Tuesday, November 13, 2018

Permission

"Permission" by Pete Cox


You'll need my permission
Before you make that incision
Show me your permit?
Is it in date?
If permitted to climb aboard this ship
Would you sail and sink with it?
Would your eyes cry lucidity
as we skinny dip off the plank?
Could you deal with the big reveal
When the treasure is revealed
as an internal feel?
Will you cry mutiny
because scrutiny fed on impurity
just before this bountiful beauty?
All because curious toes
perked up their nose
In the slipstream
Whilst the fair winds rose
and their perfume froze desires echoes
So all aboard this weathered adventure
Permits are a rouse
Taunting is a muse
After all
Who asks for permission
In the face of the colour of freedom

***

Hello, I'm Pete Cox, I have been writing for 5 years and performing spoken word for 2. I am from Slough, England where i host an open mic night called “The Innerverse”. I write based on experiences, annoyances and anything and everything. I love writing and sharing it. I find freedom in it. I found even more once pushed to perform. I am writing a poem a day for a year. I had worried what i would do with my mind, thoughts and pain poetry has been the key to freedom. I love the many different styles from each poet i hear. I believe everyone has poetry in them, it just gets lost in what people believe poetry should be. I have a YouTube channel and am in the process of creating a website. You can find me here on the social media links until then.

Sunday, November 11, 2018

A Christmas Truce

"This is my tribute to all the brave women and men who risked
And gave their lives in the 1914-1918 War so we could live free" - William T. Fearby

"A Christmas truce" by William T. Fearby

The lonesome wind blows through the land breathing new life
The wintry chills cuts through the bones and stings like a knife
The guns are blazing, the frosty dew hangs in the crisp air
As the war rages the winter magic is showing everywhere
The world is at peace the killing has stopped
The full trenches of soldiers, their weapons have dropped
It was the twenty fourth of December nineteen fourteen
The like of this humane act the world has never before seen
A lone soldier puts down his gun, out of the trench he stood
And started singing a Christmas carol in a lonely wood
The fighting stopped the bullets fell silent this eve
And a chorus of peace like you would never believe
Rang out in the cold and restored peace to the world
Soldiers in conflict their new friendships unfurled
Exchanging gifts to one and another on this silent night
Christmas magic had replaced the need to fight
All ranks came together to celebrate the birth of our lord
They lay down all their weapons, guns bayonets and swords
They all came together in the middle of no man's land
Hugging each other and shaking each other's hands
Nobody felt anger on that night they felt only peace and love
They all looked up to the heavens and thanked the Lord up above
For just one night they forgot about the horrors of war
They sat round in groups laughing and drinking on the sodden floor
That night they slept soundly all nations sleeping side by side
The silence fell over the forested land and was heard far and wide
And as the sun rose in the glorious blue sky, they started to rise
With a contented look on their faces and heavy sleep in their eyes
All thoughts of war and killing couldn't have been further away
As they enjoyed each other's company on this Christmas day
They made a ball out of a tunic and started a kick about
All afternoon with delight they were heard to cheer and shout
That evening they settled down in no man's land to celebrate together
Totally oblivious of any war and the freezing cold weather
They hugged each other all night laughing and talking
But when midnight came, back to the trenches they went walking
With tears of regret in their eyes, they turned back to wave to each other
Knowing that most of them will never go home to their loving mother
They will never see their families again and watch them blossom and grow
And that they will end up in an unmarked grave covered in blood and snow
The first bullet was fired just after midnight after that Christmas day
Followed by a barrage of innocent lives cruelly taken away
They lay in the trenches wounded and dying, their poor lives at an end
All they can think of is that last Christmas spent with their allied friend


***


I am 67 years old married for 47 years I have 3 grown up children I left school at 15 with no qualifications I have worked for the last 30 years in my own business I owned a pet shop a garden centre and a woodwork shop so I never had time for writing I had a serious illness 5 years ago so I closed my business's down on New Year’s day 2013 that is when I started to write I write short stories and poetry I wanted to leave my mark on the world that is why I picked up the pen I write for charities to raise awareness.

Incarnates

"Incarnates" by Godfrey Holy

The stench of impaled innocence.
Of love roasting in silk grenades.
Ants into antellopes fleeing from
Your mound hill.
Yet in their frozen pride you still loiter.
Footprints of guilt leading back to your
Madness.
And the anger keeps unfurling like
Foreskin, eager to reveal your smelly
Head.
From your ashes rises a phoenix or
A phallus?
Feverishly shaking the magic 8- ball
As they moan a manic oddball.
Clearing the fog fidgeting for a way
Away from your slaughterhouse.
Dimming the limelight on the word Nazis
In exile.
Behold your backyard leaks of rhymes
Dead and forsaken.
Blood pooling at your feet from all
The talent you massacred.
And the masquerade party carries on.
Phantoms and leeches in drag,
Double deepers who once lurked
In your cesspool.
Glimpse the haste as your betrothed
armed with straws takes aim.
Ready to suck your saculent spill.
Thirsty for your dregs
As they bemoan your tyranny.

***

Holy Godfrey is an aspiring poet born in Thika Kenya. His work has been published in several anthologies. His poem "Rivulets" is also featured in Ayo Gutierrez's book "Yearnings" He currently resides in Boston Massachusetts with his wife and three children.

Tuesday, November 6, 2018

Cutting Teeth

"Cutting Teeth" by Syreeta Muir

*Originally published in Fearless Femme

Her mother met the guy when she was nine. All smiles.
She was relieved to see her mum so happy,
Laughter push the bitter from her eyes.
So at the party when he'd talked to her awhile,
Then lifted her to music,
A stray finger where it shouldn't be.
She didn't scream
Out loud.

