Two Poems by Coleman Bomar

Six-Legged Heart

I was the cockroach on Mom’s kitchen floor
Sliding across tile
Tendrils in the cookie jar

She was at the sink aware
Of boy with broken antennae
Holding himself like a crooked frame

Her six-legged heart
So hard to swallow

Crawling along family throat born
Sweat of wagged worn tongues
Picking through ulcer words I wanted
To feel again

But a cough

Becomes chitin Sisyphus

Maybe mouths are
Too tempting
As damp spaces
Maybe throats detour
The Heart
Maybe words are too small
For sad insect sifting


Rose Pierced and Walking

A tiger trapped in denim
Jackets
Wreathed with smoke
And cuts her own hair
Looking for bird’s nests
In letters of restaurant signs
Or on billboards

Hope is the chirping
Holes up outside her head
Having babies
Visiting often

She’s a strutting rose
Whose roots walk
The blunt end of razors
Fizzing through boney
Bits of injected arm

Fairies play metal
On her petals
When spoons stop burning
And crystals freeze over
Under the seat
Of an octagon-wheeled
Cicada-eyed
Moon-skinned
El Camino

She drives off seeking lost

As if lost be a lady
And she be a rose
Stunting without
A few grams of dirt
Needling her fertile thorns
Burying the Sun

 

Coleman Bomar is a poet who currently resides in Middle Tennessee. He’d rather write about bathroom graffiti as opposed to sunny days and dewy mornings even though he loves them. His works have been featured by Showbear Family Circus Liberal Arts Magazine, Prometheus Dreaming, and SOFTBLOW to name a few.

One Poem by Lynn White

Written in response to this month’s Special Challenge.

The Circus

It was called ‘The Big Top’ so
I expected size and glitz and glamour
but it was small and tawdry inside.
I expected glamorous girls riding bareback
not these surly unsmiling performers.
It was not like the circus of my dreams
where the unicorns were prancing,
flashing their rainbowed hooves,
pointing with their golden horns.
With sequinned swimsuited riders
they danced round and round
the circle of the ring
kicking up the gold dust ground
from their droppings into
shimmering sawdust,
not that dirty looking soil
where no unicorn could find the gold
to nurture and replenish
their unique golden horns.

 

Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. Find Lynn at https://www.facebook.com/pages/Lynn-White-Poetry/1603675983213077?fref=ts and https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com

One Poem by Alison Jones

The Shotover Oak

It stood on the hill four hundred and fifty years,
until drought damage dried it to a husk,
so it lay down to kiss the sandy soil.

A king tree at a climax of succession, soul so expanded
that it could see the ways of people are nothing
but a foolish costume party, best avoided.

Eco system for legions of dependents,
it knows how easy it is to mistake agreement for truth.
If you listen closely at the harshly trimmed stump

it will tell you that the biggest influence on belief
is what is broadcast locally by downy ash and stretching oak.
It can speak on human bandwidth any time it chooses.

Wait, it counsels. Be still. Feel the great wheel turn.

 

Alison Jones is a teacher, and writer with work published in a variety of places, from Poetry Ireland Review, Proletarian Poetry and The Interpreter’s House, to The Green Parent Magazine and The Guardian. She has a particular interest in the role of nature in literature and is a champion of contemporary poetry in the secondary school classroom. Her pamphlet, ‘Heartwood’ was published by Indigo Dreams in 2018, with a second pamphlet ‘Omega’ forthcoming.

Alison Jones – Indigo Dreams

One Poem by Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon

In December

night wakes early,
and swallows daylight’s meagre leavings.
Shadows waver wishes, wet pavements
rock, cracks whisper among themselves
beneath squelchy boot clad feet.

I catch my shade,
long and dark, split apart,
as yellow arrows dart and fall–
flashed down from street lamps
fixed on posts
tall above my rain-drenched hair.
Will she wash it anyway?

A Cut Above commands high views
across my steep-hilled seaside town: a bright-lit
quarterdeck with gear to steer our ocean liner.

I climb up cobblestones
scoured by centuries of storms,
ignore the cosy call of Robert’s Bar
to keep my tryst with Aurora,
hairdresser to the stars
.

 

Ceinwen lives in Newcastle upon Tyne, UK, and writes short stories and poetry. She has been widely published in web magazines and in print anthologies. She graduated with an MA in Creative Writing from Newcastle University in 2017. She believes everyone’s voice counts.