Like a Storm – Sarah Doughty

 

“And I wanted to believe in fate —

I wanted to believe in us.”

 

You said there was no such thing as beginnings and endings. Nothing came into existence or disappeared like a puff of smoke. Matter changed shape, becoming something new — never beginning, never ending. Always changing and evolving. Like ice to water. Water into vapor. Vapor into rain. You said the same thing about us. You and I didn’t become we. Somehow, we always were. I thought it was romantic. That you could think fate brought us together.

And I wanted to believe in fate — I wanted to believe in us. I did. But then everything changed. Just like you said. How could we have been destined — as if we were always one — if we could be pulled apart so soon? Was it some cosmic lesson we both needed to learn? Or was it just you? Playing me for a fool. We were like a storm, you and I. Blowing in from the sea and ravaging the coastline before fizzling out into nothing. It may still be an evolution of change, but if that’s not a beginning and ending, then I don’t know what is.

 

[Sarah Doughty is the tingling wonder-voice behind Heartstring Eulogies. She’s also the author of The Silence Between Moonbeams, her poetry chapbook, and the acclaimed novels and novellas of the Earthen Witch Universe. Good news, they’re all offered for free, right here! To learn more about how awesome Sarah is, check out her website, stalk her on Goodreads, or both.]

Support Nicole Lyons/SD Publishing with CBC Poetry Books List

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Canadian Broadcasting Corporation is celebrating Poetry Month by creating “the ultimate list of must-read Canadian poetry books.” Everyone take a moment and share their support of Nicole Lyon’s I Am A World of Uncertainties Disguised As A Girl, published by Sudden Denouement Publishing.  Nicole is a tireless warrior who has inspired people all over the world with the quiet economy of words that often turns into a roar, devouring the human condition while articulating the beautify and sadness that lingers in the shadows. Her book is a masterwork. It belongs on any list involving “best of” Canadian poetry. The purpose of the collective is to promote each other. Please take a minute and support Nicole.

CBC Ultimate list of must-read Canadian poetry books

 

 

Guest Blog: Roadside Rabbits–Emmy New

aaa
From Roswell to Albuquerque
I counted 53 roadside rabbits
in one hour.

They stared at the moon
from the outside of the highway
craning their necks towards the sky.

Light lit their dust
as they inched away from the cars
but their eyes did not leave the night.
Hunching behind cacti they counted constellations
like lamps torn away from the sun.

They did not suffer the street fright
from headlights
nor hear the road kill requiems
lulling colonies to comfort
in crossing over.

In Baytown, Texas
there’s a dirt devilin’
at the state line
an oozing layer
of burnt up turpentine.

Thick mist
from an oil town night light,
a flicker of a refinery candle,
spilled into the sky

There are dead animals in Houston
that are not the black spot mirages
we see in the distance
but crushed bone of something once been.

They could not be seen
past the fog
no lamps into the tires
nor streetlight unto their paths
carcasses blow away like tumbleweed
into ash.

[Emmy New, also known as EmmaLee Newman, is a 21 year-old Dog Mom with a Chicken Nugget dependency. She hopes to become a Poetry Professor with starving artist as her fall back. She is the President of Dirty Bay Poetry, a pending 501c3 non-profit, in her hometown Baytown, Texas.]
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Vagabond – Mitch Green

With an omen in an
open dress, I am stranded
south of home with her
grey weight now purple;
flushed elusive.

You can see it,
in the whites of her eyes.
The propaganda bowl,
colorless and vain;
a vagabond carved out
of frame.

Cursing curses
with reading wrists,
she is now the
maker of noise.

Aloud and allowed.

 

{Mitch Green founded Rad Press Publishing in September of 2016. He is an avid artist in visual design and literature. Published in various literary journals and magazines: The Literary Yard. The Penmen Review. Vimfire Magazine – Mitch aims to seize the narrow line between all artistic mediums.

A few of his known poetic titles are: “Flesh Phoenix” “Monsters” “The Wolves Howled”.

Offering his hand in graphic direction – his book design portfolio can be found here.

