New Poetry, Fiction, Essay

Poetry Part Three



Gregory Broadbent



I never really set out to do anything

because that would limit my toys


and I saw that things, like toys,

were not real


because it was me that was imagining

and I wept by the roadside


drunken from my lifetime’s bemoaning

when they became real


and the story I liked was always the one

that someone was telling next


if their stories lay about

in their words with conviction


for that was the tell

of whether they had set out to do something.




Passionate exhaletation,

Long live the Sun


Impassioned inihilition

Long live Death


Compassionate ill,who,me?-nation

Longer live life




On the rock of Terra Firma

the ancestors gather


their umbrage

the crow’s eye


stalking the last carrion,

joining for Corroboree


they dance, scattering soil

and raising dust and paint,


to the fire in their tribes

chanting the old songs


until the sun burns

the land naked


and the crow lets its last

call go, for all the futility.




Those grey men

that see and know


the pantomime

the puppet show


are grey as clouds

to hide their sky


they peek around

they prod and spy


their eyes the dish

that hold starlight


and into you

they see your flight


but they are grey

and can’t be seen


for it is light

they stand between.




The grandmother says

‘stop yer bitchin’


steeped in moon’s colors

‘yer lot’s always twitchin’


she is elder and sure

‘yer gotta get along’


she wants no war

‘gotta be strong, ye know’


so listen, listen

the elder is whispering


stop bichin, stop twitchin

get along, be strong, ye know




She told stories that were real

this ice princess


dressed in the radiant

skin of confidence


breathing youthfulness

aching for usefulness


laying out her sex for

curiosity, to know


the rhythms of her body

for death brings life brings rebirth brings


movement brings change brings chaos

brings death brings life, for ever.


She played alone in her frozen castle

as the dreary cold sun festered


above her mountain, and told me

that all her beauty is hidden


and when she calls I should touch

so she can feel


and I should watch

so she can be


dressed in her rainbow

of ecstasy.




And Law states

the children must not be harmed


yet we die, most horribly, mostly

and sometimes just live with horror


listening to stories that we know lack conviction

because when Owl tore apart


the throat of Mouse

to eat the soft, red, flesh,


Mouse was victim of Law

but joined immortal wings with Owl


and fed the Earth, which is also Child

and must not be harmed.




Out of woman all things are born

the male cannot pretend


but be a spark

within a storm.




Dark is the nothing where chaos holds sway

red is the dawn of the feminine day


orange the lust about to begin when

yellow sun’s brilliance sparkles in, and


greens all the Earth, maturity won

blue as the sky, where sitteth the sun


violet the dusk when the moon is bright,

dark, when someone has turned on the light.




Making love and I see you,

conceiving, you see another.


Pregnant and we are in the womb of the experience

laboring to get it together, squeezing out,


our understanding of us


nursing, feeding


preparing, releasing


that child we now see playing

around the halls of her home

in quiet bliss, observing creation,

needing disturbance.




Hold me with your strength

in intimacy, worthy of the gifts

of trust and tenderness.


Determine with all the passion

you find in yourself at this moment

to receive me with your caring,


and my spirit will enter the void with you,

to transform our bodies,

our hearts burning with the fire


that erupts from the moment

of creation’s turning

speaking of bliss disturbed


we shall become the

magical, the mysterious

character of our love


we will ride the ninth wave

that chaos brings

safely to the shore.


About Gregory Paul Broadbent



I live in Melbourne, Australia, with my wife and two children. I have been writing poetry for over 35 years and feel like I’m only just beginning. I love symbolic language in any form and believe that poetry is more than just words. I believe in whittling and honing down from complexity to simplicity in poetry and that some things in life are just so complex that only a poem will get close to describing it, and poetry exists in all art forms. Most of my poetry I compose in my head nowadays, but I envision a day when I will be able to hone out a masterwork.




Adiba Anwar


“Could the sighs of lustful ardour replenish the myriads of anguished screams ?”

Asked the girl who was raped before being kissed.


