Sharp- A Weyward Sisters Collaboration

I am playing with knives
again
sharpening them
lovingly
against brown leather strap
admiring the way
hair splits cleanly
upon the well-honed edge
(Christine E. Ray)

Listen!
Sounds like a violin–
fine strings ‘gainst steel bow
I play concerto
splitting hairs
(Kindra M. Austin)

I’m trimming those frayed ends
sharpening those
pointy convictions
giving them a sharp edge
a serrated opinion,
ready to pierce you
where it hurts you more
(Megha Sood)

Cold steel on skin,
I blossom,
stare down the line
take aim
at friend, foe and fortune
with my throwing knives;
multiply and divide,
split and survive.
(Kristiana Reed)

I like a razor
but xyraphi sings to me
of shreds, edges, ends
sweeter than any cutlery.
An x is an eraser,
that’s why I draw it long
to keep it clean and short
and shave me complication.
Oh, how I love a razor!
(Basilike Pappa)

There was a shadow crowd
And a circle of light. Sawdust stank
Beneath my feet like dirty salt hair
And the thud
Against the board
Came like the footsteps of God.
Ribbons of air and time and space
Gathered round my ankles,
Coils of blue light.
Looping and curling and purring,
They crooned my power,
Sharp to draw blood from stone.
(Lois E. Linkens)

the slice was white lightening
lacerating flesh from bone
in the moment of searing truth.
I slash and gnash
my teeth barbed and keen
well-oiled from the feast
of my rotting soul.
I chop at the edges
of yesterday’s sorrow
but the pain! I feel it not
only the blinding sting
of my wayward might
(Aurora Phoenix)

All the time in the world
Pressing down
Sharp as the obsidian
Black night
You relinquished me
To oblivion
Surviving on
Insidious pain
Of yesterday
Tapered to the edge
Of no tomorrow
(1Wise-Woman)

I aim at dreams
knife them
as trophies on my wall.
I can always
take one down
quench the thirst
of a turbulent wound
with
tainted endearment
from the poisoned well
We dug and drained
under the wing of
One night.
I’m in love
with a stabbed dream.
(Iulia Halatz)

The blade cut into the night and flashed silver against the moonlight. And even though my ears heard no sounds but the thundering of my heart, I swore I could hear the sharp metal singing it’s high-pitched tune as it sliced through the air. It slipped through my skin like it was warm butter and at first I felt nothing. I wondered if maybe it was shock or disbelief. But then the pain started. Like someone injected gasoline into my bloodstream and lit a match. I watched as the thick, red liquid poured out of the fresh wound and begged for death. And as he stood over me, he licked my blood from his dagger and smiled down at me in a show of blood-stained teeth — right before everything went black.

When I awoke from the nightmare, I reminded myself that I was alive and the true face behind my fears liked it when I called him Daddy. The only comfort I found was knowing that death came for him first. Too bad he didn’t take the memories with him.
(Sarah Doughty)

Between You and I-Nicholas Gagnier and Kristiana Reed

Started this poem in transit between my home and manic states. Continued it somewhere between drunk sleep and barely awake. Dedicated to my darlings killed for cheap Friday night thrills, kissing in the backseat of a Chevrolet, I write this poem between being broken and telling myself it will be okay.

I write this when I’m swatting every memory of you away, stuck listening to words which wish to stay. And breathe on the pages of relationships I hope won’t sink. The fledgling fragments take flight in the bath; when I’m naked with half a glass, full and empty. This is how I write best, chasing the sun set in tepid water, foolishly believing every good thing lasts.

I wrote this poem between flowers and their glass vase, shattered on the floor like my million shards of shame. I wrote this for my loves, only for the sentiment behind it to fade, as they became ghosts in the static, FM radio waves.

And maybe this poem will see the light of day, pulled from the confines of my ebony heart. It only looks this way because I like to sit in the dark, and hide from the blue it has beaten for you. I write and I’m pulling apart the crumpled edges of loneliness while driving in my car; straddling the curb to spill the lifeblood of another three ghosts I’ve allowed to stay with me for the hour.

I write this poem from a perturbed place, between deafening silence and awkward bass. Thrill of the chase with tears down my face, facetious and simultaneously lacking faith. I write this clusterfuck in wait of something better, despite knowing nothing could be more remote.

You see, I wrote this between you and I. So even if they love me and I learn how to fly, I’ll never let go of tucking a daisy behind your ear and watching the earth disappear in your eyes.


Nicholas Gagnier is a Canadian writer and poet, and the creator of  Free Verse Revolution. He has published several poetry books, as well as a novella releasing this July. Nicholas supports and engages in conversations around mental health and social welfare, preferring strong literary voices and self-expression to traditional narrative and poetry. He lives in Ottawa with his young daughter, where he runs FVR Publishing and works on a million projects at once.

