July 2005

Welcome to the July edition of A Pocket full of Poesy. We are running a couple of days late (apologies) and again have some really great poetry and even some regular contributors - thanks all. New this month we are allowing comments.

If this is your first time looking in and you are interested in submitting work email us here. We will be happy to answer any queries you have. We would also really like work from some more men.

In addition to this if you have any poetry related events you want advertised let us know and we will put them in the next edition. Feedback on any of the work can also be emailed.

Please remember that by emailing us you are asserting your own rights over any material you submit and infringements of others' copyright is the liability of the submitter.

Authors in the July Issue

Vickie Knight

Vickie Knight is an American poet from Ohio. More of her work can be read on her blog Contraption. She also writes on the process of writing at Vickie's Writing Place and contributes to Rollin' Thunder.

Emily Glayzer

Emily Glayzer is a regular contributor to A Pocket Full of Poesy and lives in the United Kingdom.

Khristal Nicole Griffith


Khristal Nicole Griffith is a writer. We would love to know a bit more about her - please let us know and we will update this entry.

Helen Beaumont

Helen Beaumont runs a fine food company Relish the Continental in the Northeast of England. Her company also supports an excellent food forum, A Forum to Relish.

Erin Monahan

Erin Monahan is the mother of five whose scarce spare time is filled by her fascination with the written word. She is influenced by nature, life, the death of her daughter, her past, her present, and her dream of the future. Her first chapbook was released in May of 2005, entitled Poetic Acceptance, published by Meeting of the Minds Publications. She has also been included in The Paranormal Wormhole, Voices from the Crater, and the 2004 edition of the Moontown calendar, all published by Moontown Media. As an active member of the online poetry community, her work has also been included in Ezines such as TMP Irregular (#34) Meeting of the Minds and Where the Sidewalk Ends.

Margaret Parker


Margaret Parker is heavily involved in the arts in Plymouth. She runs a gallery and arts venue called The Art Garden in the city's historic and stunningly picturesque Barbican, not far from the Mayflower Steps.

Sarah Crossland

Sarah Crossland writes for pleasure in her limited spare time. When her time is not spare she is busy running a smallholding, a family and a shop in the industrial backbone of England.

John Morris

John Morris is a professional artist, living in the South West of England. He writes in his spare time and his persuasive way with words helped to win over his wife. He will be exhibiting at The Art Garden in August 2005.

Fiona MacLachlan-Morris

Fiona MacLachlan-Morris is the editor of this ezine. She lives in the South West of England with her children and her painter husband. She has recently been published in Zygote in My Coffee and is working on a collection of poetry for print publication. She keeps a blog: The Life and Loves of a She Weevil.

Vickie Knight

My Brain and Poetry

As I get older and wiser,
ideas must marinate on my brain.
Your poetry, perhaps, eludes
gentle ministrations. It must
simmer in its own juices
to develop its full flavor.

Never pan fry a great poem;
like steak, let it broil
or braise to perfection.
Leave it to redistribute
else its flavorful moistness
disappears with the first bite.

Savor it; allow it to breathe.
Sip your poetry slowly
from fluted stemware. Inhale
the essence of the bouquet.
Make an occasion of it;
experience it fully.

Daydreams

I stare out my window,
transport myself elsewhere.
My mind transcends miles
while my body remains still
and mimicks work.

Scentless blossoms fill the forest
as long grasses dance
in slow-motion breezes.
My allergies are at rest.

Music is piped through
branches full of nature’s
harmony. Melodies form
when bees buzz in time
to the creek’s ripple.

As I wander, aimless,
the wind and sun
play peek-a-boo in my hair
as they take turns
kissing my neck.

The world ceases
to exist. There is only
blue, green and me.
Time passes slowly,
almost unnoticeably.

Idyllic peace
settles upon me
until the insistent
jangle of the phone
brings me back.

Tell Me Something

Tell me something to make me feel
more than just a breathing being.
Let me know I'm worth the effort.
Help make the silence palatable.

Your touch, long ago, radiated through my skin
and spread delicious sensations southward.
Now, we're rarely close; there doesn't seem
to be the time nor the inclination to do so.

We used to spend hours with lips entwined
as we drank from a bottomless well.
Our kisses are more perfunctory, obligatory--
the fireworks have died in midair.

As I stare at what could have been,
I realize we omit the little things.
Those three little words disappeared
along with thank you and please.

We took for granted that things stagnate
and reduced our own efforts accordingly.
I miss what we used to be--the excitement,
the playfulness, the togetherness. I miss you.

