Cromarty, 29 April 2019 – Neil Fulwood

 

Wake early. Take a cafetière

through to the conservatory.

Mist blanks out everything:

the road, the firth, the sea

beyond the curve of headland.

The oil rigs are vague shapes –

storybook monsters; phantoms.

Plunge; pour a mugful. Take

your first sip of the day. Feel

the bitter kickstart of caffeine.

The day hasn’t come alive yet.

Give it time. The sun will burn

through the mist. Landscape,

sea and sky will correlate.

 

---

Neil Fulwood was born in Nottingham, England, where he still lives and works. He has published two pamphlets with The Black Light Engine Room Press, Numbers Stations and The Little Book of Forced Calm; and two full collections with Shoestring Press, No Avoiding It and Can’t Take Me Anywhere. His third collection, Service Cancelled, is due for publication later this year.

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February 8, 2021 by foxglovejournal Categories: Poetry, UncategorizedTags: creative, creativity, Cromarty, elements, landscape, mist, morning, nature, Neil Fulwood, Nottingham, place, poem, Poetry, scenery, Scotland, sea, senses, sky, sun, time, travel, weather, writing Leave a comment

Morning cat – Demi Lloyd

 

He basks in morning beam.

The sofa cradles, heart pulsates.

He watches me, charmed eyes.

Work at 6, haven’t slept.

I call in sick and stroke his head.

 

---

Demi Lloyd recently gained a Masters degree in Creative Writing at Nottingham Trent University. She is part of a poetry group based in Nottingham called GOBS and is working towards her contribution to their spoken word showcase in March. In her spare time you can find her reading, listening to podcasts or thinking about cats.

January 17, 2021 by foxglovejournal Categories: Poetry, UncategorizedTags: animals, beam, cat, charm, cradle, creative, creativity, Demi Lloyd, early, eyes, head, heart, moment, morning, Nottingham, pet, poem, Poetry, senses, sleep, time, UK, writing Leave a comment

Late September Morning – Glen Sorestad

 

You always hear them 

before you see them.

 

When I heard them, 

I stopped, looked up:

 

the cries of Snow Geese, 

thousands of them, 

 

ragged flying necklaces 

strewn across 

 

a robin’s egg sky, 

slant of rising sun 

 

glinting off 

brilliant white feathers.

 

That familiar ache 

seized my throat, 

 

their plaintive cries 

waning as they flowed by, 

 

carrying summer 

southwest to the river.

 

---

Glen Sorestad is a Canadian poet whose work has appeared in publication in various parts of the world, has appeared in over 60 anthologies and textbooks, and has been translated into eight languages. He was nominated for Best of the Web 2020. He lives with his wife Sonia in Saskatoon on the northern plains.

October 25, 2020 by foxglovejournal Categories: Poetry, UncategorizedTags: birds, Canada, colours, creative, creativity, feathers, flight, geese, Glen Sorestad, morning, nature, poem, Poetry, seasons, senses, September, sky, sound, summer, sun, world, writing Leave a comment

Images and Fragrances – James G. Piatt

 

It was near the morning hour, when visions

arose in my mind: I saw a brick sidewalk

leading me to an old house where precious

memories transported me inside the house

and I smelled the sweet fragrances of

peaches and honey wafting into the air.

 

 

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 4, 2020May 4, 2020 by foxglovejournal Categories: PoetryTags: air, creative, creativity, elements, food, fragrance, honey, hour, house, James G. Piatt, memories, mind, moment, morning, nature, peaches, poem, Poetry, scent, senses, sweet, visions, writing Leave a comment

Glass Man – William Doreski

 

Made of glass this morning,

I’m pleased that anyone can see

through me to the landscape beyond.

 

Being so fragile I take great care

walking up the post office steps,

and standing in line avoid

 

bumping old ladies clutching

parcels intended for grandkids.

The day sighs many great sighs.

 

It expects me to understand why

I’m made of glass this morning,

instead of rising in a fist

 

of stainless steel. The river

brims at the post office window.

It also is glass this morning.

 

If I stepped on it, tried to walk

its naked water, we’d collapse

into each other’s shy embrace,

 

subject and verb uniting.

