Has the Train Arrived?

I am sitting here alone, hair shower-wet,
Carefully digging the pebbles out
From the bottoms of my feet
(Where they’ve been embedded)
With the little sharp digging tool
Found folded in a cheap nail clipper.
I think about breakfast in the morning,
Wondering if I will wake up to make it,
Wondering if I will wake up to eat it.
Then,
Going to the window for the tenth
Time
With three questions in my mind –
Has the rain arrived?
How furiously will it fall?
How long will it linger?

I Have Your Skin On My Mind

I have your skin on my mind.
I have your sadness in my eyes.
I wear your apprehension, a pure white cloak
I work day by day to shed.
I hold you in my imagination.
I want you the way I have always wanted.
I long for you and the twisted smile
I see when I close my eyes.
I see it grinning over me as you ease me in.
I see you going slow on top of me.
I feel you dripping down each thigh,
My hands in your hair,
My mouth on yours.
I want to make you happy.
I want to see you smile just like that.
I know you know this wish to make you content is all about me.
I feel your hands going through the hair on my chest.
I shiver in compliance.

I would feel better with your body up against mine.
I have your skin on my mind.
I have your scent in my imagination.
You have me on a string.
Please pull me toward you.
I closed the door.
It’s just us.
You can still be invisible, just not to me.
I promise.

I Long To Be Loved

I long to be loved
And understood
And wanted

And that is why

The moon, the sun, the dirt beneath them

The wind and the clouds
And the depths of the ocean

The splashing on her rocks and sand
And the falling of the rain
Will always be more powerful

Than I

Our Hair Reposed

Our hair reposed on the same pillow,
You face away, I face toward,
My fingers clenched on your hip,
My body heaved to yours.
Smelling the evening in your hair
And on the back of your neck.
Just glorious.
No more worried lonesome blues.
You sigh and turn to me
And our mouths meet again,
Tasting hot and wet,
Just like the first time.
I grow hard against your leg
And your breasts strangle into my chest hair.
Now it’s hands and eyes locked
And tongues and lips,
Bodies moving as one.
The chains fall,
The music begins
And the room is burning
Like a star.
It’s time to show each other
What love feels like
Again.

Quatrains

In these poems I read
I see women compared to the moon, the sun,
A lovely spring morning
And even the ebb and flow of The Milky Way

But whenever I think of you
I just see a beautiful woman
Who is unaware of her power,
Uncertain of her beauty.

Not a force of nature,
Not a season or the impetus
For the growth of crops
Or the cycles of the ocean tide.

No, It’s just you –
A human woman so indescribably gorgeous
Whether waking from sleep or sitting alone
Or looking back at me with such kindness

And unfathomable love.
To me, that is more astounding
Than the movement of the tides
Or the aligning of the stars.

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

List of John’s work.

Composting

Earth’s been composting for centuries.
Ted just hastens it a little.
That wire-mesh bin is at the heart of it,
five-sides and shiny wire,
cut and assembled it himself.
Twigs and roots, grass and rotting fruit –
he stirs it together like making broth.
Sure the smell is fierce
but he’s the kind of man who’s invigorated
by foul odours.
His nose connects them to plump red tomatoes,
golden turnips, melons fat as pregnant sows.
Indeed, the stench is a bridge
from his nostrils to the kitchen table,
from sweaty brow, strained hands,
to the McCreedys gathered together
for a delectable Sunday dinner.
So earnestly, he hurries nature along.
All for growing family in its own good time.

Early November

My breath-smoke greets yellow leaf
with silent echo, invisible ripple,
just this whisper made mist
in clusters of cold.

Keep moving through pallid light,
wild-honey froze tree trunks,
by cold metal fences,
blood and air, a crisp, wary mix.

There, in the distance,
the sniff of a chimney,
the pucker of faces
through window’s frail shine.

The onset of hearth,
the dusk hoops of flame,.
the flight of ash, the hug of fire,
and a house thawed of indifference.

An Aah Poem

Stream constant
in its flow,
its sounds,
no wonder I fall asleep
on the banks.

