New Poetry, Fiction, Essays

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blue is the magic number

by Joseph Powell


though I’m not one to adhere to,
or be defined by, labels;
nor inclined to be fitted into certain parameters;
if you were to press me,
or choose to dig down,
to my very essence,
to the core of who I am–
you would find
that blue
is my favorite color;

the color 
that inspired rhapsodies
and baseball teams;
it is the signifier of a particular mood,
the foundation 
of nearly every musical genre
on this planet,
if the pictures from space 
are to be believed,
is also blue;

it is the color of harmony–
if you don’t believe me,
imagine our country’s flag without it;
could be one of the reasons,
why we’re called the United States
(could you imagine if we
were only made up of 
only red states?);

is the color of life;
it is
the color of God’s glory,
one of the primary colors
in His divine palette;

is the color of this poem,
if its words
could be enveloped 
in any particular color,
each letter,
a different shade
or variation
of indigo,
even those words
make blue sound beautiful,
which it is.

I give you
which is,
in a sense,
giving of myself;
and I hope,
that you will accept it,
in the spirit 
of which it was given,
which is also




Beware — Nostalgia

by D.L Hume


There is no flame.

No explosive ignition.

No crackling spark,

or giggling combustion.

No beginning no end.

It tumbles like fairy fluff.

Flickers like wind blown embers,

unannounced into the light

to trap you in knitted northern Decembers.

As the beginning sneaks closer to the end.

With the hushed breath of dust disturbed

from Bangkok to Beijing, London to Paris,

along familiar lanes, boulevards and railway tracks

it clouds your thought so you cannot tell what is.

Until the beginning feels much like the end.

In a fug, of old photographs, a musty aroma

rises from ticket stubs, posters, newspaper clippings,

unearthed from suitcases, worn out backpacks,

to drag you back to forgotten beginnings.

Beginnings that seem closer than the end.

With warm hooks beneath the skin

and peppered kisses it holds and suffocates.

Like a sun warmed feather pillow

Held firm across your face.

And the beginning really is the end.



Downsizing – A short story in ten poems

by D.L Hume



The Window to the City


The glass through which they stared

out to the decking

with its creaky boards

and sun twisted railing

had never been so clean.

The crust of ten summers

washed away.

As too the finger smears

of those that lived

and had lived there,

lifted the view

across the river.

It gleamed shyly

in the dull dusk of Autumn.

The lights of the city

flicked on is spasms,

emerging from the gloom.

Then fell away

in topographic sequence,

to the one square monolith

that marked the CBD.

To call it a city was a stretch.

More a big country town.

That’s what someone

important once said

and everyone agreed.

Others spoke of it as a big heavy coat.

Warm and insulating

against the cold west wind

that wheezed

and rattled down the organ pipe face

of the mountain.

A coat that looked

just as handsome

and unimposing

hung on the peg.


for the two or three months

that the sun shone

and the flat top

hung up its own fleecy cape.



Saying Goodbye


The house was empty.

Bar a dozen big heavy boxes

bound and gagged

in the front room.

And the flopping flesh of a bed

in the room opposite.

The scent of fresh paint

Had almost vanished,

hanging only vaguely

beneath the must

of twenty year old

single malt whisky.

That the spirit survived

from the day they moved in

was a near miracle.

They caressed the glasses

and snorted the peaty fumes.

“I swear, if I had to give up alcohol

I’d keep a bottle of this just to sniff.”

He said,

as he had been saying

for the last twenty years.

They raised their glasses

To the house that had sheltered them.


to do the same

To the city that had nourished them,

when a small raptor

Alighted on the railing.

Beneath one yellow talon

a daggerd carcass,

skull intact.

“Sparrowhawk” he said.

“Goshawk” she said.

Without another sound

they watched

as the hook beaked bird,

wearing the same colour suit

as the real estate agent

that sold their house,

ripped stringy strips

from the breast of an ex pigeon.

Dark feathers

fell onto

and we’re blown along the deck,

becoming snagged

in the skeletal

plum tree

that had,

over the years,

become entwined in the railing.

They feasted their eyes.

drained their glasses.

Then drained the bottle

of the last dram.

With the final fall of light

the hawk departed

almost vertically,

for a more wild eyrie.

Its takeaway prey

clasped tight in its claws.


They rinsed the glasses,

wrapped them in bubble wrap,

and slipped them into the corner of a box

marked “glasses.”

The tape dispenser

broke the quiet,

ripping orange tape

across the box.

“That’s it, we’ve done it.” He said

and wrapped her

in his arms.

She smiled,

stood back,

took a breath

“Excited” she said

“You bet, can’t wait.”



The Promise


They had promised each other

that when the children were off hand

they would return

to the bush.

Off grid






Shitting in bucket.

Time to fish.

Time to write.

Time to live.

Time to be.

The demands of teenagers

dragged them from the bush,

from the almost fifty acres

of thin soiled

dry forest.

On an island

an hour from town.





There would be no kidults in this family.

Inter race relationships,

homosexual, lesbian, bi,

or any other,

so called, deviation.

No problem.

