by Ken Allan Dronsfield
Nicotine stained walls pleading
for a fresh splash of white wash.
Gutter full of decayed leaves and
the porch smells of earthen mold.
The bread knife rests upon the old
cutting board, loaves long since gone.
Walk on a dirt and dusty kitchen floor
dried dead mouse resting by the door.
The basement stairs squeak and moan
with each step while swaying to and fro.
A voice heard whispering in a low groan,
my heart beats faster, more dangerously.
Audacious shrills and rapturous chills
residing upon a noxious molded grin
in a pig iron and saffron form while
suspended between bristle cone rafters.
Hasten to the outside door and climb out
past the root cellar and beyond the tracks.
Hear the muffled footsteps gain and stalk;
an adventure fades away into the black.
Ken Allan Dronsfield is a Published Poet and Author residing in Oklahoma. He enjoys thunderstorms, walking in the woods at night, playing guitar and spending time with his cats Merlin and Willa. His published work can be found in Journals, Magazines and Blogs throughout the Web including: Indiana Voice Journal, Belle Reve Journal, Peeking Cat Magazine, Dead Snakes, Bewildering Stories and many others
When you jump, the moon gets closer.
It's even closer now!
It looks so big from up here!
Come! Jump with me!
I'm going higher and higher.
I can maybe touch it soon.
Before it goes behind the clouds.
You missed it.
Editorial Note: In an effort to encourage young people to pursue writing and to view the world artfully, our journal occasionally publishes pieces written or spoken by children. This piece was quoted from one of our favorite young noticers, Amelia, age 8.
While jumping on the trampoline, she couldn't help but observe the moon like she never had before. She wanted her mother to see it too, from that very unique angle, but before she could, it was gone. Because she took the time to really look, we now can imagine it in our own minds. Maybe we didn't miss it after all.
Art is nothing if not an attempt to capture fleeting moments...
by Carol Folsom
the powdery scent of a phalanx of orange blooms
fine pollen mists from oaks beyond
our snaggle toothed wood fence
jasmine, ivy and purple morning glory
camouflage missing slats and rotting wood
while bees spy on roses
tea olives whisper vanilla through the screen
children shout on the trampoline next door
heads up, down, up
chittering squirrels patrol from limb to limb
a woodpecker drills a hollow cedar tree
its booty of buried bugs
a school bus shuffles and grunts and squeals its brakes
a convoy of cars roll in from work to home
I sip my cheap merlot
shots pop from the skeet range on New Berlin Road
a cardinal dives from fence to bottlebrush
beware of the cat below
my husband reports from his laptop, beer in hand
a bomb went off in a Pakistan playground today
he shakes his head no
Carol Folsom is an attorney who writes poetry, fiction and essays. She lives with her husband and son in Jacksonville, Florida. Her work has been published in Everyday Fiction, Cradle Songs, Three Minus One, Flashlight Memories, The Whirlwind Review and Talking Writing.
by Nicole Long
The sun rose out of the ground like a Phoenix
Orange, gold, yellow, darkness calling her name
Sitting on a dock, sipping champagne
Examining the great Wilmington Marsh
As the Spanish Moss swung to the beat of my heart
There are no sounds here
Cars long gone, neighbors beyond the horizon
I only have my mind
Whisking away to the unknown
Nicole Long lives in Roanoke, Virginia. She holds her BA in English from Radford University, and is a MFA candidate in Screenwriting and Film Studies from Hollins University. Her short stories and poetry have appeared in numerous college publications. She enjoys the poetry of Whitman, Thoreau, and Dickinson.
Belle Rêve Literary Journal is a southern literary experience. Our mission is to capture everything that makes the South and its residents unique through the best contemporary literature we can find. We publish new works weekly.
Passionately Ran, Compassionately Fed.