Martin Gibbs writes fantasy, short fiction, and poetry. He enjoys cross-country skiing, biking, and cooking. During the day, he supports enterprise information systems and writes dry, boring drivel in the form of academic research. Fantasy and poetry are his way out of a world full of ones and zeroes. Martin lives in the snow-covered paradise of Minnesota, USA. For more information on Martin please visit: http://drunkardsjourney.blogspot.com
John Grey is an Australian born poet who works as a financial systems analyst. Recently he has been published in Poem, Spindrift, Prism International and the horror anthology What Fears Become. He has upcoming work in Potomac Review, Hurricane Review and Pinyon.
For a PDF of the July Poetry Collection click here.
Poetry
by
Martin Gibb
Burial Ground
As the skies turn to gray and leaves to brown,
I shall darkly make the cemetery my haunting ground.
through the cold and bleak winds I trudge alone,
surrounded in death by the cruel and brutal stone.
Alas, I vault down into that freshly-dug grave;
souls around me mournfully cry—eternally enslaved…
Nay, interned in rotting ground I shall not be,
for fire, air and ash shall forever set me free.
…In gloomy October alone do I roam;
and only near to the grave do I find my home.
gray skies cover this horrible ground,
the stones sit menacing in the brutal darkness…
alone in October I find my home…
death rides my very shoulder here through,
whispering in the leaves and trees…
alone in October I am set free…
howling winds eat through you soul,
turn the warmest heart to palest ice…
alone in October is my heart warm…
Poetry
by
John Grey
MORNING’S BROKEN PROMISE
No more ripped, torn bedclothes.
It’s bleeding dawn, oozing day.
My nerves are twisted like strangled swan necks,
skin cold as hearts, the room all
beast-shadow and anemic window shine.
But the dark’s all done…isn’t it?
Bare trees shake and shudder,
won’t let go my nightmare.
Heat pipes noisily crack open the furnace
like it’s my personal gates to hell.
The lake wind summons up its choir.
What kind of dirge is, “Did you sleep well?”
No, this is not waking. My eyes are merely
wading through the dregs of night.
Knuckles rub against back sleep,
squeeze soiled dreams back into my brain,
to fester ‘til the nest time.
THE DEAD HITCHHIKER
The highways are starker, lonelier.
On long stretches of desert,
the earth cracks open.
hell fires smoke through.
Beyond the horizon,
destinations implode,
the promise land is stolen.
His life’s reduced
to tramping this boiling
runway of sticky tar.
never getting where he’s going,
withered and weary,
dry as rock,
tongue muttering,
sharing his stories
with his crumbling head.
A car approaches,
as rare, as random,
as birds or trees or wind.
His thumb shoots up in desperation.
But no one stops for a floating thumb.
PLAGUE
Today, the plague carts come,
low voices chanting, ”bring out your dead.’
dull bodies thumped atop other bodies,
bonfires lit in public squares,
corpses tipped into the flames,
diseased flesh bubbling and cracking,
a billion silent screams.
The square is empty
but cleansed.
The houses arc lonely
but safe.
Air smells of burning love,
the stench of memory.
