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New Poetry, Fiction, Essays

Poetry Three

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A Dream Washed Up

By D.L. Hume

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She rests,

like a hundred others,

ignored and forgot.

Tricycle cradled,

blackberry wreathed

and thistle jewelled,

her complexion

blushed moulding green.

Just three

slow declining miles

from her riverside home.

Face pointed away,

eyes spider blind,

she succumbs to blister and rot

as other such

ornaments rust.

A dream

from a foundered romance.

A ragged reminder

Of time drifted by.

Love locked,

by rib, plank and quarter knee,

she sinks back

to the earth.

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Where are you now

by D.L. Hume

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I gaze up the hill,

across the river,

where a low sun

drapes the shore

in the final shroud of day.

And ask, where are you now?

I check my watch.

It ticks and turns.

A machine above your head

Shows no time remaining.

You are always late.

Where the fuck are you now?

I held your still warm hand,

stroked your mohawk arm,

anointed your forehead

and whispered in your ear,

I’ll catch you on the other side

So tell me where are you now?

I breathe the empty dark.

The glow of a late night joint.

An empty bottle.

Slainte mhath.

And I wonder

Where are you now?

I step out for a piss.

As you would have done.

A shooting star passes,

I tell no one.

There is no one to tell.

At least now old mate, dear friend,

I know where you are now.

,

,

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

 

 

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Screenplay

by Maurice Devitt

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You moisten her lips with a lollipop

of sponge. Words pucker,

like an engine after snow,

and then take flight, chase

down the twisted laneways

of her youth, eke out a name,

last whispered in prayer,

now to be a hero

in the epilogue of the series.

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The Hat

By Maurice Devitt

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This morning was the first time

you saw me without a hat,

but in my rush out the door

I left it behind.

 

I know exactly where it is

and, if pulled in for questioning,

could re-create the scene

with guilty precision.

 

How I tore it off and threw it

on the couch in the other room,

how I wrestled with my coat,

as though it had sprung

 

another sleeve, and how I slept

in my scarf,

hoping you might call.

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Maurice Devitt was runner-up in The Interpreter’s House Poetry Competition in 2017, he was winner of the Trocaire/Poetry Ireland Competition in 2015 and has been placed or shortlisted in many competitions including the Patrick Kavanagh Award, Listowel Collection Competition, Over the Edge New Writer Competition, Cuirt New Writing Award, Cork Literary Review  and the Doire Press International Chapbook Competition. He has had poems published in Ireland, England, Scotland, the US, Mexico, Romania, India and Australia, runs the Irish Centre for Poetry Studies site and is a founder member of the Hibernian Writers’ Group.
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Beach Plums

By Steve Langhorst

Thoreau’s feet walking the fragile beach
Thru the plums, dunes and sands of the times
Marconi’s wave length sent and bent
The sail set in wake and breadth
A wake up America sign
The ecological landscape that escapes the mind’s eye
Gone in a blink and 40 winks
The philosophy of the minimalist
In earnest prayer under starry skies Practiced in cabins with no walls
The silence of empty halls that echo with the Oracle
Tickling the auricle
Revealed empty choices found contained in shells by the sea shore
The surf runs and roars
As it always has and always will
In time that stood still
I stand watch at the binnacle
Sexton set on the sights
Against the moonbeams and dreams
In spite of what it seams
I grasp the wheel and it’s pins
Wooden handled grip
First landing ship
If you stepped off you’ll stub your toe on a rock
In the land history forgot. 
 

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About Steve: My poetry ebbs and flows like the tide and my emotions. I have no real formal training and answer to the calling of the “little voice” in my head….,

 

 

 

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