Archive for May 2013

Shift Work Nurse, Where Do You Go?

Shift work nurse, where do you go?
Is it to another ward, to another wound,
that is in need of stitches to be sewn?

Potbellied tarmac man, where do you go?
You’ve left the stove frothing at the lid,
can your couple of quid not wait for lunch?

Gym, mother-of-one, where do you go?
Your son is sat still with a coffee,
whilst you’ve gone to buy another toffee, poppy seed, frothy beverage- surely that’s not fair, is it?

Big-Issue-seller-of-the-precinct, where do you go?
Your Yorkshire Terrier, alone in the South,
is terrified from the traffic, moist at the mouth.

Market stall second-hand book woman, where do you go?
Lines of used literature are waiting to be read,
why have you left them to help your hash-head son on his second come-down of the day?

Shift work nurse and potbellied tarmac man,
big issue seller and gym mother-of-one,
market stall second-hand book woman,
where do you all go?

- - -

In The Last Days of The Thunderbird - Evelyn Katz

In the last days of the Thunderbird
I stumble into April
Already thoughts of chalk-stained sidewalks
Dusting the distance between stoop and car door
When phone in hand vibrates
And I taste the delicious sadness of your words
Tapped out on a Smartphone screen.
You make me long for the days of plinking pebbles
And whistling under your bedroom window.
Somehow we never lost our contacts that way.
Maybe there’s a poem in that for you.
And I, the girl in the bedroom window of memory
Turn back to glimpse chalk dust and the rising cables
Of the span that separates us
Hopeful to find you
A fistful of pebbles
And lips perched in melody
But it is the sun
And only the sun
That greets me

And kills me good morning.

- - -

Evelyn Katz has been writing since the 2nd grade in spite of my 2nd grade teacher.  Evelyn has been published in Riverrun and The Voices Project.

The Only One From The SG Area

you were the Christmas everyone regrets
those mornings of madness when you get what you didn't guess
and it remains forever ingrained on your brain,
that Christmas you want to forget.

you gave me a kiss without a contract or hiss
near the bikes locked up by the laundrette hut
and it remains forever ingrained in my brain
that you'll be the only kiss on the only list that ever matters to me.

you're reduced to whispers now; a holy scripture:
that woman in our conversation who we shouldn't mention,
but you'll remain forever ingrained as the main character in my brain:
that  woman of whispers.

So I'll see you around and I'll see you in those pictures

- - -


 I see timber, I see my Dad.
The wrinkled grain grin
sits lost on his face,
he’s selling his timeless record collection:
the finest midlife crisis since records began.

Lined bits of paper with a pen and plan,
bass players and guitarists are all being sold,
including the front man,
microphone, monitor and stand.

Under the slim light, what’s
going to be sold is exposed
ready for a thorough cleaning
of the black gold moulds.

None of us are allowed near, we have been told,
this is a strict operation and it’s under control,
he starts spouting tiny liner note quotes
none of us understand, we need a translator- grab your coats.

We returned to a mess of a man:
he did not go through with his midlife crisis plan.
His extra 3000 children in their sleeves
can sleep safe tonight knowing that everything will be all right.

- - -

TINY LINER NOTE QUOTES is a poem from DEPARTURE DATE, the PDF pamphlet is still available for free download. Click to download.

DEPARTURE DATE - Download now for free!

After a good few months of writing the DEPARTURE DATE pamphlet is here!
- - -
It is free to download and it shall come to you in PDF file all ready to read.

or visit the shop and follow the link there.


'I’m not a creator or a maker, a running back or the linebacker,
I’m the quiet one who doesn’t really matter.'

from guarantee my heart will be safe - Tim Knight

Robert Frost Lied To Us

There is no road,
though Frost told us so
and it is cold tonight and
I have no place to go.

Home is but a ride away,
cigarette’s are in the ashtray, dried,
and I do not smoke them each day
not since my last try.

My bed is clean; white and tidy,
that’s the third time since Friday, I’ve planned
ahead this week but not taken it lightly,
they’ve left me lonesome and unmanned.

- - -
Tomorrow sees the release of Departure Date, my new collection of poems that you can download for free. Details to follow!
Departure Date by Tim Knight

Touch the Heart

Contact: wrist to wrist.

All else is silent background;

emotion flexes free,

dermal barriers destroyed.

