Tim Gardiner- Edge to Edge Haiku Sequence

Froggatt Edge

Froggatt Edge is a very popular gritstone escarpment for rock climbing situated in the Dark Peak area of the Peak District National Park in Derbyshire, England. Gritstone is hard, coarse-grained sandstone used for building materials. Froggatt Edge was a source of millstones and a number of half-completed stones can be found at the bottom of the slopes. The escarpment is the northernmost of the three main ridges in the area, Curbar and Baslow Edges being a mile or so to the south. The heather moorland, a purple haze in summer, is managed by burning.

a millstone round the climber’s neck no place to fall

from disorder the phoenix rises

the bleak tor God’s own rock



Curbar Edge

A mile or so to the south of Froggatt Edge is the equally impressive Curbar Edge which allows spectacular views across the Derwent Valley. The following haiku were mostly conceived on a ginko walk on 7th June 2014 accompanied by fellow poet Judy Kendall. A storm had just passed through and we stood on the precipice of the escarpment in mist and low cloud. The clouds then cleared opening up magnificent views. We watched as the storm clouds made a hurried retreat across the open moorland.

on the edge a stone tumbles into the abyss

gritstone heather thriving against all odds

chameleon sky a marriage of joy and despair



Baslow Edge

The escarpment of Baslow Edge is the last significant exposure of gritstone to the south of Curbar Edge from which it is separated by Curbar Gap. Baslow Edge has two impressive landmarks: the Eagle Stone (also known as the Witches’ Stone) and Wellington’s Monument. It is said in local custom that men had to climb the Eagle Stone to prove their worth before they could be eligible to marry!

a man stands atop the witches’ stone soon shackled

white dog wallowing in cotton-grass happiness again

I sit on the mossy hummock with just my thoughts



Gardom’s Edge

To the south-east of Baslow Edge is Gardom’s Edge. The escarpment has the most well-known archaeological feature in the area, this being a cup-and-ring marked stone (also known as a petroglyph) from the prehistoric era. The uniquely carved stone was discovered in the 1940s and has been buried under a replica to protect it from weathering and damage. The other significant landmark of the Edge is the seasonal sundial stone. In 2012, Daniel Brown et al. postulated that the standing stone could be a gnomon of a seasonal sundial (indicating the change of season as through the winter the north facing side is in permanent shadow) possibly from the late Neolithic and early Bronze Age period (2500–1500 BC).

a depression of cup marks prehistoric echoes

down Gardom’s Edge green ribbons pour

sundial shadow the season shifts



Birchen Edge

Nelson’s Monument can be found on Birchen Edge, an iconic gritstone column with a ball on top. It was erected in 1810 by a local businessman to honour Lord Nelson. Three nearby boulders are carved with the names of Nelson’s ships: HMS Victory, Defiance and Royal Sovereign - spelled Soverin. Birchen Edge is renowned for easy climbs for the novice, two of the most notable being Orpheus Descent and Stoker’s Wall.

Stoker’s Wall a bat dances in moonlight

Orpheus descent lover lost in a glance

three gritstone ships Nelson’s pride anchored in a dry dock

Melanie Browne- Three Poems

Cause I ain't in no hurry at all....

men with sleeve tattoos

wait in line for barbecue and beer,

we eat fried pies and feel like

outsiders,

young women with

babies on their hips

pull out fresh cigarettes,

confederate soldiers

wear grooves in their

trench, the past

and present a mosaic

in the burning Vicksburg sky

Ignatius Doesn't live here anymore

In N'awlins we buy 

vintage rock t-shirts

and voodoo dolls,

I practice poking the pins

into my dolly,

she is supposed to

give you nice dreams,

I hear snippets of conversation,

a woman sitting on some steps

is talking with her hands,

"She reached around and 

grabbed his dick like this,"

she stands up to demonstrate,

but we are rushing back to the

car, the humidity 

and the Everclear

already taking their toll,

I kiss New Orleans goodbye and

head back into the heat

a strange new energy

buzzing in my head



Savannah Ghosts get a little bit thirsty

they wander in circles under
the soft green moss,
one hand holding a drink,
the ice melts and drips
from the sides of their Venetian
glass, the other hand holds a
cigarette with blue tinged smoke,
Savannah ghosts get a little thirsty,
it's the humidity and their terrible
memories, the buildings that
light up at night like ancient
shipwrecks, the skulls of
sea-captains, the jazz
that drifts out from
the orange angry sky,
Savannah ghosts walk
in circles under the
soft green moss,
it drips from their hair on
to the soft, soft ground

Gene McCormick- Art

                                                            Combo

                                                                    

                                                    Man With A Horn I

                                                    Man With A Horn II


Gene McCormick is a writer who paints without preference for either discipline.  His art is in private and commercial collections and he has illustrated a number of books.  He is the illustrator for Misfitmagazine.net.

