®© Alternate Route, 2021 

ISSN 2767-0317

Fall 2021 (Date of first publication: October 31st)

Editor: Michael Starr 

Cover art: Lift by Arden Hunter 

Contributors: Afra Ahmad, Arden Hunter, Bernard Pearson, Beth Mulcahy, Charlie Bowden, David Brady, Devika Mathur, Havard Cassandra, Jade Gaynor, Jody Rae, Laszlo Aranyi, Michael Igoe, M Patrick Riggin, Mike Hickman, Sam Szanto, Sarah Robin, Scott Cumming, Shiksha Dheda 

This periodical proudly produced without institutional funding.

To submit, please see our website at <alternateroute.org> for guidelines.

Edited in California.

Likenesses and similarities to any person, peoples, place, or institution past or present are purely coincidental and do not suggest identity or reference.

Table of Contents

Writing

Sarah Robin

Metamorphosis

Thrive

Laszlo Aranyi

Diadalszekér (Chariot)

Chariot

Homunculus [Hungarian]

Homunculus [English]

Jody Rae

Cat Hair

Empty Calories

Beth Mulcahy

Heart Flame

Queen Anne’s Lace

PTSD

Starving

Mike Hickman

1 to 1 to 1 to 1, with the 1 equalling You, always You

My take on local news with traditional shoehorned side order of disguised national news and desperate filler from a remarkably familiar, Russian-oligarch owned newspaper.

Afra Ahmad

down the stairs

i want to know

what do i do

Bernard Pearson

Big Dipper

Jade Gaynor

Lonely

Waves

A World in Which the Black Panther Party Logo Appears on a Box in My Parents’ Garage

Hailey

Limit

Sam Szanto

Hearing Vivaldi’s ‘Winter – The Four Seasons’

Michael Igoe

Advisory

And Suchlike

Bonneau’s Landing

Scientist

David Brady

It Came Through My Window One Night

The Grandfather Clock

Talent

Havard Cassandra

Thanks to the Fallen, I am free

Charlie Bowden

Luna Selene

Starlight

The Fold

The Red Rose

Devika Mathur

Barren Days

Scott Cumming

Burning Embers

Three Nil Down

Filling the Void

Demigods

Shiksha Dheda

The Unopened Rose

A Garden

Chocolate Cake

Art

Arden Hunter

Believe

Walk

Fraught

Brook

Flap

Last steps

M Patrick Riggin

Courthouse

Chestnut Ridge

Duquesne Fog

Metamorphosis 

by Sarah Robin 

“I’m not going!” I throw my arms into the air with frustration. My dad pokes his head around the door to see what’s going on. Seeing that the coast is clear and there aren’t any objects flying across the room, he enters my bedroom and stands behind me looking at my reflection in the mirror. I stare at his large hairy hands placed on my shoulders. “Deep breath, son.” He picks up my tie, untangles it and drapes it around my neck, tying it into a perfect knot.  

“What if he sees the chair and changes his mind?” I scowl, my head cloudy with negative thoughts. “Then he’s obviously not the one for you.” My dad had a hard time accepting my sexuality, but he took it far better than knowing I’ll be stuck in this chair for the rest of my life. So what if I date other guys? I can’t swim, I can’t play football, I can’t go motorcycle racing with him. I can’t do all the things with him that we loved doing together as father and son. Being gay is trivial compared to the loss of my ‘old life’.  

In the car, I sit staring out the window, my stomach turning over with nerves, my dad humming ‘Streets of London’ as we make our way to the restaurant. Once I’m in my chair and ready to go, he pauses for a moment and his eyes go a little red. “Hey, son.” He looks me up and down. “You look great.” He sniffs, smiles and then leans forward and nudges me on the arm. “I’m proud of you, son. Now you go and have a good night.”  

I tell him I love him and start to roll away as panic starts to set in. What if there are steps? What if the table is the wrong height for my chair? What will he think of me? Will he be annoyed I didn’t tell him I use a chair? Thoughts race through my head as I approach the entrance to the restaurant. “Great, no steps. Good start.” I reassure myself silently. I arrive at the doors and just as I go to reach the door handle, a middle-aged guy and his wife spot me and they hold the doors open for me. “Cheers!” I thank them. “So far so good.” I begin to ease a little.  

A young waitress strides over in her white blouse and black apron. “Reservation?” she squeaks. I confirm my name. “Great, your party has already arrived. Just this way, please.” Oh god, he’s already here! I don’t have any time to settle in and make sure everything is ok. I follow the waitress past many tables, conscious of the odd person looking up from their tables to look over at me, especially children who gawp at me until I’m out of sight.  

We turn into a quieter area with a log fire and an impressive chimney breast. “There we are. Can I get you some drinks?” The waitress’ voice sounds muffled in my overwhelmed reaction to meeting Ryan for the first time after speaking online for a little over six months.  

“Same again for me, please.” His voice is lower than I thought it would be. “I’ll have what he’s having.” I stammer. He smiles warmly at me, the orange glow from the log fire flickers onto his face. “Great, I’ll move this chair over.” I thank her and park myself into the spot. I stay silent for a moment, unsure as to what to say. I decide to let him speak first.  

“Well, isn’t this a surprise.” He grins, looking at the chair. I immediately spill out apologies and try to explain the many reasons why I didn’t mention anything about the chair beforehand. Before I could go any further, he raises his hand and I instantly stop my spiel. He calmly leans over to one side and points towards a wheelchair folded up behind him. “Me too!” He laughs. I sit open-mouthed and we both giggle uncontrollably. “No way! What are the chances?” We echo each other. This perfect ice breaker relaxes me and the twisting sensation in my stomach eases. Our drinks arrive and we order our food; our starters and mains identical with a dessert to share.  

