Monthly Archives: June 2017
Raymond Miller
What Am I Knitting? Last night I dreamt on a soiled mattress and woke as Mrs Somebody-or-Other, wearing this hat and second-hand clothing, throat stuck with unfamiliar language. A stuffed and bandaged museum exhibit, temples throbbing to the Boom-Boom-Boom, tuning … Continue reading
Eileen Murphy; two poems
The Rain Has Lost Its Mind The dying grass waits with its tongue burnt. Rain begins to fall on the orange groves, fingers tapping hollow walls. Suddenly, the rain loses its mind. Fireflies explode in the night. Elephants trample the … Continue reading
Irene Cunningham
DIVIDE and CONQUER 1 Things to grow in a pot don’t include love and yet it plants its own seeds. Strange encounters build on interiors, dressing rooms choosing wotnots. It’s the pulsing blood, plush as it rushes to our heads … Continue reading
Mariam Kadhim
The sun rises everywhere Criss-crossing air and water Clocking miles none can measure What’s the deal globe-trotter? Searching for hidden treasure? Oh, I’m just teasing! Clearly You’re a lucky chap who’s nearly out the door again…so fast? Heavens no! My … Continue reading
Frederick Pollack
Adaptation The angel has the impression that if he stays in one place on the street a safe will fall and crush him, so he constantly shuffles, forward, sideways. Awareness that he can’t be hurt, by however many tons, has … Continue reading
Tristan Moss: three poems
My Old English Sheepdog On windy days, I sometime think that I might spy between the weeping willow’s branches one of his eyes. Measurement Yes, we’re oddly shaped when compared to Archimedes’ perfectly rectangular tub. And when in we’re not … Continue reading
Clive Donovan
REVISITING With my sister I revisited That place where we all used to live. I felt nervous. We were parked and loitering; We could be casing joints or worse With our studied photographs. I noted that the bus-stop tree had … Continue reading
Helen Freeman
On the Back Burner I crush roast beans with my pestle then throw grounds into water on a high flame stirring till the colour succumbs and bubbles. Bitterness rises within. As I brew Madam’s coffee, she engages in more crucial … Continue reading
Katerina Neocleous
Wish A boy picks wishes on the edge of the car-park, a strip of ragwort and thistles rising from gravel and turf carved by tyre tracks. He is not playing – covered in its silky fibres he harvests thistledown with … Continue reading
The Open Mouse 