Monthly Archives: May 2012

DM du Jour

Charon leaned forward and rowed. All things were one with his weariness.

It was not with him a matter of years or of centuries, but of wide floods of time, and an old heaviness and a pain in the arms that had become for him part of the scheme that the gods had made and was of a piece with Eternity.

If the gods had even sent him a contrary wind it would have divided all time in his memory into two equal slabs.

So grey were all things always where he was that if any radiance lingered a moment among the dead, on the face of such a queen perhaps as Cleopatra, his eyes could not have perceived it.

It was strange that the dead nowadays were coming in such numbers. They were coming in thousands where they used to come in fifties. It was neither Charon’s duty nor…

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Poetry Breakfast

Well, He Asked
by Margaret Fieland

one of those clueless questions
at dinner with the whole family.

A beat while I consider my answer.
“I was gazing at Marie,”

but I don’t mention that,

“and I realized I wanted
to jump into bed with her.”

Silence, then the buzz
of conversation resumes.

He refuses  to speak to me
for the rest of the night.



Born and raised in New York City, Margaret Fieland has been around art
and music all her life.  Her poems and stories have appeared in
journals such as  Turbulence Magazine, Front Range Review, and All
Rights Reserved. She is one of the Poetic Muselings. Their poetry
anthology, “Lifelines,” was published by Inkspotter Publishing in
November, 2011. You may visit her website,

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Poetry Breakfast

Too Late Tomorrow
by Tricia McCallum

Fates ride on little moments.

Outcomes of entire lives can rest
on the seemingly miniscule.
Fresh from another of her parent’s brawls
the little girl shuffles to school.
She needs a sign today
that the world is a safe place,
something better awaits.

This one afternoon in her life
could turn her around,
steer her through the minefields.
A comforting word,
a warm glance her way,
the right things happening
at just the right time.

You know this little girl: Watch for her:
The window is narrow.
But you are powerful.
She is waiting,
for the smallest,
the sweetest of mercies
to be saved.

A Glasgow-born Canadian, Tricia McCallum is the author of a sequence of poems, essays and photos entitled “Nothing Gold Can Stay: A Mother and Father Remembered.”(2011). Her poems “Thirst” and “There’s Always the Guy” were chosen by readers at as the…

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I Hold The Stars

I Hold The Stars.

seeing with new eyes

seeing with new eyes.

In The Company of Woodbines by Pd Lyons



Open air

Cobble street,

Church bell rhapsody


Well worn doors

Rough stone walls

Into secret corners drift

Undisturbed as dust


Waiting the slow pour

Of a pint



from Wanting To Be In The Old Tongue

poems of an Irish descent

by pd lyons

Copyright © 2011 PD Lyons

All rights reserved.


ISBN-13: 978-1466272996

ISBN-10: 1466272996

from Wanting To Be In The Old Tongue – by pd lyons




Bound by chains of lowland vines,

Nourished only by the rain.

The red meat of my heart

Now chips and shards of stone

That even ravens cannot find.


I am most subtle now,

Unable to touch or to be touched,

Only smoky tendrils nimbly wrapped

Upon the memories of men;

A formless thing perceived by them

Only in their sleeping dreams.


Kept alive by hunger.

Eager to be embraced with flesh

And upon the bones of war – like men,

Answer with firm metal once again

The faithful ravens call.


Out of the west

Out of the west

Where is the storm that brings me breath

To let these lips of moss reveal

That charm which causes me to heal –


For when those birds recall my name,

Then will I be whole again.


from Wanting To Be In The Old Tongue – by pd lyons

Copyright © 2011 PD Lyons

All rights reserved.


ISBN-13: 978-1466272996

ISBN-10: 1466272996

nice one by lisa marie basile


Rahway River
It is a tomb,
my mother standing    a siren
pulling husks from the current.
She is the medium between
life and          this life,
her body
less a woman
more the placenta
of a dead hometown.
To me she is the old mare
who runs at night.
Somewhere folded in half
two linen wings of a crane
inside her, a body
run down by water.
She is ankle-in,
            a human wandering its wreckage
as the cemetery stones

hatch in the river
after storms.
She is the old verse
amnesiacs still recite.
A coffin slid down
and opened
and my mother had to bury it again.
Lisa Marie Basile is a Brooklyn-based poet and writer. She’s the author of the forthcoming A Decent Voodoo, (Červená Barva Press, 2012) and a chapbook, Diorama (Wisp Press). The Poetry Society of…

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Could she but think of Cape Cod/ from rumours of another summer



Could she but think of Cape Cod

Sand spray ridges

Heartbeat trombone ocean

still out of sight

flavours the air

her hair


Shifting down to the open beach

opalized lumps of stone

darker lighter sand

crazy north east gales

bit by


Trail of unnecessaries

Shoes Coat

Shirt Skirt

Polka dot bra unmatched pink panties

A string of moonish pearls returned



–from Rumours of Another Summer
c2011 by pd lyons
ISBN 9781463769284


Come Down From Your Hills/ from Rumours of Another Summer

Come Down From Your Hills

Come down from your hills and see me

Remind me when I was a girl

Tip my kisses with honey

Bathe my feet in your curls

Soft green grass in showers of gold

Apple blossoms swirl like snow

Echoless laughter my hands on your face

Come down from your hills and see me

Remind me when I was a girl

I’m tired of long wool skirts

Tired of wobbly shoes

Tired of being a stranger afraid to remember you

-from Rumours of Another Summer
c2011 by pd lyons
ISBN 9781463769284

versions of this poem published by the following:

Longford Ireland  


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