Adelaide Literary Magazine no.30, November 2019

THE OIL FIELD

by Edward Bonner

The Oil Field It wasn’t just Trees protruded from each side
life, this was our world. of the road consumed light
Rise and shine. making shadows come to life.
Breakfast is at seven in the morning.
“Cold cereal and then a dash out the door” Reaching the top, we made a sharp
right onto Hazelwood Avenue.
Four of my friends and I would Hazelwood Avenue was constructed
run to the local baseball field and with “Belgium cut” stone blocks.
play America’s past me. In the rain, the blocks were slippery as ice.
“Baseball’ You would never ride a bike.
Nicky; Ma ; Luke and Bobbie It would be wipe out city.
were the players. And the cars would creep five
Nicky was my best friend. We miles per hour down the hill.
were like a tag-team. Otherwise they would end up
Ma and Luke were brothers. into someone’s living room.
They would always get on each
other, especially if one made About a quarter of a mile walk and
an error in the game. we were standing at the backstop.
Bobby was a li le older. Now this baseball field was
He was a pain in the bu . unique in its own way.
Everything was his way. The locals called the field, the “Oil Field”.
“You know the kind” The proper name was the “Gladstone”
field. Which was the high school
Racing up Nansen Street, felt like running and grade school located about
to the top of mountain, only with potholes. a quarter of a mile away.

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This field was sprayed monthly with oil. With a le -hand ba er, it will be
Yes oil! the opposite. Hit between second
This prevented dust, mud, grass and bugs. and third you were out.
“Who would believe this today”?
Morning un l dusk,
The Oil Field was hard and fast. we played baseball all summer.
You could smell the field a block away. The girls would watch,
You definitely didn’t want to slide. never allowed on the field.
But at all costs, Fear of staining their clothes
to win the game we did everything and white tennis shoes.
and anything.
Slide, jump and roll. There maybe a few fights about
Covered with a black type tar, certain plays on the field.
our clothes would be stained as We’d be rolling around and look
our bodies would be in pain. like we’re ready to be feathered.
We were never allowed in the house Funny no one got hurt.
with our shoes on. That’s when
you would get a tongue lashing. “Man, here comes the older kids”
“Them damn bullies”
Now how the heck do you play a They would kick us off the
baseball game with only five players? field so they could play.
The best way is.
One player between shortstop One day they got out of hand.
and third base, Picking on us kids so freaking bad,
the second player at le center ou ield, they started throwing equipment
last the pitcher, first baseman all over the field.
and a catcher. Gloves, bats and baseballs
With a le y ba er, we would launched all over the place.
switch the ou ield player to right-
center and short to second. One kid, his name was Mick.
He looked like a sumo wrestler. “A
If a right-hand ba er hits the ball big fat dough boy”
to between second base and first Mick threw us around like rag dolls.
base he’s automa cally out. Swearing and calling us names.

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We ran and ran, That was the last me these
Empty handed and all. kids picked on us.
Our equipment was le at the field.
In the evening we would watch men
When we reached home, play so ball on the Oil Field.
Nicky told his brother “Johnny” These players crushed the ball.
what happened at the Oil field. If they hit a ball in the ou ield,
Johnny hopped on his mini bike you would lose sight of it.
and sped up Nansen Street. Within seconds, the catch was made.
This was amazing.
By the me we reach the field. Each player had grace, speed and power.
Johnny was powerli ing
Mick over his head. Spectators would be si ng on the
Johnny threw Mick on the hill side. sidewalk cheering the players.
A hundred yards away, we heard a thud. What a great evening.

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 an Associate degree in
business. Holds aeronau cs degree and a A&P license. Author of “One Kiss- Just One Kiss”.
Author of “Through the Eyes of a Lost Boy”. Published in “Adelaide” literary magazine
(Purple Dawn) Year III Number 11, January 2018. Published in “Adelaide” literary magazine
(Beyond the Heavens) Year III Number14, July 2018.
Finalist: ADELAIDE VOICES LITERARY CONTEST 2018 “Verdant Whisper”.

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SECRETS FOR
ANANSI

by Victoria Girmonde

It’s easy to be fearless when you are young. ral world knows things. They see and hear us.
A er all, you are too stupid and too naïve We would be wise to remember that.
to see the world for what it is. You grow up,
and then li le by li le coldness starts to set But they knew something else too;
in. You begin to doubt and worry. something secret known only to Anansi, an
Akan folklore character. He was the guard-
You know the feeling. In the end, only ian of all the stories in the universe. In the
children are truly free. Fear is a tricky thing. beginning, a er all, there were no stories.
It sneaks up on you. It seizes you. Hearts Nyame, the Sky Father, kept them all hid-
race. Palms sweat. Throats constrict, and in den in a large box. That is un l Anansi won
the end you are le a bumbling mess while them in a bet. Legends say that he o en
you are trying to face the thing that makes took the shape of a spider and knew all of
you afraid. Some mes you transfer internal the stories that have ever been told past,
fears onto someone else. present, and future. They say when a story
comes to you; it is Anansi who whispers it
I used to play with spiders. into your ear at night. Or he sends his chil-
dren – all of the spiders of this world – to
I used to let them crawl all over my arms come and tell you it.
and hands with their eight spindly legs
while I told them my secrets. Secrets they’d But that was long before the me I used
carry back to Anansi, secrets they’d harbor, to play with them. Maybe when I played
and secrets he might share with the natural with spiders, Anansi knew that I wanted
world. You see, there was a pact between to be a writer. I dreamt stories. I breathed
Anansi and I. them. I ate them up for breakfast.

It was a pact known only to the moun- I’d climb up on my mother’s lap and whis-
tains, valleys, fields, streams, and to the li le per to her about rainbow-haired unicorns,
creatures who flew through the sky, and the and trolls and li le things that go bump in
li le ones scampering in the shadows on the the night that were really good at heart just
earth. The starlight knew it as well. The natu- simply misunderstood.

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I’d tell her about adventures and a ser- Daddy! Come quick! Spider!
pent who everyone called a monster but
was really lonely and wanted a friend. I He chuckled, killed it, and shook his head.
longed to be able to tell stories to others.
Yet, as years passed I grew afraid: afraid of What are you afraid of, Daddy?
my keyboard, my notebooks, and my pen.
Being alone.
I wonder if Anansi knew what had been
s rring within me. Fear is personal, too. Like the bogeyman
it changes to suit its host. Once it takes hold
Maybe he knew that I had become of you it is almost impossible to get rid of.
afraid of the paper and the pen instead of
him. With every e-mailed query le er I sent It’s odd though that my fears internal-
to an agent or publisher, the fear of rejec- ized as a spider would be a symbol of hope
for genera ons and genera ons. During
on only grew and gnawed at my side. American slavery, tales had been passed
down from one person to the other of an
O en mes, fear is irra onal. Why else eight-legged spider god, Anansi. No longer
would my stepfather, a grown man past a symbol of fear, he had become a symbol
fi y, threaten to punch Flower the Clown of hope. The slaves would speak to one
when she offered him a balloon? another about the trickster god who had
brought all of the stories to the world.
“Get back,” he said, pushing my Mom to
the side. “I don’t like clowns, and if you come Anansi. Anansi, the trickster god, will get
any closer I’ll just bop you.” us home. He is a er all the dispenser of all
wisdom.
Flower looked at him, blinked, and then
stomped away. Her huge shoes echoed on I close my eyes, and my memory chang-
the pavement. es again. Sunlight streams in through the
chapel’s windows. I look at my Mom and
You can climb the highest mountains, smile. How the heck she ever found this
and trek through the ho est deserts but shrine is beyond me. Out in the middle
you will always find that fear finds you. of nowhere, The Rosa Mys ca House of
Prayer is almost completely removed from
Even animals feel it. the outside world.

