Cold Rambler

After work, Buchman drops in  at his local watering hole, a studied dive called  The Triple Zero, to drown the day in boilermakers. Tyson, the bartender,  polishing a beer mug with  a stringy red towel,  inches down to Buchman’s lonely seat at the end  of the battered oak counter. “I can see,” Tyson says,  “you had another shitty day  in retail sales. Big surprise.” “Yeah,” says Buchman,  between sips of Old Style. Tyson sets the empty mug down  on the bar and drapes the towel over his shoulder. “You done any thinking about that million-dollar idea  I offered you halfsies on?” Buchman downs a shot of Bushmill’s. “Which one was that, again?”  Tyson grimaces and sighs. “Damn, Buchman, you got to start thinking big to move up the ladder. Time’s running out for guys like us.  Do you think I want to be here,   pouring drinks, until I die?  The idea is called. . .Honuts.” “Honuts,” echoes Buchman. “Come on, I told...

Sixty Million Tonnes  and what do we get? Almost a song lyric  written for those who don’t get older,  the uncounted ones lost in the rubble of Gaza. Sixty Million Tonnes of homes, roads,  and infrastructure converted into rubble that will take uncountable years for us to clear and still longer to rebuild towns and villages,  to replant crops and trees. And who are the ‘us’ - the ones who will pay. The same ‘us’ as did it before and will do it again unless perpetrators are held accountable. And while this goes on, year upon year ‘they’ will feed those surviving living still in that wasteland of rubble. The same ‘they’ as did it before,  are trying to do it now and will do it again unless perpetrators are held accountable. And how will we, us, they and them  deal with the hate engendered. It will have to be dealt with, then what will we do as we count the cost once again.   Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social...

My flesh pays the wages of these bugs. I think my thoughts are where the work gets done but it's on the factory floor of torso, arms, legs, face, where invisible creatures go about their rubbing, flaking, gnawing, devouring, industry. Can't blitz them, can't wash them away, can't get rid of them, no way. Some fool even has the nerve to say they're good for me. People like that get under my skin. I hope they enjoy the bug company. John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Midnight Mind, Novus and Flights. Latest books, “Bittersweet”, “Subject Matters” and “Between Two Fires” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Levitate, White Wall Review and Willow Review.

That was the year  when politicians played  on the stage of the New Theatre of the Absurd where empathy  was dead as Roszencrantz and Gildestern and the victims  of Schrodinger’s genocide both lived and died where Palestine was once and now it had no territory though it was a state, where Israel had a territory for Jews of families not born there in this millennium or the last when their lies became truth and truth became lies that no one truly believed and pretence was real and death was life and things could only get better and things only got worse before the curtain came down to end it all. Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality.  She has been nominated for Pushcarts, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award.   https:// lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com  and  http...

He’s just turned 40, more life behind him, he figures than ahead. And it’s not as if he’s achieved anything in his days on Earth. What he was at 30 is no different  from the one who  stares in the mirror on this miserable day. Except, of course, for the fleck of gray hair. And the beginnings of a line under both eyes. No promotions at work, no relationships worth a fresh dollop of after-shave, even his golf game has given up on him. All turning 40 does is to clear the way for eventually turning 50. And then 60. And then 70. The phone rings. It’s a good friend wishing him well. “40 huh,” says the guy. Then another. No more 30’s, kiddo.” And another and another.   It seems like  everyone he knows is a numbers guy.   John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Shift, Trampoline and Flights. Latest books, “Bittersweet”, “Subject Matters” and “Between Two Fires” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Levitate, White Wall Review and Wil...

For weeks now Nicholas Velvetstone  Had made it known to  Anyone who would listen He’d was going to  prove the rumors  Of the long abandoned  Carverex mansion Being haunted Were absolutely true Monstrous in size The mansion gave new meaning  To the word Gothic He received humiliation  left and right by  His peers of Misercraven Academy No ghost inhabits it They’d taunt him needlessly  Now with the full moon  hanging overhead he’d prove  Each and everyone of those  doubters wrong  Aboard his black pickup truck  He crept slowly along the  lonely long stretch of road  Leading up to the mansion Making an arrival in front of it The mansion’s appearance  Sinister and uninviting He climbed out Dominated by excitement Over the possibility Of laying his eyes on An actual apparition For the first time ever Glancing upward  To an upper window For a brief moment He swore he caught  Sight of a girl Who mat...