I reach the window to buy a stamp

but the clerk looks right through me

 

to the next person in line.

I cough to get his attention

but something inside me cracks

 

and I have to step aside and clutch

myself to myself to avoid

shattering all over the floor.

 

I’ll mail my letter tomorrow

when I’ve reverted to simple flesh.

Today I’d better lie down somewhere

 

in the shade so I don’t start a fire.

Somewhere in the damp old forest

where no one will step on me,

 

my utter transparency

plain as an artist’s model,

too slick to exhibit shame.

 

 

William Doreski has published three critical studies and several collections of poetry. His poetry, essays, reviews, and fiction have appeared in many print and online journals. He has taught writing and literature at Emerson, Goddard, Boston University, and Keene
State College. His most recent books are A Black River, A Dark Fall, a poetry collection, and Train to Providence, a collaboration with photographer Rodger Kingston. His website is williamdoreski.blogspot.com.

September 22, 2019 by foxglovejournal Categories: PoetryTags: care, elements, embrace, family, fire, forest, fragile, glass, landscape, morning, nature, poem, Poetry, river, senses, shame, sound, steel, transparency, US, water, William Doreski, window 1 Comment

3:18am – Beth O’Brien

 

3:18am is awake like its own alarm.

 

We bump into each other on the landing

because we are restless at the same time,

for different reasons,

and we jostle for position in the darkness,

 

both of us waiting for the other

to find the light switch.

 

 

Beth O’Brien is currently studying a degree in English Literature at the University of Birmingham. She loves reading, writing, food and seeing the world – when any of these overlap, she loves them even more!

August 21, 2018 by foxglovejournal Categories: PoetryTags: alarm, awake, Beth O'Brien, Birmingham, creative, creativity, darkness, encounter, jostle, landing, light, morning, night, poem, Poetry, position, reasons, restlessness, switch, time, UK, waiting, writing Leave a comment

Morning Song – Susan Richardson

 

Mornings begin with the scratch

and rattle of claws against wood,

chaos seeping with fervor

into the void of night.

He plants his feet reluctantly

onto a floor bathed in the chill

of a disappearing moon,

tails sweeping in and out of

precarious spaces between his ankles.

It is a long walk to the kitchen,

where the hiss of an opening

can awakens a cacophony of hunger,

mingled with chords of impatience.

A spoon clanking against glass sets

the rhythm for notes of anticipation.

He fills the bowls and places

them on the branches of the tree.

Quiet settles into plump warm fullness.

 

 

Susan Richardson is living, writing and going blind in Hollywood. She was diagnosed with Retinitis Pigmentosa in 2002 and much of her work focuses on her relationship to the world as a partially sighted woman. In addition to poetry, she writes a blog called “Stories from the Edge of Blindness”. Her work has been published in: Stepping Stones Magazine, Wildflower Muse, The Furious Gazelle, The Hungry Chimera, Sheila-Na-Gig, Chantarelle’s Notebook, Foxglove Journal, Literary Juice and Sick Lit Magazine, with pieces forthcoming in Amaryllis. She was also awarded the Sheila-Na-Gig Winter Poetry Prize.

February 9, 2018February 9, 2018 by foxglovejournal Categories: PoetryTags: animals, cacophony, chaos, creative, creativity, food, fullness, hiss, hunger, impatience, moon, morning, night, poem, Poetry, quiet, rhythm, senses, song, sounds, Susan Richardson, warmth, writing 4 Comments

Cologne – David Armand

 

It was a mirrored, wooden cabinet

hung at about eye-level so he could see

himself before he left for work

in the morning, when it was still dark out

and everyone else was asleep and warm.

 

And he kept nothing but cologne in there,

bottles and bottles of it: Brut, Old Spice,

Pierre Cardin, English Leather, Coty Musk,

Stetson, Aqua Velva, Afta, Skin Bracer,

Preferred Stock, Aspen. Cheap stuff

 

his kids gave him, or maybe he bought it

himself at the drugstore for under ten bucks

so he’d have some variety in the morning,

some choice in how he presented himself

to a world where he didn’t have many choices,

 

a world that was hard on him, and one he’d leave

far too soon: just after a meager Christmas one year

at only forty-two years old, all those cheap bottles

collecting dust now, their contents slowly evaporating

until the day comes when there’ll just be nothing left of him.

