Adelaide Literary Magazine No.29, October 2019

Sunday A ernoon Revista Literária Adelaide

Deep in derelict Undersong
shu ers swat
The ground, though frozen
back and forth vibrates at a frequency
shadows remain hard to discern, to tune in to

as sharp as anywhere you hold your breath
a crooked frieze for the harmonic, synchronous
on the field’s longing tongue
plaster intact if drawn in a wave by the
a li le shabby swallows’ sky sweeps

unnamed birds each season in microcosm
stab across the gap rises and sleeps
the song plays on
between the palm
leaves and pastel

walls. Geckos crawl
pa er feet

too fast
to comprehend

Sunday a ernoon
crouches, bent but

unsprung, torque
in the making

in the turning
petals to the sun

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Harmless thoughts Adelaide Literary Magazine
About the Author:
are the ones
edge-less and Stuart Rawlinson is a Brisbane, Australia-
unwalled based writer, focusing on poetry and currently
wri ng his debut novel. He released his first
like a garden poetry collec on in 2015: Encyclopaedia of
city in a Trees is a 19-poem collec on on a theme of
warless age me and memory and each poem accompanies
caught a piece of original music. He is also a regular
contributor to Project 366, a collabora on
half born between poets and ar sts. Stuart’s website
and premature and blog is at stuartrawlinson.com.

certainty
bristles at the
thought of its
own form

moulded and fired
cooled without
cracking or
warping

confusion blurts
a be er
sculptor would

keep it inside
half formed

200

SCAVENGERS

by Hank Kalet

Father Becomes the Son This Is What Religion Does

He says he should just My uncle was forbidden
have a heart a ack. Done. And when from carrying his mother’s
I reprimand, I feel the embers casket. The dead defile
of past fires burning the sacred — from priestly
in my gut. At eighty, lineage, a Kohein called
he’s earned his self- to sacred du es, sacrifice
obsession, but pity the lambs, bless the Temple.
is not his color; a stubborn My salesman uncle had
refusal to face what’s in front to watch from a distance —
of him suits him be er. four cubits, the Talmud says —
He gets what’s happening, that as we conveyed her in plain
his wife — protector, salva on, pine casket across the dried
arch nemesis — is washing away, August grass to her
a sand castle at the water’s edge. markerless grave.
She gets angry or doesn’t talk, loses
things and blames those kids
like she’s Mr. Wilson in the old
Dennis the Menace strips.
I feel like a bachelor he says,
or a punching bag. I don’t
have to take this, can’t, so he smokes
more and more, an escape
that does no one any good. But what
can I tell him, and why
should he listen? It’s not like
I listened when I should have.

201

Scavengers Adelaide Literary Magazine
Ode to El Tiante

Hard to dis nguish what’s not Was there anybody cooler
from what is from what’s le as carrion than Luis Tiant,
for the beetles and predatory birds. toast of Beantown, fireplug
of a man so smooth
Difficult not to see Reggie called him
the purple of her tunic against shadows Astaire. Ball in glove, back
and sand. No way to miss the dance turns like Miles
of light in the dense s llness of pixels to his audience, wicked
under the ny spot in this narrow seat. horseshoe mustache
giving him the look
A crowd of men on the river’s bank. Mud of El Diablo
-streaked body. Rohingya. in a ‘50s western.
Muslim. Illegal. This is what they say. Hit this, if you
can see it, ball
“Reincarna on of snakes and insects.” sweeping in from points
Exterminate them. Clear the fields, unknown. Palm ball. Slow
the valleys of the vermin. Feast curve. A sneaky
on our prone bodies, suck life fastball that arrived
from the na on. Bring down the machete. before it le
his big right hand.
Drive on in the rain. Crows rise
Christ-like from the blood-stained
macadam, move on from
the dead flesh of a ransacked corpse.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Ghosts at the Acme About the Author:

No grievous angels, these kids Hank Kalet is a poet, essayist and journalist,
in cowboy hats, singing cigare es who lives in central New Jersey with his
& whuskey, pedal steel soaring wife Annie and their two dogs. He teaches
below wild, wild women, the drummer wri ng at Middlesex County College
driving the band with a whip. and Brookdale Community College and
The baby-faced singer journalist at Rutgers University.
with the Gram Parsons hair, eyes
two stage lights cu ng through the funk.
They’ll drive you crazy, he croons,
They’ll drive you insane. This song’s never
sounded so wise, its skin rubbed red,

ngling with the soul of old Nashville,
these new pioneers of the sacred sound
unbowed by honky tonk angels calling
for Skynyrd covers as beer
& bourbon pour onto Lower Broadway
like two drunks from Quebec
as the Cumberland flows
like the Willie Nelson song.

203

ROUGH RIDE

by George Gad Economou

Rough Ride the snow fell heavily, and it was
back to a small backyard,
me to spend a few hours to
watch Wrestlekingdom, holding each other warm, while we
tried not to nod off in the snow.
and I wish you were here, to crack
a Wild Turkey open, full of dreams, fueled as they were
by majes c blue dragons,
crank some shit up. like events
from too many years ago, and hopes for a future that was
eviscerated way too soon.
ghtly in each other’s arms, you
grew to like my li le coffee, stale cigare es, and NJPW;
snow’s melted away
secret passion, and whiskey certainly helped.
like everything within me,
just to have you here, holding
my hand; through this and I watch others living their dreams,
while I pray for a bo le of Maker’s
new blue darkness, as there’s
no sun and last night Mark and your embrace.

it snowed and I stood there, watching
it cover the streets.

no spike in my arm, no bo le in my hand.
just your ghost, whispering “keep going,
“I’ll be wai ng.”

wish I could believe; wish I s ll
believed in the Bar I entered,

when the same vice that took you
away almost killed me, too.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Best Job for Recession

had to sit through a ninety-minute they even tried to sell me the idea
orienta on for a job I wasn’t gonna I won’t have to pay taxes

get, nor accept; sales rep for some ll I pocket thousands per month—in
health diet products the same country where Tsipras

(ain’t endorsing them by naming them— has taxed even birds and trees
besides, don’t have money for and the air we breathe.

libel suits. if I hit the bestselling lists, too good to be true; it always is.
I’ll tell you all about them). but, selling dreams is a great

me, represen ng and encouraging job. I just need to find
people to drink protein shakes… a saleable dream and I’m fixed for life.

best breakfast is a highball of bourbon perhaps why my alter-ego makes
and an 8ball of unpublishable. money out of sex-stories

I’d have loved to tell it to the guys from the while all I get is rejec on slips.
old dive; it’d make for a fun round of
well, down goes another lowball of
shots. rotgut, bo le’s half-empty;
but, as I saw ninety minutes of
I stop giving a damn about lodgings,
my life wither away, bills, food, the future.

