Monthly Archives: April 2017

One Day Years From Now She Will Find Them by Cath Campbell

I am not a silent poet

A five year old girl doesn’t have the words.
A five year old girl believes what he says,
that he will kill her mother and her father,
that he loves her, that it’s normal, that she is special.
A five year old girl is tiny, is not as strong as he
though he pretends there is nothing he wouldn’t do
for her, to her, because of her; that he is besotted.
She recalls the word because it rhymes with clotted.
That is how her throat feels when she wakes
from nightmares of being suffocated,
which no one else understands.
A five year old girl doesn’t have the words,
but every line is recorded onto her skin.

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.. cooking carrots, and thinking of belief ..



it is a source of inspiration, and research. it is written, yet having writ. we use. imagination, add a dose of suggestion, slightly thinking this is fact we do not move on when perhaps we should. so moving on quickly……

cut them.

maybe we need to check our numbers at the end, see if one or more are missing.   need to count them carefully, one side then the is all a pattern, that keeps us safely, leads us onward.

simmer them.

what about this list, to do it before you die, well as she said, you probably can’t do it after. some may disagree – another belief. we try not to judge, yet that  bucket was not worth five pound,so

we paid two.

strain them.
ready for later.



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inalienable right to strip the world of choreography by Mark Hartenbach

I am not a silent poet

present reality scheming for a look into the future
as a causal universe is rolling along on training wheels

theatrical adventure that takes us nowhere to be found
where the relevance of this scene is always in question

where old guard is falling asleep at the gates of heaven
where there doesn’t have a to be a good reason

when it could as easily be a bad reason instead
allegedly characterized by spirit of unconditional love

but i see too many dollar signs to buy that rubbish
see ambitious lunging at object of affection

a story based on the former life of a ridiculous man
is fulfilling social obligations despite the fact

unsettling remarks are actually quite the opposite
are jimmied achievements of uniform impressions

supposedly natural rivals suffering moral bankruptcy
ignoring all mandates strung along for the ride

allegedly formulating a new search for meaning
manipulation of regardless escaping…

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I am Horizontal by Jill Berrett

I am not a silent poet

I am horizontal

not as in having my body etched by the movement of sand as I rest after furious waves

nor as in absorbing chlorophyll  from  newly mown grass as I lie with my book

there is no photosynthesis for me,

no luxury lies in my lying.

I am not covered in clouds or staring at stars.

I am propped and pinioned, padded by pillows, muscles and joints

soothed, softened by silver grey cushions.

You may say this is a strange life, yet I share it with millions.

We are rocky outcrops scattered.

We are your hidden minority.

We are the disappeared, not by war or revolution,

nor by famine or hunger

but by viruses, bugs, bacteria,

by caring and loving,

by throwing ourselves in front of the tanks.

If you want to seek us out, go look in beds, on sofas, on floors, in hospitals, in darkened rooms…

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Spreading the Word by Ananya S Guha

I am not a silent poet

message me if more are
killed or blasted by a mine
or bombed by a cowherd
or one pretending to be
I’m 24/ 7 on the mobile
or Apps
simply message me I’ll
review all recent deaths
and order an inquisition
as to:
were they due to cow slaughter
or terrorists
or farmers’ suicides
or plain suicide
or rape
just let me know
then, the inquisition
will send the report
and I can message you back
for you to forward, backward
spread the word.

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The Thing Is by Finola Scott

I am not a silent poet

It’s not the net-surfing for cheap flights,

the hoarding of air miles.It’s not the shopping

around for good euro deals, or filling cases

with new clothes for a week’s break.

It’s not the duty free booze or the greed

-grabbed cigarettes, addiction on the cheap.

It’s not the stroll through Border Control,

waving maroon passports. No.

The thing that gets me is the five thousand

rescued last weekend, the six hundred drowned

this year. Numbers, more numbers. Eight hundred

euros for a privileged space in a boat

that darkness-drifts the Med. Good weather’s a lure

for tourists, a bonus to traffickers. The desperate

assured of safe passage in flimsy dingies. Cloud high,

seat belts are fastened ready for landing.

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