GUEST POST // I Saw Once by Sheldon Kleeman

I can see you’re
Sad and lonely
That your eyes
are sayin the words
Can you just hold
my hand a little
longer for us both
need another road
It’s never easy
to readjust from
one into another
But with both of
us walking……..
The road gets easier
I know how tired,
sad, just a little further
& we’ll be………
Just remember to
look into the “I’s”
of life
As I saw ones
who once were sad

 

by SHELDON KLEEMAN
© All rights reserved 2016

GUEST POST // Ears Wide Open (Dublin – A Rite of Passage by Miljenko Williams)

The voice of Mils makes butter melt.
His poems are lush, heart-freakin’-felt.
Yeah, lend an ear and you will agree
He deserves to be our first nominee
For audiohood on site Unbolt.
His talent is a much needed jolt
To lift our game and write effin’ good,
To not fear being misunderstood.

 

Dublin – A Rite of Passage

Before I was soiled: I was
oiled unhappy;
toiling and boiling like
cauldron of darkly wizard-
like pose;
a fingerpinch of spite,
of masculine passivity,
of man who never was become.

Now is another matter:
now he is become:
now he runs like training-
man; now the game no longer judd-
er[r]s, shakes or shudd-
er[r]s out of mind, or sight of flailing
in-
com-
pet-
i-sham.

And of all the sites and scenes delivered,
like rapt-
tured box of heavenly gifting,
the rite of pass-
age which most delivers me
is the right of
so
passing close
you do

give me.
The laughter and tears;
the fears and the hurts;
the love freely expressed:
the goddamn life you contain and inscribe
and so simply
define, with your brain and your being and your

goddamn beautiful face;
your his-
and your her-
and them-
stories bloody out there you unfold and retell and
spin ingeniously around me and my soul and my
being and my hell;
still untold, still unfollowed, still unknown by
most out there.
Dublin: I love you, more
than you
know.
Dublin: I love you, because you and your people
weirdly know how
to make me this [s]well: [s]weller
than [s]weller ever was.

And whilst time is still ours, the future is still
built – upon pasts that are passed;
upon guilts that begin slowly to wash away in
[time-
{s]-
hhh} I say, as
I discover the suddenly that the man
I become is more than the son of his father.

And pictures and faces and sounds and dis-
graces; sexual wroughts that pilfer
my thoughts and make me
happy again; as
happy as free man and
woman can be.

And the days and nights I pass
in remembrance of Dublin
past, and future maybe perfect too,
remind me all the time of you.
And a life recovered
is a life remade;
retaken as warriors burrowing violent
under-
growing and gnawing and
hurting and sad,
and ultimately the [bad-
d-
es–
{t]-
i-
me} of all
is what has recalled me away from
the life I could
live.

And maybe it’ll work, and maybe it won’t,
and maybe it’ll break us;
but if we don’t try and see, and check in and check
out,
we always shall rue the night-
and day-
t-
i-
me-
s
we refused to
pursue the
one life we’d lead
and even enjoy:
good Lordy, oh my …

:-)

… that really such a sin?
To hope for such win?

So I begin where
I start: before and after a-
part of so many experiences,
imagined and real; the soul
and the heart I have refound in
Dublin.
And then what is real if not in the hug
of your embrace?

For a future
begins to replace the before and
after which started so hurt,
and now begins rightly to
away fade to
black …
… not the black of all bad, nor the
black of all pain; just the
black of all colours: the
rainbow of
sane.

 

Text, Audio & Image by MILJENKO WILLIAMS
© All rights reserved 2016

nabokovian naiveté

love is nocturnal, don’t you know
you were born so i need not yet die
and tho’ night hies eternal (don’t let go)
hope krills ablaze across my sky
in a million of your freckly stars

thaw my moth-eaten skin, won’t you
never let me peel away from your flare
arc me into your tender fire patch
(and just so you know, i hurt to breathe)
pin me, girl, make me your butterfly

 

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2016

Cinerarium (Hope in Dust)

one-pulse

here I stand upwind
with a dead bird in my hands
in barren Eden
and look at the sore plucked backs
of my deserting brothers

I yell after them
“omens are a pile of crap!
who can blame people
if hosts of heaven act like
credulous aborigines?”

wind snatches my words
and mixes them up with sand
nobody believes
that cold grey ash in my hands
is an arising phoenix

 

by UNBOLT
© All rights reserved 2016