karma'll hit you 

always pushing through

wounds

creating new scars

from the old

as is your

custom,

and i hope one day that karma

revisits the terror upon you

that you've given

others;

forever it seems i was caught in a tide

of self-loathing and disgust

when it was really you

i should have 

drowned—

as a child of the moon, 

it'd be so easy to lose my temper

blame my actions on my

dark side;

but i know karma could only hit your harder

than i ever could.

- linda m. crate 

fallen from grace 

bruised, broken, and bleeding

you left me crushed

like a rose

trampled to the ground

crucified me with my own love

because the more i loved you the less you

respected me,

and i'll never understand why

i found such bliss in

your empty and insincere words;

they say twenty-twenty is

the measure for hindsight

but i wish it were the means of observation,

too,

you were nothing like you pretended to be

always a beacon of hell but never

heaven

for your feathers turned onyx long ago.

- linda m. crate 

not half the man you think 

you can bury your

crucifix in the sand 

for all the good

it will do you

we both know you're no saint

past nor present

your broken halo is evidence

enough of that as is

the blood on your lips and the broken

threads you carry in your hands

conquests of love

you caused to atrophy because of your

inability to love anyone

let alone yourself,

and ordinarily i would say that you were

beautiful and believe in yourself;

but i would encourage 

a lying narcissist to fall deeper in love

with the fallacy of who they

believe they are

so divorce yourself from the reality of you

that you see because you are not

half the man your imagination

makes.

- linda m. crate 

drowning in your blood 

i danced with your light

thinking it were heaven

when you were every

bit of hell,

and i was oblivious to that wolf smirk

until it was too late and black 

feathers snared around

my neck;

but i knew that not all that whispered black

was wicked for i have and always will 

be raven born—

i was furious that you would wear such a color

with indignity 

because sometimes white is the most dishonest hue

in nature because none of us as pure as

driven snow,

and i'm here to remind you as much as i strive

to be heaven

i can also be your hell tearing through your fangs

with my talons

rescinding your fierce strength to a weak whimper

as you drown in your own blood.

- linda m. crate 

hungry souls 

we all seek validation

in some form

whilst others seek to invalidate

themselves as if excusing themselves

from the very world they live in

dancing on the periphery

of untruth and calling it honesty

you are one of the latter

forming scars

deep in the bosoms of all those who dare

be brave enough to love you because

to you love is a consequence

of war,

and you've only hungered for bodies

sweat and blood and chaos

primordial as the moon blood in my veins; 

you say you know of love but you

only know and give lust

always leaving

hunger behind in the bones of all you

shatter.

- linda m. crate 

trampler of roses 

a man of no ambition

for life nor love

simply a corpse pressed into

a living body

i suppose you'd have a lot of people

who could relate to you,

but i cannot let go of this fire or these

dreams shining so bright

in me they retain the gaze of the sun

and the moon;

you love your destruction and death

but i adore my loving light

transforming even the darkest parts of myself

into something more beautiful as i learn

not only to love others but myself

something you've never done—

concerned with outward appearances and fronts

you've never seen the blackness of your

heart or the coarseness of your

words

always you were a victim,

but never have you ever been at fault;

simply slaughtering flowers with reckless abandon

to satiate your never ending forest of

greed.

- linda m. crate 

Poetry Submission - Natalie Crick

Natalie Crick

Tue 8:32 AMYou

To the Editor,

I enclose some poems for your perusal for possible publication.

Natalie Crick has found delight in writing all of her life and first began writing when she was a very young girl. Her poetry is influenced by melancholic confessional Women's poetry. Her poetry has been published in a range of journals and magazines including Cannons Mouth, Cyphers, Ariadne's Thread, Carillon and National Poetry Anthology 2013.  

My address and contact details are:

Miss Natalie Crick

6 The Stamp Exchange

Westgate Road

Newcastle Upon Tyne

NE1 1SA

nataliestargirl999@gmail.com 

07342856180

Hope you enjoy reading my work.

I look forward to your response.

Best wishes,

Natalie Crick

Dear Sister

It is Winter here.

Snow has fallen.

“I am afraid”, said the moon.

She is beautiful tonight.

Now it is darker than December.

What is dead is a different colour.

My dead sister is neither a man nor a woman.

She is a ghost.

We do not speak of her

Anymore.

I turn away from mirrors

When I see her reflection.

The dead can no longer see

I no longer care.

O Lord of darkness,

I want my innocence.

Night’s End

Snow had fallen, I remember,

At the night’s end.

Do you hear his voice?

I am never alone.

And at the end?

I do not live.

It is forbidden to die.

The winds are changing.

Our dead brother waited

Undiscovered,

But very dark, very hidden,

As the earth became black.

The field was parched and dry,

Filled with death already.

You walk through it.

