Seedling by Heath Brougher

I am not a silent poet

So I’ve heard that you’ve

been unplugging various wires

integral to the function

of your brain

in the realm of Mainstream Thought.

 

Was I supposed to punish you for this?

 

I applaud you for it.

 

Just remember you’re still very young

and when you unplug

at such an early age

your “Being Misunderstood Ratio” goes up

quick as vertiginous spontaneous skyscrapers.

 

Just keep waiting for the inevitable

garden of Intellect to bloom

and keep sucking up the Truths

that you deem marrow-worthy. 

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Evolution of the Word “Cartoon” by Heath Brougher

I am not a silent poet

Up until recently

the word

“cartoon”

did not

carry with it

such a heavy overtone

of seriousness.

 

It was previously

a word

which evoked

a sense

of lightness,

of fluffiness,

of childishness,

of silliness,

of nonsense.

 

Well, I guess

it still conjures

an aura

of nonsense,

just in a much more

bloodstained context

than before.

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American Virus by Heath Brougher

I am not a silent poet

american undercrawl

american outgrowth

american spit in your face

american infestation

american money-madness

american roach and rat

american sticky fingers

american oil-lubed thoughts

american bombs and boister

american piss in the wind

american bully

american inflicted lacerations

american nothing vestal left

american smokestacks

american anger

american frustration 

american brainless

american selfish

american people

american monsters.

 

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No More Rebels Without a Cause by Heath Brougher

I am not a silent poet

Burning torch song anthems

into your skin

as a show

a glimpse

a flash

of your rebellion.

 

This used to be a pointless ritual

but now something

wicked this

way came

and ripest rebellion is needed

now more than ever before.  

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What the Rooster Really Says by Heath Brougher

I am not a silent poet

Good (motionless bloated baby bodies along the road to Baghdad,

violent religious uprisings, daily bombings, African children skin and bones,

nuclear warheads armed and at the ready, Fukushima toxic waste

leaking into the Pacific, a healthcare system where one accident will send you

straight to the poorhouse, the skeletal shambles of the economy,

melting polar icecaps, the terrorist news stations, various diseases

one mutation away from becoming a pandemic, politicians spouting

nothing resembling the Truth, assault rifles in the hands of maniacs,

fracking next door, flammable tap water, China rising, trans fats

and obesity, hospitals full of infected lymph nodes, a prison of toxic

food and pills, this spurious democracy, and that atrocious

possible Truth in the back of your head that keeps telling you

there just may be no light at the end of that tunnel) morning.

..

Heath Brougher is the poetry editor of Five 2 One Magazine and…

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Done and Dusted by Rupert M Loydell

I am not a silent poet

When she killed herself
it was all over the papers.
Everyone knew, then
everyone forgot, talked
about something else.
There were TV reports
and neighbours’ tributes,
some actor friends
said nice things but
then it was as though
nothing had happened,
as though it was all ok,
done and dusted,
just another day.

..

Previously published in International Times.

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Inheritance by Rupert M Loydell

I am not a silent poet

A kind of cave drawing
scratched on the wall,
silhouetted tanks and guns
drawn by children
crouched in their basement
with only stone pencils
to ease the dusty boredom of war.

..

Previously published in International Times

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annunCIAtion by Rupert M Loydell

I am not a silent poet

Mary, goes the conspiracy theory,
was set up, framed, scapegoated.
She was pregnant already, it was
Joseph or an unknown boyfriend,
her father abused her as a child.

It was a prophecy, it was foretold,
the men in black were on the case,
secret agents or aliens infiltrated
the village. We need to see the files,
hear the tapes. And so it came to pass.

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When Breathing is No longer Free by Rachael Clyne

I am not a silent poet

I.M. Eric Garner, I can’t breathe.         

In the city, anyone seen breathing is stopped,
searched for signs of exhalation, breath
is banished, mouths clamped, held face down
until the air no longer needs us.
We save them the trouble of a bullet.

How we long for desert spaces where we
sweep dunes, with furnace mouths,
ruche sand, revive its memories of water,
gather bones, roll them clattering
on our tongues and expel them with a sigh.

Or chilled places where we crystallise rock
and river, white in fractal wonder.
Our outbreath greets morning chill
in flurries, spiralled cloud phrases
to silver the branches.

Deep in forests, our breath slips
down glossy leaves, salivates, slicks
into musky black loam, through gushes
of rain, we pour down roots and spring
back as lianas, vivid flowers.

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This is a time by Rachael Clyne

I am not a silent poet

when disbelief is as plentiful as grass,
when abstract nouns are emergency rations
and love and integrity are pilots on enemy soil,
hidden in safe-houses, with doorposts
marked by the blood of the lamb,
while all of hell’s angels roar down the bypass.
Now, the prophets are out of a job,
we are homeless and stand on a new ground zero.
It is time to predict even a present, let alone a future, without us.
It is time to do more than bury ourselves in landfill,
time to commit acts of love, without measure or return.

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