NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE

Bernard KennedyBernard Kennedy is a priest, poet, and psychoanalyst. He writes poetryand has published academic work on psychoanalysis and spirituality invarious magazines. He has spoken at Psychoanalytic conferences andrecently at Smock Alley Dublin on transference, Beckett and Love. Helives in Enniskerry, Wicklow-Ireland. LinkedIn at Bernard Kennedy-Enniskerry. Twitter-@BernardKenned

Swoop and dance:Whether it’s Donohue’sEternal Echoes, or,Harding's, Looking at Lakes,I can see in the skyThe swoop and danceof the birds,heading home,like children from school.And when evening comes,beneath the Brae,morning is waitingwhile the moonlooks on asa mother on her baby inthe cradle.Though day seems over,Resting in the cradle,gestation,are the words I use,and mutation,with faith of love and falling,now in monochrome. NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 102

Je suis and nous avonsHe found it difficult,Having taught French to youngsters,And Latin to oldsters.Avenir, recherché, and le tempsWith Baudelaire.In Tacitus the aorist,In Livy, dies qui nobis,And Hannibal transivit,Amatus and Amor.Now in parish life,The cemetery and paschal feast,The empty box,And those who wished to kneelNot stand, but non-transivit,Tired he was then ofNon, Je suis but nous avon,And less Amor but only AmatusAt the cemetery,With Livy now on shelvesOf rarer tongue. NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 103

GodWhether the unmoved moverOr the clock maker,Or even ground of being-Rubilev’s ikon does it for meRegarding God.Greater than death is theSadness of lost love,Pursued in gratia-Through grace and mystery.And loves conquering,More permanent thanWall Street or Alamo.That which I loveIs representationAnd the love, a shadowOf the hidden force-Ubi caritasDeus ibi est. NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 104

Sitting & Looking:The flower sellers sit on their seat,Mobile, beside the flower bench,On the corner of Harry StreetLooking, in anticipation,For shoppers, looking.On the pier at Dunlaoire,We look towards the sea,The boat departing.The Pidgeon, on the branchBy the stream at Holy hill,With his silver chain mail,And twig in beak, a relicPerhaps, a sample of holinessTouched by prayer,For the wall of his house,Looks now to Ben Bulbin.And like a ballerina,After a time, twirlsAnd in one movementLooks towards the Brae,Then flies away-From sitting & looking. NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 105

Carolina FernandezCarolina Fernandez has lived in all five boroughs of NYC, Philadelphia,Dominican Republic & India, but grew up in Brooklyn, New York. Shehas been writing poetry since 2010. When she's not working she isspending time with her kitten, in the woods, or exploring different parts ofthe city.

Clair de lune: A bus rideThere are moments when life is eternal,The colours unfathomable, the air invisible.We are not thinking the fate awaits,Or the Gods, the force of the earth.We become fixed in these momentsDesperately declaring our entitlement to purpose,Before feeding death our pretended immortality.Does he love me? Am I to climb those mountains?Have I known wisdom? Is this my favorite song?Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we.I think sometimes I dream I am alive,And sometimes, I am alive and I am dreaming.The fall is both alluring and deadly,The sky seems to envelop my body without touch,My mother is rationally insane,I feel I am both alive and deadIn love with dead alive things. NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 107

In A World With Comparable Sightby Carolina Fernandez This morning, a dance I was a newborn sucklingTo the sustenance in her womb. mirror! how to seeinside birthed by dead purity glass. or, body.I am astuck in a This in to flowing energy!this realm Vanity vessel— is static My carpal m0rph Ƨ how/\woh . . .. . . .. my zyg0 . . .. matic ..failling. reflecti0n bec0mes 0dd.. .. in sun day sin... . .. . .. translation, what is true ... body to a glass two brown irises,.. with spirit, or (???) .we are frequencies If she throws away the mirror we can know our selves again, NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 108