Perhaps this nervous s mulus is prepro- The monk who runs this place walks
grammed in our brains. Maybe, just may- over and smiles. His eyes are kind and full
be, we are born with fear implanted in our of warmth. He ushers us outside, and a
hearts. Even philosophers had a thing or blast of light warms my bones.
two to say about it.
“Go to her,” Father Cyrus said. “Go to her
Funny, how people fear things so much, and give her your fear.”
how we let it get in the way of the things
we are born to do. How can I be afraid of The monk gestured towards a stone stat-
something so smaller than my big toe? No ue. Mom walked up to the gli ering white
doubt, Anansi’s children are just minding body of the Blessed Mother. Reaching out,
their own business. What about that me she took Mary’s outstretched hand.
when I had fled from the shower clutching
a towel around my wet body because a spi- “You can take my fear of spiders.”
der had invaded the stall?

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Di o, I said in my heart.
Months later, I’d wake up and see a spi-
der, shrug, roll over and dri off to sleep.
I’d begin to write and put my pen to pa-
per, allowing my mind to wander into the
depths of imagina on. Weeks a er that, I’d
see a spider crawling on the wall, exis ng
in the same place with my Mom and I. And
now, I am that carefree girl standing before
one of Anansi’s children, watching, watch-
ing, watching as it spins its silky web. I bite
my lip, breathe in deeply, and wonder if I
should tell my secrets to Anansi once again.

About the Author

Victoria Girmonde lives in the Mohawk Valley in beau ful New York. She has a B.A. in
Journalism and an M.A. in Professional Wri ng from New England College. When she is not
wri ng, she can o en be found edi ng books at Kyrun Edi ng or direc ng and ac ng at a local
community theater.

154

HOW FAR FROM
ONE DEGREE

by Sharon Y. Sim

On that sweltering island na on one de- We were part of a potluck team - I, the
gree above the equator, we bawled our first appren ce; you the chef – preparing onde
breaths. onde dessert in your downtown high rise. I
couldn’t resist bi ng into one a er another
Decades later, at that temperate city of those so light green glu nous rice balls
named a er a redwood tree thirty-seven coated with grated coconut, oozing warm
degrees north of the equator, we met for melted brown sugar onto my tongue.
the first me.
That was way before we packed up for
We were part of a panel - I, a modera- that party. We lingered. We talked freely
tor; you, a speaker - sharing stories of im- about the pains of marriage, about entre-
migrant lives. preneurial and immigrant dreams, all the
while, quietly slipping just another inno-
Someone showed slides of a life filled cent li le onde onde down our throats…
with ski trips, gradua on par es and tour-
ist landmarks. We eventually showed up at the big pot-
luck at that big suburban home, just in me
You spoke, no slides, sharing career and to serve dessert.
culinary tales of triumph and missteps, of
love and heartache. ***

I knew then we’d become friends. You finally signed the papers and said good-
bye to the man who brought you here (who
The crowd cheered. They related to your became your husband, then your ex).
stories, yes, and I suspected, also because
they had their fill of foods from one degree, You packed your bags. You also said good-
of chicken satay and peanut sauce, of char bye (for now) to your adopted home and your
kway teoh noodles with cockles and shrimps. new friends for your trip around the world.

*** Right before you le , I asked if you had
read that memoir about another traveling
Our next big gathering revolved around food, gal. You shook your head.
of course.

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I managed to squeeze it into your bloat- slaved for hours - bringing me boiled chick-
ed backpack before you boarded that plane. en massaged in sesame oil, and smooth
rice cooked in chicken stock, bu er, ginger
You called, some me between skydiv- and garlic – so I could feel the wholesome
ing in Switzerland and chomping on stuffed warmth in my stomach even as poison
quail in Egypt, and said, “This woman has pounded the rest of me.
wri en my life.”
***
***
As the day arrived when I bade farewell to
When you got back, we of course had to chemo and radia on, you along with our
lunch and munch. girlfriends, threw me a “Kiss Cancer Good-
bye” party.
You said we should celebrate. Instead,
as we strolled along the tree-lined street, I I didn’t remember smiling so widely, or
blurted a bulle n about my breast. dancing so wildly, since I was a girl of five.

You stopped in your tracks, hugged me You made another hometown dessert
and said “I’ll cook!” that day - pulut hitam - black rice porridge
sweetened by a drizzle of coconut milk. As
You then ra led off a plethora of foods we relished the dish, you whispered your
from one degree – Hainanese chicken rice, idea in my ear.
nasi lemak, bah kut teh, Bobo Chacha –
squeezed my hand and asked for my che- You said you could now be geek and
motherapy dates. chef rolled into one, and went forth and
kneaded your techie and foodie dreams
*** into a scrump ous new company.

Talking on virtual mee ngs and tex ng on When I read from your site that cooking
the phone while propped by hospital pillows, for me during those chemo days was the
I awaited the start of my second infusion. inspira on, I teared, just a li le.

I caught the whiffs before you walked in. As I gained strength and found oppor-
Face flushed and res ng two bulging plas c tuni es to help, I fed you with platefuls of
bags on the over-bed tray table, you beamed, strategies, advice and contacts.
“Hainanese chicken rice and papayas!”
When the funding came that would cat-
We were part of a get-well team – I, the apult your startup, we cheered, a tad too
pa ent; you, the caregiver - along with the loudly.
chemo nurse and gene c counselors gath-
ered around my bed – impar ng gi s that How far and long have we traveled from
hurt and soothed. one degree? Who knew?

When they poked my veins in vain, you Notes:
shrank and grimaced. When they succeed-
ed on the fi h try, we both let out he y *The country of Singapore is one degree
sighs. A er they flushed saline and began above the equator.
dripping the “red devil,” they finally le us
alone, and let me eat. *The city of Palo Alto in the San Francisco
Bay Area is named a er a redwood tree.
I joked that you had found a way to tele-
port my favorite dish. But I knew you had

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About the Author

Sharon Y. Sim runs a California-based marke ng/PR firm. When she isn’t donning her
business hat, Sharon cooks Singapore-inspired foods, writes short stories, crea ve nonfic on
and is currently working on a novel tled “The Tiger Baby.” She has a masters of professional
wri ng degree from University of Southern California and has been published in Eastlit,
Ethos Interna onal, The Straits Times (Singapore’s leading daily), Thousand & One Stories,
Reed Magazine, AsianWeek, Silicon Valley Business Ink, PR Week, Daily Texan, Lone Star
Events, Jus ce, Tribes and others.

