“In the textured glass, a body, blurred. Wrong collection of pixels to be Michel.” - the line that destroyed me. I read a line in a book. It is beautiful --- the line is beautiful I must explain what it means to me for a line to be beautiful, because you see --- it can be subjective and defining my terms is a habit acquired. An aftermath of studying philosophy. And so I find this line beautiful because it is simple yet unique. It --- I have to stop and think to explain--- evokes in me instantly an explosion of emotions. Which emotions though? Bear with me, I will explain: First, I feel tricked as if a magician played a hand, and although I was attentive to their every single move, I still missed the secret of the flash, between the Turn and the Prestige. Then I feel dumb as if my _amman_had asked me when I was young to bring her a specific piece of thread, and despite my multiple rounds of deep searching the Danish cookies box (where she stored all her sewing threads), I informed her of my failure to retrieve what she had asked of me. Only for her to come and show me how the thread was right there, in front of me, I shouldn't have even opened the box. Finally, I feel bitter like a mathematician working for years on an impossible problem, on the verge of making a breakthrough, but someone else already finds the answer--- an answer so simple that it hurts. And so I read every beautiful line, knowing it could have been mine. I tell myself: The Universe of language is rich with beautiful lines, the more that are taken, the more arise. The Space in the marginalia is infinite, and whether it takes seconds or eons, I will have my time --- to craft a line; simple and beautiful. But until then, I must burn, green with envy, I will toss and turn. Even though I am glad that Zadie Smith came up with it, and yet I can't stop lamenting the loss of another good line. I know I will never commit the biggest literary sin, called plagiarism. But I have mastered the Original Sin of coveting the word forbidden.

Virgo, Prose Poems for Tara 


Like the Ascent of the Sun (once there was just the salted sea and you and yes me) 


the northern morns’ mourn like death of life, a silent lamentation if possible. crisp and unwavering darkness and Saturn rules the universe. but, once there was the southern seas, salted of course, and the breezes, a chorus of angels, kissed us and protected us and gave us secret gnosis and mystical insights hardly imagined. and the idea of the tides receded like the tides themselves and we appeared on northern shores again, - oh no! but between the winter lands and the summer lands there was something else, a sign and signal, that waited in your eyes, or rather in a quiet subtle sparkle of light there. this is what to concentrate on, maybe it is your soul. like the right holy scripture, like green chakra, like the special found rain-washed river stone, like the ascent of the sun. 


sky and earth

the long sky, wide also, infinite in fact, and down here opaque for the mist and fog. mysterious. grey. a dream. the silhouettes of certain birds seen out of the corner of the eye, quick, fast, darting, agile, gnostic, full of strength and wisdom. then gone back into the firmament beyond the tree line, the hidden worlds. and the earth. what of it? rain makes long snake-like shapes in the precious and precarious snow. everything melting. fields. loams. tree farms. wooden fences. beige. brown. sometimes stones water washed, hundreds. fallen trees for old summer and winter storms. strange mushrooms watch the worlds out there. step and step. the structure of peculiar shrubs or wildflowers that froze in mid-growth as if waiting for something. the talk of the little streams loquacious. ravine. woodland. do you remember spring, summer, or fall, like old dreams? curving path take me and us under the evergreens that wait and are still, quiet, non-boastful and meditative. verdant. chaparral in the sudden winter wind. 


terra Tara terrene, doncha know the earth is a virgo queen (of the long roads and the sun, or tractors and loams on the edge of the world)


