Our minds probe
Beyond nature’s fane
Cloistered in linear
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
That we might reconvene
Our primordial harmony
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.
This is an old feeling,
standing by this evening’s field,
these dark rags hanging, strung on wire,
beaks silent and unmoving under a stretched sky.
So which lore or gods apply?
Would it help to free your feathers,
wake thought and memory in cold skulls,
wear a black cape in silhouetted brotherhood?
Should I take up your work?
Am I a familiar to a Norse god,
with spying eyes in new watching brief;
become his ears in Midgard?
Should I kneel before a once and future King?
Does a messiah hang in this unkindness?
Have I witnessed the end of hope
for an ancient island people?
Should I fly the field, proclaim the news,
take up your role of fate carrier,
become the Mór-Ríoghain’s latest messenger
and find a song that sings of coming conflict?
Or is the battle already lost, our colours down,
and what’s required this late spring evening is
to take my knapsack, flask and tools
and tell the farmer this work is done?
You can read more of Jonathan’s work here.
At the dawning of the Age of Aquarius,
Strawberry Alarm Clock awakens a
stream of consciousness,
artificial spirituality laced with LSD.
Transformed Beatniks don beads, become hip in
bell-bottomed hip-huggers encountering
their id at a Human Be-In.
Back to the land communes in Strawberry Fields
support organic humanure-spiked food
free for sexual favors at local markets.
Nature Boys in old timey clothes fertilize
filth-crusted bodies with free love,
In a Gadda da Vida, honey!
Urbanization spurned, freaks still choose
Frisco as their center of (de)light.
Free press rings in news,
Feed My Headlines proclaim –
Dr. Strange and Jefferson Airplane attend an
Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test at a Grateful Dead revival,
the church of drug induced Nirvana.
Liquid Light Shows draw tie-dyed run-away teens,
down the rabbit hole of
wide-eyed, White Rabbit wonder.
At the Height of Haight Happening,
Hare Krishna chants induce superficial
infatuation with Asian etiology.
‘Keeping it Real’ gets Gays
out of the closet (Far out!),
riding a rainbow of psychedelic ribbons
of Pride to The Castro district.
Hirsute Flower Children with lice, but nice
bare-breasted chicks making love
in patchouli-scented crash pads singing
“love the one you’re with,” oblivious
ball and chain toking through hours
and daze hazy nights.
The free-love train is not a smooth ride.
Stick it to The Man – the mantra in a man’s world.
The Bearded Curtain lacks money,
root of all Establishment evil.
Women serve as replacement currency
coerced to entice new males’ members to enter
the communal state of orgiastic bliss.
Babies abused in false belief,
“It’s alright, it’s his bag. All love is beautiful.”
Magical Mystery Tour, Woodstock,
Summer of Love sexual stew of STD’s
spawns a free clinic that treats
Joplin’s botched abortion.
By all means do your own thing,
tune in, drop out, turn on – blow your mind as
Manson’s musical of murderous missions
taunts L.A. Elysian Park love-ins.
Tricky (Sock it to me?) Dick, with a double (under)handed flash of the peace sign,
tries to send Jo-Yo packing back to Nutopia.
The “Death of Hippies Funeral” buries the
counterculture movement, but uptight,
hung-up, assertive feminists
rise like the Phoenix
from the ashes of burned bras,
born of the so-called age of enlightenment
which kept girls prone,
to Masters and Johnson’s post-revolution probe.
Chris Rodriguez has retired from the horrors of conventional life. She
now lives on the brink of inspiration in a 100-year-old cottage in
Pocatello, Idaho. Her works have appeared in various themed anthologies
including Rhetoric Askew, Kelly Jacobson’s, The Way to My Heart: An
Anthology of Food-Related Romance, Anchala Press’s Flash Fiction for
Flash Memories and several by Horrified Press/Thirteen O’Clock and
coming soon to Left Hand Publisher’s, Mindscapes Unimagined. You can
find her latest at https://www.chrisrodriguez-onthebrink.com or
In these shoes,
I negotiate life in the third person;
toes swathed in top quality calfskin,
safe from random shit and shards,
where neither grass nor paved path
can sully these soft arches and soles.
I wear these suits;
an actor avoiding the fourth wall,
costumed and painted with lines learnt,
senses fenced off with silk and cashmere,
any truthful light blocked by scenery.
I drive these cars;
cosseted in high-end second skin caskets,
hermetically sealed and sheltered from rain,
all shocks absorbed and sins absolved,
reality suspended for the duration.
In front of these screens,
I casually exploit worlds lived separately,
salving conscience with painless gestures,
shifting small sums with gift aided texts,
untouched by the sweat of first person lives;
always remembering to give openly,
while keeping a record for tax purposes.
© Jonanthan Humble
First published by Ink Sweat & Tears (June 2018)
Jonathan Humble is a teacher in Cumbria. His poetry has appeared in IS&T, Obsessed With Pipework, Clear Poetry, Amaryllis, Riggwelter, Atrium, Three Drops Press, Burning House Press, Zoomorphic, Fairacre Press, EyeFlash and on BBC Radio. You can read more from him here: Jonanthan Humble’s Stuff…a poetry blog
The distant glow of landing lights
has always meant safety
for sneaky bedtime reading
and from terrifying bedtime monsters
turning playful dreams into crime scenes
before I had learnt enough words.
A book in my hand
titles ‘Do Not Disturb’:
I am too busy
escaping my reality
with my runaway imagination
to shape a sentence with sonancy,
learning new words
to replace those that brand me
in my attempt to make something fiction.
For every time
my words have been stripped from me
and I have forgotten
the way my tongue and teeth and lips
make a sound,
I will write them back
then I will speak them back
then watch me take them back
and knock. you. down.
Rosalind Weaver is a poet and spoken word performer from the North of England having been published in ‘A Catalogue of Failure’ and Nothing Books anthology ‘Further Within Darkness and Light’ amongst others. You can read more from her here.