Thursday, 12 January 2017

The Garden of Thieves

A blissful story written upon pages,
where I carved your name in remorse.
I dreamt you singing in silver cages,
while resting my blame upon the chords.

Told me the poetry you wrote before
the lyrics still unhurried upon your lips,
while ashes and cries you sorrowfully mourn
your brief, nostalgic, evanescent kiss. 

Dancing along the edges of forever,
you sang a melody of what once was.
As the doves and ravens all cry, “Never”,
I know you’ll bury your innocent lust.

For life, for love, for whom I could tell.
I watch the greetings and the silent goodbyes. 
And shadows, the weeping, while the bell knells. 
You disappear gracefully, along the edges of twilight. 

Robin Goodfellow,
Denton, US.

Robin Goodfellow has had poems published in the online magazine Nature Writing, as well as the Healing Poetry and the Haiku Journal. She enjoys listening to Owl City and rewriting classic fairytales

Sunday, 4 December 2016

Did You

Did you know
me as my younger form
when I lacked solidity
vacillating among faces

Did you know
my mildly contented
middle aged self
just starting life with
a small amount of sense

Or have you met
the older casket me,
the current one who
lacks much future
but can go on and on
about the past?

R Cope
Richmond, VA,

Wednesday, 16 November 2016

Letter to an Estranged Middle-Aged Son

The older I get the more I realize
the importance of getting things done
before your mother announces another 

assignment to roust me from my hammock.
As you know I've never been much
around the house, my skills limited to 

raking leaves and shoveling snow, 
menial tasks I haven't missed in years.
Probably not since you lived here.

Your mother, of course, grew up on a farm 
and has always liked getting things done.
But she's getting older too. In fact,

she recently had a big operation 
and I've pitched in beyond my skill set 
despite new stents and a pacemaker.

But even though we just put away
the walker, cane and wheelchair,
all three are on alert so I believe 

it's best to let you know that
one of these days the one who's left 
will ring you up and let you know.

Donal Mahoney 

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, US and has had poems published in Ancient Heart Magazine and other publications in the United States, Europe, Asia and Africa 

Monday, 14 November 2016

Just Me

Hello again, her tired
voice tried.
It's just me again.
Lonely me, forgotten me,
the me that loved you
first of all.

I listened and thought
about the other me.
Decorated me, disillusioned 
me, just dull me.
I refused to hang up
listening a while.

Nate Maye

Sunday, 13 November 2016


I burned my
soul on a hot

Not sure I
will ever get it

I took too
much, gained
too little

Walked heavily
on the edge
of night

Mangled my
for what?

Angelica Fuse,
Los Angeles

Tuesday, 8 November 2016

Do They Know

I'm going to ignore
the jokes about my weight
I am a blank sketch
with larges spots missing
even to the ones I love.
Even to so-called
family members.
They deny me like Judas.
Does it matter who knows
me and what I rhyme with,
do these words even 
make sense?
I'm going to ignore empty
looks, furtive scanning,
ignorant leaps. 
Reciting my life over again,
what else can I do but
move forward along the twist
of lemon metaphor,
take another step
above the drink on the rocks?

Kaitlyn Park
Salem, Oregon,

Friday, 28 October 2016

Dead Man's Dirge

I am a dead man's
heart coming to a sputter
old rusty engine 

I am the late summer
turning locust back crisp
ready to fall from a tree

I am time running out
on a scratched tuneless
record about to skip.

J. Ash Gamble
Ft Myers, 
Florida, US