Ayaz Daryl Nielsen- Three Poems

Solar Beings                                                                                                

Solar beings, we circle again as 

the sun hisses ‘This is it!  Time 

doesn’t return what night winds 

sweep away, those dark winds 

never blow the same way twice - 

and, hidden!  Hidden is even the 

faintest murmurs of your inner 

magic!’  Our sun insists, ‘Sacred-

ness can always be recovered!  

Merge the known and the un-

known, the past and the future, 

into one solar presence without 

any neediness of claiming any-

thing other than chance from 

every sun-lit street corner’s 

zephyrs of celestial existence’

cascade

days of rain glide 

under our bridges

pluvial acolytes and 

disciples of rivers

an older us whom 

wonder embraces

Constant celebrants of

the boundless Mardi Gras

Thrumming our melodies

within echoes of footfalls

from each and all of us

Well, imagine that! 

Thrumming melodies

within echoes of footfalls

from each and all of us!

ayaz daryl nielsen, husband, father, veteran, x-roughneck (as on oil rigs)/hospice nurse, editor of bear creek haiku (25+ years/120+ issues), homes include Lilliput Review, Jellyfish Whispers, Writing the Whirlwind, Shamrock, and! bearcreekhaiku.blogspot.com (translates as joie de vivre)

Victor Henry- A Poem

MAN LEANING AGAINST THE SKY

 

A man leaning against the sky

Stumbles fool heartedly forward

Into the shallow abyss of his mind.

Lost in memory’s lament.

 

He hears the desperate cry of his heart.

Fading fast from a lack of light,

Becoming a muted muffle

in the cold, dark night,

 

his black hole, his soul lost.

He has nothing left to offer the world.

His hands crippled in age

Have less to hold on to now.

 

His love for her, in the absence of her,

A still life memory.  

Bio: Victor Henry’s work has appeared in various small press magazines and e-zines. He is a reference librarian, a Vietnam veteran, and a member of Veterans for Peace. His work has recently appeared in Dead Snakes.

Alan Britt- Three Poems

SAME OLD, SAME OLD

From the caves of Lascaux

to a Lantana Beach, Florida-room,

fat flies cling to salty gingham curtains.

Opaque claws from a feral priest

or the governor of a slave state

overseeing plantations, herding cotton angels

with heat lightning breasts of 13, 14 or 15 years.

The chimneys of southern mansions

coughing pestilence, helicopter insects

migrating corner to corporate corner,

according to the magic pipe.

Discipline . . . . . . . . . rape of culture,

homogenization of one solitary human

to another.

Evolution as it stands today

gives me a fucking headache.

Tomorrow, dementia, that arcane disease,

sometimes known as monetary transfiguration

(from the 13 ruling families to you and me)

but otherwise known as he who has possession

of the bomb.

Follow the bomb,

& you’ll find the money.

BITCH

(For Charlie Watts)

Who knows what these poems might do;

they’re out there attacking the Diaspora

like a sponge on a freckled Formica counter

licking the coffeemaker’s chinchilla feet

disguised as a bitch in heat.

Who knows what the bitch might do?

Who knows?

Last I heard that bitch electrocuted her old

man for loitering the local Starbucks.

Meanwhile, hunkered low, in a flickering 

dank & dark Maryland basement, Gary’s

Terps snatch another one from Duke!

FART FOR ART’S SAKE

We’re the only two folks in the room

who know that a fart machine is tucked

beneath the cushions where a dozen people

converse about Italian soccer,

how Wallston’s Objective Correlative differs from Eliot’s,

why Goya was Lorca’s favorite,

or how a rising and falling spondee burps

one bubble of mud from its dry riverbed.

Then comes the inevitable lull in conversation,

allowing each a full three seconds

to collect his or her thoughts.

That’s when the farts erupt,

near the far end of the couch,

next to a table with an imitation Tiffany dragonfly lamp.

That’s when three females abruptly excuse themselves

and head for the kitchen.

On their way out they ask,

What’re you two laughing so damn hard about?

Pregnant pause precedes another explosion

below said couch,

already under suspicion.

Heads in unison rotate toward the CEO

of Primordial Realism himself,

dozing comfortably at 9:23 PM.

Prefering to "lean and loafe at [his] ease," Alan Britt is troubled by the corruption and ambivalence that permeates the Great Experiment, so politically speaking he has started the Commonsense Party, which ironically to some sounds radical. He believes the US should stop invading other countries to relieve them of their natural resources including tin, copper, bananas, diamonds and oil, that it’s time to eliminate corporate entitlements and reduce military spending in order to properly educate its citizenry, thereby reducing crime and strengthening the populace in the manner that Jefferson envisioned. He is quite fond of animals both wild and domestic and supports prosecuting animal abusers. As a member of PETA, he is disgusted by factory farming and decorative fur.

