I trace the branch that spikes the skyline in my head
Black against the orange burnished clouds
Hitchcock would have painted it in ink
I think therefore I must exist I thought
As light left quietly and wind arrived
To chase grey black clouds across the yellow moon
It may have been her time
But I disagreed with God
It was too soon
She died if that’s what nature calls it, in the summer
But many times before
She died another death and each
A different stroke,
A different set of numbers on a chart
that filled with years with notes and lists
and accumulated fears
And many tears by us, by her, by him
She grew frail and pale
And in the end she left a shell of what she was
And though we watched
there was no burst of blazing light,
no crowd of angels heralding the new arrival at
the gates of heaven or whatever place
she thought she went at night.
Just her skin and lips turns slowly white.
Metaphysical insurance of
an open window; to let the soul out
Or a draught in, the fanfare,
if there was one, made no sound,
no robin or white feather
on the ground to give the nod or wink
It made me think.
The branch was pointing upwards
towards the moon,
and even though the harvests counted
fifteen crops since the first big stroke,
as autumn fires call straight to heaven
In a line of curling spears of smoke
The clock will now forever
tock tick the time as being
Anne McDonald is an artist and writer who has been published in Hot Press, Women’s Work 1 & 2, Winner of the Ballina International Poetry competition and the Skerries poetry competition and has had her poetry reviewed on RTE Radio. She is currently determined to finish a novel based on female Irish puglisits in the 1600’s and to finish her second collection of poems.
Anne was born in Co.Meath and has lived in Greece and the US before settling in North county Dublin.
Melinda moves and breaths for her husband Frank,
And favors cappuccinos in the morning and midday naps on Friday afternoons,
While sleeping Melinda is whisked away by a willowing woman with faint limbs
She transports Melinda over islands of mountanious terrain, sparkling green hills, crystal clear water and oceans of apples and apricots,
She whispers in Melindas ear; “I’d like to be a bee.”
Bzzz Bzzz Bzzz Bzzz
Melinda flickering in and out of consciousness hears a swarm of bees.
Bzz Bzzz Bzzz
Josh is an American writer. He is a graduate of Western Washington University and a graduate student of Argosy University where he studies counseling. He uses alternative methods of healing with his clients and purports a great massage can do in one hour what two hours of great counseling can do. He lives with his two best friends, in Atlanta Ga.
Mother of muses
By Akshaya Pawasker
They have deserted me
How naive of me to believe
They would stay.
That you created them and
would not to be able to do it
Again by snapping fingers.
The applause went to
my head, truly a silent
sermon of this is vain.
The ice weeps when fire
closes in. Fire shrinks and
sputters with frost.
For the cynics, bystanders
it’s an illusion of farewells
more often than hellos.
For me it’s a wait for my children
playing Peek a boo and whatever
Capricious games they play.
Eternal wait of fetuses to be
birthed, thousands gone and
thousands yet to form.
with wings they could be dragons
spitting flames. And I am their
At times proud, at times mortified
Yet a fierce protective mother always.
Turn them into poems
by Akshaya Pawasker
You can’t save those
Who do not wish
to be saved
So you watch them
Build destroy rebuild
You are on the outside
They are in a glass case
You give them some gin
You see them gulp
The slow poison
You tell them fib over
A fib till you can’t keep
A count of it.
You kill them pernicious
You are a murdered
And a shaman at once
You are euthanasia
You turn them into
Poetry, breath life
You who said
One was beyond
Akshaya Pawaskar is a doctor practicing in India and poetry is
her passion. Her poems have been published in Tipton Poetry journal, Writer’s Ezine, Efiction India, Ink drift, The blue nib, Her heart poetry, Awake in the world anthology by Riverfeet press and few anthologies by lost tower publications. She had been chosen as ‘Poet of the week’ on Poetry superhighway and featured writer in Wordweavers poetry contest
Cross On A Hill
by Ash Slade
On top of road near Lakewood
stands an old, tarnished
Takes fresh bent
if you’re sightless
I don’t place blame
’cause you cannot see.
Fractured it can be made clear
Supreme omnipotence resides there.
I presume you’ve by no means surveyed
as you’ve went along
all that you affirm might be