Is it possible to make a new letter and put it in the alphabet? —Yahoo inquirer

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At the beginning

of the phrase, it would have substance:

 

like a grape between your teeth or a stone

skipped across the lake at dusk.

 

It would lift off your lips

into the squirrel-shaped clouds.

 

Look up: dragonflies

are eating vowels above your head.

 

Your letter is a child carried up to bed.

She only pretends to be asleep.

Angeline Schellenberg’s Tell Them It Was Mozart (Brick Books, 2016), linked poems about raising children on the autism spectrum, won three Manitoba Book Awards and was a finalist for a ReLit Award. In 2019, she published three chapbooks and was nominated for The Pushcart Prize and Arc Poetry Magazine’s Poem of the Year. Angeline hosts Speaking Crow—Winnipeg’s longest-running poetry open mic series. Her recent title is the elegy collection Fields of Light and Stone (University of Alberta Press, 2020).

Starlings : In Absentia

Find a single starling if you can.

There used to be hundreds of them

roosting in the centres of our cities.

There used to be just as many

 

of them living in the countryside;

so many murmurations in the evening

sky. There used to be more than

a dozen or so in our backyard,

 

fighting over the odd, poorly

chosen, but well-meant, morsel

of bread. There used to be a couple

of them, whatever the weather,

 

perched upon the railings

outside our living room window.

I can no longer remember

when the last time was

 

that I actually saw one

in the flesh. We can still see

them on The Discovery Channel.

We can still hear their songs

 

as background music under-

neath the dulcit tones of David

Attenborough on the BBC. But if,

and when, you should ever

 

manage to see one; either in

someone's garden, on a fence

post at the side of a farmer's

field, or on a street corner

 

of any village, or town. Please,

just let me know because, on some

days, I have the strangest of feelings

that they may, already, be gone.

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Gordon Meade is a Scottish poet based in the East Neuk of Fife. His tenth collection of poems, Zoospeak, a collaboration between himself and the Canadian photographer and animal activist, Jo-Anne McArthur, was published in 2020 by Enthusiastic Press in London. His next collection, In Transit, is due for publication in early 2022, also with Enthusiastic Press.

Небо серое.

В Париже зима.

Я живу на улице "де ла Форж Рояль",

в очень старой квартире.

Я рисовал на полу, стенах, двери.

Еще до того, как рисовал на своем теле.

Я пишу людям, что я

не знать,

но я провожу свои дни в одиночестве.

Это современность.

Но солнце в моем сердце.

Grey sky.

It's winter in Paris.

I live on rue de la Forge Royale,

in a very old apartment.

I have drawn on the floor, the walls, the doors.

Even before I painted on my body.

I write to people that I

dont know,

but I spend my days alone.

This is modernity.

But the sun is in my heart.

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Ivan de Monbrison is a poet and artist living in Paris born in 1969 and affected by various types of mental disorders. He has already published a few poems in the past, in literary magazines and in chapbooks. 

He has written and translated the poem above from Russian to English.

The Golden Crowned Kinglet

Today I want to be like you

wearing the sun on my head

and bars of gold in sudden wings.

 

I want to shatter the moment

flittering from branch to branch,

pausing to become a tiny Buddha

before being busy again. Seeing me

 

you curve so sharply away

like a meteor avoiding the Earth.

You always know what’s best for you.

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Matthew James Friday is a British born writer and teacher. He has been published in numerous international journals, including, recently: Dawntreader (UK), The Dillydoun Review (USA), VerbalArt (India), and Lunch Ticket  (USA). The micro-chapbooks All the Ways to Love, The Residents, Waters of Oregon and The Words Unsaid were published by the Origami Poems Project (USA).  Read him here

 http://matthewfriday.weebly.com

pretending

why all this

fucking fuss

when i’m just

delayed dust?

yr dead to me too, regret

i didn’t hold

my father’s hand

when he died

i hadn’t said a word 

to him in 8 years

i remember his fists

all too well

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Rob Plath lives in New York with his cat Daisy. He does his best to stay out of trouble . He’s been publishing his work for about 28 years. See more about him at robplath.com