The macro-world turns on its axis;

our microcosm keeps calm and carries on

in autistic ecstasy at connecting

skin to soul in post-coital joy.

- - -

Bryan Murphy is the author of Goodbye, PadaniaLinehan’s Trip and countless poems. He recently retired from a job within the United Nations system and now divides his time among EnglandItaly, the wider world and cyberspace. He welcomes visitors at

- - -

Also, DEPARTURE DATE (the free PDF poetry pamphlet by Tim Knight) will be out on SATURDAY, here's the cover,

Departure Date - PDF Poetry Pamphlet

Storytime - Soul

Crystal Methamphetamine.
This is the damage I have done to myself,
Another disease waiting,
Another drug
Urging me to
Dust them off of
A future shelf.

Many think that I have nothing wrong
With me.
Oh, but I do.
None of you truly know me on here.
So I am going to vent,
The five things I've listed,
There is more to it,
That if I may,
Somatization Disorder,
Occipital Neuralgia,
Social Anxiety.
Oh and how could I forget!
Anorexia as well.
I am a victim to rape and molestation.
All these things,
Have shaped who I am.
I have been damned,
Slammed with things
That I cannot understand.
One ounce of happiness,
Will just be a tease.
Because in the end,
Something will always turn out wrong,
And all these things tell me,
That this Earth
Is where
I do not

- - -

Soul is 18 and lives in Arizona.

‘It’s only recent, not all that frequent’

‘I was too young when I fell for God’, she said
‘I heard you’, I said, ‘I said I could hear you’.

The train was busy, far louder than usual,
and we sat together, fingers wound together. Rough cuticles.

What were we doing so young,
getting married before the eyes of our Son?

Twenty-two and not a thought for the future,
though maybe you’ll be slimmer and I’ll be cuter.

‘I know about you two and your motorbike miles’ I said,
her face turned around, tired. It was Dulux paint-chart red.

‘How did you? Did he? I am sorry’ she said,
‘Oh that’s okay, really it’s fine, not to worry'.

Tube train doors opened and I filed out in no line,
she followed behind, slow. Karma had taken her spine.

‘You could wait to hear my explanation’ she said, tired.
Across the tiled platform floor, I carried on uninspired.

‘It was a stupid weekend away, we took the scenic route. Are we okay?’
Full stop pupils and an open mouth comma, what else could she possibly say?

‘It’s only recent, not all that frequent’ she said,
‘Well who knew that Winter was the season of unfair treatment?’ I yelled.

Reached the escalators and walked out single into the fresh air,
turned left onto the street and went looking for the nearest bar.

Untitled Mess. It Is Nearly 6pm

Welcome to the new age you said with a smile.

Lost lovers under street corner covers

will always learn not to kiss in the rain,
as whatever passion passes between their lips
will not discourage the reign of the precipitation’s pain.

You ran back off into the crowded pile.

Forgotten friends left at loose bar ends

will always learn not to drink alone,
as now they are mislaid and missing,
unknown in a city filled with others far from homes.

Through pint glasses and the dancing masses.

Back alley admirers lurk in amidst forlorn fires;

wavering flicks of flame still just about standing,
as they’re waiting to be tamed and taken home
to another bedroom masquerade, with someone they barely know.

I did not see your face again. 

Movie Ticket, Cinema Stub

Movie ticket,
cinema stub,
two halves torn apart
by the fickle fingers of the screen attendant:
he looked up at me with a smile-
one learnt from a handbook compiled by the words of some corporate type,
who dislikes his job, you can tell from his vibe.

“The receipt's in the bag”,
I requested it to be in my hand,
customer service fingers are always painted a day-glow green,
hideous talons of the fake queen,
traced from the princesses of the TV-silver-shitty-fake-TV screen:
she looked up at me with a smile-
one learnt from a magazine of ink,
nothing more than lies disguised within the wholesome typography imprint.

Carrying nothing but a wallet,
“would you like a bag sir?”
I am carrying nothing but a wallet, of course I would like a bag,
what do you take me for:
she looked up at me with a smile-


Her intriguing trapdoor smile concealed
perfectly straight teeth that,
through the gap in her mouth,
spat out the shop floor script,
as if a Shakespearean soliloquy
equipped for the stage,
not this retail trade. 

Rich Girl Poem

Like a magician,
my suspicions were correct:
you’re an Esmeralda and very rich.

