J D DeHart

Fierce Rhetoric

Are we so wrapped
up in the cloud
of how words work
that we don’t stop to listen?

I pause at the end
of the debate and think
who could have been persuaded
by tirade and bluster?

Then find out when I wake
up on election morning.

A world of masses heard
the same words I did and absorbed
a completely different message.

But I’m working at getting better.

Copyright© J D DeHart 2017

JD DeHart is a writer and teacher.  His poems have appeared at Gargouille and The Other Herald, among other places.

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Shadwell Smith: Two poems

Finding Dad in the Garage

He turns up at intervals,
mostly unannounced,
just long enough to stall
his permanent departure.
He can still surprise.
Make dramatic entrances
from the back of a wardrobe.
Whisper in my ear,
That’s me. Back row.
Third from the right.

This time he appeared
inside a shoebox
as a colourised print;
a young man
waving from a ferry.

……….

Pressing PLAY

I heard you falter
on the C90 cassette.
November’s sudden demolition
carried in the slow turn
of your voice.

I tried to tell you
news of mum
and the seagull
in the loft,
but you were signals
on a reel of tape.
A phantom caller
leaving messages;
some last words.

Rewound.
Ready to be alive
again.

Copyright © Shadwell Smith 2017

Shadwell’s poems have most recently appeared in Butcher’s Dog, Prole and Picaroon Poetry. He also sometimes appears in pubs, clubs and coffee shops performing them.

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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: http://h-j-linklater-abbott.tumblr.com/

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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

MORNING PAUSE

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.   http://www.1960willowtree.wordpress.com/
 

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