poetry

Uneasy Evening by Simon Collinson

On nights like this, when your head’s hounded by bells and hissing howls, watch out, watch out, be on your guard. Tonight it’s out and about, they say something malicious and vicious slithers your way. Is there something wrong with the lights? You’d better make sure all the doors are locked and secure, for there’s something lurking nearby, as close as scissor legs, closer than you dare to think, near enough to nick the hairs quivering upon your neck.

What was that? Have you counted all the knives? Make sure you count them again.

There’s a shadow curling up from the floor, waiting for you to take forty winks as you listen to that muffled scream, it’ll be with you soon. So it’s nighty night, please don’t let the ravenous rats bite, many unpleasant dreams will herald the hour of your doom.

Simon Collinson

Decadence by Simon Collinson

(Ed Note-For the next four days we will be pleased to debut Simon Collinson. We would have sooner but the first five poems he submitted to us were swooped by other publishers before we got a look at them. Poetry can be a cut throat business on occasion!-But we are glad to have four to present. And although they are short, we feel that even the tiniest work–even that shorter than the preceding Ed. Note- deserves its own day, provided such has been earned,. We feel such is the case, and more than once,with Simon–Leila)

Near the year’s ending

like walking past

moss ridden, rotten walls,

that’s withered,

weathered and worn,

so weary, tired,

tottering and teetering,

just waiting to fall.

Simon Collinson

Life in Academia Today by the Drifter

There was a bigshot “Educator” fellow

standing in front of me

once upon a time.

Large white bow tie strapped proudly

on with blue spot in middle.

Proud bald head a-gleaming above

the pouring pot belly, and the proud,

well-trimmed, not-so-delicately perfumed

beard, and he was going on, and on, then on,

and more on, about the super, utter importance

of “Comparative Learning Data,” whatever

the fuck that is.

And turning students into ants in the

colony, into complete and total

automatons, if possible.

And he was professing, and professing

again, his personal, private love

of the data that did this.

(He must’ve uttered it a trillion times

followed by the slickest, lip-licking

lizard grin.)

Here in the crowded conference room

(attendance required)

on another brutal Tuesday afternoon.

My brain wasn’t there, except when

he rudely yanked on it

sending it straight back down

into this deadly quagmire

of mental slavery

and spiritual dearth

not unlike

one of Dante’s worst purgatorial nightmares.

I wanted Mary Magdalene and Bob Marley,

but hell, I did my best

to block it all out and simply observe

the dying orange leaves of trees

blowing gracefully outside

open windows

in the west

of the city

with the glorious blue

of Chicago sky behind.

I thought I saw, I was, for a single second,

almost sure I espied

a squirrel

give him the finger

before disappearing into the nest

with complete disdain.

Then I was thinking

of Shelley,

the Poet, not Mary, the Novelist,

I don’t know how or why.

Shelley, on a lecture platform

(he must’ve been on one before at some point

and he was now)

trying to read his latest radical papers

to a nasty audience

who were all

bouncing

rotten fruit

in their hands

so accurate,

terrible

and true.

They were confounded by

his strongest passages,

they were bored, torn,

they wanted to take it out

on him, some started

leaving while the others began

a booing and hissing routine.

But his intense green eyes, they stared

straight down

at his papers

and his messy, unshaved, handsome face,

and his hanging brown hair

were

burning

like Joan of Arc,

contorted, embarrassed,

shocked, humiliated

by the noise

of the terrible crowd.

By the silent noise of these

“happy,” satisfied, orderly, materialistic,

secular,

ladder-climbing,

cowardly,

passive

peoples

who were now stirred up

into a murderous rage

at his merely conceiving

to be different

for even

a second at all.

The Drifter (Images provided by The Drifter)

Hidden Valley Road by Heather Sager

I once rode a horse

in the woods

off Hidden Valley Road.

I was maybe sixteen.

There was a gray stable

in the woods,

the trees wore green and yellow leaves,

birdsong echoed in clammy air.

My horse stood tall and brown.

I settled my hands around her neck

and she led me

with quiet confidence.

There was a sway

as she took me

along earthen trails.

It felt like we could go anywhere

in this lonely world.

Why do I hold onto this

memory

of Hidden Valley road?

I’m still trying,

it’s teaching me something.

Heather Sager

Dream Series by Heather Sager

I’m in a dark labyrinth,

following the echoing footsteps

of a beloved,

long vanished by time.

I’m in a warm enclosure,

being watched by a jaguar

that’s pacing with eyes agleam,

and I notice the smell of straw.

Leaning in the shadows

under the stairs,

I hear the notes

of unspooling melody

from a Spanish guitar.

On a day blue and sparkling,

I’m standing on a beach,

gazing at a shell

over the white sands.

Heather Sager

Arrangement in Grey and Black Nº 1 by Tony Dawson

(For fans of great art and Tony Dawson, we have something for you!-The Eds,)

This canvas of an old lady in profile

was painted in London in about 1871

and became one of the most famous

American portraits of modern times.

The artist, described as larger than life,

pursued the poetry of sight while his

contemporaries, Manet and Monet,

devoted their energies to capturing light.

The portrait of Anna only came into being

because the young girl who had been posing

for a lucrative society portrait ran away.

The austere nature of the canvas, depicting

an old woman in Puritan bonnet and dress,

the minimalist background of a Chelsea

studio with no colours other than black,

white, and grey did not impress the critics.

Probably because Victorian taste preferred

riots of colour, one went so far as to say

it wasn’t a picture. I doubt Whistler’s Mother,

as the panting is generally known, would have

agreed as she rested her feet on her stool.

Tony Dawson, 19 May 2026

(Header images is of the poet)

Where I’d Rather Be by Shontay Luna

I already live where I want to. I’m already at

where I want to be in terms to placement and

residing. A ten, fifteen minute walk down the

street I once lived. Several blocks west. A few

blocks feeling like an entire planet away; and

that’s a good thing. I’ve returned; after a twelve

month jaunt in Hyde Park. God returned me to

the neighborhood where I’ve been for the last

thirty years; but on the other side. In a space

nicer than I could ever dream of. After several

nights of opening my eyes in the darkness and

forgetting where I was, a formation of months

tinged in hurt and transformation, I can finally

say I’m at the place I’d most rather be. For that,

I’m both happy and grateful.

Shontay Luna