Kneel Downe's Blog: For Who Howls the Wolf?, page 2

Anthology - We Should Have Met

In March we asked for entries to a charity anthology where the theme was STOLEN. Kneel Downe's Stolen Indie Anthology is now out but we wanted to share some of the entries here on the website too. Here's We Should Have Met by Denise Sutton...
We should have met, yet somehow we did not,
We were on the same road, you and I,
Difference departure points, same destination,
We should have met, yet somehow we did not.

I should have known, but somehow I did not,
When I spied you from a distance,
That you were too far ahead of me,
I should have known, but somehow I did not.

I should have acted, yet I did not,
When others walked at your side,
I merely watched in silence,
I should have acted, yet I did not.

We never met, you never saw me,
I watched but stayed behind,
Life stolen by slowness,
I stole it from myself.

Find Denise Sutton on Twitter @cupoftea69

Anthology - Undefined Space

In March we asked for entries to a charity anthology where the theme was STOLEN. Kneel Downe's Stolen Indie Anthology is published on 20th May but we wanted to share some of the entries here on the website too, whether or not they made it into the new book. Here's Undefined Space by AJ Huffman...
“Much moves in and out
of open windows”
- Denise Levertov


Even steel bars
bedded deep in the sill
melt
to a soft silver background.
Unable to block
the passes
of a renegade wind.
Dropping
bits of the stolen song
of a morning dove
through the flowers
dancing
across pictures
of grandma’s lace curtains.

A.J. Huffman has published twelve full-length poetry collections, thirteen solo poetry chapbooks and one joint poetry chapbook through various small presses. Her most recent releases, Degeneration (Pink Girl Ink), A Bizarre Burning of Bees (Transcendent Zero Press), and Familiar Illusions (Flutter Press) are now available from their respective publishers. She is a five-time Pushcart Prize nominee, a two-time Best of Net nominee, and has published over 2500 poems in various national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, The Bookends Review, Bone Orchard, Corvus Review, EgoPHobia, and Kritya. She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press. www.kindofahurricanepress.com.

Cover Image created by Trev Bartlett

Buy the anthology on Lulu and Amazon

The Writer and the Wolf

ALERT... ALERT... The VirulentBlurb appears to be leaking... Inspired by our Stolen Indie Anthology, read The Writer and the Wolf, by Marie Redding and Reece Morris-Jones...
Kneel awoke with a jolt, the rank musk choking him as he looked around his unfamiliar surroundings. There was something about them... He rubbed his eyes and he was back in his bed. Chuckling, he threw back the covers and started to pull on his trademark jacket over his bed clothes. Another idea for the future perhaps? Some new way to tackle the Blurb world? It would give him a break from Lobo at least.

Pushing his arms into the sleeves, he felt a sudden chill, a wetness on his skin and the sour, coppery tang of blood filling his nostrils. Aghast, he stared down at his hands which were now covered in blood.

It was all over the bed. Soaked into the linen. A messy trail followed him. It wasn't the good kind of liquid either. Well, not unless you were into that sick shit. He felt cloth sticking to skin.

He needed help. Fast.

A wave of dizziness rolled over him and his vision blurred. Dark and impossible shapes loomed out of the shadows. Staggering back against the wall, heart pounding, he tried to remember... something.... anything.... that would explain what was going on...

Bile rising in his mouth, struggling to hold back the urge to vomit. He failed. And so did his body, cursing him to darkness.

When he woke up it was back with the smell. The cloying animal stench.

"You don't smell so good yourself, asshole" came a voice. Kneel looked up. Holy shit!

Tawny eyes glowed lambently from a face that could only loosely be described as human. The creature that towered a good foot over him looked like it could snap him in half without even working up an appetite. The array of yellow teeth, despite cracking a grin, looked menacing even with the cigarette hanging loosely between them.

There he was in the flesh. Right in front of his eyes. Kneel realised he must have snapped or something. Gone on that killing spree he was telling his friends about the other day after he lost his socks. Because there was no way Kurt Fucking Lobo was standing in front of him.

Lobo spoke to someone else in the darkness, just out of Kneel's sight.

"He doesn't know does he?" a deep chuckle like the rattle of a dying carburettor came from his chest.