“How long have you used a chair?” I ask. “Parachuting accident four years ago. I did a jump for charity and the parachute got tangled and we had a pretty hard landing.” He explained. “What about you?” I tell him about the car accident; about how mum had died and dad blamed himself, even though it wasn’t his fault. “I’m sorry” he frowned.  

“This is my first time out in public on my own since getting the chair, so I was pretty nervous about not having someone with me in case I got stuck. But then again I didn’t fancy my dad joining us!” I joke. Ryan explains he had a few guys stop talking to him online after he told them he uses a chair so he figured just to get to know someone well enough to meet up and take it from there.  

We speak a little about the emotional and psychological effects of using a chair and it comforted me to know he is fully independent, lives on his own, has a great job and plays a lot of sports. “You’re welcome to come along on Tuesday night and meet the team. Bring your dad along, too. It can be something you can do together,” he said enthusiastically. “How could he play?” I ask, confused. “He would need to use a spare chair from the sports hall,” he explained. I didn’t know if wheelchair basketball would be his thing, but it was worth mentioning, I suppose.  

We finish our dessert, argue over who pays for the bill and get ready to leave. I watch him get into his chair quickly with ease. Once outside, we say goodnight and say we’ll talk later. I roll around the corner to the car park, a contented smile on my face. I enter the carpark to find, to my surprise, my dad’s car already waiting for me. I knock on the driver’s side window and wake up my snoring, drooling dad. After some disorientation he rolls down the window.  

“How long have you been here?” I laughed. “I never left. Just in case, you know, you needed me or things didn’t work out,” he admitted. “You silly sod!” I go round to the passenger side and heave myself into the car with his help. He pushes the door shut and hauls my chair into the boot when I feel my phone vibrate; 

         RYAN 

It was great meeting you tonight. See you Tuesday for  

Basketball : ) I’ll msg you later to sort out our next 

date, my treat this time xx 

“I take it it went well then, yeah?” he asked, spotting the smile on my face. “I’m taking you out on Tuesday, Dad. Bring your gym shorts.” 

Thrive 

by Sarah Robin 

A nation of back-garden farmers 

Sowing, tending, nibbling 

Our way through lockdown. 

A positive lifeline 

And escape outdoors.  

We reach peak harvest,  

Savour what we’ve grown,  

Bottle up that goodness  

With all the energy and love.  

We owe it to ourselves  

Not to waste a bit. 

An old skill or a new discovery,  

A positive force of good 

Nurturing and feeding us 

In so many ways, 

Bringing together generations,  

Communities and cultures.  

Nature belongs to us all 

And in the times of change ahead 

We can all thrive through gardening. 

Diadalszekér (Chariot) 

(Tarot, Nagy Arkánum VII.) 

by Laszlo Aranyi 

               Az illeszkedés kísérlete elárul.
       Kiközösít a nyáj. A különb kérge küszöb,
       s a kint-bent ugyanúgy sehol. Tűnő káprázat, 

              ha élősdi fény sziszeg kígyó-fürtökön;
küllőitől megfosztott kerék az Örök 

       Körforgás.  

Féllábú, pingvin-képű cukros bácsi bámul a kapualjból,  

       tökhéj-bárkák úsznak 

              a lemeztelenített, reszkető víz testén.)  

Minden állítás igaz. S ugyanúgy az ellentéte is. 

       Bűnös, aki összehasonlít, megkülönböztet; 

kápó a fogyasztói társadalom átnevelő táboraiban…  

Nem ural már érdek, düh, szánalom,
       átmeneti formák az élők, a lét
              szüntelen vágta hulla-halmokon.
A röfögve négykézlábra ereszkedők
kényszerítik harcra  

a felegyenesedőt.  

Chariot 

(Tarot, Major Arcana VII.) 

by Laszlo Aranyi 

       The attempt to fit in betrays you. 

The flock excludes you. The better one’s bark is the threshold, 

in or out is the same as nowhere.  Transient delusion, 

          if parasite light hisses on snake clusters. 

Eternal Cycle is a wheel deprived of its  

       spokes. 

A one-legged, penguin faced candy man’s staring  

from the doorway, 

              pumpkin barges swim 

on the bare body of the quivering water. 

All statements are true. And so are their opposites. 

       The sinner is who compares, distinguishes, 

he’s the capo in the reeducation camps of consumer society… 

Interest, anger, and pity aren’t dominating me anymore, 

       these are the temporary forms of living,  

                     a relentless galloping on the piles of corpses. 

Those grunting on all fours 

force  

the one who stands up straight 

to fight. 

(Translated by Gabor Gyukics) 

Homunculus 

by Laszlo Aranyi 

                            Csenevész, szőrös újszülöttet főz…  

- Mi a lófaszt csinál komámasszony?  

       „Kifőzzük a kilenc ördögöt belőle.” 

Kilenc koravén, kacsalábú gnóm, 

       istenkísértő praktikák 

              szülöttei. Ez a kölyök mumifikáltan is  

(pergamen-tapintású, hámló, aszalmány-bőrű) a jászol szégyene.  

Kóborló szarvasok ákása-képét 

       űzik, hajszolják agyafúrt 

lőcslábú kopói. Kilenc lépésnyire a folyó, kilenc Hold ül a 

              mozdulatlan víz fölött. 

A teremtő Uzsorás hétrét 

       görnyedve ural valós és vélt 

világot. Cinkelt lapot oszt, 

              s őrzik termékeny irkafirkák 

a kilenc kristályszerkezetű Gonoszt. 