Emily Glayzer

Snap

Silent jagged points lurk beneath ones skin
Sharp points from within

Burst suddenly out, uncontrollable fashion
Verbal lightening passion

Explanation unfounded
Emotion numb grounded
An empty guilted tin

True friend understands with healing hands
Tears hide within

Sorry

Khristal Nicole Griffith

Isolate

Bittersweet tears cascade like sheeting rain on a windowpane
Beautiful but morose and sickeningly serene

Like a stone dropped into the calmest of lakes
I
lost my peace
but disease replied

I am no island isolate

My cries reverberate around me
They affect those around me
I try to sever ties.
I attempt to mask my sighs
With feigned ecstasy
I am no individual soul

I am no island isolate

I yearn for solitary standing
No strings attached
to my
Poisoned frame
No hurt latched
to my
Sordid state

I am no island isolate

You are attracted to my vulnerable eyes
You are sympathetic to their sadness
But
you are
Put off
by my
Surface un-intelligence

I am no island isolate

My faults blind me to any beauty

All I see is the wrong in me
All I see is the wrong in me
All I see is the wrong in me

I am no island isolate.

Helen Beaumont

Our summer


It’s June and flaming apparently
But it’s raining
Again

Again we yearn for warmth and light
Scents of flora, suntan lotion and strawberries wafting up our noses apparently
But its raining
Again

In June we have the whole of summer to stretch before us and Wimbledon of course
Children playing in sand pits and paddling pools all day long with tea in the garden apparently
But it’s raining
Again

Gardens are sodden, wellies are the apparel of the day
Umbrellas at the ready, eyes raised upwards in silent prayer for sunshine
And hoping Cliff doesn’t sing and the Men’s finals are still on Sunday
Ice creams, buckets and spades picnic baskets distant memories but I’m sure we did them last year, didn’t we?
Afterall its June, our British Summer apparently
But it’s raining, again…

The kids want to play outside in the long days apparently its light from 4 til gone 10
“Mummy can we go in the garden pleeeese” is the beseeching cry
“No darlings, you see it’s raining, how about the colouring books?”
They stare up at me with huge eyes and say“oh no mummy not again surely!”
I sigh, “yes well summer it may be but I can’t make it shine, yes its raining and your bikes are dripping but tomorrow it will be better just you see”
Again…….

But we will not be beaten, ‘tis flaming June apparently
Come the weekend we drag the kids kicking and screaming round garden centres and parks
Waterlogged grounds surrounding huge mansions, bracing North Sea winds whip up the blue flag beaches
The kids will “enjoy it or else” in rain macs and wellies
Umbrellas, buggy covers at the ready along with the obligatory dripping ‘99
You see it’s raining again and, we really wouldn’t have it any other way, now would we?
“Any one for fish and chips and a nice cup of tea?”

Erin Monahan

Desertion
a series

I. Abandon the Young

I have collected secrets, pressed
and carried them, next to my skin
to the twisted shade of the acacia.

There I pulled them,
mewling and toothy
from my breast - kissed
and left them, to die.

Abandoned, once seen
but only by lovers in the safety of
whispered midnight, they withered
in the arid desert grass,

for the Serengeti sun frowns
on the frail, burns the vulnerable,
and finds not grief, but promise
in death.


II. Savannah Moon

They have been suckled
at the breast of want,
for the instinct to offer more
has been forsaken.

Craving in the shadows, thorn-bitten
and ragged - they were chewed
by nights spent in the jagged maw of a savannah moon.
Their brittle bones crack
under the weight of my desertion
and I leave them to find rebirth
in the marrow of the morning sun.

Margaret Parker

I want to put on long robes and go into the desert
and walk across the fragtmented grit that clings to sandy unity.
And there where dune yellow meets blazing blue,
I would go free into that long horizon.
And be drowned in the deep blush of rose majestica
and drenched in the purity of the ungilded lily.
When satieted I will leave this thin bar and enter into the wondrous width
of the whole.
But still I must go on until I reach the distant shore that is no shore but
all shores.
There the long thirst will be over,
and I shall loose myself in crystal coolness drinking deep draughts
to find at last I am me.

Sarah Crossland

Sometimes you feel you are a laughing stock,
because you have livestock.
Your sheep are a joke, to some,
A Llama, how fun!
Its how you live your own life.
To my son, they are his, to my daughter hers too.
They are so fun that everyone wants to share.
So they bring down their food,
DON'T FEED THE ANIMALS I cry.
But who ever cares?
They are having their fun.
The food that is so nice is poison to some.
Last night Leo Llama died.
Last night Delia, a mum to two lambs died.
I wait now for the men to come take them away.
Two lambs still curl up by their Mother.
I cry.