"We can hear every fuckin' word he thinks and he doesn't realise it"

Kneel closed his eyes tightly and rubbed them. But it was no hallucination and if this was some kind of wet dream, then he must have been drinking some weird shit last night

Slowly the spots cleared from his vision and he realised he wasn't inside. A chill breeze sent shivers down his back and the way the blood was making his clothes stiff made his flesh creep.

"Listen up Oh Mighty One" the Wolf carried on, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Now, some kid comes to me yesterday and says we're all made up by some Brit writer. That we're all puppets dancing on his strings. I tell him to get lost. Cause I've seen some crazy shit in my time, but none as wacked as what's coming out his mouth"

Lobo paused.

"But he keeps hassling me. Tells me he has you locked up. That he can hear your thoughts. That they ain't too good when it comes to us. Drags me down to a warehouse full of so many holes it could double as swiss cheese. And..."

At this, Lobo trailed off, his hands reaching out to touch Kneels face.

"...and shit. Kid might have somethin'. Even if you're just some freaked out psyk, you really believe you made us all up."

His touch was all calluses and soft fur, velvet and steel, the raw animal odour twisting into Kneel's gut with visceral, undeniable reality. Hell, was it really so impossible? These characters had become so real to him after all this time that there were days when the Blurb seemed more actual than anything he had going on in HIS world.

Kneel opened his mouth to speak but all that came out was a rusty croak that died before it ever lived.

Cos, actually speaking out loud to a figment of your imagination was so fucked up you'd never find your way back to sanity, again.

Before Kneel could think to even try again, Lobo called out.

"Hey kid, does this guy move or does he spend all day dribbling and composing poetry? I know I don't want to pick him up with all that blood on him. Not till we know whose it is anyway"

Shaken, Kneel staggered to his feet. It hadn't even occurred to him to wonder just whose blood he was soaked in. They sure as shit weren't too healthy if the amount of it was anything to go by.

Rubbing his fingers absentmindedly across his jacket, he wondered if he'd ever be able to get the blood out the leather.

Pulling himself to his feet, Kneel mumbled.

"Yeah, I can talk. Do you mind telling me where I'm going? And where the fuck I am?"

To this, the Wolf just grinned.

"Your wildest dreams sunshine. I think the pyramid will find you very interesting"

Kneel paused, steadying his nerves and his legs, thinking longingly of his warm, welcoming bed before following the wolf into the darkness.

Back in his bedroom, the metallic pungency of blood still thick in the air, a piece of parchment fluttered down and landed on the blood soaked covers, thick black script covering it in indeterminate lines.

He felt a blow to his gut and looked up to see Lobo's fist buried in it.

"Hey, no passing out on me now. Not when I thought I had your freaky shit all figured out"

He gestured to the Kid.

"You're too clean cut for The City Kid. I figure the pyramid knows exactly who this guy is and I figure you know how to get us an audience too."

The Kid stepped out of the shadows. His vision still blurred from the pain, Kneel could see what the old wolf meant. Standing there was a young deer splice, his horns not yet grown, the glasses, crisp shirt and bow tie oddly jarring in a setting covered in more soot than a chimney sweeps Christmas.

The fawn's voice was shaky, demure.

"I-I-I don't want to go back there Mr Lobo. It's why I came to you for help."

At this the Wolf sighed.

"Well tough kid. I don't care. Whatever we have on our hands, the pyramid is the only place for him. There ain't no cell that will take him. Everyone will think The Capes are back and then we're screwed."

Kneel wondered why he had no choice in the matter.

"Coz I'm the one that's keeping that head of yours connected to your neck. That's why. Now hurry up." growled Lobo.

"And for Christ's sake, don't think too much!"

As they made their way towards The City, Kneel became aware of shapes moving in the darkness that surrounded them. Each sound made his heart pound harder until he was so keyed up he could feel the vein throbbing in his forehead. A fresh trickle of sweat ran down his back. The City now loomed large like a malevolent and malign beast waiting to devour him.

Lobo snarled.

"What did I tell you about thinking? Every splice within 20 feet can already hear you. We're just lucky most of them already hear voices. Do you want the whole city to know you're here?"

Flicking his fingernail against a wall, Lobo lit a cigarette.

"There ain't nowhere to run if you get the wrong kind of attention."

They crested a hill and the pyramid came into view. Towering over everything, a disease on the sky, it drew the eye.

Kneel couldn't stop staring. Lobo and the Kid carried on oblivious as if nothing was wrong.

Slack jawed, he couldn't keep himself from exclaiming.

