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Ascent Aspirations Magazine Friday's Poems June 23, 2017 Cover Art: Exercise In Blues by Margaret Karmazin Friday's Poems will be published weekly. Submissions are now open. Send your work to email@example.com
Occasionally, as you hang wall paper OCD smooth, eyeball laptop screen to see which odds will blink first, back pain strain with electric saw to fell light thieving trees, previous women’s names slip out and slap me. And I begin to realise that despite your initial Bryan Adam’s declaration, which I accepted like winning a major prize, you have always mistaken depth for difference. The biker blonde exciting lust, the little girl lost invoking a shinning knight, the younger stunner turning your head… So I bet initially you said that to all us girls.
As living together brings your round from my first entrance Ker-pow! that temporarily knocked out memories of exs, I now compare with nail quick smart my USP worth against the model, the teacher, the nurse, scab pick my ranking amongst them. Behind I think, the name that slips out most from your subconscious like a photo hidden in a wallet. The sweet one, who never went off with a better offer, who brought you trout as a treat for tea, who fell for you long after the flash cash had dried up.
But middle aged disappointments are soon shrugged off. And I catch your knife glint irritation as your own name frequently competes with that of my gay BF with whom you share a first consonant and vowel. Our friendship’s alchemy creating 20 years ‘things just happen to us’ laughter, with no past’s distance between us , rather the 500 miles to Manchester , shrunk by Facebook , texts, Skype.
Fiona Sinclair is the editor of the on-line poetry magazine Message in a Bottle . Her sixth collection of poems will be published by Lapwing Press later this year.
The Last Place On Earth
You can take me when I can no longer walk or eat or remember then take me to that dreary last place on earth where you have a room but no privacy and a roommate that is half-nuts and babbles nonsense all day where there are screams in the night and all manner of horrible sounds coming from rooms with no doors where you cannot function as your self where they have to bath you and feed you and give you drugs to sedate where they roll you around in a wheelchair and make you sit in the lobby with a magazine on your lap where they give you one small bed and one small table to hold what's left of your once proud life where they feed you mush in bowls with a plastic spoon and give you powdered eggs and stale toast and coffee that tastes like water the last stop on the train of life before you get off the last damn place to ever be for where else on this crazy earth can a human being be treated in such an inhumane way the last place on earth you would want to be caught living- or dead.
David Knape is a retired sales manager. He started writing poetry only when he retired. He has no degrees or things to brag about. He writes of common things. He writes daily, as part of his routine, and as a crucial part of his life. For David poetry is as important as an arm or a leg, or...a heart. Without it, there would be no David.
Sometimes my young son lies beside me on this old bed and we say nothing but stare upward like sailors wrecked on a tiny island and tired of sighing at the wind.
Julian O'Dea is an Australian poet who lives in Canberra, the nation's capital. He writes haiku and lyrical poetry. He is semi-retired.