My nature incursion
pauses in a patch of soft grass.
And I don’t breathe as much
as swallow a long draught of air.

There’s a tear
in the clouds, the treetops.
Sun shines through inexorably.

Taxi

Taxis ignore me
on a dismal, rainy night.
No matter how far I stretch my arm,
the cabs speed by,
blurs of yellow indifference.
Snug in the back seat,
warmed by engine air,
that’s all I ask.
A short trip to my apartment.
five miles at most,
that’s all I need.
And I’m even willing to pay.
Look at my face,
dribbling with water.
my shirt, drenched
to the chilled skin.
Doesn’t that say big tip to you
in every language.
Finally, a taxi does stop,
a miracle.
but a woman appears out of nowhere.
pushes me aside
with a brusque “Excuse me. sir,
but I’m in a hurry.”
More rain, more soaking.
Patience will be lucky
if it doesn’t catch pneumonia.
Only a rush, a dash, keep dry.

Lake Harmony, May 2020

Daylight mops up after rain,
puddles ripple faces of drinking sparrows,
grass glitters, trees glow like glass,
new growth, flush with moisture,
welcomes sunshine into its fecund mixture,
the afternoon rolls out like a towel
drying its way into coming darkness,
where the moon waits behind Earth’s curve
ready to launch the night.

Camping, the Safety in our Numbers

They’re out there somewhere,
bears, wolves, maybe even a cougar.

The fire is dwindling down
so the cold also joins the pack.

But we have the tent, the bed rolls,
and the body heat that moves between us.

Protection comes down to your kiss,
my hug, your hair spilled on my shoulder.

A coyote howls. A great horned owl hoots.
You’d think they’d learn.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Orbis, Dalhousie Review and the Round Table. Latest books, Leaves On Pages and Memory Outside The Head are available through Amazon.

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

Man Out Of Time

Here’s where I get it, stood in the playground
next to parents who attended school
with my eldest, or when the new teacher
enquires if I’m her granddad.

Here’s where I get it, taking the youngest
to the cinema, bumping into an ex- colleague
I’d not seen for ages, who assumes
I’ve embarked on a second marriage.

Here’s where I get it, at the G.P. practice,
explaining Foetal Alcohol Syndrome,
quickly adding, that of course, she’s adopted –
otherwise what would they think of my missus.

Here’s where I get it, on Christmas morning
when she stops me from unwrapping
the present with Daddy written upon it,
because it’s intended for her real father.

Ray Miller is a Socialist, Aston Villa supporter and faithful husband. Life’s been a disappointment.

Worcester Airport

In the ’80s you could fly
Piedmont into Worcester, Mass.
Weary Friday-night salesmen joked,
Helped the attendant pronounce the name.
This was my parents’ penultimate
Summer in New Hampshire,
My father agitated,
Convinced they had left
Without packing, and hoping
He could get a shave
At the barbershop in the lobby
Of a Days Inn motel,
My mother, exhausted,
Glad someone else would drive
The rest of the way.
The other day I bought a postcard
On eBay, outbidding someone
Who must have wondered
Why anyone else
Would want a souvenir
Of the Worcester Airport.

APRIL 2021

1.
On television every day
Several people tell us
That the images we are about to see
Are disturbing.
Shocking.
Dispiriting,
Though that is my word,
Not theirs.

2.
On our street at Golden Pines,
Red lights flashing more often now:
We’ve been here 15 years.

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.

You Woo Me

You speak of a coast that’s so pristine,
where the sand is decked with shells and pearls,
where the fish that venture into the air
are safe from spears and goring hooks.

There the trees that hum to the eager wind
have never been bled, or to fires fed
and nestlings whose parents fly all day long
are safe from fangs that crave for blood.

The ripples that lap its ancient rocks
know not the taste of flotsam or waste,
have never been whisked by engines whose grunts
can agitate the souls of the deep.

There I would romp with my shepherd dog
and walk barefooted along the bay,
and feed the dolphins as I do the swans
every urban but blessed weekend.