157



POETRY



DEMISE

by Susie Gharib

The demise of the Age of Chivalry School Children

brought one meritorious outcome in its wake: Their departure hour
it spared many steeds gory ba lefields, exudes crude terror.
a martyrdom in poli cal intrigues. My muscles twitch.
My lips convulse with horror.
The expira on of the Colosseum’s feasts The theme is always violence
spared starved lions and encaged beasts and the outcome is always sour.
the task of mu la ng soldiers, Impersona ng a hero from an inspiring cartoon,
slaves, and saints one kid inflicts on bushes a here c’s doom.
which nourished in spectators An arena of s cks heralds a combat
the murderous streak. to be followed by empty-bo le missiles.
Two boys enact their domes c disease
The cessa on of hounding and on a pavement weary with wrestling feats.
spor ve wild game Others fill stockings with reliable stones
would spare many bears, many fowls, and deer to be hurled at stray dogs who
a death dictated by a pernicious gene in their hiding moan.
that ancestors had passed to A volley of obsceni es is surely to print
uneducated offspring. the respect of bullies on novice-kids.
My nausea at men watering the walls
Where is the aesthe c of decking one’s wall is daily flavored by children’s brawls.
with the head of a lion or that of a boar,
with the spiral horns of an antelope,
an odor of death permea ng one’s home?

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For How Long?

You’ve tampered with my morns, my noons,
my week-lanes,
my year-bends,
sweet-tempered Junes.
I was too good to be le alone,
so bound to be doomed.
You’ve meddled in my affairs un l
I nearly fell off the precipice,
so how can you now rec fy your wrongs,
retrieve my youth, my verve, my glance?
You’ve hammered your nails into my plans
thwarted my hopes, twisted my lance.
You’ve chipped and fissured my waxing moon
but for how long?

A Peach

[A reading of a pain ng by Nawwar Morelli]

When he has undressed her with a knife,
the most scin lla ng of freckles meets his eyes
on a very torpid summer’s night.

The fingers that hold her lustrous skin
would flush the maiden’s silky sheen,
seducing the palate with a luscious stream.

The lips that pout would slake his thirst.
A stray lock of hair llates his nerves.
He bites into flesh that yields its sap.

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Waves

To seep into the arteries of sandy shores,
to bounce off the pla orms of cliffs and oars,
to submerge the mind with heaving sea-lore,
to reshape the fate that one’s ship draws,
to seduce each sur oard that craves to soar.

About the Author

Susie Gharib is a graduate of the University of Strathclyde with a Ph.D. on the work of D.H.
Lawrence. Her poetry and fic on have appeared in mul ple venues including The Opiate,
Mad Swirl, The Blue Nib, The Poetry Village, Blue Unicorn, Impspired Magazine, A New Ulster,
Adelaide Literary Magazine, The Ink Pantry, Down in the Dirt, the Pennsylvania Literary
Journal, and Miller’s Pond Poetry Magazine.

163

THE VOICE

by Bethany Bruno

I’ve always loved the complexity of fall.
Only one season makes me feel alive, one that allows my roots to entangle

Into Earth’s soil.
Winter, spring, and summer seasons drag on like an eternal ring of wai ng.
Curtains are pulled open from my dusty windows and the feeling of love

and happiness overcomes me, like flames to a burning house.
Coolness in the air, salty breeze from Matanzas Bay, and the hour

of twilight that shines through thick Spanish moss.
Ancient oak trees cover my soul like a blanket on icy feet
I would spend fall nights standing outside the safety of my home,
wandering around the backyard underneath the moonlight to simply stare

Into desolate pine trees, eager to see more.
Cool breeze blows through my hair

as if someone were running long slender fingers through
then whispering everything would be all right, eventually.

I can s ll feel those fingers,
But the voice is gone.

Crea on by Destruc on
A great poet once wrote we are created by being destroyed. If this is true than my mother
has been created more than once in her life me. In fact, mother has been created so many

mes by destruc on that she probably holds a special spot in the honorary “created by
being destroyed” club. Mother lost her father when she was sixteen because of a drunken
joy ride on a scooter that led him straight into the side of a Walgreens. Could you imagine
that? A drunken man riding a scooter and then suddenly turning right smack into the side of
building, mother would tell people when asked what happened to her father. Some people
would laugh but, others would simply say you poor thing and give my mother a hug. I don’t
think she minded it much but her father’s death wasn’t the breaking point in her long career
of crea on by destruc on. No, not by a long shot.

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Mother was created by the destruc on of her older brother, Bob a few years back. He died of
Cancer, mother would say when asked how he died. Now, he may have had cancer but that’s certain-
ly not how he died. On a November morning, mother was ge ng ready for work when her phone
rang. When she picked it up to answer there on the other end was nana, screaming. Mother jumped
into her car and raced the en re seven minutes it took to get to Bob’s. Mother ran inside finding her
brother on the floor, covered in blood. An artery in his neck popped like a balloon and blood quickly
engulfed his lungs. She tried her best to give him air, but there was nothing she could do. As mother
was desperately trying to save her brother she looked into his eyes. He looked at me and he was so
scared. That’s the last thing I’ll ever remember about him. He died in her arms, si ng a pool of his
blood around her. If we are defined by the experience of destruc on in our lives, then yes ma’am,
mother is indestruc ble.

Toure e’s

A fat man with broken beige shoes sits on bleacher seats in front of me and my agitated father.
He plants his round bo om down.
Wooden structure screams HELP under enormous weight.

Father watches the man stare at a Florida map nailed to a moldy wall.
He’s smiling like a mad man planning his next gruesome murder.
Li ing his massive arm that jiggles like Jello, his pointer extends towards Daytona.

“You see this? …This is where I was born”
Fat man states, eyes filled with pride.

Father whose face has lost every glimpse of content now has eyes bulging out of sockets.
Smell of anger rises into the thick air as I wait for it…

“You see this”
Poin ng as he smirks.

“This is my ass”
Oh God, not again.

“I’m sorry, my dad has toure es”
I lied.

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The Soothing of Sleep

At the end of a long day, there is comfort in knowing you will soon be embraced by
the soothing of sleep, my mother would always say, tucking me as a child.

Now, as I walk the cold landscape that surrounds my daily life,
Calmed at the thought of tearing off my thick jacket
Changing into my best pair of silky pajamas then crawling into warm, welcoming sheets.
My comforter acts as a shield, protec ng me from darkness that surrounds my solitary
bed. Out in the darkness of the room, imaginary monsters and spirits wander
Searching for my innocent soul to feed upon but, they will not catch me.
I am more than eager to jump into my sanctuary of peace and run to its safety
I close my eyes, hiding from the sight of anything which can prevent me from it,
My final des na on.

There is nothing evil in my room…. it’s all in my imagina on.
Opening my eyes just once to face my imagina ons worst ideas
No cing a single strand of light from my window
Giving me peace and assuring there is goodness.
Closing my eyes knowing I am safe from the darkness as my heartbeat slows…

Silent Mother

Hot winds of sand and dirt blow across my hooves.
Branches of trees shake and rustle against my slender face.

Sweet taste of Papaya. Blackened tongue, covered.
My elongated neck sways le to right searching for my herd. I want

to call out, but I’m mute. My voice exists, no more.
My round growing belly begins to ache with pain. Kicking from my insides.

Sleep is not a priority. All I can think of, water.
It’s me.

Herd senses pain and watch as my one des ny that I have waited for begins.
I put my head next to hers and clean her dry.

Mewing, mewing, mewing. Only sound she will make.

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About the Author

Bethany Bruno is a born and raised Florida Writer. She a ended Flagler College, in St.
Augus ne, FL, where she earned her B.A in English. She later a ended the University of
North Florida for her M.A. She has worked as a Ghost Tour Guide, Library Specialist, English
Teacher, and a Park Ranger with the Na onal Park Service. Her work has been previously
published in The Flagler Review, Lunch Ticket Magazine, Paragon Press, Underwood Press,
Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, Ripples in Space, Metafore Magazine, and Bluntly Magazine.
She’s currently working on her debut novel, “From the Passenger Seat.”

