New Poetry, Fiction, Essays

Poetry by Grant Guy, Geraldine Ward and Pete Gate

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Grant Guy is a Canadian poet, writer playwright, stage director and designer. He has over one hundred poems and short stories published in internationally. He has five books published: Open Fragments, On the Bright Side of Down, Blues for a Mustang, The Life and Lies of Calamity Jane and Bus Stop Bus Stop His plays include an adaptation of Paradise Lost and the Grand Inquisitor. He was the 2004 recipient of the MAC’s 2004 Award of Distinction and the 2017 recipient of the WAC Making A Difference Award.


pleasure is nowhere

pleasure is nowhere
putting my scabby hand on hers
then pleasure puts my hand on her cheeks
& tells me
she loved me once

why not love me again
i shout
you can love me again

i have sd stupid things before
but this one bought the devil in sackcloth

she sd
i am not longer a pleasure
i am something there & no where

that is not true
i argue
again being as stupid as the devil in sackcloth

she says nothing

then tell me
name your pleasure
she did not reply
i know her answer

i stumbled & went silent

disleasure pressed her finger to my lips


She did not ask for much


Geraldine Ward is an author and poet. She has had work published in ‘I am not a silent poet’ edited by Reuben Woolley and ‘Writers Cafe Magazine’ edited by Marie Lightman, among others.





I fill the gaps in the years
like mountains between us,
set in stone, hard
granite floats around.
White snow quivers
on my skull.
The mind is fractured but still,
we go hunting out destination,
like hill walkers, foraging and finding
nothing but gaps in the roads
and the mountains,
like life if we let it pass us by


Pete Gate. I live in Brisbane Australia. I have schizophrenia. I have a book out called ‘Strange Car in My Street’ available at Amazon.




Am I the essence of you or
between us, are we the children of experience?
little girls in white frocks playing
catchy in the summer rain
boys fishing past the tide on the rocks
while the sea swells and falls

the horror of the vacancy
paradise lost, washed empty of knowledge
like the generous hand that opens and vanishes
what can we hold on too but ourselves
then only with the straight back of defiance

you were too bad to do a deal with the angel
punch drunk staggering for the bell
you fell on the bloodstained canvas
The gaol door swung shut
I was a player but now the silence
demands my head bent in remorse
only my heart will harden
cold tears were a release

My memory shuts out the past
Like a finished cigarette all smoke and smell
across to the finish I find my boy
with a heart that waits for an ancient traveller
The age that fatigues me youths him
to find his absence would make me weep
In the knoll of a fist reaching drips of
love, like a spreading frost clean.
You as fresh as the morning
as wonderful as a cut diamond
Its this past pain that brings my smile.



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