5 sonnets from the poetry of R.W.Haynes

1]

The Knife and the Retreat

One awaits the knife, not that that
Is all that dramatic, cathartic, or just.
But anticipation can miss surprise in the dust
And there it pops up, wagging its hat.
And that’s the great crisis right then, of course,
That jolt of suddenly being unprepared
To cope with emotion one had never cared
To consider might land with unexpected force.
“I’d rather be a Stoic,” old Wordsworth might say,
His teeth clamping down on his old corncob pipe,
“Than be clotheslined to whimper and to gripe
While my sweet fantasies evaporate away.”
Now retreat and recover, live, do not die.
Be that imagined hermit, lonely by the Wye.


2]

The Cliffside Stroll

Her sonnets struggled along the cliffside path,
Shells and flowers tracking her aimless way,
As a dark spirit followed in shadows of the day,
And blue jays whispered, choking back their wrath.
But the bright sun vanquished in the blue sky,
And earthquakes held themselves in control
As she nibbled wafers and prayed for his soul
A little, and watched the hungry seagulls fly.
Below her, breakers gnashed at the rock,
And old prayers ascended upward as mere mist,
And memory quietly reft how they’d been
One sweet time, never to come again,
Since they’d looked at each other and kissed.
But now the jays can resume their clamor
And earthquakes swing their devastating hammer.


3]

Barks

So there is madness in exaggeration
And some cold, bold sanity, too.
Get unexcited by unthinking silence
Till the dogs start barking madly at you.
They know, these dogs, what’s in your mind.
They hear everything, and they’re not blind.
They smell all the aromas of violence
And long for the bite of imagination.
It is the bark of time that philosophy
Avoids waking us with to keep us free
From madness and unleashed disorientation,
One kind of wisdom, our mortal enemy.


4]

Last Conversation

Do we mix admiration and regret
For prudence managed half-heroically?
For half-blind pleasure felt half-painfully?
Ha ha, no paradise has come here yet,
Nor has a fatal drama played for us
With gestures, shouts, soliloquies,
Devastating recognitions—no, none of these
Has come, no, no bother, no fuss.
One turns away, right, when warning lights
Blink in the guts, and one’s breathtaking act
Of false control works to distract
Destructive impulse as it wildly fights.
And, O you craven philosophic Judas,
You let the grinning Fates come burn and loot us.


5]

The Quicksa-a-a-and of Laughter

One cannot keep writing sonnets.
			Tennessee Williams

The double-Debbie’s dud dude did
What he could and whenever he could
And sped sometimes up to no damn good,
And they all laughed hard wherever they hid,
Laughing like lobsters with haha like crows,
In musical moonlight uttering chuckles and snorts
And torrents of turbulent hilarious sports
In musical starlight until the sun rose.
“The operation of masks,” he nervously spoke,
“Is best done by women, whose all-wily wits
Confound men’s arguments and logical fits
Like music the mad game of mirror and smoke.
Get away, Cassandra!” he shrieked in agony.
“All right, brother—have you no faith in me?” 

R. W. Haynes, Professor of English at Texas A&M International University, has published poetry in many journals in the United States and in other countries. As an academic scholar, he specializes in British Renaissance literature, and he has also taught extensively in such areas as medieval thought, Southern literature, classical poetry, and writing. Since 1992, he has offered regular graduate and undergraduate courses in Shakespeare, as well as seminars in Ibsen, Chaucer, Spenser, rhetoric, and other topics. In 2004, Haynes met Texas playwright/screenwriter Horton Foote and has since become a leading scholar of that author’s remarkable oeuvre, publishing a book on Foote’s plays in 2010 and editing a collection of essays on his works in 2016. Haynes also writes plays and fiction. In 2016, he received the SCMLA Poetry Award ($500) at the South Central Modern Language Association Conference In 2019, two collections of his poetry were published, Laredo Light (Cyberwit) and Let the Whales Escape (Finishing Line Press). His Latest collected works are Heidegger Looks at the Moon (Finishing Line Press 2022 ) The Deadly Shadow of the Wall (finishing Line Press 2023)

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Amare Invano & Because of the Train. 2 Poems by Ernest Williamson III

Amare Invano
For the Enemies of the Fancy Free

As we live to cry and cried
our eyeless eyes with all others
of straight normal lives green
happy fair approved yet dry.
red sopped in birdsong.
shady in gauzed shades are these
goffs they are those who
thrive they follow as it follows.
safe wound sound
though lit in lies.

