TS Hidalgo… The Dog and the Arrow


The Dog and the Arrow

A dog
is my dog,
and he sees towards me an arrow:
it departs swiftly,
through the white smocks,
reaching the arrow,
and it avoids him,
and he avoids the arrow.
A dog
is my dog,
and chases an arrow:
needle of worthy end
to a good man,
body of peace
and cruel field
of horizontal extermination
(desired sword
by the
wild bull itself,
which is the voice of its master).
A dog
is my dog,
and he forgets an arrow,
watering with his warm verb
to the touch,
like a dropper,
a harsh plateau,
other lives,
human and my own.
My dog
tries to regret an arrow,
and the dog is a whole life,
and in no life
I turn into an arrow.
My friend
chased an arrow,
and the arrow is beautiful.

TS Hidalgo (44) holds a BBA (Universidad Autónoma de Madrid), a MBA (IE Business School), a MA in Creative Writing (Hotel Kafka) and a Certificate in Management and the Arts (New York University). His works have been published in magazines in the USA, Canada, Argentina, Chile, Germany, UK, Spain, Portugal, South Africa, Nigeria, Botswana, India and Australia,and he has been the winner of prizes like the Criaturas feroces (Editorial Destino) in short story and a finalist at Festival Eñe in the novel category. He has currently developed his career in finance and stock-market.


Copyright © 2017 by TS Hidalgo


Robert Ronnow… Adnate to the Funicle


Adnate to the Funicle

       Accepting aloneness, incomplete solitude, imperfect rest. The garden
wasted, pumpkin patch planted late, potatoes untasted left in ground.
        A thousand email addresses, each unique represents a flame of passion,
compassion, desperation or depression. To understand, to know’s
        impossible. It is therefore only reasonable to observe the shadows
on the mountain, the actions of the dreamer which tell us something,
        little, nothing of his dream. It’s a simple secret shared, longevity.
The half breed John Russell says it right, the
        date and place don’t matter, dry desert or cold mountainside,
lush bottomland, soulless or hospitable, contagious hospital.
        The best laugh’s death’s, a perfect escape, perfect error, perfect rest.
Their solicitude’s unnecessary, grief is temporary, life goes on,
       you go under, underemployed, the undertaker’s never unemployed.
Forensics prove an ovary with two chambers, ovule adnate to the funicle.

Robert Ronnow’s most recent poetry collections are New & Selected Poems: 1975-2005 (Barnwood Press, 2007) and Communicating the Bird (Broken Publications, 2012). Visit his web site at http://www.ronnowpoetry.com.


Copyright © 2017 by Robert Ronnow


Stephen Philip Druce… Real Friends & Sugar River

Real Friends

Real friends share their wine –
generously now yours and mine,

no street encounters brief,
no fleeting greeting
of a windy leaf,

they’re the caring kind
who’ll stop and ask if we’re fine,

and their long goodbyes make
you realise that real friends are easy to define –

they’re the ones that give you their time.

Sugar River

Fish shaped sweets
and sticky treats
swim in a current jam,

sherbet swans save
drowning bon bons, in
rapids of fruit cake and marzipan,

there’s gingerbread fishermen
with rods of candy sticks,
that cast their lines of liquorice lace
in a whirlpool of pick n’ mix,

driftwood tarts and pastry parts
float in a stream of fizzy pops, as
jelly babies row in custard boats
with oars of strawberry lollypops,

through trifle rums, ice cream runs,
biscuit crumbs and runny yum yums,

meander splash the chocolate muds
in a soft caramel of lashing floods,

and riverbanks they brace and quiver,
but love the taste of the sugar river –

James Croal Jackson… Simple Machines, This Lonesome Noise



Force plus distance creates the want.
Machines make work easier to do:
pick up the phone and call her.
A sloped surface can move the heart
from one peak to another by decreasing
exerted force per beat while increasing
the distance over which the want
can travel– a simpler way to have
without the work of wanting.



spare a key
you industrial
you need the split
not the forest
not the wood
not the temple
not the gate
unlock the room
you need you

James Croal Jackson is the author of The Frayed Edge of Memory (Writing Knights Press, 2017). His poetry has appeared in The Bitter Oleander, Rust + Moth, Cosmonauts Avenue, and elsewhere. Find him in Columbus, Ohio or at jimjakk.com.

Copyright © 2017 by James Croal Jackson