David Ross- A Poem

Fleeting Antidote

 

Grandma's first line of defense

for skinned knees through puberty

was for me to squat over the stool

backwards with elbows propped askew

atop the porcelain lid exposing myself

at an acute angle so she could dangle

a rubber pouch of warm soapy water

in her left hand while admonishing me

to relax my cheeks (not meaning face)

before releasing antitoxin with such force

with her right fist that it rattled my ears.

 

Then on one bass ackward day Grandma

summoned me to deliver her to see a doc

who found symptoms suspicious enough

to prescribe a specialist test ASAP

requiring her to prep herself by utilizing

a high tech brand called Fleet available

(over the counter) that very same evening

for an exam scheduled the next morning.

 

On the way home Grandma made it clear

she had not the least intention of inserting

any new fangled snake oil potion in her rear

(despite orders to the contrary) but agreed

to the next pre requisite step only if I would

consent to carrying out the awkward ritual

the same old fashioned way she taught me.

 

 

Bio: David Ross is a retired journalist/teacher/litmag editor in Rockford, IL who writes satirical poetry/prose because of their laxative value.

B.Z. Niditch- Three Poems

TWENTY TWENTY

Fervent

to explore 

all that's out there

with my Beat eyes,

playing riffs on my sax

at my first gig

wishing to be invisible

or a year younger

hearing no hissing

wordless voices 

in the crowds

making my way

as the punk band

opener closes his act,

my mind goes back

to the Beatles

first appearance

and Dylan Thomas

beginning 

as he spun out

his lyrics and play

on both sides

of the pond

at first shy

then exploding my notes

in optimum visions.

 

 

 

TOXICITY CITY

A false lover's lane

on any country field 

in Toxicity City

can contain

consequences,

I told a guy at my gig

who asked me 

where such love is

around here,

I told him

such love 

may be off the beaten track

or in unfriendly wood

where there are ticks

in the midst

of an August heat wave

or by the Cape's shore

on wet blankets

but you can ignore my advice

that we can guess

his neediness

that quickly turns a person

into poison ivy

if he is so aroused,

anyway,

he was a dare devil

made his moves

and thought 

he met his mate

that night

but the next week

he had cooled off

but she left him

a hundred miles away.

ENVIRONMENTAL POET

On earth and sea

by mourning doves surfacing

on the resonate sky

the shore was more pristine

in my childhood

than we ever imagined now

in our memorable eye

and the metamorphoses

of nature

from our crouched bodies

looking back

over the ocean's tide

which once held us

in its secret language

over the wide space

carrying my memory today

by my freshly painted

orange kayak

with my binoculars

on gigantic wave ways

to travel amid the sound

of fish and bird

yet in the shadows

of summer's toxicity

amid noisome

flesh and blood

of uncaring human beings

who leave things behind

these local yokels 

or tourists

dropping items 

in the water

like slippery combs

or napkins, 

bottles disregarded

from fast food lunches

we are determined

to clean up 

what wastes our time,

to create lines and words

like the clear sunshine

as light overflows on us

in this season to remember

on a discolored Cape.

Cristine A. Gruber- Two Poems

 

Upon Hearing the News of Mr. Williams’ Death

           

Monday, August 11, 2014, 4:20pm

He cut himself today,

just to watch himself bleed.

With each drop of crimson

splashing across the unspoiled tile,

he imagines a raging demon meeting

an untimely death, smashing headlong

against the pristine porcelain.

One by one he subdues his oppressors,

silencing them for yet another

day, their power drained

with each meticulous droplet

spreading across the pure stone.

Counting to twenty, he wipes

a rag across the inviolable ceramic,

pain cleansed away, no camouflage,

just flawless absorption, white cotton

defeating dark demons.  

Another slice, a new count,

twenty more down, cloth soaked,

but never to capacity, for however

many are released, just as many

are standing at the ready.  

The reins are tightened

before euphoria reigns, that elusive

place between pain and release.

Precision is key, never too deep;

privacy crucial, always hidden away.

The rag of ritual

dries hard as stone,

getting tossed out with

the evening trash, disposed of

completely, no reminder, no pain...

but in the very last moment

before closing the lid, he offers

a little prayer over the loss of life,

for the raging perdition throughout

is no less essential than the story within.

He cut himself today,

just to watch his story bleed.

 

Reflections on the Ice Bucket Challenge of Summer 2014

                                      Friday, August 22^nd 11:57am

Streaming aquatic,

the very essence of life,

striking the pavement,

rushing downhill,

no roots to nourish,

no life to sustain,

mere waste and

dissipation,

sucked dry

by the sun

before reaching

the end of the street.