But kidultery:

adult size creatures,

lolling around the house.

footless and feckless.

Emptying the pantry.

Not bloody likely



First Born


They left one by one.

The eldest to her family.

The bright lights

and sunshine

of the harbour city.

Like his father and mother

he rejected

the chosen lifestyle

of his parents,

No frugal

do it yourself

anti establishment


social conscious

half baked hippy

punk attitude

for him.

Money would satisfy

his every desire.

He would go on

to imagine himself

a poor boy from the country,

deprived of the luxuries of suburbia.



Second Son


Or middle child,

as he prefers to be known,

departed a year later.

A one way ticket

had been promised

upon academic success.

If uni was an option

it could wait.


they always said,

should be followed.

No half measures for him.


to his father’s family.

The land of fish and chips,

where a cuppa solved everything.

He would come to realize

and reject

the numbing pain

of the treadmill.

On high peaks

and in the jungles of Brazil

he would find his prize.





The last

was more difficult

to dislodge.

She sought a challenge

in study.

She would remain

at home

another four years.

Plodding through books

at her own sweet,

enigmatic pace.

He saw in her

his own

unhinged curiosity.

Floating on the waves,

buoyant enough

to be beached in the morning

and catch a riptide

at night.





Faced with the prospect of parenting

for four more years

they packed their bags,

abandoned the baby

and took to the road.

They flitted between

a dozen apartments,

over nearly as many years.

Almost equivalent

to the contracts

they had taken,

that took them to

African snows

and troglodyte caves.

They hacked through

rattan jungles

to colonial ruins.

Cycled walled cities

and encroaching forests.

Ventured into triangles

once golden.

Trekked to seated icons

and where rivers

carved gorges

through the highest ranges.

And lost themselves

in the hutongs

of unmapped towns

There was no intention

To stay away so long.

But there was

always another bend,

another corner

to look around.

There they learned

about transience.

There they learned

how to leave.





Over the winter

they had fixed the house

on the inside.

Wide floor boards,



Gone were the bright colours,


personal touches.

In their place

all neutral



and off whites.

No foot scuffs

or gadges

from out of control

pets and toys.

They had replaced

the taped and broken pane.

The result of high spirited


They had,

with a grudge,

for the last month,

been living

in a show house.

Even purchased a couch

to set it off.

That with its coat

of shiny pinstripe satin

lent a refined

elegant note.

But creaked its legs

and sagged

and groaned when sat in.


their mark persisted.

The salmon pink

with sky blue trim

they lavished upon

old weatherboards

when first moved in


A stubborn marker

of daring

to be different,

among creams and greens

and strict red brick.





Would they miss the place?


Ten years

they’d been away.

Long enough

for the dream of returning

to a simple life

to take root.

To become



was another corner.


D L Hume lives off grid in the south of Tasmania. As well as poetry he contributes to the critique of ceramic art and has many years teaching and travelling. Many of his papers and other works can be found at https://www.davidlhume.com



Oh! mother Nature

by Kapardeli Eftichia


In contaminated water and air in acid rain
to the dramatic appeal to a planet
who “slowly dies” and who irresponsibly
and indifferently man destroys
Oh! Mother nature you
In the cement state the birds were lost
In the corner of the street and on
Roots of the pale Eucalyptus, piles of rubbish………

The apple tree in the garden of an old uninhabited residence
With fallen leaves and with the roots tightly embraced
Deserted and naked …… thirsty
In the arms of the earth
the Rose underfoot
Deserted Our villages
And the city’s children in cements are no longer playing
But a new garden grows, oh! mother Nature
In your constant flow, nothing is missing, nothing is left over
God, you
A fair protector in the cycle of the Sun
Human actions will drown
for fertile and saving rich seasons
of the color tides


Dr. Kapardeli Eftichia has a Doctorate from ARTS AND CULTURE WORLD ACADEMY

Born in Athens and live in Patras

She writes poetry, stories, short stories, xai-kou , essays

She studied journalism AKEM (Athenian training center).

She has many awards in national competitions 

Her work there is to many national and international anthologies Has a section at the University of Cyprus in Greek culture is a member of the world poets society. The official website is http://world-poets.blogspot. com / is a member of the IWA (international writers and artists Association) chaired by Teresinka Pereira,had from IWA Certify 2017 as the best translation and is a member of the POETAS DEL MUNDO https://www.facebook.com/PPdM.Mundial -https://twitter.com/Poetedumonde 




by Frances J Yule


in large letters
scrawled in red crayon
on the wall
of his bedroom….
the last word
of the young man
barely 18
found dead in his car
engine still running
parked in a field
only this morning….
she stood
til the weight of her grief
bore down
and she sank to the floor….
she doesn’t know
how long she wailed
and raged
and screamed 
at the word on the wall
or the moment 
she picked up the crayon
where he’d left it
and underneath


Frances J Yule: Please excuse me for being short on details because as far as I’m concerned my writing tells you everything you will ever need to know about me, my life and inspirations. 

I began writing poetry while incarcerated in a South Australian mental hospital 1965 and I’m still writing in 2017. 

People watching is my favourite past time.






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