"My god...I've written about this. But nothing prepares you! How do you stand it?"

"Wanna tell him kid?" spoke Lobo?

The fawn splice paused, brows creasing.

"I...I've spent so much time inside it...it just seems normal now"

Lobo laughed, a bitter cough escaping from his lips.

"I forget you were as new to the city as he is kid. Me? I keep my head down. I figure I've pissed off so many people inside it I don't want any more attention"

"Yet here I am walking right up to the front door and saying hello. Christ."

Standing at the pyramid's entrance, the shape of it naturally drew Kneel's eye upward to the moon almost artistically hanging at its peak. The cold light concealed rather than revealed; the faint outline of each surface enhancing a darkness so complete that gazing on it was almost like being struck blind. His mouth dry, he watched as the kid touched a hidden panel on the wall and smoothly, the door opened.

They walked through the corridors, all narrow passages and blind corners until they came to a large room. Symmetrical potted plants were placed down either side. Marble floors. Red carpet led down the middle to a desk at the end of the room where a woman sat. The group walked up, the Kid leading. Seemingly more relaxed now, he spoke to her.

"Hi, I'm here to see my P-P-Project Leader"

The woman looked at them all in bemusement. Though it was subtle, you could see she was originally a cat splice. One who groomed herself well. Real well. Kneel felt parts of himself grow harder than Plymouth Rock. Thoughts followed.

The cat splice's head tilted slightly and she pressed a button on her desk, speaking into her headphone in husky, velvety tones.

"Hello, this is Reception. Sebious has returned. He's brought some unusual... guests."

There was a pause in which Kneel's eyes travelled appreciatively over her curvaceous figure, noticing the way her lips parted with just the tip of her tongue showing... and then a harsh masculine voice replied "Send them in."

With a click, another door opened and the woman turned back to her desk, as the fawn led them all through a dark corridor which opened out into a large round room that was so brightly lit it brought tears to the eyes. Sparsely furnished, it was dominated by an ominous looking steel table along which were displayed a range of instruments. An aquiline, predatory looking man in a lab coat and glasses smiled thinly and gestured for them to be seated on the bench along the wall.

"So, we meet at last" he addressed Kneel. Puzzled, Kneel became aware of a buzzing, then a sharp pain in his head which exploded and then contracted to a pinpoint of agony.

Lobo and the Kid looked down at him sadly. The Wolf looked away, ashamed.

"Sorry...fuck I'm sorry. But it's for your own good."

Kneel woke up, his head pounding, every nerve on fire. He was in a cell. No chance of getting out of it either. Some sort of field covered the entrance. His clothes were gone, replaced with grey, heavyset ones.

The door unlocked and in stepped Lobo with the Kid. Both looked ashamed. Too fucking right thought Kneel. You fucks set me up!

"At least we aren't hearing anything now" spoke the Wolf.

"But I'm sorry. The Kid told me some high level psyk had turned up covered in blood, escaped from The Pyramid. Ranting about me. About things I've never told anyone. That not even other people like you could root out, no matter how much they made my teeth hurt."

Lobo lingered by the door, pacing.

"I knew I was the only one who could help. Stop you hurting anyone else."

Turning away, he opened the door and stepped through it, pausing. Ignoring Kneel, he spoke

"See you around Kid. Let me know whose blood it is. I'll find a way of telling the families"

The door shut, leaving the Kid and Kneel alone. The kid looked awkwardly at him, then away.

"I'm sorry we've done this Mr Downe. Bu-but we can't have our creator running around. We don't know what you could do."

He walked slowly towards Kneel, and before he could react, plunged a needle into his arm, the darkness closing in once again.

Kneel awoke slowly, surfacing as if from a deep and troubled sleep, his eyes gummed together and the smell of antiseptic filling his nostrils. Disoriented, he rubbed at his eyes, his arms feeling heavy and odd - alarmed as a female voice exclaimed "Careful, Mr Downe, you've lost a lot of blood!". Looking up, he saw the concerned eyes of a nurse and was amazed to find himself in a hospital bed.

She continued: "It's very strange, you've lost over half your blood but we can't understand where from. Don't worry, a bit of rest and good food and you'll be back on your feet in no time at all. Now, get some sleep"

Feeling an increasing sense of detachment, he waited until he heard her footsteps receding down the corridor and then, finding his clothes in the nearby cabinet, dressed as quickly as his worn body would allow. He wrapped the blanket around his shoulders over his jacket.

