Poem, Poetry

Matthew Walsh


Sing me a sweet song
Little forest tree runner
Dance on my branches

Ring me a clear song
As you creep to the sunshine.
Sing me your treasure.

Plunder the bounty
From my deep folded linings
Cling to me tightly

Weave me a word-spell
With your beak sharp curve-needle
Thread me a love song.

Stitch me a sleep song
A white breasted lullaby
Soft in my dreaming

Wrap me in woodland
In brown leaves and deep beech mast.
Sing gold and glitter.

Matthew Walsh, doctor, runner, lover of words and music, nature and wild places.

Poem, Poetry

Thomas Piekarski

Spring Break

Nothing shows age
like a curse—veins
popped out, liver spots.

At times when it hails
ice crystalizes
on a blind man’s eyes.

Anatomy altered:
the cat clawed Meg,
a little love swipe.

Consequences loom,
so take action now
or drop the cause.

The ship manifest details
plentiful cargo to fulfil
every viable aspiration.

Communication falters,
but don’t get flippant,
for you have no gills.

Properly mated couples
treasure coexistence
despite inevitable death.

Gather tulips and dreams,
cash in on romance,
acquire gold by the ton.

Bending to touch toes
an ache may appear
then suddenly vanish.

The wind unleashed,
it’s a thrill to drift
for miles like an eagle.

Thomas Piekarski is a former editor of the California State Poetry Quarterly. His poetry has appeared in numerous publications, including Taj Mahal Review, Poetry Quarterly, Literature Today, Poetry Salzburg, South African Literary Journal, The Frogmore Papers, and many more. His books of poetry are Ballad of Billy the Kid, Monterey Bay Adventures, and Mercurial World.

Poem, Poetry

Eugene O’Hare


today i stole a chicken from Tesco.
the security guy was fiddling with his mask
when i stuffed the bird under my t-shirt
& pretended i was pregnant.
a painter saw me steal the chicken.
there were flecks of orange and green
all over his hands and sleeves.
he was buying wine. perhaps he will neck
the whole bottle as he looks at his picture
of a sunset disappearing beyond a green hill.

when i serve the chicken to my daughter
she eats it with small but miraculous hands.
no meat is spared. our home is a place of worry;
the cupboards are bare and the walls are pale
as mourners at a wake. if i see that painter again
i will tell him to cover my walls in thick
lemon slathers of oily suns and to plaster
my bedroom in scenes of feast and romance.

Eugene O’Hare was born in Ireland. His plays are published by Methuen. He is working towards his first collection of poetry. His first two published poems appeared in The Galway Review in March, then as a featured news piece in The Irish News. More poems will appear in magazines in 2021 including Fortnight and Crossways.

Poem, Poetry

Susie Gharib


of the twigs on which my words had perched,
of the rays that rippled across my head,
of my homestead,
of the moat that safeguarded my thought-spun webs,
of all that’s well-meant,
of the dreams that domed my temple-bed,
of the departed who had always been West-bent,
of every beloved,
of the tide that flowed but never ebbed,
of the heart that had been love-struck and cleft,
of blessed bread.

Susie Gharib is a Syrian lecturer and a graduate of Strathclyde University with a Ph.D. on the work of D.H. Lawrence. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in 48 magazines and journals such as the
Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Adelaide, Scars Publications, Mad Swirl, The Ink Pantry, Impspired Mgazine, The Opiate.

Poem, Poetry

Trevor Conway

Utility Room

I don’t mean to bother you,
so I try to speak in a whisper.
What I mean is,
if you’d care to listen,
I don’t see the need to raise my voice.
That’s for others
who do it better.

I don’t mind
that I’m undernourished,
like a child you forgot at the shop.
I’ve grown used to not being noticed.
In fact, I could even say
I quite like it now.

I do wish, sometimes, that I had more space,
but I have no say in the matter.
Whenever I do make noise,
I spasm with the spin of laundry.
It gives me headaches, of course,
but I’m happy to be involved.

And let me share something with you:
it’s actually quite funny
how perplexed men become
when a bulb they were sure was new
rattles softly to admit
it’s now of no use.

If I had a human name,
you might call me Frank,
wincing as the dog gets in
or when a pair of sweaty runners
are set down in the corner.
I put up with it,
as I hate to complain,
and please believe me when I tell you,
I’ll never take up
much of your time.

Trevor Conway writes mainly poems, stories and songs. Subjects he typically writes about include nature, sport, society, creativity and interesting moments. His first collection of poems, Evidence of Freewheeling, was published by Salmon Poetry in 2015; his second, Breeding Monsters, was self-published via Amazon in 2018. Website: trevorconway.weebly.com.