 

 

David Armand is Writer-in-Residence at Southeastern Louisiana University, where he also serves as associate editor for Louisiana Literature. In 2010, he won the George Garrett Fiction Prize for his first novel, The Pugilist’s Wife, which was published by Texas Review Press. His second novel, Harlow, was published by Texas Review Press in 2013. In 2015, David’s third novel, The Gorge, was published by Southeast Missouri State University Press, and his poetry chapbook, The Deep Woods, was published by Blue Horse Press. David’s memoir, My Mother’s House, was published in March 2016 by Texas Review Press.

January 30, 2018January 30, 2018 by foxglovejournal Categories: PoetryTags: bottles, choice, cologne, creative, creativity, David Armand, death, dust, ending, family, humanity, LA, loss, morning, poem, Poetry, scent, time, US, variety, work, world, writing Leave a comment

Two Women at a Window – Maurice Devitt

 

after Bartolomé Esteban Murillo

 

Their eyes betray nothing

of what might have gone before.

Were they caught in a cat-fight

over a dress, borrowed

but never returned, or a letter,

steamed open and hastily re-sealed –

news that could not be unseen,

the final link in a chain

of stolen glances, whispered words

and footsteps quickening

on the wooden stairs?

 

Or had they lost the morning

to impatience and panic,

the constant cling of call-bells,

paths crossing like ghosts

in voiceless corridors?

 

Either way they will slip back

into their lives,

the feelings they had shelved

will return,

and we will never know

what words were spoken

in the half-eaten silence.

 

Runner-up in The Interpreter’s House Poetry Competition in 2017, Maurice Devitt 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.

July 19, 2017July 19, 2017 by foxglovejournal Categories: PoetryTags: art, creative, creativity, dress, eyes, feelings, footsteps, ghosts, glances, history, humanity, Ireland, letter, life, Maurice Devitt, morning, painting, past, poem, Poetry, silence, words, writing Leave a comment

Mushrooms and Onions – Jon Bennett

 

When I first got a kitchen

I baked salmon

and decided, from then on

fish every day!

I only made it once

I’m too impatient for ovens

and still eat from the bag and can

although I do fry up

mushrooms and onions

with my eggs in the morning

I feel this kitchen

has saved my life

although maybe

it’s the soft bed

that came along with it.

 

Jon Bennett is a writer and musician living in San Francisco’s Tenderloin neighborhood. You can find more of his stuff on Pandora and iTunes. For booking contact jonbennett14@hotmail.com. Most recently his work has appeared in Degenerate Literature, Your One Phone Call and In Between Hangovers.

March 24, 2017March 24, 2017 by foxglovejournal Categories: Poetry, UncategorizedTags: bed, change, cooking, creative, creativity, eggs, fish, food, growth, home, humanity, Jon Bennett, kitchen, life, morning, patience, poem, Poetry, salmon, San Francisco, soft, US, writing Leave a comment

Sartre Building an Ant Farm Out of Company Sand – Ryan Quinn Flanagan

 

His library was impressive

but I could tell by the way that he

buttered his morning toast

that he was not well read.

 

Who gets up in the morning anyways

if they do not have to?

 

That was a flag right there.

 

And I could see

he had something against the Russians

because he would never look east,

not even for the sunrise,

it is little things like that.

 

People confuse language with communication.

 

What is NOT said by what is said

is often more important.

 

The minutia, the nuance…

like Sartre building an ant farm

out of company sand.

 

And he asked me to stay another night

and I told him I could not

because poison ivy is contagious.

 

And now

I am in bed

listening to the

rain.

 

Nodding off every so often

like the elderly do

on the subway.

 

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his other half and mounds of snow. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Word Riot, In Between Hangovers, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.

 

January 27, 2017February 25, 2017 by foxglovejournal Categories: Poetry, UncategorizedTags: Canada, change, communication, creative, humanity, ivy, language, life, literature, morning, nature, poem, Poetry, poison, rain, reflection, relationship, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Sartre, sleep, sunrise, writing Leave a comment