Sunday, June 24, 2012

Bobbi Sinha-Morey

  Bobbi Sinha-Morey
 
 
Dark Afternoons
 
It was so simple then
 
in the dark afternoons,
 
beneath the unbroken
 
clouds and placid sky
 
when I thought I saw
 
you again on the icy
 
path coming towards
 
me in the thick snow,
 
uncovering a memory
 
that lay buried not long
 
ago. Tears of mercy
 
coated my skin and you
 
welcomed the grey light
 
of my home to sit with
 
me in the same dusty
 
chair again. I listened
 
to your words and there
 
rose a metaphor. You
 
knew I collected sadness;
 
the grief I shared inside
 
almost sagged from
 
the weight. I'd never let
 
you go again like I did
 
before; and, now that I
 
see you, your aura has
 
left a grey light on my
 
door.
 
 
A Wrinkle In Silence
 
Under the vast pallor
 
of the sky the blanched
 
morning stares in like
 
a face flattened against
 
the pane. I turn my head
 
away from the window,
 
the last memory I had was
 
the small lake wrapped
 
in its wrinkled silence.
 
I would have loved to
 
crack its mirror with a
 
rock, lay facedown in
 
the snow, chip off a crust
 
of ice for my pillow.
 
Today I raise my fist in
 
defiance of the cold.
 
The lake's icy water
 
darkly moves under
 
the wicked wind, one
 
that has stolen the
 
cloak off my wintering
 
soul.
 
 
The Silent Light
 
In the silent light
 
my secret pity has
 
not been a waste
 
when ever day I've
 
been fed on the
 
fullness of death.
 
Daylight has tapered
 
in the darkness and
 
the muted colors are
 
so lonely when I pray.
 
My eyes fall upon the
 
shadow of the moon
 
and outside my window
 
the world has forgotten
 
me as if I've been living
 
in the dark rooms of
 
the past. The solace of
 
the wind has been so
 
familiar, yet it's been
 
unkind; the air is so soft
 
but its voice is like the
 
sharp edge of bone.
 
It wants to wrap itself
 
around me while my
 
unforgiven soul is
 
always starting over.
 
 
 
I am
a reviewer for the online magazine Specusphere and a poet. My latest book of poetry, Rain Song,
is available at www.writewordsinc.com
 
 

Monday, June 18, 2012

Susan Dale


Susan’s poems and fiction are on Eastown Fiction, Tryst 3, Word Salad, Pens On Fire, Ken *Again, Hackwriters, and Penwood Review. In 2007, she won the grand prize for poetry from Oneswan. 



Courage
     By Susan Dale

Sleepwalker at the edge of a cliff

To step back to an old familiar
I must lock up my restless heart
And vow no longer
To  develop the film of would-be,
could be anticipations

Ah, long weary of clocks
tick-tocking backwards in time
Of  dry ghosts
Withering, crumbling,
Again, but again
I see them draped
In gray shrouds of yesterday
Fading, smelling of musty hopes

Feeling a heavy weight
But why?
Courage, being weightless

Beating with wide wings
to lift my soul with sails billowed
and ride over turbulent tides of fear
Past security’s shallow waters
And gamble everything on tomorrow’s turn of the wheel.


October
by Susan Dale

In the windows of October
Autumn stretches wide wings
Caught in a web, falling leaves, golden afternoons
So howls a coyote with hollow haunches
Through a orchestra of wheat

The sun with half-closed eyes
Saw summer daydreaming around the bend
And clouds with memories
Limp across the skies
To follow winds
Sad in the treetops
Winds with dolorous sighs
Singing their poems to me

A Door by Susan Dale

The door you walked out
      When you left
      Will not close
       So is left ajar
And I hear your footsteps
  Echo down a long hall
         To away

And yet does a faint light linger
    Between heart and hall
Glowing like the burning wicks
            Of candles
         In luminosities
       That leap and fall
Alas, melt into yesterday
When you went back to you

