Now!

I should have seen this coming
years ago during the age of hippies
and UFOs and toxic wars.

I step now with sand in my shoes,
squinting up into a sullen sky.
Birds disappearing into the clouds.

The bone-dry desert
seemingly endless as if a dream.

Age has taken in some ways much,
but it has given an eternity quest
much more than I ever thought.

The moon a signal
of an upward way to escape,
a staircase to the the bowing of stars.

Hurry now!
The evil ones have much power,
but less than they think.

Keep your composure in your belief.
The deserts here are more
than we see.

Birds now landing in the clouds,
waiting for us to take a deep breath
and fly.

Stephen Jarrell Williams loves to write and paint and can be found on Twitter @papapoet.

Our Generation

Each generation includes a melody
For the few to safeguard accounts.
Moreover, medallions fade from the
Looks that impede a note from nary a
Shield of allocators. Over currencies,
Seasons use space in consideration of
 
Actual facts, so that specimens record
Dictates for general execution. Senses
Are diminished by advocates who
Vet once-taken and unmixed suspense
Moored to memory. Facility shifts from
These times and these points, and once
 
More affords silence to the counsel
Concurring with one punter in promo.
After all, the coequal force is devised
From estimation, and happens to
Require a foreign body to conclude
That motives translate to a public wish.

Steve Armstrong is a graduate of UC Santa Barbara and lives in San Francisco.

In For A Penny, In For A Pound…Of Flesh

She turns herself off like a lamp
when alone, shrinks in stature,
and becomes nervous
and uncomfortable…
‘They’ always keep her waiting,
whilst watching from the Bar
opposite… until she goes to leave.
He sharpened the very same knife
right down to a stump
… patience gives you stitches.
She was carrying a paperback
of ‘Pride and Prejudice’
when turning up her toffee-nose
at a homeless beggar in the City
… I was sitting on the grass
directly opposite with a Medium
who declared with a chuckle
“He’ll find pockets of happiness
… her path leads only to Futility.”
I chose ‘Balance’ over ‘Rest’
… it keeps the mind’s edge razor,
‘Equilibrium’ hand-in-hand
with ‘Determination’ and ‘Force’,
Self-Empowerment comes in Tiers.

Paul Tristram is a widely published Welsh writer who deals in the Lowlife, Outsider, and Outlaw genres.  He wrote his first poem as a teenager following his release from the (Infamous) Borstal ‘HMP Portland’, and he has been creating Literary Terrorism ever since. 

The Testament 

I hadn’t felt the keys move
Under my fingers
For so many years.

I had originally rejected 
Your request although
I’m not sure I was so clear

It’s difficult for me to
Communicate now
So I politely twitched my face

I can’t describe how 
Vital it was for me to hear
Those keys move underneath 
The pressure

But I knew the expression would
Collapse upon my face eventually
And I would make the best smile I could

You invited and I accepted 
I knew I had a chance
And only this one 
To feel young again

So I played
And I played well
And I couldn’t tell you
How much it meant to me. 

 

Jack Milton is a poet based in Sheffield, England, and has been writing poetry
for a number of years. He has recently began submitting his work to underground publications,
and is also a regular performer on the local Sheffield poetry circuit.

The Ghost of Maggie Thatcher Exits Stage Right 

Being the frontwoman of Iron Butterfly for so long
has taken its toll.  Elvis may have left the building, but the Iron Lady
has left the country, this world altogether.
Take a bow, Lady Brighton.  The flightless seagull armies are squawking for you.
And the roadies begin to take things down.
The ghost of Maggie Thatcher exits stage right.
Ain’t no Lady-Gaga-On-Pita. Once you get away from all
the Ritz and glamour.  And why do barbers always have the worst hair?
Something about being shearer over sheep,
more bully than wooly.  Ain’t no sham in that, surely!
And I know what you’re thinking, 7 clairvoyants on the payroll
and I still can’t dress for the weather.
I’ve seen that look on your face before.
The sagging laugh-less rot of condemned buildings.
Its dinner guest asbestos and tilted gravy boats
in the stairwell.  Ignore those many signs of danger.
Ignore the clappers and the trappers.
Their garbage means nothing.
It is a landfill built upon a landfill.
Riding lessons for Superman, all aboard the Eastern Express!
Did you know the Man of Steel was allergic to horsies?
Refusals are hard to take.
And the woman in my hopeless brown Barcalounger
begins to growl – I start asking about flea collars and intruders,
arsenic-hungry Napoleon inside Mother Russia,
shopping for trusty Babushkas on the sly.
And the climate is changing into something more comfortable,
did you know that?
After 10, 000 years of glacial inactivity.
May have something to do with that lying ass Pinocchio
with the fifty-foot dong.
Doing doughnuts in front of glazed windows.
I see that any sense of humour
has left you, how long have you been single?

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many mounds of snow.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Fixator Press, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.