Guest Feature: Primordial — Rob Taylor

Our minds probe
Beyond nature’s fane
Cloistered in linear

Shadows amongst
Red pines or cryptically
Crafted into epeiric

Seas where wings
Dauntlessly skim atop
Cresting waves, but

Now the breadth of
Our vision is steadfastly
Fixed upon eleventh

Dimension clarity
That we might reconvene
Our primordial harmony

via Primordial — Rob Taylor

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Roar of a Whisper ~ Brandewulf

rusted roses

Headlong through the morning mist
The masquerading shadows wait
To take, to turn, to twine and twist
Such simple sights that now conflate.

Conflict. Confound. Conjoin. Confuse
Until the salted garden blooms.
Rusted roses in rows of twos
Bedeck and bedazzle the jilted grooms.

In the solace and sanctity
Of tangos bruised and broken.
Caught within our vanity
And all the truths unspoken.

But what?
There’s more.
Headlong through revolving door.
Into the nevermore.

Ever more and never less
Searching for the golden fleece.
Each plodded step creates regress.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Release.

© Brandewulf 2018


You can read more of Brandewulf’s work at Brandewijn Words.

I Did Not Rise

One hundred years, and nothing learned.

chrisnelson61

I did not rise in splendor

From the dead-ditch waters

Which whirl-pooled around my ankles

The mud-diluted sea of red

Rust-rivers stagnating like life

In corners where distant words

Dissolved in faces stilled

Becalmed by fearful waiting where

Desperate actions leant death a

Gift of welcome clemency

And possessions rescued hung

Silent monuments to death and waste

A quietus from the words once cried

In fantasised glories never birthed

Merely swept away, erased

Until the hollows ceased to be

Lost deep beyond consciousness

Of greenery and soundless peace

As weeping rains form pools

Which cling to abhorrent memory.

 

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Guest Feature – Étoile ~ Rob Taylor

I dance solo, caught
In decoyed whispers of
Relativity hid within

My own sacred mystery,
A tender étoile gracelessly
Contrasted by repressed

Empathy, I seek solace
With connatural souls and
We will journey along

East flowing rivers until
We meet at the horizon of suns
Where our rhythm shall be

Of the ancient way when
Gratitude expressed our unity
And love held no hostages


You can read more of Rob’s work here.

Ghost Train ~ Samantha Rose

One fateful night in 1954

A storm brought from the sky cold rain

Cracked tracks swollen below the downpour

The Hudson swallowed the runaway train!

 

And since that night our train disappeared

To the deep floor of the riverbed

Legend says it comes back ‘round every year

Collecting the souls of the dead

 

The train starts back up on the darkest of nights

To play reaper in spirit abductions

You’ll see in the black two shining lights –

And with that, let’s begin introductions!

 

One-eyed-Tom is no stranger to gore

Friendly guy – too much so, thought his wife!

She caught him in bed with the girl next-door

And wiped his smile clean off with a knife!

 

And Margaret here is such a dear!

But she was caught in a small mix up

She tried to poison her lover last year

And accidentally drank the wrong cup!

 

To you, it’s true, I still have much to show!

But you now know some of our horde

There are more souls to bring to the undertow

So to you I say, all aboard!

 

© Copyright Samantha Rose 2018


You can catch more of Samantha existing at her blog, Existential Poetry.

 

Rage ~ Brandewijn Words

Bubbling bile rises to taint
Taking hold of reason’s restraint
Until you’re justified. Vilified.
The only food for you is omnicide.

Beating down any and all
Who try to comfort. To calm. To stall
In hopes of breathing peace back in you.
You kick and scream at all they do.

Careless disregard is all you taste
With destructive force you sunder and waste
Fuck all whose care you now forego.
Leaving no more of yourself. Just your shadow.

© Brandewulf 2017

via Rage — Brandewijn Words

I’M AFRAID OF AMERICANS ~ BOJANA STOJCIC

Attention, attention. Air raid. Go to a bomb shelter immediately. Open the windows, lower the shutters, turn off the power supply, turn off the gas, and take only the bare necessities with you. If you are in a vehicle, park it on the side of the road and head to the nearest underground shelter. Air raid, please follow the instructions provided by the Information Center. Over.

On March 24, 1999 at 7:45 PM CET, the North Atlantic Treaty Organisation (NATO) launched air strikes against the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia (FRY), composed of Serbia and Montenegro, during the Kosovo war, with the bombing of Serbian military positions in its southern province of Kosovo. An uninterrupted 60 second signal tone denoted a state of emergency that lasted until 5.30 AM the next day. We heard bombs rumbling in the distance. I remember the panic, the terror, limbs going numb, heart racing, squatting in the middle of the living room and holding each other tight. An ‘imminent threat of war against Yugoslavia by NATO’ was declared on national television right after the fist bombs hit, along with a list of instructions on what to do when air raid sirens go off, followed by a huge mobilization of troops and resources. As of day one, the creepy music of penetrating warning sounds was played on a regular basis, giving us chills every fucking time.

