Silk Robe SpectresContinue reading “Three Poems and Three Images: Anna Saunders and Robynne Limoges”
Before Sunday Dinner
My brother scrubs hard
from his two smoking fingers
until they blush
like mortified teenagers
who scream, don’t look at us!
Niall M Oliver @NMOliverPoetry is an Irish born writer who lives in London with his wife and two boys. He takes inspiration from his roots and everyday life, and has previously been published in The Lake Poetry, as well as a couple of anthologies but has yet to meet anyone who claims to have read them.
Banner Image “Siblings” by Robert Frede Kenter. Tweets at @frede_kenter.
Yesterday at the riverfront, the water
rose so high a man washed
his socks from the rubble placed along the bank
to guard the walking path. His socks
were filthy from slogging through the Quarter
during the morning’s flood. As hot
as it was, those socks must have felt
divine on his feet, like a river of cool breeze
carrying him to his next shady spot. He did not
rush the washing. He had no need
to leave any of the river behind.
When my grandfather asked me to buy cigarettes at a local convenience store in front of our house one Saturday afternoon, I remembered what Teacher Gladys taught us in school that week.
She said cigarette smoking is bad – for the health and for the environment. I was eight when I couldn’t weigh which was worse. I didn’t want anything bad happening to my family, most especially to my grandparents.Continue reading “Rare Treats, a Flash Fiction by Angelo Lorenzo”
The Doll and Me
I hate the doll, its plumpy head,
its brunette swirls, its itsy cheeks,
its pout, its lashes, the uptight clothes,
marrowless arms, nerveless teeth,
its squeaking, the mess
it makes on the floor.
I want to detach the twee wee feet
and hammer it to the fence, drown it,
skewer it to the door, to say ‘this is what
has become of us’. Even naked
it makes me angry and afraid.
Attesting To Your Mother’s Hypocrisy
Demons invoked in the house by
sneezing — we’d call the electrician.
He’d know the psalms to be sung for it,
and the white costumes to wear.
Floating in white across the fields
of morning glories and corn, swinging
an incense burning, and a keg full
of salt water.
The Poem, Afraid
Some dog’s ghost
glares from the
I know the door
to a nuclear plant
with his teeth
captioned above it:
Some mammal was
here and such.
When our youngest
walked in on us
I was coming.
She was scared
because she heard
I kiss the bruise
a bad dream leaves
in her head
& keep an eye
on the lonely ghost.
Their child is doing voices
‘All of us have a primitive prompter or commentator within, who from earliest years has been advising us, telling us what the real world is’ – Saul Bellow.
It is hot. Outside on the landing his parents
are in readiness, hushed for the show.
Hear him now, stirring.
The whiteness of his mind, at peace, a planet,
is studio enough
where, ice-still in echoes like a deepfreeze mariner,
he inhales to begin.
To preacher-perfect O’s mimicking the next doors.
And now the imperatives to weepy Olive Oyl,
hot talk, transmissions, dogfights and now,
waspish, with accent, lisping Daffy Duck,
scolding her charges in squeaky ’78.
oh 200 grams of you
today they told me you will be a woman
a girl, a girl
we are having a baby girl
I will be a father
and with this great news
I’m hurt by the privilege
that continues existing
that besides all of the battles
will exist when you are born
you don’t have to be a princess
or wear pink
(unless that be your desire)