You see nothing.

Young Love

When you were five
And I was six,
We would hold hands
Just like this.

When you were nine
And I was ten,
We made a pact
To never tell, and then:

You began to tell me every word
That escaped from your lips, with cold secret stares.
A look or a glance through long
Fingertips. Your beautiful face.

I see you sitting by the stair, your body
Tight in hot sun, a sad lamb
On stage. And when I have passed you
Flushed red raw, I want to remember

How young we were.
Splayed out across the pitch
Like baby starfish, pink and pinched
As tongue's blood.

Our father and mother are in silent reverie,
With knotted wrists and electric hair,
Nodding and clapping, as dumb waiters do
To our games. When we are together we are together.

Today we are family as the ill
Walk in lines, with shaken smiles that marry us.
Mother, to me you are a figure of fun.
Father, you are a child when you wake up each morning.

The Garden Outside The House

She was out there again that morning.

Talking, laughing, singing,

The garden filled with sweet birdsong

And the aroma of summer.

The sunset leaked red blood,

Annihilating him.

A love gift or a

Romantic invitation.

She had one eye, he had two.

He was waking from a fitful dream.

It soon became dark,

The sky full of storms.

He saw her solemn death dance,

Wet and electric,

An Autumn widow wearing grey.

It was starting to happen again.

For You

This month her depression began.

He obsessed her.

She tied her heart with ribbon like a present,

Licking his fingers and kissing his feet.

Words failed her.

She breathed him in like a terrible secret,

A childless woman beneath the ivory moon.

But what about his eyes, his eyes, his eyes.

Walking in the Winter trees

Were his shadows in the fog.

He was innocent as a lamb.

Sleep, my Angel,

Deaf and dumb

As the drugged summer sun.

My Love,

I want you.

This Dark Thing

This dark thing that sleeps in me,
It steals from me so I am left with nothing.
I am blameless, Godiva.
The murmurings are alive.
Watching you dully from my bed
I have taken the pill to kill.
I mourn my own death,
Drowning into the night.
My tears could devour
The ocean. I want, I want.
I have lost myself. But that is not enough.

Natalie Crick

A New Etiquette

"One stall for all" is

a new scenario for Wilbur.

Thanks to his wife, he knew

in the past the right thing to do

but now he doesn't know what

"one stall for all” calls for 

after he’s through:

Is it toilet seat up

or toilet seat down?

Donal Mahoney

Ramadan in America

It’s Ramadan

and late one evening 

I walk by a mosque

and hear little girls

laughing on the sidewalk,

walking in circles talking

about what they want to eat.

In America it's nice to hear 

joy among our Muslims,

a counterpoint we need 

in light of all the news.

I wish I had the guts to call 

an old friend from Pakistan

I haven’t seen in 40 years.

He had nine children, a son 

and eight daughters.

His little girls laughed 

outside his house the night

we had come for dinner, 

a chorus like the one 

I heard again tonight

outside that mosque.

I’d like to ask him

what’s happening 

in our world but why

embarrass both of us. 

Why ask a question 

neither one of us 

can answer.

Donal Mahoney

When a Debutante Marries a Troll

The problem is, Priscilla grew up 

in a penthouse having parties while 

Biff came of age under a bridge

fighting other trolls, he remembers.

When Pris calls his office and says 

we're having guests tonight

the chasm in their marriage grows. 

The guests go home sauced and smiling

but the chasm stays behind, snarling.

Biff can't make the leap to kiss Pris

and some day have 10 kids.

The next time she invites guests

he wants to be told at dawn.

Biff plans to skip feeding the pit bulls  

and introduce them to her guests.

Donal Mahoney

Daily Paper on the Lawn

An hour before dawn

the paper is out on the lawn

white in the moonlight 

a trumpet dozing after a 

long night in a jazz bar 

tired from playing   

but willing to play

a last set for me

not knowing I read    

only sports and the obits 

two riffs in the paper

anyone can believe

Donal Mahoney

At 100, Gramps Recalls Life in Mississippi

Being poor on our patch of land

was better than being poor 

all the years I’ve lived in the city.

We had a couple of cows,

a rooster and seven hens.

We had milk and eggs and meat 

in back of the shack we lived in.

In summer we had a garden

and we canned tomatoes and beans.

Pa bought flour by the gunny sack

and it didn’t cost that much.

Mom baked bread and biscuits.

There were 12 of us back then

and we loved biscuits and gravy.

Slavery wasn’t dead too long

so we had odd jobs all year round.

The plantations needed help.

A retired doctor would come out 

to the house for a nice chicken

Pa would clean and cut up.

That was Mississippi in the Twenties.

Probably nicer down there now.

I was a tyke in short pants then.

As long as we avoided the noose,

we had food and beds to sleep in.

Donal Mahoney