Is this it, darling?The trees danced with each other,Stopping on occasion to blow kissestowards the asphalted graves of loved ones.Green luxurious dressesHid under their skirtThe wind of language.Upon entering the forest, my fingers releasedHis grip and lifted against the breeze.I, a premature nymph, said to him, “be free.”He lifted his arms, smiled and flew into recollection,Whilst gathering soon-to-be-dead flowers.He pocketed both for later contemplation.Throughout, our sheltered brittle hearts dancedA broken waltz, our words extraneous.We felt out place and thought to dress ourselves in flowers;To camouflage our feeling.On my knees, I picked up a daisy, and placed it in his beard.We sat on a lifeless-benchAnd in silence, discussedhow badly we wished to dance like the trees. NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 109

Margarita SerafimovaMargarita Serafimova was shortlisted for the Montreal International PoetryPrize 2017. She has two collections in the Bulgarian: \"Animals and OtherGods\" (2016), \"Demons and World\" (2017). Her workis forthcoming in Agenda, Trafika Europe, Ink, Sweat and Tears, PoeticDiversity, Harbinger Asylum, TAYO,Transnational, PocketChange, SurVision, Bezine, Antinarrative, Basil O'Flaherty, Home::Keep/Geocommunetrics, and appears in London Grip New Poetry, The Journal,A-Minor, Waxwing, StepAway, Minor Literatures, Writing Disorder, TheBirds We Piled Loosely, Noble/ Gas, Obra/ Artifact, Punch, FuturesTrading,Ginosko, Dark Matter, Red Wolf, Window/ PatientSounds, Peacock, Anti-Heroin Chic, Wild Word, Plum TreeTavern, Oddball, Three Drops from a Cauldron, SeaFoam, Aaduna, MOON, In Between Hangovers, MockingHeart,Renegade Rant and Rave, Tales From The Forest, Misty Mountain, TheVoices Project, Poetry Super Highway, Cent, Heavy Athletics, OutsiderPoetry, Outlaw Poetry. Some of herwork: https://www.facebook.com/MargaritaISerafimova/?ref=aymt_homepage_panel.

Drive by the SeasideWide white breasts, black hair.I raise a heavy look of blue swelter,his falls down like a black instant,and they lock. NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 111

February 2017The precise green markings of the snowdrops ‘inner petalsshow me how strict your love is,how exacting mine is for you -nothing less than the absolute feelingthat is lost in language. NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 112

David EhrenkranzDavid Ehrenkranz, originally from NY, has been on the faculty ofMaimonides School of Brookline, Massachusetts since 1996 and lives inSharon, Massachusetts with his wife Ilyse and their 5 children. His poetryhas appeared in Muddy River Poetry Journal and his poem \"Timelines\"was published in the book, \"Explaining Life: The Wisdom of ModernJewish Poetry: 1960 to 2010.\"

The Inevitable AftermathI was wondering today about howYou want your memoriesFashionedIf you go first?Would you prefer Them to pour steady Like the sands of An hourglassOr would you prefer them To Drip Slowly Like the Leaky Faucet You’ve Asked meTo fix a hundred times.Maybe they could justDriftLikeTheDust Under OurBeds NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 114

Or perhapsI could magnetizethemtogetherOn the fridge,So closeHuddled against the cold.Or should I let them reigndownLike a thunderous scepterBeating and choking out all otherMemories.Or perhaps I could ignore them,So that the little ones who barelyResemble you (except in their nature)Could readily forget,Because that is what I do best. NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 115

Late Night WalkThe fog settled on the field like freshly poured cementAfter the bats came out for dinner,Chasing the mothsWho thought they were going to make love to the lights.I saw two figuresWalking across the fieldTalking with wrinkled voices,Their legs hidden by the fog.They floated together Laughing and holding hands,Not yet ghostsTheir youth, like their legs, remained hidden.It must be soothing to live a lifeWhere you can walk through a fogWith your true loveAnd come out whole,Not worrying where you are going orWhere you have been.I stand at the edge of the field, watchingBut I cannot enter because,Like some of the mothsWho remain hidden in the darknessI fear the bats. NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 116

ForksObnoxious, permanentMiddle fingers perfectlyLined up in aRowRigid in their convictionsPrickly and hostileDelving where they don’tBelong and thenReturning to where they doThinking they are holierThan spoonsAfter they have beenRinsed clean. NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 117

MahdiMahdi was born in Mashhad, Iran. His BA was in Literature at PayamNoor University of Neyshabur. He was a referee of poetry festivals in Iran.He has written over 300 reviews regarding contemporary & classic poetry.