167

STAY COOL
(Poe c Rap)

by Sahaj Sabharwal

Stay cool, Always be in mood,
Don’t be a fool, Your a tude should never be rude,
Just like a mule, As adviced by Sahaj, my dude.
Are you a dull stool?
Make your own rules,
Never be in terror loon, Use them like necessary tools,
Or you will see an error soon. And consider your opposes as big fools,
Take proper rest ll your mind cools.
Do something new,
Which is done by a few.

About the Author

Sahaj Sabharwal He loves wri ng poems and thoughts. He lives in
Jammu city, Jammu and Kashmir, India. He is 17 years old now a
young poet . He has been awarded many awards in poem wri ng
at State level, Na onal and interna onal level. He was also selected
to be invited for the INTERNATIONAL WRITERS MEETING IN TARIJA
and HUNGARY,EUROPE. He was awarded with the INTERNATIONAL
DIPLOMA IN WRITING and INTERNATIONAL MERIT CERTIFICATE IN
WRITING and was PUBLISHED by THE YOUNG WRITERS ASSOCIATION
IN UK and RECIEVED “CERTIFICATE OF PUBLICATION FROM UK”. He
was also awarded the ‘India Star Proud Award’ for his appreciable
work and He is the author of the BOOK -: “Poems By Sahaj Sabharwal“.

168

WHITE WINGS

by Dr Daniel King

Marchese Angelfish Absolu on

We march on the mare far from the ice Topaz and citrine and diamond stars
That towers and almost reaches to space Spill into view with a blue-shi ed blaze
Where ion assaults will serve to en ce Guiding our thoughts to the Lord of the Flag
Our comrades to arm and then to efface Ruling Aquila - Garuda be praised!
All signs of the shame our unit’s precise
Coordinates marked to erase the Race. Gamma is closest, and spectrally K,
Marchese of Ares, Chord of the Sun, Flashguns its sunlight, a sign that Kalki
The Arc of the Archer heralds the One! Nullifies nebulae, ruling by will
Nakshatras, novae, the sunfish and seas.
The chasm scares them; the serac scars them
The arches hem them; our marches reach them; Metaphors merge in this vista of signs
Our chasers char them; our Angelfish shoals have now swarmed into view -
schemers ream them; Shringi their Absolute, Shri and the Thorn
Our mashers ace them; our masers rem them Endless and tranquil in saffron and blue.

Our victory gained, we power our Fleet
To rendezvous hard with ships that we parked
In orbit around the star of this sleet
And névé-encrusted planet so dark
The scree of the highest ice was a sheet
Unbroken at sunrise when we embarked.
Give praise to the Delta emblem of Mars;
Give praise to the Sagi arian stars!

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Tentacular Dei Adelaide Literary Magazine
I Poet if Bas ons

I land on the derelict rock space has thrown us Game notes perhaps before our play
A site for the relay Kalki long has planned Feats las ng eons our bait or fate
The cold is a lance and it hits zero Kelvin Wild birds Kaldog and great Kalra,
An iciness daring and bold, wild and old Race slayers, aim to fuse their souls,
A chill with a mandate to curse all crea on Time-jewel Kaustubha locked, and rule
Its delicate eddy to send down the damned Bistate, all worlds as minds’ seedpod.
Heir-son Kalki, whose sign of K
But Delta Centauri ascends blue and blazing Spans all crea on, has to wait
Its disk like the boss of a shield Eight billion years beyond the stars:
spiked and spurred Bright Titan foes have other goals –
That tentacled radiance wraps ght and triform Make Shiva kill or shape in cruel
Cerulean scin llance near, real, and clear Pain seas the heir of dead Kaldog.
An infinite starshell to laud Sahasrajit Spaceship or Tower, seek the Way!
It offers a prayer that exceeds finite words. Sign-play forever changing state,
Game-play a dark pe on far,
So very far, from former roles:
Most players die but one who duels
Wins. Seek the ruling iron rod!
So shine, Kalki, your guiding ray.
Make five, your birth, the endless eight.
Seize males, your basis: take them far.
Fight hard! Exalt the ones who stole.
Do not forget that you are dual.
Do not forget that you are God.

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White Wings

As now trillions of years have passed it is Brahma Kalki invokes -

See our ship!
Astral with white wings primed, Watcher-world the goal
Pleroma plumes like waves, milk-blue
Await our cra
And our will.
With naval pride on that one fine day
Of awe
We will descend from the west and await
The ones who come to see what shines
And then we’ll strike!

See flames sear flesh, Lord Kalki!
Feel the souls ignite!
Know triumph now, mighty Kalra!
The Twins rejoice in revenge!

Sing new-berthed black fire, chant wild light pain! Win shrieks wise night hides! Smash things brave
day shows! Tear thin limbs blood-ooze wet! Slash eyes, splash grey gut-bile! Raise K signs high!

Then with corpses immortalizing us
We will turn to the universe itself
And conferring our reifica on
That of Brahma, a noumenon, by stealth,
Bless the cosmos by terrorizing it.

- For Lord Vishnu will bring reversal of me with his navel birth.

About the Author

Daniel King: “I am an Australian same-sex oriented writer, with a strong interest in Hinduism
(par cularly pertaining to Kalki, the 10th and final avatar of Vishnu, the Preserver, incarna ng
now and forever together with Shiva, the Destroyer), mys cism in general, and astronomy.
As a surfer, I am also strongly influenced by marine imagery.”

171

INCONSTANTE
CORAÇÃO

by Roseangelina Ba sta

Prelúdio ao poema de Ajahn Mun

Ora um fluxo de momentos, Na quietude,
ora um fluxo de vazio presente. A consciência
Para de pensar,
A semân ca do coração E queda absorta em sua natureza imutável,
Em realidades separa vas— rochoso silêncio,
Movimento ou quietude. irrestrita paz,
imperturbável
Em movimento, Com tudo que muda.
A consciência rodopia mul forme,
Metamorfoseando imagens pareadas— Mudando com as coisas em mudança
Bem e mal— não valia a pena pra mim.
emergem dum arquivo de memórias. Alimentada e beneficiada
em grande escala
Sen mentos de preferências, pelo ígneo peso do
Pensamentos obsessivos, E-S-T- R-E-S-S-E.
Palavras impulsivas,
Atos compulsivos. Estresse me forçou a mudar.
Imagens instáveis. Eu restringi meus modos,
exercitei com a razão e atenção
Uma tessitura quadriculada Primeiro aprendi a fazer
de amor e ódio, as realidades benevolentes aparecerem,
do grosseiro ao refinado Depois e gradualmente,
Pressionado a conflitar sigo aprendendo como abandonar
sem fim... ambas realidades.
Com sua própria miragem Separando as realidades,
Autocriada e seus reflexos mutantes. Até as coisas não se rivalizarem mais entre si.

