All Last Summer by Taylor Graham

He dreamed of rafting
out of his schoolbook life,
trustful under stars that chart
the course of rivers, to a destiny
of praise. He’d dig for treasure
on an island off the map
and out of time. He’d dare
the ghost with grinning teeth
and make it say its dead secrets.
So he dreamed all summer-long
till summer ended in a fall
of river toward sea,
and Huck Finn drifted out
of childhood.


Taylor Graham, California, USA

Homecoming by Dike Okoro

Trees stalk me in sleep.
My silence is the dirge of
A river collecting shadows
Where the sun is a wanderer
And the lonely canoe
A wayfarer.


Dike Okoro

I Took Pictures by Ashok Niyogi

so it has come to this
hungry bulls with their balls cut off
cows who cry because their udders are dry
this is a perishing garbage hunt
without brasseries
automatons with nose rings
perky like my granddaughters are
towards grass flowers

they say the next avatar
will be a horse out of the east
not as east as we are
where horses carry grooms
calculate dowry
and then chew their emaciated food
until death does us part

your river has walked away
pitiably waterless
melons grow now
in those nooks and crannies
where you stole clothes
which melons are sweeter
the dust bears witness
to sweetness
vagabonds gambol with monkeys
and boats laugh

the immediate question is
do monkeys have enough to eat
or widows or the blind pilgrims
beggars from districts who thought
that monkeys are god



Ashok Niyogi, California, USA

War Coverage by Dan Shade

Each unnecessary tribe is restless, fabric stressed
Against the moments frame, until it seems
That each part but reflects the whole, compressed
Until boundaries are merged with troubled dreams
Of vague borders amid the random air.


Where the new graves bloom, words flower in empty
Concession to each camera, aware
Of the distance between record and play.
Between distant land and voyeur's womb
Waves alone transmit identity, until
From each harvest an image may distil
The odour of words, the sound of the tomb.




Dan Shade

Vintage by Amir Elzeni

We never quite know
what accumulates
within us,

it
sort of collects,
images , stories
read, heard, experiences, childhood
memories, family, friends,
the everyday survival,

we never quite know
what accumulates
within us,

strangers that mattered
in a glance, death knocking
on doors all around us, we
go on, we make it
through hell's days to get
to Love's gardens, a cold
beer and a friend,

we never quite know
what accumulates within us,

but we sure feel it
at the oddest of
times,

heavy, dark, lonely,
resilience wounded
yet still dancing
to a far away song,

the oak barrels
of life

as we age,
beautifully rare,
complex,
distinct,

poetic.


Amir Elzeni, USA

From Tunes from An Innocent with Experience by Fiona Dunn

The shuffle of the shopping bag,
The bewilderment of a companion snatched away too soon,
The can of soup and the packet of Rich Teas -
The sense of someone missing from your side,
The key opens a silent tomb of memories
No flowers in the wedding present vase,
No heat from the stew bubbling in the oven,
No chatter - no sound.
Sitting on the chair, looking out of the window,
A child whizzes by on a skate-board,
A harassed mum yanks a tired toddler up the hill,
Junk mail lands on the mat.
Time has ceased,
Life has stopped so he closes his eyes…


Fiona Dunn, Kent, England

Thirty-two by Kate Burrows

I stay up too late for someone who keeps aging
against my wishes:
the aging-
not the staying up late; I want to catch the gloaming
the nightfall and rosy 4am
calls to rise.

The young can catch the early dawn
a shared secret between them and
the beetles scurrying across dewy
grass and fat worms;
not nightcrawlers, but those of the early rising type-
the ones who are afraid of robins
and sharp beaks.

I stay up too late for someone who is afraid of the
dark
and the trembling jelly creature who lives
under my bed-
the one who touched my heel
when I was young and of the early rising type.

That scream settled it
no more late nights for me zombies
and, fantastically, handsome sailors
lived under my bed, waiting to drag
me into the undertow
but now it's just one lone sock and a stowaway dream.


Kate Burrows, New Jersey, USA

The Angel's Garden by Christine Bruness

The Angels' Garden~
Cement cherubs,
Full winged ceramic
Celestial ladies,
And heavenly
Resin figurines,
Thoughtfully arranged
Next to white roses,
Lilac bushes,
Lush gardenias,
With lavender,
And chamomile herbs,
Gracing the summer air
With a scent
As close to heaven
As a mortal can reach . . .
Her fragrant haven
An intoxicating delight
Where butterflies
Look like fairies
And Mourning Doves
And Song Sparrows
Enchant us with songs
In this sacred place
Of peaceful grace.


Christine Bruness, New Jersey, USA