Daphne – Gillian Moran

 

When people tell my story, they tell it wrong.

Despite my current condition, I know the edges have been smoothed. I suppose it is necessary. No one wants him to be the villain. If Eros shot him with an arrow, then nothing he did afterward was his fault. He remains the Sun god, glorious and beautiful.

The truth is, he was not enchanted nor enamored with me. He hunted me out of rage. He wanted to possess me. When he failed, he decided he would claim and hurt me. He was predator and I was his prey.

All women knew that if one of them wanted you, you would never be safe. He chased me until my lungs seized and my feet bled. I was terrified. Still, I refused to submit. I fled to the river and begged father for help.

Father knew I never wanted to be reduced to a destructible possession. All he could do was change me. He turned me into my favorite tree, the laurel, that could never be destroyed. 

He still tried to hack off my branches, but he failed. He wears another tree’s laurels as part of his crown. He never caught me.

 

---

Gillian Moran is an expatriate living in the United Kingdom with her rescue dog. Her flash fiction has been previously published on 50-Word Stories.

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April 10, 2023 by foxglovejournal Categories: flash fiction, Prose, UncategorizedTags: change, chase, creative, creativity, Daphne, Eros, escape, fiction, flash, Gillian Moran, gods, myth, nature, river, safety, short, story, sun, transformation, tree, truth, UK, writing Leave a comment

Consequences of Salt – Tammy L. Evans

 

Angry water reflects a mirror of

Distorted decisions

Shown to me one by one

Like a slide projector I have broken.

 

My pretend life is

Different from the one before me

 

A handcuff of small lotioned hands

Full of promise and sweat

 

Salt lures me with

                                        Crunch

Substance and

                     Bite.

 

But dissolves rendering it invisible

Before I can ask what my purpose is

 

Orphaned again

Not by death but by

Dissolving back

Into this version of myself.

 

---

Tammy L. Evans writes, walks, inspires, and teaches. She is the conjurer of everyday magic with short concise poems and stories. Her fiction has been published in Gone Lawn, Cabinets of Heed, Spelk, Five on the Fifth, Clover and White, Fiction Berlin Kitchen, Shorts Magazine, and Elephants Never. She is the lead moderator for the Sarah Selecky Centered community and a teacher for the school. You can connect with Tammy through IG @inspiretammy.

March 21, 2023 by foxglovejournal Categories: Poetry, UncategorizedTags: angry, change, creative, creativity, decisions, dissolving, elements, hands, invisible, life, mirror, poem, Poetry, pretend, promise, purpose, reflection, salt, self, senses, Tammy L. Evans, water, writing Leave a comment

Breakfast Club – Jeffrey Joseph

 

I take my daughter into Breakfast Club,

Tracksuit bottoms sparking as I force myself along,

And leg ends heavy with damp;

She skips beside me, taut with a promise of the new,

Her sentences long, long, her questions unanswerable,

Her laughter unanswerable.

 

In the busy, smelly, milk and plimsoll hall, she stands bemused –

Aware, perhaps, that something is changing,

Hearing across a span which I have lost

(Or, if not lost, forgotten),

The din of warring hopes.

 

Through the window I see her – a uniformed dot –

Move, unnoticed, to her place.

 

---

Jeffrey Joseph was born in London in 1952 and was educated at the University of York, University College Cardiff and at The Open University. He worked at the Guildhall School of Music and Drama before spending many years as Performance Manager at Trinity Laban Conservatoire. He is a heavily published musical journalist and poet. His music has been performed on the South Bank, at St John’s Smith Square, in Westminster Abbey, in the National Concert Hall in Dublin, throughout Europe and in Africa and the USA. He is published by Warwick Music/Hal Leonard Music and is distributed on-line by lulu.com.

October 13, 2022 by foxglovejournal Categories: Poetry, UncategorizedTags: answers, breakfast, change, creative, creativity, family, hope, Jeffrey Joseph, laughter, loss, memory, movement, new, place, poem, Poetry, promise, questions, senses, sound, UK, window, writing Leave a comment

I Have Walked This Path Before – James G. Piatt

 

I am peering through raindrops, which are

washing away my memories watching the past

fade as I walk along an old path I have walked on

many times before.

 

I have walked this path before, in the springtime

when cheery trees were pink with blossoms,

giant maple trees were showing their pink buds,

and young animals in their new born freedom

loped along the river, carefree, and filled with the

excitement of new birth.