Homunculus 

by Laszlo Aranyi 

                            Cooking a scrawny, hairy newborn...
- What the fuck are you doing, cummer? 

       "We'll boil the nine devils out of him."
Nine precocious, duck-legged gnomes,
       born by God-tempting practices of witchcraft.  

This brat is not even mummified.
(parchment-coated, peeling, scaly-skinned) he is a   disgrace to the crib.
       His shrewd, bow-legged hounds chase  

and hunt the stray deers' akasha image. 

Nine paces from the river, nine moons sit
       above the motionless water.
Usurer, the sevenfold crouching creator rules
                                   the real and the imagined world. 

He deals zinc-clad cards
       while fertile scribbles guard
the nine crystal-structured Villains. 

(Translated by Gabor Gyukics) 

Believe by Arden Hunter

Cat Hair 

by Jody Rae 

One roommate heard somewhere that the most effective way to achieve dreadlocks  

over a short period of time  

was to use egg whites and aerosol hair products.  

I sat at my vanity and let four fellow white college girls twist and shred my dirty blond hair into tiny matted ropes using their bare hands and a rattail comb.  

They sealed the locs with egg whites and extra-hold hair spray and, fearing their sculpture  

might be water-soluble, told me not to wash my hair.  

The dreads lasted three weeks until I could no longer abide  

the colony of raw egg pathogens likely terraforming all over my head and pillowcase; 

a live culture, appropriating. 

J-Lo was delivering her SNL opening monologue, wearing her famous backwards dress, when 

I sat in front of the hallway mirror and full-sober sawed off my locs two inches from my scalp with a pair of orange-handled Fiskars. As the scissors released each ropy twist, I felt bubbly, tipsy;  

light as green Versace silk chiffon in a wind machine. 

I left my hair in a pile on the hallway carpet to spook my roommates when they came home from the parties. That’s the kind of person I am.  

Two roommates stumbled in and saw the locs on the floor. A lone dread snaked out from the pile. The drunk roommate kneeled and snuggled into the pile. 

“It’s our cat. Pet the cat.”  

We didn’t have a cat.  

Empty Calories 

by Jody Rae 

Our Santa Cruz Street duplex is lit up when Paloma parks. I clutch Jeremy’s pillow from his Berkeley sublet and stagger out of Paloma’s backseat, exhausted, hungry, ready for bed. Siobhan is passed out on a porch chair. Some guy with black hair and sideburns kneels before her, cradling her head and stroking her alabaster face. “She didn’t eat enough.”  

Our house is full of Abercrombie & Fitch associates from Siobhan’s closing shift, plus their friends. Three hot as fuck A&F’ers raid the fridge, shattering a pickle jar on the linoleum. Three strangers spread their legs on the couch, holding beers while watching “Waking Life” on mute. An Incubus song blares from the stereo. I hear Paloma down the hall yelling at some kid we’ll soon find out has an extensive criminal record. “Why are you in Siobhan’s room? Did you take something?”  

A group of guys stare at the Abercrombie photo mural on our living room wall, a retired store display Siobhan took home last season, showing a shirtless man getting out of a pool in black and white. The guys on the couch thumb an Abercrombie catalogue, pausing over all the T&A spread across the pages.  

Julie sits inside the refrigerator door, feeding slices of Paloma’s lunch meat to Hey Mister as he lounges with his head in her lap, his silver tags glinting under the refrigerator light. Julie laughs and takes a swig from a vodka bottle, probably her only meal that day. We named the neighbor's wandering puppy after that awful song by Custom that made me cry the first time I heard it. We really are just lumps of flesh to some boys, aren’t we?  

Paloma grabs my arm. “Someone just drove away in Siobhan’s truck and backed over the fence.” I hold her hand while she phones the police. The music is silenced; the search party begins. Jeremy helps carry Siobhan to her bed where she stays until late morning, out cold and oblivious.  

Hours later, an officer calls Paloma. He found the brand new Tacoma pulled to a curb three streets over, slightly dented. All of Siobhan’s cds are strewn across the asphalt. The officer picks one up. “Led Zeppelin, alright! Well, you can drive the truck home. Have your housemate file a report in the morning. Try to get some sleep.” 

No one sleeps or eats that night, and the Abercrombie boys never come back again. 