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Revista Literária Adelaide
Prelude to a poem by Ajahn Mun

Either a flow of moments By knowing all changes happening—
Or a flow of meless void.
Seman c change in the subtle es Changing
Define separate reali es. With the changing things
Was not worth living to me.
The first revolves miscellaneously, Fueled and profited in
Metamorphosing unstable paired images— Large scale,
Feelings of preferences, Bur(de)ned by S-T-R-E-S-S…
Obsessive thoughts,
Impulsive words and Stress (s)trained me to change.
Compulsive deeds— I (res)trained my way,
A fabric checkered with love and hate, Exerted reason and a en on.
(from gross to refined ways) First, I learned how to make
Forcefully figh ng, endlessly— The benevolent aspect of reality
With its own self-created mirages Appear.
And changing reflec ons.
Later and gradually,
The other one is sta c, I am learning how to abandon both—
Engrossed in its own immutable nature, Becoming able to live in calm
Unified silence, With each single situa on.
And unbridled, undying peace. I am learning how to separate reali es,
Rock-hard, undisturbed So things do not combat each other.

About the Author

Roseangelina Bap sta is an American-Brazilian, new
aspiring literary voice of mul cultural heritage. Currently
based in Central Florida, she is also a bilingual freelance
writer with interests in promo ng poetry and mindfulness
for society and in reviving Indo-Portuguese literature.
Her essay “Bojja Tharakam: A Brazilian Perspec ve” was
published by Bojja Tharakam Trust, Hyderabad, 2018. Her
poetry first appeared in the Joao Roque Literary Journal’s
June 2019 issue.

173

PANERA

by James Croal Jackson

Panera New July

I lost the important things This army of cicadas returns home
sweeping bague e crumbs from a distant war– old love, we
underneath an industrial retreat to our comforts a er pulling
fan– cyclicality, the broom’s sashay weeds– Kentucky Mule burns,
from one end of the room to mel ng ice at the bo om of
the next– sand blown from the center the glass, I am on your couch
of the desert, and how selfish then inevitably your floor,
to keep water in the bo le your hand gripping my knee.
with other mouths to nurture. Cha er from the gathering rises
just outside the back door,
footsteps up the stairs,
and we embrace against
the humming refrigerator,
pushing toward a lush
new vegeta on.

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Hot Sauce Revista Literária Adelaide
Oasis

You know how much is too much but li le do we know
you shake the bo le anyway over browned of anything

grilled cheese sandwich and bite in. mindfog a desert light
The things you think you can get away with–
progress
oh, the ny fires you’ve stepped across in a stony monument
the temple of your longing. Li le dabs of red
voyeurs
on canvas– the meat of the situa on is you’re on a voyage
taken but, Lord, the flame goes hallelujah blue.
through the fog
I’m speaking a poetry of pigs. Rela onship
as slaughterhouse. Rela onship as bacon

you want to slather lust all over.

About the Author

James Croal Jackson (he/him) has a chapbook, The Frayed Edge of Memory (Wri ng Knights
Press, 2017), and poems in Pacifica, Reservoir, and Ra le. He edits The Mantle (themantlepoetry.
com). Currently, he works in the film industry in Pi sburgh, PA. (jimjakk.com)

175

A LIFE NOT OUR
OWN

by Melissa Chappell

A Life Not Our Own Somewhere an old woman sat at a
fire, remembering a Syrian song.
The lights of the television crews
shone as bright as a Syrian sun. The target was “screaming, crying
The scene was set for a and whimpering,” “like a dog.”
Presiden al appearance, The man in blue said that he died like
red backdrop, no doubt for victory, the an animal. Since that’s what he was.
le ng of blood, over the deserts run. Somewhere an old woman sat at a
The blo ng out of evil, through a “hole fire, remembering a Syrian song.
in the wall,” a final disappearance. In her weathered hands a white
carna on, in her hair the stars.
The scene was set for a
Presiden al appearance, The man in blue said that he died like
At 35.8 degrees N, 36.7 degrees E, a mass an animal. Since that’s what he was.
of rubble marked the grave of four. He does not understand to ask for
It was the blo ng out of evil, through a mercy for taking a life not our own.
“hole in the wall,” a final disappearance. In her weathered hands a
The man in the blue suit boasted carna on, in her hair the stars.
that they hadn’t used the door. The mother of the dead weeps quietly
where night and day are sewn.
At 35.8 degrees N, 36.7 degrees E, a mass
of rubble marked the grave of four.
The target was “screaming, crying
and whimpering”, “like a dog.”
The man in the blue suit boasted
that they hadn’t used the door.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Upon the Autumn Floor

The autumn light lays itself across the field, Your skin, a erwards,
with the azure sky res ng in the scent of earth and moss.
the limbs of the trees, Tangled in me,
their crowns erup ng in crimson and flame. closer than the sky is to the color blue.
I walk among them, Pain---in my hand a splinter of pine,
for I am known among the ash, a drop of blood on
the poplar and the pine. leaves lately fallen.
A breeze passes through the You splinter my mind,
effulgence of leaves; pierce my heart,
it puts me in mind of you. and I bleed you,
I lean myself against a wise old pine, your life’s elixir,
who already holds many secrets of mine. warm scotch,
There, I catch your scent in the air, and the blazing
the scent of the mountain, world I made for us,
the lustered river, all spilling out of me,
the grasses fair, crimson and flame,
the patch of blueberries, upon the Autumn floor.
where you asked to make love to me.

About the Author

177

LISBON

by John Drudge

The Café Autumn Story

Down Fall colours
To the La n Quarter Flow through the valley
To the café And beyond the ridge
By the store The horizon suffused
Where you bought With reds and golds
That green dress And flashes
Where we locked Of stubborn green
Our bikes The breeze
To the street lamp Of the season’s ending
And raced the rain Sweeps leaves
To salva on Across a sea of stones
Where the table Along the slope
Was ours And I look toward
In our universe The sun sinking
Away from it all In the crisp cool sky
With everything nestled in My hand
Where it belonged Gently brushing yours
The mood
Moving through us
Like a story

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Siren Lisbon

In the wind’s withering Mosaics
Between the wall and the sword Sprinkle the streets
The righteousness of bounty As intricate les
And the tempta on Glisten light
Of the flower Down shadowed alleys
A gus ng breeze Beneath washing hung
Through branches In the hot stale breeze
Bends gilded wings A church bell sings
Into wide eyed despera on And the leafy streets
As the dance of desire Come alive
Like a siren in blackness With the rhythm of
Beckons Everything
The simple things
Becoming us
Walking beyond
The remnants
Of the walled off town
By the water
With the fallow things
Under the gaze
Of our reckoning
As the tram clangs
And fades away
Up the hill
On a sun shining day
In Lisbon

About the Author

John Drudge is from Caledon, Ontario, Canada. He is a social worker working in the field
of disability management and holds degrees in social work, rehabilita on services, and
psychology. John is the author of one book of poetry (published in 2019), and has appeared
in the Arlington Literary Journal, The Rye Whiskey Review, Poe ca Review, Literary Yard,
Drinkers Only, The Alien Buddah Press, Montreal Writes, Mad Swirl, Avocet, and Harbinger
Asylum. John is a Pushcart Prize nominee and his Book “March” is available in Independent
Book Stores across Canada and on Amazon.com.