You woo me with a notion,
I scrutinize my map,
but startled wake up to the alarm clock:
my dog has been departed for over twelve months,
and your headstone is covered with ivy and moss.

Nostalgic

Castle Street,
the shop where I used to purchase my pint of milk,
the telephone booth that conjured up my next of kin,
the oldest house in Glasgow that nourished my medieval bent.

On Cathedral Street,
our window commanded an imposing view
of the historic cemetery where the gentry repose,
shielded by monuments of stone,
which are now a metaphor for tranquility and hope,
my shelter from a never-ending war;
the inn where I consumed my very first scone
with a Scot who wore no kilt
but was Celtic to the bone,
my very first friend in Glasgow.

Sauchiehall Street,
the window-shopping of gorgeous stores
the Glasgow Film Theatre whose exotic films enthralled
aided by John Doyle’s jellies and popcorn.

Lucia

She sat in a cage matted with wood shavings
opposite a cat who pranced with fright,
I wondered why he had placed them thus.

I was walking to escape our dose of darkness,
a three-hundred-minute power-cut,
periodically robbing evenings of work and fun.

A whimper then a scream of remonstrance
made me retreat to the very same spot
I always avoided with utter disgust.

With a stick, he was terrorizing his products:
rabbits, chickens, and all sorts of birds
to be docile and curb their wants.

I shun all dealings with whoever trades with lives,
but gazing into her eyes, I was utterly mesmerized,
a seven-month Loulou Spitz, mere merchandise.

He made me pay double the price she brought
for alarm was resonant in my voice
that had a pitch in the presence of abuse.

I called her Lucia, she brought me light.
Her name’s pronounced with the Italian tʃ sound
as in charming and cheering, the traits of my new friend.

The Lamp

The lamp that illuminated your pensive face,
kindling freckles that dot unadulterated benignity,
gilding the auburn that crowns your head,
rippling above a well-nurtured suavity,
cascading over your variegated lips,
suffusing wan cheeks with cordiality,
imbuing each iris with fiery rays,
redeeming each dilation from obscurity,
has been auctioned for sale.

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 multiple venues including 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.

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

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

Maverick   

She’s stubbed out her last cigarette,
we marvel that she managed it;
a sixty-a-day inveterate,
a Marlboro-mad smoking stick
who craved not only nicotine
and the repertoire of motions,
from hand to mouth and back again
essential to devotions,
but had augmented the habit
to flatten flames that burnt within,
by applying lighted nub-ends
to the stubbornness of skin;
to steady flight and cushion fall
and obviate oblivion;
to moderate the mercury
indifferent to Lithium.

She caught us glancing at her arms
for pale uneven patches,
rolled her sleeves and turned the palms,
her burns exchanged for slashes;
the scars of broken beer glasses,
scores of jewelled and jagged edges,
brooches, blades and coloured plastics,
crampons spiking every crevice.

At the weekly self-harm classes
we will sterilise her weapons
with a sigh at further damage
and an eye upon infections.
She plays the part of maverick
and scoffs at antisepsis,
seeks the tear of fraying fabric
and heightening of senses.
She’s courting her intrusive thoughts
when she doesn’t take the tablets,
like the thrill of sexual intercourse
without the prophylactics.

Ray Miller is a Socialist, Aston Villa supporter and faithful husband. Life’s been a disappointment.

Simple by Robert Allen Beckvall

I have a simple life
A simple wife
A simple kid
Some simple strife

I like a simple meal
A simple book
A simple look into the workings of the USA

I have a simple outlook
A simple philosophy
And, simple friendships

Simple man, not simpleton
Simple mystery of life:
Be kind to all, and to all a good life

Answer to Simple by Vera Wang

The simple man has simple demands,
Get me a simple beer, and
Get me a simple bag of chips,
Get me some simple crackers, and
Some simple cheese!
Ah, a few more to add on,
How about some simple chocolate and simple ice cream?
“What, you are not?”
“All I ask is every Friday some G. D.
simple treats!!”
Why?
“Because I’m simply a simple man with these simple demands, and
If my simplest list is not fulfilled
I will simply yell and scream,
Amen!