Jackie Oh: Time to Kill

once a second passes

it is dead and irretrievable

forever the past

and memory

just the pale watercolour

impressionist painting

that we trail behind us

and the notion

of killing time

is a gross suicide

on our existence

and I buried a clock

in a shallow grave

but could still hear it ticking

Jackie Oh is the penname of Jacqueline O’Neill, a Northern Irish poet and writer. Her previous

collection is Fahrenhate (Locofo Chaps, 2017), a chapbook of anti-Trump poems. She is not to be confused with the racehorse by the same name.

Rinat Harel: The Weather & I

The weather today is clear and nippy.

I think I’ll wear the black leather coat,

red stiletto boots,

doff a beret if I can find one,

and set out to the main road.

Drivers will honk at me, perhaps hum a simple tune.

 

A general price increase was just announced on the radio;

cigarettes will go up by fifteen percent.

I do not smoke.

 

Someone will stop me in the street and ask for the time.

I shall reply: “I have no watch!”

 

The weather today is clear and nippy.

So am I.

Rinat Harel holds a Ph.D. in Creative Writing from the University of Exeter, England. Her writing has been published in various literary magazines and received several awards. She currently works on a poetry collection titled Poems from the Boidem.

rob mclennan: blindness : poems for the left hand,

for Zane Koss,

1.

A formulation of the language.

This gentle fog. My right eye, cataracts.

Surgical delay: pandemic,

lacuna. A hardtack

annum.

2.

Can see you, there. Resurface,

steel rail. Trace walls with fingertips.

Neither water

nor edge.

Late father’s slippers keep

my toes intact. Two breaks

are enough.

3.

The self, is. If you want a picture. Here

is what I believe.

As far as the eye. This

diversity of forms. The absence

is what stands.

Born in Ottawa, Canada’s glorious capital city, rob mclennan currently lives in Ottawa, where he is home full-time with the two wee girls he shares with Christine McNair. His most recent titles include a collection of short stories, On Beauty (University of Alberta Press, 2024) and the poetry collection World’s End, (ARP Books, 2023). He spent the 2007-8 academic year in Edmonton as writer-in-residence at the University of Alberta, and regularly posts reviews, essays, interviews and other notices at robmclennan.blogspot.com

Lesley-Anne Evans: Pollinators

When scouts return

to the hive

they are the way—

charismatic

spirit dancers—

spin and jive

jitterbugs.

Their sisters

gather ‘round,

witnesses—

celebrants

of the eucharist

of pollen

the scouts

offer them

to cherish

in their tiny throats.

I am looking for a way

in this world—

to know

truth, life

infused

with honey.

Irish-Canadian Lesley-Anne Evans’s debut poetry collection Mute Swan is published by The St. Thomas Poetry Series, 2021. Her work appears or is forthcoming in PIR, Banshee Lit, CV-2, TAR, Letters (Yale) and others. Lesley-Anne lives in British Columbia, Canada, where she hosts woodland retreats for creatives and spiritual seekers.

Denise O'Hagan: Street seasons

Summer was marked out

In the red curve of watermelon slices,

Dripping water pearls from a tiered rack.

That russet-tinted after-season, autumn,

Blew in with the leaves, moist and cool:

By late afternoon, the pavements blushed.

Coiled in the sweet Christmas smell

Of ember-warm, shell-cracking chestnuts,

Lay winter, in rough newspaper cones.

As the air quickened and buds thickened

Spring slipped in, like a half-smile,

And the watermelons grew plump.

[First published in Vox Galvia, Galway Advertiser, 20 November 2020]

Denise O’Hagan is a Sydney-based editor and poet, born in Italy, and former poetry editor with The Blue Nib. Her poetry collection Anamnesis (Recent Work Press 2022) was a finalist in the Eric Hoffer Book Award (USA) and shortlisted in the Rubery Book Award (UK). Website: https://denise-ohagan.com   

Eileen Malone: Carrots

It’s not about how we

shake off as much as

we can of the black dirt

and take a bite

without washing off the

tiny little white strings

it’s not even about

how the carrot tastes

when we dig it up warm

sweet, crunchy, juicy

 

it’s more about the horse

whinnying in its stall

that knows the sound

of our footsteps

and smells the carrots

we bring.

Eileen Malone grew up in the U.K. and Australia and now lives in the coastal fog at the edge of the San Francisco Bay Area where she founded and directed the Soul-Making Keats Literary Competition.   Her website is eileenmalone.us

Martha Ellen: Brain Anomalies

Brain anomalies manifest

in interesting ways. Some so

subtle they escape 

detection at first 

glance.

Especially the ones 

incurred before birth, 

during gestation. The 

neonate has no 

option. He 

makes do. 

He sees. He mimics.

Doesn’t really feel. He 

fakes normal. What 

else can 

he do?

He must survive. Mother

coos. He coos, too, but

does not care 

at all. She’s 

fooled.

We all are. Something

is not right. We 

know. His smile 

chills. His eyes 

frighten.

Time reveals. He 

can’t evolve. Calcified. 

The smile more 

sardonic. The eyes

penetrate like a

knife. 

Martha Ellen lives alone in an old Victorian house on a hill on the Oregon coast. Retired social worker. History of social justice activism. MFA. Poems and prose published in various journals and online forums. She writes to process the events of her wild life.

Dave Wakely: A Swimmer’s Turn

Feet that jumped so innocently in March’s puddles

Now stomp in the shallows of rain-flooded May.

These are the year’s most adolescent months,

Arriving abrupt as a slammed door or an opened heaven.

To hell with winter – let it all be overthrown.

Kicked away defiant as a swimmer’s turn,

The last of its berries – pink, blue, black and red –

Strewn across the smooth green baize

Of the garden’s snooker table.

These are the ugly duckling weeks of acne and braces,

Of spring gales ruffling Narcissus’ pond,

Sparing him his reflection that he might yet live,

Might yet enjoy the spurious spark

Of a mayfly’s afternoon.

New shoots escape their ties as spent blooms

Scatter like feathers after a midnight pillow fight.

The fruits are budding in the orchards now,

Succour for breakfast bowls or maggot homes deluxe –

Only summertime will tell.

Dave Wakely’s writing has been shortlisted for the Manchester Fiction and Bath Short Story awards, and appeared in numerous journals and anthologies. Online Programme Manager for Milton Keynes Literary Festival,  he lives in Buckinghamshire with his husband.

Áine Greaney: First Kiss

He has no name 

this boy who leads 

me to that doorway  

where the rain drip-drips

above our heads.    

He has a fat tongue 

that swishes about

in and out

a piston 

in my mouth. 

He has a denim jacket

rough on my chin 

arms in a vice grip 

while I picture a sheep dog 

at its dish. 

Áine Greaney is an Irish-born author and poet who lives in Massachusetts. Her work has appeared in U.S., Irish and British journals. Her fifth book, "Trespassers" will be published early in 2025. 

Find her at her author website, www.ainegreaney.com. 

Update

 Apologies for the lack of activity of the blog as of late: there was an outbreak of Covid in Poem Alone HQ, which laid us low for a while. Thankfully, we are all good now, and will back to normal with new poems very shortly!