Monthly Archives: October 2014
Neil Campbell
Lagg to Tarbet At Lagg, the German from the campsite catches us up on his yellow bike. We discuss the impossibility of reaching Barnhill, where Orwell wrote 1984. Stefan gives out digestive biscuits. Uncle Rod soon speeds off up the … Continue reading
Joseph Robert
Well, I Never A woman of a certain age Resident in an uncertain Age Of sociological and climate change Watched a coot bathe in a pond While she dwelled on how she’d changed Since her school leaving days And her … Continue reading
S Black
in loving memory soap and water couldn’t touch the heavy stuff that stained the blood which accounted for them at fifty-seven and fifty-one sitting proudly now with the other souvenirs and remembered vaguely by distant relatives who cut the once … Continue reading
Robert Nisbet
Sky Over Broad Haven Morgan has walked here many times, from adolescence, thirty years ago, when there were girls and, once, an adder whipping silently back into the long grass, upon the cliff path, there, above the Lion Rock. Now … Continue reading
Brenda B Frank
NOVA The road home lies through darkness The headlights of my little blue car can hardly Illuminate. The brights light up only The blowing snow. There’s nothing to see in Ruggles, Nova, Sullivan, Homerville, or Lodi–finally The glare of Akron … Continue reading
David Subacchi
CROSSWORDS IN THE PUB We’re doing crosswords in the pub Because that’s what lovers do When they fall out of love Crosswords in the pub We don’t speak much anymore Except to discuss clues Because that’s what lovers do When … Continue reading
Thomas Papp
The New Slaves Injurious ruin covers sundry fields where everything is sown and coolly thrown away or exchanged in secret plowed over in moments waiting but to roam the boulevard an asphalt Appian Way choked with the new slaves crucified … Continue reading
Imogen Forster
Remembering Private John Newton Great Uncle Jack, gambler, joker, tease, lived under the brown Crags’ bristling edge, behind the city’s green and lion-headed hill. A sulky visitor, I’m dragged along Rankeillor or Montaiggie Street to 44 St Leonard’s, a cramped … Continue reading
Paul Clyne
Healing House And what healing it was, this healing endured through the sickest of years : white bandages, red-faced bed baths, the student doctors lauding x-rays as works of art; my own masterpiece hung askew near bright metal devices that … Continue reading
The Open Mouse 