 

I have walked this path before when the summer

heat silently placed its warmth upon my

shoulders as I sat on a beach chair near a placed

pond thinking about the beauty of nature, and

listening to the sweet warbling of tiny songbirds.

 

I have walked this path before when autumn’s

slowly increasing winds started their polished

journey into winter with whispered hints of

fading time, and the sun was covered with dark

moisture filled clouds.

 

I have walked this path before when the chill of

winter blurred my footsteps, tiny birds took

refuge in bushes and I, bundled up in wools and

layered cotton, pondered on the coldness of the

season, and what I should etch onto the marble

face of my tombstone.

 

---

James is an internationally published poet, a Best of Web nominee and three time Pushcart nominee. He has had four poetry books; Solace Between the Lines, Light, Ancient Rhythms, and The Silent Pond, 1500 poems, five novels, and 35 short stories published worldwide. He earned his doctorate from BYU, and his BS and MA from California State Polytechnic University, SLO. He writes poetry to maintain his sanity, and sometimes succeeds.

July 21, 2021 by foxglovejournal Categories: Poetry, UncategorizedTags: animals, birth, CA, change, creative, creativity, elements, James G. Piatt, journey, life, memories, nature, past, path, poem, Poetry, seasons, senses, time, US, walk, weather, writing Leave a comment

dog love – Lisa Reily

 

when, after ten years, the two of us were no longer alone

and a new man entered my life, took your seat

in the front of my car, you gnawed a seatbelt to shreds

in the backseat, freely expressing your disgust.

 

he and I thought you were sick, but it was love sickness, 

and loyalty. 

slowly, you allowed him to play with you,

granted him a ball, sometimes one of your soft toys;

you tolerated his presence at our table, if only for morsels,

traded seats without a whimper,

wagged your tail, if only briefly, upon his arrival at our door,

 

until one day, we both learned to trust him.

 

---

Lisa Reily is a former literacy consultant, dance director and teacher from Australia. Her poetry has been published in several journals, such as Amaryllis, London Grip, The High Window, Panoplyzine, Channel Magazine, The Fenland Reed, as well as Foxglove Journal. You can find out more at lisareily.wordpress.com.

December 28, 2020 by foxglovejournal Categories: Poetry, UncategorizedTags: adapting, animals, arrival, Australia, change, creative, creativity, dog, door, introduction, learning, life, Lisa Reily, love, loyalty, pet, play, poem, Poetry, presence, relationship, trust, writing 2 Comments

BITS – Kate Lewington

the backs of discarded earrings found on heater sills, the odd socks down sofa cushions, pen lids in the corner of rooms, batteries rolled from view underneath cupboards, bookmarks stuck fast to coffee tables, the book holding even the table leg, the hairband wound around the blind cord, the Christmas cards that have fluttered down from end of season high to rest on surfaces, packed upon by bills and pliers and fuse plugs and instructions and spare envelopes, the blu-tack sculpture rolled between thumb and finger picked off from calendars, posters and photos

possessions now in boxes, supermarket bags and carrier bags, holdalls with busted zips

stains, stray hairs and the imprint of wooden legs

i lock in

next
finding new ways to adapt –
new way of getting places, shortcuts through rows of houses, new faces – neighbours, dog walkers and pub owner

same skyline, different angle to aspire from, building tops puncturing the blue –
spires as needles, moving in tandem on a machine –
threading a tapestry
as i fly by on my bicycle.

---

Kate Lewington is a writer/poet and blogger. She writes on the themes of belonging, loss, mental illness & hope. She is passionate about learning, social justice, food, music and comedy.

October 11, 2020October 11, 2020 by foxglovejournal Categories: Poetry, UncategorizedTags: adapting, bags, bicycle, boxes, buildings, cards, change, creative, creativity, flight, home, imprint, Kate Lewington, life, memories, neighbours, poem, Poetry, possessions, shortcuts, skyline, surfaces, tapestry, writing 2 Comments

Wind spell – Sebastián Díaz Barriga

 

Translated from Spanish by Delphine Tomes

 

I never learned how to whistle

I always waited

for you

for your lessons

and your What´s up buddy

Do you need any help with that maths?