But never should the wind turn for letters
bruised in memory of millions of me.
I am but lost and in demand
to help woman and man
but to love in vain is latent allegro.
cant merriment day with
wan cake wedded to screen and toggle.
let us let go to go and pray in vein.
there are millions of me.
there are millions of you.
but there is only us.
amare invano sings
much too much too loud
allowed aloud out
proud vanities!
its children are vanities!
children as vanities!
it ends time and in time
we cry our eyeless eyes with all others
of straight normal lives green
happy fair approved yet dry.
yet in envy feigned
the sea under constant
crying consanguinity
platelets red you think
they bleed for
above and over
peace in pieces of exhales.

But we are upheld alone happy
quiet with sea
taut august verbs
solemn sanctity
length and lot
the fancy free
but for you not foe
unwanted enemy
of the fancy-free

but not for you
vociferous frocks
members without limbs
pink diadems pregnant
hirsute dancing daughters
laughing in gated gruff!
amare invano amare invano
I run to speak with the caring waters.
alone in company where you could benefit and be
we who sound virgin light.
the fancy-free love
peace you pieces
of the common good
you good you risible legion!
married male madonnas
who look for Elvis, Lennon,
and the fancy-free.

Sunlight, speech, acceptance.
these the joys they cannot see.
the vanities kept in you
yet unknown to thee.


Because of the Train
                         In memory of Bloke Porter                   
                                                                                
We have twenty minutes till dawn. 
For at least twenty and twenty years 
I have worked in night.
all the night. In all the nights. 
Even though no one knows
or knew about it.

Nearly now
we can go
like many things
Go away. Shrills cuss words in utterances.
Mean letters coldly aligned
shutter then lie down. 
Though we pant in grey resultant.
                                                       
Because of the train.
                                                       
ennui in we in soaked silence 
who smile 
with wisdom of the fish bolts.
As Romance and Old Visions of Rome
land
  In our seats. 
  We know nothing of these people.
                                                         
Because of the train.
             
Iced auburn rails against the rails.
All of them so sweetly. I cannot begin to count
the burns. our assumed words 
burned into our ears because we wasted not
our time. In hour's midnight. 
                                            
Because of the train.
                                                 
Soon birches will bend for
in smile of us, even when lights 
release glitter ash 
minus
moment
plus, my soul.
  
  blessed is thy soul.
                                                          
Because of the train.
        in spite of no solace. We worked.
        and this too. this is what
        I too remembered.
                                            
                                  Because.

Bio: Ernest Williamson III has published poetry in over two hundred journals. His poetry has appeared in numerous journals including The Roanoke Review, Pinyon Review, Westview, Decanto, Pamplemousse, Oklahoma Review, and Poetry, Life, & Times. Ernest is a three time Best of the Net nominee. Currently, he lives in Nashville, Tennessee. Learn more here: http://www.ernestwilliamsoniii.com

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Come, come, come pigeons. A Poem by Bhuwan Thapaliya

Every morning

dank scuffling begins

on the edge of our roof

as hungry pigeons

leave their nearby

shrinking shelters

and rush towards

our old Kathmandu house

when my mother calls

them as usual,

chirruping to them

in a high melodic note,

“Come, come, come pigeons.”

Then they lean over

the solar panel’s rusty edge

and look at us

with dark shiny eyes

and wait for the

sudden appearance

of the manna.

“Breakfast?” we ask.

They lower their head rapidly,

spring off to the floor

and start picking the grains.

Finished, they fly off.

It’s goodbye till we

wake up the next morning

to recreate the same scene

once again.

Leaning against the wall,

I take a sip

of lukewarm herbal water,

and exchange glances

with the colorful birds

flying low above me

in the gorgeous morning sky.

