Night and Her Sister / Night Porters by Robert Nisbet

Night and Her Sister

Ellie was a party girl, flickering under
the Queen Street lights on Saturdays,
the night clubs shouting, taxi back
to a rickety flat in a half-lit road, beneath
the nearby industry’s dense breath.

But there was home-ache, always was,
for the farming village near the Irish Sea,
where nights download their textures:
the autumn evenings’ smell of hay;
in January, the crackling tang of frost.

Now a home-ache to be near her sister,
a vicar in that farm-flanked parish,
riven by a crisis of soul and faith,
knowing the nights which smelt of harvest,
but knowing too the aridity, the heart’s clash.

Ellie wanted to be home, be there,
in the spirit’s night, for the woman torn
by faith’s low cry and reason’s call.



*This poem appeared in Ann Arbor Review in 2018.



Night Porters

Their biscuits plod through tea.
There are no lecturers at this hour,
thank God, but a few girl students
whisking down a re-crossed path
from Hall to courtyard, yard to Hall.

The teapot stews. Dai reads Tribune,
dreams of a Socialist dawn
with few students and fewer lecturers.
Michael, teenage himself,
his shoulders stooped into a stuttering shyness,
thinks more of the moonbeams which rest
some evenings on the campus grass,
of the girl who will one night appear
in the still courtyard, lay her hand on his,
hear the stammering cease.

Robert Nisbet is a Welsh poet who has been published widely and in roughly equal measures in Britain, where he won the Prole Pamphlet Competition with Robeson, Fitzgerald and Other Heroes in 2017, and in the USA, where he is a four-time Pushcart Prize nominee.

Casket of Love by Michael Lee Johnson

This moon, clinging to a cloudless sky,
offers the light by which we love.
In this park, grass knees high, tickling bare feet,
offers the place we pass pleasant smiles.
Sir Winston Churchill would have
saluted the stately manner this fog lifts,
marching in time across this pond
layering its ghostly body over us
cuddled by the water’s edge,
as if we are burdened by this sealed
casket called love.
Frogs in the marsh, crickets beneath the crocuses
trumpet the last farewell.
A flock of Canadian geese flies overhead
in military V formation.
Yet how lively your lips tremble
against my skin in a manner no
sane soldier dare deny.

Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet in the greater Chicagoland area, IL. He has 295 YouTube poetry videos. Michael Lee Johnson is an internationally published poet in 44 countries, a song lyricist, has several published poetry books, has been nominated for 6 Pushcart Prize awards, and 6 Best of the Net nominations.

On Dread by Mike Rader

The most dread on this earth
exists exactly, precisely,
in that sliver of time
between day's death and
night's birth.
Within that heartbeat,
that half-breath of distance,
dwell forbidden lusts,
the tormented dead,
the eternally damned,
and the yawning abyss
yearning to consume your soul.

James Aitchison is an Australian author and poet. As Mike Rader, he writes horror and noir fiction and poetry. His work has twice appeared in Black Poppy Review, as well as Horror Tree (Trembling with Fear), Thriller, Akashic Books (Mondays are Murder) and many other magazines and anthologies.

Subject #24: Homo Sapien by Farane Zaidi

We have never studied a subject
quite as interesting as this one before.
This is what we have observed:

Its skin is pale and weathered,
splotches of deep red stains
underneath wet, bloodshot eyes.
Its abnormally round head grows
bulbous bulges on either side,
half visible through disheveled hair.

Its physique is unnaturally symmetrical,
bones concealed by excess flesh and meat,
slender forelimbs curling in on themselves,
quivering                            twitching
through the bars of the shackle locked cell.

Perhaps its most fascinating feature is the
giant wart in the center of its face,
oozing clear liquid out of one side
and into the hole that rasps incoherent
wails from its vocal chords. 

The subject is often in distress
when it sees us crawling up to its cage,
watching with every one of our eyes,
small and black, documenting every detail.
It cowers, but we do not intend to harm
our subject – we are scientists, not monsters, after all

Farane Zaidi has been a storyteller from the moment she held her first pencil. Her lifelong ambition is to become an academic librarian and a novelist. For Farane, writing is an escape from the real world—a realm of absolute artistic freedom and boundless creativity.

Out of the Past? by Stephen Jarrell Williams

Driving my old Impala
speeding faster than the wind

night moon
gleaming above the highway

listening to myself singing
to my lovely wife

passing groves of trees
endless farms of apple trees

suddenly imagining
tasting a juicy red apple

now humming
taking a deep breath

no other cars before me
clear to the distant city

a perfect night
seemingly

until looking
into the rearview mirror

unbelievable sight
coming swiftly with a roar

honking cars with lights
lifted high above the road

something holding them up
a dark shape

huge yellow eyes
a snake larger than a train

opening its mouth
outstretching tongue

I glanced over to my smiling wife
holding an apple in her palm

with a bite already taken out
telling me it was my turn....

