Thursday, April 18, 2019

Patrick Daniel Read

Untitled - by Patrick Daniel Read

When you're dancing too close to the flame
When you get burned
There is no one but you to blame.
Singed clothes discarded
Out with the rubble
Like so many more
Your soul so weary
Ridden with regret
Oh, my friend
The best times
You will have ever met
Someday you will dump
The sorrow
The regret
Some day you will shed your old suit
Come out looking shiny and new
What you do from resurrection
Is up to you
Tell your fears
Your worries
And get moving along
No matter the battles you have been through
This is a new day
To set your soul upright
Just go with the wind
And you will be outright
There is no turning back
You've made it this far
Only you know the real you
Don't let mistakes of the past
Hold you down
For it will be a new version
Of you will find
Shed your old skin
It is time too get yourself in gear
Trust in yourself
Cast your worries aside
For a new version of you has been found
You got this
I believe in you
Let your inner warrior break on through.


Wednesday, April 17, 2019

They Came for My Friend


He was a Nazarene
Unearthly serene
He taught to me to care
when all I could do was
in bottomless pits of self-induced
He cared about outcasts,
beggars, and thieves.
He cared about skeptics who refused
to believe.
He cared not for power, recognition, nor wealth.
He taught me to find the divine in myself.
He cared for the sick and he healed the physician.
He was an innocent man who fell under suspicion.
For the priests in high places called him a threat.
Beholding to tyrants, his blood they would let.
If he lived here and now, he would run with the punks.
He would listen to Danzig and hang with the drunks.
He would hang with the addicts and the poor single mothers.
Outcasts like us were his sisters and brothers.
He would help the Samaritans crossing the border.
He would question the government and challenge the order
without raising an army or even a fist,
simply by showing us how to resist,
resist all the rage and the hate and the pain,
so we could get back to the Garden, again.


Lee Todd Lacks seeks to blur the distinctions between rants, chants, anecdotes, and anthems.  His experience of living with significant vision and hearing deficits often informs his writing and artwork, which have appeared in The Monarch Review, The Quarterday Review, Crack The Spine Anthology, Vine Leaves Literary Journal, Bop Dead City, Liquid Imagination, and elsewhere.  In May of 2017, Lee Todd presented selections of his poetry at Stanford University’s Center for Computer Research in Music and Acoustics (CCRMA) in collaboration with a group of multimedia artists from the United States and Romania.  In August of 2018, HellBound Books Publishing released his second book, entitled Nothing Between Friends.

Monday, April 1, 2019

History in the Telling


The years of my life
are poems, dead fish, brown water.
They're hideous births,
wharves cut up caesarian style
to give me abandoned warehouses
and unused rail-track.
They stand on bridges
where wind whips bitter through their bones.
They're poems, traffic, carbon monoxide.
They're broken handrails
where the man fell
into the swirling sump of a river below.
They're refrigerated rooms
where the meat hangs,
cow rump, pig head, lamb of God.
They're poems, dried blood, cold carcasses.
The years of my life
are books on World War II
open at the concentration camp photo,
nameless bodies in a ditch.
They're poems, escape plans, the shakes.
They stand out in the middle of the expressway
anxious to be hit
but the cars zip right by, missing by inches.
They're the rickety garage
where they fix rickety cars,
heads under the hood, hearts in the brake lining.
They're poems, grease, tired pistons.
The years of my life
go to sleep with strangers,
roll up in newspapers,
press the doorbells of family,
eat in soup kitchens for free.
They walk to the edge of cliffs,
measure the sweetness of the dive
against the terror of impact,
then step back into the world.

They're poems, they get over, they get done.


BIO: John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Midwest Quarterly, Poetry East and North Dakota Quarterly with work upcoming in South Florida Poetry Journal, Hawaii Review and Roanoke Review. 

Castles in the Air

"Castles in the Air" by Lena Power

Staring out this dirty window
Looking at an azure blue sky
Birds sing their song of freedom
As lazy clouds go drifting by.
I can see a castle I once built
Of dreams and make believe
Now crumbled into fleeting ashes
Nothing was ever as it seemed.
Long lost hopes leave me empty
Desire a trick my mind plays
All I feel is hollowness
Untouched by love's lost rays.
Day after dreary day I sit
Watching the changing seasons
I have no wish to re-engage
For I have run out of reasons.

So sing a song of love gone wrong
Of those that will never be
You know, I would have died for you
But you never lived for me.


BIO: Poetry is my passion!  I started writing as early as ten, but did not formally pursue.  Recently retired I continue to use ink as a creative outlet.  Prior to retiring I was a certified personal trainer & coach as well as facilitator.  I write daily and my works are available on several social media websites, blogs & groups.

Marius van Wyk

"Untitled" by Marius van Wyk 

For but a moment
of lucidity
shall we allow
our worldly
to take rest..
The wonder of
the soul
islanded within
the depths
of emotion
be our
Scorn not
that strange
looking creature
that dances
on tiptoes
and dreams
of faeries
and far away
For if memory
serves us well
that was us
but a childhood


BIO: I am 50 years of age.Live in Port Elizabeth,South Africa..Am an Artisan,Tradesman..started writing poetry about 30 years ago.After a silence of almost 10 years started writing recently again..the love for poetry will always be alive in me.

Daily missive for Thursday the 7th of March

“Daily missive for Thursday the 7th of March” by Peter Forster

What does living do
But confuse
The wisdom of children
When answers
Are as simple
As the questions asked
Everybody needs to 
Feel love
To know the truth
So many people
Forget how easily
It can be found
When the blinds are drawn
On the world
What keeps you in
Will keep love out
Hiding from the darkness
Is a double bind
As the feeling
Of safety 
Is bound in a belief that
We are free
To choose
When the truth
Of love
Is only found 
In the pain 
We can withstand
In the loss of 
Freedom’s gain.

Hello all and welcome to my world.

Although now semi-retired and since the death of my beloved wife Kay, living between Melbourne and England, for close to twenty-five years I practiced as a consulting Counselling Psychologist in a busy East London community health setting.

Some years ago, just after my son’s death in 2009 I began to feel the itch to write creatively. Although previously published in academic works and having provided chapters in books for counsellors’ psychologists and psychotherapists I had always nurtured a love of creative writing. Over the years I had attended writer’s workshops, written and performed poetry as well as provided lyrics for jobbing musicians. However, I had long harboured the ambition to write full-length fiction. And this I did, publishing my first novel in 2012 ‘Mr Charalambus and the One Soul’. I went on to publish two more books in the series and a book of poetry, with a front cover illustrated by my dear wife.

Although I have continued to write daily and have written a memoir of the months following my wife’s diagnosis, to her death in 2016, I have not felt ready to throw myself into the murky world of publishing. However, the plain in simple truth is that I enjoy writing. I always have.

It still feels as if the flow of hungry words is never ending and I  will be swept up and carried along on an impossible stream of the unconscious process. But like everybody else I have a life. To some, it may seem narrowly defined. Focused as it is on grieving the loss of my best friend and soulmate, caring for my family, writing and playing the drums but to others without the opportunity to learn, make relationships build a  future and have the freedom to choose it may seem like it is a world of riches. Whilst on most days it really can feel like that to me, on other occasions it can be an effort to maintain enthusiasm: In other words, my life is not that much different from many and better than most. I have known tragedy and delight and struggle to account for what might be its unequal measure. But I live, love and am loved so in truth I have to say I am blessed. I hope the same can be said of you.

Peter Forster