Haiku Poems by Gina North
Cold stings smiling cheeks.
strong arms with embracing warmth
kindle inner fires.
Soft fur curled sleeping.
rolls of roughen'd ragged sound
comfort the listener.
Single flowers blow,
bleak winds freezing fallow earth.
new life waits beneath.
Pine trees jewelled with light.
nutmeg cinnamon and cloves
scent the festive air.
Baby newly born,
greeted by the Southern sun
into a space of longing.
The Boxer by Lewis R Humphries
As a dearth of flashbulbs shimmer,
they capture the quandary in the name of art;
the fallen boxer,
bowed beneath insistent purpose,
bleeds his life through the meld of a thousand lesions.
This end, most savage in impression,
was far removed from expeditious;
engendered not by one,
or even a medley of blows,
but his wilful resistance to the creeping spite of age.
The spectators, sparse in number,
shift amidst a strangle of apathetic whispers;
where only the knowledgeable few can,
through a dint of reminiscence,
recount the grandeur of a once great pugilist.
And contrast the brightness of accomplishment
with the sallow reams of a hanging light;
through worn peripheries,
and the pale of fitful shine,
an endowment palls amongst the swathes of leaden shadow.
Where a lone corner man, borrowed for the hour,
Coveted
by Lewis R Humphries
Astride the harbour bridge,
bright radience shimmers through an airless summer,
and gilds the passageways of stone and providence.
Were it not for these columns of light, and their multifarious smoulder,
he would not have glimpsed the portents of her splendour.
Journeyed beneath the steeled arch,
she is heedless of her beauty,
as she weaves the indiscernible threads of time through her fingers;
and marvels at the neon blaze of simulated day,
its steeples plunging through the course of cobalt torrents.
Her contemplations,
imbued through mottled rivulets,
are not inflected by the thrusts of his intentions.
She is sentient only to the malleable melds of dark then light,
his presence cast in the consequent sheathes of far pitched shade.
bright radience shimmers through an airless summer,
and gilds the passageways of stone and providence.
Were it not for these columns of light, and their multifarious smoulder,
he would not have glimpsed the portents of her splendour.
Journeyed beneath the steeled arch,
she is heedless of her beauty,
as she weaves the indiscernible threads of time through her fingers;
and marvels at the neon blaze of simulated day,
its steeples plunging through the course of cobalt torrents.
Her contemplations,
imbued through mottled rivulets,
are not inflected by the thrusts of his intentions.
She is sentient only to the malleable melds of dark then light,
his presence cast in the consequent sheathes of far pitched shade.
soaks the seep of crimson spill;
with a penchant for nostalgia,
and an awareness of its well versed chronicles,
he tends the fables countless abrasions.
And the victor, a taut helix of disquiet,
bounds against one single square of canvas;
an ardent novice,
he is not without wistful reverence,
or compassion for his champion in malevolent dance.
with a penchant for nostalgia,
and an awareness of its well versed chronicles,
he tends the fables countless abrasions.
And the victor, a taut helix of disquiet,
bounds against one single square of canvas;
an ardent novice,
he is not without wistful reverence,
or compassion for his champion in malevolent dance.
ABOUT LEWIS R HUMPHRIES
Lewis Humphries lives in Birmingham, United Kingdom, and has been writing in his spare time for over three years. He mainly writes poetry and short fiction, about anything and everything that moves him, and has now reached seventy publications.
ABOUT EUGENE YIGA
Eugene has been an active writer for over a decade and published her first book in August 2007. That spurred the creation of a personal development blog, the best entries of which have been collated for her second book, Varsity Blah (which has received over 200,000 hits from 90 countries worldwide) also opened the door to several opportunities, including regular contributions to well-known magazines, publishing a poem dedicated to her late sister in an anthology of African works, and 'Thinking Aloud' in WWP's The Wire, voted the world's number one publication in its field.
There Are No Calories In Writing
by M C Dutton
If you remember Chubby Checker and "Let's Twist Again" when it was all shiny and new, and if your children are grown up and have families of their own and you are either retired or will be retiring in a few years, then you are one of the blessed group called the Baby Boomers.
To reach this impasse in our lives is just wonderful and it doesn't feel right does it? We are far too young at heart and thanks to vitamins and a good lifestyle young in body too. I have to say some mornings I am not sure on that one but hey! The day gets better. What are we to do with ourselves now we are in our 60s?
