Notes from Summer

By Alexandria Somirs

Shades of sunsets,
Melt into Summer’s sweats.
Pockets full of Summer’s breeze,
Hesitate to lull sweet Spring to ease.
Lightning smiles at midnight’s cloak.
Shines brighter than the evening star.
Thunder last to laugh at the joke,
Hums his tune 5 seconds too far.

Illustration by Anya Pylypchuk

Cats, They’ll Watch You

By Isaac Sullivan

Cats, They’ll Watch You

and this cat came around pretty often
sometimes I saw it from a distance
and I’m pretty sure likewise for the cat seeing me

13346274_1053130208111957_6097064768526313120_oin the back garden where I was living
I’d be playing guitar in the sun and it’d hang, thought it was cool I guess
or I’d be smoking a smoke at night and all of the sudden –
I’d look over and see it sitting there watching me

like I’d even have headphones on, totally in my own world
kinda moving around listening to Like a Rolling Stone
the live version on Self Portrait
you know – shaking my head side to side
dancing, not caring that much about the cat
and it’d stealth its way out, again I’d notice it, looking at me

in the end I wouldn’t know what the hell it thought about who I was
I couldn’t stop everything I was doing
I just had to carry on
I just had to go my own way when the time’d come

Illustration by Sofia Nikitaki

A dream steps in

By Alexandria Somirs

A dream steps in,
And breathes right out,

Once inside, the haze spills over,

It pulls me in, like a thunder roll.

I run, I charge

I grab what clothes,

To hold me over.

From the fire that hides just under,

From the ice that soars just over,

From the danger that still sleeps in,

From the day that still lies by.

I grow weary from breathing in,

Stepping in, is a face that smiles,

But it’s a mask that day slips on.

And it’s the night that takes it off.

A dream steps in,
And breaths right out.

Painting by Salvador Dalí

How can I pick the days of anger out of a field of happiness?

By Alexandria Somirs

Animosity’s repression dug a hole,

 I’m quite sure,

 And soon there, took residence, a contentable mole.

He lived there quite happily,

The earth above pounded with distracted footsteps,

Too quick, too impatient to let live small similes.

And down below his dependable nose,

He felt the humid silence, from where questions were posed.

“Of all the seeds that were bedded,

Of which were of anger?”

Animosity answered, “the seeds of which were buried the deepest,

The ones least likely to flower,

The ones most likely to sour,

And spoil the earth of their weeded source,

And set the field afire with their selfish course.”

Satisfied, the mole posed another question.

“Of all the seeds that were bedded,

Of which were of happiness?”

Animosity answered, “The seeds that lie on the surface, the ones I’ve not bedded,

The ones least likely to stay content in the earth and lie,

The ones most likely to shoot up to the sky,

The ones that bloom with the sun,

And feel lighter than an elephant ton.

Photo by Alexandria Somirs

Notes from Spring

By Alexandria Somirs

For me I’m very confused of what to be.

I lay in wake of Winter’s passiveness.

She kissed me goodnight, before Autumn took flight.

I fell away while Winter stayed.

But waking now, Winter has cast her ice on me.

I try to warm her up to me, but she revolts with passive aggressiveness.

The more I wake, the less I see of her.

I walk, I run, I scour the lands until Winter slips

Away from me.

Photo by Alexandria Somirs

At Home in Mowbray

By Sebastian Temlett

                                                             She visited my room today

Falling gently on my wallF1060026 (2)

She touches my sheets, my skin

Complete and soft in her embrace

Allowing for the hard shadows

That spring up behind each

Lump and bump

Each imperfection

                                                                  The texture of lives

She has passed through cloudF1040002

Thick and set

And below, each rising

Wisp before the mountain face

Extends a ghostly arm

In plaintive plea

Then snarls into monstrosity

As its vapours find their end

and trail out


And swallows dance their belies full

Above powerlines and hard edged roofs

As people hole up inside

With stucco hearts and

Lonely conversation


And she emerges as she falls

So gently on my pillow now

As it begins to rain outside

Photo by Sebastian Temlett


by Katelynne Davis

Yesterday was his birthday
I think
I remember, suddenly, walking home
And I wonder if I should say anything
This date I pick-pocketed, and saved
I could, offhand, be the Wilde in Whitman’s den
but I let it pass
enjoying that I can
He was drunk last night, or the night before
without me, drinking whiskey
that alone is a crime
but the rest, I can forgive
Today is your birthday
my meilleuse amie
and I
sprint, just to go to the post office
to send your letter on time
and I
marvel at what my body can do
all it has endured,
all it has given up.

NaPoWriMo, or National Poetry Writing Month, or 30/30, is a Poem-A-Day challenge in the U.S. after the Academy of American Poets declared April to be National Poetry Month in 1996 (making this year the 20th anniversary). At the end of the month, challenge-takers have 30 poems, roughly one each day of the month.

The Name of the Drug

By Katelynne Davis

No longer the dealer’s face and tongue, but
his pockets full of hands.
No longer his hands,
the delicate wrists, the fingers I could turn eternally, but
his pockets.
No longer his pockets, turned eternally inside out, but
their contents
No longer content
with their contents, but
their insides
turned eternally
of his hands.

Photo by Katelynne Davis