Yet another video gone

viral, one more group of

individuals dumping buckets

of cold water over their heads,

the baptized pavement

beneath their feet

heated to broiling by the

ever-present California sun.

Awareness is heightened

and many are grateful;

give to the cause,

an answer within reach.

But for those who can do so

without wasting resources,

the power is great,

the joy supreme.

With a tall glass of water

held firmly in my hand,

the life-giving liquid

defying the summer heat,

I shut off my computer

and walk outside, stand

in the shade and gaze

at my impoverished lawn.

Ordered by the city to turn

off my sprinklers, my once-

fertile land is now nothing

more than barren waste.  

Half the water I hold

in my hand is used to

nurture a lone geranium,

while the remainder is

relegated to nourish

a sole tomato plant.

Enduring by design,

amazingly resilient,

both provide

beauty and harvest

from nothing more than

a few ounces of water per day.

Many years from now,

when looking back on

this time, I won’t likely

remember who started

The Challenge,

nor will I recall

the amount

that was raised.

The memory retained

will be the view

from my window,

two more tomatoes

now ripe on the vine,

surviving the drought,

providing my lunch

this warm August day. 

Brief Bio:

Cristine A. Gruber has had work featured in numerous magazines, including: North American Review, Writer’s Digest, Dead Snakes, The Endicott Review, The Homestead Review, Iodine Poetry Journal, Miller’s Pond, The Penwood Review, Poem, Thema, The Tule Review, and Westward Quarterly. Her first full-length collection of poetry, Lifeline, was released by Infinity Publishing and is available from Amazon.com.

Victoria Mineo- A Poem

Lilly

Lovely little Lilly
Loved to laugh and play
Smiling ever sweetly
Vapid in her way

Not knowing of the world
Or the darkness hiding there
When evil finally found her
He caught her unaware

Through sex and love
And lust and sin
He lured her out
Her beast within

Now lovely little Lilly
No longer to be found
Now there stands Lilith
Her feet firmly on the ground



 
"Lilly" can all be found on a sight called Dark Poetry

Peter Bracking- Three Poems

 untitled 1

you wonder

behind the sound of your own voice

if there is any sense

your fingers slice incisive points

eyes might be held

but yours look beyond

the debate may now be yours

but you feel, sadly, your own idea

deflate like a freshly used prick

 

open letter to mr. moore

I grew up to the immediate north of one of the first economically ruined cities of the Upper Peninsula of your home state (GM ,GM, GM), which once upon a time (ago) was an integral part (because animals with furs still refuse to get passports) of two countries that did not exist that became two cities that no longer speak French, which turned out to be my childhood home (sans Grand Funk but avec Phil Esposito) that subsequently died a different but equally sad (steel, steel, steel) manufacturing death.

I do not buy the American Dream (that as a child I was happy enough to have beamed illegally to the our, first on the block, colour TV, over the wide cultural divide of the river) and I gleefully admit to strongly disapproving (having sadly, aged) the continually misguided (please provide me with a stronger adjective) sic foreign policy that has been espoused by idiots (read: elected officials) controlling your country and forced upon the world for the last century or so (as the clock tics); but you, the person and not necessarily your views however nasally presented, have ideas (thought from the other side of the river!) that, sadly, or foolishly, or sagely get ignored by the ignorant but which I, minor poet, enjoy.

If I had ten bucks (hey they are at par now, na na na na boo boo) I would send it to you to save the world (mine, please) or buy two bottles of beer or some vodka, ok, food, because I (like half the world) haven't worked for half a decade (more cities forced to collective skinned knees and into tight coffins in anticipation). But money slips (coins, through the spaces and the naturally occurring cracks) out of my fingers as easily as election promises (soothing untruths) slip out of politician's (or their handler's) minds (how oxymoronic, as morons go) but, but, I do offer (first rights refusal: read payment) this poem. And poems are only worth what they are printed upon and this one is printed upon the internet ether (read: nothing).

Luckily (unlike everything else in the caving world) I've got nothing but time.

given

given that black holes consume

pull together all the stars

gas dust random atoms

giant ice crystals that roam forever until

given that each black hole

sucks and sucks

never sated

sucking in all

stars light even

(the gravity of it

all)

given that

questing minds thirst and burn to know

where exactly does it all go

Peter Bracking tells tall tales.  Earth point:  Vancouver, Canada. 

Words have been published by more than a dozen presses in four countries on two continents including: Maisonneuve; Merida Review; streetcake magazine; empty sink publishing; thrice fiction; Existere

The only occupation he regrets leaving is beach bum.  Peter is the artistic director of Utter Stories.

Self aggrandizement:  http://utterstories.wordpress.com