the last of small towns in figurative and literal sunsets. the winter dusk waiting in some line of dusks to have its descent upon vast, vast, impossibly vast lands. also, to a discerning eye, a notification sign affixed to a pole or stick denoting the future conversion of the vast lands to business, residential, or other designations. but first the king winter moment of seconds and years,- roads like causeways and the old barns sometimes peaking up,- hill, flatland, on concrete forms. pastel blue. garden variety red. muted green and also grey. river, lake, estuary. many towns have the same street names. old church. little store. eatery. bus station. outskirts are factory, train tracks, old buildings for lease or sale but some just abandoned,- concrete ghosts and some paper or drape dances in the cold wind alone outside a single pane broken window. way back the tree line, evergreens, birches, other. the ancient sun still strong, slightly warming. feed corn fields. aren’t the dwellers of houses alone, lonesome, melancholic, ruefully ruled by Saturn even on an otherwise sunny Saturday? maybe. maybe not. blackbird. owl. hawk. water flows and other water is frozen. frozen and flow. flow and frozen. I watch the clouds. I look for a sign or marker perhaps metaphysical. I don’t know why. everything crisp and still and clean. the rains and snow have attached to millions of branches and stayed. a sudden gust and a sudden guest. the spirit of some thing that stretches beyond the length of the road, and that lives longer and stronger than the sun itself, and is larger than philosophy religion and all art forms, is watching.


the turquoise telegraph, or of watching the water whimsical


the island was immediately friendly and light, the inhabitants welcoming and joyful. an open aired bus traversed the market framed roads for a while and made for its destination the white sand coastline that married constantly a sea that was first turquoise and then further out, dark hued blue. 


how agile the small fish that swam through there like bits of colourful dream remnants and how atmospheric the myriad clouds that still allowed enough sun to gather upon the small gentle waves and the fine grain sand. sometimes birds could be heard chatting distantly about something and this conversation mingled w/three men softly sounding tin drums, pan drums. 


verdant palm leaves and indigenous shrubs, relaxed people and the noonday ease. the turtles are in the ocean and vessels roam,- motor boats, cruise ships, sailboats, yachts, and the world then is for long moments like a painting pastel and uplifting, meditative and contemplative. watch the turquoise water ripple just a little. can you see it? do you sense it’s mystery that has opened somewhat for you to read? and can the sea be read, discerned, known, like some story or poem, or like a kind letter home? 


the woman, the dreamer, the world 


one time I had a dream and I was beside you walking and you were smiling and at ease. we passed all the people and the people never knew anyone such as you. I do think there was a sea, and the wind in front and trees behind somehow sang songs of magic and visions and prayers. the palm leaves spoke w/the moon. you seemed happy and strong in spirit. slowly in the dream there was some problem and the world became gray and not multi-coloured. and the dream ceased. yet…but…still…nevertheless…one time I had a dream and we didn’t need literature or art or anything because we walked happily. we were our own music. for a moment anyhow. 


You Are the Sun 


there was the super flower blood moon and the nocturnal rains like bad dreams. but you are the sun. there was the world, oh my god and word, how miserable and low, petty and shallow. but you are the sun. there was the witching hour and grey dawn, w/the angel absent and the psychic discord of mean souls in the air. but you are the sun. there was the world frozen, the hopeful and inspiring wildflower of the pastoral field gone long ago, as if it never existed, and I told whoever I could about it’s beauty but nobody believed me at all. but you are the sun. there was dismay, discord, even death and no re-birth, just a thousand bad memories. yet you are the sun. there was the long lonesome sky even the birds gone far away, trading winter’s dark for summer day, and the wind vexatious, the towns unwelcoming and acrimonious, the cities saturnine and sinister. but you are the sun. all the major and minor arcana disappeared save for the Tower card. it painted itself upon the world everywhere. I went to the loam and stream, the sea and lake, the earthy valley and ridge and even to where fires tried to burn brightly. but there was nothing really, truth be known, and I could hardly see the earth. it was as if even day was night. because you are sun. because you are the light. 

I Walk a Wooded Path After Hearing of a Poet's Death

 

"What is divinity if it can come

Only in silent shadows and in dreams?"

