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Fool's GoldBy James Penha QuailBellMagazine.com What luster I have amassed
mining silently, my soul and the poetry breezing through us. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Sonnet for Saint Hildegard
In the beginning there was a harmonica. It had seven keys, seven
vertebrae from which the universe unfurled itself with a whistle, its glistening brass base lazily stretching to the tips of its sun-star fingers: a high note. It found its way to a night club and got drunk on the hands of a thousand tipsy people: an infinity of fingers clamoring to turn the hum of restless matter into something cardiac and purposeful. It belted songs like the howl of a maternity ward: a godly composition. Like a grasshopper’s June antennae sending out its magnificent and quiet hum: the shadows of fingertips on a mouthpiece. Like the anxiousness, coating the back of your throat when you see her again after too many years: the sweet metallic of a maestro’s spit shine. When you hurt it is the universe playing you. When you pray you are playing the universe, a fine tuning. A sound, quiet and awe in your bones, an instrument only you have the hands for. #Unreal #Poetry #Universe #Consciousness #Music #Composition #Life Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Handstands in the Rain
By Steven Joseph McCrystal
QuailBellMagazine.com Enough is enough of this cold, cold, stuff. Drenched again and drenched enough. Do handstands in the rain; get wet, smile upside down smiles for a lifetime, and a day. Play amongst the puddles Play amongst the ripples Let water soak your socks; your feet, and silly shoes today. Then stamp your feet. Then stamp your feet; over and over again; when dancing in the rain like a triumphant child, absent in a squelchy world created for an unknown destination in a destiny of days. Pave your way today: plip – plop – splash – twirl - drop Like a rain drop on a buoyant day.
#Unreal #Poetry #Rain #Play #Spontaneity #Diction #Imagery
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O Fortuna
By Andrew Rooney
QuailBellMagazine.com O Fortuna O Fortuna, / velut Luna / statu variabilis, / semper crescis / aut descrescis; / vita detestabilis / nunc obdurate / et tunc curat / ludo mentis aciem, / egestatem, / potestatem / dissolvit ut glaciem. Carmina Burana, Carl Orff The first morning, after he’d arrived at the college, it was cool and dry and Warren could hear the maids busily setting thermoses of boiled water outside doors, their light knock and call - dasao wei sheng, and the rhythmic click and swish of their mops in the hallway. The night before, once he’d had a chance to unpack, he’d met the academic coordinator, Dr. Olds, and they’d agreed to meet at nine in the lobby of the Foreigners’ Guest House. At eight-thirty, before he came down, he called his father in Mobile to let him know he’d arrived safely. Most of the other teachers had left earlier on an excursion to the Great Wall at Huang Hua Gang, north of the city. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Amazon Bow
By Julian Drury
QuailBellMagazine.com
I found the marvelous creation, while shopping in the flea-market. It was said to be an antique, many hundreds, if not thousands of years old. The Bow is carved in fine cherry-wood of some kind, with a myriad of strange carvings and designs imprinted on its hide. The antique sat on a table with a number of worthless objects and thrift-stand junk. The Bow, however, was not junk, not at all. In fact, I could feel just how special it was, as if I lived every moment of my life in order to one day shop through this market and find this magnificent Bow.
The man who owned the stand in which the Bow was sold offered me more stories on the craft work than I desired to hear. He was a short, incredibly old man (perhaps in his waning days). I assumed him to be blind. I asked the man how much the Bow cost, and he replied by telling me a fantastic tale. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Gravestone
All hail great madness in depth,
To see a fleeting face upon guild and age? Time is so short for genius As Ravens circle unknown graves. Is your sorrow a measure, only for the happiness of future born? Am I as sad as you? Drunken, perhaps on my own self-doubt? For my barber, get this image cleaned. I am troubled by the face I see before me. What is horror? An enemy? Is it an ally, a guide to what lies ahead? Am I to make friends with horror? Does it share your face, as with mine? All touched is bent, for animals and men. Black cats, apes, mutants and crumbling houses. Walled in by brick and mortar, tactic revenge. Hatred is love, though only to the unsympathetic. I will sail into your maelstrom, Navigate the beauty and terror you hold in written vain. No Kingdom or jester is too petty. No plague or beating-heart is too easy to read. You are a treasure seeker. I am always forced to read you in different ways. All is interesting in you. All things mundane are terrors. Is your genius bound only to your tragedy? Does euphoric death bind to your nature? The gravestone is a mere ruse, an object. It is an object, as I am, as you once were. What matter of insanity is credited as genius? How much genius is credited as insanity? Am I dreaming? Is this all a snare within a trap? Dreams may come, with shadows as bright as a black sun. Do I ask too much of you? Shall I weep upon the gravestone? The gravestone, perhaps, is my own.
#Unreal #Gravestone #EuphoricDeath #MundaneTerrors #BlackSun
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The Interview With Sarah Cummings
By Kiki Stamatiou
QuailBellMagazine.com
The walk down to The Southfield Kitchen was exhilarating for Thomas James, even with the mild rain showers coming down upon his head. The clouds were a faint grey. So far no storm, but one was coming.