Their habitats are waning

in the face of global warming

but I can no longer pretend

that things won’t  be fine

 for them, for us. 

This generation

is growing up

with a lot more

reverence for nature

and I believe

in the extraordinary power

of human connections.

Suddenly,

the wind howls.

Fallen pigeon feathers

and chocolate wrappers

litter the terrace floor

and a squirrel swirls past my legs.

Kathmandu is still sleeping.

It’s not Saturday

but the city seems eerily silent.

Around me, the painted deities

sneer and snarl.

High above,

a flock of pigeons

coronet the sky. 

 
 
 

 
 
 
Bhuwan Thapaliya is a poet writing in English from Kathmandu, Nepal. He works as an economist and is the author of four poetry collections. His poems have been published in Wordcity Literary Journal, Pendemics Literary Journal, Poetry Life and Times, Trouvaille Review, Life in Quarantine: Witnessing Global Pandemic Initiative(Witnessing Global Pandemic is an initiative sponsored by the Poetic Media Lab and the Center for Spatial and Textual Analysis at Stanford University), International Human Rights Art Festival, Poetry and Covid: A Project funded by the UK Arts and Humanities Research Council, University of Plymouth, and Nottingham Trent University, Pandemic Magazine, The Poet, Valient Scribe, Strong Verse, Jerry Jazz Musician, VOICES ( Education Project), Longfellow Literary Project, Poets Against the War among many others.

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I Can’t Stop Imagining Your Death: 4 Poems by Matt Thomas

I’ve included an original photo of a wasp, taken in our pasture, that I think represents the theme of these poems Matt Thomas


I Can't Stop Imagining Your Death

Your ragged snores scoring the day losing seconds like
bright feathers shed onto black dirt
each breath snagged and restarted, stubborn as the planet's inertia
and yet yours is not a friction-less existence
so I worry, sure, but that’s not this, this is 
playing your absence, 
crying on cue tears that heat
the material of the present to impressionable goo
and stomping in the puddle of it. 
It's harmless, no big deal.
Sometimes I imagine your death.
I'm not prescient. It's nothing. I shouldn't have mentioned it.
It's just that in moments of transition, 
such as now, sun setting, estranging the house and your breathing, 
or when some unexpected light or cloud disfigures a familiar road
and causes me to become momentarily, startlingly, lost,
I imagine you dying.
No different than thrilling at the wind stirring dead leaves, 
everything going to play, to steady the staggering present.


What / Nothing

A photo
of dogs long gone
to look at it is to feel
the furred skin sled 
over fat and ribs
Dead dogs looking lively 
at the down on your cheek
what / nothing
your question / my answer
accidentally true.


When you stretch I feel the


shake of your daily climb 

up a use-shined ladder 

leant against my optimism

tousling the jangly suckers, 

buzzing my fruit, your wing noise 

a resined horse hair sigh

that the keeper is coming.


Self-Harm at the Outlet Mall

You are looking for a sundress.
And it occurs to me.

A wet footprint retreating 

between a dead chickadee and my sneaker, 
grass straightening to the light,
a calm spot in the chop 
of water rippling toward 
Old Navy, Lululemon, Ann Taylor. 

Not in the rain, after, 
in the steam of returning heat.

I’m glad to be here with you.
But this country is all teeth.  
I'm tempted to lie down next to the bird, 
tell time with it, 
be the guy who's fucks flew off, 
that the world walks wide around.

It’s obvious, despite the signage, 
that we are most real in the nose. 

I can’t be the only one 
carrying sad luck like a fidget toy, 
distracting my mind 
with motor commands 
while the world sucks the evidence 
of my being back up into the sky.

I don't want to give up on you, 
or finding your sundress,

I just have to believe 
that it’s normal to be tempted 
to cut a thin cold moment in the heat, 
to allow my eyes to catch rain, 
and despair 
that living won’t allow it.

Matt Thomas is a smallholder farmer. His poetry has appeared recently in Dunes Review and Bluepepper. He lives with his partner in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia.