Northbound with a stack of postcards

Alfred Booth

Dear you,
Craziness overtook the Paris north train station. Surprised, no boisterous crowd invaded my car. Not even a miniature sense of excitement, an eerie calm prevails. Toni Braxton caresses my ears: “hold me in your arms like that Spanish guitar. » I melt like chocolate ice cream every time. You and unrequited love are strangers. I will see Rijksmuseum alone like you did The Hermitage. Together, we compare notes without the spice. I left your Bastille Day bouquet far from the window’s glare, with enough water until your return. Flowers, even those liberated from vases, are not evergreen. The most fortunate spring to life next year. You are an orchid. You say I till your soil. A silent gardener with strong hands, I apply glue to secrets. Our on-again-off-again togetherness has not totally squashed love like book-pressed memorabilia. During the off periods we have never completely wilted. I’m reading Rilke again, The Book of Hours, Love poems to God. Would we be more settled if we still prayed? I remember much poetic verse about loneliness.  No scripture. My long-immobile legs initiate a treasure hunt hoping to win salted almonds. The dining car is filled by an orderly queue, people silently rejoicing, connected elsewhere by free Wifi. I settle for a second prise of dried mangoes. I ask can I  purchase Dutch stamps. Yes. I pay cash for everything using all my small change. In Amsterdam I’ve enrolled in classes to perfect my still life technique.  One day I will surround you with the beauty you inspire. My love letters won’t count in the end. You, not I, enjoy world prestige.  The train stops once again, after crossing into Holland. Windows frame fields and fields and fields, endless fields of tulips. They remind me of your first kisses.
Tenderly, your troubadour


About Alfred Booth


An American professional pianist who lives in France, Alfred Booth folds origami; its patience often inspires poetry. When he not at the piano learning new arcane repertoire to stretch his horizons, he teaches would-be amateur musicians to put enough bread on the table. In the 90s he studied extensively the harpsichord and his millennial project had him able to play Bach on the cello; this latter duo waits for his retirement years. Currently he has an 82-poem volume journaling a recent dance with cancer and an 34-poem chapbook of ghazals looking for a homes in the professional world of rhyme. A large handful of his poetry can be found in the e-zines Dead Snakes, I am not a silent poet and Spring Fling



Rage at the rain

Stephen Miles


Back in the day you’d rage at the rain
curse out flat beer
help a stranger, slipped in the snow
own the world with a square shoulder walk
under London bridge hid a mudlark
quenching thirst while above traffic flows
opposite the dungeons of London
Belfast awaited to be boarded
style less travel for fifty English pounds
ambling passed pedestrians
trading concrete for grass, flat for frothy
jellied eel for deep fried Mars
plane packaged and burnt to a crisp
two week awakenings to Retsina epiphanies
disbelieving the Alchemy, water taken over
ouzo’s aniseed breath, inducing paralysis
promiscuously bed hop devoid of hivE
without any variety of the E
peer pressure was Lacoste over le shark
Piers Morgan an unacceptable
and who the fuck is Simon Cowell
Bukowski was a drunk and Sean Penn showed him off
Laker was Freddy and Flintoff a twinkle
back in the day when you’d rage at the rain.




The Professor Speaks! Listen.

David Susswein



‘The true method of being deceived is to think

oneself more cunning than others’

– La Rochefoucauld, Maxims #127.


-“literally like I’ve worked so hard,

and uhm I literally can’t work harder,

and like”-


A pitter patter patois

for a bleached waxed

and stretched skin,

a vacuole at the start of sentence,

an empty comma for its end.


If I taught subjunctive syntax:

you’d only assassinate its innate complexity,

or barter its’ worth for a single manolo blahnik shoe,


so I will not be assed to flex my instructive tongue,

and in my ears; used chewing-gum will go,

and all my tympanum could now vibrate to:

your inebriated trilling one-note shrill,

crashed down a stair of still laxest rhythm


but I, will still pat and stoke such luxurious thigh,

still place and thrust bent finger and other,

at warm or hottest, hole, and suck, push


stick a hand on your face so you cannot speak,

or see anything at all, take down to the floor

your body pressed beneath, fit to this earth;

-you’ll see how better I am in your own scream-

I am superior: just listen to my grunted words!



just over here fighting off bats in my heart




the wind throws down–
hair in my face, like my mother
telling me what to do

i fly the kite of calling it quits,
while this desert whines
for a closer storm

it’s probably a bad time
to tug your cross
and tell you i’m not well

i hand the creek
my feet to blame,
while this drought of you goes on

your rocking chair won’t look at me,
your ghost just sits there
scratching love




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