Saturday, June 9, 2012

Sated Attire

Ron Koppelberger
Sated Attire
He worked long into the evening, fashioning his garland and the suit. The exterior of the suit was silk and the interior was a reflection of his anger, his unabiding hate for the man. He lined the inside of the suit with sandpaper and when he was done he smiled at his clever creation. Perhaps he would itch and fret, maybe even bleed a bit, great gouts of blood he thought to himself. Perhaps he’d rub all the flesh from his body leaving a bleach white skeleton, clacking and clinking as it meandered about in the sandpaper. Shiny bones he thought, shiny bones like glass, easy to break, to smash into a thousand bits of splintered refuse.
The hour rapidly approached and he waited with anticipation for the man to don the sandpaper suit. Bloody flesh and scraped skin, leaking in torrents, maybe in buckets of crimson pain, sandpaper for the governor Sir, sandpaper for the governor. He hoped and prayed for the sandy grind against the man’s flesh, leaking blood and viscera, spilling to the ground in great stinking heaps. He smiled as the man approached the door to his tailor’s shop and he sang with joy.
“Wonderful splatters of blood
For the matters of his crud,
Dripping, oozing in drips and drops,
In snits and spots,
Let the sandpaper march begin with
The pardonable sin!”
The man entered the shop and looked at the suit, “Beautiful my good man, absolutely splendid!” Striping from his cloths he put the suit on.
“This is superb my fine tailor, how did you know of my skin condition? Neverthemind my man, this is a perfect fit for my dry aching skin, for you see I am affected with scales and dry patches from head to toe, thank you my man thank you!”
The man left the shop after paying a small fortune to the tailor. The suit maker sat quietly wondering at his genius and waiting for the next customer to arrive, his hate lessoned by the promise of a job well done.

A Warm October Night

Ron Koppelberger
A Warm October Night
It was October 31st and the streets were dimly lit with the lanterns and glow sticks of little boys and girls in Halloween dress. The air echoed with the faint sing-song lilt of Trick or Treat, Trick or Treat and the demon rejoiced, for it was that time, that special time where he could roam free and do as he willed. He was a dark silhouette against the side of the shed as the children passed by, unseen except for the littlest ones who cried at the darkness behind the shed. He stared after them and relished the sound of their tears as he crept forward in shadow and darkness.
There were groans and wild maniacal laughter coming from the Freemont’s house, they had violet lights and bright orange jack-o-laterns lining their drive. A host of clothing stuffed bodies lay draped across their yard and roof. The children oooohhhed and ahhhhhaaaad, they might get potato chips there or maybe even candy bars, full sized ones. Alan Freemont loved to go all out for Halloween and he was dressed to the hilt like a zombie except for the name tag that read “HI I’M ALAN“. On the front porch he had a black cardboard coffin filled with candy. Alan opened and shut the lid as each child came forward. “Cooooommmeee seeee what I have for you little onessssss!” he groaned as he lifted the lid and moaned. The crowd of children giggled and some yelled in surprise at the severed arm that Alan pulled from the coffin. “Here you gooooooo little ghouls and boysssssss!” he moaned again as the children held their pillowcases forward for the treat.
The Demon watched from across the street, wondering what Alan might taste like. He thought about his appearance for a brief instant before he began edging toward Alan’s house. Alan saw the stooped figure moving slowly across the street and a jolt of fear, real fear coursed through him in chill waves of warning. The figure moved closer revealing it’s visage to Alan in shades of black light.
Alan stood there for a moment shocked at what he was looking at. Great costume, only thing was it didn’t really look like a costume. It’s head was misshapen and pumpkin shaped and it’s eyes, those damn eyes he thought; they were dark and glowing black if that’s possible Alan thought. It’s hands were outstretched and wonting, three fingers with blood red claws and bits of loose flesh hanging from the wrists. It moved closer and opened it’s mouth greedily. What came out sounded like, “WHHHHHAAAATTTTT YOUUUUU GOOTSSSSSS FERRRR MINEEEEEEEE!” in garbled hissing spurts. Alan crossed himself and backed toward the front door of the house. “FERRRRRRRRR MMMMEEEEEEE!” it screamed as a great gout of blood sprayed from its jagged mouth. It was shoeless and it’s long scaled feet were visible, it’s toes were like water balloons, soft and flattening out with each step closer. “FEEEERRRRRRR MEEEEE!” it screamed again.
In an odd sense of De Ja Vu Alan saw the creature double and again as if it had been before. The night was warm and dark and he remembered that, the creature, leaking blood and viscera and he sensed the events that would come. It would kill him and eat him for it’s Halloween treat. He had to stop it, he had to change fate. The demon stood before him, saliva dampening its fleshy lips. It grabbed Alan’s arm and bit down hard on his wrist. Alan screamed and jerked his hand away, blood spraying from his injured wrist. “I’ve got to stop it he thought as he grabbed hold of the demon and bit down hard. “AAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHH!” the demon screamed in anguish as Alan continued to bite it even eating pieces of it’s flesh.
In the end the demon lost, Alan’s determination saw him through as he devoured the creature, every last morsel. The next year Halloween arrived warm and whispering it’s secrets. The demon stood beside the shed in utter darkness, the only clue to his identity a nametag that said “HI I’M ALAN”!