Poetry – Page 3 – Modern Creative Life

July 2, 2018

Dark Noise by John Hulme

Sitting in the car again.

Night.

Summer night.

Warm and still.

Looking out on blackness,

the lapping of some gentle water –

nonchalant in the shimmer of streetlights.

Back on the main road, a gang of lads were acting like they owned the street.

It’s the thing you do. Yell out. Fill the space with your noise.

“Oggie!”

What?

It’s just something you shout…

when you’re pissed…

and out with your mates…

and a fucktard.

Sorry.

Judgemental of me.

Far less judgemental to scare the shit out of anyone else on the street, shouting a word that means nothing, signalling you’re a fucktard over several blocks.

I’ll stick with quiet ripples.

There are enough people taking the street.

The streetlamps form an honour guard down the promenade.

It’s for people who need to see their way home. But I’m not going that way.

About the author, John Hulme

John Hulme is a British writer from the Wirral, a small peninsula near Liverpool in the North of England. Trained in journalism (in which he has a masters degree), John’s first love was storytelling, trying to make sense of the world around him using his offbeat imagination. Since the death of his mother in 2010, John’s work has grown increasingly personal, and has become heavily influenced by Christian mysticism. This has led to the publication of two poetry books, Fragments of the Awesome (2013) and The Wings of Reborn Eagles (2015). A mix of open mike performances, speaking engagements and local community radio appearances has opened up new avenues which John is now eager to pursue. He is hoping to go on a kind of busking road trip fairly soon, provisionally titled Writer seeks gig, being John. Find out more about John on Facebook.

June 26, 2018

Rainy’s Paper by Patricia Wellingham-Jones

I write on a scrap of paper
you tucked into my book,
paper you made in your backyard studio
from pulp you shredded,
soaked, patted into frames to dry
with bits of weed stalks
adding texture to the mass.
At bottom left you pressed
a full-blown pansy, its little face
beaming as I write.
I’d like to wax brilliant
about the depth and worth
of my words on your art
but I know they’ll never mean
as much as this paper you made
and gave to me.

About the Author: Patricia Wellingham-Jones

Patricia Wellingham-Jones is a widely published former psychology researcher and writer/editor. She has a special interest in healing writing, with poems recently in The Widow’s Handbook (Kent State University Press). Chapbooks include Don’t Turn Away: poems about breast cancer, End-Cycle: poems about caregiving, Apple Blossoms at Eye Level, Voices on the Land and Hormone Stew.

June 12, 2018

What I Am Not by Jeanette McGurk

I am NOT completely grown up.
By now, I thought I would be, less than a month from 50.
Is my room clean? My bed made, even after eating cookies and getting crumbs in it?
The dog, a better grown up, often takes care of the crumbs.

I am NOT without fault.
Oh, I would like to think “if all the people I voted for got elected”….but wait?
Did I vote Saturday in that local election?
Did I put cardboard in the regular trash?
Did I drive past the woman walking on the street in her bathrobe and walker?
I am not without fault.

I am NOT happy about weird skin bumps and spots and tags.
This, this part of aging I am not a fan of.
I was prepared for wrinkles. I can mostly deal with wild curly white hairs.
The ones my daughters love to pull and watch spring in different directions.
I am even okay with sagging….everywhere
But witchy bumpy skin, really gets on my nerves.

I am NOT a fly on the wall.
I am a Mom in a minivan.
I drive 5 kids home from school every day.
Today, they discussed what to call their clubhouse in the woods.
It is proudly made of sticks and grass and other found treasures.
Worthy of its name: The Society of the Pugalope.
(But it is a secret, so don’t tell anyone).

I am NOT a good driver.
Just ask my garage or my husband.

I am NOT a poet.
Sunday I sat in a room full of poets.
I need to throw out a line long enough to catch a whale
in my storytelling.
These folks, take a handful of words and
craft them into 90 seconds of bliss.

I am not a poet but I AM a lover of
miniature journeys.
Their intimacy.
Is there any map so clear to the heart?

About the Author: Jeanette McGurk

Jeanette McGurk is a Graphic Designer who entered the world of writing through advertising. She discovered writing a lot of truth with a little fluff is a lot more fun than the other way round. Now that she is no longer spending time making air conditioners, tile floors, IT and Botox sound sexy, she writes about the unglamorous yet wonderful moments of life for people like herself; in other words, anyone looking for interesting ways to put off cleaning and doing laundry.

She is a curmudgeon and doesn’t Twit or Instagram. She has heard the blog is dead but since she has finally figured out how to do it, that is the museum where you can locate her writings. http://jmcpb.blogspot.com/.

June 5, 2018

Quick Connections by John Grey

Amanda,
sit quietly with me,
leave your chatter
to the cell phone,
let it talk with other cell-phones
long into the night
while we sit here
and watch the stars.

They’re suns,
they glitter,
not twitter,
balls of fire,
of light,
the two things missing
in our close-connected world.

Amanda,
tonight
let it just be me, you
and the heavens,
modest but clear
communication channels
on an age-old frequency.

