ubterranean Blue Poetry
Volume VI Issue X

The Cover Art/Photo:

"the Summer in Sunflower"

by Rebecca Anne Banks


watching the white winter


this blue evening . . ."

the summer in sunflower

"the order of things


borderella punk


no bang . . . is good bang

the Lewinston kings

(he's seen the moon and back

the angel in angels)

"o' winter where is your summer dress . . ."

morning sky

afternoon sky

China blue

white sky

"I'll always remember you like a Summer's day . . ."

he is in the bath

the favourite Magellan

o' my heart

my heartsong

I've built a blue house

for you

where summer lives

(the women of the caravan

hang Persian carpets

on lines

around a fire

and books

and books

of poetry written

to the god in the blue sky)"

Subterranean Blue Poetry
Volume VI Issue X
(October 2018)

Subterranean Blue Poetry

© 2018


by Forrest Jamie

It's hitting me.
Right now it's hitting me
like a sucker punch to the gut
just how alone I am.
I was already grieving for one,
and now suddenly
the body count has increased tenfold
I don't know why.

It's hitting me.
Like a barbed-wire noose around my throat -
can't catch my breath -
I could never call them mine, they were always his
and he, he was his own; selfish. A liar.
Them, his followers.
I, a visitor. A guest, never a part of the family...

It's hitting me.
Like a bitch slap to the face
I know now
I never had a friend in this world.
Not in them.
Certainly not in him.
I'm grieving over people who don't even miss me,
don't even think about me

but it's hitting me.
And some day I will get passed the grieving.
Right now I need to say goodbye.
No amount of tears will bring them back.
So here it is; their eulogy.


by Forrest Jamie

Stand in the rain with me.
I've been alone for too long, I need your company
and I have this theory
that the pouring rain
will wash away
all of the lonely and anxiety.
Like we're just kids again, let's play and laugh and run;
jump in the puddles, forget our troubles,
soaked to the bone, forget the sun -
stand in the rain with me.
Like when we were young and felt fearless and happy.
Let's go back to the beginning
where we left our ignorance behind.
The sky is raining second chance,
the dark clouds will make us new again,
wash the bad day away.
So stand in the rain with me, friend.
Because I have this theory
that the water drops will wash away the sadness,
it could wash away the anxiety
and let me be free.


by Forrest Jamie

I wanted to call you. To hear you voice
and be taken back to a time and place much simpler.
When we were younger, still figuring eachother out.
I could've sworn you felt something real for me then.
Back to that time when everything was exciting and new.
The pouring rain dancing on the roof made me think of you.
The calming cadence of the rain's white noise
made me want to hear your voice. So familiar,
though now we're practically strangers.
I wanted to call you and get lost in the rhythm of the old days.
Talk about everything and nothing for hours like we're still them -
the younger, naive versions of ourselves.
I just wanted to call you and hear your voice
because the cadence of the pouring rain made me think of you -
both my favourite white noise.

(My younger sister)

by Sunayna Pal

Laden with boxes,
messages and stories,
Choti will be visiting.
House is cleaned

and lamps are lit.
Aroma from the stove,
shimmers in the air.
Heart whirls with joy.
Eager, impatient eyes
measure the road.
The mind doesn't weigh
the burden of the night

Been three years
the army sent us
in this foreign land.
My son has started to walk
but not met his aunt.

We will take her to the lake,
the town, and the park.
She might like the market
but not the bus ride.
I wish I could be like her,
without responsibilities or care.

I read the letter
again and again
and again.
Memories of joy
swirl in my head.
Sleep won't embrace me tonight.


by Rollo Nye

I am losing you.

And this is my experience.

Your image is getting smaller
while the feeling about you
is beginning to occupy
a greater volume of internal

And this is my experience.

So, you are - loss.

And this is my experience.

This is the only way
I can have you
for I have digested you
and you have become
a sorrow inside of me.

And this is my experience.


by Rollo Nye

Some day, I will do a dead man's dance,
pull the sky to my chest,
breathe the night into my heart,
and see a trillion lover's eyes
exuberantly sparkle

(or not)

Featured Poet: William Blake

Ah! Sunflower


William Blake

Ah! sunflower, weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the sun,
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the traveller's journey is done;

Where the youth pined away with desire,
And the pale virgin shrouded in snow,
Arise from their graves and aspire;
Where my sunflower wishes to go.

Missed Connections

Craigslist Vancouver - Missed Connections - May 2nd, 2017 - Anonymous

You noticed my blue eyes - m4w (Granville Station)
Granville st at Georgia

body: athletic
eye color: Blue
facial hair: Dreaded beard
height: 6'2" (187cm)
status: single
age: 28

I'm kicking myself for not at least getting a name let alone your time for a coffee... I hope I get to see you again with my crazy blue eyes ;)

(N.B.:"crazy, crazy for you . . ." - a note from the editor

"crazzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzy mama . . ." - a note from the other editor

"cheesecake" - says the cat

"the homemade kind" - says the other cat

"you cats don't deserve any cheesecake" - says Machiavelli

"we're getting it anyway" - says the cat

"meow" - says the other cat

"that's what you think" - says Machiavelli)

Book Reviews

Limping to the Big Bad, spin, spin, spin

Byline: Subterranean Blue Poetry

Title of Book: Limping to the Big Bad

Author: Beth Ayer

Publisher: above/ground press

Date of Publication: 2018

Pages: 24

"She owns a window to the ocean
She has a pipeline to the sky"
- from Hula Girl at Heart by Jimmy Buffett

Limping to the Big Bad by Beth Ayer is an adventure in surrealism, plays with the light, spins reality into fantastical spaces in the New Age Renaissance Republic of Poetry. Beth Ayer (Poet, poetry editor) lives and works in Easthampton, U.S. She has had poetry published in various literary zines, including Sixth Finch, Ocean State Review, Jubilat, Divine Poetry and Apartment Poetry.