He pulled up the hood of his coat to cover his head as he looked straight ahead into the direction of his future. Thomas James pondered for so many years what would become of his life once he made it out of jail. He learned not to fear the unknown. For all that was known to him was a past full of darkness, but today, not even the faintness of the grey clouds could stand in his way of progressing forward with his life. Anticipation filled his heart with rhythmic patterns of hope that cut through the fog built up within his soul. The cloudiness of his future is opening up, as a result of light cutting through, making its way through the darkness. Turning to the left on his walk, he thought about what he wanted to do with his life, and most importantly, he thought about what he wanted from life. During his years in jail, he read up on various forms of literature. In addition to reading the Bible from the jail library, he developed a passion for poetry. In particular, he loved Pope, Dunn, Shakespeare and the writing style of Emily Dickenson. He often wished he lived during her time, because she had much in common with him. Well, their passion for knowledge. Throughout the years, Thomas James developed a passion for knowledge, reading philosophy, all the great authors of fiction such as F. Scott Fitzgerald, E. E. Cummings, Oscar Wilde, Ernest Hemingway, and Truman Capote. He considered them all to be geniuses in their own right. Truman Capote was his most favorite writer of all time, because he could relate to his life of depression, suffering, and inner turmoil. Truman Capote committed suicide, because he couldn’t endure the emotional turmoil going on inside of him. Thomas James often considered suicide himself throughout the years that lead up to his arrest and being placed under a psychiatrist’s care. He was diagnosed as being Bipolar, because he displayed all of the symptoms, especially the fact that he self medicated for a number of years prior to his arrest at the age of eighteen. Coming to the end of the second block, he stopped at the curb, and waited for the light to change to green. Upon proceeding across the street, he picked up his pace, because the rain began coming down a little stronger. Just a little ways further, and he made it to his destination. Entering the restaurant, he removed the hood from his head, shook out his air, wiped his feet on the mat, and approached the cashier at the counter to ask for Sarah Cummings, the owner of the establishment. “I was told to report to her for a job. May I speak to her please, Miss?” “Sure. I’ll go get her. If you’d like to have a seat her at the counter, I’ll see to it that the waitress gets you something to drink.” “That’s quite alright. Thank you, but I’m fine. Please don’t trouble yourself,” he said as he sat on the stool at the counter to wait to talk to the woman. The cashier then disappeared into the kitchen. Upon returning to the dining area, the cashier went back to her post. Sarah Cummings entered and approached him with her hand outstretched for a handshake, “Mr. James, I’m Sarah Cummings. Thank you for coming in to see me.” Greeting her with a handshake, Thomas James replied, “Thank you ma’am. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” “Likewise. I understand you’re in need of a job.” she said while laying a packet onto the counter. “Yes, ma’am. Officer Jarvis Maxwell highly recommended you to me.” he said while unzipping his coat. “Okay. I have a packet for you to fill out. There’s an application, along with forms for W2’s, 401K, etc… This is standard procedure for all who apply here for a job at this establishment. He tells me you have cooking experience.” “Yes, I was a short order cook at a…where I did time. I’m sorry, this is embarrassing. I’m ashamed of myself for having been in jail. But I want so badly to change my life, so I can make a descent future for myself. I don’t mean to put you in an awkward position,” he said in almost a whisper. “Listen, I hire lots of folks who have had a bad past. This place is about giving second chances. Officer Jarvis Maxwell only recommends folks to me who have made serious changes in their lives during the years behind bars. He wouldn’t have recommended you to me if he thought you were dangerous. Nobody’s perfect. Just fill out the papers during our interview here. When your done, I’ll take them from you, and look them over. And, if you’re able to, I’d like to have you start work today.” she said with a cheerful tone. Thomas James had a gleam in his eye and a sense of pride in himself for the first time in his life. He thanked the woman, and got started on the paperwork.
#Unreal #ThomasJames #Series #SecondChances #GettingTheJob #TheNewCook
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The Boatmanwhen half-dazed the boatman would batter the water with one oar the dark foliage of his hair slick as a movable roof would strand down like rivulets of darkling and all the powers of the world speaking could not drown out the lapping of those waves at her feet & when midnight washed the shit and ashes from the bank of the river she still stood, looking at the noctilucent city like a child hypnotized by a tree covered with lights only then awoke . . .
#Unreal #Poetry #Imagery #Water #City #Daze #Wonder
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Cliff of the Sea
Words by Julian Drury
Image by Deniz Ataman Sunsets are precious when drunk. That’s when the beasts come out, With tentacle faces and business suits. There is a bookshelf near the cliff of the sea. Optimism will get you killed kid, Like the ending of your favorite story. The ocean has lost its salt. You can’t judge reality without fantasy, Nor Bible and Necronomicon. Talk what you like. The deeper you read into books The less you accept as real.
#Unreal #Poetry #Books #Imagery #Reality #Fiction #Strange
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Finding Fate
By Steven Joseph McCrystal
QuailBellMagazine.com Don’t look too far and point yourself there. A thoughtful dance with life is a crazy kinda love to be sure. A terminus with death in this inevitable stare. Our lives played out for inspection. I see my life unfold before me; in delirium’s muse: A giddy everlasting phase to be true; but still . . . An expedition into consciousness. A distance between three points. Explored through perception: through the thoughts; the point of origin, the here and now, and future tales as yet to be spoken. I define myself as busted, broken, but this is only partially true. I have a drive. An inner will to become something I never thought: a dreamer; a true believer, a calling. One born out of delirium’s muse.
#Unreal #Poetry #Fate #Unknown #Life #Muse
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