Kristiana Reed day dreams, people watches in coffee shops, teaches English and writes. She is a curator on Blood into Ink, a collective member of The Whisper and the Roar and blogs at My Screaming Twenties. She is 24 and is enjoying the journey which is finding her voice.

Excerpt from I Am A World Of Uncertainties Disguised As A Girl: Designer Drugs-Nicole Lyons/The Lithium Chronicles

I knew the dealer
and we chuckled a few times,
he being street and me
being neater than the rest.
I knew them once too;
back when their mamas
fucked all the daddies
and I was too much
like my mother.
I knew them, the slink
and the oils of them
spread out for the gang
banging the doors
down after the nanny
cashed her cheque
and flew home to Mexico.
He took that ten-cent
off the dollar blow
and he cut it
with bleach that burned
the high class right
out of society,
and he funnelled it too;
into dollar store bags,
variety store bags, stamped
with pink lips and diamonds,
and he cranked that shit
up 499% and we laughed
and laughed and said a toast
to those designer bitches
as we slammed
drinks on their dimes
while they bled
from the eyes
in the center of the VIP
we were too street to enter.
We lived large
in the basement
and they paid
to push in the hallways,
and now I write poetry,
and they still hit
the best of the west,
sucking and chucking
the bucks for free.

I Am A World Of Uncertainties Disguised As A Girl is available at Amazon.com, Amazon Canada, Amazon Europe, Book Depository, and other major book retailers.

Paperback, 140 pages/Published November 9th 2017 by Sudden Denouement Publishing


Nicole Lyons is a force of nature disguised as a writer, a social activist, a voice for the downtrodden, and a powerful poet with a delicate touch. She is a best selling published author, poet, and also a consulting editor for Sudden Denouement. You can read more of her writing at The Lithium Chronicles

pendulous plumes- Max Meunier

solitude sleeps
at a slow summer’s wallow

in madness
I muster

to miss you

will lost,

summoned chimes

in the clasp
of our past imposition

we splayed

into static imposters

what life is
in laughter

when farewells are left

and release
rends
but loose-leaded contrivance

returned
us to dust

swept

and rebelled

as the sun swore its vestigeof vengeance

the west burned

to weakness
before we could leave

sable clouds came
to wrest

and I
in this clement

caressed none


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 Or Not

Sudden Denouement Publishing Proudly Announces the Release of Rachel Finch’s A Sparrow Stirs its Wings

 

front cover

Sudden Denouement Publishing proudly announces the release of Rachel Finch’s stunning book of poetry, A Sparrow Stirs its Wings. Finch is the powerhouse behind the Bruised But Not Broken community on Facebook, which provides support and healing for trauma survivors. She is a symbol of hope and light throughout the world.
“Every now and then, when the world seems to be rocked in chaos and people are screaming without listening – vile words and cries for help climbing on top of and over each other – a single voice stands out, and that voice is pure in its truth and stunning in its wisdom.

Rachel Finch, and her debut book, A Sparrow Stirs its Wings, is that voice right now. Turning her heartbreaking abuse into heart-wrenching prose, Finch writes her truth and gives her strength to every unnamed victim turned survivor.”   Nicole Lyons, I Am A World Of Uncertainties Disguised As A Girl

“A mark of a great poet Is the ability to make emotional connection with their audience, and Rachel Finch does exactly that.” Faye Brown, Black Orchid Poetry

Now Available on Amazon.com

Rachel

Rachel is a UK based writer that originally started using poetry as a way to accurately express herself after a number of traumatic experiences in her young life. She is the founder of the online community Bruised But Not Broken which was started with the purpose to raise awareness of abuse and trauma and to provide a place of comfort and support throughout the healing process. She firmly believes that it was with the support of this community that she was able to recover from sexual abuse. Rachel is mother to four young children and dedicates her time to her family and to guiding others on their own healing journey.

You can find Rachel on Facebook and WordPress at Bruised But Not Broken. She is also a Regular Contributor at Blood Into Ink.

Untitled-Aakriti Kuntal

Drop by drop, blood almost kills itself. Emerges again, both suicidal and invigorated. It searches for the wall, the boundary, the line. The curve of the jaw of life, the part where the teeth settle into a semblance of quietness, of poise and the part where the tongue roams, pure flesh, pure desire, pure urges, pure suffering. Blood becomes foreign to itself, its many parts just hanging, limp, lipid, senseless and insane. Blood screams in the valley of the undiscovered, the unknown, the submerged. How can one possibly express that which cannot be ascertained, that which palpitates in the tongue and the throat and the vein and the leg, that which sings and pukes, that which is both nauseated and devoted, that which never dies but also never lives, that which rises forth along the centre of a blade of grass, that which exclaims absolute joy but also that which only knows how to scream and scream it does until it isn’t life and death duelling, but death and life against death and life.