Walk by Arden Hunter

Heart Flame 

by Beth Mulcahy 

up 

side  

down or  

rightside up 

 flames can be 

 touched but not held 

 I am trying to hand my 

 heart over to you as an upturned 

 dancing flame gasping to feed on your  

 breath growing full fueled by the oxygen of 

hope emitting palpable vulnerability to stamping 

out as it slips through the spaces between your 

fingers onto the ground at our feet trembling to be 

trampled. I bend to scoop up the dying ember  

to save what can be salvaged before it dies 

out altogether to put it back inside  

of me where it belongs safely  

upside down again 

Queen Anne’s Lace 

by Beth Mulcahy 

walking around the arboretum 

under a bright hot summer sun 

taking pictures of flowers and trees,  

I saw Queen Anne’s Lace 

and thought about what made you happy 

when you were here 

you were grandma 

and we would play 

I Spy With My Little Eye 

now I see you, a beautiful young woman 

in black and white photos 

jet black bone straight hair  

curled to perfection every time 

I spy someone I miss 

and start to cry 

I imagine your disapproving look  

scowl-lipped, shaking head 

saying don’t waste your time  

it’s more than thirty years 

I’m gone 

I see you hand me a tissue  

feel your arm around me 

as you tsk tsk my tears dry 

I still feel how it felt  

when they told me you were gone 

my insides gutted hollow 

throbbing in dread 

bringing you back like this  

I miss you in a weepy way  

like wandering a cemetary 

crying for the dead  

driving home the sky gets dark  

giant drops pelt the windshield 

until it’s hard to see anything at all 

I think about the photos  

what I can’t see outside the frames 

I’m gutted all over again 

you look lovestruck there  

but so unhappy here  

like you couldn’t smile 

after your love died 

but you carried on so many years 

I wonder what we would have been  

if I had ever been more than a kid to you 

you would have shown me how to grow things  

like the flowers we saw today 

how to prune roses 

without getting stuck 

Sitting in the driveway in the car 

It’s raining too hard to get out 

You’d say keep your sunglasses on 

don’t turn your tears into a problem 

hold your head high 

and carry on 

I spy with my little eye 

stoicism in you 

building up in me 

PTSD 

by Beth Mulcahy 

The glass was always half full  

until it started to look half empty  

then it shattered into shards  

like your war stories  

and we search for shards everywhere now  

selecting each one to scrutinize  

in the light  

and piece together  

again  

in a way that holds water 

Fraught by Arden Hunter

Starving 

by Beth Mulcahy 

i look down and watch them all day long 

but my hands are not my own 

only bones and veins 

vivid blue as winding rivers 

nor are my eyes my own 

they cannot see 

what isn’t there anymore 

nor is my mind my own 

i don’t control it 

it controls my senses and self 

the light is fading slowly 

as i pretend it grows brighter 

i can’t reach beyond my shadow world 

the hazy fog is thick and overwhelming 

you could lead me out  

if you can find your way through it to me 

take my strange hands in yours 

make them my own again 

help me to see again 

show me how to make my mind 

my own again 

1 to 1 to 1 to 1, with the 1 equalling You, always You 

by Mike Hickman 

What has the staff member enjoyed most/least since their last supervision meeting?  

N.B. The answer, “not having supervision meetings” is not acceptable. Please tick Box D below for the attention of HR so we can keep an eye on the sarcastic bugger. Equally, “sitting at home and scratching myself in front of Netflix” lacks an adequate focus on the job in hand. Although, if they’ve given you that answer, it’s possibly a good idea not to use the phrase “job in hand” in your follow-up question. 

What tasks/activities do you feel confident doing here?  

N.B. The “clever” response will focus on this room right now, i.e. “sitting here talking to you”. Again, please tick Box D below for the attention of HR. If necessary – i.e. if you’ve made the mistake of scheduling the meeting late on a Friday afternoon – prompt the employee with the tasks/activities about which they might have a reasonable chance of expressing confidence. No leading questions, though. Suggesting “showing up within half an hour of your scheduled start time” might well give them grounds to assume you’re not on their side. You’re not, but they don’t need to know that, at least until writing up the targets they can’t achieve at the end of the session. 

What’s your biggest challenge right now?  

N.B. Ensure adequate size of chair and that the heating is neither too high nor likely to invoke the brass monkeys that might otherwise be your answer.  

N.N.B. Quite clearly, the employee will not be honest about this – remember the Mr Scott principle: never tell the boss how long a job is going to take. The same holds true for challenges. They’re unlikely to be real challenges. Make note of what is offered up and then check the Shared Drive to see if they’ve finished the job months back and they’re just taking the piss. 

How can I get more involved in workplace culture? / Are there any aspects of our culture you wish you could change?  

N.B. Best asked without blinking. If necessary, interrogate the ceiling tiles until they offer something they think might relate to workplace culture. This will be the most telling question of all – please note Boxes E – G below for the attention of HR. Answers relating solely to buying milk and the dishwasher are of concern, and if you find the bastard who keeps blocking the downstairs loo, please tick Box H and Facilities will be in touch with the photographic evidence for the follow-up disciplinary. 

How can I best support you? / How can you best support me?  

N.B. You’ll know what counts as an inappropriate answer to this one, although it might give you the heads up on future behaviour to watch out for. 

Completed supervision forms should be written up by the line manager and forwarded to employee and HR within one week of the scheduled meeting. If any of the above questions present difficulties, please don’t hesitate to contact Derek in HR and he’ll make sure to write it up in advance on your own appraisal form. Either that or just fudge your way through it as you usually do – you don’t think anyone actually reads these things, do you? 

My take on local news with traditional shoehorned side order of disguised national news and desperate filler from a remarkably familiar, Russian-oligarch owned newspaper. 

by Mike Hickman 

Reporter Benjamin Bench helps himself to a serving of The Evening News in South Sumpchester and drives away with mixed feelings. 

Not Pictured: The Sumpchester Evening News’ front page, because you might as well look at this one. 

When I set off to collect my takeaway news, my chief concern is always the parking. 

Yes, I know it’s a peculiar opening, and not what you were expecting, but bear with me (he’s reviewing a newspaper and he’s mostly bothered about the parking? Surely his chief concern is news? I mean, hello? Have you read my other articles? I churn out eight a day for this rag, and that’s on a slow day.) 

You see, like you, I want to get in and out in as quickly as possible. (You’ve got to imagine I’m writing all of this with a vision of you in my head. Which, I think, is probably better than you reading this with a vision of me in yours. Oh, and by the way, that innuendo you smirked at there – have it on me, because we’ve got to be cheeky chappies in our reporting, now, haven’t we? As the money runs out and the offices close and the staff who used to work for one city now find themselves writing copy for half the country, just making sure to put in local place names for verisimilitude, we’re got to maintain that journalistic insouciance. Like nothing really matters. Because, our bosses are so keen to tell us, nothing does).  

But I digress. 

