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Poetry Breaks – Galway Kinnell Reads “Daybreak” February 4, 2018

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Poem by Cattail Jester- Bone Weary February 2, 2018

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Bone Weary

I’ve got
the old shake
rattle of some
dusty ages
in these old
sleeves I call arms
I’ve got the
grime of a thousand
year time rolled up
in the bucket
of my jeans
Don’t shake me
too hard or the world
gets its allergies
full blast on.

 BIO – Cattail Jester is a bayou-living, sun-loving, grizzled old occasional poet.  He has a day job, which is far from glamorous.

The Tomorrow Drug – Poem by Helen Burke June 29, 2017

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The Tomorrow Drug

Do not rely on the tomorrow drug ,
The drug that “says” Everything will be allright then .
But rather – the drug of today , sip that –
With its “yes we’re working on it , and “Let’s see how it goes.”
“ Never hang your hat on the drug of yesterday –
When things were just so , and I recall This thing and that thing
-Ah – everything was so fine then .
-Stick to the medication of NOW , and NOW again –
-It is all we have.
-All the rest is an illusion in a clockwork mans head –
-See where he rests his weary bones. –
-And the minutes crawl under our skin –
-Like forever



Helen Burke has been writing poetry for 42 years she also writes short stories, plays, comedy sketches and does painting and visual art.




The Poetry of Pop: Nine Poets Pick Their Favorite Song Lyrics March 30, 2017

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The Poetry of Pop: Nine Poets Pick Their Favorite Song Lyrics

Poem – Letter to an Estranged Middle-Aged Son by Donal Mahoney December 9, 2016

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Letter to an Estranged Middle-Aged Son
Donal Mahoney

The older I get the more I realize
the importance of getting things done
before your mother announces another

assignment to roust me from my hammock.
As you know I’ve never been much
around the house, my skills limited to

raking leaves and shoveling snow,
menial tasks I haven’t missed in years.
Probably not since you lived here.

Your mother, of course, grew up on a farm
and has always liked getting things done.
But she’s getting older too. In fact,

she recently had a big operation
and I’ve pitched in beyond my skill set
despite new stents and a pacemaker.

But even though we just put away
the walker, cane and wheelchair,
all three are on alert so I believe

it’s best to let you know that
one of these days the one who’s left
will ring you up and let you know.



One of many nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, Donal Mahoney has had poetry and fiction appear in various publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his work can be found at http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html

Poem – Talking to Actresses by Helen Burke September 2, 2016

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Talking to Actresses

We meet the four of them in the green room ..
And they seem amazed we are there .
They are each like jewelled butterflies , fluttering and vying
For attention .  But if you ask ….
They will deny this .
They are modest , unassuming ..one wears a child’s bow in her hair.
Another patent leather shoes.  The fourth older one looks glum.
Already they have started being nice to her …
So she knows its all over ..bar the shouting .
The pretty one makes us coffee but forgets to put the coffee in ..
It’s all such a joke to her.
The famous guy comes in …they all slink past him , brush a breast , a leg against him
In case he’s in any doubt.
He’s not.
We try and ask about the play ..but they are like bucking broncos
And we get nowhere.
The pretty one is nibbling a lettuce and air sandwich ..the older one munches down
A massive Cornish pasty .  The other two share couscous like some kind
Of shamanic ritual .  Hollywood ..Hollywood ..one laughs …
That’s where I’m bound.  Her voice is like a fork being put back in a drawer
The wrong drawer.  Charming is as charming does the older one mutters ,
Bits of pasty clinging to her leotard.
They all cross and uncross legs like a disease and flick their hair
And smile as if we are mental patients ..to be tolerated as an interlude
In their incredible journey lives.
They will not remember us within the hour .
The spotlight shines from their unforgiving eyes.
A tree falls in the room .
A dead body is lugged in and left to bleed.
They step over both .  Kick their legs up high .
Head for the beckoning stage.