 

-- Wallace Stevens, "Sunday Morning"

 

 

Who sought most to puzzle out through words

what he couldn't yet know

 

Who taught poetry in a big city, wrote poetry

only about things outside it

 

Georgia's lyrical Jim Fowler who wrote of many creatures

that crawl the earth

 

So I walk at twilight with the scampering raccoons

hoping to see a possum

 

Gently lift away a palmetto frond to which a spider

has woven its web

 

Press a pinecone's bracts letting an angry witch

of pain pierce my thumb

 

Think poet's laurels, crown of thorns, find a yeoman's

polytheism in the night-sound of crickets

 

See the purled fabrics of Spanish moss as figures

of life's many shadows

 

Seek the large turkey vulture feather I've eyed

on the ground by the trail for days

 

Touch my forehead, think of the remembered legacies

of many great poets

 

Socrates said philosophers should not fear the unknown

of death

 

I imagine one poet's joyful yawp -- the stars offering up

their secrets -- who groused over its mystery

  

(In memory of David Bottoms, 1949-2023)


Steven Croft lives on a barrier island off the coast of Georgia. His latest chapbook is At Home with the Dreamlike Earth (The Poetry Box, December 2023).  David Bottoms was Poet Laureate of the State of Georgia from 2000 to 2012.

the higher-order thinking behind her smile




they agree to fast forward through the death scene




the salty air surrounds the living saint




the surface tension of the tear on old Joe's cheek




the sacramental washing of her breakfast bowl




abject individualism killed the sunflower




She said She was the cat's mother!




you changed a poem I never wrote




texting in a room filled with people who are not there




I was the F student who stayed up all night with the stars




she wants to know why I won't follow the directions on the box




his every word a choking hazard




only if the dolphins knew how good they looked on television




learning he was a bedwetting pyromaniac changed nothing




she got no argument when she said: This is purgatory!

In My Dreams

In my dreams I welcome you, but sunrise breaks the spell. 
The reality of life is too much for my mind to endure.  
Only in sleep, when my soul is quiet, can you move freely inside of me without waking the demons... 
We can laugh, birds can sing, and flowers can bloom as you cool my soul. 
For when you walk softly in my dreams, you bring peace to my inner being as you tame the beast that lurks within my depths...  Relieve me of its merciless screams in my chest... 
Just make sure you close the door to my heart when you leave before dawn. 
My eyes are not yet used to the beauty of your sun. 



UNCONDITIONAL ARMS OF  LOVE
               (A Love Letter)

My Dearest One,

If there was ever a time that I broke your heart
or made you suffer, Please forgive me.
Because you always showed me  unconditional love.
There have been many who have pledged their love for me,
but never the way you have.
Even if the beautiful Lotus bloomed for me or mirrors
were intimidated by me, there are conditions with those types of love.
They fade and shatter in comparison by
the way you look at me and love me.
When the world starts to leave me, I have no doubt that you will be right there with open arms
that will always accept me, comfort me, and hold me tightly.
Yes, there are no if, and, or buts when it comes to your love.
Your love has always been unconditional when it comes to me.
And I thank God above that He gave me your unconditional arms of love to hold me... always.  

Love Always, 
Kristy...



THE HEART NEEDS NO PEN AND PAPER

You are there and I am here
We write to each other everyday
It's second nature now to pick up my pen
but today no new words come to me
I know my heartbeat leads to you 
And no doubt that yours beats for me too
Sometimes we need not even speak at all
For what is in the heart needs no lines 
It beats without effort as does our love
But you're still in my every thought
And when I wake, I know you are still mine
If I get no letter from you today, I do not fret
For a letter can't take the place of what is in your heart
And what is in your heart needs no pen or paper
I can always feel your love, regardless... And I smile.  
 

Bio from Kristy Raines:

A Poet, Writer, and Author, born in Oakland California, in The United States of America. 