179

WEDDING

by Timothy Loveday

Maggots

she cannot tell her
husband that there are
maggots in her fanny. that
the maggots only feed on dead
flesh. that they have been growing
inside of her. that they come out when
she pees. in the isola on ward there are
piles that have spilled out of her knickers. and
it is my mother’s job to clean them up. something
she has never seen before. she says that they are
climbing up the walls, dripping from the roof. the woman’s
husband oblivious, doesn’t care. he’s picking things from his
teeth. how long since they fucked? the dead flesh, inside, consumed
and my mother on her hands and knees, scooping up the maggots with
their stench, heady, visceral, and the sick in her gut and the water in her eyes, and the pity
she feels for this woman who hides her life from her husband, because fannies, fannies, are
shameful things and women do not have wounds, do not bleed, and the boy who is helping her,
a boy in his early twen es saying, this is disgus ng, vile, i don’t want to think about maggots or
old women’s fannies. as if at some point the hidden, perfect fanny, idol of his dreams, withers,
dies, decapitates, des ned for maggots, impenetrable, unpleasurable, ugly, nasty, sick, red
bitch… there are maggots in the blue scoop, withering, and my mother’s hands are shaking and
this young man is complaining, and that old man, picking his teeth, she does not understand
him, understand them, understand this, understand any of it, except knowing this is dying.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Wedding

I went to a wedding
invited yet uninvited.
My invita on was late
or the last to be sent
or there were lots sent
late, or they’d simply
forgo en. Forgo en their
own wedding, but I went
anyway. I went because
I’d known the groom for
many years and he had
called me to say that the
invita on was late, that he’d
forgo en and that there were
so many invita ons sent out late. There were other reasons. To go. To be late. It
was his future wife. On the brink of hospitalisa on. Self-harm. She couldn’t be le
alone. And her eyes, gluey, were in need of an opera on— I did not understand.
Said I did— but didn’t. Had my fears. My specula ons. History repea ng.
And the sadness of a kinship fading.

We were hardly friends. This was guilt.

I’d been forgo en. And there was sickness and she was so ness and I was the hard
edge of the past. It went without saying. So I got wondering, politely agreeing, how
many friends did he have that put their hand in a cool basin of his watered
down blood, watching as that red cordial
circled in the sink, gurgled, swallowed, disappearing,
asking why does this look like red
cordial? was it the heat of the water flowing?
or the flesh of his wrist so ening?

and where exactly did he hide the razor blades?

I can’t remember the s nk. There was a s nk. I remember
one. I just can’t remember what it smelled of.

The wedding was grand.
It had all the elements.
It was light-hearted and bright, in a
woodland clearing, with twenty foot
pines, and stars of blue skylight. The wind was cool and our suits holy.
The women’s legs, prickled, and they held their purses, water bo les, against their jiggling bellies.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Laughter and hair, shiny, oily, large. Wrist watches. The finest of our cheap, gold jewellery. Teeth
sparkling and cha ering and moving in mouths of such ac on and delight that my anger was abated.
And the tunes, they were charming. Slow. Li le folk medleys. The voices
harmonising. Men. Women. Broken— giving up what was le of their love.

The canapés, too, were delicious. The main B+. And the waiters truly endearing.
With their blackened teeth, their car exhaust laughs, their half-ironed shirts, their
misfi ng trousers, and their hands, the hands of hard-yakker fencers.

It was surprising to see these men in the middle of exhibi on, romance.

The celebrant, he was English, funny, charisma c.
Almost certainly, without knowing, I knew, he’d grown up in Cambridge. It wasn’t outrageous— he
wasn’t pompous— but I could tell he owned a pact of Pomeranians and was the first homosexual
to marry under the Marriage Equality Act. Where did they find such a man? Handsome. So ly
spoken. Comfor ng. Lyrical. Smiling. He was the school councillor you fell in love with.

I wanted to get up and congratulate him— what a performance!
But his beard was so distrac ng. His beard
was nothing I’d ever seen. So well kept
It was apparent he was born with a beard
— the lines, prenatal razor blades.

Yeah— they were back. As he was saying his vows.
As their love was coming out of him, an incanta on, a curse
or wickedness. He always sold himself. Love was all he had to live for. He’d
die for a woman, before he died for himself. And then, too,
he’d use that woman as an excuse. For dying. None of it. None of it. Had forced him to grow.

None of it. What was that smell?

I hadn’t been at his first wedding. But I had fallen
in love with his first marriage; with the first woman he had married,
and the man he was back then, believing
their lives were everything that young
couples were meant to be, funny, generous, kind.
Their love was a living energy. Even, one summer, saving— god, I don’t even know what I was
saving for anymore— I spent in a tent in their backyard, and the backyard was very small,
crammed with trees and the gumnuts rained in the wind and there was a couple, in the apartment
across, who were always figh ng. Their fights vicious, late-night. And I was young and jealous
and couldn’t sleep and the sun hated me, and my tent it smelt of swea ng books because I
sweated, badly, and my books, they were my only company. And that married couple, that
first married couple, they would buy bags of potatoes just to lob at my tent, disrupt what li le
sleep I got, from the comfort of their backstep, laughing, laughing, living the love I so envied.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

It had turned out that they weren’t having sex. Hadn’t had sex, in almost a year. That
their sex life didn’t exist. That she only wanted to fuck when she was drunk and
he was asleep and he only wanted to fuck when she was out ge ng drunk.

It was a sad li le affair.

But now, he’s remarried. Which suits him. The marriage type. Trying
to s ck it out. Encouraging. Devoted. Caring.

I just hope he wants to fuck. Not me. Her. His wife. I hope. He needs
to fuck her. Drunk, sober. He needs to want to fuck her.

I cannot tell him. She hates me. I felt that hate while they took their wedding photos. She had
sly eyes. As if I was watching an in mate moment. So in mate it was shared by everyone at that
wedding. Why should I, the-pervert-the-drunk-the cheap-broke-lousy-friend, be watching?

This was a treat for the invitees and I was invited yet uninvited.

Regardless, that photo, those photos they were taking, of their wedding day, of
that new married couple cuddling, they seemed so familiar, and they were familiar,
because his first wedding was in the woods. Pines. Blue stars of skylight.

The shadows— the shadows of a smell I can’t remember.

The only reason I knew that was because, that basin of watery blood. That wasn’t it. That
wasn’t all. There were bloody ssues, everywhere. He’d been at the act for days. And there
were notes scrawled on scraps of paper— things so sad and self loathing that they reminded
me of poetry. And too, empty bo les of wine sucked of their last drops (trust me, I tried).
And the garbage, it reeked, was quaking. Clearly, his wife, his first wife had le . But I knew
that. Went there as a favour for her. She couldn’t deal. Couldn’t clean it up. She had to go
to the hospital to explain— say, look here, psycho-babble, I do not love him anymore.

This was emo onal exploita on. Everyone was complicit.

Perhaps his suicide a empts were inevitable. Inevitable in the sense he’d never a empt while she
was there. So she became his life and death. And dependency is one thing. Life and death, another.

I forgot about the wedding. Yes. The photos. Yes. I knew, because above the basin, with
the blood, red cordial, was an image of their wedding day, of him holding her from behind,
their smiles, their fine clothes, their happiness. Stuck there with chewing gum. The image
ruined slightly. By stains of condensa on. He’d been crying, cu ng, masturba ng. No
doubt. The saddest moment of his life. The water running out. The red cordial pooling.

And some mes I find it all, si ng in my gut, invited yet uninvited.