With no reason Your body is sweetened so that your shirt is torn. When I look at youI feel like I’ve become someone to myself. With no reason, you are beautiful like a smile in a war. NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 119

Ian David WallI wrote my first poem aged sixteen. Since then I have written more thanone hundred poems, mostly in free verse. Recently I have been writingpoetry in a more classical style, in sonnet and ottava rima form forexample. I have wide interests including English literature, classicalliterature and history, and philosophy. I graduated from SwanseaUniversity with a Philosophy degree. I am a Christian. Poets who haveinspired me include Homer, Aeschylus, Ovid, Isaiah, and T. S. Eliot. Iwill continue to explore classical poetic forms. I am writing a fantasynovel.

ASTOUNDMENTIn a storm on the Sea of Galilee,Wild, white-tipped waves, mountainous and monstrous,Wind-driven, swamp the boat threateningly,Inundating, with the power to sink us.Some row, some bale, a desperate mission.We cast flabbergasted, furtive, glancesAt the figure lying on the cushion.How can he sleep in these circumstances?“Teacher, don’t you care if we drown?”, I say.“O’ you of little faith”, he says, standing,“Be still!”. The quiet Sea is suddenlyLike a mill-pond. It is heart-stopping.“Who is this man?”, we wonderingly say,“That even the wind and the waves obey?”Inspired by Mark 4: 35-41 and Luke 8: 22-25.Quotations from The Bible, New International Version,Used with permission. NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 121

PARODYING HOMERA kithara player, parodying HomerAt a symposium at the Piraeus.Many-garlanded Aphrodite and Ares, shameful pair,Befouling the marriage of Hephaistos,Gammy-leggéd God of Smithery,Who gave the Gods such mirth;Helios the Sun espied them at it!Engaged in illicit sex in the Lord God’s own bed.When he heard of the affair, Hephaistos,Dark brows bristling over a stormy visage,At his anvil fashioned a silver netOf such marvellous, magical, qualityThat, invisible, it could not be seen.When next the pair coupled, they were ensnaredBy the crippled Smith-God’s wondrous art.At his invitation, the other GodsFrom Olympus’ snow-clad peaks arrived,To witness the brazen couple’s discomfiture.The Goddesses, through modesty, stayed away!!Trapped by the net, locked into position,Their shame was evident for all to see!How the Gods laughed at the embarrassment of it!Aphrodite, beautiful face crimson, NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 122

Ares, features hid, ass pointing heavenwards!The final chord of the kithara fades away.Silence… …then pandemonium!Aristotle catches my eye and we fall about,Guffawing insanely, out of control.Plato, made of relatively sterner stuff,Holds his sides in a desperate attemptTo stop his laughter from sweeping him away.A shower of coins, the gold mixed with the silver,Catching the last rays of the westering sun,Flies towards the raised dais upon whichThe rhapsodist, together with his pupils, sits,The boys’ eyes wide with wonder at such wealth.Plato is losing the fight;The boys scramble to collectThe clattering coins from the floor.From the surrounding couchesA roar for more music andFor more wine to be mixed.Plato succumbs.On his back on the floor,Hands beating the earth, NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 123

The tears flow down his cheeks.Inspired by Homer, Odyssey, book VIII, lines 266-366. NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 124

PRAHAThe parasol shades the table belowFrom the strong sun above.I raise the dark, black, beerTo my lips, and through the glassSee Prague spread before meThrough the shadowy filterThat so matches my mood.My brother-in-law, Mohan,Died this morning.A gentle soul, so besetBy ill health in recent years,He now rests in ParadiseWith his Lord.Thunder heads build threateningly.There is a sudden drenching downpour.I see lightening bloom the skyThrough the liquid balm of my tears. NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 125

