Last night I fell to dream
of Castle Combe,
Its shambling mists and tawny stream,
the holy pathos of its homes.
Wind-washed clouds, the lunar gleam
of cream-colored stone.
And there, somewhere between
drowsy dusk and day, I stood alone
In fevered dream,
in Cotswold cold,
Woke to air, moon-tide dimmed,
and the lulled hush of wool-
Soft hymns
with all hope gone.
I took my problems to my old friend, the sea.
He watched me with his flashing eyes
And spoke to me with seven foaming lips.
I poured out my problems
And he poured them right back again.
Now that I’m sitting, like a stone on a rock,
Now the beach-huts are deserted,
And all the lovers have gone home,
He’s still there;
He’s still there;
The still small voice
Of endless noise,
Wearing at my loneliness.
Edward Alport is a proud Essex Boy and occupies his time as a teacher, 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.
Do you think
A stone taken up from the ground
Forgets where it is from?
Erased of place, of memory?
Do you think it remembers
The rough kiss
The tender current
The air, the ocean
The chatter of falcons nesting?
Does it still think fondly
Of the year you were born?
Oak Ayling is a young woman quietly stitching poetry into the blurry windswept border between Cornwall and Devon, England. Highly commended by Indigo Press in the Geoff Stevens Memorial Prize 2018, her work can be found in Anti Heroin Chic Magazine, the fast growing lit mag From Whispers to Roars and forthcoming charitable anthology ‘Shorthand’ by author Helen Cox in support of UK homeless charity Streetlink.
Frost Moon, November
Cold and desiccated, the full moon
Broods just above the hills,
Its light through autumn haze
Like dust rising from ice.
*
Bristlecone Pine
Rooted the hard way into stone
And exposed to inhuman weather,
Nothing ever disturbs it inside
Its exoskeleton of loneliness.
*
Drought
Doves on a stunned afternoon
Flutter from dust to branch and back again,
Gray and taupe, seeds of rain clouds
With nowhere to take root.
**
Don Thompson was born and raised in Bakersfield, California, and has lived in the southern San Joaquin Valley for most of his life. He has been publishing poetry since the early sixties, including a dozen books and chapbooks. For more information and links to his publications, visit his website San Joaquin Ink (don-e-thompson.com).
blue bay turns to white
scatters seagulls on the pier
splashes high on empty restaurants
onto rocks
a lone fisherman on an old cane chair
hot mountain tea on salted stone;
no man calls to long-haired goats
along the rugged path, no clinking bells
only a loose canvas flapping
a few dead fish in buckets
and a dying wind in the cove
Ion Corcos has been published in Grey Sparrow Journal, Clear Poetry, Communion, The High Window and other journals. He is a Pushcart Prize nominee. Ion is a nature lover and a supporter of animal rights. He is currently travelling indefinitely with his partner, Lisa. Ion’s website iswww.ioncorcos.wordpress.com.
I wander streets
as days lie in wait
on blind corners
and the future
hides behind clock faces.
Six magpies steal gold
from afternoon sun,
the seventh
knows secrets
like city stone.
In corners of a shadow
a black cat
sees me coming,
stretches, counts time,
disappears into days.
And waits
to deliver news
I’d least expect.
Paul Waring is a retired clinical psychologist who once designed menswear and was a singer/songwriter in several Liverpool bands. His poems have appeared in journals/sites including Reach Poetry, Eunoia Review, The Open Mouse and are forthcoming in Clear Poetry and Amaryllis. He recently returned from living in Spain and Portugal and continues to enjoy being re-acquainted with the wonderful variety of nature in Wirral and other parts of Britain. His blog is https://waringwords.wordpress.com.
I find peace in a Balinese pool
swathes of water lilies
hide the flash of fish below.
A stone girl reclines in its centre
frangipani flowers scattered
like worn lovers around her.
A dragonfly zips through
trailblazing its colour
between a blur of crisp wings.
I crouch to look closer.
What I thought were brown spots
are fingernail-sized frogs
squatting on lily pads like tiny worries.
I watch a few flick into fathomless depths.
J V Birch lives in Adelaide. Her poems have appeared in anthologies, journals and magazines across Australia, the UK, Canada and the US. She has two collections – Smashed glass at midnight and What the water & moon gave me – published by Ginninderra Press, and is currently working on her third. She blogs at www.jvbirch.com.
It is something to understand
you share the space between the sky
and the land
the time that falls from jumping
to standing
the beat of breathing
the peak and plunge of the sun
But as stone to grain,
from mist to rain,
It’s another thing to change
Danielle Dix is a poet with a tendency to focus on the challenges that people create within themselves. She is ruled by her impulsive nature, drools for travel, and is compiling a set of poems that she hopes will not fall prey to abandonment in a cardboard box. She tweets at @DanielleNoelDix.
Foxglove Journal 