The way back to myself

starlight touches my skin
escape from the past becomes possible
visions move in dreamscapes
ocean waves make music
return a younger me

 - Silke Heiss, 27th June 2026

our worryphernalia knows only dustbinfinity

my eyes fimble through the dustilicious pages of historical hysteria
i break out in one great sneezery and just hravoc between the syllaletters
what! you say i am in a farcy mood?
no way! i am simply having these lightbulbous moments
where i can really grisp the true meaning of generous profunding
it is a pity that our cellphonish gadgeteering
make us so ice-so-lated and
our worryphernalia knows only dustbinfinity
ah, come on, what has happened to your blisschievousness?
our tongues need to return to its original tasticality
rather than pwonder the queerific state of things
i snaddle up onto the bed
and do some proper blanketeering
i get so snozy that you might want to climb in with me
meaning you'll have to lift the sheets and open a fartinquiry
to which i will laugheringly smol in your face!

 - Lara Kirsten

Retrieved

Retrieved from the blur, the crowded spaces of days:

Time of my footsteps sounding
against a gravel path;

Time of the waves keeping time
alongside my thoughts;

Time of light and stone and the earth’s
slow shadows;

Time lived in the lines, the visions,
the word-trails of others;

Time lived in songs and stillness.

***

I dream into the recurrence
of these moments retrieved, and let them go:

tealight candles in paper boats,
floating on mind’s
unquiet river.

 - Eduard Burle

Still a ladder

for Bryanie

She points out to me
the beauty of the stacked porcelain plates –
like lines in a tower of clean, folded linen

           seen against the light
           through the gold
           of her glass of cider.

                       I want to honour the moment,
                       but it does not yield,

                       does not become a poem.

                                    There’s not enough wild in it,
                                    an overplus of civility
                                    on both sides.

                                               Still, there’s a ladder
                                               crystallised
                                               in liquid:

                                                           an image of pure intelligence
                                                           climbing
                                                           towards beauty.

 - Silke Heiss, 14th April 2026

stridulate

i learnt a new word today:
stridulate -

(of an insect, especially a male cricket or grasshopper) make a shrill sound by rubbing the legs, wings, or other parts of the body together.

and i fly with its sizzling syllables
right into
the dusky corner of this poem
              wooosssshhhhhhhhh

with resonant surety
the verses begin to rub against each other
and a soft vibration begins to spark the silence

              stshshstshshstshshhhhhhh

the shrill frequencies move into an ever higher pitch
and soon a dervish of hissing and crackling
breaks through the seams of the stanzas
              krrrrrrsccccckkkkkkchchchchchctjtjirrrrrrrrrrrr!!

what could the intentions be
of these piercing oscillations set loose in this poem?
attracting mates or scaring off competition?
              krrrrrrsccccckkkkkkchchchchchchchchtjtjtjtjrrrirrrrrrrrrrrr!!!!

the metaphor becomes agitated by this quivering word
the air is bothered and all ears try hard
to guard themselves against this wild metallic rasping
              tjtjtjtjtjrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!!

all high-pitched energy depletes itself sooner or later
the tones are losing their earsplitting edge
a hoarseness sets in
              grhrhrhgrgrgrgrrrrrrrrrr

the strident angst can no longer hold
the stridulating pace relents
the sun sets and a stillness soothes the air
              sssshhhhhh....

 - Lara Kirsten

The procrastinator

He decides to wait,
waits to decide,

then hesitates, deliberates,
before he

again postpones, turns it
over, speculates,

somehow avoids
altogether

what awaits
his energy, his attention,

until someday, with this
cycle he perpetuates,

it is transparently
and irreversibly

too late.

- Eduard Burle