THE EYES OF THE SEERKlaros, Apollo’s grove;Moon shining through the trees,Painting the ground silver;By the swiftly flowing stream,Entered the Temple,Past the kouroi,Into the small chamber:Fount of prophecy.Drank deeply from the well,Water of insight,Took a draught, see the past,Future and present, too.Aulis, scarlet dawn,Achaean long boats weather-bound,North wind, crashing waves,Fleet pinned, stores near gone,Sails snap, hawsers screech.The Seer speaks –“Artemis must be propitiated!”A father crucified by rage and pain.How can I? How can I not?!Troy waits, The Goddess demands.The Alliance might dissolve.He makes his agonized choice.A daughter, wide eyed, NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 126

Wild eyed, gagged, and bound,Struggling on the altarPitied and pitiable.The knife cuts deep.Her hot life blood spurts, steaming, staining.A Goddess appeased.Wind veers, sea now calm.Man, the boats! Hoist the sails!Muster the Alliance! Deploy the troops!Ilium ahead! Bloody vengeanceOn that dog Paris to be fulfilled.IIIn the cold, dark, morning of our exile;In that admixture betweenThe vertical and the horizontal;I feel the Holy WeightOf the Lord God Almighty upon me asHis Word comes to me:\"Son of man,With one blowI am about to take away from youThe delight of your eyes.”My wife is gone.“Do not lament?”“Do not weep?”“Groan quietly?”“Do not mourn?” NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 127

How can I not?How can I?Yet I must!The Lord God Almighty,The Holy One of Israel,Has commanded it!Never again to see the light ofLife in her lovely dark eyes,Feel the electric tingle of her palmsIn mine,Share a quiet momentWith herWhen the bustleOf everyday life isSomehow stilled andIs somehow beyond us.Never again to share a night ofLove’s languid passion with her;Eat a meal;Drink wine; orPass the time of day with her.The word of the Lord came to me:\"Son of man,With one blow NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 128

I am about to take away from youThe delight of your eyes.”My wife is gone.“Keep my turban fastened?”“My sandals on my feet?”“The lower part of my face uncovered?”“Not eat the food of mourners?”How can I not?How can I?Yet I must!The Lord God Almighty,The Holy One of Israel,Has commanded it!“So, I spoke to the peopleIn the morning and that very same eveningMy wife died.”IIIIlium, noon-day sun,Walls breached by trickery,Blood runs in the streets,The inhabitants, slaughtered,Crowd the Underworld,Never to return.A man suffers on a crossAt Golgotha. Darkness aboundsThough it is afternoon. NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 129

I see his distant gaze,Hear him cry out, see him die.He has won and will returnI see other battles, other wars,With other names unknown to me:Gettysburg, El Alamein,Salamis, The Teutoburg Forest,Men and women innumerableIn their dying.I see a day when the manWho died on the crossWill sit in judgement on all peopleFrom every time in history.All will rise to learn their fate.I see his name, it is Jesus.IVKlaros, Apollo’s grove;Moon shining through the trees,Painting the ground silver;Tides of laughter sweep over me,Uncontrollable, breaking.I will see him.Drank deeply from the well,Water of insight,Took a draught, see the past, NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 130

Future and present, too.The first stanza was inspired by Aeschylus’ Agamemnon, lines 185 to 256,the second stanza was inspired by the book of Ezekiel in the Bible, thethird stanza was inspired by Homer’s Iliad. NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 131

Loretta LeslieLoretta Leslie has been writing poetry for over 20 years. Her early worksreflect the bush poetry community in which she was involved. Her stylehas evolved to encompass narrative and free verse. Currently, she isstudying formal styles with a focus on the sonnet.Loretta edits poetry as part of her editing business, LorLes Editing. Hereshe assists with word choice to improve cadence, alliteration or assonance.

Political TruthDissembler, deceiver weaver of mendacitiesFabricator of falsehoods, would for your audacityTruth’s saboteur, perjure with impunityVeracity’s sniper, hyperbole hypocrisies.I will not fall for your feint restraint, your subtle dishonesty. NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 133

MaharathiMaharathi is a Journalist, poet and writer (English and Tamil). His Mothertongue is Tamil. He lives in South Indiahttps://www.facebook.com/mariappan.velayutham.3