As we all know, convenience is paramount these days. We want our news, but we want it as swiftly as possible. None of that unnecessary fannying about (bit of the old tabloid lingo, there) waiting for stories to be confirmed by a second source. Or even an initial one. No, what we want is our daily reminder that other people in town have it worse than we do, and the townies and the thugs have been given the frighteners by the local bobbies.  

But how does this relate to the parking, I hear you ask? The 30% of you who’ve made it down to this bit of the page (because I’ve done the psychology about how people read headlines, then bylines, then maybe the lead paragraph, before their attention proceeds to dribble down the page, idly looking for anything shocking, surprising or amusing, or just flicking to the next page and the next story). 

It relates to the parking because there were easily a hundred or so parking spaces and I could have my pick. Generously spaced bays, including one for an editor whose car was, of course, not to be found because he’ll be based somewhere else in the country entirely. And, from that, I had my takeaway, didn’t I? I knew what the news would be like in the paper even before I read it. I knew there’d be the story about a new chocolate bar on sale in B & M for 49p (11p off recommended price). I knew that a large amount of the story would have come from Twitter. I knew the by-line would come from the nuttiest of those comments (“some people said it should be illegal”). I knew because I’d actually “written” that one, wondering if it would get past whatever passes for quality control in local papers these days. Knowing that they’d print it anyway. 

Like they’ve printed this, too. So, no, I’m sorry I can’t say I recommend the Sumpchester Evening News. Although I do look forward to seeing this article, word-for-word, repeated there, only with another paper’s name inserted. 

down the stairs 

by Afra Ahmad 

you say you know everything about me 

almost but not everything, here's a courageous confession: 

you don't know what distresses me the most 

the magnitude of how terrified I am to harm a man of muscles 

so I go out of my way 

down the stairs of comfort and freedom 

to be an empyreal pillow 

for everyone to dispose of their tears  

but some days this feeble pillow  

is so engaged in  

combatting his own specters and fevers  

that his actions stab few hearts 

unwillingly, unintentionally  

In sooth, I do not want to hurt anyone 

I want to be kind and tender and soft 

who wants to share the bitterness  

of the leaves of Azadirachta indica? 

 I want to help mortals by building an encouraging raft 

I want to be kind and tender and soft 

but what is mere wanting 

 if not converted into acting? 

i want to know 

by Afra Ahmad 

for you to get over 

the loss of your 

mother's mother 

i know it is so 

hard as if asking a  

man without hands 

to hold a  

bundle of timber 

to lose the love 

that was vaster  

than the Caspian sea 

i know it is so  

hard for you are 

used to a fragrance  

not many have 

had the chance  

to savor 

but when you  

move on, for once 

spare some time 

to consider the  

magnitude of my pain 

and let me know  

what is it like to  

be caressed by 

crinkled hands 

and just continue  

holding them 

for hours  

when you know  

the edifice of the 

world you had  

assembled carefully 

has disintegrated 

yet again 

what is it like to be 

cared and loved 

for who you are  

not for what you  

can do, not for what  

you can lend 

what is it like 

to place your  

vulnerable head on  

the safe lap 

of your grandmother 

and dauntlessly let 

the tears drizzle 

the way they prefer 

even when everyone's 

watching with  

eyes like eagles 

i do not know  

for my mother's 

mother died before 

i entered this world. 

what do i do 

by Afra Ahmad 

to become a poet  

they say you have 

to learn the correct  

spelling 

memorize  

the complex names 

of all the delicate herbs 

of all the tiny seeds 

of all the  

captivating flowers 

what do i do 

with  

the deep-rooted  

softness of a poet  

but frustrating 

maladies named  

ADHD and Dementia 

i strive to  

focus on ruddy roses 

just them but 

my mind  

moves to  

far away lands where  

placid daisies grow  

and  

no one gathers them 

for their beloveds 

sometimes when i'm 

rinsing my face 

i plan 

a whole poem  

with a 

terrific rhyme scheme 

even if i say  

so myself  

but when i sit down on 

my battered desk  

with a pen  

and a sheet 

i'm unable to 

recollect even the  

remnants of the concept 

that was supposed to  

be executed 

so you keep warning  

me: you can 

never become a poet 

maybe i don't desire 

to be dubbed a poet  

by the world 

my aureate heart  

knows I possess 

the genteel soul 

of a poet 

the heart knows 

isn't that enough? 

Big Dipper   

by Bernard Pearson 

The winter sky,   moon mocked 

And torn with stars as I walked home, 

The tear-drowned, teenage me,  

Howled out and full of woe.   

I crashed up that country hill 

Wishing I was dead. 

But as  it turned out 

 I didn’t die; the past did.

Lonely 

by Jade Gaynor 

When you arrive you climb the stairs up to her apart 

ment and it’s so packed away you almost can’t be 

lieve she ever moved in. She greets you with a hug 

and she asks if you would like any of the stuff she is 

n’t keeping (and you keep most of it in a box you still 

don’t open) and conversation continues about the mem 

ories the things bring and not at all about the big thing 

that hangs heavy, swollen, sopping with grief above it 

all until there is nothing else left and the gravity pulls you 

both in and you begin to feel the raw size of it, the un 

processed texture of a moment you are certain you will 

remember forever and the crushing weight of not know 

ing what to do with this fleeting ripe permanence and so  

you say you love her and will miss her and she says the 

same and hugs you and you both hug and you say you’re 

excited to possibly date again as a poly foursome like you 

’ve talked about and nothing changes but a catch clicks in 

your mind and you say with soft recognition: 

“We’re not going to date again, are we.” 