My life is wonderful, exciting and I am experiencing areas of life I would never indulge in, or have the nerve to indulge in. How am I doing this? I write.
I am the gorgeous and feisty Clemmie whose figure just holds her dress in the right places. She is loved by every man who sees her. I am the successful Jenny who is rich, American, and mixes with the American royalty of Film Stars and Senators.
I have travelled to places and experienced fear, love and humour with people I shall never meet. I live in an altered state when writing and it is thrilling, exciting, and makes me want to write some more to see where I am going next.
How many people say they would like to write a book but never get started. How many people write the first chapter and leave it. There is a book in all of us, so I have been told.
I am a 1960s woman. I married when I was 19 years old, had three children, loved them and nurtured them and waved them goodbye as they left to lead their own lives. This was about the same time I waved goodbye to my marriage of 35 years.
What is a woman to do when the only life she has known disappears? Some turn to chocolate, some to drink, some might find solace in a toy boy but all are either fattening, lonely or very tiring.
I had a friend who took solace in a toy boy. It ruined her health. She was a walking wreck. God made us energetic in our youth and sanguine in later years. After a while she dreaded going home to her youthful Adonis who thought any comments alluding to sleep and bed meant rampant sex. The final straw was the suggestion of a weekend away where they could make love all day and night when all she wanted to do was sit in her pyjamas and watch television and sleep. He had to go!
I see this time as my time. I have always wanted to write. I started years ago by making up stories I would tell my children at playgroup. I dabbled with some short stories when my youngsters became teenagers. The novel started in a moment of boredom at work when there was nothing to do. I got hooked and I haven't looked back.
Divorce is horrible and I could escape into a wonderland of characters and situations that I would never have dared to enter. I did it, I finished my first novel. You have to be brave and resilient. I couldn't find an agent. They were either too busy with existing clients or didn't deal in my type of fiction. I celebrated my 60th birthday year by self publishing with a well researched publisher who I have found to be incredibly professional. My book was my child and now fully formed, I wanted to nudge it out into the world. I want everyone to love my child as I do.
To publish your own book was awesome and the most amazing experience. There was proof reading and a cover to be designed and discussed. There was something to write about the book to go on the back. I had a ball working with my publishers on this. Every month there was something to be pleased about. The finished product made me proud and okay, I cried, so shoot me, I am a woman.
Oh yes, it cost me. I am a 60s child and resourceful. I had a small pension that I converted to pay for the book. It was worth every penny of the £5000 it eventually cost which includes media work, going into catalogues etc. Nothing is free these days. I get to spend my free time looking on Amazon to see who has left me a comment on my book and who else is selling it. All the clicks on certain websites must be all mine.
I have a small following of readers. My first two books I have published and I have just finished a third book which is ready for publication hopefully later this year and the fourth is beckoning me.
By the time we have reached our age, our experiences in life are countless and you would be amazed by how much you know about life. I have been involved in criminality in my working life and my voluntary life for many years so I have a host of stories and characters that I can use in my writings. Some of my villains are pretty dreadful and they are based on certain people who I have known in my various roles.
I am a woman alone and proud of it. "If only" is not something I will ever say. I have the time now to write and it is the most liberating, fulfilling and joyous pastime.
I have made myself proud and my children proud of me. I want my books to be a success but I think I am a success already. I have done something I can leave my children. Who knows what anyone is capable of until they try. Give it a go. Put an idea down on paper. It could be the start of a big adventure. If you are really, really lucky, it could be your way of earning your living.
To be able to call yourself an author feels good. I have proved that if you are brave, if you want something badly, are resourceful and keep at it, anything is possible.
Good luck in your writings. Everyone is looking for a good book to read and that could be yours.
To reach this impasse in our lives is just wonderful and it doesn't feel right does it? We are far too young at heart and thanks to vitamins and a good lifestyle young in body too. I have to say some mornings I am not sure on that one but hey! The day gets better. What are we to do with ourselves now we are in our 60s?
My life is wonderful, exciting and I am experiencing areas of life I would never indulge in, or have the nerve to indulge in. How am I doing this? I write.
I am the gorgeous and feisty Clemmie whose figure just holds her dress in the right places. She is loved by every man who sees her. I am the successful Jenny who is rich, American, and mixes with the American royalty of Film Stars and Senators.