I realized what the best job for I’ve got some booze and ll the bo le runs dry
recession is; selling dreams.
I’ll be alright and won’t care
the speakers repeatedly said fantas c, what others dream.
amazing, great, brilliant…you

get the dri . had some “success stories”
there, too. people making

good money selling those products.

and, yeah, for one out of a hundred
it might work out. for the rest,

it’s hassling and huffing and puffing
and swea ng in social media

to get a couple of sales and
make meager money.

205

Ice-Covered Sandy Beach Adelaide Literary Magazine
Shadow Kissing at Dusk

those serene nights forever imprinted picturing all those early mornings
in my head; a calm suburb hungry for the fix,

in a small Danish city, a sandy beach, the pain unbearable numbing
the big houses all around. the mind and soul,

we sat on the sand, in the middle desperately searching the apartment
of the night, when all the for the 8balls, the le overs,

hard-working people peacefully slept, anything; and usually there was nothing.

drinking bourbon and for fied chasing shadows in foggy forests, trying
wine out of the bo le, to capture the coveted prize, but,
we were so deep into it, so le out and alone,
smoking cigare es (and some mes
glass). we kissed, we had no chance in hell; as
the sun was se ng,
talked, laughed, fucked, silently stared
at the moon in a ght embrace. signaling yet another end, promising
new tomorrows that would
those nights forever in my head,
despite the booze and the mist never dawn,

I can’t forget them. we kissed in the absolute darkness,
horrified of light
a er Emily, I shared the beach
and the beau ful spots (natural and ar ficial alike),
hoping we’d escape the insanity
with others, but,
one fine day and emerge
it was never the same. with Emily, I was victorious; we knew
there. no stories in my head, the fairytales were only lies, grand

no envisioning words. only her masqueraded lies
hand, her embrace, her lips. offering false promises to the

the bourbon we shared and the gullible and the desperate.
ice that got us sane.
morning would always come, as cruel as ever;
on winter, the beach would freeze. despite the circle would con nue, we had
the sharp bone-penetra ng breeze,
no inten on of breaking it,
we sat there; warmed by booze we couldn’t, nor did we really want to,
and a passionate kiss. somehow madly in love, engulfed

we had it all, and one day we’d by a flaming passion,
live in some big mansion, despite the cold needles, the

drinking top-shelf whiskey and smoking cigars. midnight cooking; kissing
wis ul, hopeful, youthful thinking.

206

Revista Literária Adelaide

under the se ng sun, staring at
the horizon, the sea,

listening to the seagulls crying for their
mates... we had each other,

for a while it felt like it was all we truly needed.

About the Author:
George Gad Economou holds a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science and currently
resides in Athens, Greece, freelancing his way to a new place. His work has been published,
predominantly, in Spillwords and the literary pla orm in progress Jumbelbook and Spillwords
and his novella, Le ers to S., has been published in Storylandia Issue 30 (h ps://www.
storylandia.wapsho press.org/2019/08/17/storylandia-30-now-on-sale/)

207

ONE SINGLE ROSE

by Edward Bonner

One Single Rose In my life of reality,
one single rose with ruby petals.
If I could offer one single rose’ One last breath with showered dreams,
with ruby petals, ended from the whispering blows
blades of crimson, of silence.
showered in dreams,
from my garden where seasons are unknown.
Would you understand?

If a stream runs through graciously’
in short,
under breath,
so solemn covert sort,
would you understand?

T’wasn’t far from my heart
and heard through the hills.
The sky’s inability to keep a

secret cried to unveil.

My falcon suspended alone in the clouds,
overheard the rumble,
gracefully retrieving the rose.
He flew through the cascading summit,
protec ng every petal not to crumble.

This falcon possessed one single
pure rosaceous plant.

Whispered endearment to the one I love.

208

Beauty and Wickedness Revista Literária Adelaide
All My Own (Hazelwood)

There was a place of beauty and wickedness, The morning sun peeped through
untouched from footsteps walking nowhere. my bedroom window.
Fixa onal dri ing in the burning sun
turned the seas into a ravaged land. I remember when, oh wait! Mistaken
for the morning sun,
Bending the limits with the mind,
u ers unique fantasies. a soaring flame of yellow, orange
Through inescapable happiness, and red viewed miles away,
whispers plead for a utopian vision.
hung in the sky all night and all day.
A woman weeping in despair Embodied a “plume of jus ce”
retreats under a spellbound olive branch. pride for the hard working souls
Touched by this symbol of goodwill,
everyday life is an obstacle for learning. earning a wage at Jones and
Laughlin steel in Hazelwood,
Move while the door is opened, Pi sburgh Pennsylvania.
let resilience emerge from her
Living with my grandparents was great. But
sorrowful detachment. ge ng older, was me to move on.

Fear can be clothed with excuses. At eleven years old and remembering well.
Return strength to the impeding heart. My mother and I moved into an
Recognize goals,
don’t assume back tomorrow. apartment house, nestled on a hill
away from the town’s confusion.

