Electric Current "C"

Photo by Trevor Cunnington

Dusk's Numb Perimeter

A dove feather's will.

She sits in her own world, alone on the brink,

held aloft by a dove feather, will.

Satin wraps a form that bellies inner strength.

For being alone demands unimaginable skill.

Her passion's unadmired, leaving dust in the air,

If only for a moment, there was someone else there.

Her beauty deserves more than darkness' kiss;

An unfettered heart laid bare.

Born in Fountain Inn, SC on Sept. 29, 1965, Frank
Blakely started artistic endeavors at the age of 4
when his mom made him draw a rose. He has been a
photographer, painter, author and poet; baker,
police officer,waiter and marketing director.
He lives now in Dallas, Tx, looking for the
love of his life.

New Canadian Poetry: Night and Day

Night and Day
by I.B. Iskov

A whole city of night

sprouts arms in all directions.

In the private landscape

stark and windswept,

hidden, light surfaces.

With the certainty of gravity

slices of sound

signal in the blue velvet,

anchor my senses.

I float in the gray cradle

with a feeling of lightness

as if my shadow could breathe,

I am free.

My feet follow long shades of caution

this craving for connection,

this desire for shine

rises with the sun,

transports my dream into the concrete.

In this noisy neighbourhood

I want to believe something,

trace the curve of clouds,

scratch beneath their surface,

fly beyond my vision,

be a star in daylight.

I.B. (Bunny) Iskov is the Founder of The Ontario Poetry Society. She is also the Literary Judge for Early Harvest, sponsored by Vaughan Public Libraries. Her work has been featured in many fine literary journals and anthologies, including Quills Canadian Poetry Magazine, Surface & Symbol, Henry's Creature - Poems and Stories of the Automobile (Black Moss Press) and in North America Maple. She has several published poetry collections. Bunny is currently working on her second full collection of poems. She is married and lives in Thornhill, Ontario in a lovely two story house on a dead end street.

A New Chapter for The Invisible Truth

I've been in a little rut for writing lately. I know that a good cure for Writer's Block is to read. Then it struck me. If I opened this blog up as a platform for other writers to get some exposure, I would be reading good stuff, and getting unpublished good stuff out there for people like you to read. It's a win-win situation. I don't have to come up with as much content, I give other writer's exposure, and you get the variety of a literary journal rather than Trevor, Trevor, Trevor. Know that if you return, you will meet some new writers' quality material. It will spice things up around here.

P.S. Happy Pride Week everyone!

The Geography of Colour

The Capital of NOW is Aquamarine.

Information Leak

Just an idea for your neighbourhood park.

These city streets hover in a brown
grunge, hanging over the horizon, baby long the curse
gardens hung out in gorgeous azeleas
elora grand currents, bedside perched on a bluff

deserted pedestrian walkways
where there should, according to all common sense,
be a plethora of movement
waves of brown as the earth turns, whip-like
crowds throng, and they play the theremin
of each others' gesticulations.

The absent ones dance on the weekends
in an alcohol insect cloud,
buzzing in ear, the dowels of perturbation
no word-style is taboo,
present still in the bamboo harvest.
Artisanal trampolines.

Just an idea for your neighbourhood park.

Homage to Eugene Atget

Strange Customs

Parlour games recuperated the runoff, avoiding radiation from the metal detectors and Geiger hooligans tonight. To night, the ambassadors dedicated madrigals featuring bassoon solos to level-headed stock traders who have decided to let money into the country unhampered. Strange customs for the ne’er do well’s contumely exit.