I have travelled to places and experienced fear, love and humour with people I shall never meet. I live in an altered state when writing and it is thrilling, exciting, and makes me want to write some more to see where I am going next.
How many people say they would like to write a book but never get started. How many people write the first chapter and leave it. There is a book in all of us, so I have been told.
I am a 1960s woman. I married when I was 19 years old, had three children, loved them and nurtured them and waved them goodbye as they left to lead their own lives. This was about the same time I waved goodbye to my marriage of 35 years.
What is a woman to do when the only life she has known disappears? Some turn to chocolate, some to drink, some might find solace in a toy boy but all are either fattening, lonely or very tiring.
I had a friend who took solace in a toy boy. It ruined her health. She was a walking wreck. God made us energetic in our youth and sanguine in later years. After a while she dreaded going home to her youthful Adonis who thought any comments alluding to sleep and bed meant rampant sex. The final straw was the suggestion of a weekend away where they could make love all day and night when all she wanted to do was sit in her pyjamas and watch television and sleep. He had to go!
I see this time as my time. I have always wanted to write. I started years ago by making up stories I would tell my children at playgroup. I dabbled with some short stories when my youngsters became teenagers. The novel started in a moment of boredom at work when there was nothing to do. I got hooked and I haven't looked back.
Divorce is horrible and I could escape into a wonderland of characters and situations that I would never have dared to enter. I did it, I finished my first novel. You have to be brave and resilient. I couldn't find an agent. They were either too busy with existing clients or didn't deal in my type of fiction. I celebrated my 60th birthday year by self publishing with a well researched publisher who I have found to be incredibly professional. My book was my child and now fully formed, I wanted to nudge it out into the world. I want everyone to love my child as I do.
To publish your own book was awesome and the most amazing experience. There was proof reading and a cover to be designed and discussed. There was something to write about the book to go on the back. I had a ball working with my publishers on this. Every month there was something to be pleased about. The finished product made me proud and okay, I cried, so shoot me, I am a woman.
Oh yes, it cost me. I am a 60s child and resourceful. I had a small pension that I converted to pay for the book. It was worth every penny of the £5000 it eventually cost which includes media work, going into catalogues etc. Nothing is free these days. I get to spend my free time looking on Amazon to see who has left me a comment on my book and who else is selling it. All the clicks on certain websites must be all mine.
I have a small following of readers. My first two books I have published and I have just finished a third book which is ready for publication hopefully later this year and the fourth is beckoning me.
By the time we have reached our age, our experiences in life are countless and you would be amazed by how much you know about life. I have been involved in criminality in my working life and my voluntary life for many years so I have a host of stories and characters that I can use in my writings. Some of my villains are pretty dreadful and they are based on certain people who I have known in my various roles.
I am a woman alone and proud of it. "If only" is not something I will ever say. I have the time now to write and it is the most liberating, fulfilling and joyous pastime.
I have made myself proud and my children proud of me. I want my books to be a success but I think I am a success already. I have done something I can leave my children. Who knows what anyone is capable of until they try. Give it a go. Put an idea down on paper. It could be the start of a big adventure. If you are really, really lucky, it could be your way of earning your living.
To be able to call yourself an author feels good. I have proved that if you are brave, if you want something badly, are resourceful and keep at it, anything is possible.
Good luck in your writings. Everyone is looking for a good book to read and that could be yours.
The Second Movement
by Eugene Yiga
He knew something was wrong the minute she walked into the room. Her bloodshot eyes could barely keep themselves open and there was a distinct smell of alcohol on her breath. It had become all too familiar as of late. He knew that what she was about to do was something she'd spent a long time considering. And then she said those words. 'I don't think I want to do this anymore. I don't know why.'
She began to nod repeatedly as though confident she'd done the right thing. Still, it didn't do much to shake the same uneasiness she had while waiting for the doctor to give her the news. Silence. He didn't know what to say. His eyes were closed and he was breathing deeply trying to come to terms with what was happening. He frowned almost imperceptibly and then opened them. And then he said those words. 'I don't know what to say.'
She looked at him in disbelief and had to shake the impending drowsiness from her face and wipe the imaginary drool from her lips. This wasn't the response she was hoping for. There was a smothered flash in her eyes that wanted more than that. But she knew it wasn't going to happen. Things had been so different ever since the accident. He was no longer her shepherd and she was no longer his lamb. All he did these days was spend hours alone staring at his notebook on the balcony. He would come back inside, run his fingers through his hair, and crumple up the pages even though they were blank.