How could I tell, well:
            your stitches are sewn by money,
            the hair you possess falls as if honey,
            your tall cappuccino, three-extra-shots, is mixed with cinnamon,
            don’t get me wrong, you look lovely, but please floss,
            homemade bread is not attractive when lodged in pink, smoker’s gums,
            does your Father know you smoke
            or is choking fun?
            Cancer cannot be undone like your lower than normal blouse,
            so button up and stop with the arousing, ‘cos
            everyone here is doing work not listening
            to your fabulous conversation about Billy and Meg,
            cosy in the thought of love, playground love.

Like a magician,
my suspicions were correct:
you’re an Esmeralda and very rich.

Forgotten - Linda M. Crate

you are Jupiter;
revoked from your
state of grandeur —

you are no longer
a planet simply
a lonely, cold rock;

you dance on the
tip of people’s tongues
but their fragmented

memories scarcely
are reminded of 
you, there are more

important things in
the hustle and bustle
world than a man 

who was once a man
but is no longer, he
is merely a statue

in the pirouetting 
straights of life, 
standing stagnant

as the world moves;
the only constant in
the world is change,

and oh how you 
have fallen, your
majesty is cracked

no one remembers
your name not even
the white lanterns

of stars that once
loved you, you are
nothing but void!

- - -

Linda M. Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. Her poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. She loves reading, writing, dancing in the rain, flowering trees, and golden autumn laughter. 

Sitting Quietly

Your tilted head
shifted your waterfall hair
to the left.

In a stream of beguiling blonde
your chest was met with a dry splash of gold,
real gold.

Technology at your fingertips,
HTML scripts morphing
into long sentences, bouncing in grammar and not stopping
until you take another breath, another
sip from your coffee cup of bitter death- one sugar, no less.

Daunt Books bag beside your chair’s side,
the faithful mute mule carrying
your words and notes and probably an umbrella too,
it’s raining outside and I wish for you not to get wet. 

My Husband Knows About Me

A summer’s hand on bewildered torso chest,
her love: the best kept secret since their escape
to Brest that time in Spring,
Northwest France with its untamed waves lapping at the
hull of The Sea King in the harbour, half mast.

But with every try, harder than the last,
he did not respond to her see-through glass
appeals for an apology-
over two-hundred-and-seventy-minutes
wasted on the TGV back to Paris,
a holiday cut short by her wandering knees,
wide apart in another man’s apartment.

For money was passed in sweating palms
for a day’s encounter with her good looks and charms,
though the men never knew
about her man back at home,
designing the new tourist information
for a cheap weekend-stay in the heart of Rome.

What he bought to the marriage:
stability, safety, security and their baby.

What she bought to the marriage
mainly tears and daily anxiety.

But they both knew the complications
and the clauses of her contract,
agencies would delve deep into the contact’s history
to make sure they were legit,
but it never hid the fact that she had
intimate encounters in hotel honeymoon, champagne, new linen suites.  

Hotel Hotel Hotel

Hiding in toilet suites
on hotel floors,
above showers-for-two,
and below countless stairs.

Dodge large lobby hallways
and the corridor artery, early-décor, maze,
run past cleaner’s cupboards:
potions for the unsavoury, unclean,
another lost, single mother.

A room service delivery
to a door you don’t own,
yet it keeps the unknown
fears and doubts

Flick and press that remote
because long nights lead 
to hours of unrest,
you’re tired of this hotel,
you’re tired of their upper-class clientele,
you’re tired of that artificial smell,
you’re tired.

Childhood Cowboy Role Model: A Lie

Industry standard number two
shaving a head of false hope
and a beard of loneliness; all
because his long term girlfriend
left him for another chap who wears
cowboy chaps ironically.

Mounted rider guys steal
women from the herd all
the time, with shotgun stares
and pistol whip words,
leaving the rest of us
to ride off into despair.

We're the type to shelve,
postpone, put off the duel
until the real reason is known.

We're the type who own
the lame, maimed horse
of the wild west task force.

We’re the type who reside in the saloon, drinking and forgetting and, most probably, hoping.


And we rang along those river banks
against the light cast as shadows,

fleeting past mournful dark windows-
timid in the evening's morning.

And you whispered into my eyes
the words you wanted me to see,

and showed them to idle ears
who waited for something else appear.