Concentration – Ben Banyard

 

It’s hard, here in orbit,

not to be able to hear

the simultaneous hum

of all those minds at work.

 

But it’s far harder to imagine

that this orb contains

all of the love and fear

for as far as eyes can see.

 

 

ImageBen Banyard lives in Portishead, near Bristol, UK. He’s the author of a pamphlet, Communing (Indigo Dreams, 2016) and a full collection, We Are All Lucky (Indigo Dreams, 2018). He blogs and posts mixtapes at https://benbanyard.wordpress.com.

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Caterpillar – Arlene Antoinette

 

After a brief search,

I find my ten-year-old daughter

in the garden, crouched by my shrubs,

staring at her right hand

extended towards the heavens.

 

On her index finger crawls a greenish-

yellowish creature

mesmerizing my child

who normally couldn’t sit still.

 

Looking closer, I see

the miracle of her stillness

is the result of a caterpillar

leisurely making its way up her finger.

 

She glances up at me with

awe on her face,

the look only a child

experiencing an exciting marvel

for the first time could display.

 

In that moment I feel the dread

every mother feels

when she realizes her baby

will grow up one day and all

her “firsts” will be gone.

 

 

stillmyeye

Arlene Antoinette is a poet of West Indian birth, but has given her heart to Brooklyn, New York where she spent her formative years. Her work has been published in The Ginger Collect, The Feminine Collective, Boston Accent Lit, Sick Lit magazine and Girlsense and Nonsense.

Of Wind and Rain – Arlene Antoinette

 

As he stood looking through the back window

at my english tea roses,

he said he couldn’t tell the difference

between the movement of the flowers

from the wind or from the rain.

How could you not, I replied,

confused by his lack of eyesight and insight.

 

When my roses are moved by the wind,

they move as one. Pink headed soldiers

lead by a strict drill sergeant,

each unwilling to be called out

for breaking formation

or for being the weak link in the chain.

Eager recruits desiring to satisfy their sergeant’s

every whim.

 

When my roses are moved by the rain,

each petal dances independently of the others

to the rhythm of the raindrops.

A single drop kissing the petal,

like a passionate lover

toying with his sweetheart’s emotions.

I can almost hear their squeals of delight

floating through the air.

 

He laughed, saying I was foolish 

to have given so much thought 

to such an insignificant thing. 

I cried, thinking him thoughtless

for ignoring one of the small beauties

of this world.

 

 

Arlenstillmyeyee Antoinette enjoys writing poetry and flash fiction. More of her work may be found at: Sick Lit Mag, GIRLSENSE AND NONSENSE, Boston Accent Lit and The Ginger Collect.