Tony Mott

Lost Property

Sands, tangerine along the shore
swallow unseasoned waves
their relentless march deterred,
victories lost
amongst the swell and heave
of crusades fading light.
Death is my husband
I go where she calls me
tracing tides margin
in search, at sea
of unclaimed love,
besieged by shingle,
elusive fingers ,
shifting, cannot grip
hands shovel
no earthly use.
Above and above
the cliff top sits
shorelines frowning guardian
at once benevolent and fierce,
rescuer of my dreams
shelter for my love
hope and ruination
comfortably side by side.

Copyright © Tony Mott 2017

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Johnni Stanton

Wonderful Voices

Do not still
those wonderful
voices that speak
to me.

Every time
another goes
my heart misses
a beat.

Divine actors
and singers
of a creativity
most miss.

Twenty sixteen
was especially
painful I know.
We all do.

So many
every month
So many to lose
From my album.

All those
Wonderful voices
So far this year
John Hurt.

A personal
favourite of mine
who especially has
a wonderful voice.

Copyright © Johnni Stanton 2017

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Harrison Abbott

By Daylight

Where is the violence?
It never leaves, far,
Beyond our approach
Or settled eyes,
Wavering in the loom.

How we spread our
Droopy tiredness
And liven our horror
By daylight.

Each inquisition
Alters chronology like
None other, and other
Blood-tricks are less
Astonishing by the grave.

Yet the visions are
Always mingled by
Breath’s whiteness
Via the cold.

And shocked angles
By wind hustle
Flags and eyelash
Alike versus heat.

There are no armies;
Wars are only anonymous
And stunned by currency;
Pledged by the presence
Of each victim’s mind.

And yet history
Spells its lines by
Each dander in pain.

And the foul men
Have loftier tombstones
To shackle thus
Your loser’s worth.

Copyright © Harrison Abbott 2017

I study and write in Aberdeen. Various other works may be seen via this blog:

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Bridget Khursheed

The seed drawer

The handle of a trowel, matches that won’t strike,
soft pellet boxes nibbled by slugs, keys, a bird’s claw
And seeds that can’t grow.

The spinach with which we planted our first year:
it produced eternal crop in the cypress shade
next to the old shed fox lair.

A heritage collection given as a wedding present
small fertile packets received each month, some remain
redundant when I became pregnant.

Pulses, and nasturtiums, end of rows, beans
left unused and carefully sealed; and old envelopes
tapped from melissa, honesty by the bungalow,

big spectral plates waiting along with teasels, feverfew;
these might yet take, a selection of possibility
to be scattered in some muck, raked.

The drawer holds all its load another year
but nothing is thrown away because
it could happen; heat, water, light, the seedcase open.

Copyright © Bridget Khursheed 2017

Bridget Khursheed is a poet and geek based in the Scottish Borders.

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Joanna M. Weston


this in-between time
when sky edges vermillion
threaded with amber

when life burns low and quiet
while the earth turns me
into wakefulness

this dream time
on the blurred edge
of morning    I wait

wait for the spark
to reach me
and make fire

Copyright © Joanna M. Weston 2017

Joanna M. Weston has had poetry, reviews, and short stories published
for thirty years.

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Peter Richards

Breakfast Club Wall

I know I rise like dust, I know
the ways the river and the forest fence
maintain their limits and their difference –
a stand and a delineating flow
about the landscape, being sometimes close
and sometimes other countries’ frontier reference,
where either side of either one extends
division. Stop go. Red green. Oh yes, oh no

there is no final frontier. Every one
must have another place to border on,
and on the other side there has to be
some huddled masses, yearning to be free
so that the place they live’s a place to leave.
Our enemies, if that’s what you believe.

Copyright © Peter Richards 2017

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Ricky Garni


Shari was a  puppeteer on television in 1963
and she had an adorable puppet named LAMB CHOP
who could scrunch up his face in a really cute way and

also a puppet named CHARLIE HORSE who was also cute
and mischievous too and when I watched Shari and Lamb Chop
and Charlie Horse I felt like they were all my friends

but Shari was not just my friend Shari was so pretty and
Shari’s voice was so beautiful I wanted her to be my wife
and I figured we could live in a small cabin with pretty green

fields and corn growing everywhere near the cabin where
Lassie and her family lived and they could be our neighbors
and we could have bonfires and roast weenies on bonfires

but when 1964 came it was an election year, and
election night, and on that night everyone wondered
who would be President: would it be Lyndon B Johnson

or would it be Barry Goldwater and the television station
took all the old Shari and Lamb Chop and Charlie Horse
tapes and everything they did on those tapes and put them into

their television taping machines and taped that long night
that seemed to last forever with the Shari and Lamb Chop
tapes but when the night ended Lyndon B Johnson won and

he was very happy and later he would do some good things and
some bad things too and Barry Goldwater lost and he was sad
but he was also pretty scary and if you look closely at that

tape you can see Barry Goldwater saying I am sorry I lost
and it is so loud you can barely hear him but Shari, my wife,
she was so beautiful back then that you can practically still

see her on tape behind Barry and look what she’s doing
she’s kissing Lamb Chop right on the lips and Lamb Chop
is blushing and saying awww and Barry Goldwater is saying

awww too and things would never been the same again
for me or for Lamb Chop or for Barry Goldwater or for

Lassie or the pretty green fields or corn or anybody
else I ever knew or met or wished I had met and loved
and loved and loved

Copyright © Ricky Garni 2017

Ricky Garni was born in Miami and grew up in Florida and Maine. He works as a graphic designer by day and writes music by night. COO, a tiny collection of short prose printed on college lined paper with found materials such as coins, stamps and feathers, was recently released by Bitterzoet Press.

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