Henna Johansdotter “Nebula”

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In my world
the woman is deathless
stellar gazes
delayed by
a thousand light years
don’t forget
to feed your god
swallow your testimony
and
zip up your confidence
tuck in these words
safely underneath Adam’s rib:
no you’re not
in love with me anymore,
but I still am
and when the light
of this destruction
reaches you
we may have been dead
for a millennium

[Please follow Henna on Twitter @HjdPoetry. Her poetry can also be found at HjdPoetry.]

Henna Johansdotter, the goth girl next-door. Aspiring author. Monstrophile. Horror enthusiast. She writes to cope with mental illness and everyday experiences.

Guest Writer: Occultosophia “Self-Scorn and Loathing”

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[Photo: Maud Gonne]

‘Rise, rise’ they shouted – ‘In the worldly affairs,
least you wish to perish in the abyss, dragon-braved one’
My meanings forged out of iron, died one after another
Smashed mine enemies one by one
My purpose coined with great intent, died one after another
Dug my enemies trenches under my walls
My dreams and visions belittled the envious scourge
Cuth the roses my enemies and mixed it with dung
My life a torturous wheel, holding guard of a diseased mind
Every day for a new illness, of mind, heart and soul
Now that I emerged from wars and battles of years’ countless toils
A spit on the pathetic without pity, desiring none
Both the enemies and windmills mock me, they disappeared.
As I withdrew with scorn from the life-disease
No one is to believe how I passed the citadels of hells
Armed enemies shattered my pride and dragon-spine
Princes of hell and corpse-juices of witches poisoned me
Black Brotherhoods brought terror and contaminated
What was the remnant of a cadaver’s love
If belief would be of any worth to me,
I would say: ‘Believe it or not, my epitaph is not for thee’
A dead man gazing with a triumphant smile.
A kill that hunted for years now after it has won
Simply wants to forget and hang, a rope, a tree
And a whisper: ‘May Gods take me back, I hated all
may this life be-gone!’
‘May those yelling ‘rise’ be cursed, along with
vermin obstructing the call’
What a jesterly demeanour: To promote and to destroy
A mortal shelled coil that without fire and scales
Is half-way a crippled ape with a pretense of a Deity

Yet until this life lasts

With wrath, scorn and loathing, disarmed vampyric corpse and a weakling’s mind (good enough for Tyrants, but not for me!) I need to find my inner tranquility.

Bio
Website

Introducing New SD Writer: Abigail J. Brown “Ancient Tales”

Waterhouse, John William, 1849-1917; A Mermaid

[Artwork: John William Waterhouse]

Ancient Tales

Alluring red hair,

Said to be stained

With the blood of 10’000 men.

My bare breast

Drenched in pearls and shells.

Glistening, clean skin

Only to temp them more.

The curves of their wives on land,

And the tail of a goddess.

Scales blinding

In the warm golden sun.

A song is sung as they sail near,

To calm the waves

And draw them here.

To catch me

Before I pull them in

Would only mean immortality.

As they come closer,

With one touch of my pruned fingers,

On their soft cheeks.

They attempt to steal a kiss,

Sinking my nails deep.

Pulling them over

Temptress of the sea.

[Abigail Brown is a lover of creative ways of to express the “self.” She seeks to find ways to tell a story and eliciting feeling through her work. She is a a mother by day and a poet by night. She is a member of the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective.]

Guest Writer: Chrissie Morris Brady “Cliches”

anna may wong 1932 - by otto dyer

anna may wong 1932 – by otto dyer. Scanned by Frederic. Reworked by Nick & jane for Dr. Macro’s High Quality Movie Scans website: http://www.doctormacro.com. Enjoy!

Cliches

They Say What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Stronger

Isn’t gaining character a process?

A cancer diagnosis will flaw you

Your daughter who doesn’t visit breaks your heart

Having an authority break the law against you

makes you vulnerable

Ears that won’t hear you defeat you

Impunity can torture you to death

Despots ignore human rights

Your voice ignored breaks your spirit

Hope deferred makes the heart sick

Pining for love will break your heart

A confidence betrayed destroys trust

Rejection wounds the soul

No boundaries make you insecure

Solitary confinement can make you insane

Terrifying experiences give you flashbacks

No affection makes you anybody’s

Rape will twist you inside and haunt you

To grow stronger we need time and space

Being listened to and accepted

Sometimes many of these things come to one person

Inside they want to die, give up the ghost

They seem strong from the outside

But you cannot judge a book by it’s cover

Chrissie Morris Brady
Chrissie is much traveled and has lived and worked in several countries. She gained her degrees in psychology at USC and worked with recovering addicts in the LA area for four years. She now lives on the South Coast of England where she writes, having worked in more therapeutic roles. Chrissie has been published by Ariel Chart, Bournemouth Borough Council, Plum Tree Books, Mad Swirl, Anti Heroin Chic, Dead Snakes, and other publishers of poetry. Her articles appear in Novel Masters, Democracy Now! and other newspapers.

Guest Writer: Lea Lumi’ere “How many fingers are lost in bravery”

IMG_20190627_210342_075.jpg
How many fingers are lost in bravery
(in memorial of Lori Gilbert Kaye killed in the Poway Synagogue Shooting)

After the sermon, people navigated south
of the cherry oak synagogue, California sun
Blistering through the sky windows,
the rabbi sang the verse in a tempo
of an old trumpet in the back of a jazz club,
rusty, but on cue, full or air and emotion

one woman carried her prayer book to the hallway,
she was asking when it would be time for the
mourner’s prayers, said on the holiday,
“In five minutes,” she was answered

a blaze of fire shot out through the building,
the rabbi holds up his hands, blocking
the instigator, carrying the brunt of the bullet,
Losing fingers, then ushering out the children
while people run, run, run
To the south side of the synagogue,
Out the glass doors of the cherry oak building

the gun jams, the shooter is held down by a congregant,
then flees.
maybe the shooter was wearing a blue shirt,
the supposed color of peace, maybe he was all of 18,
barely having lived a quarter of a century—
enough about the shooter!
enough about the hate—

I see a brave rabbi, a man of guts and faith,
his shirt was white, the color of fresh sand
on a California coast, His eyes were blue,
open and embracing,
his fingers that remain—
they are red,
like the sound of life in a miracle.

Lea Lumi’ere is a visual artist and writer from New Jersey. She is the author of “Olive Rain” poetry collection. Her work has been published in Unvael Journal, and various other journals. You can find more of her poetry on Instagram @lealumiere.

Her book Olive Rain Collection is available through Amazon.