The following day, the sirens start wailing at 1.30 PM. Once again, we switch off the lights and electrical appliances, open the windows wide, and lower the shutters, blocking out the sun, rain, wind, life. Wrapped in a blanked the color of veins, I’m kneeling on the floor in the dark half of the hall in the central part of my parents’ house, listening to the indistinct voices of the street, the voice of a mother, a grandfather, a brother, a husband, a toddler, whimpering dogs, and bewildered roosters. In the night between Mar 25 and 26, I heard the deafening noise of swarming planes for the first time. Deadly mosquitoes buzzing endlessly in the skies above made our blood run cold and caused us to develop an arrhythmia on the spot and chronic insomnia and noise phobia with time. The sound produced by warplanes, especially when flying low at high speeds and perceived as danger, is hard to describe. Your body reacts without conscious thought, seeking cover, and you feel its intensity in your nostrils and your throat, it chokes you, it makes your knees tremble, it vibrates in your stomach, turning your bowels upside down, it incapacitates your legs, paralyzes your spine and tongue, blurs your vision and messes with your brain. The lights have gone out, candles being a rare commodity these days. We have only one left which we decide to keep for a rainy day. I close my eyes for a few seconds and feel a wave of claustrophobic darkness wash over me.

Three days after the bombing had started, the wise men of our small tribal community decided we should start hiding in the basement of a shaggy old house at the end of the street. Most towns didn’t have a proper underground bomb shelter so that people were mainly hiding in house/apartment building basements. The decision to leave your house and join a bunch of strangers isn’t the one you’ll make lightly. However, the elderly think it’s necessary when the unthinkable occurs. Choosing your emergency shelter supplies is not easy either as you have no idea how long the air raid could last and what might come out of it. Most importantly, you need something to keep you comfortable and well-fed during the time you’ll spend there. A sandwich, enough drinking water and blankets were a must. But, as no one could imagine a temporary visit to the shelter would turn into a prolonged stay, a couple days’ worth of non-perishable food, let alone the first aid kit, wasn’t on our mind. Everyone thought about how to make it that very day. Tomorrow was too far away.

Our new temporary shelter was a centenarian, which made it the oldest fella in the neighborhood. Stone, and blocks made of mud and straw were protruding everywhere. In today’s world of advanced architecture, such a home would be considered healthy and safe for a living after some additional renovations, but no house can be safe enough to protect you from bombs unless it’s a proper fallout shelter. In spite of this, at the time being, we find comfort in sharing our plight with others, although we don’t really know each other. Ironically, a couple of decades later, I’ll read about a video game, the war and post-war world of the underground nuclear fallout shelter that will prove to be massively popular on mobile phones and PCs, which will be downloaded by millions and earn staggering $5m in its first two weeks on sale. It’ll be described as ‘a highly addictive building and management game in which you construct your own vault and carefully manage the people and resources to create a thriving sun-free community.’ They suggest stockpiling granola, as well as salt, pepper and other spices. Oh boy! If the game makers had known half of what we did about the shelter, they would have never come up with such a dull pastime because it’s impossible to turn an apocalyptic hell into a home.

I walk into a dungeon I’ll be sharing with my neighbors, cramped in a matchbox with wooden benches on the side, waving hello to wrinkled faces of the elderly, kids chit-chatting, serving tea and sweet coffee, sleeping, acting out, a two-year old girl who can’t stop crying, and her older sister who has a hard time being called by her nickname (Nato), preschool and elementary school children with their parents who cling to the hope that this frenzy will soon come to an end and a charismatic guy in his late 60s apparently skilled at making everyone feel better. I’m trying to avoid close encounters, unnecessary remarks and compulsory smiles, turning my head not to feel bad breath coming from teeth they haven’t brushed in days. It’s terribly cold and smells of mold. I’m wearing a T-shirt, an undershirt, a sweatshirt, a woolen sweater, a warm hoodie, a winter jacket, thick tights, two pairs of woolen socks pulled over my knees, and sport shoes. I take a seat on a bench without backrest, feeling cushions underneath, and cover my shoulders with a blanket. After a few hours of uncertainty, the sirens blare the end of danger and we all go home only to head back to the improvised bomb shelter as soon as the ear-piercing screech goes off again. We’re back to black: drowsy kids, worried parents and toothless old women in PJs who hurried back, obviously forgetting their teeth at home. They don’t feel like prattling any more, and place their hands over their mouths when laughing wholeheartedly. Leaning against the wall, I’m closing my eyes to catch up on some sleep but wake up at the slightest sound. From a heavy sleeper, I turned into a light one. A pin dropping two rooms away behind a closed door would startle me awake, let alone a truck driving by or honking.

I’ve been dreaming a lot lately. I had a dream that all people were created equal…

 

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* You can read more of Bojana’s work at Blogging with Bojana