In that, I acquired my first bedroom.
A bed!
Wood frame, with a ma ress and coverings
my first bed!
Not a couch with sheets and a blanket.
My first freaking bed! I was in awe.
My own dresser for clothes’
Hot damn’
I can store my army men in it.
Sure am one lucky kid.

This was the greatest place!
Woods in the back of the house and a creek!!
Through the woods there was

an old burnt up car,
probably stolen and just past that

car was the fishing hole
abundant with crayfish and lizards.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Ge ng muddy and building forts Ravishing whirlpools impregnate warm
with this child’s imagina on, currents through his skin.

was a world of heavenly dreams come true. Winds horseshoe vengefully - sending
Best of all, the city riots and fire- dynamite explosions - across the sidewalk.

bombings were le behind. Life turned to looming ashes.

Yes, I threw rocks, bricks and one or In that split-second change,
two fuel lit amber bo les. everything grew dark.
Smudges blinded his delicate eyes
Retalia on is how we survived
There was no jus ce in the city. beneath the clouds.
I was fast on my feet and o en
Her hand went to his neck,
just narrowly escaped. two punctures - seeped blood -

We’d ride our bicycles below the con nuously un l death.
tracks, about a mile away.

Once there, we were safe in a
community that protected us.

The evening grew loud with trains
carrying alloy of iron and carbon.

“Steel” high stencil strength for building dreams.

Damn!
It’s late!
Time to ride home.
Home with a bed and my own bedroom.
What more could I ask for!
The Brilliance - Of Her - Pomegranate A re
The brilliance - of her - pomegranate a re
eddies a cologne - spiced opulence.

Whimpers triggered - from a
blazing blind - scarlet cloth,

curtains darkness behind a seduc ve
temptress, capable of impelling souls.

Beneath her cocktail gown - silhoue es
fire - into radia ng lust.

210

Revista Literária Adelaide

Ravished Words

I’m standing in the doorway Yes I’m
Gazing in Crying
My brave eyes have fallen Because I sacrificed life
Only to be burned
In this, the arrow penetrates simple agony
They say it doesn’t hurt, Fruit will eventually be devoured by worms
but misery becomes a storm
ravishing the rainbow’s smile Let this fall into nothing
Now that I know what was hidden
The skies and the bu erflies were once magic I might as well be dead
now the universe and the heavens weep
The summer morning passed
and the winter’s bite is bleak

The flamingos missed their turn,
ending in the Siberia domain
This dire soul needed love
only to be cast away

The sole lips, fleshy skin,
cracked from the toxic air
S ll
I craved her moisture

Once I held her hand
A woman
Of mys c
Blameless mystery

How does bliss work?
Does it hover from the mind
of madness

Only now
I am the ro en,
worthless,
piece of scum
That fell on my knees

211

Adelaide Literary Magazine

About the Author:

The tles of Edward V. Bonner’s poetry, suggests some ways in which the poems inside
balance the universe. Most of the poems examine the themes of beauty and risk, pleasure
and danger, in the context of one of three kinds of rela onships: to roman c partners, to
the spiritual world, and to the world of nature. But while these concerns are shared by
much of humanity, Bonner’s poems sound consistently personal.
As a young child, Ed grew up in a rough area of Pi sburgh Pennsylvania, a small mill town
called Hazelwood. Raised by his mother and grandparents un l the age of 13. (As Edward
Fromen) His mother remarried. At 15 years old he was adopted by his stepfather.
Growing up Bonner got into trouble like most city kids. Only he was the lucky one.
An avid outdoorsman
6Th degree black belt in Shotokan karate
Holds a degree in business
Holds aeronau cs degree and an A&P license. Employed at American Airlines/Usairways
Each poem is carefully chosen to serve the reader.
Author of “One Kiss- Just One Kiss”
Author of “Through the Eyes of a Lost Boy”
Published in “Adelaide” literary magazine (Purple Dawn-poem) Year III Number 11,
January 2018.
Published in “Adelaide” literary magazine (Beyond the Heavens) Year III Number14, July
2018.

212

FOCUS

by Antonio Rios

November 17th, 2010 Focus

Clouds slowly rolled across the sky overhead. Dark evening sky with a
A heavyset man sold hotdogs Bright
Full moon.
at the street corner. Faint light streaming up from
Three young children played on a swing set. signs of stores and restaurants below.
The leaves fell from the trees steadily, The white of her smile.
a so snip when they broke free.
Crunchy gravel beneath my palms
Two young boys walked around, laughing. as I lean back.
One had a smile of polished ivory, Trains rumbling along nearby.
the other kept his hidden. Cars floa ng by on the street.
Two men approached them. The sound of her voice.
Time froze.
Cold September air at midnight.
The smell of gunpowder filled the air. A smell I’ve never known before,
The faint trace of her perfume.

The sights, the sounds, and smells
of Salem at night.
All of it overshadowed
by the woman in front of me.

213

Alyssa Adelaide Literary Magazine
About the Author:

I dreamed just several weeks ago.
I saw a man I did not know.
He turned to me and said, in English,
“I know how to treat her. She was always
psycho. You cannot help her.”