John Morris

Feeling Green

Your eyes upon me warm me like the sun
Your kisses like rain, gentle on my face.
Your fingers tickle mine like a breeze
through sunbright leaves.

Your long hair like grass, in golden waves
Moves softly, undulating in the haze.
My heart like little birds at play in the dappled trees,
Flutters its wings.

And when you leave a frost creeps over me,
Icily cracking on my skin,
Leaving white winter branches bare and thin,
My frozen nerves.

So as I lay spread-eagled and look skwards,
Waiting for your warmth to return,
I wonder, then, if life is metaphorical
And is this love, or am I a garden?

Fiona MacLachlan-Morris

Contemplation

On our backs
in long dry grass,
air scented with a baker's flair.
Look up into the endless blue;
think, if we raised
a hand to touch,
we would feel it
not smooth and flat as silk
but with a depth of pile;
the plush and radiance
of velvet.

High against that bluish bloom
a plane noses noisless
through the pile, tracing its path
in disturbed fibres,
spanning miles in silent seconds,
destination unknown.

June 2005

Welcome to the June edition of A Pocket full of Poesy. We are starting small and we have a small number of great poems this month. If this is your first time looking in and you are interested in submitting work email us here. We will be happy to answer any queries you have.

In addition to this if you have any poetry related events you want advertised let us know and we will put them in the next edition.

Feedback on any of the work can also be emailed.

Poetry Choice

Remember

Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land:
When you can no more hold me by the hand
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you planned:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that I once had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.

Christina Rossetti

Authors in the June Issue

Erin Monahan

Erin Monahan is the mother of five whose scarce spare time is filled by her fascination with the written word. She is influenced by nature, life, the death of her daughter, her past, her present, and her dream of the future. Her first chapbook was released in May of 2005, entitled Poetic Acceptance, published by Meeting of the Minds Publications. She has also been included in The Paranormal Wormhole, Voices from the Crater, and the 2004 edition of the Moontown calendar, all published by Moontown Media. As an active member of the online poetry community, her work has also been included in Ezines such as TMP Irregular (#34) Meeting of the Minds and Where the Sidewalk Ends.

Cheryl White

Cheryl lives and writes on the South coast of England. Writing is something she has taken up this year but she is prolific and her talent is frequently recognised on the Fanstory writing web site, where she has again been nominated as a finalist in one of their regular competitions. She keeps a blog, Madbaggage, where she comments on life the universe and everything. She has also attained a highly commended in Rollin' Thunder's Poetry Challenge.

Emily Glayzer

Emily Glayzer is new to poetry writing and lives in the United Kingdom.

John Morris

John Morris is a professional artist, living in the South West of England. He writes in his spare time and his persuasive way with words helped to win over his wife.

Fiona MacLachlan-Morris

Fiona MacLachlan-Morris is the editor of this ezine. She lives in the South West of England with her children and her painter husband. She has recently been published in Zygote in My Coffee and is working on a collection of poetry for print publication. She keeps a blog: The Life and Loves of a She Weevil.

Erin Monahan

Saturday Morning Flea Market
The Mexican Movement

Dust devils
blow their flavors through me
- mango, guava, sugar cane.

It's a dirty world of sweet aromas
reeking of pride and family ties.

The next table over is mobbed,
a Latino outdoor market full of fruits
and words I don't quite recognize.

I bought little
black bananas, tomatoes, and a watermelon;
that's not what he called them.
His names were richer, more
succulent.

I only wish I could
comprehend their conversation,
unknown to them - eavesdrop,
absorb a bit of their essence.
I can't, so I
smile and scribble a sign about
a remote control car in what I hope
is palatable Spanish.



Lumber Jack Tricks
The mountains have risen beyond my youth.

I was lost in the forest of adultery, where Mama
was lonesome and Papa smelled of ale
and sawdust and sex.

Joy was sifted, like sand through a sieve
and fell away to the sides. The silt gathered
at the mouth of my Mississippi and
shored the ships that lumbered
through my dreams.

As a child I dreamed of gowns and flowers,
but the mountains have risen beyond my youth.
In the shadow, I can remember that mama was lonesome,

and Papa smelled like sex.

