Walk in the Snow

Camera in hand, heart in the snow,

strolling down, sludge and pavement

aligned dreams.

 

The ravens have retreated from

the dead, skeletal trees, and in the grey skies,

they no longer hover, ominous.

 

There’s a house on the hill, uninhabited,

it looms over the world like a ghost,

a tumor, malignant in the skull.

 

A car almost sideswipes me,  life flicked,

then flashed before my eyes; I remember

my children, I pray to God to forgive me,

for the sins that have committed, that have

wrecked mine and so many others lives.

 

I walk alone in the snow, it’s so cold,

a sparrow sputters, half frozen in seemingly

motionless flight, across my path; I can see

in its eyes, it fears death, yet I do not.

 

Behind me? There are only, one set

of footprints, it confirms what I knew all along.

 

Lloyd Wayne Russel - Ohio, United States 

 

Wayne Russell is a creative writer and amateur photographer from Tampa, Florida. Wayne's work has been published in many journals  and magazines, in The Literary Hatchet, Black Poppy Review, PPP Ezine to name a few. He's the founder of  Degenerate Literature, which is recently gone into a temporary hiatus.

ANAMNESIS

Prism weakens the anamnesis

Of another past

Stored in memory.

No eyes for the thirst

Ascending the stairs

In electric visions.

A damaged metaphor

And divine splintering

At the edge of the world.

Fragmented promise,

Divine lies executed

Signaling you home.

 

© Carl Scharwath

Carl Scharwath, has appeared globally with 100+ magazines selecting his poetry, short
stories, essays and art photography.Two of his poetry books 'Journey To Become Forgotten';
(Kind of a Hurricane Press).and 'Abandoned' (ScarsTv) have been published. Carl is the art
editor for Minute Magazine, a dedicated runner and 2 nd degree black- belt in Taekwondo.

 

 

 

Shut

In the nursing home hallway

she sits, eyes shut too tight

to really be asleep;

tall with a slim grace

almost gone.

 

There is so much astir around her,

and she doesn't decrease it any,

even as she sits soundless,

those sleepless eyes

shut so tight.

 

What nightmare lives

in that tornado alley mind

that could scare her so

and keep her awake,

shut her apart

from me?

 

Even if I asked, she couldn't tell.

 

So the world moves and passes.

Aides speak to her,

but she won't answer back,

just nonsense whispers

as her lips go slack.

 

And when she finally does open those eyes they shine.

They shine like a sky cold enough

to form frost, vast enough

to lose a man, turbulent enough

to scare away any nightmare.

 

© Michael Griffith, United States

 

 

Michael Griffith began writing poetry to help his mind and spirit heal as his body recovered from a life-changing injury. Recent work appears online and in print in such outlets as The Blue Nib, Nostalgia Digest, The Wild Word and Poetry24. He resides near Princeton, NJ. 

 

 

 

Brightly burning star fish...

Brightly burning star fish...

 

Do you wonder where you swim?

 

Wandering sky and ocean flying

floating now near shore line.

 

Many arms extended tugging

celestial weeds Irish moss.

 

Grasping glowing orange disc

climbing beds of coral coral.

 

Do you wonder where you swim

brightly burning star fish?

 

© Joan McNerney, Ravena - United States

 

Joan McNerney’s poetry has been included in numerous literary zines such as Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze, Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Blueline, Halcyon Days and included in Bright Hills Press, Kind of A Hurricane Press and Poppy Road Review anthologies. She has been nominated four times for Best of the Net

 

It Was the Same (Translated by Artur Komoter)

There will no longer be home,

smoke from the chimney.

There will be no tomorrow.

Rotten beams

cannot withstand the pressure of time.

In the crooked house

a hunched woman

– waits.

 

It's like it used to be,

out there behind the house flows a river.

Only now

the children do not have time to look at old age.

 

Time took away youth

– like the night takes away the evening.

 

There is no longer smoke from the chimney,

no chimney,

and there behind the house

still flows a river.

 

© Eliza Segiet

 

 

Eliza Segiet – Master's Degree graduate in Philosophy, completed postgraduate studies in Cultural Knowledge, Philosophy, Arts and Literature at Jagiellonian University, as well as Film and Television Production in Lodz. Torn between poetry and drama. Likes to look into the clouds, but keeps both feet on the ground. Her heart is close to the thought of Schopenhauer: "Ordinary people merely think how they shall 'spend' their time; a man of talent tries to 'use' it".

  • Author of the Month (June 2017) in The Year of the Poet 14 in the USA
  • Author of the Month of January/February 2018 in Spillwords Press
  • Author's poem "Questions" was the Publication of the Month (August 2017)
  • and the International Publication of the Year (2017) in Spillwords Press
  • Laureate of the International Special Prize "Frang Bardhi – 2017"

Author's works can be found in anthologies and literary magazines in Poland and abroad (Albania, Australia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, India, Israel, Canada, Kosovo, Singapore, Scotland, Spain, Sweden, USA, United Kingdom).