214

THE TROP

by David Somerset

The Trop

The game drones on. The machinery is very old, but is
The Trop is a “pinball game” baseball amazing and beau ful,

field, named a er orange juice. but now it seems fallow, una ended
A hit ball striking one catwalk is a double. and neglected.
If it hits another, then its a home run
Just another discarded toy that has
or a dead ball or a ball in play. lost its entertainment value.
I float outside my shadow, into
There is no longer any sign of a
layers of screen image. presence to be seen.
Reality flickers into the dream me.
Now the stanchions are stars above No guidance or direc on for our ny
self-centered micro-dot.
the flowing catwalks.
The ra ers are a painted shadow Meanwhile, the world is taking a bea ng.
We are taking a bea ng.
sky, overarching horizons. There is only an old fashioned
The universe reveals itself vast,
phone on a old desk.
complex and intricate. I pick up the receiver I and hear:
Our world is exposed as mere “your call is important to us, leave a message.”

scenery of the infinite.
All of our hard earned knowledge

throughout our history
is exposed as just a trivial facade,

simplis c and arcane.
There are worm holes and

phantom connec ons
where souls and angels traverse our

no ons of me and space.
There is a profound intricacy,

sugges ng a maker or makers.
Intelligence outside of our evolu on,

and understanding.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine
When Best Friends Break Each Other’s Hearts

though there was a loud snap you were you never
and breaking sound as good as lovers

no one looked up to acknowledge as you were friends
and look around un l it stops and then it ends

he takes a step forward as he always has then you hold back the hurt
she takes a step back as she always did as much as you can

he finally takes a step back and wait for me…. and again
she thinks of taking a step forward
to find kindness and resolu on
but she does not want ….sufficient to stop the pain
to give him the wrong idea
and bring back your best friend
so she steps back again and restore you back to life again
then so does he
and save your life
as does she save your worthless life
and again does he

in their distance they are a mirror
un l they can hardly see each other

he pretends not love her …. anymore
so she will not have to pretend that

she s ll does (love him)

then that life you had
…. comes apart

you lose your home your lover
and your heart

sense the grim loss of
a husband and a wife

and while you miss those days
and long for that life

216

Time Management Revista Literária Adelaide
Winter 2017

Our whole lives misspent dreaming Cold today
Swimming in envy and scheming Air is painful
Just killing ourselves for News old and icy
What we believe in Winning streaks long gone away
Thinking it was just Days darken, sun recedes
What we needed, Friends gone quiet and distant
But never filling that hole Fires go out and are hard to relight
That our soul le behind In families, na ons, ci es
But, there is no way around it Of the heart
We can’t stop obsessing about it Understanding becomes bri le then breaks
The way that daylight dances Our hurt pushing up through cracked ice
to recreate that scene: Feelings frozen, fall silent
When we first met No warmth can be found from each other
In each other’s dreams Hope and dreams surrender to survival
But now, if you’re not in love Cold’s grip deepens our indifference
You’re s ll alive Can’t move or connect
Even when we’re not sure We can only
We want to survive Dream of forgiveness
Nothing is le of yesterday Dream of spring
We’re all alone and in the way, and
While it may not be obvious or even profound
When there is joy, it has to be found
There is a river running though us
It brings everything to us, and
It takes it away

217

Zombies in Love Adelaide Literary Magazine
About the Author:
When Zombies fall in love
It really is forever David Somerset lives in Salem, MA with his
It’s for eternity wonderful wife and a small disagreeable
Zombie love is dog. He writes and performs poetry, stories
Always true, bacteria and music at local open mics and features.
And worms have already He is a member of the Salem Writers
Removed all of the Group and the Tin Box Poets. Dave’s work
Distrac ons of the flesh has been published in the Merrimac Mic
What is le is pure Anthology, The Whisper and the Roar,
Not illusion, not Oddball magazine, Ugly Writers, and the
Mere physical a rac on Lily Poetry Review. Dave has also published
It is all real, a Chap Book: Among Poets Tonight.
Zombie love

218

PUTTING YOU
THROUGH NOW

by Christopher Barnes

“Pu ng You Through Now, Caller.” (1) “Pu ng You Through Now, Caller.” (3)

“Thirkell confided she’d bargained, “Beth has a stark-mad warp –
hobbled away, Might-a-gored him anyway.
Ki en heels and bligh ng scru ny.
Fingers crushing that suitcase, Airless confidants once.”
Something taut in her eyes.”

“Guess she’s on the plane, “Retrace that freeloading…you at the wheel –

An age-encrusted face glimmering in a window.” Pearls hustling on Cadillac seats.”

“Pu ng You Through Now, Caller.” (2) “Pu ng You Through Now, Caller.” (4)

“When the posse interrogate, I’ll have to riposte. “You always this gruff?
Rowlie’s eyes were trout-wide. Muzzling your jaw smooths our racket.
Been slot-machining, didn’t leak. Could’ve pocketed Be erbridge,
We’ll make the ghost town edi on.
You fall out to Hicksville.” worth the undertaking.
He was roundly pinpointed.
“Got a whisper I’m shying off. Whine baby, avan .”
With fresh minu ae he could breathe life.”
“There’s no getaway hatch
That doesn’t swing onto a precipice.”

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

“Pu ng You Through Now, Caller.” (5)

“This wipe out has its Laurel & Hardy ingredient.
You had it jaggy
Radia ng yourself in vending machine glam.
An x marks the colour print.
Everything’s thimblerigged, faithworthy.”

“Skewing reminiscences aren’t discre on,
Costa del Sol waits,
A golden bubble.”

About the Author:

In 1998 I won a Northern Arts writers award. The Art Cafe Project, his piece Post-Mark

In July 200 I read at Waterstones bookshop was shown in Be y’s Newcastle. This event

to promote the anthology ‘Titles Are Bitch- was sponsored by Pride On The Tyne. I made

es’. Christmas 2001 I debuted at Newcastle’s a digital film with ar sts Kate Sweeney and

famous Morden Tower doing a reading of my Julie Ballands at a film making workshop

poems. Each year I read for Proudwords les- called Out Of The Picture which was shown

bian and gay wri ng fes val and I partook in at the fes val party for Proudwords, it con-

workshops. 2005 saw the publica on of my tains my poem The Old Heave-Ho. I worked

collec on LOVEBITES published by Chan - on a collabora ve art and literature project

cleer Press, 6/1 Jamaica Mews, Edinburgh. called How Gay Are Your Genes, facilitated

On Saturday 16Th August 2003 I read at by Lisa Mathews (poet) which exhibited at
the Edinburgh Fes val as a Per Verse poet at The Ha on Gallery, Newcastle University, in-
LGBT Centre, Broughton St. cluding a film piece by the ar st Predrag Pa-
jdic in which I read my poem On Brenkley St.

