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  November 2018
volume 15 number 1
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  Sir Mark Bruback
  Don Kingfisher Campbell
  John LaMar Elison
  Darrell Herbert
  Emma Lee
  Rick Lupert
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  Walter Ruhlmann
  Miriam Sagan
  David Scriven
  Viola Weinberg
  Terry Wolverton
 
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Walter Ruhlmann November 2018
   

 

bio


art by tatiana tulskaya

    Walter Ruhlmann works as an English teacher, edits Urtica and Beakful. His latest collections are Crossing Puddles (Robocup Press, 2015) and Civilisé (Urtica, 2017)
His blog:
Night Orchid

   

 

Fireflies

1. Ash

A tiny ash in my glass of fresh milk as I was listening to her songs again makes me think of the one I should have forgotten but never forgiven. And if the stars keep on shining in the night sky, then I might go back over there with no fear of the future. And if you keep on smiling for no reason, I could knit you this jumper of woolen tears. But don't even try to come back, all the landscapes of our lives have left us without anything to dream of. She keeps on singing in the rain and her voice is like a hurricane destroying all the happiness inside my soul after a hard working day among my own private jokes.

My pen has sunk into the fresh milk I stopped drinking and started to read the dark ages book again. Men have come back in my eyes, landing on my hair. Shall I ever forget you?


2. Fireflies

You cannot but see them in the darkness
of your deepest dreams.
The last but ones
they never die.

This one is an old queen escaped from the dark ages. This other one's a young Luke Skywalker, fire-flier who has never known his unforgivable name.

Another one approaches. He's like a mirror facing the sky. An illusion from the future of mankind.

New genesis of the Fireflies in the dark skies.


3. Crimson Star

Who could you be when no more light shines in your eyes? Your soul could become a space bit, but too proud to be doomed you carry on your life sat down in between a funny death thought and the orange peels from the last break you took.

Mrs Freeze has come back from Iceland. Will she sing again for you?

And if something breaks up in your soul, you are to be a stirrer of the past, something that might never exist again. Some sort of old humanoid, crimson star lost in the skies.

copyright 2018 Walter Ruhlmann

   

 

Forklift Truck

They walked past us along the dyke
– aging couple: she was unsure how to walk,
he held her arm, she wore her shades;
they looked worried, you looked at them.

How did you look yourself along this dyke?
What was bubbling inside you skull?
What did you hide behind your eyes?
They keep shut a lot lately.

So do your mouth, your heart, your soul.
The reason is well-known to you,
it is well-known to me too,
it makes itself obvious and shrill.

What struck the most as they walked past
was that they were not aged so much at all.
They were no more than ten or fifteen years older
than what we are, or what we look.

I did not hold your arm that day,
you would have been too embarrassed.
You walked near me, you looked ahead,
something you’ve done for some weeks now.

Sometimes you also glare into the past,
or look at it with nostalgia
and let the shadow of a tear drop roll
along your lid, along your cheek.

How I feel doesn’t matter.
Though I’m heavy with doubt and dread.
As heavy as a forklift truck
carrying a dead weight along with it.

Love should ease all burden.
Love does indeed, has done so far.
Will love be strong enough to lift
that oppressive mood much longer?

copyright 2018 Walter Ruhlmann