Stephen Jarrell Williams loves to write at night, looking at the stars, and when a comet zips past. He can be found on Twitter @papapoet

Poodle by Alfred Fournier

That ragged toy I slept with—
its cottony innards
seeping out of split seams
like fluffy white blood
of a childhood cut short.

The dead starling I found
under mom’s darkened window,
a bird I cut open
not out of cruelty but curiosity,
shocked and disgusted
by its rancid scent,
pink and grey workings
of a factory gone still—
all its parts adding up
        to nothing.

And I wondered what magic
animates any of us
until one day it stops,
an unwound clock.
A toy thrown in the trash
while I was away at school.

Alfred Fournier is an entomologist, writer and community volunteer living in Phoenix, Arizona. His poems and creative nonfiction have appeared in Poppy Road Review, Lunch Ticket, New Flash Fiction Review, The New Verse News, International Times, Quibble, Delmarva Review, and elsewhere. His poetry collection, "A Summons on the Wind" (2023) is available from Kelsay Books and Amazon. alfredfournier.com. 

The Night Service by Robert Nisbet

St. Mark's Cathedral, Seattle

At the compline service, above the altar, a huge wheel,
its glass stained warm ochre, the spokes silver.
In pews and around the altar, the students sit.
They've come in threes, in twos, Noah's people.
They've come in T-shirts, skimpy pants, with
the long bronzed legs of a hot summer.
Nine-thirty. To the chancel come eleven
choristers, black, monastic. Clerical crows.
They fling their liturgies of worship into
the bated joy beneath that large brown wheel.
The celebrants, benign, absorb it all.
Some massage another's shoulders, ease hence
the cares, maybe the sins, of earth and world.

The service over now, they walk silently out.
The evening's incense scent is swamped
just briefly by the faintest smell of sweat.
The air’s still warm, but above us still
that huge brown wheel stakes out its presence
in a darkening night sky

* This poem appeared in Verse-Virtual in 2014 and in my chapbook Robeson, Fitzgerald and Other Heroes (2017).

Robert Nisbet lives in the UK, in rural Wales, about as far as you can get from London, travelling West. His poems have been published widely in Britain and the USA, including regular appearances in San Pedro River Review and Third Wednesday.

Rainfall / Abandoned House in the Forest by Wayne Russell

Rainfall 

Cross wind, yet gentle, 
the rain blossoms from
upon high.

People scamper like
frightened animals, via
crossing paths, lanes,
and streets.

Tires hiss like sleek
threatened snakes,
puddled water, now
gushing out from
underneath.

Some wildlife hunker
down, fading into dreams,
others hunt or forage
for sustenance.

Dead township on a cold
rainy night, I gaze through
failing eyes, as everything
grows even darker, and 
suddenly ceases to exist.

Abandoned House in the Forest 

This house so dank and dark,
abandoned, and huddled at
the edge of haunted forest line.

Ominous fog, twirling like
ballerinas, moss strewn; as
confetti across the tapestry.

Do even the ravens fear this realm?

A place, where nature reclaims
this maimed land, this house,
was never a home anyways.

People dwelled within her hallowed
halls, yet they did not live, they never
laughed, for there was no love; in
which to give; in the first place. 

 

Wayne Russell is a creative jack of all trades, master of none. Poet, rhythm guitar player, singer, artist, photographer, and author of the poetry book Where Angels Fear via Guerilla Genius Press, it is currently still available on Amazon.

The Dark by Jan Darrow

1.

In the dark, there is someone at the top of the stairs. But the only thing that can be seen for sure is the glowing tip of a cigarette.

Meg is at a college party passed out in the grass behind the fraternity house. Her eyes open and she wonders how the moon can stay suspended. She smells cigarette smoke and looks up. The figure flicks the cigarette down the stairs. It burns her arm.

She doesn’t scream.

She doesn’t run.

She puts the cigarette out with her shoe. Someday, she tells herself, she is going to learn how to smoke.

2.

It isn’t the darkness that wakes her but moaning from down the hall. Her roommate met someone earlier that afternoon in chemistry class.

Someday Meg is going to be like that. That passionate. That scientific. 

3.

Blue lights illuminate bottles of liquor behind the bar. Outside, the Priscilla’s sign glows red. 

Meg spends two hours drinking Zombies.

She meets a guy under the No Smoking sign and pulls out a cigarette. He pulls out a lighter and lights it with a flick of his thumb. She remembers the sign and puts the cigarette away. Something falls to the floor.

A button? A tooth? She isn’t sure.

The guy picks it up.

She takes him home. Later that night in her room his thumb comes off in her hand, then his ear. A minute later his arm and two of his toes bounce across the wooden floor.

Just Meg’s luck. Body parts are falling off everywhere. 