I also have a BBC web-page www.bbc. The event was funded by The Policy, Ethics

co.uk/tyne/gay.2004/05/sec on_28.shtmland and Life Sciences Research Ins tute, Bio-sci-

h p://www.bbc.co.uk/tyne/videona on/sto- ence Centre at Newcastle’s Centre for Life. I

ries/gay_history.shtml (if first site does not was involved in the Five Arts Ci es poetry

work click on SECTION 28 on second site. postcard event which exhibited at The Seven

Christmas 2001 The Northern Cultural Stories children’s literature building. In May I
Skills Partnership sponsored me to be men- had 2006 a solo art/poetry exhibi on at The
tored by Andy Cro in conjunc on with New People’s Theatre why not take a look at their
Wri ng North. I made a radio programme for website h p://ptag.org.uk/whats_on/gal-
Web FM community radio about my wri ng lery/recent_exhbi ons.htm

group. October-November 2005, I entered The South Bank Centre in London record-

a poem/visual image into the art exhibi on ed my poem “The Holiday I Never Had”; I

220

Revista Literária Adelaide

can be heard reading it on www.poetry- etry Weekend hosted by Poetry Scotland. I
magazines.org.uk/magazine/record.as- have also wri en Art Cri cism for Peel and
p?id=18456 Combustus Magazines. I was involved in
The Crea ve Engagement In Research Pro-
REVIEWS: I have wri en poetry reviews gramme Research Constella on exhibi ons
for Poetry Scotland and Jacket Magazine of wri ng and photography which showed
and in August 2007 I made a film called ‘A in London (march 13 2012) and Edinburgh
Blank Screen, 60 seconds, 1 shot’ for Queer- (July 4 2013) see
beats Fes val at The Star & Shadow Cinema
Newcastle, reviewing a poem...see www. http://www.researchconstellation.
myspace.com/queerbeatsfes val On Sep- co.uk/ . I co-edit the poetry magazine Inter-
tember 4 2010, I read at the Callander Po- poetry h p://www.interpoetry.com/.

221

THE METAPHOR

by Andy J Hale

Ichthyes The Metaphor

It’s the birth of immortality… Hello Chaos!

Crawl across the water Hyaline image
My father is the ocean Pharaonic Empire
Who is your radiant mother? with no mother tongue
Is sovereignty the sun?
To the sound of the drum
the rival moves forward I see the fire
It is the art of war Are you the flame?
I’ve seen the future
I am faithful Are you to blame?

Snipers open fire on the golden temples A divine inspira on
Buried beneath the orchid garden sheltering her reason
Her bu erfly wings bloom in the winter Surrender nothing
Buried beneath the gardens water Knowledge nor…

To the sound of the drum When her myth
the rival moves forward Plays the metaphor
It is the art of war Goodbye, farewell

I am faithful Deny the void between
the seasons and the centuries
The ocean s ll exist in my memory Kissing the myth
I’ll avenge the blood of his throne only history will believe
You can forfeit the ferryman
I have no memory of sin 222

I love this me of precedence…

I see the fire Revista Literária Adelaide
Are you the flame?
I’ve seen the future Suburban Café
Are you to blame?
White lines disintegra ng
Remove the curtain Black laced dress
from humani es eyes Half-moon highway
and straighten the circle Along a mountain pass
upon fragments of me
White water silence
When her myth Sssnake in the grass
plays the metaphor The urban graffi dissolves
Goodbye, farewell Into a pyramid mist

Walk along the highway
A serpent with a staff
Desert ocean oasis
A waterfall bridge

Twin engine matadors
Twin engine jacks
Abandon shipwreck!
Magazine racks

Round rainbow haze
Draw a line in the sand
Steering wheel horizon
Indians dance

Night me racing
Gauges on empty
Gas sta on cigare e
Another five finger Sunday
Sunset mile marker
Welcome to L.A.
Black and white poverty
Suburban café

Garage tomb boardwalk
Gi shop souvenirs
Phone booth confessional
A park bench hotel

Lights go out on the city
Starlight sirens flicker
on 35mm film

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Valen ne Adelaide Literary Magazine

Three hundred centuries I’m so lost without you
on an island called Love Valen ne
Our flesh will be burned
by the fire above Lay down before me
Wipe away the love
I’m so lost without you from your eyes
Valen ne
Lay down before me
The sound of your voice Valen ne
flies away like bird
I’m wai ng for a sign Three-hundred tears
of good things to come fall away with the cries
Exile has been granted
I’m so lost without you far away from your eyes
Valen ne

Lay down before me
Wipe away the love
from your eyes

Lay down before me
Valen ne

Three-hundred horses
driven away by the fear
from a burning flame
that will never disappear
I’m so lost without you
Valen ne

Carry your journey
Into the land
Into the city
Given to you
Eat at my table
Break bread to new life
Terraces and harps
from beginning to end

224

Tug of War Revista Literária Adelaide
About the Author:
Blood is running
down my cheek Andy has his degree in Electronics Engineer-
Angels and demons ing Technology from ITT Technical Ins tute.
figh ng over me Currently working as a songwriter. He start-
ed a music publishing company, Golden
Hands of me Scars, in April 2019. The first single is from
Around my neck his book Turn Away with the same tle.
Tears from demons
Run down my back

The water runs
To meet the fire
Will darkness
Greet the flames?