SphinxYour head is human, body lion’sHands are wings of a birdI write your name on theNightly sky shedding stars as tearsAs a Greek sphinx;The riddle your eyes have asked meTo unravel will become my deathIf left unansweredFor fear of a wrong answerThat will turn fatal for meFor want of the right answerThat will lead me nowhereI leave the riddle as it is in your eyesStanding frozen as a snow-studded skyAs la belle dame sans, merciYou take me by hand into a cave,Into death I am bound to fill with my breathAs the moon sheds its limbs as a leperAs you lead me all the wayMy body drops its parts one by oneOn the dark road illuminated by your eyesAs you end the journeyYou end me and you say you are BhuvanaForgetting your name SphinxThat feeds me milk from deathEtiam in morte superset amor NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 135

Kevin KielyPoet, novelist, literary critic, raconteur, Fulbright Scholar, Washington DC;PhD in Modernist Poetry UCD; Six Arts Council Bursaries in Literature,Kavanagh Fellowship in Poetry, Bisto Fiction Award. Publicationsinclude Quintesse St Martin's Press New York, 1985; A Horse Called ElDorado (O'Brien Press, 2005); Breakfast with Sylvia (Lagan Press,2006); Francis Stuart: Artist and Outcast Official Biography (Liffey Press,2007; Revised Edition, 2017); The Welkinn Complex (Number One Son,Florida, FL., 2011; Revised Edition, 2015) SOS Lusitania 2012 (O'BrienPress, 2012) 'One Book One Community' 2015;Harvard's Patron: Jack ofall Poets (2018); UCD Belfield Metaphysical: new and selected poems (2018). KevinKiely, born Warrenpoint Co. Down.wwwkevinkiely.net kevinkielypoet wiki

Glendalough Hostel RevisitedTo Gary Snyder who asked me: ‘Do the Irish walk around Ireland in their ancientceremonies?’ Evening I drop my knapsack on the floor among friendly backpackers their accents reveal: American, German, French, Dutch, Australian in the self-catering kitchen names written with black marker on foodstuffs in the fridge gas jets glow as in a school laboratory we rub our hands, cold and hungry morning is early here: many are awake before seven the bonsai slopes of the twin-lake valley might be anywhere until sleep is washed away voices at reception mention Cullen’s Rock Drumgoff Crossroads, Glencree camping by the river for free the climb sweats me out the green of trees, millions of them (it seems) NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 137

take in a breeze without rufflingswopping snack food with fellow explorersgetting information about what’s up aheadI am re-reading Hesse’sThe Glass Bead Gamenature compares to the inner dimensionssending out a message: live with this bookboots, the clothes on my back, watera Wicklow Way Map, pocket moneybeauty and astonishment out on the trail NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 138

Come into my armscome into my arms on a high-tide of tearsbirds are dripping in ink not rainI keep faith to plant the vineyardwhere you are every vineflowering of the feminine, flowing with wineand inside your head is the nightsky of starsof course the lover imagines the loverwalking in colours of swirling leavesroseate at dusk amidst naked treesframing the river in a mirror of glassreflecting the city symmetricalmore, I see your name written on the iceyour eyes blue pearls―while the sunbrings beauty, life and deathwater ripples to ribbed marbleO let the leaves float on the marble riveryou are delicate as the floating leavesand the cat wears a fur coatsleeping at your windowpass the test for joy, pass the test for peaceIt is because of the delicacyI look for you today, tomorrow, yesterdayI find you everywhere and there is good ‘ NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 139

Postcard to Paddy Finnegan (1942-2014)’when you landed feet first extemporéon a good day after dumpingthe UCD student-cardfor Donnybrook Garagebeyond Clare-Galway asses-milksavouring Arthur’s bog-milkwhen verbal gymnasticstorrential as Finnegans Wakedismantled, led to quotesfor hangoversfrom a well-thumbedWatt and Hard Timessonorous repetitionsof Mr Knott and Mr Slearyyou realised only gutter literatureneed applywhen you climbed up to the streetsbearing the BI magazine as shieldamong the people, your people NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 140

Tree of Trigonometry October― withering leaves as if on hinges the barracked suburbs where you broke down to face a face liquid sung-lowing in the bark of a tree a face the gaze fixed on the skies sunken eyes stare in pity through branches like bars for numberless days not consecutive contortions on the bark creating the face on the tree NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 141

the mathematics of harmonythe final cast down sycamore leavesas if cut by childrenwith plastic-blade scissors NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 142