Her head shakes slow, like she’s afraid it will fall off if she 

moves too fast and that’s how you both start to cry, streams  

of silent tears at first, then as it takes root you both begin 

to shudder and small sobs escape and you sink to the floor 

still holding together and you take turns talking and remin 

iscing and singing some of your private songs together and 

then it is late. It is very late and you have to go back to your 

place and she has an early flight, so you hold tight at the door 

on your way out, and a place in your heart knows this is the 

last time you will see each other so you desperately promise 

it isn’t, then you pick up your box and not knowing what else 

to do you leave. You walk down the hall toward the elevator, 

and suddenly realize there’s one thing you can do, so you set 

the box down and walk back, getting faster with each step un 

til you are knocking on her door and she answers it with a  

red-eyed silly smile and asks what you forgot, and you say I 

just need to hug you one more time, and you hold each other 

tight, tight, tight— 

Waves 

by Jade Gaynor 

Waves, ceaseless, carry themselves. 

Thoughts of the world flow back and forth, 

Ubi sunt?  

Ubi sunt qui ante nos fuerunt? 

Two answers take turns: 

Where are they that came before us? 

They are dead 

They are here. 

Sunlight holds each needle of the pines 

Tender 

Tight 

Tight they are here 

Tender they are dead. 

The waves and thoughts flow back and forth 

Is truth the water or the sand? 

Both pass 

Both remain. 

Here a hollow world  

Fills with shadow and light 

A World in Which the Black Panther Party Logo Appears on a Box in My Parents’ Garage  

by Jade Gaynor 

It would probably need to begin with their families.  

Perhaps my dad, instead of being motivated by his father,  

had been disillusioned,  

or perhaps he worked in lumber and found it to his liking  

and grew up to be a blue-collar union man  

like so many of his cousins.  

Perhaps my mom was the same in every way  

but never became fearful and quiet.  

Maybe she grew up climbing the greased pole at the county fair  

and when she got the ten-dollar bill 

was inspired.  

Perhaps instead of dismissing the people pushing her 

to be a doctor rather than nurse,  

lawyer rather than librarian, she had heard  

and succeeded 

and found anger at injustice. 

Perhaps that anger was fanned,  

and she met a friend in college.  

Perhaps the two of them still met at a Christmas party,  

but dad talked about “strong together”  

and mom talked about “mutual aid”  

and when they talked about children it wasn’t how many  

but how motivated,  

how powerful,  

how educated.  

Perhaps when I am born they teach me  

not obedience but determination,  

freedom instead of faith.  

Maybe in this world  

I am not scared away from being gay, but 

it is hard to imagine they have this house 

unless there are greater changes. 

 And perhaps that’s the real answer.  

Perhaps how the logo appears in their garage  

is a world where the party was sold. 

Perhaps it became the face of a company with good prices.  

Perhaps it is easier to think hope can be bought  

than to think my parents could become people 

I would want to become. 

Hailey 

by Jade Gaynor 

Hailey I’m breaking our friendship off 

because you made me feel uncomfortable 

when I tried to eat dinner with 

you and your friends and 

because you were not kind enough and  

because you have not been 

as good a friend  

as I hoped and  

because I am not involved 

enough in your life  

which tells me 

that I am not  

in a healthy place  

to be friends and  

because you are dead 

and I want the pain to stop. 

Limit 

by Jade Gaynor 

Sitting in my chair, reaching for 

a glass of (which is an emptiness 

made (although no, a cup is  

not the emptiness it’s the 

boundary (which is used to 

create an understood space 

like lines on paper, so then 

maybe a cup is one example 

 (and it isn’t glass after all,  

it’s plastic (probably formed  

from some tarry soup made  

of the eons when plants 

ruled the earth uncontested, 

rather than the hellish silica 

adopted to frighten and kill  

would-be devourers by 

making themselves too  

dangerous (and here too 

is confusion and difference, 

divergence between the 

relatable need to survive 

and the weapon (which has 

proactive (like how ‘prey’  

in vore might seek ‘predator’  

to find fulfillment in filling 

or intimacy in being taken 

whole with no shadow doubts 

that part is unwanted)  

implications) that cannot be 

wielded without loss) to eat) 

instead) of an optical illusion) 

made solid) useful) water. 

Hearing Vivaldi’s ‘Winter – The Four Seasons’ 

by Sam Szanto 

This is the music my father 

would like, aching strings 

a taking back to soaring  

spires, heights I never quite  

acquired, in the rarefied  

slow air of his study 

smelling of single malt, 

books and the aftermath 

of pipe smoke, I sat on blue  

carpet before the drawn-out  

note of grief-before-grief,  

when he was the only man 

I knew. I wish I’d listened 

more closely to music like this, 

rather than saying Make it stop, 

so, with an eye roll, he switched it off, 

because that is the father he was, 

and that is the father he is. 

Advisory 

by Michael Igoe 

If  you’re suckered,
you have groped
losing starry mites.
Why do you wheel away
hoping pleasant dreams
wind up in other minds.
Meeting an end,
as faded glories.
Embers of sadness,
a flickering gesture.
A simple request
likely unanswered. 

And Suchlike

by Michael Igoe

You once foretold a notice
of a most noisy whirlwind
without a gift for language.
Emblems served
at different times
laid at death’s door.
Stricken by disease,
those rare and fatal.
Foaming at the mouth,
in sudden raging fever..

You know its meaning
from balding husbands. .
They raid Christian coffers
using lore from the Vikings.
Their teeth remain clenched,
keeping to a certain deafness.