Lifeless in their hands
In a game called
tug of war

225

MORNING SONG

by John Leonard

No Cream, No Sugar Morning Song

Being awake feels like having eternal pa ence. Thousands of red husks, secrets swarming
Nights slowly dripping into my in the core of a glacier, the deep green
foam that once covered an ancient lake.
orange coffee cup. The world began as a pale e of color, light
spreading un l it finally reached
I don’t remember who gave it to me,
or where I got it from. Like most things, your eyes. Words,
like umber and russet, spilled into existence.
it’s just always been there. The oak legs of our dinner table, unflinching
pillars in the mind of an aphid. All the veins
There should be a word for when you change you need to fill a brain with being; all the rivers.
the filter three mes and the How it took God billions of years to bring us
to this one moment, where the sun would rise
sun s ll won’t come up. just so, and brush a single ray of light across
your shoulder—this song of crea on mixed
Not to men on the brief realiza on with floorboard whispers. What
that everyone is just ge ng by
else can be said
Not to men on the s llness of 4 a.m. about these first morning hours? Everything.
Con nuously, everything.

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A Dream within a Dream Revista Literária Adelaide
American Dream

I’ve been thinking about the weather lately, He works eight to three on the road crew,
all the different names for it…how we’d spends his nights stocking shelves with
get ice cream every me it rained. food he can’t afford to buy.

You were in my dream last night, She was fired last week. Late again,
a pedestrian passing through. because the school bus won’t stop at
What amazes me is how I can dream the run-down motel they’re staying in.
about a place I haven’t seen in years
and s ll walk through every detail It’s not safe for the boys to walk
exactly how I remember it. alone through this part of town
to the designated stop.
More than that, I can dream about a place
I’ve never been and I can remember it perfectly, So now she sits in the chair
and wake up aching for it as alarm goes off. by the phone; wai ng and hoping
Whether it’s a dark alley, boarding school, that someone likes her résumé and
or beach—I feel it. I know I feel it. that there is enough gas in the tank
to get her to an interview.
And I feel the people I some mes meet,
holding up the illusions that separate He picks up the boys from school.
our worlds; doing their best, when I open They walk home.
my eyes, to make me forget. As if I could
be convinced, that the waking world, He tells them things will get be er,
which surrounds me, is any less real. every single day.

While he sleeps for a few hours,
she helps the boys with their homework.
One of them screams, as she swats at a roach,
scurrying across an essay on The Great Gatsby.

It’s the first one they have seen
in almost three days.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Freezing Rain

I speak to Brian for the first me today.
Five years as coworkers and, really, we
are nothing but dri wood to each other.
It’s January and the freezing rain falls heavy
like a single mother’s sigh. A truck slides
on a patch of ice (like they always do)
and crashes the power. Alone together,
in a dark warehouse, one might start thinking
that we are all just the molecules of something
larger; a proud and far more

sophis cated lifeform.
I want to ask Brian what he

thinks about all of that.
Instead, I jokingly ask him if he

thinks the power
is out all across the globe.

Is this the big one, Brian? I ask.

Whatever makes them let us
out early, he replies.

And then the lights come back on.

About the Author:

John Leonard is a wri ng professor and assistant editor of Twyckenham Notes, a poetry
journal based out of South Bend, Indiana. He holds an M.A. in English from Indiana
University. His previous works have appeared in Poetry Quarterly, Sheila-Na-Gig, Fearsome
Cri ers: A Millennial Arts Journal, Up the Staircase Quarterly, Eunoia Review, Neologism,
An -Heroin Chic, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, and Burningword Literary Journal. His
work is forthcoming in Chiron Review, Poe cDiversity, Rockvale Review, Blue Earth Review,
Roanoke Review, and the Rappahannock Review. John was the 2016 inaugural recipient of
the Wolfson Poetry Award, 2018 recipient of the Josephine K. Piercy Memorial Award, and
the 2019 recipient of the David E. Albright Memorial Award and Ha ield Merit Award. He
lives in Elkhart, Indiana with his wife, three cats, and two dogs. You can find him on Twi er
at @jotyleon.

228

EMPRESS

by Chani Zwibel

Empress Saffron and crimson sa n bedclothes,
sheets, and pillow cases cool and smooth,
Please send good news their own kind of caress.
and graceful configura ons of repose. Drink the violet ncture in the
I want to recline on this silver maple se ee
and read this gilt-edged tome in peace. blown-glass blue bo le
I keep dreaming of stone circles. by the bedside. On your hands,
I can’t keep count of all these Druids.
Fetch me a n cup full of cool water face, and décolletage,
from the spring house. massage the rosewater crème from
Bring it up to the porch steps
while I muse on these violets. the small, round, alabaster jar.
My tongue cherishes a hard Imbibe a bit of the wine
in the ivory-inlaid silver chalice.
candy in my mouth, Pop a few green grapes between
red, sugared-cherry, too sweet.
I think, coun ng: your teeth while you wait.
Seven grey owls
Seven slate obelisks
Seven signed armis ces
Seven hollowed skulls
Seven tailored empresses.
Indispensable utensil,
Small, two-pronged gold fork,
gripped in dainty, milk pale fingers,
carries tender meat to my mouth,
minced with mint very small.
Supine, in repose, upon a feather

ma ress strewn
with fragrant lavender buds and rose petals.

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Sorceress Adelaide Literary Magazine
Chatelaine

Smeared ink spots on finger ps, Collect the delicate, diminu ve pieces,
the li le bones dressed in thin skin, an archaeology of small:
hold the quill, nails ps brush parchment, a bone comb, three ivory pins,
whisper echoing the sharp nub. and a silver hand mirror
My unknown lover has no name; exhumed from Pompei’s crusted seal.
he travels on the wind. Fragrant gardens with plashing fountains
He wears a chalcedony ring, and spacious orangeries,
controls the weather, moves the clouds, braced by crisp pebbled paths
and commands thunder, like a thin demi-god in neat geometric lines,
in a blue silk cloak. He lives in the burnt, hollow shrubs clipped in orbs and spirals.
shell of an oak tree, at the water’s edge. Metal keys leave the blood-
He comes to me on dusk’s descent.
He visits my chamber with the rain. scent on my finger ps.
On my marble windowsill, It’s always night descended in the wine cellar,
he leaves polished river stones. dusk sliding down the eaves
He loosed a dead limb from a birch where ghosts’ curious hands
and laid its sha ered bones at my feet. grip wooden window casements,
He shape-shi ed into an iridescent press nose to glass.
A le er marked with the duke’s seal came
blue-winged dragonfly bearing word of silk and spices,
and chased away a hairy, thick brackish water on the hull,
gems, gold, and silver,
knuckled horsefly. brackish water on the tongue,
He reemerges as a serpent, weaves a grain, salt, cheese, and leather,
brackish water in the sails.
wand of white across my ankles, All these goods come across the waters,
becomes a gold-clasped belt to cinch the cargo’s journey many miles.
He promises me a song.
my waist, and whispers Sing to the silvered edge of
“show restraint only to others, never for me.”
I acquiesce; I let him in. night and back again,
cool grey in the dovecote, plum-

