“the beast”

by Candice Kelsey

The world’s longest wooden roller coaster is undergoing 2,000 feet of track refurbishment. Aptly called The Beast, it’s been the pride of King’s Island for forty years. An eerie image shows the missing track on the curve into its first tunnel. A woman imagines the carpenters involved in the retracking, how they brave the Southwestern Ohio weather to manually reassemble it. How they converge under silent river-birch trees at one of the noisiest intersections on the map of theme parks. Design imperfections on wooden roller coasters make for large tolerance, a term that simply means the ride is rougher and louder than prefabricated steel coasters. She was one of the first to ride The Beast opening day, 1979 — a rare privilege and probably the only professional perk of her father’s thirty-five years at General Electric. She was nine. He was forty-one. Together they flew forward a historic sixty-five miles an hour. The woman has searched the YouTube footage of that day. She sees him in all the broad-shouldered men; herself in all the jittery-jump little girls who hadn’t the faintest idea that life would require a large tolerance, or that wooden tracks could fail. On the other side of life’s second tunnel was the double helix called Alzheimer’s. She learns there are no carpenters for that beast. 

Candice Kelsey teaches writing in the South. Her poetry appears in Poets Reading the News and Poet Lore among other journals, and her first collection, Still I am Pushing, explores mother-daughter relationships as well as toxic body messages. She won the Two Sisters Writing Contest for her micro story, was chosen as a finalist in Cutthroat's Joy Harjo Poetry Prize, and was recently nominated for both a Best of the Net and two Pushcarts. Find her at www.candicemkelseypoet.com

“telephone wires”

by Nina Anin

The maps in the gallery are a mangled mess of roots:

The east dragon and the west dragon can't seem to work out

where their tails should fall

Monkey King is journeying to the north instead of the west

they can still close their eyes and trace with nails the zebra crossings in the ocean

But me, struggling to find my way around old land

incapable of asking for directions in the right language

The translator doesn't work. It says my great grandfather was a pirate,

when he was a swashbuckling doctor who carried lion heads across the continent

just so the new infants can find some piece of their ghosts, one day, maybe

The swaying telephone wires are as lost as I am,

with telegraphs tossed against the windows of the wrong lands

One day, will the ghosts of the shipwrecks at the museum take me

where the telephone wires go?

Meanwhile, I will clutch the ends of the rotary phone, circling and praying,

like they had once done to say, the bombs are falling and we can't go back,

listening to the uncertain lullabies rushing across before it's too late

to write down the nautical sagas of the lion heads and their last storerooms

Nina Anin is a writer from Asia, where she will be graduating from secondary school in 2022. She enjoys writing, reading, and research in her free time.

3 haiku

by William Ann Warren

I draw your outline

in the angled autumn light

still you do not come

dog and doe touch noses

autumn lights the budding truce 

dread of winter joins them

we drag the slain beast

into the ring of firelight

feast on its wild fear

Note: Each haiku is intended to be read individually; this is not a sequence.

William Ann Warren is a recovering Midwestern English/Creative Writing major finding his way back to collecting words as they fall. He writes poetry and fiction from the middle of the Mojave Desert in the environmentally challenged city of Las Vegas.

2 poems

by Sarah Wallis

The Grief Stone 

There’s no reflection in the cool, blue stone, handed 

over, funeral by funeral, just so much seasick motion 

to set sway above each gravity centre. If we could 

only see to tell the story but we polish our faces until 

bee-stung and the salt rendered mirrors are moony 

with dreaming. So like our grandmothers’ fierce pride 

in their steps, scrubbed until gleaming, as they set out 

in grim to shine stone, blue pendant swinging. The gem

knows now, as we do, all the men of our family 

are dead, and there will be no more. Barren fields start 

decay early and there’s no reflected light at all, 

dull little pool of stopped animation, nothing rife, 

no movement, no teeming water, no lilt alike the constant 

ocean, our line is ending, and I am the last to wear lapis 

lazuli, the blue hanging heart on the komboloi beads.

Towards the Drowned World

We confront the outsize ocean, 

she who has never been other than herself.