Bonneau’s Landing 

by Michael Igoe

Finding what’s warmest,
yellow bellied and naive.
A belligerent syrup flows
from each and every pore.
The streets  shimmer,
in a sense of urgency.
People seem to detest
hardworking eruptions...
For bargains with opponents,
who hits the ground running,.
They serve as mere relics
of the ones who departed. 

Scientist 

by Michael Igoe

On a shore forever lambent
he disappeared in the sands..
Robbery of a true birth
is the matter on record.
He played the market
for wine colored cars
but only on the side.
He is without claims
to formal description.
None is his color,
zero is his number.
In all his escapades,
he stays undetected.
Shrugging his shoulders
he gauges all the signals
of pendulums in a basin..

Chestnut Ridge by M Patrick Riggin

It Came Through My Window One Night 

by David Brady 

It came through my window one night.  

Prayer-like. Though hardly expected. Yes,  

death bore me. I barely felt its gentle hands  

as they lifted me. Lifeless as I was, suspended  

like a float in the ball of its flat fist.  

I thought of all the things I´d miss.  

I waved goodbye to passport and colouring book.  

Caught the smell of clean bedsheets and rum.  

I did things I´d never done. Spoke at the funerals  

of people I never knew. I stepped in their shoes.  

Wriggled my toes in new shores.  

Why hadn’t I done this before?  

They say your life passes you by when you die,  

but that doesn’t tell even half of it.   

And don’t ask me how, but I smiled  

when it pulled me out of myself  

and left all of me behind.  

And the last thing I heard?  

It was as if a single solitary note  

played itself out in an encore.  

Uncertain at first, then joined by  

a gazillion more.  

The Grandfather Clock 

by David Brady 

We dine together in the shadow of the grandfather clock.  

I gaze at you. Perfect man. Greek God. Bad boy.  

All rolled into one. Eyes like shiny shells. Lips  

as moist as plums. The sweet allure of coconuts,  

desiccated, or dripping delicately down the palm.  

I will lose myself in that tonight.  

We drink our fill of Cabernet Sauvignon,  

perfected over decades in our sleepless cellar.  

Ninety years old yet flush as a new-born cherub.  

I propose a toast,  

to the delicate tapestry of your Renaissance beauty,  

holding your gaze through my crimsoned glass. A toast.  

To the twirling liquid that sparkles like infant blood,  

whose dancing legs play spring notes on our tongues.  

To the ageless face of the grandfather clock,   

whose slow, patient hands unravel all evenings to  

a threadbare dusk.  

Talent 

by David Brady 

I sit obediently in this chair for you.  

Unblinking. ‘Please don‘t move’.  

Not an inch. Still as a rock.  

I disappear as you paint me on canvas.  

A smearing of sepia makes a smattering  

of nothing. Why did you choose me?  

In my mind I offer you my empty palette.  

You fill it with worms that shed their skin  

onto my open palms.  

Perhaps my portrait will hang in  

London town, under sinful Red Lights,  

bowing the heads of sleazy men in seedy  

city bars–  

'Sit up straight'. I wince and blush.  

Bent to the whiskers of your  

paintbrush.  

Thanks to the Fallen, I am free 

by Havard Cassandra 

On a chilly night, a lady as bright as light, 

Without any fright, sings lovely for wights delight: 

“It will be alright; no one will forget your fights. 

Even out of sight, everyone praises you, Knights.” 

In the beautiful sky of blue, I used to view, 

Two or more souls who blew, my mind and my heart too 

Due to a freedom that came true. So, what I do 

Is, I say to you: “Thank you.” “Thanks to all of you!” 

For the Fallen of all wars, who have become stars 

This poetic art soars, in honor of your scars. 

“Thank you to you!” I roar. You may be far, but are 

No more than our freedom core. Rare are such lodestars. 

“Hey, can you hear me?” I asked, to the souls who passed 

“Your love for the nation was vast, and it still lasts!” 

Strong and steadfast, to the sky, my tribute I cast. 

They pass very fast, but what a blast from the past!  

Luna Selene 

by Charlie Bowden 

I want to hear what the moon is thinking. 

Does it keep a diary because it’s been in bloom for centuries? 

Does it take note of all those who dote on its dimples, like me? 

Does it remember the ones that stand out, who love lawlessly, 

who loiter in its shadow for a hint of a remedy? 

Does it whisper to its Grecian brothers and sisters 

about the slow-moving tragedies, the spoiled beauty of humanity, 

the hundred tiny taskmasters who die every night of their own vanity? 

And does it smile when it sees what we’ve made it out to be, 

a goddess, a godmother, a symbol of love and eternity? 

The maidens who dream of sailing its seas, 

the mothers who bless their babies in its beams, 

the crones who cry until their claws come out in its gleam, 

they all want to hear the moon’s midnight screams. 

Starlight 

by Charlie Bowden 

Oh sweet sombre starlight, how easy it seems  

to stand on Windermere peaks and watch you be shorn 

from the shore of the blighted black sea, 

see your endless misty acquaintances 

weave in and out of view like the ghostly guests of my garden party; 

your headlights pierce through the curtained windows 

to curtail my glee but you’re still happy to see me, 

now emancipated from the arresting aura of shimmering moonbeams. 

You watch the weeping willow sway in the breeze, 

a beer bottle lying dead at the base of the trunk like an offering, a sacrifice to be seized, 

and you’re reminded of your shivering sisters still stuck in the sun’s trajectory. 

Over the years, since the start of the fight, you’ve stored up enough spite to invert the sky 

but you need to wait until they all align when the time is right. 

Until then you stand around until ten, waiting to watch your brethren start their shifts again. 