banded, crimson singed.
We’ll meet where the golden barge alights,
at the ocean’s mouth in the palm-sheltered

harbor of the wide blue bay.
I don’t believe him,
know our love lives
where waves kiss the prow
‘neath the figurehead’s slippers.

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Revista Literária Adelaide
About the Author:
Chani Zwibel is the author of Cave Dreams to Star Portals. She is an associate editor
with Madness Muse Press. She is a graduate of Agnes Sco College, who was born
and raised in Pi sburgh, Pennsylvania, but now dwells in Marie a, Georgia, with her
husband and their dog. She enjoys wri ng poetry a er nature walks and daydreaming.
Rob Hicks is a writer in New York City. Currently hard at work on his second novel, his poems
and short stories can be found in a variety of reviews on the internet and in print. For more
info, check out his instagram @poet.me.this.

231

MULTIPURPOSE

by Robert Travis Hicks

The Gallows Mul purpose

Head hung, haunted by hoary whispers Today I used love as a weapon
A me before the milk curdled to gain the upper hand
Before you le in this war.
Before the mirror met me
And explained be er than anyone ever could Yesterday love helped diffuse
the depths of my inadequacy. the bomb fate had thrown
at our feet.
Morning comes, I lie here s ll
My hands and feet shackled by sheets Some mes I use it as a way
Once used to contain our love To pry open your legs
Now no more than crude, cruel instruments At others, as a convenient excuse
Meant to wring the last of it To disappear.
From my flesh
Today I used love as a weapon.
Tomorrow is a new day.

About the Author:

232

RETURN

by Angela Shepherd

Return
You came to me as I took my first breath, the spirit which filled my lungs and
energized my beginning with grace. My life dependent on your presence, inspired
by your mystery, soothed in your company. You kept me close as you blew gently
blew the curtains in my bedroom as I stood in my crib crying out for, something.
Your energy mesmerized me, connec ng our spirits to an essence both yours and
mine, clearly divine. Your power invisible, yet palpable as you sway the forests and
oceans, and sustain life. Though available to all, we maintain a unique connec on
as you whisper through my window at night, the secrets of transcendence both
simple and mys cal. Inseparable, we remain, one stroke of the divine brush that
decorated the mountains and valleys fuels you, assuring our inspira ons abound.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Released

Whose restlessness beckons as the winds of change s r? Regard this chemistry
which edges our spirits ever forward whilst our feet sink deep into the quicksand
of thought. Breathe in such a way that your bu erflies that were once cocooned,
now soar, escaping the tempta on of discord. As care creeps and threatens
to radiate through past and future concerns, seek only the hush of this gentle
moment whose sovereignty reassures. Your soul is cleared of all charges once
harshly self-imposed, now throw your arms open to the wonder whose spirit
moves through your lungs, energizes the mighty ocean, and sways the treetops.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Unison

To the soul, to the pieces, to the fusion of our energies, we dance among
mys c rhythms. Flawlessly imperfect we transcend the limita ons of the mind
with the concert of our hearts, our turmoil quieted by ancient vibra ons.

Untethered from the refrain of expecta on, we soar beyond the
horizon to our natural harmony. Gi ed in our awareness that our power
once surrendered is now released into the wildness that awaits. Allow
the tune, then, the pulse, whose crea vity is beau fully in mate and
universal, to transcend, as it will our separa ons once, and again.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine
Arise
Shall I rise or dri back to the world of dreams full with the unpredictably wild, where
reality runs loose and free. I lay s ll between worlds of escape and possibility, in awe
of the accommoda on of this day. As the curtains blow gently on the morning breeze,
I gaze with wonderment towards the clean slate, open page, blank canvas of this day.
Passed is yesterday’s cause, with its challenges and triumphs, absorbed by the falling
darkness of the night sky. Our partnership was sealed long before this sunrise as the
stars aligned to spark light both adoring and universal. Tender in humility yet fierce in
assurance, we join as we arise, together with pa ent regard for that which lies ahead.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Nostalgia

Within the cells and messes, heart and ar stry, we ramble through our days,
guided by choices which walk the line between the casual and fated.
Would, that you dri back to me, when in the veiled space between wonder we
visited, we spoke not the mys cal connec on we shared. Remembrance now our
comforts safe haven as if to witness a grace outside of our grasp. Guarded, we steep
those sensa ons which long ago sparked our heart, fastening our souls. Lest we
wander like a ghost between regret and blessing, seek me now, ripe with the company
of visceral fear, awe, regret, and blazing light. Dare to raise to the surface the core
of our brilliance, freed to the dance, the chemistry, the shared relief of the sublime.

237

Adelaide Literary Magazine

Cleanse

As your cloud was to burst, would you rain down upon me with gentle comfort or
furious torrent? Your gathering now shown for the secrets you keep and protect
with might, revealed. I needed you then and ever more, as you collected all the
while within yourself, those precious drops. Whose frailty would expose a depth
beyond measure, a widening abyss of need. Release now, with a flood of trust
that which you absorbed, then yielded with each breath. Soak the shoulders
of those who crave your nurturing flood, awakening dormant seeds of dreams
reclaimed. And we will rest, contented in the absolve of your refreshing allowance.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Expanse

Abide with me in this shared space, honored as our cares dri from sight. Purely we
arrived in burst of light, in search and need of the same. Our presence a divining
connec on untethered from circumstance or ought. From the heart’s affinity
nourishment circulates a warmth true to the remembrance of our authen c nature.

