Blog Archives

Dilapidated Room

7/31/2018

Her eyes appeared insentient
unaware of the danger
that loomed ahead,
for she has seen too many of her kind dragged to some dirt rooms

The moment the evening falls,
the bellowing cries,
and the piercing screams
clouds her mind
like some permanent scores
but it didn’t bother her
like the proceedings are some rituals
imbibed and engraved into her life,
this is her world
this is what she has seen
accepting it as her share of her universe,
for she has seen nothing but this
from the time she could ever recall
till today when she had turned thirteen
today was another day
when she will be for the first time like her companions
will be taken to one such filthy room
for her, this was the ritual
so, she will not be dragged

Author

Shantanu Baruah is a writer driven by passion, a healthcare leader by profession, and a poet from the heart with a creative bend of mind.

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I am Recounting

7/31/2018

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the things I have to lose to survive
the things I have to do to stay alive
while others walk comfortably down
well-lit streets I am in the graveyard
trying to decline a proposal. I don’t
want to be engaged to be buried.

Life is simply a form of torture.
We are put in this body only for it
to decay, slowly but inevitably, and
we are powerless to stop it. Attempts
to slow it down are gigantic yet futile.
if you’re not afraid, you haven’t
been paying attention.
This is the poetry of death;
it is far more than flesh fiction.
Sit cross-legged on this mound of
earth and I will read it to you.

It is, after all, all I have. And
no wonder I lose myself in
this place when I shelve my
personality in anticipation
of finality, in favour of the
formality illness brings, the
threat of structure, of sutures,
a body held together with string
but I am bored of tragedy now,
aren’t you?

So bring up your dead –
unearth them like secrets no-one
wants to hear, like campfire
stories no-one asked for.
Some days all we know are nights
my finger smudges all over my wine glass
the only impact I have, as you can see
I’m not good for much at these times
but I can make you happy
sitting on my own tombstone
singing songs of hell and hazard.

Author

Sam Rose is a writer and editor from Northamptonshire, England. She is the editor of Peeking Cat Poetry Magazine and The Creative Truth. Her work has appeared in Scarlet Leaf Review, Poetry Pacific, Haiku Journal, In Between Hangovers, and others. Sam is a cancer survivor and primarily uses her experiences with this to write poetry and memoir.

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his eyes

7/30/2018

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They say I have his eyes, this grandfather whom
I have never met. The light grey ring around his hazel
iris skipped my father, his son, and latched itself to me.

Unusual, striking, so strange for a dark-skinned individual
to present with such beautiful eyes. Then the questions
start. Where are your people from? Do you have your father’s
or your mother’s eyes? I smirk as I listen to these comments.
It’s nothing new, I’ve heard it all before.

Now, I’ve passed it on to my little one. My six-month-old son
looks at me with those same eyes whispering our secrets, telling
of the Caucasian blood mingled with our African blood; outing
our past without an uttered word.

Author

Arlene Antoinette writes poetry, flash fiction and song lyrics. Her work may be found in various publications on the web such as Foxglove Journal, The Open Mouse, Amaryllis and Outsider Poetry. Thank you for reading her work.

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Marriage Breaks

7/30/2018

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Dear perplexed,
most unusual strong urges must face facts -
the rain on the window falls so softly –
I see the fog creeping across the cemetery,
you fall asleep before the movie ends.

Husband and wife –
the town is grim,
we’re both bewildered by
this cry from the darkness.

Heartsick –
like everyone else in my situation.
Restless –
the bed shakes with your intensity.

Younger woman –
a far corner from my beat these days.
Older man –
but still fit enough to hoist barrels
onto the back of a truck.

The root of my trouble
is a brick house on this suburban lot.
You must face facts.
This would be a good place
if it were only a whole lot better.

Worry. Remorse.
All your feminine intuition can gauge.
Most unusual strong urges
mercilessly shrugged off.

Patience will feel.
Understanding may know.
Otherwise, marriage counselor, family doctor –
to feel our problem,
or to obliterate our concern.

Author

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in the Homestead Review, Poetry East and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Harpur Palate, the Hawaii Review and Visions International.

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Reminder from Editor

7/20/2018

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Hi Little Rose readers! This is just a reminder that I will not be reading during the month of August. If you would like something to be read before then, please submit before the end of July. If you submit anytime during August, your submission will not be read until September.

Thank you for your continued support in Little Rose. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

Sincerely,

Kendra Nuttall, editor-in-chief

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