He had to get home!

With a sense of foreboding, Kneel paused at his bedroom door.

Pushing it open, he peered inside before entering, expecting to find a mess of blood - but finding nothing at all. All appeared undisturbed but there was still the nagging feeling of something indefinable missing. He was at his bed in two steps, the covers turned back and a folded note lying on the pillow. Picking it up, as he unfolded it, his eyes were drawn to a framed poster hanging crookedly on the wall. A frown crossed his face as he contemplated the odd subject matter. He must have had quite a knock on the head! Why on earth would he have a framed picture of such a lupine, sinister looking man, his eyes glowing yellow in the cold moonlight? And in a touch of idiosyncrasy, the artist had dressed him in the most battered looking leather jacket he'd ever seen.... the colour reminding him of dried blood. It was the ironic, wolfish smile that bothered him most.

Turning back to the note, Kneel's frown deepened. It read:

For the cold moon, for the warm breeze that ruffles fur,
For the joy and the pain, the love and suffering
For the strength and courage
Remember us always on the edge of memory
Without you we live and love
Not Stolen but freed.

Feeling a tangible and yet bewildering sense of loss, Kneel let the note flutter from his hand, to the floor, grasping emptily at the dream which had escaped him.

With huge thanks to Reece Morris-Jones and Marie Redding. You can find more of their work on their blog at https://dontpaintlikethis.wordpress.com/

Anthology - Loving Life

In March we asked for entries to a charity anthology where the theme was STOLEN. Kneel Downe's Stolen Indie Anthology will be published on 20th May but we wanted to share some of the entries here on the website too, whether or not they made it into the new book. Here's Loving Life by CZ Heyward...
I'd never seen the world the way he had
Never seen it at all
Yet he taught me what others were afraid to say

He told me one day
Stand straight
Tall
Mighty

Placed something on my arm
Asked me what I felt?
Tiny tentacles tenaciously traced and tickled my skin
It was a caterpillar

He told me
He is you
And you are a mountain, and there are many mountains.
Do you understand?
Yes, I said

Lean back your head
Open your mouth
Cup your hands in front of you
He slowly poured water into my mouth and told me

Don't swallow
Within my hands something was dropped
Frantic fluttering flesh floundered within

He said
It's a goldfish, what will you do?
Remember you are the mountain
Gently I bathed the minnow
My breath became his

The mountains feed the oceans
And the oceans feed us
Understand?
Yes, I said

Next he placed a rock in my hand
This I knew, but he asked

What is it?
I didn't understand

Is it
Gold
Silver
A diamond
His voice now cutting and impatient

I almost started to laugh
When I felt him grip my throat
Hardened heavy hands in harsh reproach

I was gasping
Heart pounding
Crying

Give me the rock was all he demanded

I dropped it

How could you ...
Why'd you do that?
I screamed

I'm the mountain!

I am the mountain!

You said I was the mountain,
tears washed words sputtering from my lips

I
Am
Man

Do you understand?


Bio: C. Z. Heyward is an emerging poet and playwright whose work has appeared in a number of journals including Serendipity Magazine, Poetry Quarterly, and The Sacred Cow. When he's not writing he enjoys live jazz in dark bars, and riding his vintage motorcycles.
Cover Image created by Trev Bartlett

Buy the anthology on Lulu and Amazon

Anthology - Karma Gang

In March we asked for entries to a charity anthology where the theme was STOLEN. Kneel Downe's Stolen Indie Anthology is published TODAY and THIS is the first story you'll read in the new book. Here's Karma Gang by Adam Wimbush...

The gang were lubricated with Karma, on a mega mission, searching for a Pleasing Engine. This mega Karma gang. They planned to lambaste the ether with their Karma programmed fangs.
Snarling maws biting into technology traps.

    Bang!
  A mega bit creaked and leaked Loop Sap
(part delirium, part socket, part plug).
The gang mobilized, navigating webs.
Digitized droplets vibrate at the connections and
 form a succession of domain-rain.
Falling.
Pooling.
Forming portals.
A wet map to fathom.
Through their digital masks they viewed
 the sexy canyons and praised them apart.
Witnessing circuit surf upending and
 converting a load of electro-perversions which were
 being used as some sort taming device.