A glance, a touch, a word, a gentle breeze, commissions a simultaneous influx
and outpouring of authen c affec ons. The magne c pull from our collabora ve
core, undeniable in its longing, draws us enduring, together. Our breath on the
wind, and roots planted in the soil of loves only cause, welcomes us home.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Fresh

Raw to the morning I breathe you in, a life giving rush of cool air ripe within the
dawn of possibility. Gone are the cares of the days passed by, dashed away amidst
the shadows of the fallen night. Perhaps between dreams you reached that goal or
surrendered that fear. That which tempts regret from sideways words and thoughts,
serves now, only to energize with hindsight’s wisdom. Envision then this clean slate
before you with its enlivened sun and clouds passing lazily by. Pure in our innocence,
awoken from losses slumber, lead from your core with energized heart towards our
unity. Your essence mingling with mine in the light of dawn’s divine connec on.

240

DOGS OF AUSTRALIA

by Rodney A. Williams

Dogs of Australia 3

For German migrants interned I am a dog of Australia
as enemy aliens on Torrens Island As bred by outback ca lemen
in the Port Adelaide River Estuary Crossing breeds from Britain with dingoes
during World War 1. Renowned as alert and loyal
Herding stock with nips to the achilles
1 Sharing farm kennels with Kelpies
My true name is the Australian ca le dog
I am a dog of Australia Known to most as the Queensland Blue Heeler
Walked here by this country’s first people I am a dog of Australia
Across a land bridge long since flooded
An apex hunter as desert dweller 4
At home as a loner or part of a pack
I am this country’s wild dog I am a dog of Australia
A er me a town’s called Warragul As bred by German foresters
But my true name is the dingo To hunt badgers, rabbits and foxes
I am a dog of Australia My spirit not skinny like my

2 body down burrows
Yet laughed at down here as a sausage dog
I am a dog of Australia I’m kicked in the belly while held on a leash
Striped with ochre on rocks to the north Since cruelty’s become patrio c
A marsupial wolf since wiped from this land My true name is der Dachshund
Saved by the strait for that isle to the south I am a dog of Australia
Yet boun es on my skull for sheep-kills
Will let me live on only in myth 5
Known as the Tasmanian Tiger
My true name is the thylacine I am a dog of Australia
I am a dog of Australia Linked in blood to the wolves of Black Forest
Loved as guardian, searcher and guide
My spirit proudest among canines world-wide

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Even in war, no one’s kicking my ribs Sign
Those footpath patriots not so brave
Known as the Alsa an or German Shepherd Love
My true name is der deutsche Schäferhund showing
I am a dog of Australia here now at
Immigra on
6 Museum
for short
I am a dog of Australia
S ll linked in blood to my kind in Europe me
Punched this far south by iron-mailed fists
A welcome migrant, my skills in demand Two or three storeys tall – a triolet
Down here these days I’m kicked in the guts
Accused of sabotage against my new home two or three storeys tall
Interned without cause a er years of peace the old stone buildings lean
My true name is ein Deutsch-Australier in close to hear travellers’ tales
I am a German Australian two or three stories tall
enough to shock one and all
in this cobbled streetscape scene
two or three storeys tall
the old stone buildings lean

About the Author:

Rodney Williams’ poetry has appeared in Blue Dog, Mascara
Literary Review, Overland, Southerly and StylusLit (Australia),
An podes (USA) and Poetry New Zealand. Both published
through Ginninderra Press (Port Adelaide), his books include
A bird-loving man (2013) and In that dusty rearview mirror
(2015). Rodney’s lyrics feature on a Piedmont Blues album
That String and Its Kite Too (2016) produced in collabora on
with singer-guitarist Ricky Allan.

242

REMEMBERING CAMUS

by Reed Venrick

Remembering Camus Circles of the Sea

Wrote, as I recall—there is but one The Eye was the first circle(Emerson)
truly philosophical problem—suicide.
Those last days of summer, building
Sugges ng the basic ques on for a sandman for the last me, before
the human kind is “to be or not to be,” September’s school, soon to begin—
when the child sees something,
yet on this issue, we must consider Jung,
who instead insists the basic she standing, leaping up from
the sand to run to the surf
philosophical ques on to gaze out at a cruise ship,
passing miles beyond the reef.
is to decide: Are we linked to the infinite design
and if so, perhaps we’ll do this again, The mother, si ng behind, lying
easy in her lounge chair, stays
or are we a branch on a tree, fated to be to the shade of the coconut
chopped off to become a grain of salt in palm, leaning low from a hurricane.

the sea or rather a seed blessed to fall She watches her child gaze out
in the waves —as a message toward the distant, passing ship,
and the girl reaches out a hand,
floa ng to new con nent. trying to grasp the image,
not perceiving the size of scale.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine
Two

Many seasons have passed, but Many hours pass before the moon
the mother remembers when she casts shadows through the fronds,
was the child, and she feared hanging low to the beach sand.
that ships would fall over.
The mother and daughter,
Percep ons may be true, she hand in hand, stroll along the
whispers in the breeze, but some- “playa” as they seek a restaurant
in a sea-side town.
mes the eye sees one image
and the mind knows another. They do not witness the high de
at 10:32 p.m. when the surf rushes
in, eroding the sandman that the daughter
worked to build all a ernoon.

Neither will know that the leaning
palm, where the mother rested all
a ernoon, dropped a coconut into
the high de, where concentric

circles now form and spiral
out to create another horizon,
that will, with me, reach a shore,
on another island in the ocean,

where a child will leave her sand
castle and run into the surf, and gaze out
to sea, realizing that horizontal
lines circle round.

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