Saturday, 26 July 2014

Book review 'Ghost Songs' by Andrew Demcak

Check out a review Andrew Demcak's new offering Ghost Songs here.  

Demcak is a gifted poet and novelist and his new 
book is bound to be going places.

Am more than happy to spread the word. Check it out..

Saturday, 19 July 2014

Monks in the Orchard Picking Peaches

Young monk 
and old monk
in the orchard
picking peaches,
sunny and plump,
ready for canning.

Carrying bushels
to the wagon cart,
the young monk 
asks the old monk 
what to look out for 
when growing old.

The old monk 
pauses and says
not much. 
Life stays the same
for the most part.
Monks work and pray
but an old monk 
works slower and 
prays faster.

But not to worry,
the old monk advises.
He admits he's 
going deaf
but that's just
an inconvenience 
since God uses 
sign language.
Peaches like these
have no need to talk.

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

Wednesday, 4 June 2014


they are all trimming
their lawn
even while the children
cough and rasp
they are all edging
their yards
even while the people
down the street
worry about their cash
they are all painting daisy
and marigold portraits
in their backyards, sipping
sangria and talking
about their glory days
while the coast dips 
into the ocean, while
the lava builds up
in their love lives.

JD DeHart,
a writer and teacher from Tennessee.

Wednesday, 21 May 2014


You confuse me,
weaving webs of the most intricate threads.
Magic lingers upon them
like dewdrops,
like teardrops that fall
like waterfalls,
unchecked and unguarded,
beating against your doors.
I beg you to let me in and 
show me the fire I saw burning faintly in your eyes. 
Or was I mistaken?
Was it not a secret shared with me 
but a mere chance encounter
of eyes you failed to disguise in time;
and the glimpse I stole
was not you baring your soul,
but instead, an accident you have since worked to rectify. 
In which case,
forgive me for having crossed the line you drew between us.
Let us return to distant gazes
and graze upon our fields of thought;
alone in our togetherness,
comfortable in the silence of never knowing, 
and never needing to know. 

Amina Bhatti, 
Nottingham, UK. 
( ) 

Monday, 5 May 2014


“Disgracing the National stage,” is how 
the critics-cum-sages deemed the disas-
ter. Who reads the Business Post anyhow?
The morning after the death of pizzazz.
Irrational heartrace- an unwelcome
rerun- ti-titi-tum- fourteen hours straight, 
no sign of abate, owed to eleven
everlasting seconds of silence. Age-
ing in an instant my opening-night-
hopeful face, painful pinpricks of sweat, snot,
skinburst bubblewraps, belying freeze-dried 
tongue and Gobi desert gob. Which. Will. Not. 
Somewhere- a line striving for utterance,
dying to fulfill its function. Someplace-
smothered, submerged in subconscious quicksands,
absent, abstract, somehow lost in face-space. 
Is it something I can ever trace? I
remember thinking. A line crafted by 
most skillful hands, from where brains abound, and
are enwrapped in feels. Lost in Translations…
Meanwhile, unimpressed and restless, gawking hawkeyed, the overpaying theatre attendees. Vulturine in the stalls. Envulturing in the circle… 

Cue tumbleweeds through dust filled wind
Cue stage-manager half-truthfully excusing ‘technical malfunction’
Cue career-killing bad reviews
Queue never again the paying public to see me
Cue trapdoor opening, me swallowed whole, emblazing my soul in the gallows below
Cue… queue… ‘What’s my CUE!?’ 

In those eleven eternal seconds: a flashpause of serenity. 
A memory. An episodic apparition…

Summer. I’m a footy-mad kid, and truck-driving dad surprises us. A visit. 
Caterpillaring kerbside up the Cul de Sac- armed with spirited 
tales of slanted people with limpy accents- dad and his manly monster mobile.
I dive out in front, a new ref’-conning trick, a self-trip, but concealed.
Hoodwinking whistleblowers is the name of the game. But on that day,
seeing father’s face displaying the pain I feign, two insights I gained:
That he loved me at that age, and all’ the world’s a stage.

I should've been a truck-driver

Bar Reward

Friday, 2 May 2014

Eternal Memory

Eyes met 

tears wept

tasted lips

felt hips

golden ring

guilt brings

a memory 

for eternity.

Susan O'Reilly

Wed the White Ceiling

I often imagine the white ceiling swallows me.
I melt into its whiteness, pure immaculate surface,
melting inside it would also mean spreading my blood
and all my organs onto the snow-like painted area,
large square unstained above the bed, the sofa, the settee,
the floor boards on which I often lay, day-dreaming,
anticipating other nightmares to come, to form, to be grown,
more to escape from or jump over to feel within the norms.

I attend the absorption and all my body stretches until it blows out
and a blood red patch as large as I would end if I crashed from
the top floor of the world highest building ever formed
splatters, morphes, moves and moulders into an inconceivable
mirror reflecting the worst imaginable thoughts stacked from the beginning of my life.

Walter Ruhlmann,

Walter Ruhlmann works as an English teacher, edits mgversion2>datura and runs mgv2>publishing. His latest collections are Maore published by Lapwing Publications, UK, 2013, Carmine Carnival published by Lazarus Media, USA, 2013 and The Loss through Flutter Press, USA, 2014. Coming up in 2014, Crossing Puddles through Robocup Press, and Twelve Times Thirteen through Kind of a Hurricane Press.
His blog