We say it is like this – 

a blue chandelier of leaping dolphins, 

the waterfall of crystals shivering in delight. 

Or we say it is like that – 

one green day, in the hay meadow, bumbles tumbling, 

seedheads, poppies flying; we sneezed and sneezed. 

But then she is herself again, at one with all 

her many saltmoods, in blue and green and grey, 

in topaz, azure and in turquoise turtle bays.

A storm moves in, and she is a wild sapphire 

unleashing her ire on the dark, moon 

dipped horizon and we flee our confrontation, 

we say, the ocean, 

sometimes she is like this, and then, then she is like that.

Sarah Wallis is a poet and playwright based in Scotland, since moving from Yorkshire two years ago, where she was involved with Leeds Fringe & Pub Theatre. A National tour (UK) of her play Laridae was cancelled due to Covid but the team hope to return to production soon. She has two chapbooks out in the world at the moment, Medusa Retold, from @fly_press and Quietus Makes an Eerie from Dancing Girl Press, with How to Love the Hat Thrower due May 2022 from @SelcouthStation. She tweets @wordweave and you can find out more at sarahwallis.net

“The Storyteller”

by Hunter Liguore

Like a craftsman,

turning the screw, 

I work,

disciplined, 

as if creating a magic rug.

It takes surrender 

a type of leveling

through rumination

to turn the screw

into a bale of hay

and then into a horse.

Fed and nourished, 

my work becomes riveting, rebellious, 

and resisting the conformity

of the roads most traveled.

Meandering to the left and to the right

taking in the ocean beyond

at all times.

The season is always springtime

with colors of every hue

giving light to the darkened wood.

And like a piercing beam

my seemingly imperfect 

reflections

become

an eloquence of perfection.

A savvy new color

a new colored horse (on a magic rug!)

destroyer of what was 

once known or ever seen.

The truth of which

is mine to tell.

Hunter Liguore is a writer, professor, and historian, often found roaming old ruins, hillsides, and cemeteries. Her work can be found in Bellevue Literary Review, Irish Pages, Porridge Magazine, and more. Whole World Inside Nan's Soup is available from Yeehoo Press. hunterliguore.org or @skytale_writer.

“What Shuts Them Up”

by Beth Phung

When I was thirteen

and I had gotten just

dark enough that summer

to warrant my grandmother 

to force me to stand in the shade,

a boy at school screamed at me,

“Go back to where you came from.”

So now, every now and then,

I drive through Escondido

and wave at Palomar Hospital’s

fourth floor: where I was born.

I’m just connecting to my roots, you know?

Throughout my life, I’ve endured

idiotic bombshells that napalmed

the dense jungle in my brain,

hucked out of the fighter plane mouths

of ignorant people I’ve encountered

in the form of stupid questions.

“So, where are you from?”

“No, where are you from from?”

The answer is always the same:

From the ashes my father carried

with him from eight years old,

the ones that clung to his

clothes and hair as his home village 

of bạc liệu, Vietnam burned to the ground

at the end of the war.

That usually shuts them up.

“How do you say hello?”

“Can you teach me to say something?”

Man, I can’t even say something!

My father was too afraid 

of his own language being a carrier

of his trauma 

that he never bothered to teach it to me.

“How do you say I love you?”

In my family, we don’t say it.

We show it,

so I can’t help you there.

What I can do is hand you

a bowl of homemade rice porridge

when you’re sick, 

because that’s what my father taught me

to mean, “I love you.”

Beth Phung (She/They) is a high school English teacher, currently teaching 10th and 11th grade at Ramona High School. They are first generation Vietnamese-American, nonbinary, and an alumni of CSU San Marcos with a Bachelor's in Literature and Writing Studies. For more writing from Beth Phung, follow their writing Instagram @mywordsonscreen.

“Days That Never Came” and “You Are Vast”

by Dadyar Vakili

Days That Never Came

Time went wrong:

The past caught up with the present

and altered the future,

forcing you to

Give me up,

And I became the

Boy who stopped waiting.

Time went wrong.

And this how it ended:  you, me and

days that never came.