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A STAND-OFF BETWEEN MAN & BEAST, I’M DOWN & TWENTY MINUTES OF GLORY. 3 Poems by Bradford Middleton

 

A STAND-OFF BETWEEN MAN & BEAST 

The pigeons sit, resting on the wall of
A rich old bird who owns one of the muse
Houses I back onto, and somehow I grow
Transfixed, this weed is really good I
Suddenly think, as I stand staring at them
As if they’re new friends, wondering aloud
Which one will go away first.  Which will
Dessert me first, like so many others in
This sorry excuse for a life, I think as one
Moves back down the roof and out of
Sight as another turns their back to me but
The other two remain, steadfast and strong,
Staring right back at me and this stand-off
Goes on for a while, I’m maybe even more
Stoned than I think, and sure enough it’s me
Who grows bored first and, as seems to be
The way of this and so many other days, I know
It’s time for another smoke, another distraction.

I’M DOWN

These words came and whispered
Sweet nothings in my ear & I knew
My muse had returned.

A month, a long
Long, awful long
Month since I last sat down &
Laid the words on down
But now, at last, I’m down
Down enough to know
I’ve got to get this down
Before I fall any further.

TWENTY MINUTES OF GLORY

The street of ill-repute has struck again
Bringing me a diamond in the rough.  I
Was walking home, just now, from the
Laundry centre, nothing really spectacular
To report there, just another of those typical
Monthly rituals, when as I walk on heaving
All my gear behind me out the door and down
The street I run into an old bar-man I know.

 We exchanged pleasantries for a while and
I told him of my frustrations at waiting on
A call from a man up top of London Road
Waiting on a call
A call to come round
Buy something good
And be gone from there in the blink of an eye.

Today however the old bar-man came through
As I now sit here, high as I like, listening to the amazing
Miles blasting out Sanctuary
As at last my appetite returns and
In the space of twenty short minutes my life has changed
Taken a up-curve on this previously most frustrating of days.

 


BIOGRAPHY

 
Bradford Middleton still lives in Brighton on England’s south-coast where he works part-time in a shop and full-time on his words. His latest book, The Whiskey Stings Good Tonight, was recently published by the Alien Buddha Press. Recent poems have appeared in Cajun Mutt Press, Cacti Fur, Fixator Press, Horror Sleaze Trash, Rye Whiskey Review and the glorious Mad Swirl. He tweets occasionally @BradfordMiddle5.

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The Gypsy Sea Poems by Sterling Warner

Gypsy Sea

Sunrise: necks stretched out like hungry clams
lurch for the Ibuprofen emperor 
whose numb fingers wave loners to café chairs—
rivet them to sticky alligator seats, bottom sides 
textured with chewing gum madness; daydreams
pull life’s canopy over sand and foam,  
seasick tides lick each empowered undertow
sheer bag luck burlesques diffident efforts, 
tête-à-tête conversations revealing 
epiphany-like promises through opaque glass.

Nightfall: along the coastline, bonfires blaze
bodies gather, mouths breathe desire, minds re-imagine; 
moving between cosmic and material worlds,  
cleaving mustard greens like an armful of roses,  
a gypsy mystic dances like a whirling dervish
toe-ring magic fractures limestone bones   
unbrushed by feet for millennia 
bangle bracelets and silver cymbals rouse
ever vigilant, sleepy-eyed centurions
stand guard over her Technicolor Roma.

Sun-up: astronomical dawn signals nocturnal closure,
dancing legs and burning feet cease
rhythmically rocking shellfish strongholds;
dense auburn moss calmly spreads its way south  
wraps a tranquil riverbed in nature’s sheath
guides an Arabesque estuary toward a
salt water fiord, lateral moraine, where
nourished sediment dwellers burrow home
high tides pull ashes, bathe shorelines 
littered with seaweed, driftwood, memories.

Grace
For G. M.

Grace leaned against parked cars 
at midnight, full crow moon rays bathing 
her body in luminescent grandeur. 
Poised. Seductive. Her touch extended
over an embankment like sprouting 
foxtail seeds resemble ballerinas that float
on the breeze and hook into dog paws 

Fragile. Elastic. Insubstantial. Like bubbles 
blown from hoops that burst unpredictably, 
Grace’s rainbow brow sought barn owl benedictions
waved goodbye to the summer solstice
welcomed the autumnal equinox—a September song
that harvested her deeply planted thoughts 
and sowed them in fields of winter wheat.

