One of my favourite online magazines. I have an artwork in this issue. It’s free to read and a great one to submit writing and art to.
poetry and prose
The Writer’s cafe
Free poetry, magazine, poetry, poetry and prose, Uncategorized, women writing, writingThis is a great online magazine to read (for free) and submit to. A different theme each month. I have four poems in this issue:
https://thewriterscafemagazine.wordpress.com/2018/05/16/the-writers-cafe-magazine-issue-8-corridors-and-passageways/
The Writers’ Cafe Magazine – ISSUE 4 “Time and Space”
Free poetry, magazine, poetry, poetry and prose, UncategorizedA great online magazine to read and submit your writing to…..I have a couple of poems there this month…
The Haunted Sky
by Peter King
Waiting Room
by Peter King
Waiting is filled with silence;
one drop slides down the smooth side,
hesitates before it’s sucked beneath
the incurved marble base.
There is bustle and commotion all around,
but it’s absorbed and nullified,
leaves not a ripple in the syrup
of the silent vessel, not a trace.
Even when the waiting’s overset –
a clumsy jog of someone’s
shoulder, maybe – it is slow to empty,
silence spreading out in sticky lace.
An insect, small and iridescent,
slow to see its danger, struggles
in the unexpected flood, antennae waving,
silence setting it eternally in place.
Black Hole
by Peter King
Beyond the armoured glass
its metal shutters now drawn back,
I stare at vacum.
The stars are brighter than
I’ve ever seen – but I don’t
see them now, nor my reflection,
nor the ghostly cabin at my back.
And when…
View original post 8,051 more words
Prole Magazine
magazine, poetry, poetry and prose, UncategorizedIssue 24 of one of my favourite magazines is available here:
http://prolebooks.co.uk/index.html
Prole is a print magazine crammed with poetry and prose. If you are a submitter, submit; but check out an issue for an idea of which of your work might fit. As a tiny taster, this is my contribution to issue 24:
My Whistle
In the wrought iron chair, oblivious to watchful eyes,
she’ll be waiting under a nervous moon for her dealer.
Her answers come foil –wrapped, sealed and shiny,
hard to get into without a steady hand.
My flaming wings were grounded by the threat:
‘Each time you chew your hair, angels fall from the sky.’
Hunger, the desire for sucking barley sugar to a point
that could blind with a jab, loosened my gloved fist,
had me running from the Trailer and her pipe-smoke, to
follow the direction of rain, edges of clouds, slush of gravel.
Shame is broken-glass shaped, fists through windows, bottles
smashed on grim pavements, my whistle killed by drifting teeth,
the sudden appearance of gaps on the bottom row, an inability
to exactly shape air to summon dogs racing over the horizon.
Filled With Ghosts 