You are vast

as rainfall

and all sorrows are merely
a drop

winters come and plenty do they

Stay

Flowers die with the frost

I want to plant an

Eternal spring in my garden

You;

to grow

to bloom

to sweeten the air with your scent

to enchant 

You:

Rumi’s mysticism

Shakespeare’s sonnets

Vermeer’s strokes

Chopin’s Sonatas

orchestrating my beats into a symphony

skipping and sweeping to the melody

of your laughter

listen 

to how it sings of me being only

two branches

reaching

to embrace you

a Forest

two branches withering with shyness

growing roots so to bloom

and reach

a glance, a moment, a quantum of a thought

You

are purest gold

your eyes alchemy 

Your fantasy sweeter than honey,

as home as a hug.

Dadyar Vakili graduated from CSUSM and is an actor and filmmaker. His poetry collection Days That Never Came was published in 2020. He is the founder of 519 Film Studios and is currently involved with several film projects.

“Home”

by Lara Amin

Time is coming. 

Shipped home, your will 

To play the 

Several realities 

Nonstop 

Surprised us. 

The canyon ominous night 

Fog in the sky got 

Honest 

With god. 

Inside moles, 

Deep, 

Saw the neverending packs of 

Quiet suburban dream. 

I was surprised with love; 

You showed up. 

Thankful, I don’t know. 

Any details. 

But trust me, time 

will 

come. 

Lara Amin is a poet, an artist, and a connoisseur of Spongebob references. Lara is currently pursuing a Master’s degree in English with an emphasis in Children's Literature. A few of her favorite works are Alice in Wonderland, The Picture of Dorian Gray, and The Taming of the Shrew. During her free time, Lara enjoys tarot, astrology, photography, and fine dining. 

“Pomegranate Flesh” and “Life is Flamenco”

by Strider Marcus Jones

Pomegranate Flesh 

ask those

who grow old-

some fruits are nicer

when they're riper.

you don’t stop

the clock

on the one who chose

you to hold-

her pomegranate

is still your sonnet

of sepia feelings and flesh,

sensuously sweet and fresh.

although the mirror never lies,

it shows the beauty that lives

as it dies

and gives

its own reflection

of your perfection

to me

then and now,

each memory

taken

by the lenses

somehow,

preserved

by your words

and curves

in my senses.

our dance,

that thrilled

in its intricate

tango on the floor,

is still filled

with time intimate

romance

and more-

talking Rubicon of reason,

in layer, upon layer of season

so sedimentary

since you entered me-

and i consumed

your silky mesh

of pink perfumed

pomegranate flesh.

Life is Flamenco 

why can't i walk as far

and smoke more tobacco,

or play my Spanish guitar

like Paco,

putting rhythms and feelings

without old ceilings

you've never heard

before in a word.

life is flamenco,

to come and go

high and low

fast and slow-

she loves him,

he loves her

and their shades within

caress and spur

in a ride and dance

of tempestuous romance.

outback, in Andalucien ease,

i embrace you, like melted breeze

amongst ripe olive trees-

dark and different,

all manly scent

and mind unkempt.

like i do,

Picasso knew

everything about you

when he drew

your elongated arms and legs

around me, in this perpetual bed

of emotion

and motion

for these soft geometric angles

in my finger strokes

and exhaled smokes 

of rhythmic bangles

to circle colour your Celtic skin

with primitive phthalo blue

pigment in wiccan tattoo

before entering

vibrating wings

through thrumming strings

of wild lucid moments

in eternal components.

i can walk as far

and smoke more tobacco,

and play my spanish guitar

like Paco.

Strider Marcus Jones  is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry  https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms. His poetry has been published in over 200 publications including: Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Melbourne Culture Corner and Literary Yard Journal.

“Late” and “King of Quiet”

by Ethan Sparks

Late

Where once 

opened and welcome

smoke tilted towards

her neck, 

now adrift,

her neck

pale and raw

hints at clean 

and settled patchouli.

His lying

is getting to me.

