Geoff Sawers—No Horizon, Night and Morning

In a white storm the trees were whipping

back and forth and you dreamt or thought you dreamt

you were adrift on a lake, high hills all around

your hair plastered to your face and

the hills were groaning, they were hill-high waves

you were right in the O now, the middle letter of storm

with the waves falling in from all sides and you

were a singularity until you slicked out

drained down some surreal chute

one lick from the tongue of a capital Q

and wound out on a beach in uncanny silence

unthreatening shreds of cloud in the east

red rags in the dawn and unless again

you bang down your cup on the café table

this was another trick you were still

drowning, calling, the calm phase

once you've given up but no

you could feel your feet still in the water, face dry

doors were banging in a sudden hot wind

a new storm and this was coming from inside you

you opened your mouth

and out came the fire

Geoff Sawers

Geoff Sawers lives in Reading. He is the author of 'Silver in my Mines: Peter Hay's work for Two Rivers Press' (University at Buffalo, NY, 2021) and is working on a book about the Welsh writer Dorothy Edwards. He has published work recently in Culture Matters, The Times Literary Supplement and Unstamatic. Born in 1966, he was only diagnosed as autistic in his fifties. His paintings are on Instagram @geoff.sawers

Kevin Brown—The Painter

She has the bird right,

even the shadow—

the pearl gray gradations

against the turquoise river—

because she has soared before.

But the bridge. The bridge

bothers her, as she scrapes away

one attempt,

then another,

and another.

She watched it for days,

walked it until she felt

her feet could tell her hands

how to handle it. But the bridge.

Her coloring is correct—

a combination of carmine

and burnt umber, splotches

of sanguine—but the bridge

doesn’t yet live

as only a painting can.

Because she hasn’t borne

the gravity of a turtle

crawling across her bare back

one careful step at a time.

Because she hasn’t stood as stone—

expanding on sultry summer

afternoons, contracting in

crisp winter midnights.

Because she hasn’t wanted

the water to pour through

her pores, to wear her

away over centuries.

But she will.

Kevin Brown

Kevin Brown (he/him) teaches high school English in Nashville. He has published three books of poetry: Liturgical Calendar: Poems (Wipf and Stock); A Lexicon of Lost Words (winner of the Violet Reed Haas Prize for Poetry, Snake Nation Press); and Exit Lines (Plain View Press). He also has a memoir, Another Way: Finding Faith, Then Finding It Again, and a book of scholarship, They Love to Tell the Stories: Five Contemporary Novelists Take on the Gospels. You can find out more about him and his work on Twitter at @kevinbrownwrite or at http://kevinbrownwrites.weebly.com/.

Frank Weber—Octopus Blizzard in June

Creepy scaly arms

are reaching out

across the stones as

snow is falling and

coating his head

still those arms

keep reaching and

keep on pulling that

bright blue bulbous

body across the

slickering ice

inch after inch and

pebble to cobblestone

but now the bright blue

of oceans is turning

into gloss blue of

ice chunks with the

moonlight casting gold

down on top of his head

still pulling and

still slinking

still suckering over

pebbles and cobblestones

and sheets of ice

no clue where

he’s going and I

don’t rightly care

its’s still more than a marvel

to see this

octopus blizzard with

tentacles and fingers

suckers and beak

the water-greased ice

but still he gains traction

while the ice grows thicker on

pebbles and cobblestones

under yellow moonlight

casting long shadows

on down the street

all of the village caught sleeping

twisting and spiraling

coiling and gripping

with a slicking

slurping suction

popping off of the ice

snow cover thickening

salt air grows stronger

but there is no sea to be seen

twisting and spiraling

coiling and reaching

over every

pebble and cobblestone

coated in ice slicks and

powdered with fresh snow

under the pale yellow moonlight

casting his long shadows  his long shadows

on down the street and

throughout all of the village and

all are caught sleeping

in this ocean’s frigid gift

of the Octopus Blizzard in June.

Frank Weber

Frank Weber is a freelance writer from Erie, Pennsylvania. He is a published author, featured in several magazines, anthologies, books and advertising campaigns as both writer and model and is currently a Staff Writer for Bare Back Magazine. Frank draws inspiration from the Kerouac-Bukowski-Thompson vein, and his work encompasses a firm conviction, simple honesty in written word and enough of a raw edge to make people feel what they read.