Bats In the Attic                                                             

     by Bruce McRae                                         

 

Up in the attic,

nature struggling with the supernatural,

the blood-mad poet writing with chain,

the perfected dust of Alexandria.

 

Up in the attic

is time gnawing on the electrical cord,

a mouse’s symbol for winter,

a light-beam that’s been wandering for ages.

 

Where we store the breath-coloured static

and ravaged atoms of tears.

Where we keep last season’s specters,

footprints in time, blood in the footprints,

a rogue angel waiting for nightfall,

her black wing over a moon-ray

slid between the latticed chinks,

whose god is a false morning,

whose god is a love that’s fossilized,

heaven an unmined quarry,

hell like a flood in the basement –

another planet that’s said to exist.

Next door to nowhere. To Babylon.

 

Up in the attic is a shadow;

or it might have been you in a previous lifetime,

that worried fly not a fly at all

but the voice a cinder is building.

The suggestion of hands.

 

Bio: Canadian Bruce McRae has had almost 600 publications in the past 12 years. Originally from Niagara Falls, he has
moved extensively, living in London for 18 years andcurrently residing on Salt Spring Island, BC. A musician,
who has recorded and toured, many of his poems have been set to music receiving airplay in the UK, U.S., Canada and
Australia. His first collection, The So-Called Sonnets, published by Silenced Press of Ohio, is available now.
Website: www.bpmcrae.com

 

 

 

 

Three Dimensions

by George Korolog

 

of shallow

ground the

dwelling world

our flat patina

life on the plane

the moonless sea

beneath

things

whirl in the vortex

break the surface

illuminated

pleading for wings

above

things

drift the high current

lofty wondering

how to breathe

the deep

surface

things

                     evade dimension

scurry from                           side to side

                                   flattened by the

absence of fascination.

 

Bio: George Korolog is a member of The Stanford Writers Workshop and his work has appeared in Willows Wept Review, Riverbabble, Earth First, The Right Eyed Deer, Symmetry Pebbles, The Recusant and Contemporary Haibun, among others.  When not writing, he is an SVP of a Fortune 500 technology company in San Jose, California.  His work will also appear in The Whittaker Prize Anthology to be published in November.  The work submitted in this email has not been previously published.  Rights for the work belong to George Korolog.

 

 

 

Mandalic Gyre

       by KD Hazelwood

 

During  the long trip

And your edge of the universe dreams,

You could feel

The tattered tolerance throughout the pages of ages

Of such a sad deliverance,

Of the modern life impossible corner,

Humanity has painted us all into.

 

You could sense

The premonitions of something

Beyond simplistic,

Beyond animalistic,

Although gazing into your dog’s eyes, it is abundantly clear,

He knows.

 

You listened with your heart,

To the lethargy of saints,

As well as to the urgency of thieves,

While needless, ongoing  widows weave,

Their  way to the national cemetery.

 

Step by predestined step,

From cavemen to Google geeks,

From Buddha’s happy belly

To Bible Belt Jesus,

From apples and snakes,

To botched marriages from internet porn,

From the rising sun of a ravishing rainforest,

To the toxic weedkiller sprayed between the cracks

On all the corrupt, concrete jungles of neglect,

With Oil Blood, Diamond Blood,

So far removed from

 

Love.

 

But, somehow, unbelievably,

Just ....as planned.

 

We’ve paid, we’ve overpaid.

 

Summons for the Reward Time,

Pretty to think  so,

For the Mandalic Gyre,

You don’t need to tippy-toe.

 

You  can feel the touching of souls,

A spreading, a gathering, a wondering

Open up and ask,

Just ask

The love star.

It’s not too far.

All the while you hear an exotic

Pied Butcherbird singing…

Broadcasting from an invisible temple…

Somewhere…

Because of the butterfly effect.

 

You might as well  dream it,

We’re all of us, part of someone’s dream,

You know who she is..

Go ahead…

 

You are happy,

You are love,

You  really can think with your heart,

You live, everyone lives

Beholden to a platform of peace,

Pausing at the Pantheon,

In a paradise of endless possibilities,

Where the flowering of passions,

Render a candlelit heart

Wherever you go,

Overlooking your successful peacock farm,

And all the while

Paganini strums along.

 

Serenade yourself to the new reality,

As the world wobbles

Its woebegone way home.

 

 

Bio: KD Hazelwood is the editor of the litzine you are reading. She recently read at the local Winchester Poets For Change Event (a worldwide movement). Two of her  recent poems are archived on their site. Among many other projects,she is busy creating a collection of poetry.