If life is a wave on the sea of existence
And I exist not to be, but to flow
Then the journey each day begins somewhere here
And it ends somewhere I can't know
Perhaps I am meant to flow with others
Or sink to the depths beneath
To rise on the crest and view the distance
To realise it's out of my reach
To dilute myself as I interact
Not with purpose or meaning but because
I'm caught in the tide of eternity
My destiny, my future, awash
Pure moments of thought pass through me
Like messages in a bottle afloat
They become less pure as each day I divide
And take with them my dreams and my hope
I long to be back at the beginning
Raindrops on the air, how we soared
On our route out to sea, but together for once
Not apart, not distant, not flawed
In the mountain stream gathering pace
As our confidence and maturity grow
Together in quiet times, again in the rush
Together caught up in the flow
Deprivation Sews The Seeds of Desire
As a mixed up kid in dreamland
With no life of my own
I enter your world in a chariot
And around its realms I roam
I wonder at the star-spangled palaces
At the trees that line the lanes
Absorbing as much as is possible
Lest I never return again
My mind whirs with colour and light
Like a kaleidoscope viewed from within
A maze of intertwined avenues
Of passages and alleyways thin
Oceans of wide open spaces
Fields with flowers in bloom
No chains to trap or encase me
No attics or fortified rooms
Just freedom to enjoy what is beautiful
A time and a space of my own
Where my love for you can be expressed
And the seeds of desire are sewn
Gavin Meggs lives in London, England and has been writing poetry since he was a child. Inspired by life in all its forms, Gavin seeks to share his perspectives on life in a way that will live on in the hearts and mind of those that read his work.
A Tea Garden
A tea garden, a patio
hedged from the street. No shelter
from weather. We sip our tea
with smiles glib with passions
we shouldn’t apply to ourselves.
Your late husband became a tree
in a forest too dense for hikers,
while I left someone wheezing
over an empty bank account
and a mountain of dirty dishes.
Scattered among our deficits,
opalescent faces regress
into stories too shy to recount.
Rain begins. It patters in the hedge,
then tinkles on our saucers.
We rise to leave, but the waiter
insists we stay and finish our tea
or the kitchen will feel insulted.
We slump back into our silence
and wish each other better luck
with future indiscretions. The sky
wrings itself silly, the waiter
bears his metal fangs. Our teacups
are bottomless. They’re holes drilled
into the core of the Earth
where tea is forever brewing.
You look on the verge of panic,
and I’m sure I’m equally aghast.
The hedge rustles with new growth
that closes the gap through which
we and other customers entered.
Long ago we agreed it would end
like this, the waiter stooping
like a heron, the hedge bristling,
and the tea brimming over
to drown us from inside out.
Shoes at the back of my closet:
flap-soled, split-seamed, reeking
of stories they’d like to tell.
The saddest are the desert boots
that hiked all over Somerville,
up Winter Hill, into Charlestown
the summer of being so alone
I tried lying on the railroad
but spooked when a train hooted.
Their red composite soles stiffened
decades ago, but their souls
retain the taste of filthy asphalt,
a breath of crankcase oil and vomit.
No so sad are the penny loafers
that strode through the hurricane
on Duxbury Marsh. The tide arose
and stranded us in a cottage
with cheap wine, beer, potato chips,
and a mutual lust for drama.
Almost cheerful are the Keds
I sported for tennis on tough
urban courts with sagging nets
and junkies retrieving the balls
for quarters and friendly words.
These sneakers have torn at the seams,
but their soles remain as thick
as the bunk bed we shared in a hut
in the saddle between Mount Adams
and Mount Jefferson one spring
when a freeze burst the water tank
and rime furred the rocks and froze
all the tiny alpine flowers.
The hiking boots I wore that trip
have disappeared into the ether,
but their duplicates, still wearable,
crouch in the dark, waiting for me
to resume the life afoot
I can never quite abandon,
even with these dead shoes mocking me
with their many out-thrust tongues.
Old Clothes of the Night
Scruffy old clothes of the night
shrug along the treetops, tearing
rents through which you see stars.
Are stars the bones or the DNA
of the universe? From atop
a nearby mountain this morning
I saw you hanging out laundry.