Helen Burke has been writing poetry for 42 years she also writes short stories , plays, comedy sketches and does painting and visual art. She has a new collection called “Today the Birds Will Sing ” coming out with Valley Press in the next couple of months.

Her work has been widely published and anthologised.  She has won a number of competitions such as Manchester International, Norwich, Suffolk, the Yorkshire prize, Southport Comedy, Jersey, Devon & Dorset, Torbay and many others.

Her work has been published and distributed in America by www.origamipoems.com, based on Rhode Island, she has 15 chap books with them, having formerly read at Roots in Providence. She has recently been made an honorary member of Ocean State Poets


Poem by Donal Mahoney – Baton Rouge, St. Paul, Dallas August 13, 2016

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Years ago Rodney King,
after his beating in LA,
softly asked America,

“People, can we all just
get along? Can we stop
making it horrible for
older folks and kids?”

Not yet, Rodney.
But rest in peace.
We will try again.


Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri. Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/ and some of his newer work at Eye On Life Magazine.

Poem – Ten Candles by B.Z. Niditch July 16, 2016

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 Riding on my bicycle
on the Boston Common
with a broken right arm
and break in shoulder
after soccer practice
hurting from a bully’s wound
in days of Mercurochrome
still smarting on your body
of thought when left
with a shadow of memory
yet your anger smolders
over a first leather jacket
from your birthday party
after seeing
a James Dean movie
here on a June day
you walk with a free ticket
to the Fine Arts museum
a pug on the sidewalk
accompanies you
with a Van Gogh postcard
from your Dutch uncle
still intact
in your side pocket
by your broken sunglasses
from today assaults
of an insensate encounter
you climb up
the art house steps
waiting to visit the moderns
taking out your oils,
notebook and poet’s pen
unwilling to take any blame
for being a child.
    BZ Picture 12

B.Z. NIDITCH is a poet, playwright, fiction writer and teacher.

His work is widely published in journals and magazines throughout the world, including:
Columbia: A Magazine of Poetry and Art; The Literary Review; Denver Quarterly; Hawaii
Review; Le Guepard (France); Kadmos (France); Prism International; Jejune (Czech
Republic); Leopold Bloom (Budapest);  Antioch Review; and Prairie Schooner, among others.

He lives in Brookline, Massachusetts.

Happy Fourth of July… July 4, 2016

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to all our followers in the USA!


Poem by Rehan Qayoom – Upon Clifton Bridge July 2, 2016

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Upon Clifton Bridge …

After Parveen Shakir.

I have said that Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquillity: the emotion is contemplated till by a species of reaction the tranquillity gradually disappears, and an emotion, kindred to that which was before the subject of contemplation, is gradually produced, and does itself actually exist in the mind.

William Wordsworth. Preface to Lyrical Ballads. 1801, 1802.


Clifton Bridge
Well-travelled by the city Elite
Upon which the high and mighty Traffic Policemen
Are seen to perform their duties
Around the clock
Including, 6 or 7 undercover
Not even an unconcerned bird may flit its wings around them!
I saw her!
In a deep ochre
Gold sequined dress
Every fold aligned!
Her Lipstick so dark
That my eyes were drenched in it
Her Foundation dripping in the mid-May sun
Seemed to say
No amount of money can buy this*
Her face caked by the smoke of a cigarette
Stuck between her fingers drowned in clear blue Nail Polish-drowned fingers
With those captivating glances and such gesticulations
She could easily have been arrested by the Police under Clause 294
Parked at the Traffic Signal I thought
Any time now, this PC will hand over an arrest warrant
To this heroine of one of Minto’s novels
But before he could Book her
A car with a navy-blue Number Plate
Parked up
And she disappeared into it
Along with her Clause 294 persona
While the plain-clothed P. C.
Stood aghast!

* Literally ‘Wealth and beauty do not see eye to eye’.


Rehan Qayoom is a poet of English and Urdu, editor, translator and archivist, educated at Birkbeck College, University of London. He has featured in numerous literary publications and performed his work internationally.  He is the author of About Time.