this autumn morning

winter’s aperitif

is served on the rocks

shaken and stirring

come downpour now

unleash your jotting scribe and

cast the showery runes of fables untried

forge scripts along our droughty lanes

of songs for all that yet remain

or wash away those pages brown,

whelm witness to our temporal sway

we’ll listen to the eager eart...

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You truly are my automare

My four-wheeled bankruptcy

My fuel-injected money pit

Made from steel and reformed shit

A velour upholstered credit card hit

Five gears of utter hell

We got off to the worst of starts

And it went downhill from there

Grinding brakes and groaning springs

Ropey tyres and front wheel spins

These are a few of my least favourite ...

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The Ghost Of Summer

A leaded cloak that settled on the bay,

forewarned us of the chaos yet to rise

from deep within the boiling soup of grey.

The thunderheads that blocked our sunny day

and scattered tears of winter from their eyes –

made all the basting bathers go away.

The crystal spume of effervescent spray

that settled on us, causing such su...

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Winter’s War 
by, Melissa R. Mendelson

The fog rolls between the war
of winter and sun,
silencing the deafening roar of defeat
as snow becomes rain.
March was always the lion
tearing ground with bitterness,
frost over hope,
but now it’s a leopard
with solar flare spots.
And the fog rolls on
between the divide
of how things were
and how they should be,
but the ti...

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they promised us "no rain" but

here we are

at the aptly named Water Lane

where the trees, be-whiskered of finger,

stroke their leaf free, would be, chins

bemused by roots once dry and thin now

fat and drunk

so let’s begin

we passed a fox

we passed a hound

but then a somewhat grisly mound

mechanically rendered

and from that point south ...

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