A Dip in the Pool

          by Ginna Wilkerson
by Ginna Wilkerson

July is the hilt of the knife –
August is the razor’s edge.

Sheets and cigarettes mask
the glare of day
stealing through the blinds.

Where is it that you go?
Sleep is the cusp of sex and love
in the twenty-first century.

Cigarette smoke swirls above the bed
as a wisp of black hair is tucked
behind one ear.

The buttoning of her shirt is framed
in violet silhouette.

Ginna Wilkerson is the author of Odd Remains .



Growing The Grey

by   Allison Grayhurst


Credit : Google images.

Splendor is stolen.
I call high but I am dammed

to the form of a lesser magic.

In captivity it is harder to communicate

the truth, to find the altar of happiness.

All things have I are stolen.

From a ship dismounted, I landed

and stole. I am always stealing and losing

God, cracking the cup of my direction.

Bodies exist to understand the brutality of loneliness,

to yield first to breath, then to sex and then to death.

When I was a candle I had the courage of a candle.

Planets I once walked upon are dead. Could I have been a child

and now I am not? How is it possible to give up the solidity of imagination?

Take me back through the ice-cross in the skylight, into the glow,

sniffing cool blue-green spores – smells purer than spin.

Caves and stars, coloured covered canvases

melting into unison. Alchemy as I walked, dissolving

into the flesh of constant spring, as I walked,

sprouting the nuclei of many mountains.


Allison Grayhurst  is a full member of the League of Canadian Poets. She has over 290 poems published in more than 170 international journals, magazines, and anthologies.Her book Somewhere Falling was published by Beach Holme Publishers, a Porcepic Book, in Vancouver in 1995. Since then she has published ten other books of poetry and four collections with Edge Unlimited Publishing. Prior to the publication of Somewhere Falling she had a poetry book published, Common Dream, and four chapbooks published by The Plowman.

            Her poetry chapbook The River is Blind was recently published by Ottawa publisher above/ground press December 2012.

            She lives in Toronto with family. She also sculpts, working with clay.

In My Time

By Oyin Oludipe

Walls are thicker in my time

I fear the birth of twitching veins

To dare the severing sublime

Of heart from body to lone wings

In my time the air is gone

In place of blood to course the stench

That plows the senile mind than none

As rock-bred singers storm the drench

Here has learnt to bribe the heart

Guilt is wearied in crucible

Of time’s trampling seconds and that

Scourge of memories they cripple

Skies stare alone in my time

Squirming to reincarnate death

To the calling cold-hearted clime

Vultures roost, herald to the dearth

In my time mind crawls the vault

Where limbs scale the girth to partake

Of ballets foul, motions of spite

That shall plumb the soul deep to break

Yet, these seeds are reined of dusts

I fear the earth is choked on filth

The years reform their plaguing wraiths

Beneath the grime, that time so stealth



Two Poems: Rasaq Malik


Beyond the windy lane

of time and space;

of dreams and longing–beyond



My love for you will sprout

like flowers at the seaside;

Like the banana–for the banana

never tastes the potion of barrenness

My songs for you will traverse

beyond the four poles of this cosmos


Beyond the silent splash of the sea

when life is a dark hole

beneath the hill of love

Beyond the pages

of unfinished love messages

undelivered letters through lorries;

Beyond the open chapters of unread ballads,

sonnets, quatrains, odes…



My love, our love will survive the years of eclipse.

Editor’s note:  ‘Ololufe’ means ‘My love’.


We will search for the traces

of belonging on the

smoked bodies of men who pledge

to the nay-tion of their dreams

We will sing a dirge to douse

the flame that soaks us–

leaving us to find the bearing

of a history that reeks of blood.

We will search for the color

of home in the ashes

of punctured skulls,

fragments of crushed bones

On the cenotaphs that no longer

bear the name of remembrance.

And we will search for peace

in the aches of dreamers,


queuing at the airports

to curse a country

where scars are badges

of honours where departure

is the beginning of a prolonged absence.


Rasaq Malik is a student of the University of Ibadan, Ibadan. He lives in Ibadan, where he writes and performs  his poems. He believes we can change the world through words.