I´ll be right here

for you

 

now that you are gone

my voice

my laugh

and even my weeping

are stronger

 

thank you so much

and have a good night

 

 

Sebastián Díaz Barriga was born in Mexico City in 1998. In 2018, he wrote his first book (Un rezo para mi padre) translated into English in 2020. He achieved first place at the XII National Desiderio Macías Silva Poetry Contest in 2019. He lives in the 21th century while dreaming about life. http://fabricandopajaros.blogspot.com is his blog.

September 28, 2020September 28, 2020 by foxglovejournal Categories: Poetry, UncategorizedTags: change, creative, creativity, emotion, growth, help, laugh, lessons, Mexico, Mexico City, night, poem, Poetry, Sebastián Díaz Barriga, skill, spell, strength, voice, waiting, weeping, whistle, wind, writing 1 Comment

Frosted petals – Jade Morgan

 

The hexagonal particles of ice are warming, crackling, melting. The earth is only damp on the top layer; underneath it is dry and compacting, offering warmth and protection to the roots during the night. The sky is changing from a deep, vast blue to a softer, yet still intense, shade. Light blue will then be met with blinding white, will be met with lemon, will be met with blazing orange.

“All in good time”, the twilight breathes. “All in good time”.

Changing shape, the icicles climb into themselves before dropping onto the floor with the gentlest of ‘plops’. The departure of the clinging frost, which the closed petals host each night, causes the most subtle movement. The petals are shaken awake, free and able to breathe. Shimmering in delight, they turn their bodies towards the East like a porcelain ballerina twirling on a spring in a jewellery box.

As promised by the twilight, the sky is getting lighter. The remaining night stars twinkle and bow once more, before ending their performance and closing their glimmer to sleep.

As the tip of the brilliant father sun peaks its face over the hills in the horizon, the rays crawl over the grass towards the petals. In unison, the petals stretch, yawn and open themselves to let in the light and nourishment. It is a brand new day.

 

 

Jade Morgan discovered her passion for writing when she was travelling overseas, hiking in New Zealand’s National Parks and Nepal’s Himalayan mountain region. Since her return to England, she has engaged in writing courses to delve more into her new found passion. From the writing courses, Jade has been finding enjoyment in revisiting her travel journals to create a travel writing book and writing flash fiction stories. When she is not doing this, you can find her hiking, reading, hugging trees or planning her next adventure.

September 6, 2020 by foxglovejournal Categories: flash fiction, Prose, UncategorizedTags: change, colours, creative, creativity, earth, elements, fiction, flash, flash fiction, frost, ice, Jade Morgan, light, nature, petals, Prose, senses, short, sky, story, UK, world, writing Leave a comment

When – Louise Wilford

 

and then, when the sluggish earth winds down,

when the wild copper sun streams into the sea,

when the night creeps in like a timid guest

then, beneath the scraps of cloud,

as the air stiffens with the last chirps of the crickets

as the scent of autumn seeps like a charm into my veins

and the still-warm twilight twists about my limbs

when the brush of a dying ladybird on my forearm

or the dry ivy leaf combing my shoulder

is itchy as elf-fingers as I pass, when the shuffling hedgehog

circles the lawn and the first drift of leaves

crumbles beneath our shoes, when the mouse-eyed

elderberries droop, black bubbles in the ripple of moonlight,

and the night’s grey dust dampens the rosehips

and snags among the blood-red haws

then, we will step through the dandelion clocks,

through the lazy cobwebs, through the sleepy moths,

and we will dance, my love – my love, we will dance

and then we will dance as the slow earth turns

 

 

Yorkshirewoman Louise Wilford has had over 100 poems and short stories published and has won or been shortlisted for several competitions, most recently the £750 Arts Quarterly Prize and the MereFest Poetry Prize. She is currently nearing the end of a Masters degree in Creative Writing with the Open University, and is currently working on a novel inspired by The Tempest, while trying to process why the world appears to be falling apart.

August 16, 2020 by foxglovejournal Categories: Poetry, UncategorizedTags: air, animals, change, creative, creativity, dance, earth, elements, Louise Wilford, love, nature, night, place, poem, Poetry, seasons, senses, time, UK, wildlife, world, writing, Yorkshire Leave a comment

Another Word for a Stopped Watch – Edward Alport

 

And then my watch stopped, but not

Like a crashing car or a rabbit caught by a fox.

No drama in this crisis.

The hands slid to a graceful halt,

Worn down by time and friction.

 

My elderly neighbour had an elderly Aston Martin

Parked in a garage and never driven again.

