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Too Soon

Anne McDonald


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 thin


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

Too soon,

Too soon.



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.







by J.Crayton


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 say
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.

I say
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
smug mother.

At times proud, at times mortified
Yet a fierce protective mother always.
Waiting listlessly.



Turn them into poems

by Akshaya Pawasker


You can’t save those
Who do not wish
to be saved
So you watch them
Undo themselves
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
Back, immortalize
The dead.
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
to discern
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




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