Wind passed through cedar branches, eclipsed 
Grace’s mantra of green card foreboding 
added frivolity and enhanced shorter days
and nights both waiting for December
to push back twilight’s rays—scatter them
in the upper atmosphere—brighten evening skies 
warm Dawn’s fingers on the rising sun’s heels.  

Wistful Lulamaes
For Audrey Hepburn

Tiffany windows display silver platters 
reflect morning light like vintage mirrors 
as pedestrians hide behind Oliver Goldsmith sunglasses,
dressed to the nines like Holly Golightly
pose then study its Manhattan showcase framed 
by granite walls on Fifth Avenue & 57th Street.

Disguised as stylish escorts, men and women peer
through double-pane glass, appreciate excess & exotica 
in equal measure, ponder fleeting holographic images 
of John the Baptist’s head etched sterling trays
murmuring silent prophecies, portend gentle greatness 
& Big Apple panache for life beyond Sodom’s avenging angels. 

Truman Capote’s phantom emerges from Central Park shadows 
wears a white suit & hat, moves forward like a garden snail, 
maintains a two-block buffer, his high-pitched voice mingling 
with car horns & cabbies where rainbows end announces 
breakfast availability to Broadway street singers, Soho artists, 
moon river enthusiasts, New York tourists, huckleberry friends.

Magyar Sleeves

“The Colour of my soul is iron-grey and sad bats wheel about the steeple of my dreams.”
 									—Claude Debussy

Grooming themselves 
    like cats, bat pups clutch 
    onto their perch upside down, 
    loosen artistic digits  
    emerge from slumber 
    in hollow trees, cave mouths, 
    attic eves & rocky crevices.
From inverted roosts, 
    they drop into flight mode 
    as membrane covered forelimbs 
    navigate ultrasonic waves 
    & echolocation identify 
    evening canvases to paint 
    with wings like a brush & palette.
Moonlight colonies undercover 
    zig-zag through mist & gnat clouds,
    rising from depths of stone lined wells,
    leave watercolor portraits 
    during witching hours
    as children trick or treat 
    wearing bat capes & cowls.

 
 
 
 
An award-winning author, poet, and educator, Sterling Warner’s works have appeared in literary magazines, journals, and anthologies including Danse Macabre, Poetry Life and Times, Ekphrastic Review, and Sparks of Calliope. Warner’s collections of poetry include Rags and Feathers, Without Wheels, ShadowCat, Edges, Memento Mori: A Chapbook Redux, Serpent’s Tooth, Flytraps, and Cracks of Light: Pandemic Poetry & Fiction 2019-2022—as well as Masques: Flash Fiction & Short Stories. Currently, Warner writes, participates in “virtual” poetry readings, and enjoys retirement in Washington.
 

 
https://www.amazon.com/Cracks of Light: Pandemic Poetry & Fiction

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The Kingdom of Chaos Poems by Scott Thomas Outlar

Silver Primroses & Golden Strigiformes Planted by the Curb

Carrying your own 
          dead body
                back to its grave
      in a dream
                 then happening upon
          an expired owl
                              stricken & smashed
                        in the street

Ominous signs
        along Five Forks Trickum
            birth into
                patterns of indigo 
                                  & scarlet wildflowers
                       
Spirit animals
             taking a dive
       before rush hour fevers
                        commence
        
    learn to sip
              from the parched throat
        of roadkill brunch

eating the 
        organs
   of our own
               totem


Stomach Lining

I came to eat the lies you coin

and serve them back half bitter
across the divide of tables turned

I didn’t ask for this evil eye

it was forced down my throat from the jump
been begging for a bulimic leap ever since


Spells of the Stoic Pewter 

& I will
        set you (free) here
    to be made safe by the wizard / window
                                                 (fly, birdie)
               black obsidian
                     gray of mind & beard
             wise & dangerous
                     streaked/laced down the middle
                                    balanced of accord
                                           (harmony 
                                                  & likewise
                                               rhythm)

you are the melody of a soft glow


Lament of Prey

Hello to all the hawks
who have yet to have their fill,
& the vultures, too,
waiting for what’s left over.