*Published originally by Five on the Fifth - August 2020

Jan Darrow grew up in the rural Midwest where she connected to the natural world at an early age. Ghost stories are her favorite. Her collections of poetry and flash fiction are available on Amazon. You can also find her at Jan Darrow / Poetry and Fiction.

Autumn Dusk / All Souls' Day 1400 AD by Sarah Das Gupta

Autumn Dusk

An empty house,
darkness floods
the ground floor.
Ghosts return to sleep
in the fading light
of an autumn evening.
Dead voices lurk
among the motes
floating in the last shaft
of sunlight.
Faint notes of a piano
caught in the moment,
to be played and replayed
in vacant, dusty rooms.

All Souls' Day 1400 AD

 

Spirits of the dead return,

Robin Goodfellow turns milk sour.

Hares, split-lipped, a source of fear.

Old hags with strange birth marks,

Burn in flames of cruellest red.

Toads, frogs and snakes bewitch,

Tombs open, the dead arise

Seeking revenge beyond the grave!

In stained glass men burn in hell.

The living seek a redemptive spell. 

 

 

 

Sarah Das Gupta lives near Cambridge, UK. She has also lived and worked in India. Her work has been published in 12 countries including US, UK, Canada, Australia, India, Germany, Croatia and Romania.

Ghosts in the Garden / Bog Bodies by Sarah Ray

Ghosts in the Garden

I woke early on a Thursday, 

sun still golden over 

the tops of trees. 

An unrest, 

a hush of worry dipped 

into my shoulders and 

hung its broken weight 

on my back, cold against 

the sunlit walls of my bedroom.

Still I rose, 

to the painted light

and poured coffee in 

a sun-washed kitchen. 

Outside was the sound 

of ghosts. 

Or, maybe just 

howling chickens 

in the neighbor’s yard. 

The sorrowful sound of 

empty eggs 

quickly taken from under

soft breasts. 

Their howls grew 

loud, strange, and haunting. 

Alone in the garden 

I walked. 

From gold to heavy, haunted howl 

to gold again. I chased 

the ghosts away and 

chicks cooed softly 

in their roosts. 

Bog Bodies

I read a story in the New York Times
about bog bodies and the deaths they died.

Human remains, twisted bodies in preserved tragedy—
I could count the ancient wrinkles and worry lines.

They were stabbed, tortured then brined,
centuries later, photographed for the Times.

Sarah Ray earned her MFA from Saint Mary's College of California and writes poetry about humans and the natural world. She is a teacher living in Oakland and you can find her at sraypoet.com.

Persistent Specters by Michael Keshigian

Through long, sleepless nights
when his restless brain
revolts, he’d revisit events long passed,
people long gone,
places where he lived,
this night at his grandparent’s house
where memories first emanated,
sitting in the dimmed light
of the wall-papered living room,
where he’d strain
to decipher adult conversations
above the ticking clock.
He’d roam the fields behind the house,
after school, searching for friends,
rummage through junk filled yards,
and walk endlessly
along the forest edge
where fallen trees
honed his skill for balance
as he hopped from one to the other,
before entering the neighbor’s yard
to investigate the chicken coup
where heads of hens attracted the flies
and deflowered the air
with a rancid smell.
which, at times, would attract
a scruffy dog who would slip
between the shadows
and follow him about,
licking his shoes in feigned friendship
to let him know he stands protected
in these fields amid the fallen trees
and peering neighbors
with pale faces.

Michael Keshigian is the author of 14 poetry collections.  He has recently been published in the Comstock Review, Blue Pepper, Young Ravens Literary Review, and Jerry Jazz Musician, with 7 Pushcart Prize and 3 Best Of The Net nominations.

Mourning / Weight in the Air From the City by J. Lint

Mourning

The sun arose just enough by then

to kiss the flow of grass at your grave.

Disgust.

My heart crawls with the earthworms

in the compost that’s my love—

away from me.

Can’t seem to leave nothing for you, at your grave,

but my beating heart.

I give you nothing but me.

The wind gets cold as time goes on,

and the leaves fall to my faithful feet.

The ground gets so tough, trying to keep us apart,

but I stay with you…

mourning.

Weight in the Air From the City

It came to me by weight of air.

A bulging breeze;

laughing, dancing, blowing around

the stench of the city.

There was memory there—an ancient memory.

It wafted to me through air,

and the wind felt thin as it appeared.

I felt it near me—breathing cold.

Gray, gaunt, gallant; the thing must be.

That old memory.

She was a setting sun on a winter’s day,

and I didn’t mind at the time,

but it was so bitter cold that night—

hidden away in the city.

Living in that haze while it lasted,

letting it soak my soul, 

the melancholy more real than the joy—

it became home.

That old Memory.

J. Lint is a twenty-two-year-old unpublished poet from Western Pennsylvania. He writes a wide range of topics, and most of the time in free verse. J. likes his poems to have a dark edge—something you can't always put your finger on.