InternationalPoets

Eruption, Patricia Howitt

The artist entertaining the gentleman of the art world , Christina Conrad

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Roger "The Quill" Worley, U.S.A

Order of the Rhynchocephalia

My great grandfather

was a pleuosaurs and they

call me a Sphenodon but,

I prefer Tuatara if you please.

I am the only surviving species

of the Jurassic period from

200 million years ago.

The Greeks wrote stories of

our kin from which they

expanded the truth

Thus, was born a legend

entwined in mystical tales.

We make our home in

New Zealand, I on Chicken Island,

others along Cook Strait.

We are the most endangered

species on the planet and god

help you if you harm one of us.

To put the record straight

we are Tri Cyclopes,

Yea! an eye in the middle of

the crown and are the genesis of

the Greeks Mythological

creatures, which are but

mere fairytales.

San Joaquin Hill

To Tampa they were sent

to await orders to fight.

Locals treated them like dirt.

Discrimination ran high ...

living conditions were worse.

Sent on a boat to Cuba to fight,

they were forced to sleep

and live like cattle, in the bottom of the boat ...

a deep insult to say the least.

But they kept faith.

Upon arrival in Santiago, it was rainy and hot,

a difficult environment for a military force;

but, true to their legend, they started to fight.

Like demons from hell, they attacked from

the bottom of Kettle Hill.

Bodies lay dead every few feet,

but those remaining soon raised

their arms in total conquest.

Then another order came tumbling in:

"Go take San Joaquin Hill."

Bullets flew like fireflies.

Bodies dropped one by one.

Yet, these brave men cntinued

until they stood atop San Joaquin Hill.

As they raised the red, white and blue,

a huffing and puffing young officer named

Theodore Roosevelt arrived with fresh troops

and ordered the fighting 24th back to the boat.

Now history speaks of Teddy's Rough Riders

and how they charged up San Joaquin Hill.

Operative word please ... Charged ...

as they arrived after the fact,

while the all black 24th sailed away home.

The Duel

High noon, March 2, 1882,

Tuscon, Arizona:

The weather worn, wooded,

fan windmill was working

overtime in the brisk wind.

A dust devil oscillated

from one side of main

street to the other,

collecting sand and rubbish

while two gun-slingers

stood poised, twenty feet apart,

finger tips almost touching

the handles of their 45's

awaiting the last ticking

of the towns clock, signalling noon.

Twitching fingers, brows dripping sweat,

hands shaking and

eyes focused, they waited.

Onlookers nervously watched

from behind closed windows

as the clocks second hand sang:

"Tong-tong, Tong-tong..."

Hands moved, pistols fired.

Six distinctive clinks on target:

Morrison turned to Jennings,

saying: "You missed

the fans of the windmill

completely."

Jennings replied: " Of course

I was aiming at the spaces."

Pris Campbell, U.S.A

Yellow dogs and God

Nose pressed against pane

I feel your touch

and know

you stand behind

Armrests you create

for my breasts

before the inevitable begins

A yellow dog crosses the street

sprawls down in the rain

Does he glance up in the darkness,

spy us here, by the candle-glow?

Barebreasted now

your hardness grows against

the part of me

that goes softest with your dear touch.

Would he approve

of the curve of my rear

as I turn to

lift myself onto you

for one more heavenly ride?

How sweet the kisses

so close between,

do I still breathe?

Does forever live

in our joining?

Is god where we stand

locked now as one

Passion finally spent

I turn in your arms

press nose once more

to pane.

The rain has stopped,

the yellow dog, dried off and gone.

Hazy Love

In the aftermath of vacationed love,

your body shifts

your chest,

my moveable pillow becomes.

You moan,

mumble words

I can't understand.

Outside, the Maine surf rushes in

tossing sea shells in its wake

A woman's voice rises

laughs

and fades...

Evening fog leaks in

a lopsided screen door

surrounding us in haze.

A distant radio blares, quietens.

An old Joan Biaz...

Diamonds and rust.

That love song about Dylan.

Finally, giving up on my vigil,

I sleep.

"We will change the world,"

You said back then.

Thick black hair tangled

over your shoulder.

Love beads hovering

dangerously over muddy coffee

at that cheap Village cafe.

When did you fall

for the lure of flow charts

closets of business suits,

statistics to measure your success?

"I am losing you."