Among the crew, Maul, who’s Trauma Farm
 provided the gluttonous gang with snacks
 from his binary tin was heard describing it as
 a sensational sound wave.
As he applied the lube, working it in, linear dinner for the skin.
Pandora clickers babble, singing about debris on the twitter sea, ascending and descending in a plethora of sonic stories, beset upon shocks. Their vision cache was overdrawn they needed to make a payment.

  Sat in the cinema of consciousness, Karma would fidget if the receipt didn’t ping.

    Bang!
Man-crows flickered forward, qwerty’d as they did,
the binary bubble of breathe began rebounding in a nitrous oxide sky. The bass pushers were aching.
Using Info they tooled the door of the mill.
As satellites hanging in space tabbed the atmosphere,
‘liked’ the ambience and purged the files
that made the gangs boogie purge.
Sadness panged.
A mouse in a trap.
Kaput.

   They leapt over the ninja cement
avoiding kung fu beat quicksand,
they came in handy those inhuman days of
wearing pairs of Data Union shoes.
Poking around they disappeared; going into pixel sanctums,
fake avatar mansions.
Browsing the menu they found the file.

{Boggle}

The Karma abductor, an online conductor,
a night navigator, steals a pop up in the loom.
It’s an atlas of daemons incarcerated.
A Sci-Fi limbo no 'gaming wife' would name
or admit to streaming in sad nudity.

Aiming at delayed wishing victims, the virus hid.
Hidden inside a Crumblestep tune.
The task of robbing began so they began smearing porn lubes.

Sitting in your bamboo pram swallowing schizophrenia cookies.
No matter how much they blew bubbles with mega baggy gum, they always popped upon the mega axe of need.

Falling into the numb hole of the God program that needs to reboot.



Find Adam Wimbush on Twitter @Wrong_Triangle

Cover Image created by Trevor Bartlett

 BUY THE PAPERBACK ON LULU -
http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/kneel-downes-stolen-indie/18860191

AND GET THE KINDLE ON AMAZON -

Kneel Downe's Stolen Indie Anthology

Today sees the release of an anthology of work by new and established independent writers, with all profits going to charity...
Back in March of this year, we asked for entries to be submitted through his VirulentBlurb website for a charity anthology with a theme of STOLEN. The only stipulation was that the entries had to fit the theme and be under 1000 words long. The stories and poems came flooding in from all over the world and two months, and many hours of reading, arguing and selecting later, the resulting collection of 15 short stories and poetry is published tomorrow.

Even though all the authors, some of whom have never been published before and others who are well established as independent writers, kept to the STOLEN theme, it was interpreted in many different styles and the collection spans the genres, from sci-fi to romance to psychological horror. Never one to shy away from difficult and hardcore topics, we have chosen work that deals with both physical and emotional loss, from the poignancy of lost love, through the emptiness of stolen dreams to the brutality of abuse. This may be a small book but it will leave the reader with a lot to think about.

As well as giving a platform for independent writers, Kneel also wanted a distinctive cover for the book and asked for artwork to be submitted as part of the anthology call. The winning design (above) is by Trevor Bartlett and captures both the edginess of the theme and the essence of what it means to be an independent creator.

When asked where the idea of doing a charity anthology came from, Kneel said “It can be hard when you're first thinking about putting your work out there. Editing, formatting and pushing your work is a scary and thankless task. I, however, have been blessed to have a backroom staff of close and encouraging friends who have always been there for me, doing those dirty jobs that my simple writer's mind still can't grasp... not so for many others and so this is why we started this project. I believe in helping. Supporting and championing my fellow Indies. I believe in giving back. The fact that any profits from this book will go towards supporting a charity close to my heart makes it all the sweeter.”

Kneel Downe’s Stolen Indie anthology goes on sale on Friday, 20th May, which also happens to be Kneel’s birthday. All profits from the sale of this anthology will go to the charity http://www.childrenwithcancer.org.uk/

To get a taste of the wonderful writing that was received, you can read some of the anthology entries, both those that made it into the book and those that did not, for FREE on the website at http://www.virulentblurb.com/

BUY THE PAPERBACK ON LULU -
http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/kneel-downes-stolen-indie/18860191

AND GET THE KINDLE ON AMAZON -

Anthology - Pandora

In March we asked for entries to a charity anthology where the theme was STOLEN. Kneel Downe's Stolen Indie Anthology is published on 20th May but we wanted to share some of the entries here on the website too, whether or not they made it into the new book. Here's Pandora by AJ Huffman...
She was to be his punishment. A fire
given for a fire stolen from a mountain
too sacred to truly breed fear.