Miles CilettiBorn and raised in Hollywood, California. Miles Worked for theHollywood studios as a set dresser and assistant property master for thebetter part of his life. He has had a keen interest in writing and foundpoetry and short fiction to be the answer, but time while working. HeBuilt a large collection of work over the years, and since retiring, wants topublish what he can.https://www.linkedin.com/in/miles-ciletti-bba15166/

Hispanics in SpaceHispanics in space, all color reduced through a black-and-white TV.English dubbed over Spanish, made in Mexico, 1968, and not a familiarname or face. But it doesn't matter, they're all stuck in a faulty spacecraft,stuck with pompadours Beehive hair-dos, and skintight clothes, and haveless than 90 minutes to get out or die,Even the good-looking ones.I kick the remote to another channel. The weather report predicts clearskies near 65, though clouds darken my window. I can't say for sure, but itlooks like rain to me. More news about the forest fires and earthquakes inthe southland. News about another hostage situation. This time in ashopping mall, three drive-by shootings, The Holy Ghost and theHolocaust, HIV and MTV, methamphetamine labs and celebrity rehabs.The possibility of war in some other part of the world, sports and a moviecritic up next. A few blocks away, down along the industrial backstreets, apretty white girl, barely 21, opens her blouse within the shadows of anabandoned warehouse.She reveals her lovely but scarred breasts to the few passing motoristsdriving along Santa Fe Avenue near the 4th Street Bridge.She smiles, perhaps with secrets and possibly with some dark acrimony.Cunning from behind dark glasses, no doubt high on some kind of shit orjust plain crazy, offering herself to anyone with brakes, anyone who has ataste for risks plus, the few minutes it'll take and some of that left-overcash from a Thursday paycheck.I keep driving. It's suddenly, all black-and-white:We're all Hispanics in space and I still think it's going to rain.. Colin Hope NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 144

I'm a 52-year-old surveyor and poet, originally from Australia but now acitizen of Canada. I've been writing poetry since primary school and canwrite about just about anything. I would love to write for a living. I'mmarried and have been for 22 years and we have no children. I live inToronto, Canada where I enjoy patting local cats while out on a walk.

Last NightThe clouds carried you,Laughing,Into our sun.The wide-open road,Called.Then we came undone.I reach out,I reach to touch you,You are gone.My type, with harmony,Living in my summer,Life isn’t all about forgiving,And yet, you looked for me.An ocular spectacular,Parading beyond our lives,What else can we do?But be alive? NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 146

Alan J. BlausteinMr. Blaustein prefers formal poetry but will write free or blank verse if thepoem calls for it.He has been published in Turk's Head Review, Best Poems Encyclopedia,Blogspot, Screech Owl, Bijou Review, Verse-Virtual and Section 8.

(Some Mornings…)A something new is wrong today, I feel.An edifice I built against collapse,Another way of dancing 'round the real,Down now as pieces in my lap.Now justify to death and back to home,What reasoning I had I thought would work,Disputed then refuted by my poems,Not even now so comfortably berserk.So, leave me to a world I want to see,A fantasy of gracefully moving forms,Where nothing really matters but to be,And space enough for what I call my norms. NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 148

When Synapses SynapNeed I another MRI, what little brain I have,A QWERTY keyboard with a clustering of cells,All else displaced for better room to type, so,What now do doctors hope to find?Can scans reveal the poetry in cells,Read within the record of a mind,The details of what happened in a dayAs possibly the current source of pain?Can poems be read directly from the flesh;In letters formed on cells to spell it out?I hope for resolution, poems and line,Scansion for a better-metered mind. NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 149

EquinoxThis cold brings home the grimy side of life,By what it was I had or never knew,Possessions against need or what was right,What it was my world left frozen through.I think that every season has a switch,To activate by equinox precise,Then turning on the outlook which is which,The setting now, the world is made of ice.Yesterday, the heat was off all day,Seventeen degrees and how I felt,How chasing dreams of skill came out this way-But whose hand dealt the bad hand I was dealt?Depression is a failure as a word:Perhaps to say collapsing of a world. NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 150