He would glance at the garage

And glance at his watch

And say ‘You need a light heart

‘To drive one of those.

‘Now it is weighed down by grease and gravity.’

Though whether it was his heart or the car I never asked,

Even though I bought the round.

 

But it sold, and sold well,

Unlike the house, which hung around for years.

We sat beneath the oak tree and watched his roses grow

While the shadows of discarded machinery

Marched across the lawn.

 

<>

 

Time has a language of its own, I’ve heard,

With hard words like ‘Never’ and ‘Enough’,

Soft words like ‘Maybe’ and ‘Again’.

Healing words, like ‘Bind up’ and ‘Embrace’,

Cutting words, like ‘Told you so,’ and ‘Stop’.

 

The language that everything learns as it grows old;

The earth tells it to the oak,

The oak tells it to its leaves.

My neighbour, I reckon, taught it to his car.

But my watch had to learn it for itself.

 

 

Edward Alport is a retired teacher and proud Essex Boy. He occupies his time as a gardener and writer for children. He has had poetry published in a variety of webzines and magazines. When he has nothing better to do he posts snarky micropoems on Twitter as @cross_mouse. He moderates the monthly @ThePoetryFloor poetry event on Twitter.

August 9, 2020August 9, 2020 by foxglovejournal Categories: Poetry, UncategorizedTags: age, car, change, creative, creativity, Edward Alport, ending, Essex, garage, growth, hands, heart, language, life, neighbour, poem, Poetry, stop, time, UK, watch, words, writing 1 Comment

Fissures – Jayne Martin

 

The new people had rebuilt from our ashes, from the scarred land to which we could not bring ourselves to return. The foundation had weakened over the years and the house had begun to sink on one side. Spider web-like fissures had creeped silently across the wall above our headboard as we slept.

We stood in only our robes, our feet bare on the cold pavement. The heat of the flames blew out the window of the second-story bedroom we’d planned as a nursery for children never born. The chimney collapsed onto your study where you buried your disappointment in work, while I buried mine in the kitchen growing larger with food that never filled the void. I may have reached for your hand. They said the fire was caused by faulty wiring. It’s true we had let things go. So many things.

I sit in my car across the street from the modern new design; all glass, sharp angles, and promise. No bicycles hastily discarded in its driveway, no toys forgotten from play on its pristine lawn. A gentle psst-psst-psst of a rotating sprinkler the only hint of life.

I wonder about the people inside and who they will become when the first cracks appear.

 

 

Jayne Martin is a Pushcart, Best Small Fictions, and Best Microfictions nominee, and a recipient of Vestal Review’s VERA award. Her debut collection of microfiction, Tender Cuts, from Vine Leaves Press, is available now. Learn more at www.jaynemartin-writer.com.

July 19, 2020 by foxglovejournal Categories: flash fiction, Prose, UncategorizedTags: ashes, change, creative, creativity, fiction, fissures, flames, flash, flash fiction, foundation, house, Jayne Martin, land, loss, Prose, relationship, scars, short, short story, story, void, wall, writing 2 Comments

How it was – Elizabeth Gibson

 

There was a storm out there, on the sea of ferns

and small spiders crept in and out of old burns.

Roaming the desert, a dog found the dusk

and in a flower somewhere, red-pink with musk,

a fairy curled up in the arms of a bee.

 

The midges were swirling like water back home

and in the sky, a jellyfish hung all alone.

Under layers of ice, a horse in a hole;

in a meadow of gold and blue starlets, a foal.

Far out beyond grounds of new comets, you saw me.

 

 

Elizabeth Gibson is a writer and performer based in Manchester, UK. She is also the Editor and Photographer for Foxglove Journal. Liz has won a Northern Writers’ Award and been shortlisted for the Poetry Business’ New Poets Prize, and her work has appeared Cake, Cardiff Review, The Compass, Confingo, Litro and Strix among other journals. Liz blogs at http://elizabethgibsonwriter.blogspot.com and you can find her on Twitter and Instagram as @Grizonne.

June 10, 2020June 10, 2020 by foxglovejournal Categories: Poetry, UncategorizedTags: animals, body, change, colours, creative, creativity, elements, Elizabeth Gibson, encounter, home, love, Manchester, memory, movement, mystery, nature, poem, Poetry, senses, time, UK, world, writing Leave a comment

When Summer Comes – Holly Day

 

I bury their heads in peat and think of the day when

the sun warms the soil and the clouds bring the rain and the white

snowy fields that once seemed to stretch endless will

be a fuzzy memory of a cold and irrelevant past.

the seeds so carefully planted before the first frost will

unfold like origami and send thin furry roots tunneling

through the chilly dirt to find footholds in the earth.