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Cupboard Adelaide Literary Magazine

In a cupboard the an sep cs,
under the sink bug sprays,
is where I keep toilet gels, untapped
all my colour and illumina ng

I wrote a poem I say these things
for you as if reci ng
but it isn’t them will make
very good you any bigger

there are li le the cloths
bo les of shampoo stacked
with pastel are salmon pink,
nozzles perfectly unabused

in it I tell For I have tried
you the things to build a force,
that hurt a presence, a volume;
to see in myself weight ascending

and, on the shelf even the branding
below, there of the bleach
are bars is a blue fire
of bright green soap blooming

I men on my father, connec ng
ins nctually, vo ng silence, absence,
for our destruc on, a mirror without eyes,
impending a terror without a syllable

ten-pinned against there is a magic
the plumbing are in this small space;
silver cans an element of forge ng,
of spun deodorant then grasping, gasping,
breathing,
A er, it is taking
my mother,
so much but I am thirsty,
of you, ny ethereal, earthy flesh;

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Revista Literária Adelaide

the ear-canal Funny
jerks, whispers,
unify and seperate It is funny
Sad
I o en wonder Maddening
was this by chance,
my secret, kaleidoscopic Si ng in the morning
collec on? Wai ng
For the sounds of
two wilted You
poems distor ng; But hearing
pages turning Only silence
from themselves Birds
Silence.
or are there insignificant
places, where the things I watch the raindrops
we do not know Fall like diamonds
how to love, blossom, Illumina ng
become their own, Spectres in the gums.
unforgiving? The dogs barking
crea ng colours that surprise us, torment us, The thunder
remind us, we are many Crying
These hands
I say this poem Full of raindrops
is for you, Like coins
ins nctually, Collec ng
but, opening,
becoming, Drowning.
it is not.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Silence

The ancient silence silence than its inevitability.
In the bone marrow
Of our ci es But then, silence. It was there. A weakness
Descends into my bed. in the bones. Palpable. Pressing. A weakness
within me, unknown. Like a heat in the city;
Foreigner. Intruder. Friend. the broken traffic lights, neurons fizzling in
the dark. The traffic, over running. My hands
Everything that lays here now belongs to doing nothing. My throat a pit of silence.
you. And you will do what you will with
it. I am not your equal and my flesh is Your sweat, jewels of silence. Falling.
yours. If you want my stomach, you will
take it. If you want my hip, you will take The silence, friend of your hunger.
it. If you want my cock, you will take it.
And the noise of confusion, of punch-
I have read of you, heard of you, thought drunk shock, was silence, evermore.
of you, and too, sadly, seen that shadow
come across the claws of my hands, and the It cannot change. Be unheard.
silence s ll within me the threat of reality.
I’ve felt it, now. Seen it.
Were my words too weak? and my eyes too
gentle? and my lips sultry conductors? Weren’t we brothers, of sorts?

Is there something in me, invi ng? Or am I merely silence and flesh? And
your charm, the silence we kept?
Silence.
It isn’t fair to blame you. En rely. It is as
I had not imagined it in my bed. Now if my life was awai ng silence. Hot. Like a
yours. Had not imagined, but believed, thousand skyscrapers with their glassy eyes
in an unbelieving way. Asking, why and upon me, and my throat reduced to dirt.
how did the silence consume you?
A heat so unrelen ng, then, so damned
As if silence lacked gravity. angry, damned ugly, damned ancient, that
As if silence was not enough. On its own. the sadness in your falling voice I’m sorry, I’m
As if there was anymore to sorry, I’m sorry, gave silence to a sound.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

About the Author

Tim Loveday is a rural writer/poet/clown-lark. His poetry/prose have appeared in The Big Smoke,
Quadrant, Cordite, Text Journal, The Big Issue, Brain drip and Tharunka, and is forthcoming in
Meniscus. He is a regular contributor to Hyperviolet Designs, an online music marke ng agency.
He fanboys over slobbering dogs, morning birds, motorcycles, and the cra less piss at his local
sinkhole. Tim currently resides in Culburra Beach, tradi onal land of the Jerringa people.

187

THE LORD’S PRAYER
RECYCLED

by Pernille Aegidius Dake

Our friend who art in the Third World, prunes, Prozac, cigare es, all-natural
We know not thy name, yet feel your pain. chicken, fireworks, organic frozen dinners.
Your me will come if you put your mind to it. We also buy your necklaces made from
The world is everyone’s oyster and undelivered catalogs and brooches from
bread cheap where you are. mobile phone fragments. Just, please,
Alas, we snack too much starch; remove the radioac ve parts. Do ship us
everyone has their daily indulgences. your organic, handwoven co on and hand-
We must keep spending, stave off recession, cranked extracted sunflower-seed oil.
diminish na onal debt, improve credit How well you preserve your
ra ngs, stabilize rising consumer indexes. environmental footprints.
Foreign aid over one percent of We vouch to buy your carbon credits.
BNP keeps the wheels turning. Imagine all you can do with that money.
Blessed be free market economics as Strengthen infrastructures, build highways and
you receive our gene cally altered corn; high-rises, install electricity and plumbing.
our discounted, surplus bu er; our past- You can have light and perhaps
date medicine; our overstock of extra- even running water.
smalls and size 00s, even our secondhand But mind you use it all sparingly,
clothing, which is trending these days. And do recycle ba eries.
Many of us would give our right arms to Amen
wear preowned Stella McCartney. Her
father married an amputee and landmine
protester who was a former model.
And our NGOs create jobs:
Mining, growing orchids or cocoa, weaving
baskets, sor ng our trash and salvaging
our plas c, because cursed are we with
Salmonella. We must tamper-proof and
seal single- or family-packs of pi ed

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Revista Literária Adelaide

About the Author

Pernille Ægidius Dake: I winter bathe in the Bal c and knit afghans without dropping s tches.
Danish by birth, I live in Copenhagen, Denmark and Saratoga Springs, New York. I am enrolled
in VCFA’s low-residency MFA in Wri ng and am a finalist in Glimmer Train Press’ 2014 New
Writer Award as well as in december’s 2015 Curt Johnson Prose Awards. I am published in
Skirt!, Carolina Arts, Meat for Tea: The Valley Review, Glassworks Magazine and elsewhere.

189

TODAY

by Stella Prince

You and I we live by day, About the Author
At night you tend to fly away,
Leaving me to live for tomorrow. Stella Prince is a writer and poetess. Her
ar cles have been published in magazines
I want more than you can give, such as “Seshat Literary Journal”, “Amazing
But you say live and let live. Kids Magazine”, and “Good Life Youth
Leaving me with emp ness and sorrow. Journal”, and her poems have been published
in “A Celebra on of Poets: A Na onal
Would you s ll want me tomorrow? Anthology” and “The Daphne Review.” Stella
Or even wonder why I le ? has also been published in “Adelaide Literary
Would you s ll need me tomorrow? Magazine” twice before, and works for her
Cause I’m leaving to live for today. local paper wri ng and edi ng ar cles.

Every me I see you now,
I can’t help wondering if somehow,
Loving me was just for the moment.

Tell me something I don’t know,
If you’re so sad why don’t you go,
And be with someone in your own way.

Would you s ll want me tomorrow?
Or even wonder why I le ?
Would you s ll need me tomorrow?
Cause I’m leaving to live for today.

