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

Broken- 1 Wise-Woman

Clouds smother hopeful horizon

I hear the thunder

See the lightening

Made of metal

Struck too many times

Fractured and cracked wide open

Can’t hold it together

All that’s left is

Constant rumbling in my chest

Spreading out

Stealing gravity

Reverse vacuum

Lifetime spent scrambling to

Pick up the pieces

I’m a tin can

A sham

Jagged and sharp

Cheap

Incomplete

Nothing in the right place

Can’t make sense of

Any of this

Bereft

Stumbling round

Blind and deaf

Shock me outta this state

Restart my heart

 

 

[1Wise-Woman: “I am living, fighting, and thriving with mental illness and chronic disease and a need to express myself. Writing eases some of the weight I carry.” When she isn’t yanking shadowy strands of leathery clumps of unconscious, and tenderly placing them into word documents, she is creating at A Lion Sleeps in the Heart of the Brave.]

This is how I Think of you now- Georgia Park

The funeral procession that blocks my line of traffic
on a sunday morning is easy to dismiss
until i start thinking,
maybe it’s you they’re carrying

 
I live right by an Irish funeral home
I see people dressed in black
coming out of it on occasion
and I look to see
if they’re your friends
I look for any spark
of recognition

 
How long has it been
i wonder
since you were dead to me
i do the math
that part is easy

 
but then i get to wondering
how happy or sad
it would make me
and the line of traffic
might as well be on a weekday
for how much it disrupts me


Georgia Park is the creator of Private Bad Thoughts, curator of Whisper and the Roar a feminist literary collective, and a writer for Sudden Denouement. She is a wonderful poet with an enormous heart. We can’t imagine this journey without her. Please check out more of her wonderful work.

 

Widow’s Rock- Allie Nelson

The waters are like a widow’s hair, black and lustrous

with lost foam of tears salted to rime, the ocean weeps

for her husband sky, now blackened with the rot of

night, for it is only when his sun is a coin in the sky

that mourning waters light with warmth, each day

the seas cry for sky’s death, and hang the moon up

as a gravestone resplendent for his yellow eye.


Allie is a rather bubbly blonde that currently attends grad school for science communication, has a rather useless degree in biology, and works in the environmental field. She can usually be found hugging trees, eating green curry with tofu, or exploring the wilds of D.C.. Allie is an avid poet, aspiring author, meme queen, speculative fiction enthusiast, and alien centaur aficionado. She also has about 600 lipsticks.

You can find her at Dances With Tricksters

The Heart of Winter- Christine Ray

My heart

a block of sculptured ice

buried deep behind

steel ribs

hung with icicles

offering dagger sharp protection

An arctic palace

of empty chambers

where glacial winds

flash freeze unwanted feelings

blow them deep into dungeons

blood is crystallized

in frozen nitrogen veins

heartbeat slowed

like a wound down pocket watch

My dreams haunted nightly

by my dead

again and again

they appear

bright cheeked

vibrant

unaware. . .

or perhaps unconcerned. . .

by their fates

They murmur

that I am the ghost here

rendered translucent

thin

insubstantial

from years of suppressed grief

They whisper in my ear

to remove the splinter

from my eye

that blinds me

to myself

these truths

it is time

they say

to examine the shape

the sharpness

of my grief. . .

that spring thaw

is long, long overdue


Christine Ray writes for Brave and Reckless and is a writer and managing editor for Sudden Denouement, Whisper and the Roar, Blood Into Ink and the Go Dog Go Cafe.  She is an aspiring badass.

Lilacs on Leaving – Nicole Lyons

 

 

I look for you,

still. Reaching

through sound waves,

blaring, to pluck you

from nothing

back into existence.

I wait for you,

still. Walking

blurry lines of almost

there and crossing too

far gone.

I smell you,

still. Scraping

lilacs down metal

along shortcuts
to easy.

Prying life

out of the jaws

of a crash,

you used

to call home.

 

We hope you enjoyed this classic piece of writing from the Sudden Denouement archive.


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

She is the author of Hush and I Am A World Of Uncertainties Disguised As A Girl

The forest fell from the sky – Jonathan O’Farrell

(Melo – phoenix days)

My foot strides again, over even regular municipal cobbles.
Oh that we had time for civic pride, dear Melo.

Catching up my mind’s eye,
breath-taking,
aghast, imagination fails
and;

The non accommodating cafe chairs now suffice;
for although reclining cats
by the ‘Castelo’ passage
still pose,
the grid and a currency of electrons became useless that night
of the furnace wind.
Not that they needed mobile telecoms the felines, just Bombeiros.
The cats needed mobility, too close to the fire, fur!

It strikes me hard, the light, the dark
and many shades convergent.
Not so subliminal, charcoal.
You can have it back now, your town
‘any colour,
so long as it’s black’,
or, ashen grey at a pinch!
Torches, hairbrushes, a table, art, tool handles, wind up radios, pencils.
All, or most, Incendiary food,
need I say more?

Another cuddle with a scruffy friend some consolation,
as we navigate now primeval carbonised slopes.
Ruefully I survey a spot with forested mountainsides,
between night barking dogs
and intimacy.
Charred, jet black giesta stubs adorn the place,
where I might have called it forest home.
That arson night the accelerant intoxicated forest,
rained incandescent offerings,
on the innocent in their nightclothes.
The firestorm proclaimed, ‘Trajectory Lottery’;
have a tidy roof over your head? – Not any more!

And still we my gentle watchers and I
are knowing of quiet celestial bodies
and fiery characters, all in time and rotation.
Good people, not perfect, but good, struggle.

The remote prospect of novel non-religious house front tiling,
seems to recede, just a little,
In the sooty face of trauma.
No space in the stable this season.
Actually, no stable.
Give me a hammer with a shaft in situ, nails.
Oh, and yes, timber, again.
Then stable.

Auto-estrada,
autopista,
autoroute,
Autobahn, this time
compass pivots north-east,
but, will swing back, again.


I guess you might describe me as a semi-nomad, at the moment . . . and in the moment, I might change. I am transitioning into a creative life, blogging, photography and, significantly, the publication of my first two photographically illustrated poetry anthologies, this year.

As rich a creative experience the current life is, exploring Portugal, France, Spain and later Ireland, by this time next year I hope to have ‘settled’ into a ‘tiny house” or similar, with sufficient land nearby. The vision, to create an abundant garden, a garden for lost souls, lost and separated loved ones, under the sun. A meeting place, with coffee, inspiring books, poetry and healing, however it may arise.

You can find more of my photography and poetry on Patreon