all evening.’ I sniffed.

‘I’ll break the news to the husband. Are they separated?’

‘I think they were having trouble. I don’t know why he didn’t come to dinner with her.’

-o0o-

It took me an hour to clean up all the broken glass from the patio door.

I was tempted to text Jack, but it was too risky, so checked my online banking instead and was satisfied the police had already broken the ‘tragic’ news.

Then I flushed away my insurance policy: the psilocybin container with Jack’s fingerprints on.

Angela mostly writes short stories and has been published in Café Lit and Backstory Journal as well as shortlisted in various competitions. She is currently working on her debut novel having recently completed an MLitt in Creative Writing with University of Glasgow.

Poetry Drawer: Insomnia: Contemplation III: Calculations by Dr Susie Gharib

The silence of the night,
in the wake of many bullet-rent years,
is torn by the remonstrance of three stray dogs
who find no food in the garbage container,
having been emptied by junk-collectors
who would not now hesitate to consume
any available leftovers.

In the background, the festivity of a posh nightclub,
which is not very far-off,
aims at the slumberous heart
with enervating beats of folklorish drums.
This happens every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night
until the break of dawn.

Poverty and excessive wealth sit side by side
in this part of the world.
There are no West Ends or East Ends,
which only makes the contrast more flagrant.

My dog is agitated and responds with a series of barks.
I have to find a way of calming her down
or I will meet with a wave of disapprobation
from the neighbours themselves,
who will sift all other noises
and only hear my dog’s responding soundtrack.
I start stroking her coat
and her barks eventually subside,
but she remains unsettled
by both the shrieks of the nightclub
and the intermittent howls of homeless dogs.
How can I explain to friends that insomnia
has nothing to do with the intake of caffeine
or psychological strife?

Contemplation III

What is God?
I ask myself as I contemplate the interwoven clouds.
Far on the horizon, faint streaks of lightning corrugate the gloaming sky,
Ruffling my meditative stance,
for now we dread whatever can herald a storm,
which we associate with floods, earthquakes, and apocalyptic doom.

I retrieve my thoughts from the menace of apprehensiveness
that tends to dominate our current moods.
How can I paint a mental picture of a featureless Lord?
He is not supposed to possess eyes, a mouth, or a nose.
In paintings, He is depicted with a white beard
and sagaciously old.
What if He is eternal youth
and this virgin world which we have contaminated
is one of his countless words?

I like the idea of inhabiting a word.
It is simpler than the metaphysical and transcendental schools
for within each word He utters
dwells realms and worlds to roam.

Calculations

She twists every word I speak.
I decide to calculate how many words I utter
in her presence every day,
and to monitor their denotative and connotative implications.
She does not say Good Morning,
because she knows that every conversation would end
in acrimony and ill feelings.
She resurrects the past instantaneously
and blames me for every single decision
taken by my dad,
whose headstone is now twenty-two years old.
These calculations would hopefully divert my mind
from the putridity of every memory she unearths
to derail any dialogue aimed at peace-making.
I can put up with the abuse that pours into my consciousness
but the desecration of the memory of the dead,
especially that of my kind-hearted dad,
is more than I can take.
She seizes every opportunity to heap blame
on his decaying head.

On the first day, it does not work.
I wade into her lukewarm morning talk
until it gets scorchingly hot
and lava is forced out of my tongue.
It becomes so hard to keep silent
once the agitation of the nervous system sets in
and she is so good at awakening the worst in you
not even slumberous demons on narcotics
can ignore her venom.

On the second day, I succeed in shortening each argument
by five minutes
and though I cannot count the words in use,
the shortened time of the interchange
indicates the inevitable decrease.

On the third day, I begin to enjoy this test of patience;
however, the less words I use,
the more infuriated she becomes.
It is a no-win situation.
I begin to turn my thoughts inwardly
every time she starts her turbulent orchestration.
Half her words go unheard
and the lack of physiognomical reactions on my part
makes her mistake taciturnity for acquiescence
in her never-ending remonstrations.

Dr 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.