Time and Sticks

By Aakriti Kuntal
Time and Sticks
My legs elongate
into uncertainty,
their uneven shapes masquerading
a rather even formlessness
Prickly clouds hang
with shaven heads
and Clot
the artery, the pace,
the rhythm of this slovenly existence
I tap the round edges of my calves
and meet the rising color of age,
a darkened maple hue,
accumulation of multiple days
cemented boundaries of blurring worm cells
fountains of tension and pain
Occasionally I think
I could bury myself in space,
Swallow vacuum like food and create a gaping hole,
a minute, a day, a lifetime
Anything that spells ‘ Okay ‘
Occasionally I think
I could burn onto the side table
and nothing will take notice
not the cold sheen of blue curtains
not the clocking lights in my room
That nobody will take notice
And suddenly I will be sliced into two,
two equally nonexistent dimensions of time and space

image courtesy of Aakriti Kuntal

Aakriti Kuntal is a 25-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.

Umbral Nimbus – Max Meuiner

black-and-white-sacred-heart

Umbral Nimbus- Max Meuiner

the preference
is to not partake

thus, do parts
persist with aching

much akin to skin
forsaken

and inference
of its open ends

through foregone hope
denied amend

that only cloaks
a wartime pretense

in pensive pantomime
suspending

flush with fiery flashes

spurring tear-soaked
soft surrender

as those failed attempts
by hailed December misanthropes

whose fragile mark we missed

when tenuous hearts tempestuous
had stumbled
just to kiss
an ushered shadow’s curse

stark as stillness

set to filaments
of nimbic aureolae

these scarecrows
sowing ceaseless storms

bestowed upon us

bested by our time-worn stoic brand
of listless christening

forsworn
for sake
of Christ

or what we think
we know

or know
to think

our thoughts unflinching
tethered tight
to sinking vessels

versed in would-be servile vaunting
self-availed
and self-avowed

cowering as our symphonies wail
like ailing scripture
subsisting
on some Sylphium-shaped shield’s frail sense
of fleeting
contrivance of an inbound safety

only flames suffice
resolved to e’er resound
the halls
of filigreed-framed lore
scrawled by human-flawed philosophers

and profane paleontologists

since plaintive

whose pallor paints
the will
of their walled reception

void as emptiness
reflected

found in the white-hot conflagration

following ephemeral suns

Max states: “I write about the things going on in my life. I am a feminist, humanist, cat loving musician bound by whimsy and the incessant analysis of hyper-vigilant observations. I am obsessed with words and rhythmically woven wordplay.” We are honored to have him as a member of our tribe. He writes at Max Meunier Dissocative Void.

Chicken Dinner – Nicole Lyons

We crossed that bridge
the second you came upon it,
beach blankets soaked
and the lovers’ notes
carved a generation before us
had seemed entirely too heavy
until that night when I sat down
to undercooked chicken and overcooked rice
served with an unconditional side of love.
And I remember feeling sorry for the chicken
at that moment in all of my wise teenage years,
and having an epiphany right there
at the dinner table next to an alcoholic
control freak who called me stepdaughter
and walked upon me to seal it
like the gummy flap of an envelope
stuffed with unloved letters,
and a mother who wore exhaustion
hidden inside her navy pumps.
Death, no matter how it is served
will always precede dinner
unless breakfast beats it to lunch.
And I thought myself wise beyond my years
in that moment, still warm
from the glow of your summer love
and giddy because you and the chicken
filled the pit in my stomach
that always seemed to pound
when he cleared his throat.
And when I heard him gag
behind the ball of his fist and blame it
on the weather and too big a gulp,
I almost didn’t wish he would choke
on chicken or the spite hidden beneath it.

Nicole Lyons is a writer/editor for Sudden Denouement and the creator of The Lithium Chronicles.

Guest Blog: Soshinie Singh – Scream

th (1)

There is a scream lodged

At the base of my throat

Looming like phlegm

Being rattled by an inner earthquake

That I feel it bubbling up and with it

An entourage of emotions vibrate

Threatening to spill

But yet, I swallow it down in fear

Of what this scream might do,

Should I actually let it out

To tramp on my body’s strength.


 

[ Soshinie Singh is a West Indian young lady currently residing in the United States of America. Though she suffered heartbreak, she deviates from writing strictly about love and hurt. But she utilizes the lessons she has learnt effectively through her writing. She has a drive to turn anything into an inspiration which many can feast on and boost their morale. There is no fixed time nor place that she writes. Most of the time, the words just come to her and keeping playing on her mind until she can get them down- whether it be on her phone, her iPad or the old fashion way of pen and paper.]

Blogsoshiniesingh.wordpress.com

Instagram: @soshiniesingh.author

Facebook: Soshinie A. Singh

Book: The Phoenix Letters: Letters to My Younger Self.

Glass and Thorns – Christine Ray

hysteria (1)
Betrayal is an inside job
wrecked by muscle and
joints
neurons and
neurotransmitters
mitochondrial mutiny
lays waste
to formerly silver tongue
now struggling to find words
that used to flow like
ink through fountain pen
fatigue hangs round neck
chain woven of boulders, glass shards &
thorns
muscle spasms contort me
into balloon animal shapes
so alien, so grotesque
that they frighten the village children
like the pick axe
I plant above right eye
in hopes of blessed relief
don’t mind the blood
it’s barely an inconvenience
during insomnic ruminations
about long dormant-mutations
coded in DNA turned
time bombs
that ripped through my life
casualty count still being assessed
by medics in white coats
who write cryptic words
on shiny clipboards
while I bleed


 

[Christine Ray writes for Brave and Reckless and is a member of Sudden Denouement.  She is also curator at Blood Into Ink and barista at Go Dog Go Cafe.  She is an aspiring badass.]

‘for e. d.’ Lois Linkens

 

the city glitters after dark,
busy busy night-owls
shuffle and scuffle
in their white-glass nests.
and we watch,
tired eyes and heavy bags
on a faraway train

we are sexless soulmates
and brotherly brides,
platonic partners pledged
in the ink of mutual need
and searching hearts

sisters in arms,
rosy-cheeks and high-school charms;
my curly-haired comic

heads full of homework,
a makeshift skyline
of yet-to-be
paints itself across the dark,
as young love
rings it’s soon-forgotten bell

confused youth;
a cloud-grey gosling
peeks its ugly head
through the bulrushes
to see the swans;

we are cast-away boats
in stormy seas,
just looking for a place to land.


[ 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.]