It had been six months since that fateful day tore their relationship apart. He couldn't remember the last time he saw her sober eyes sparkle and she wouldn't remember the last time she saw him smile his quirky smile. Maybe she drank because she wanted him to rescue her the way he couldn't rescue her then. And maybe her attempt to end things for good was the only way she could finally get him to be the man he once was. But nothing seemed to bring that man to life. The burning tears rolled down her face and her imploring hands tried to coax his listless ones to life. It was all in vain.
Feeling her hands in his made him think of their first date. She'd never been to a symphony concert and was about to experience one of the best. It was Dvorak's "From the New World". She was so captivated by the third movement that he had to quickly restrain her hands before they burst into premature applause. The wild energy made her think of him. And yet there was a painful beauty in the second movement that made her uncomfortable even though it touched him time and again. The second movement was who he was but the third movement was who she wanted him to be.
The corners of his mouth moved as though a little unsure of what they were doing. He began to smile. By now she was sobbing openly. All she wanted was for him to prove that he still loved her and that he still cared. She wanted him to fight the way he used to. She wanted him to find the passion that used to infuse every part of his life. But it was gone. And he had no intention of bringing it back. There was a peace and stability in his life that she angrily wished was hers.
And then he said those words.
'I don't know what to say.'
Paper Scraps and Plumes to Home
by Dylan McCabe
His
fingers
trace the
peripheries of
a torn paper scrap,
it's pale dappled by
the tricks of sallow light. Pressed
into course halves, drawn contents
lapse amongst the hand folded furrows.
One single line of handwritten text,
in illegible scrawl, prefixed by
the numeric twenty one. A
plume to distant home,
and the corporeal
remainder of
a listless,
infant
memory.
No
medley
of varied
radiance has
proffered actual
lucidity, not the
taper glare of synthetic
day, or the bristling of a
luminescent summer's rage. Instead,
despite the exhaustive focus of
confounded adolescence, the
purpose of the prose is bound
by its inscription; from ink
seeped threads, the sun
of his narrative
drapes in
imposed
torpor.
Just
one sheet's
breadth from the
bare shimmer of
a single flame, its
corners furl at the touch
of rapacious blaze. A seared
helix through the drift of flight,
its embers rasp amidst the flare of
kindled angst.
fingers
trace the
peripheries of
a torn paper scrap,
it's pale dappled by
the tricks of sallow light. Pressed
into course halves, drawn contents
lapse amongst the hand folded furrows.
One single line of handwritten text,
in illegible scrawl, prefixed by
the numeric twenty one. A
plume to distant home,
and the corporeal
remainder of
a listless,
infant
memory.
No
medley
of varied
radiance has
proffered actual
lucidity, not the
taper glare of synthetic
day, or the bristling of a
luminescent summer's rage. Instead,
despite the exhaustive focus of
confounded adolescence, the
purpose of the prose is bound
by its inscription; from ink
seeped threads, the sun
of his narrative
drapes in
imposed
torpor.
Just
one sheet's
breadth from the
bare shimmer of
a single flame, its
corners furl at the touch
of rapacious blaze. A seared
helix through the drift of flight,
its embers rasp amidst the flare of
kindled angst.
Notions of Visionaries
by Dylan McCabe
Their footfall treads the tapered lines between
the peripheries of revolution,
and the mantles of a purposeless waste.
Though they mainly cross into the latter,
as the sum of their communal musings
never meet the affirmation of deed.
But instead amble into chronicles,
and the conscience of well dressed minds
as reflections for pontification;
and nothing else, not for the purpose of
rebellion or prerequisite change,
but the pretensions of an evening debate.
Through such paths of learned discourse,
they subsist only to conciliate
the supercilious sense of worth.
And through multifarious weaves of theoretic,
as assertions of self perceived
genius, they are effectual notions.
Deemed far beyond the reach of ordinary minds,
or the comprehension of laymen,
who affect concept into corporeal being.
This surfeit of intellectual silage,
ordained only to exist in knowing whispers
as the futile notions of visionaries.
