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
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/.
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.