Driving In—Rebecca Clifford
step around a pair of fledging robins on the patio
cheep cheep, flutter, flap, moult
lawn needs mowing again
dogwood blooms careless along the fence
neighbour’s got all three boys seeding today
bright, tow-headed, tanned
flocks grace ditches, lilacs on the verge
gravel turns to tar and chip turns to tarmacadam
road changes from two to four lanes, a median
kilometres from thirty screech to one-twenty
heat simmers off auto hoods
trucks with airbrakes and a/c
no one signals lane changes
Rebecca Clifford lives in rural Southern Ontario. Her work has appeared in international journals, newspapers,
and e-zines. Six of her poems have been set to music by Canadian composers. She is supported in her endeavours
by her long suffering partner and a disdainful cat of questionable parentage.
Police Point—Nikita Celine Dawn Synrem
I was confused for a fish seller today,
I laughed.
We do not have permanent sellers here,
The names of shops change
Like seasons of vegetables and fruits sold by hawkers.
I walked ahead, a little slower.
At least ‘Fine Bread’ is still the same,
and the wine store next to Archies,
“100 Pipers” or “Wandy”? I wonder your name,
But I still see people throng to your small window
Crowded before it even gets dark.
I looked down,
The pavements have changed from concrete to tiles.
“Corrupted Politicians??? But they do so much!!”
they seem to scream.
I walked home a little slower.
That day, I realised:
Meikha and her Assam-type home
Still feels ‘British’ (she made sure of it)
Holding on to a piece of Upland Road,
As others are modernly reshaped.
I enter, and there she is,
Looking out her ‘british’ window,
In her jainkyrshah, engulfing her tiny frame.
Nikita Celine Dawn Synrem
currently is an Assistant Professor at Shillong Commerce College, and a Research Scholar at North Eastern Hill University, Shillong.
Youth on a Road—Allan Lake
First thing you notice is black hole
where front tooth and neighbouring
incisor once lived. Mister sallow
skin, greasy hair no longer cares.
He’s thrown in the soiled towel
before any fight – prize or other-
wise. Go directly to scrap heap;
it’s never hard to locate.
The fix, as opposed to a fix?
Shame has little effect because
unholy family is causal, meaning
no prodigal son trip. Perhaps
happy-clappy religion, a stint
in the military, a do-good org
full of anglers who offer bait
to passing, potential recruits.
A crumb might be all it takes.
Cheaper to mend damaged young
man than support not-so-young,
not-so-well man. Once on still
functional idiomatic feet, he can
pick fruit, bear fruit, take root,
become what he can become.
Einstein looked a loser until,
at 25, he figured everything out.
Allan Lake is a migrant poet from Allover, Canada who now lives in Allover, Australia. Coincidence.
He has published poems in 20 countries. His latest chapbook of poems, entitled ‘My Photos of Sicily’,
was published by Ginninderra Press.
Cactus—John Grey
I wouldn’t recommend the roadside.
And not on such a desert straightaway
where every passing car
kicks up a cloud of dust.
In a ditch of all places
and so small,
your roots get by
on water memory,
your fruit’s
a sun-scorched pebble.
But plants —not even cactus –
ask me the best place to prosper.
Seeds nestle down where they are blown
and try to make the best of it.
Besides, why else would an Australian be
on this highway in New Mexico?
A seed -an adaptation —
you have to believe
you can bear fruit anywhere.
John Grey is an Australian Poet, U.S resident, recently published in New World Writing, City Brink and Tenth Muse. Work upcoming in Paterson Literary Review, Amazing Stories and Cantos.
A Taxi-–DS Maolalai
sun sets – seven thirty –
over quaysides in april
like a man at a shop counter
counting and setting down coins.
I watch off the balcony –
the road mostly empty.
a young woman census taker
walks casually west.
she is holding a clipboard.
wearing that absurd yellow waistcoat
they’ve been making them wear
for this year. beside her, a taxi
is paused at a traffic light
and advertises the National
College of Arts. Jack
Yeats reflection spills,
logos and words,
against every plate window
like a truck driving over
a pumpkin.
DS Maolalai has been described by one editor as “a cosmopolitan poet” and another as “prolific, bordering on incontinent”. His work has been nominated thirteen times for BOTN, ten for the Pushcart and once for the Forward Prize, and released in three collections; “Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden” (Encircle Press, 2016), “Sad Havoc Among the Birds” (Turas Press, 2019) and “Noble Rot” (Turas Press, 2022)
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