Follow Mitch and Rad Press Publishing on Instagram.}

This is the End

the end

We want to reach out.
But baby
here, now, this is the end.
We know, we know ‘ the end ’. We’ve lived inside it.
Slept. Slept. Inhaled.
Creatures of absence.
Your eye is an alien being.
It alone sings. A rotating rim.
Continuously revolving in the hemisphere’s strange music.
I look down. My feet are shadows.
As are my thighs. My body. My bones.
All flesh is a memory.
I see its desperation in the starched sky.
I am the remainder. The remainder of distortion. Climate of mishaps.
I say this is the end.
Your fingers tackle my defeated hair. You wish for sound.
You almost demand it.
But I only meet you in clever silence. The loudest kind. The ugliest kind.
I meet you in suffering.
You wish for me to speak.
Tell you that I love you.
But I only dissolve. I dissolve like all matter does.
In inconspicuous battles. I’m almost fluid. I almost do not exist.
My face is streaming into yours.
My hands clasp yours and forge starfishes.
We are satin blue.
I hold you close to my mouth and kiss your bright skin.
Your mouth melts off
and your voice floats like snow flakes in my chest.
‘ This is the end. ‘
It says ‘ this is the end ‘.

 

Aakriti Kuntal is a 24-year-old emerging poetess from the country of veritable colors and stratified rainbows, India. A Network Engineer by profession she has been writing for over a year now. She enjoys nature, music, all things geeky and all things art.

Aakriti writes for the Writings of Aakriti Kuntal, and her work has been published in 1947 Literary Journal, Duane’s PoeTree blog, Visual Verse and Indian Periodical among others.

i checked myself

i checked

i have checked myself and seen that i am nothing; 
the bones of poets gone and done 
lay beneath the hills. 
i put on my boots and took my shovel, 
for to disturb them 
would be a lesser crime than to ignore.

i checked myself 
and saw that i was nothing; 
i looked for art 
and saw it slither into bank accounts in dead of night, 
while the dewy brows of poverty’s poets 
tremble in their plight. 

i checked myself
and let myself stand up.
stand up, i said –
stand up, writers! 
stand up for complexity, confusion and colour. 
take your pennies and forget the pied pipers, 
they have led naught but rats.

i saw the riches over realness, 
splendour over solidarity… 
i cried upon my pillow. 
my people, my people!
when the muses so return, tell them why you wrote!

we not one of us free falls –
i checked myself…
something always had me.

 

[ Lois describes herself as a “confused english student,” though one quickly finds a polished, charming poet in her work. She has an elegant style that compliments her keen insight and whimsical sensibilities. It is a pleasure to present her work, and you can find more of it at Lois E. Linkins.]

Subjective – Matt Eayre

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‘Subjective’

These words have no meaning.

A metaphor, perhaps,

an impending ice age covering the landscape while I run from the freeze.

A turn of phrase, it could be, I never wanted anything to stop my destruction, and she jumped on the grenade to save me.

A rhyme, to mark the time, the wind brings me a smile,

Thinking of you drinking in that happy place about a mile

Away from my hands, you can stand on your own and

Find a new home while I wither alone and drink my lonely tears,

I’m stuck in my fear and will be for years…

These words have no meaning, when they sit on your screen, on your printed page you read them and translate into images of your own experience

My life is my own and when I write I feel a release of captured agony,

Does it reach you?

This man is getting old, trying to find a way to keep being

I’ve found a medication that works

Strange eyes see my heart and pass judgement,

this is poetry,

this is not

this is good enough,

this is crap

you’re a good writer,

you’re a poet

you’re an imposter

and you know you don’t belong

These words have no meaning

Here I sit, a survivor of countless attempts on my life

(by my own hand)

Here I sit, a remnant of innocence twisted and stolen,

I stand, the thing that grew when a brand-new tree was broken.

These words have a meaning.

I have lived this life and I have tried to find a meaning, I have fought against all of the noise in my head, all of the hate in the world which buries my people.

I have tried to lift hearts from cages and teach birds to walk,

So their wings won’t fail them.

These words have meaning.

If you will just see
I cannot yet fly
I have only a wish to know the clouds.

If you will read these words and know my love, we may both find the wind.

I have died and come back to life
to be here
to give you this moment

I write for only one reason.

I am these words.

I have meaning.

Matt Eayre