Three years on,
The now familiar drive
Past tilled earth and oilseed rape,
Crows that congregate above the tender shoots.
Tarpaulins and telegraph poles
provide escape
Through the orange of her eyelids.
Sweet, humid breezes up neck napes.

Sky wide and benevolent,
She so small beneath.
Her daydreams
Pulled up short as the car slid up their street to the house.
His sour breath and "You two. In."
Whiskey or brandy
How would she know?
But home was the end of revery,
Just the place she cut her teeth.

And life was strangely bland
Egg whites with everything,
Despite the nightly taint.
Even the bitter greens held no nutrition,
Yet she ate it all without complaint.
Docile as a cow turns into beef, all eyes,
But now an anger kindled in her heart as she
Demurely sipped the poison from her plate.

Life became segmented, sorted into quarters.
She took to wandering graveyards, smoking cigarettes.
She couldn't cut her hair,
but she could tell in other ways.
Imagined seeing her words
Etched on the tombstones:
Of all the things you could have said, you said nothing,
And that was somehow worse,
Than all the wrong words you could say.

As she grew her hips
She came to feel the yoke
She realised that if she used her eyes, her ears, her mind,
She could learn to cook.
Prepare her own meals.
Consume them, discern them
And if it looked to make her choke
Dismiss them with a knowing look.
Rapt pupil to a master chef
Turn every lesson into yolk.

16th birthday, decision made.
Plastic bag with everything that mattered, gripped in hand.
As she stepped out,
Heavy sunlight pressed her brow like a Buddha finger.
Released the umbra from the corners of her eyes.
Finally, she claimed the morning,
took it with her to the station.

Syreeta Muir writes poetry, short, and flash fiction with a focus on folklore, nature and trauma. Read her poetry in TL;DR Press, her flash piece 'The Go-between' at horrortree.com and her poem 'Cutting Teeth' in Fearless Femme throughout November. Find her on Twitter as @hungryghostpoet.

Sunday, November 4, 2018

Empty Pocket

"Empty Pocket" by Rachele Chappell

A forgotten hero reaches to the bottom of an empty pocket,
as he peeks out the window of a cardboard box.
He woke from dreams to find his suffered reality.  
The stare from his eyes read like an obituary. 
His smile looks like tombstones that read, "Please feed me".
His skin is leathered from the sun and his wrinkles hold dust like ancient artifacts. 
He shuffles his aching body to the corner street, begging for change to survive.
Feelings of worthlessness have frayed his pride to match his clothes.

He sits with open hand relying on the kindness of strangers to stay alive.
People hurry by avoiding eye contact, afraid his smile will break their guard.
Occasionally the ringing of a coin hitting his cup would wake him from his moment of despair.
Youth like his family were long gone and hard times swallowed the kingdom he built. 
Memories from forgotten times keep him warm, as the cold-hearted offer only icy stares.
His stomach echoed loudly like the ticking of time in his hopelessness. 
For soon the sun would set on today's opportunity to collect offerings from the kind.
He gazes in appreciation at the coins shining from his cup,
imagining a warm plate of food that had already been served in his mind.
With his broken gun-like arms, he lifts his weakened body from the grime of the sidewalk, his heart now lightened by his reward. 
Every morsel would be savored as if it were his last.
Today kindness fulfilled a homeless man’s needs,
and for a couple of coins is all that was asked.

***


Rachele Chappell goes by the pen name S. R. Chappell. She was born in the early seventies and graced with southern charm.  She became a lover of poetry at a very early age.  Her influences started with Dr. Seuss and Shel Silverstein.  They laid the ground for her flair for poetic rhyming. She also enjoys writing free verse poetry too.  Occasionally she steps outside her box dabbling in learning other forms of poetry such as ballads or sonnets. Her first poem ever published called “Mothers Love” was written at age nine.  Most of her poems are written about love or heartbreak.  She is a true romantic at heart. She has used her poetry as an outlet for her emotions on darker subjects like anxiety, addiction, and molestation. Rachele also has written humanitarian efforts for peace, hunger, and equality.  She’s received many certificates honoring her as a poet.  Her work has been included in several anthologies. Her first self-written book “Inked Heart Poetry” was released May 2018.

Misty Morning Rain

"Misty Morning Rain" by Jim Cunningham


I love the feel of misty morning rain,
Especially when life makes me feel down.
The reason why is still hard to explain,
I close my eyes to listen to the sound.
The pitter-patter on the window glass,
Becoming soothing making me relax,
Beyond the moment as time flows on past,
I manage to put life back on the tracks.
But it is sort of sad when it all ends,
Then the reality comes crashing in,
I felt the darkness starting to descend,
Such overwhelming stress held deep within.
For now, I close my eyes and drift away,
The soothing sound makes for a special day.

***

Jim lives in the State of Ohio, USA. With his wife and family, plus 4 dogs and menagerie of other animals. He has written Poetry for most of his life. Covers everything from Faith, to Fantasies and Dreams Even a few Nightmares to stir the pot. Enjoys writing Gothic Horror Tales, they let his imagination go to extremes. He has also written Short Stories.



Friday, October 26, 2018

The Affect

"The Affect" by Josh Jones

Feeling the finger of child abuse,
is a touch you don’t forget.
Imbued from events far in your past
and in thoughts to happen yet.
Windows to your soul are veiled
beyond curtains pulled fastly tight.
Sometimes we peek through, just to see
a world functioning right.
We marvel at the rapid pace,
that others conduct their lives.
While we pull shut the curtains again,
and consider guns and knives.
The real effect of child abuse
is not what happened then.
It’s the life that’s led in the aftermath
Living it over and over again.


Josh Jones is an American writer exploring the human condition. His novels focus on the social dynamics of homelessness, mental illness, and people overcoming societal obstacles. He manages IntrovertPress.com.