I’ll wake to find a thin coat of green covering

the warmed soil surrounding the base of the old birch tree

in the back yard.

 

eventually, the thin frost of green will grow into a thick carpet, obscuring

the domed hills marking the entrance and exit of traveling worms,

the triangular footprints of excavating seasonal birds, even the

occasional fox footpad, preserved in wet mud. but

today, snow falls in soft clumps outside my kitchen window, barely

heard or felt by the tiny cocooned bodies of insects and plants

lying dormant beneath the soil. I stare past the snow

dream bright, grand dreams of far-off

summer days, imagining the crackle

of night crawlers moving beneath decomposing leaves, the way

the stars look so fuzzy in the sky on

hazy, summer nights.

 

 

Holly Day has taught writing classes at the Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis, Minnesota, since 2000. Her poetry has recently appeared in Tampa Review, SLAB, and Gargoyle, and her published books include Walking Twin Cities, Music Theory for Dummies, and Ugly Girl.

May 31, 2020 by foxglovejournal Categories: PoetryTags: animals, birds, change, creative, creativity, dream, elements, growth, Holly Day, memory, MN, nature, past, poem, Poetry, seasons, snow, stars, summer, time, US, weather, writing Leave a comment

My Final Walk in the Woods – James G. Piatt

 

Strolling along a bark filled path in the woods the breath of summer gusts into my mind and the warbling of tiny birds enters my ears. Tiny colorful wildflowers, pink, yellow, and blue paint the face of the meadow across the way, and waft their honeyed scents into the breeze. I hear the whispering sounds of the tiny brook alongside the path, and watch small rabbits with blades of grass in their mouths hopping quietly across the field. Maple trees with their white and gray skin, and oak trees with their gnarled limbs reaching for ground and sky shade my path. A red-shouldered hawk soars to the heavens with a screech as I disturb its tranquility sitting in a tall pine tree. I hear murmuring voices of tiny animals under fallen leaves and twigs in the distance, as the soft balmy breeze hurries over the ground with its euphonious voice. My memories awaken, and I remember my happy treks to the woods when I was a young lad. I exhale my breath with a nostalgic sigh as I realize my walks in the woods will be ending soon. My mind is still young, but my body has turned old.

 

 

James is the author of four collections of poetry, Solace Between the Lines (2019), Light (2016), Ancient Rhythms (2014), and The Silent Pond (2012). He has had over 1,440 poems (four of which were nominated for Pushcart and Best of Web Awards), five novels, eight essays, and thirty-five short stories published. He earned his BS and MA from California State Polytechnic University, and his doctorate from BYU.

May 25, 2020 by foxglovejournal Categories: PoetryTags: age, animals, birds, change, creative, creativity, elements, flowers, James G. Piatt, journey, memory, nature, nostalgia, place, poem, Poetry, senses, time, trees, US, wildlife, woods, writing Leave a comment

Spending a Day with an Uncanny Nature – Chandan Dey

 

a snowy day–

 

the green leaves of the garden

are wrapped in the thick blanket of ice

 

the dangling white rose

is the face of a black tiger

in such a depressing morning

 

a flock of one-winged birds

are migrating to a sunless island

through gray clouds arranged unruly

in this pale light of dreary noon

 

the deepening dusk

with its illusive movement

is descending swiftly to the earth

through eerie sound of the crickets

 

in the distance–

 

the wavy mountain

is a strayed dolphin, swimming

in the ocean of night-fog

 

alone

 

 

Chandan Dey is a new and emerging writer living in Kolkata, India. His work has appeared in Liquid Imagination, Vayavya, Sky Island Journal and is forthcoming elsewhere. He works in Kolkata and is a passionate reader and writer of poetry. He loves to write articles on scientific philosophy; some of them have already been published online. Some of his work can be found on http://www.chandankumardey.blogspot.in.

May 17, 2020 by foxglovejournal Categories: PoetryTags: animals, birds, Chandan Dey, change, clouds, creative, creativity, day, earth, elements, garden, India, landscape, light, movement, nature, place, poem, Poetry, senses, sound, time, writing 2 Comments