The tornado
whispers across
the green lake
heads for your eyes
so that when I kiss you
your body splatters me
with droplets of jade
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. He has recent/upcoming appearances in New American Legends, Toho Journal, and Chiron Review, among others.
all around us are spots of red
like measles over a face that
is only now healing, cloaks
draped in wild abandon over the
sun-baked rocks, sentinels peeking
from behind pink stripes and
distant canyon borders
and not a fence post in sight;
what freedom is ours, driving
mile after mile over this
violent sunset land, and our
constant companion temptation,
whispering in our ears that
we are never to return to
a land where there are no
fields of red flowers
Linda Rhinehart, 30, is a student, writer and translator currently living and studying in Cardiff, Wales. In the past she has lived in Switzerland, the USA and Germany. She has been writing poetry for around three years and reading it for a lot longer. In her spare time she enjoys playing piano, going for walks in nature and cats.
Out on a night
like this
you swagger
aloof
star on stage
under diffused
orange spotlight.
I see you sashay
soft brush tail
lithe limbs
quiet as a whisper
across grass
as I close
my fourth floor window.
You look up
as if you know me
bat-ear surveillance
and dark adapted eyes
aimed like arrows
into mine.
Paul Waring is a retired clinical psychologist who once designed menswear and was a singer/songwriter in Liverpool bands. He is a 2018 Pushcart Prize nominee whose poems have been published in Foxglove Journal, Prole, Amaryllis, High Window, Atrium, Algebra of Owls, Clear Poetry, Ofi Press, Marble Poetry, The Lampeter Review and others. Find more at https://waringwords.wordpress.com.
He arrived, a long washed sailor,
over the rolling sea, making home
because he likes what he sees;
the waist nipped flouncers in sky
high heels, he brings them sunshine,
in the grey northern streets, freestyles
beats, wears flip flops with no thought
for others. He wants to fit in though,
with winkle-pickers and pool cue crowds,
not with grim suited pen-pushers.
Under his feet, colours splatter the pavement,
smiles spread silently across his face,
he hears old ladies whisper, scandalised,
then turn silently away;
he wears the world well.
Ali Jones is a teacher and mother of three. Her work has appeared in Fire, Poetry Rivals, Strange Poetry, Ink Sweat and Tears, Snakeskin Poetry, Atrium, Mother’s Milk Books, Breastfeeding Matters, Breastfeeding Today and Green Parent magazine. She has also written for The Guardian.
Everyone knows how a cheap scent sounds,
its odor loud and clear,
astringent—a sting in your nostrils
that makes you taste dissonant brass.
But lupins in a field whisper
subtle fragrances, inaudible
unless you’re willing to stand still
on a windless afternoon
and listen: a blue fugue
in which you can recognize motifs
of raw denim, antique lilac silk,
or dusty amaranthine velvet.
*
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).
The oak trees stand so quietly,
Your voice would peter out
In their recesses.
The forest is deep in thought,
As the wind sighs
Through ruptured sunlight,
Its depths immersed in dream,
More than one of the trees
Has fallen or been felled
Leaving a stump,
The ghostly absence
Of an amputee’s limb.
The new saplings look down
Slender as young girls,
Feeling rain’s shy caress.
Listen and you will hear
Time remaking beauty
The canopy’s whisper
A silk dress.
Steve Komarnyckyj’s literary translations and poems have appeared in Index on Censorship, Modern Poetry in Translation and many other journals. He is the holder of two PEN awards and a highly regarded English language poet whose work has been described as articulating “what it means to be human” (Sean Street). He runs Kalyna Language Press with his partner Susie and three domestic cats.
It announces itself in muted shades of light –
returns from nowhere
to stretch taut skin of summer into shadows
to shed above baked earth
that hears tangled webs of parched root
whisper need for change.
Autumn stands solemnly
with hands to deliver last rites;
pulls down mist to lay moist sheets
on musty carpet, wraps a blanket
of cold around the body
of winter, locks life like a vice
until sharpened light of spring
signals release.
And the promise
of new beginnings on March winds
that arrive back
from the other side of nowhere.
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 talk to myself
when it’s quiet
but your voice
is persistent
whispering from
the mountains
about the touch
of the sea.
Catherine lives in Connecticut with her husband and fur babies. Though not scientifically proven, she likes to think that earning degrees in both English and Accounting confirms that both sides of her brain work. Her poetry has been featured in various journals and anthologies including Neverlasting, Cattails, Modern Haiku, Frogpond, bottle rockets, 50 Haikus, Three Line Poetry, Vine Leaves Literary Journal, and wild voices: an anthology of short poetry and art by women. To see more of her ramblings follow her on Twitter @Catherin03.
The whisper
Wicks from her lips.
A soothing salve.
She bends, twists,
Feet touching the walls
In eight different places.
Her laurels always rove.
Search.
Hold.
Gagging the dawn chorus
Until
The hunger moon thins.
Dissecting a house fly,
She commits
Murder on the brightest window,
At first frost
Opens the door
Without a guest to feast.
Natalie Crick, from the UK, has poetry published or forthcoming in a range of journals and magazines including Interpreters House, Ink In Thirds, The Penwood Review, The Chiron Review and Rust and Moth. Her work also features or is forthcoming in a number of anthologies, including Lehigh Valley Vanguard Collections 13. This year her poem ‘Sunday School’ was nominated for the Pushcart Prize.
Foxglove Journal 