The clatter of computer keys

your reply

"You are losing me,"

I finally told you last week,

bringing us, at last,

to this place.

Sometime around midnight

you reach out,

release my barrette,

kiss me

then

kiss once again

My hair tumbles free.

rob walker, Australia

Shed Tears

I

I look at the box of stuff

Halftins of paint

Some galvinised nails

Some tools

Wonder if I'll ever use them

It took half a day to clean out the shed

Most of the wood you'd saved will keep me warm next winter

Time stood still here 15 months ago

Your gouges beside the lathe

Shavings still on the floor

The frustrated hours after the tumour

Stole your knowledge of soldering silver

A half restored motorbike

It's a personal space,

a man's shed

A man's life

in a card board box

Now it's my shed

And I wonder if I'll ever need this stuff

Or am I just deferring

the disposal

of the last remnants

of your life?

II

cobweb curtains dressed in dust

cupboards flake their blistered skin

sawdust penetrates my nose

his father was a carpenter

evening smells of sweat with wood

floor cobbled brick

undulating like the sea

parts of motorbike & cars

rusted now with dust and grief

Tools from past deceased estates

hardening half-tins of paint

nails and screws in little jars

half-light memories

fade to nothing-

ness

Bus Kids

hair less shiny

than a sunsilk ad

sallowskinned obesity

selfconfidence took an earlier bus

streetwise suspicious

despite their innocence

the main road cleaves

pedicured landscapes from

concrete and couch

the lucky ones

have one parent

working late

the rich kids already

in warm family rooms

on their playstations

while the bus kids wait

stoically

at windswept bus stops

strange how

a strip of

bitumen

can divide

two worlds.

David Markey, Australia.

An appropriate storm

night thunder

a soft curtain

billows

catchment of air

rainfall

first moist kiss

upon the

window upon the

world

leaves

of the dead poet

Micheal

sift in a paperback sleeve

I ignite

a nicotine missile

smoke consistantly

as a meansto death

and

for illusionary company

a smoke filled room

in my

weird nights hermitage

I can no longer sleep

Beauty

I'd like to be the one

who walked on dew

and knew upon beauty

I trod.

Or looked on sky

and immediately saw

the pattern there.

Not one who dwelt in a house

with pictures

others would walk-by

and sigh

approving

but one who had breath drawn away

by beauty.

Juliette Gillies, Australia

Chasing the Dragon

Amber tears are flowing

spilling up my veins.

Black sun shining

Burns the laquer off my teeth.

Fading life and paler skin.

Vision loosing sight

and that stupid will

I have to live.

Am I the one you should punish?

My weakness will be the death of me.

Strip your crying and your pity,

go to hell with your forgiveness

And leave me in this emptiness, stoned.

You've licked away at my redemption

ripped it hard from my chest

and stamped it into the ground.

Dry throat, dry wrenching

and always so thirsty, can't quench it.

I'm overfed and always hungry

to be engulfed by you.

Living in numbness, living in echo

or not at all, you can make that happen.

There are no miracles, no truth, no words

Only this junk I'd die for.

Coincidences

My back is strong

And so are my broken bones.

Don't mistake all these tears

For weakness, inside.

You'll never know all the secrets

I've lied or the promises shed.

This blackness I bleed

From my pouted mouth

Doesn't deny me your fist.

But your hands no longer grab.

Your whispers no longer

Crush me.

I have risen eagerly above

The smoke of your existence.

Reformed my presence to match

All my reasoning.

My strength, my solitude

No longer held, inside.

I embrace this new being

You can't touch.

Scott Villarosa, Australia

Fluid Ink

Lucid thoughts are questionable.

Fluid ink bears a freefalling wash of unsanitary grudges

Misinterpretations automatically class persons as,

exemplary icons of discontented wishful believers.

Stains that shame the easiest of soiled surfaces;

Linings that are at present scarred by the unforgiving nature of the worldly sphere.

Hot and cold

If battles were drawn, who would stand victor?

The sun or the moon? The warmer or the colder?

Maybe the bolder will emit me a shiver.

Ice thy formation; describing your element.

The warmer the killer- last it will not.

Sorrow on a worn face- fine rays sent to clot.

Editors note:

I would like to thank all our international guests this month, some of whom we will be featuring as special guests next issue!!. I hope you the reader have enjoyed the scope and range of works.

A special thanks to Roger for the wonderful range of works shared.

Arohanui

dougpoole