Your concentration looked immense
enough to spark creations
sufficient to crowd a museum.
Now the night in its shabby duds
disregards whatever premise
we try to impose. Cloud and moon,
bats cruising for meat, the marsh
burping gas bubbles that pop
and disperse organic toxins
to sate our long-lost intimacies.
Did you bring in the wash before
the threat of late-night thunder?
I like the smell of clothes dried
in the hard summer glare when
skin cancer plots in body parts
we never think to examine.
The night-garb whispers along
like a nineteenth-century ghost.
If we went outdoors naked,
the scuffed old rags would conceal us
from each other, and the moon
would rumple its moon-face
in something more than a laugh.
William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire, and has published poems in various journals, online and print.
“Dress me in your voice,”
you whispered, the plea
insistent, profound. I
responded, my clothes
on a trajectory out
the other’s body not long after;
We are only comfortable
around one another naked.
Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Borrowed Solace, Dodging the Rain, and Twyckenham Notes, among others.
You are to be found far and wide within
Me and out, flowing through veins, inundating
Entirety. Ancient drops of you concealed
In stars released through showering debris,
Rendering existence possible, your absence
Intolerable, instincts in eternal search of you.
Intimacy in little opaque cabins made of glass,
Ceramic tubs, algae basins, riverbeds, by shores
Where feet don’t touch, blanketing granular materials,
Silicon dioxide in the form of insoluble quartz, calcium
Carbonate from shells and skeletons of organisms,
Corals and molluscs losing you forever, stranded in deserts.
I allow you all for you know how, to gently
Lick and lap thirsty skins, totality of my body
Hankering after vital substance as you take control
Of me, manipulating vibrations with mastery, unaware
Of your nature, crucial lymph, my only lover,
Forcefully penetrating cavities and pores.
I shut my eyes to your caress, yearning
For profundity, melting desiring fusion as
I unseal my lips to drink of you, inebriating
The perfect system longing to redefine
Itself through absorption, recognising
Its consistency, you within and out.
Your power soothes my consciousness, heals
My ills, paces my movement as your sound
Orchestrates, my heartbeat and breath to
The rhythm of universal quantum. You are old.
Billions of years constantly mutate your state
From ice to vapours, though I crave for you most
In liquid form.
In 2011 Aurora Kastanias became the published author of existential novels and a bar co-owner in the wine city of Bordeaux.
While she has chosen to write in Italian, as a tribute to the language she cherishes, highly respects and admires, she is also the author of english language poetry, and philosophical and scientific essays.
She is currently studying astrophysics and in the process of writing her fourth book [the second in english] on the Universe and Life.
Before me, black tendrils
darken bleached fibers.
New growth dangles
to the middle of the page,
Anna Kander is a writer in the Midwest. She writes with her sidekick, a fearless blue fish who doesn’t realize he’s only one inch tall. Her work is published or forthcoming in journals including Star*Line, Leveler, and Train.
R. Gerry Fabian
This feeling is rubber cement.
Fast drying, non-wrinkling
and yet such a sturdy adhesive.
I keep it tightly capped.
It is always used
with adequate ventilation.
When applied to one surface
it can join immediately.
There is always firm pressure.
When dry, the excess
is easily removed by rubbing.
You have felt it;
maybe not in these thoughts
but you carry it inside
far too often.
R. Gerry Fabian is a retired English instructor. He has been publishing poetry since 1972 in various poetry magazines. His web page is https://rgerryfabian.wordpress.com. He is the editor of Raw Dog Press https://rawdogpress.wordpress.com. His novels, Memphis Masquerade, Getting Lucky (The Story) and published poetry book, Parallels are available at Smashwords and all other ebook stores.
Stuck in The Syrup
A housefly is
Stuck in the syrup
At the bottom of the cup.
His legs are too spindly.
His wings are too weak.
His fly brain cannot compensate.
So he spends his remaining days
At the bottom of a cup.
The syrup smelled so good
And he had to follow
And now all he can do
Done in by instinct
All he can do
John Tustin is currently suffering in exile on Elba. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry is a link to his poetry online.