Spoiled minds & spoiled hearts
lead to spoiled guts,
but it seems to be
that’s what nature intended
in this twisted realm
of divided time & space.

Dog eat dog
isn’t even the worst part;
it’s flesh unto flesh
in the fire.

Goodbye to all the dreams
that forgot how to conquer,
& the visions still
yet to crystallize in cancer.

Rotten bones & rotten marrow
flow in rotten rivers,
but that’s the taste
acidic blood delivers
when signs of sickness
flash neon & electric in the night.

Tail chase tail
isn’t the end of the story;
it’s a snake that never sheds
the fade to black.


Kingdom of Chaos

We don’t want your money,
just your soul
on a silver platter
served to order
for our warm feast
while we spit out your raw famine.

We don’t want your respect,
just your energy and time,
just your mind
numbed
to the frequency
of propagandized pestilence.

We don’t want your love,
just your heart
bled dry
as every vein
withers in the winter wind
while our chalice remains
ever full to the point of overflowing.

We don’t want your vote,
just your faith
that such a course of action
can actually influence
the order in which our puppets
dance to a song of chaos
upon the public stage.

We don’t want your salute,
just your obedience,
just your hands
kept where we can see them
while your feet continue marching
to the drumbeat of our wars.

We don’t want your laws,
just your land,
just your culture,
just your customs,
just your heritage,
just your traditions
snuffed out
beneath the global kingdom
collectivized
at our command. 

 
 

 
 
Scott Thomas Outlar is originally from Atlanta, Georgia. He now lives and writes in Frederick, Maryland. His work has been nominated multiple times for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. He guest-edited the Hope Anthology of Poetry from CultureCult Press as well as the 2019-2023 Western Voices editions of Setu Mag. He is the author of seven books, including Songs of a Dissident (2015), Abstract Visions of Light (2018), Of Sand and Sugar (2019), and Evermore (2021 – written with co-author Mihaela Melnic). Selections of his poetry have been translated and published in 14 languages. He has been a weekly contributor at Dissident Voice for the past nine years. More about Outlar’s work can be found at 17numa.com

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Earth Puzzle,St. Petersburg in January,You Celebrate Your Birthday While I Have a Religious Experience, 3 Poems by James Croal Jackson

Earth Puzzle


We think completing the jigsaw 
depicting Earth will complete us, but 
4 AM we float in half-consciousness,
hoping to realign our orbit, still aimed 
into vastness, a jumbled mess on the
floor. Even the dog snores. Earlier, 
Disco ran across our tarot cards, shuffling 
a wrangled meaning into fate. The Hermit. 
The Star. The Hanged Man. I try to string 
together half-correlations. I want to drink 
more. I open the window and inhale.
I look into the dark and wonder 
how we can piece it all together.


St. Petersburg in January


maybe it is not seeing-eye dogs training 
in the grass I pass or the street vendors
selling sunglasses tamales and watercolors
or the waves that touch a difficult nerve
which snap me into a more relaxed reality
or the toaster-oven croissant at the French
bakery on Ocean Avenue but the cranes
that lift off skyscrapers in the heavy wind
that make me want to punch real estate
developers in the jaw or somesuch non
sensical violence bear trap tourist trap
somewhat Floridaesque my happy life
on blast it is dynamite at a luxury
construction site this weekend


You Celebrate Your Birthday While I Have a Religious Experience


Learning how to swim– 
can’t say I haven’t
counted hours stars 
float in the night infinite 
darkness I cannot claim 
sanctity within us. You point
to Orion like a familiar
neighbor like I would point 
to a passing thought or ripple 
believing it significant 
as the moment passes. 

James Croal Jackson works in film production. His most recent chapbooks are Count Seeds With Me (Ethel Zine & Micro-Press, 2022) and Our Past Leaves (Kelsay Books, 2021). Recent poems are in Stirring, White Wall Review, and Vilas Avenue. He edits The Mantle Poetry from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. (jamescroaljackson.com)

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