As the Sirens Sing
 
I slide out from between the warm sheets
gently lifting his heavy arm off of me
and tiptoe through the strange apartment
to find the kitchen table
and begin to write
of some moment the night
stirred in me
 
Maybe a graze of the nipple
or the way a shirt draped the chair
the singing of the sirens
mixing with the echo of the moans
the moonlight passing through
the glass from the bottle on the nightstand
the way the sound of him snoring fuses
with the smell of Tide to become almost corporeal
 
And I will remember these things
long after I have forgotten his name

_______________________________________________________________________

Jodie Baeyens is a professor at American Military University. She was deposited in Arizona from Manhattan, against her will, and now lives in a rural farming community writing poetry, drinking expensive coffee and cheap red wine.

Falling Again, Again

Then, he saw her in the company of many good people, talking from the veranda, laughing in the kitchen.
_____She looked at him in a manner — unidentifiable. It made him feel good.
_____They stepped onto the balcony, as he noticed it was now empty, and she kissed him in a tender way, so unlike her.
_____He was falling in love with her again. “This is a dream,” she told him.

The music rolled in his head and turned woodwinds into long brass that plummeted, when he recognized that he was really sleeping, and he tried to push himself back into the dreamworld but the coiling notes were already coming apart.
_____He heard her say, “You will forget this very soon. I will treasure it as a reminder of what we once had, before you went away.”

Loss and regret accompanied him on his way back, and he had no way of knowing he was actually entering another dream.
_____They drove to the side of a road. It was an open field in the darkest night.
_____They walked without the guidance of light through tall grass that had a manner of hiding almost anything that occurred to the mind.
_____Cold, stone tablets appeared suddenly at their feet, spaced like marred tiles at intervals of a few paces.

In the distance, there were statues of things white against tree branches so black, they were feeding fissures into the marbled, pale limbs.
_____But the tablets, as they discovered, had names and numbers cut into the concrete and moss.
_____“Don’t you remember any of this? We were here before.”
_____He was filling up with dread and something like wonder. “I always thought it was a dream.” He insisted. “You just said it was a dream!”

They took a few steps. A pool of still waters appeared, and immersed in the murk, a mausoleum was tilting away from them and then disappeared into the depths.
_____This is where they had kissed the first time even though they were not supposed to.
_____When he turned to mention it, she was looking at him with bloodshot eyes.
_____“Of course I remember. You got drunk. And you passed out. Before I left you, I saw the translucent forms of three women hovering over you, meaning you a great deal of harm. You slept right where you’re standing, and then you thought you woke up.”

_______________________________________________________________________

Rey Armenteros is a Los Angeles-based painter and writer who has had his essays and poetry appear in numerous literary journals and art magazines, including The Nasiona, Lunch Ticket, Umbrella Factory Magazine, and Still Point Arts Quarterly.

Sea Turtle
 
your underbelly
       scaled
       protective
 
you swim
circling waves
       undercurrents
that smooth out
 
your reptilian skin
       spots
       flippers
       sharp bill
       snap shut
 
reef fills with food
       a home
       so sweet
 
like your sapphire eyes

_________________________________________________________________________

Maria A. Arana is a teacher, writer, and poet. Her poetry has been published in various journals including Spectrum, The Pangolin Review, The Kleksograph, and Cholla Needles Magazine. You can find her at https://twitter.com/m_a_Arana

Hike

near the peak of the mountain
a shadow of warmth
the scent of snow

the breath if light

a hard packed trail head
and every direction, poetry

Michael H. Brownstein‘s latest volumes of poetry, A Slipknot to Somewhere Else (2018) and How Do We Create Love? (2019), were recently released (Cholla Needles Press).

On Seeing Manchester at Dawn

The sky is charmless as a filthy rag -
as daylight breaks, the traffic shuffles filed;
indifferent roads are littered, bins are piled,
the clay-like Sun's first smiles with sadness sag.
The city's ragged as a vagrant hag,
and seems a lightless land for souls exiled -
yet somehow by this sight I am beguiled,
my spirits roused that in dejection drag.
I did not see - so hushful in the stone -
this loveliness I unexpected meet -
see these subtle charms all of their own,
that play around each weather-beaten street -
see in these buildings - that like flesh and bone
stir and wake - the city's hidden beat.




On Seeing the Aosta Valley

To add more notes to birdsongs would – I know -
only mar the passing hearer's bliss,
more hues just cloy the glory of the rainbow;
monarchs crowned would little gain or miss
if crowned once more for show – while here below
this scene is such that art I can dismiss.
Tranquil it sits in winter's parting chill:
the shops and cafes of the village seem
drowsy with sleep; surrounding mountains gleam
with fading snow; only the churchbells fill
the alleys hushed and calm; all life is still,
ruled by the rhythm of the gentle stream -
low clouds enfold the valley in a dream,
as we stand and watch it from the hill.

_______________________________________________________________________

Christopher Laverty writes, “I am originally from Cornwall, but currently live in Manchester. I work as an English teacher and also in catering. I like to write on a variety of subjects using many different forms. I mainly enjoy poetry, but also short stories and essays. My hobbies include reading, music, films, travelling and scuba diving.”

Back Where I’m From

I’m in the backseat of my own car,
Hurtling toward my hometown
With the kids up front,
Playing too loudly the first minute
Of every song they know I do not know.
My wife, their mother, lounges beside me,
Wondering how we got back here,
Staring absently out the window at a landscape
I can trace with eyes closed, winding back to family
For afternoon cocktails,
Our portable wet bar rattling and clinking
With each twist and pothole.
It’s then I recall being in my parents’ backseat
Forty years earlier,
Rolling over these same roads,
Stretching out to nap on the floorboard,
Moaning ‘How much longer?’
Dad would tell me forty-five minutes,
Nothing else. Then he’d offer five bucks
Not to ask anymore.

Alex Richardson has published poems in over thirty magazines, journals, and anthologies. His book, Porch Night on Walnut Street, came out on Plainview Press in 2007. He teaches English at Limestone University.

Father in a Drawer

After father’s funeral, after the food,
the daughter opened the drawer
next to his bed. What is this:
an expired passport, a bag of
French coins, Air France playing
Cards, 4 corks from
Domaine Matrot Bourgagne,
three photos of an unknown woman
on a beach, on a balcony, at a
sidewalk café, four Valentines
signed Sandrine, the name he
had suggested for her daughter.

Robert Halleck lives in Del Mar, California. He is a member of San Diego’s Not Dead Yet Poets. His work has recently appeared in Main Street Rag and The North Dakota Quarterly. His recent chapbook is Poems From The Blue Highways.  

In this time of remote love

I shall wrap my finger around your wrist,
and lift it gently towards my lips,
politely not asking if you have washed,
for love must not wear too much gauze,
and romance kept at a safe distance
went out with the troubadours.
It’s spring and we are roadkill anyway.
Let’s take the path of least resistance
and fill our desires while we still have them.

Joseph Farley edited Axe Factory from 1986 – 2010. His poetry books and chapbooks include Suckers, Longing for the Mother Tongue, Her Eyes, and Waltz of the Meatballs. His fiction includes a novel, Labor Day, and a short story collection, For the Birds. His work has appeared previously in The Big Windows Review, and recently in Mad Swirl, Ygdrasil, Horror Sleaze Trash, US 1 Worksheets, Home Planet News Online, Wilderness House Review, and Ya’sou!