The Whisky Blot
Journal of Literature, Poetry, and Haiku
This week I went fishing for a sea monster. I go every Friday. The one I want has scales hard as silence And moonlit eyes that see straight through you, As if to say ‘I could do better’ To be fair, he could. I’ve caught him twice before. The first time he got away, Diving so deep, I could hardly see his outline As he sped away. The second time I let him think he got away But I used a line so long It went to the bottom of the ocean. So I just have to be patient. I bought more than a few good books. Right now he’s somewhere near Greenland, Annoying the icebergs. He'll be back. People say I’m crazy. That I could be doing better things With all my time and all my line. That the flat and ceaseless ocean is no companion And I should find someone to dance with. I say they’ve never met my dragon. And if they ever had the chance, To gamble all their heart On some reckless, wild chase, Then I hope they jump at it. Even the shadow of a sea serpent Can outshine the sun. The writing of Holly Payne-Strange has been lauded by USA Today, LA weekly and The New York Times. Her poetry has been published by various groups including Door Is A Jar magazine, Quail Bell, In Parenthesis, and Dipity Lit Magazine, among others. After he died, she had no interest in taking care of her husband’s prized garden. The neighbors would always comment on the enviable beauty of the grounds, perfected by many years of his obsessive and careful tending. But she hated yard work in the hot sun, disliked mosquitos and the scent of insect repellent. The smell of sweat and potting soil on her husband made her sick. And most of all, she detested the fact that work in the yard is never done. Each season has its own set of critical tasks. There are always sticks to pick up, leaves to rake, grass to mow, weeds to pull, watering, fertilizing and spraying pesticides. Year round, her husband spent most of his free time out there. So, you might wonder why she is working in the yard today. The neighbors certainly do, as they look through their windows. They are horrified when she rips out all the foliage from the garden and throws it in the street. They watch her place pavers in patterns for a winding walkway and pour bags of colored gravel between the arcs of stones. The neighbors observe with dismay as she places large pots of artificial plants on the gravel along the garden path. They hesitate to ask her about it, but sense that something is terribly wrong. Something more than a simple dislike of gardening. William Ogden Haynes is a poet and author of short fiction from Alabama who was born in Michigan. He has published ten collections of poetry and one book of short stories all available on Amazon.com. Over two hundred and thirty of his poems and short stories have appeared in literary journals and his work is frequently anthologized. http://www.williamogdenhaynes.com. They said I should have loved a crane wife, her bleeding out in snow, onto ivory ice, I would give her my cloak and she would be the female Christ, her blood stain my kimono, and as I carried her home to rice paper walls, on bent back, she would sing the sister stars down, and those souls departed would flock around me, and I would know something of the afterlife, offering up my pain and beauty to death, and as her wings married my mind and marred my pain stains into something quixotic, I would quicken, and Hell would have no place in my palace, and I would make a thousand like her, all for one wish of peace, after Hiroshima bombed me quite starstruck and desolate, and the grave of the fireflies wept. They say I should have loved a crane wife instead. But I became the bank of winter she drowned in, you see. And I would never steal feathers or clip the wings off a bird. We let our greatest potential go, and in that, grow. Love is not the answer. The answer is a frozen rose. Hope is not my delight. No, it is sacrifice. And as the crane flies free, I am left flying kites, looking up at the clouds, and dreaming of redemption found at bitter beak and angel lips, and a thousand other impossible things. Allister Nelson is a poet and author whose work has appeared in Apex Magazine, The Showbear Family Circus, Eternal Haunted Summer, SENTIDOS: Revistas Amazonicas, Black Sheep: Unique Tales of Terror and Wonder, FunDead Publications Gothic Anthology, and many other venues. Her most recent publication, "The Tobias Problem," was just nominated for a Pushcart Prize at Freedom Fiction. Where the ghost went, I followed,
through rooms and corridors of my own house, but all unfamiliar as my footfalls trailed a spoor of silence. Out into the full-moon night, we travelled, across the mists of lawn, feeling less human with every step, no mind, no body, no anything. To the graveyard. Where else? A stone sleeping in the soil. A name carved with no other purpose than to enlighten me. A greeting from my own passing hushed amid tall grasses. No great welcome in those eyeless sockets. A life unwilling but a death in charge. John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, “Leaves On Pages” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Ellipsis, Blueline and International Poetry Review. |
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