Dear Reader

Hard feelings make no difference. Subversion has no clue. I’m up on deck. What are tyrannies compared to acrobatics of the sea? Even a little cloud cover, can’t bring me down to grayness. Dolphins are rollicking all around, delight in my company, show off their leaps, their spins, their freedom. I’m told I need purpose. That I’d better make plans. To what? Blend in with surface light? Howl along with the pod?   Save me the lecture on how ends meet. Or what it’s like to be lost in the crowds. Or how the middle road is my best alternative. And if I don’t watch out, I’ll be taken down, I’m on the waters. A dolphin smiles up at me. I indulge in reciprocation. Two species bound.   --- John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Soundings East, Dalhousie Review and Connecticut River Review with work upcoming in West Trade Review, Willard and Maple and the MacGuffin.

She says I will be able to see Perseids tonight in her armpits,  just as I am worrying  that I cannot read binary. I assure myself I can Google it later hoping that the instructions will be simple. I plan to have a notebook  and pen ready. I know that joke about there being 10 kinds of people in the world: those who understand binary and those who don’t. I tell her it would be great to see the meteors up close,  nuzzled right in. They don’t make your neck ache this way, she says, and you will be able to hear  the crackles of ancient fires it is all deep in there . I wonder if we will ever be  sociable again after this. How many people in the world  are hankering to see night skies in the armpits of lovers? --- Sue Finch  lives with her wife in North Wales. Her first published poem appeared in  A New Manchester Alphabet  in 2015 whilst studying for her MA with Manchester Metropolitan University. Her work has also appeared in  The Interpreter’s House,   Ink, Sweat and Tears, Poetry Bus

Serve soul cakes. Sprinkle dried green lettuce on salty crackers, plate up purple and orange macaroons, yellow too if it pleases you. Spear black olives onto cocktail sticks, put out far too many bottles of red wine. Spend an hour of your morning cracking  almonds into small bowls sweeping up the dust and debris with your hands. Let each fruit be a memory  (trust me they are not really nuts) but watch out for the bitter ones. Everything must fit mouths that are not hinged to be wide; that potential to be slipped in nonchalantly between tales that bring out hard laughter. Except apples; they will let you watch for who bites right in, who takes a knife to them, who puts two in their bag for later. If a soul cake remains on that table  at the end,  take it to the coast, await the interest of gulls then toss it decidedly upwards. Let the cries fill the air. --- Sue Finch  lives with her wife in North Wales. Her first published poem appeared in   A New Manchester Alphabet   in 2015 whilst s

In the dorm at night she lives in the washstand beneath the porcelain bowl, the water jug, the mug with her toothpaste and pink toothbrush.   The cupboard is a cottage somewhere in the country, with a garden of hollyhocks, rambling roses, an apple tree, beside a field where friendly cows look over the fence.   In class if she’s told off for something she didn’t do, or a squabble breaks out - she just smiles and thinks of bluebell woods and a comfy sofa. She smiles, and keeps on smiling as she practises tiny handwriting. --- Jennie Farley  is a published poet, teacher and workshop leader living in Cheltenham. Her work has featured in many poetry magazines and been performed at Festivals. Her first  collection is  My Grandmother Skating (Indigo Dreams Publishing 2016)  followed by  Hex (IDP 2018).  She founded and runs  NewBohemians@CharltonKings,  a popular arts club providing poetry, performance and music throughout the year. You can find out more information about Jennie's work

Every morning on my daily walk I passed a solitary right-hand glove stuck on a gate.   Each time the glove looked more sad, more forlorn, as if hoping for someone   to claim it. We formed a rapport, the glove and me;   chatted about the weather,   about this and that, while the horse in the field behind looked on. The other day walking past   an abandoned bus shelter I saw a silky blue left-hand glove wafting in the breeze.   I took it with me to the gate, placed it beside the lonely glove, and wished them both happy ever after . --- Jennie Farley is a published poet, teacher and workshop leader living in Cheltenham. Her work has featured in many poetry magazines and been performed at Festivals. Her first  collection is My Grandmother Skating (Indigo Dreams Publishing 2016) followed by  Hex (IDP 2018). She founded and runs NewBohemians@CharltonKings, a popular arts club providing poetry, performance and music throughout the year. You can find out more information about Jennie'