April 2012 | back-issues, poetry
My mind does not sway like
awkward young lovers slow dancing
at their high school prom.
My mind does not run up and down
a beach like water carried by the tide.
And my mind most certainly does not
billow like a branch in the breeze.
My mind is erratic and sporadic,
It’s fantastic and its spontaneous.
It jumps from room to room,
wall to wall like electricity
it is
electric.
My attention deficit is not a disorder,
it is a way of life.
A way of life that not all can understand
but for the few that do they can’t live any other way.
Side to side, up and down but never
billowing back and forth between
hobbies, interests, goals and direction at the speed of light
hyperfocus
hyperfocus
hyperfocus.
Everything else ceases to exist until a new
fascination catches your eye.
Some take medicine to slow the brain,
but I think this defeats it’s purpose.
Attention deficit is not a disorder no,
it is a way of life that allows for
creative explosion.
by Nicholas Anderson
April 2012 | back-issues, poetry
Under cover of night
The fiddler in blue gave the slip
to a toad of African proportions.
Toad wanted the fiddle.
The big silver whale
walked out of the water
took over the bandstand
and the angel folded his heavy
wings. In the soft light of
loving consequences the dragonflies
sat quietly on shimmer and
sparkle. Brook burbled and wouldn’t
change its tune.
Marigold floated on blackbird’s
melody, holding on to spiderwebs
during intervals. When manta ray
flew silently overhead all notes
burst with an audible sigh.
The Collector
finds them in bars,
parks, buses, the underground
or coffee shops;
he frequents downtown
pole-dance joints, picks up
blondes, brunettes or curly blacks.
Long legs, ample behinds,
he’s not choosey. All have one
thing in common: they talk.
Too much.
Somewhere in Soho they stagger
down those stairs
on dizzying heels,
click-clacking their way
into his basement. Call him
affectionately ‘Nutter’,
make themselves comfortable.
He smiles, puts his finger
to his lips and readies
the little machine. Pushes
the button and records
ten minutes of their silent breathing.
Terror
How much time is left?
In the whispers and hissings
are hidden words.
Mum and Dad disappear
after they kiss me good night.
They don’t know that I’ll soon be taken.
Something strokes me with cold feathers –
I wish I could tell.
Another ordinary story
Spring, it seemed, had changed
its mind. Like a disenchanted lover.
Pink, white, purple and tender greens
encased in winter-hardened water
topped with powdered sugar.
Fulgent in that white winter sun.
One harsh spring morning you
turned. No last glistening glory,
no last display of what
could have been.
A German-born UK national, Rose Mary Boehm now lives with her second husband in Lima, Peru. When not writing poetry she wonders who to kill in her third novel, or goes off on a travel photo shoot. Her poetry collection TANGENTS has been published in the UK, and her latest poems have been/are about to being published in US poetry reviews.
April 2012 | back-issues, poetry
Home
The fifth of November, I remember dark nights
Of frost, bitter cold, biting winds, clad in
Winter’s warm woolens with fur-booted feet.
Into pitch blackness, a wide gulp of my heaven,
The aroma so sweetly inhaled as we stride
With the moon as our constant companion.
Rockets and wheels spinning and whizzing, while
Heaped pyramid fires rise higher, great pyres
Of wood and Guys we all made, with faces
And arms and legs, so real, sat atop the tip
Stuffed with straw and old papers, last week’s news
Up in flames, and we stare as we bite
Into our blood-red toffee apples clutched tightly
In mitten-less hands, and with quivering fingers
We sip on steamy, hot, oxtail soup. Excellent!
Smoke-filled Bonfire Night with its snapping
And crackling and “Oohs” and “Aahs” that expel mists,
Floating mists, of icy cold air into night’s lighted sky.
Night’s Truth
Staring into pure night’s nothingness
I am the only attendant in this static world
Even as a weighty arm bears down clumsily
Claiming its place across my stiffened torso
In the stillness the restless wind rattles and stirs
Accompanying the hollow, soundless space
With its sporadic howls and whistles
Unnerving the shaken, flimsy window screens
And drumming rhythms on fragile panes
Into a tempo of mesmerizing melody
Immersing me in a yawning, restful slumber
While enticing the hidden, hushed, neglected
Thoughts once entombed in the brazen light
Let loose to conviction under hypnotizing darkness
And clandestine revelations are finally at liberty
To throw off the white veil of day’s deceiving hours
Sincerity surfaces exposed to torment and candor
Fabrications find no welcome in night’s shadowy murk
The wail of the wind laments sadness and sorrows
Laid bare in the dark shroud is my solemn truth.
Top Deck, Friday Nights
Seizing the cold, metal pole flanked by folding doors
That snap back fast and beckon us as he brakes
We leap up the single steep step in our high-heeled stilettos
Out of breath, giggly, and silly and showy
Dropping our loud, clanking silver in the waiting slot
And snatching tickets as they churn out the noisy, red box.
The good-looking driver throws a wink and a grin
Unlike the few straitlaced, po-faced passengers below
Teetotalers, night-shifters, glaring in unanimous annoyance
So we make a swift, mad dash up the winding, narrow staircase
Holding fast as the double-decker picks up speed
And finally falling hard on the seat in an ungainly heap.
Laughing and panting, resembling a tossed pile of laundry
Bearing floundering legs, we sit barely upright
Becoming part of the upstairs crowd, rowdy and wild
As they chant and they cheer and they hoot and they holler
And in silence at the back some exhale sailing smoky circles
Which we deeply and delightfully and dizzily inhale.
Like clockwork, the same swarm piles on Friday’s last bus
Done with dancing and drinking until dark’s early hours
So young and adrift in this English inner-city
Where up top we belong at the unruly after-party
Among drunkards and cursing and fighting and spewing
Rebellious and clueless, we make our way home.
by Carla Ingram
April 2012 | back-issues, poetry
Caleb
plastic necklaces strung pretty
dusty in his eyes
(luminosity dulled by dime-store display)
you skip around
crinkle leaf sidewalk play
you roll your eyes
green to yellow to orange
ink scratch-out paper
hiding behind your grin
what was there before?
what did you never allow?
sodden ground
thoughts & secrets threaded
dead grass tangled
thriving weeds
and I’m drowning beside you
Sarah Lucille Marchant is a Missouri resident and university student, studying literature and journalism. Her work has appeared in publications such as Straylight, A Cappella Zoo, and Line Zero.
