Shudder on the Stairs by Karen Little

One of my favourite sites. for reading and submitting to….I have a couple of poems here today…….

I am not a silent poet

Broad backed, seal-like on the rock of stubborn acceptance
she feels flop-heavy, all fierceness gone. Dipping into morning’s
amber road, the journey absorbs her pain, smoothes the grumbling
edges. I try to read the whole of her: the shudder on the stairs,
her crumpled skirt dangerously torn. The road has seen and heard
it all before. The walking wounded don’t commit suicide on a whim.
My mind is a playground with a germ of an idea, a gem sparkling
within the umbra:
Mountains deny artificial explosives can be put
to good use. We explode naturally at times—all that fat.

Ash and steam create the loudest sound ever heard,
while history doffs its hat. We surmise that if we bubble
and expand enough, someone will hear the report.

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The Writers’ Cafe Magazine – ISSUE 4 “Time and Space”

A great online magazine to read and submit your writing to…..I have a couple of poems there this month…

The Writers' Cafe Magazine

The Haunted Sky
by Peter King

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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.

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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…

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Prole Magazine

Issue 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.

Lockjaw Magazine

My poem 13 ways of Looking at Beetles was in the first volume of Lockjaw Magazine a couple of years ago. It’s an online magazine, one I really like, and it’s still happening (though not open to submissions at this precise moment in time). They have an archive of interesting editions. Here is that inaugural one:

Click to access Lockjaw-Vol-I-pdf-screen.pdf

Glutton for Punishment

Kindle is a strange beast; the instant access to endless books for those of us with  the technology. It makes me think of those restaurants with an ‘eat as much as you want’ counter. We’re invited to be gluttons, pile our plates high, return to the counter and refill our plates. We invest so little into the experience, shovel everything down, leave as much as we want on our plates. We’re not required to leave a tip for good service, and it’s easy to complain. We expect the same satisfaction as if we’d carefully chosen from a menu that might meet our expectations, where the food was just what we fancied and might hit the spot.

Stream of Consciousness Unedited

Sitting on her doorstep, the neighbour is forming traps out of rusty wire and baiting them with something that  appears to be potato peelings, but could be a more tempting lure. I see the twisting, the pliars busily snapping. I imagine the blood reddening her fingers, the tetanus jab she didn’t have; her shying away from contact with anyone ‘in authority’ makes that inevitable. Her dog, a Golden Labrador, bred to respond, is quietened by a slap of her hands. My dogs are noisy and neurotic, silenced by the promise of treats. I keep coercion close at hand, in a jar.
For days at a time they’re the only living creatures I talk to; they’re easy to understand, uncomplicated, ready to forgive without bearing grudges. The neighbour isn’t so transparent. Whatever it was that turned her against me after the first couple of months, she isn’t letting on.