King of Quiet

Down the street

Where king and quiet meet

Belt loose and

Warm echo on stale 

Milk carton flies

August inner ear

And buzzing

A perfect heat and 

Handprint recedes

From spilled red

Beneath table

And warm bed

I’ll stroke your missing hair

The flap of scalp 

The love leaking from you.

Ethan Sparks is a graduate of UCSD's MFA program in Creative Writing. He also holds a Masters in Teaching from USC. His work has been featured in the Allegheny Review and the Birds in Shorts City series. He has taught writing at UCSD and currently teaches High School English in Phoenix, Arizona, where he also runs the LGBTQ and Newspaper clubs.

“it needs more light”

by Linda M. Crate

i used to laugh loud and talk loud

until i was mocked for it,

now i have sewn myself into softness

and silence and people tell me that

i am too quiet;

no matter what you do or who you are

there's someone that's going to be unhappy

so you may as well be yourself—

because there's no freedom in restraining

who you are for the happiness of others,

and if they truly loved you they would care

more about your happiness than their 

personal preferences;

one day i hope that i can get my voice back

even if i never can i know that i can write

these words with the hopes that i can help 

people who suffered like me in a world that

will be cruel to you and then ask why you don't

love yourself? in a world that will be cruel to 

you and then ask why you're not smiling?

in a world where they want you to be just

another prototype, dare to be yourself;

the world doesn't need more shadows—it needs more light.

Linda M. Crate's poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. She has ten published chapbooks: A Mermaid Crashing Into Dawn (Fowlpox Press - June 2013), Less Than A Man (The Camel Saloon - January 2014), If Tomorrow Never Comes (Scars Publications, August 2016), My Wings Were Made to Fly (Flutter Press, September 2017),  splintered with terror (Scars Publications, January 2018), More Than Bone Music (Clare Songbirds Publishing House, March 2019), the samurai (Yellow Arrowing Publishing, October 2020), Follow the Black Raven (Alien Buddha Publishing, July 2021), Unleashing the Archers (Guerilla Genesis Press, August 2021), and Hecate's Child (Alien Buddha Publishing, November 2021) and three micro-chapbooks Heaven Instead (Origami Poems Project, May 2018), moon mother (Origami Poems Project, March 2020), and & so I believe (Origami Poems Project, April 2021). She is also the author of the novel Phoenix Tears (Czykmate Books, June 2018).

“Sonora Bound” and “Ghosts”

By Liz Pino Sparks

Sonora Bound

We fled in a heatwave 
eucalyptus ablaze
in the rear view.
Saints and angels just
memories like in our
olfactories. They say 
we are immune 
to our own bacteria 
and I think maybe 
the charm of faith has
worn off. There is
sickness here and
we try in desperation 
to stave it off, grow
new life in healthy 
air, where desert 
promises buds in
the harshest conditions, 
and we take that to 
mean hope instead of
death and, stilly, we 
wait 
for sunrise.  

Ghosts

When I think of 
Kyle Rittenhouse, I think of 
Sarah Winchester. I think of every boy
called into battle and how all battles
are of the mind. I think of how we tell
these boys that murder 
is noble
within the bounds of
unexamined motives, without
a history that makes sense
of their anger, within 
a nation 
indivisible 
from self-justified 
violence, that seizes land
and lives,
that believes property 
to be both in need of protection 
and also
in existence at all. I think of every ancestor
who will rise up, demand proximity 
for time eternal 
to the conductors 
of their demise. I think of how fleeting 
a life is 
compared with the years of a 
deeply-earned haunting. I think of
how it is not so much a question 
of whether the dead can talk
but that they must. 
They must.

Liz Pino Sparks is a legal scholar, teaching in the areas of Bioethics and Health Law, with particular foci on reproductive justice and human rights, as well as a singer-songwriter under the name Liz Capra. They are currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing (Fiction) at SDSU. Liz is a Mami to 5.

an introduction

welcome to boats against the current poetry magazine! we’re so glad you’re here. we’re an online poetry magazine dedicated to bringing poets from all backgrounds and all stages of their writing careers together. for now, we are only publishing poems online. we hope to begin working on our first print edition once we have a consistent amount of submissions. check out our blog for more information about who we are and what we’re doing!