But once inside, Heaven's beauty
found Hell in a jar the size of her fist,
and with a smile that would melt the world
she turned to face the wind, letting
the glass turn to fit her fingers,
this plague designed to maintain found reason
to release - with a kiss - every other plague

designed to destroy man.


A.J. Huffman has published twelve full-length poetry collections, thirteen solo poetry chapbooks and one joint poetry chapbook through various small presses. Her most recent releases, Degeneration (Pink Girl Ink), A Bizarre Burning of Bees (Transcendent Zero Press), and Familiar Illusions (Flutter Press) are now available from their respective publishers. She is a five-time Pushcart Prize nominee, a two-time Best of Net nominee, and has published over 2500 poems in various national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, The Bookends Review, Bone Orchard, Corvus Review, EgoPHobia, and Kritya. She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press. www.kindofahurricanepress.com.

Cover Image created by Trev Bartlett

Anthology - Curious

In March we asked for entries to a charity anthology where the theme was STOLEN. Kneel Downe's Stolen Indie Anthology will be published on 20th May but we wanted to share some of the entries here on the website too, whether or not they made it into the new book. Here's Curious by CZ Heyward...
The conversation ended as it always began, with one word. Why? I always began it with how I finished it. My resignation. Her questions were endless about rainbows and stars, and how come she could swim like a fish but couldn't fly like a bird. Sometimes I'd cheat and say ask your mother. She tells me she did, and her mother said to ask me.

You want me to ask God again daddy. She sucks on her lower lip, doe eyed and waiting. No I tell her, just wait till I'm there. We'll ask him together. Go to sleep, daddy has to go to work in the morning.

hide and seek
counting to ...
forgiven


C. Z. Heyward is an emerging poet and playwright whose work has appeared in a number of journals including Serendipity Magazine, Poetry Quarterly, and The Sacred Cow. When he's not writing he enjoys live jazz in dark bars, and riding his vintage motorcycles.

Cover Image created by Trev Bartlett

Anthology - Stolen

In March we asked for entries to a charity anthology where the theme was STOLEN. Kneel Downe's Stolen Indie Anthology will be published on 20th May but we wanted to share some of the entries here on the website too, whether or not they made it into the new book. Here's Stolen by Denise Sutton...
I'm not sure if it was ever mine, that thing that was stolen,
It's been passed from hand to hand, stuffed carelessly into old carrier bags,
Sometimes I gave it away, didn't want it anymore,
But then I missed it so, ultimately rejected and stained,
I welcomed it home again.

So was it ever mine, the thing stolen once again?
Who would want to own such a useless thing, tarnished with age,
Wasn't raised to hold anything sacred so,
It was already damaged goods before it left my hands,
Returned with disgust.

The stolen thing was mine, the larceny was grand,
With it vanished power and respect too,
Things I never even knew I owned,
Hiding within my useless, haggard soul.


Find Denise Sutton on Twitter @cupoftea69

Anthology - Stolen Beauty

In March we asked for entries to a charity anthology where the theme was STOLEN. Kneel Downe's Stolen Indie Anthology is published on 20th May but we wanted to share some of the entries here on the website too, whether or not they made it into the new book. Here's Stolen Beauty by Ruth Sabath Rosenthal...
look at me
facing away
from the mirror
dressing then
steeling myself
for my reflection
readying the face
facing each of my days

that mask in place
venturing out
walking the city
block by block
hoping to find
some vestige of
my old self

my red lips waxed
into a faux smile
eyes invariably hitting upon
man after man eyeing
one pretty young thing
or another
once the likes of me

and catching a glimpse of me
what they’d see is pretty
much how i remember
my mother
towards the end of her life
her beauty stolen
self image shattered
and there’s no escaping that



RUTH SABATH ROSENTHAL is a New York poet, well published in the U.S., and internationally. Her poem “on yet another birthday” was nominated for a Pushcart prize. Ruth has authored five books of poetry: “Facing Home” (a chapbook) - “Facing Home and beyond” - “little, but by no means small” - “Food: Nature vs Nurture” and “Gone, but Not Easily Forgotten” - all available from Amazon.

Please feel free to visit Ruth’s websites: www.newyorkcitypoet.com
and www.poetrybyruthsabathrosenthal.com

Cover Image created by Trev Bartlett