The Fold 

by Charlie Bowden 

Marching down a hillside 

I came upon a hermit 

who spun a sordid story 

and told me I should learn it; 

he told me to spread it far 

from summit to riverbed, 

so all the world may hear it 

and this is what he said: 

be you priestly or a prince 

ordained with golden roses, 

take comfort in your certain seat 

beside the ancient Moses. 

But if you’re a lecher, 

a trickster, fiend or drunk, 

the prince’s serpent herd 

will ensure your ego’s shrunk; 

they’ll drag you down below, 

flaunt the cinnamon springs 

of heaven’s final blow, 

show you what you’re missing. 

The gates, shut forever 

whether you’re young or old, 

smirk at you as you’re pulled 

further into the fold.  

The Red Rose 

by Charlie Bowden 

The plants here are so miserable 

in this sunless seafront flower shop. 

You can’t grow confident about profit 

when your custom can’t be counted on, 

tourists passing its tinted windows one day 

and magicked away the very next, 

the ghosts of teenagers guffawing about plant sex. 

Lent blackens the perfunctory pages of my ledger; 

St. Valentine is long dead and there’s a change in the weather, 

the leftovers of lost loves wilting to a fine leather. 

I resort to make wine out of some red rose petals, 

drink away the night as my letter box fills. 

There’s always a love overspill, less couples down here every year, 

but I don’t know what to with it – let it run free, stab its feeble heart with a spear? It’ll die soon anyway but these flowers aren’t free –

my life has a price and the red always rises as easter kills me. 

Barren Days 

by Devika Mathur 

These days, possibly 

I could stay awake all night 

without lids open 

without an outgrown mass for affection 

staring into the raw rims of oval mouth- night shifters, as I say 

A thing might be done during the afternoons 

but generally nothing much happens in my house 

all yellow- mahogany ruptured landscape 

with tainted smiles to watch 

monotony of colours, pigments and textures. 

I have frowned faces all over 

for spilled, spoiled milk (whatever you say) 

A woman dragging her shadow in circles 

counting till 50 backwards to go off to sanity, 

nothing to stop her, 

often, she skips if not running. 

I can smell the salt all day. 

Through the hanging stale night lamps, 

a toothpaste now old and rustic 

with beds cracking, 

days so pale like the birds bereft of water 

brown as your memory

brown table, brown cinema and nothing wonderful. 

 Breakfasts are small, 

small and wholesome. 

Pinkish fruity nectar, 

jasmine tea 

and no words. 

The rose from my balcony is my muse 

a snippet from a falling sky- 

it reminds me of my field of stone, 

air and blur. 

Sunsets and smiles. 

These days, possibly 

I can imagine going off to sleep 

with everything inside my clumsy fist. 

Askew, I will wake and break, 

Duquesne Fog by M Patrick Riggin

Burning Embers 

by Scott Cumming 

My words are nought 

but burning embers 

They hold no sway 

Will change 

merely a microcosm 

of personal history 

Every poem 

an amusement 

Mostly for myself 

Still, I hustle 

to validate 

one more bruised ego. 

Three Nil Down 

by Scott Cumming 

The manure stench 

wafts in on the wind 

The third swish of the net 

That pre-match latte 

sloshes 

as you abandon the chase 

The glamour of the game 

Unfathomably far away 

Those days 

of being the best kid 

on the school pitch 

Remain 

Stand on weakened parapets 

as the fourth thwaps home 

Rub at the fresh stud marks 

branded to your inner thigh 

Played and played 

until youthful passion 

Evaporates 

Trying to pass it on 

to a new generation 

All the while 

struggling to provide yourself 

any motivation 

Filling the Void 

by Scott Cumming 

My veins are spun sugar 

Sanity bites eroding arteries 

I grow bulbous 

trying to fill the void 

three layers at a time 

Convenience over confidence 

Why don’t these clothes fit? 

Tugging at my tee 

while unwrapping another sweet. 

Demigods 

by Scott Cumming 

As religion fades to myth 

We anoint them 

as demigods 

Mistake the work 

for self-worth 

Follow like disciples 

hanging onto words 

and wardrobes 

The performance of a lifetime 

Tik Tok 

Attention spans 

mean your 15 seconds 

is coming up.  

The Unopened Rose 

by Shiksha Dheda 

Walking through the garden of memories, I 

smell the jasmine of youthful hope, gently 

stroke the daisies of goodwill, admire the 

beauteous lotus of hard work and cringe at 

the many weeds of suspicion. Away from 

the beauty, the delight, the chaos   

of my growing garden; 

-a wilted dead rose- so 

full of colour, 

abundance in fragrance. 

But unopened by  the 

hand of time and 

captured within  the 

grip of caution.  

A Garden  

by Shiksha Dheda 

Searching for the truth beneath the sun 

-looking for innocence once had- now 

lost.  

Calling out the name of devotion 

-blindly followed-  now forsaken 

for understanding.  

Looking for respect within the juicy fruits  

-always savoured- though 

not always earned.  

Tracing down obedience below colourful petals 

-a companion I no longer heed. Standing 

beneath trees, I try to find the naked  

innocence of childhood 

draped in the blackness  of 

disturbed age.  

Chocolate Cake 

by Shiksha Dheda 

Soft.  

Moist.  

Satisfying. 

My daily routine. 

The wealth of the decadent icing, 

the labour put into the layered masterpiece. 

An acquired craft 

- diligent workmanship-  

- a fine hand- 

- years of knowledge- 

all stripped away. 

Really,  

I have  just 

been savouring 

-   day after day    -

mundane 

sponge. 

Courthouse by M Patrick Riggin

Last Steps by Arden Hunter

Brook by Arden Hunter

Flap by Arden Hunter