190

UP THERE

by Roger Singer

The moon Small And Great

a legend in I lit a candle
the sky for comfort

a face to its light overtakes
talk to the immediate darkness
a light to cry under dispelling ghosts
and phantoms
a beacon
for our paths long shadows
alongside drip from the
rivers table
shorelines
and late night the flame
sidewalks dances with song

we observe walls and corners
from here fail at hiding
at the from
basement of the single
gravity brightness
a beauty that
haunts us. the light
so small
believes in its
power
to protect

and expose

191

Trying To Get Out Adelaide Literary Magazine

There’s rain comes alive
in the desert except
where lizards lightening and
and one eyed dogs dry winds
live as we try for the
on the right way
wrong side of the leaving behind
tracks what tries to
and bars with hold us back
in the desert
red neon’s where even the
blink onto water has no place
cactus and sand to go.
where nothing

About the Author

Dr. Roger Singer has been in private prac ce for 38 years in upstate New York. He has four children,
Abigail, Caleb, Andrew and Philip and seven grandchildren. Dr. Singer has served on mul ple commi ees
for the American Chiro-prac c Associa on, lecturing at colleges in the United States, Canada and
Australia, and has authored over fi y ar cles for his profession and served as a medical technician
during the Vietnam era. Dr. Singer has over 1,000 poems published on the internet, magazines and
in books and is a Pushcart Award Nominee. Some of the magazines that have accepted his poems for
publica on are: Westward Quarterly, Jerry Jazz, SP Quill, Avocet, Underground Voices, Outlaw Poetry,
Literary Fever, Dance of my Hands, Language & Culture, The Stray Branch, Toasted Cheese, Tipton
Poetry Journal and Indigo Rising, Down in the Dirt, Fullosia Press, Orbis, Penwood Review, Subtle Tea,
Ambassa-dor Poetry Award Massachuse s State Poetry Society, Louisiana State Poetry Society Award,
Mad Swirl Anthology 2018.

192

SPEND THE NIGHT

by John Grey

Spend The Night long abandoned.
Folks are afraid to venture near.
Nothing like the creaky doors, Its history begins with brutal death
worm-riddled stairs, cobwebbed windows, and rots and garrotes its way
of an old deserted mansion. more evil from there.
Especially at night, But ignore the warnings.
in the midst of a thunderstorm, Spend the night in that place.
with lightning flashes So what if you don’t survive un l the morning.
the only visibility, The house will s ll be there.
thunder thumping clouds together, And it wouldn’t be what it is
and rain trampling the roo ops. if I weren’t for people like you.
With a creepy basement of course.
And mysterious sounds from the a c.
Not forge ng a piano that plays by itself,
a pain ng of a cavalier
whose eyes move from side to side.
A man ought to venture into the unknown
from me to me,
tremble his way through the unexpected,
feel fingers of an unseen hand on his throat,
be privy to unexplained temperature swings,
and too terrified to move
as a shadowy figure
flits across the room before him.
No point living your whole life
in boring suburbs,
doing the same things every day,
being so average
you could be a poster boy for boredom.
The house is in the woods,

193

The Figure Adelaide Literary Magazine
Alone-Ness

The figure has entered my room Night never met a room yet
and I so want to call you that it didn’t yearn to fill.
to let you know It’s hours since the sun’s last rites.
the feelings it engenders Now I a end the funeral of the candle flame.
within me, Floor creaks. Ceiling sags.
the horror of its presence, Walls keep in as much as they keep out.
the trembling that consumes There’s a moon out there somewhere.
my body from head to toe. Its light is borrowed, must be returned.
There is no protec on here.
But I know you live alone Cri ers scratch at the a c floor.
and I don’t want Or dart along the beams.
the thought of this monster Or scurry down corridors
to have you sleeping within the house’s frame.
with the light on And yes, that’s a tapping at the window.
or, worse than that, It’s coming from the inside.
not sleeping at all. The curtain shakes without benefit of wind.
Beneath the bed, a door squeaks open.
Wort of all, Footsteps follow, one nerve end at a me.
the creature could Okay, so I get it. I’m not alone.
enter your room. But listen well my denizens of the dark -
In which case, you’re not alone either.
don’t call me.

About the Author

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in That, Dunes Review,
Poetry East and North Dakota Quarterly with work upcoming in Haight-Ashbury Literary
Journal, Thin Air, Dalhousie Review and failbe er.

194

SEARCHING

by Brionna Nijah

Searching Finding

Can I Be Honest And Tell You In The Kings’ Mansion
That I Am Broken? I Find Rooms.
Not Beyond Repair A Room

But The Cracks Run So Deep With My Name Wri en With Lights.
You’ll Think I Was An Addict For Pain I Find Books.

I Ain’t Got The Tools To Fix Me I Quiet My Soul
I Thought, To Read Them,
Not With Eyes
I Thought If I Would Just Pretend Distorted By Percep on
I Could Make-belief But With Heart
Revealed By The Creator.
Manifest Light At The End OF The Tunnel I See My Blueprints
I’m Not On Games In His Wri ngs.
I See My Purpose
But Playing Is Easier Than Breathing In Reality In His Heart.
Can You See I Am Choking I See My Design
I Have 2 Faces In His Pages.
I Am Finding Me.
Yet My Eyes Tell The Story Of My Pain Page By Page.
Wri en On The Lines Of My Veins I Am Becoming.
Are The Secrets From A Dying Soul
Searching For Light
Hoping For Health
I Am S ll Healing.

195

Adelaide Literary Magazine

About the Author

Brionna Nijah is a poet, author, and suicide preven on advocate from Maryland. She started
wri ng short stories at the age of 10 and at the age of 13 she started to write poems. Wri ng
has always been her outlet. When she can’t verbalize how she feels she writes it. Now she
travels speaking to students about suicide, depression, and anxiety. Her mo o: “When You
See A Problem, Become The Answer!”

196

LUCK

by Joan McNerney

Falling Asleep White Heat

Curling into a ques on mark This dry moment
eyes shu ered we lay in sweat beds.
lips pursed
hands empty. Limp flowers turned
into themselves.
Dropping through
long dusty sha s Lightning scorches
down into dank cellars. skies with hot zigzags.
Leaving behind faded day.
Will it ever rain, when
That last cup of sunlight will cicadas be silent?
pouring from finger ps.
Lulled by ra ling trains, Memories of a white room
burning pains…shunts, stains.
sighs of motors.
A bo le bursts filling the
Bringing nothing but sidewalk with rancid beer.
memory into night.
Now I will un e knots Throat of bird
swollen, screaming.
tear off wrappings
opening wide bundles of dreams.

197

Nightscape Adelaide Literary Magazine
How Trouble Grows

Fog horns sound though Trouble is pa ent
air soaked in blackness. hiding around corners.
All evening long listening creeping through shadows
to hiss of trucks, cars. entering without a sound.

Shadows brush across walls It starts as a seed blown
as trees trace their branches. by careless winds and
Gathering and waving covers your garden with
together then swaying apart. foul brackish weeds.

While I sleep, stars glide Or sparks from a match
through heaven making spread over fer le ground
their appointed rounds in becoming flames speeding
ancient sacred procession. through the long night.

Dreams as smooth as rose Trouble knows where you live.
petals spill into my mind You cannot hide from it.
growing wild patches in Gaining a foothold, growing
this dark garden of night. fat feeding on your flesh.

Watch how trouble grows
inch by inch, molecule
by molecule coursing
through your veins.

Trouble begins as a whisper
day by day growing louder.
Stronger than your heart beat
becoming a thumping drum.

Soon you will forget
there was a me
when trouble was
not at your side.

198