About the Author: John Grey

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, South Carolina Review, Gargoyle and Big Muddy Review with work upcoming in Louisiana Review, Cape Rock and Spoon River Poetry Review.

May 22, 2018

Come for Dinner by Patricia Wellingham-Jones

We see each other at the market
as we often do these days.
I’m making soup, say,
Why not come help me eat it?
She says, Oh no,
I don’t go out since Bob died.
I say, C’mon, it’ll do you good
and I’d enjoy your company.
She dithers, guards that sorrow
as if it were a storehouse of gold.
At five on the dot
she’s at my door,
wine bottle in hand.
Her kids cheer.

About the Author: Patricia Wellingham-Jones

April 26, 2018

Meaningless No More by Patricia Wellingham-Jones

Two friends and I looked at our empty lives
and echoing caverns of our houses,
decided we would no longer mope
after mourning our losses.

So we drove to the animal shelter.

One came home with a senior cat
perfectly suited to her age and apartment.
Another, brave mad woman she is,
got a kitten and rambunctious puppy.

I filled my vacant space
with a tuxedo kitten and young orange cat.
The house rings with their galloping feet,
tinkle of bells, the catnip mice.

Now I tell tales of their silly antics,
friends come to visit the kits.
I scoop out the litter boxes,
laugh at them both. They cuddle with me.

About the Author: Patricia Wellingham-Jones

April 17, 2018

Step Garden by John Grey

The slope is steep but cultivated:
olive and racemose carob trees,
primrose cyclamen nodding at their feet;
at the bottom, lemon trees
sipping tartness from the sea;
farther up, Spanish chestnuts,
fruit rattling in the breeze,
limbs swishing like horse tails.
A narrow trail snakes its way
through thick shadow
to low cut brush
where light bursts large.
My breath scores lemon
and salt and oil and legume.
I walk the length and back again
with you beside me,
like we’re hiking a scented
soft moment in ourselves.
With nervous lips,
I place a hungry garden
on your mouth’s sweet slopes,
for you to prune,
to fertilize.

About the Author: John Grey

April 12, 2018

The Basket by Emma Gazley

Today while the ground was damp
The sky dry
A woman with a red face
Hair in gold strands
Wearing a heavy down coat
Approached me at the store

Asking, Do you have a basket?
She said It is for my flowers
I brought her one and said
If this works for you

Without prelude
Her words unfolded like chairs on a beach

My mother
she said
I consider her a true Christian
She is a different religion than I am now
But she taught me
You must never steal,
Yet it is not stealing
to take a flower
What do we do to make the flowers grow?
We have a seed, but do we grow the root?

No.

My mother said
You must thank the flower and take it
It’s the same with the ocean, you know
Her eyes widened.
You have to thank it before you
She put her hand out, as if to pluck a
Tender pink shell from the sand
Take it

So
She put her bundle of flowers together
I made this bouquet this morning
This is my gift to you.

To me? I said, a hand to my heart
Why me?

Because

You look like a flower.

About the Author: Emma Gazley

Emma Gazley is an artist, musician, writer, adventurer and teacher. Born to two adventurous parents, Emma was destined to be an explorer of the world, and from her earliest moments displayed signs of creativity and curiosity. She has spent time in Europe, Asia, Canada, and currently resides in the U.S. She began her journey of discovering her identity as an artist in 2012, after encountering critical health problems that caused her to lose her job and the ability to do most everyday activities. Many of her projects have, as a result of this event and others, a twinge of the painful and tragic aspects of life.

Emma is interested in learning about grief and how to cope with it, as well as passionate about finding joy in the day to day.

April 9, 2018

At this hour by Patricia Wellingham-Jones

The remembering bones
collect pieces of tales
snippets of song
flashes of color
Gather them deep in the marrow
mix and blend
swirl them through the blood

About the Author: Patricia Wellingham-Jones

April 3, 2018

Listening to Jimmy Santiago Baca by Pat West

She drives home on a dead-straight
two-lane highway, listens to the CD
of the author reading,
I Am Offering this Poem.

His lines break off
in her mind, making space
for another and another.
His rich throaty voice

layers offering upon offering.
She feels like those times, in dreams,
or while drinking, when she thinks
she can finally see inside things.

She noses the car into the garage,
picks up his book on the passenger
seat, stares at his picture on the back cover,
eyes the color of slick-river rocks staring right at her.

When the world outside no longer cares
if you live or die; remember.
The last line a slow whisper,
I love you. His breath strokes

her skin. She sighs. Maybe next time
she’ll meet someone who knocks her flat-out
crazy in lust with one poem.
Instead of some old, hairless guy

who wears white socks
with black dress shoes, says huh
one hundred times
in two hours, yet swears he doesn’t have

a hearing problem. She shuffles into the house,
drops a kiss on her husband’s bald head
as she passes his Barcalounger,
takes the book of poetry to bed.

About the Author: Pat West

Pat Phillips West lives in Olympia, WA. A Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, her work has appeared in Haunted Waters Press, Persimmon Tree, VoiceCatcher, San Pedro River Review, Slipstream, Gold Man Review and elsewhere.