ABOUT M C DUTTON
M C Dutton has published two books “The Devil’s Tears” a love story with a supernatural twist to it. “Silent Night” a thriller set in England and America. Her third book “The Singhing Detective” is doing the rounds of Agents and Publishers at the moment. It is the first of a series of books about a Sikh detective in the Metropolitan Police Force. Again, all M C Dutton's novels have a twist at the end. She has a website www.mcdutton-writing.co.uk and it contains a chapter of each of her books. Her books are character driven and the situations bring out their raison d'etre
M C Dutton is an Essex girl and very proud of it. She has lived in Essex for most of her life. She moved to NewburyPark from the East End when she was 7 years old and lived her married life in Barkingside. She now lives in Chelmsford and loves it there. "Essex people are the friendliest people in the south of England".
M C Dutton works in Dagenham and for 5 years lived in Dagenham. Her voluntary work was in Barking so she knows the area very well. Over the years she has met all kinds of people through working voluntarily with Samaritans, mentoring, YOT Referral Panels: They range from awesomely heroic to sad, mad and seriously bad. She believes anyone is capable of any act as long as they can justify it.
She has now joined LIONS at Fairlop. This is a huge international charity organisation and wherever there is a disaster or where help is needed you can be sure the LIONS are there
M C Dutton is fascinated by people. If you talk long enough to someone you realise that no one necessarily sees life, love and the pursuit of happiness in quite the same way.
M C Dutton is an Essex girl and very proud of it. She has lived in Essex for most of her life. She moved to NewburyPark from the East End when she was 7 years old and lived her married life in Barkingside. She now lives in Chelmsford and loves it there. "Essex people are the friendliest people in the south of England".
M C Dutton works in Dagenham and for 5 years lived in Dagenham. Her voluntary work was in Barking so she knows the area very well. Over the years she has met all kinds of people through working voluntarily with Samaritans, mentoring, YOT Referral Panels: They range from awesomely heroic to sad, mad and seriously bad. She believes anyone is capable of any act as long as they can justify it.
She has now joined LIONS at Fairlop. This is a huge international charity organisation and wherever there is a disaster or where help is needed you can be sure the LIONS are there
M C Dutton is fascinated by people. If you talk long enough to someone you realise that no one necessarily sees life, love and the pursuit of happiness in quite the same way.
The End of Something
by Dylan McCabe
Beneath the window’s bay, in a perfectly
angular square of shade, there steeps the
sunken hollow beside a mound of grassy loam.
And in the space lie her remnants, arched yet
lifeless as the void dictates, an existence
smote idle by the motion of the blade.
She is consorted in indolence, (just
as in the feats of covetousness)
by her partner lying prone in juxtapose.
They were red hot lovers these two,
joined in a licentious collective, until their
ardour paid heed to the soft brogue of steel;
its whisper so persuasive, as the
contentions of an adulterous tongue,
beguiling lives along a barbed incline to
meet their end. Fleet, sinuous thrusts, and their
vigorous monotony, soon curbed the
wield of fanciful promise. Whilst song,
their song, diminishes to resonance
through a density of fabric, gallant
fleets of soil bound in time to throttled
beats. From a plunging brink towards the
fractured earth, each altruistic wisp gives itself
to the necessary exploits of reprisal.
angular square of shade, there steeps the
sunken hollow beside a mound of grassy loam.
And in the space lie her remnants, arched yet
lifeless as the void dictates, an existence
smote idle by the motion of the blade.
She is consorted in indolence, (just
as in the feats of covetousness)
by her partner lying prone in juxtapose.
They were red hot lovers these two,
joined in a licentious collective, until their
ardour paid heed to the soft brogue of steel;
its whisper so persuasive, as the
contentions of an adulterous tongue,
beguiling lives along a barbed incline to
meet their end. Fleet, sinuous thrusts, and their
vigorous monotony, soon curbed the
wield of fanciful promise. Whilst song,
their song, diminishes to resonance
through a density of fabric, gallant
fleets of soil bound in time to throttled
beats. From a plunging brink towards the
fractured earth, each altruistic wisp gives itself
to the necessary exploits of reprisal.
ABOUT DYLAN McCABE
Dylan is 27 and resides in the UK. His recent features include Forward Press poems for July 2010, Voices.net and The Virtuous Mimicry. He began writing in the summer of 2010 and admires both Dylan Thomas and George Orwell.