Cheryl White

Not Here

You'll fail to find me in the strangest places,
I won't be there like ordinary souls.
You'll never catch my eye amongst the faces
That swim across your view in busy shoals.

I walk in time without a sign of stopping
And time falls through me, leaving not a trace.
I love the lights and sounds of people shopping
This is my home now, here my resting place

(If resting is the proper name, I doubt it;
Vibrant I am and real as real can be),
I am more here than any, and could shout it,
Yet precious few may know 'til they are free.

But blank your mind and calm your buzzing cortex
Breathe with your soul to taste the evening air
And in that fleeting moment, sense the vortex;
The stillness that is me, who isn't there

Empty Serenade

Languid, honeyed lyrics swim the lazy afternoon
As the tinny, tiny stereo so dominates the room
That the lilting little melodies it pumps into the air
Seem to dance the dusty sunshine with a sultry lack of care.
And the fluff beneath the sofa breathes a comfy sigh of peace
As the echoes of the broken clock implore that time should cease,
Yet summer seems eternal, as it swelters o'er the bed,
But Gloria's indifferent now, Gloria is dead.

It seemed so very crucial, to swallow all those pills,
And life seemed so unbearable with all her woes and ills,
And all her wasted chances, and all her guilt and shame,
But the radio keeps playing and cajoling just the same.

Emily Glayzer

Talking to my dead father

Sometimes I call out to you from rusted clods beneath
Do you listen, can you hear me

Breathe deep into my conciousness
Hold my hand from inside out
Whisper stories in my ears, sooth comfort to the heart

A thickness stands between us, whether solid or no, unknown

I cannot feel you

John Morris

It’s raining in the garden, love.

It’s raining in the garden, love.
The grass is flat and sodden.
The trees are dropping all their fruit.
The roses are all rotten.

It’s raining in the garden, love.
It’s pissing down outside.
The borders are a bog and all
the sweet peas will have died.

It’s raining in the garden, love.
There’s not much we can do.
My tender shoots are drowning
and so’s the feverfew.

It’s raining in the garden, love
Like it’ll never stop.
It’s flattened all the fennel and
that fig tree at the top.

It’s raining in the garden, love.
It’s running down the slope.
The bloody lawn is flooded and
that bay has got no hope.

It’s raining in the garden, love.
It’s soaked the compost bin.
The greenhouse is all misted up
from water dripping in.

It’s raining in the garden, love.
The seedlings will be rotten.
Did we plant some more forget-me-nots
this season? I’ve forgotten.

It’s raining in the garden, love.
It’s easing off a bit but,
All that work and just a shower of rain
has churned it all to shit.

It’s nice the way it glistens, though
just as the sun comes through.
Like all the leaves are diamonds
and all the wood is new.

It’s stopped raining in the garden now.
There’s blue above the shed.
There are slugs in all the undergrowth
and slime across the beds.

The sun’s out in the garden, love.
The deluge has blown through.
Let’s both put on our Wellingtons
and pick the weeds anew.

See how our garden gleams, my love.
See how it shines so bright.
Come, let us go together
hand in hand into the light.


The Quay


Tough men hunched over,
oilskins crackling in the cold.
Hard-knuckled hands scoured by ice,
grasping half-dead fish.

The pink flash of a knife
through fish scale, flesh and skin.
Flip-flap of guts into the bin,
rasping stench-filled breath.

Fillets piled in crates,
foul banter in the foul air.
Talk of last nights drinking,
stinking death, slick underfoot.

Fishermen, noble men,
tough men hunched over.
Now put away their icy knives,
go rolling home, to gut

their wives.

Fiona MacLachlan-Morris

Remove the e and dead spells Dad

I was shocked
by your Auschwitz mouth.
It stuck in my mind,
wouldn't fade the way
the chocolate of your voice
melted.
I could only conjure up
a thin brown imitation.

Your open mouth:
my surprise and yours;
a word unsaid,
a breath left untaken.

Paint slashed

Dreams like a scarlet
paint-splash in the blackness of night:
diagonal slash;
ragged and dripping.

The flash of cobalt blue
branding her brain
like the afterglow
from a stared-at light bulb.

And days: oyster dull.
Days of soft grey.
Fading, fading, fading
away.

Welcome

Welcome to a new monthly poetry magazine for poetry written in the English language. Our first edition will be out on June 1 2005 and we are looking for material.

Reviews and essays on all aspects of poetry will be considered and we want your poetry too.

So if you want to submit something, ask a technical question or have news or information about a poetry event near you just drop us an email.