Peter J. King (born and brought up in Boston, Lincolnshire) was active on the London poetry scene in the 1970s, returning to poetry in 2013, since when he has been widely published.  His available collections are Adding Colours to the Chameleon (Wisdom’s Bottom) and All What Larkin (Albion Beatnik).Web site: https://wisdomsbottompress.wordpress.com/

 Under the Streetlight

The boys are ahead of us as we linger a little
and talk about life and philosophy. Joel has
an interesting mind and I enjoy his perspective. 

He has studied with a Native American shaman
and has been to ashrams in India. Suddenly, for no
reason we can see, his boy smacks my son in the face.

My son turns to him and asks, Do you know how that
makes me feel? Joel looks at me and says, Wow, what
unusual poise he has in his response to being slapped.

We wait to see what will happen next. His son,
a boy about 5 years old, stops and replies, No,
how does that make you feel?

Under a streetlight on this warm October evening,
our boys sit down on a curb and talk about their feelings.
I think about my son and his gentle ways. 

I count my blessings.

Emily Black, a civil engineer, always dabbled in writing. Now she has taken up poetry writing with serious intent. She’s fortunate to have found an amazing teacher who’s given her the wings to soar like an eagle! “A humble eagle,” she says, “who appreciates being taught how to write with the eyes of an eagle, the heart of a lion, the perseverance of a mountain goat and the memory of an elephant, at least about things that matter.” Her work has been published in numerous journals.

The box

it fills like a box
and once
I thought I wanted
a box like nobody
else had – an apartment
on my own – a place
to live comfortably,
to drink wine and read books
and to write out my poems
while dishes filled sinks
and made stacks on the table.
now, getting married
and I’m somewhat
looking forward to it. and we
live together. and we
share a dog. a life
then, I suppose,
as much dull
as another – dinner,
a glass of wine.
a movie and going
to bed. I imagined that this life
would lead to less
experience.
it hasn’t; a box
stays its size
whatever’s in it.

—–

A barnacle

you get under next to me;
the mattress goes down
like a boat. bobs about
sideways and bangs
on the pier. I turn
to your hand, which is cold
as wet seaweed; a barnacle, living
to cling. on the sail
of our curtains, the moon
fights off streetlights
for the pleasure of pushing
us forward. your body some flotsam,
moving and seeking.
my body a tideline,
given shape by what lands
on its beach.

DS Maolalai has been nominated eight times for Best of the Net and five times for the Pushcart Prize. His poetry has been released in two collections, Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden (Encircle Press, 2016) and Sad Havoc Among the Birds (Turas Press, 2019)

Gullible’s Travels

You are gone
On the horse latitude deck
I taste the absent hours
Swollen tongue searches
The empty tin cup
Tied to the drained barrel
Salt pork
Stuck between teeth
Gone bad
You are lime
To my scurvy 

Crewmates
Say it is for the best
Sailors lost at sea
Rationalize and ration
The first to die
Satisfies hunger

I voyage
The dead sea town
Hop deserted island bars
Robinson minus Caruso
My coconut head fills with rum

Across the undertow
Auto-tuned sirens
Beckon
In sweeping tides
Of attraction and repulsion

Every port of entry
Seems like an oasis
Cool grottos of self-delusion
Punctured by fangs of sunrays
No matter the currents, the ebb and flow
Inebriated Lilliputians
Tie me down

I escape
Bilge rat jumping ship
The stars,
The wind in sails
Speak the truth
A new charted course

You are a shadow of a sun not risen,
The deceitful promise of horizon
You are not coming back
You found a safe harbor

Rod Drought, an ex-New Yorker, now calls Arizona his home. He has four books of poetry found on his website, droughtsthirst.com. He has been published in many literary journals, and is co-administrator to Port of Call Poetry, an online page that supports poets worldwide.

Fireflies

You squat in the shadows, watching the movement of shadowy truncated legs. Where are they going? Glue seeping out between planks of hardboard lends the room a ribbed, skeletal quality suggestive of a giant body. The structure breathes. You can hear it breathing. And it sweats — behold the ghostly salt stains. Ambiguous in the smooth, creamy light pouring in from a small side window, only your jeweled hairnet gives any sign of your presence, the little glints and flashes when you move your head. When you move your head my eyes follow. Where are the legs going? They seem arbitrary, even nonsensical at first glance, but then again they carry a measure of menace. Shoes and boots clopping across the uneven floor, the conspiratorial whispers, the smell of spent candles — such effects cause you to recoil, to make yourself smaller, and more remote. And yet I want so much to talk to you, to look you in the eyes — what colour are they? — and speak my truth. I believe we share a vibration, a sensibility. I see us together on a davenport in a parlor filled with sunlight, sipping gold-flecked liqueur and chitchatting. We hear a train whistle in the distance and glance at each other, smiling. Then I offer you De Chirico bananas that you say create disquiet. I agree. Nevertheless they transport the eater. Peel one and see. Peel one and see how the darkly painted walls create at once a sense of enclosure and infinitude. When you move your head I think of fireflies. Can you be persuaded to come out from the shadows? I imagine you effortless, of spiraling grace, wearing a hairnet and delicate gold bracelets. Don’t be alarmed. I am only here to watch. That is to say, in a sense I’m only here to watch. I could say more, but I won’t now. The legs stomp on, unsentimentally. They are headed for the other dream where the other you watches the other me.

Salvatore Difalco‘s work has appeared in a number of print and online formats. He lives in Toronto.