Kristy has six books getting ready to publish. One anthology with a prominent Poet from India,  which will launch in December 2023 called, "I Cross my Heart from East to West", two fantasy books of her own called, "Rings, Things and Butterfly Wings" and "Princess and The Lion", an anthology of poems in English," Walking Without You”, one in French, "Little Rose Poetry", and one in Arabic called," Jasmine and Roses".   She is taking a course in Arabic to write this book.  And one surprise coming very soon with a prominent poet from Saudi Arabia, to be announced.  Kristy  has received many literary awards for her unique style of writing.

young lost men
 

demons

 

lost angels left

to dangle in the

wind

 

they find homes

in the brains of

young lost men

 

a simple host that

provides everything

a demon needs

 

until a woman

comes along

 

some maturing

happens

 

and then all hell

breaks loose

 

the rebellion resembles

a prison riot of sorts

 

and from experience

 

soften and give in
-----------------------------------------------------------------
be one with your desire
 

a passing rain

shower

 

your beauty as

easy as the pain

 

dance naked in

the shadows

 

regret, the last

thought that enters

the brain

 

don't try

 

just live

 

be one with

your desire

 

close your eyes

and let forever

grasp your will

to live

 

no one knows

the future

 

even the gods

you talk to every

night before bed

 

just don't pick

the shortest straw
-----------------------------------------------------------
tennis
 

do any of your dreams come true

 

does that beautiful woman ever say hello

 

do those legs go on for miles and miles

 

does the moon howl at anything

 

do the flowers still grow this late in the year

 

does she ever kiss you goodnight

 

do the ghosts visit you as well

 

does this music mean i'm going to hell

 

do you understand what pain really is

 

does the drugs even touch your soul

 

do you know when the game is tonight

 

does your favorite team ever win

 

do you ever gamble on cricket

 

does this poem make any fucking sense

 

do you even care

 

does it matter

 

do you know the answer

 

does anyone
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
still feels like fucking summer
 

here come the ghosts, slutty

nurses, witches, ghouls, goblins,

awkward superheroes and red

wagons full of candy

 

when i was a kid, it was always

cold on halloween

 

now, it still feels like fucking

summer

 

just my luck

 

i'm old, diabetic, and none of

those "cool" costumes will fit

 

all that candy would probably

kill me anyway

 

there are certainly days

where i'm willing to take

the chance
------------------------------------------------------------------------
a lost soul that looks like
 

i see

a young

woman

in glasses

looking

over at

me

 

i've been

told that

my flirting

is going to

get me

arrested

one day

 

don't let

these intense,

murderous eyes

fool you

 

i'm just a lost

soul that looks

like a creep

 

a child that

was never

loved enough

 

a poet, a hopeless

romantic that wants

to believe

 

in a world that

constantly says

no

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know where the bodies are buried. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at The Rye Whiskey Review, Disturb the Universe Magazine, Carcinogenic Poetry, Lothlorien Poetry Journal and Horror Sleaze Trash. You can find him on most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

now

i adjusted my attitude
in a quick thought this morning  
as i’m one for immediate changes
slowing down new directions
is a waste of time usually 
when enthusiasm is exploding in now     

i’ve been thinking lately
about how quickly time departs us
another year is now nearing its end
and with the speed that it’s travelling
paired with a major new issue 
my life could pass by fast as well

i sit outside under a kind sprawling tree
and chat with a magpie now my friend
we share our dreams with the sky
as the wind blows out tunes 
while a parrot watches closely 
with interest 
    
in a house nearby i hear people fighting
screaming loud is now not what i need
traffic speeds past me
hip hop music beats blast
a kid dances   
and people gather and clap  

a skinny guy at a café
who i’m getting to know  
says things aren’t too good for him now
i show concern for his angst
so he asks me to sit down
and shows me photos of his cheating lover

a musician and i chat outside of the cafe
and have coffees i buy now’s my shout
we laugh at stories we make up
share some secrets we’ve kept
the skinny guy joins our table 
and cries 
 

Stephen House has won many awards and nominations as a poet, playwright, and actor. He’s had 20 plays produced with many published by Australian Plays Transform. He’s received several international literature residencies from The Australia Council for the Arts, and an Asialink India literature residency. He’s had two chapbooks published by ICOE Press Australia: ‘real and unreal’ poetry and ‘The Ajoona Guest House’ monologue. His next book drops soon. He performs his acclaimed monologues widely. Stephen’s play, ‘Johnny Chico’ ran in Spain for 4 years.