This poetry is "the ordinary" in everyday life expounded. Pushing the wonder cue with creative wordplay, weaving in and out of reality almost as if creating reality metaphors. There is a certain element of the nonsensical, as if based in DaDa, a series of broken thoughts. In the spin of deconstruction the thoughts are joined, the weave creates a subtle reconstruction that gives a soft feel to perhaps rough terrain. The poetry begins in reality and with a subtle feminine spin begins to wing into exotic realms, out of time, out of mind, surreal and with shots of fantastical humour.

"The Cyclical Nature of Things

You should always keep sandpipers
in your back pocket. Pocket: the place
for your soul when you're pressed
to find a window that isn't sealed
with metaphor sealant, more industrial
than crazy glue because in fact
the fenestration is purely decorative.
Follow the tide in and out, then name me
after a tree that no one has seen
so I can feel special waiting in line
at the department of motor vehicles . . ."

Somewhere in a laundry late on a Saturday night watching the clothes go round, gaslighting under street lights, spins. "O' poetry of the beauteous rag" Limping to the Big Bad by Beth Ayer and above/ground press.

Available @ above/ground press.

"through rain
the yellow leaves
under grey skies . . . "



Rebecca Anne Banks

god of istafan

moroccan scout

we are caricatures of the sunflowers

in the stone walls of the small café

. . . winter's coming

they made us

steal light

from the sky

an afternoon

from the sky

all one day,

from the sky

into night

how we became lost

on the path

to nowhere and silence

who we love in the veins

an ellery queen day shift

king tuskaming harbour

the disappeared

(the ghost of a girl child

crosses the street

under the street lamp)

the push

of blue river

i look away

. . . winter's coming.

Of Poetic Interest . . .

Reprinted from www.donyorty.com with permission of the Author.

Writing Daddy Long Legs Blues


Don Yorty

When I was in my early twenties, I took a tent and camped out for a month along Walnut Run, a swift waterfall-filled stream, that splashes down the South Mountain where I grew up in Pennsylvania. I wanted to fast, meditate, read the Gospels, play the harmonica and learn the tarot, although I gave up on the cards pretty quickly (it's hard for me to take a deck of cards that seriously). Every few days I'd soak some brown rice in water, let that soften up and eat a handful. I never cooked although I made a fire to brew the mint leaves I picked. I'd brought along a jar of honey and sometimes had a spoon of that. I also picked wild berries from time to time. And then I would lay myself out naked on the rocks in the sun like any other snake or lizard. While picking berries one day, I was bitten by many chiggers in my groin, armpits and around my waist where my pants at the belt surrounded it, and though the developing sores really bothered me itching and burning and driving me crazy, I had to live with them, and learned to forget by concentrating on other things like the silhouette patterns the leaves and branches made in the sunlight against the canvas tent. One night I heard what seemed like men walking through the woods coming toward the tent, grunting, rustling up the leaves, and turning over stones and logs as they came; then suddenly right outside the tent the commotion stopped, so I lit a candle, pulled back the flap, for better or worse, and saw at the edges of the quivering light a pack of skunks had stopped in their tracks looking up at me deciding if I was too big to eat or not; I was nor was it much of a pause for them to decide before they continued on through woods, leaving me to go back in my tent, while they overturned more logs. Every now and then a mouse or mole cried out. One day while I was washing my clothes, it began to rain and continued for about a week, very wet outside and very damp within. I composed Daddy Long Legs Blues, wanting to play the harmonica like Sonny Boy Williamson and sing like Big Mama Thornton. The spiders passed through the tent all day long and especially liked to stay and hang upside down at the entrance waiting for prey to come in, which is how the song begins. Rather than put on wet clothes I stayed naked throughout that rainy week. Those were the days.

Daddy long legs hanging upside down my door
Daddy long legs hanging upside down my door
Came to tell me you won't be back anymore
Floating floating like a drowned man on the sea
Floating floating like a drowned man on the sea
Now it doesn't matter if all the waves come cover me
Don't leave me, baby, I don't know what I'll do
Don't leave me, baby, I don't know what I'll do
I can't leave this place, there's not one door to walk through
When you've filled your teacup one tear overflows
And all your joys rise past their brims spilling you to sorrow
Ah but you just wipe as you weep as you wipe up the mess,
lay your head upon the table Daddy long legs go away from door
Daddy long legs go away from door
Once you know what the truth is, you don't have to hear it anymore


Beth Ayer (Poet, poetry editor) lives in Easthampton, Maine. She has had poetry published in various literary journals, including Ocean State Review, Sixth Finch, Jubilat, Divine Poetry and Apartment Poetry.

Rebecca Anne Banks lives in the New Age Renaissance Republique of Poetry. She is the author of over 30 books of poetry, a guide to the Holy Spirit, a primer on marriage discernment, a family cookbook, a book of children's stories, a book of World Peace Newsletters, all available at www.amazon.ca. She has produced 3 CD`s of Folk/Rock music and has 17 CD's of music awaiting production. She won the IARA Award for top 55 Internet Airplays for AngelSong (2010). She is also the CEO/Artist at Tea at Tympani Lane Records ( www.tympanilanerecords.com), The Book Reviewer at The Book Reviewer (www.thebookreviewer.ca) and the Quilt Artist at Kintsugi Art Quilts (www.kintsugiartquilts.com).

William Blake (Poet/Printmaker/Painter) was born in and lived most of his life in Soho, London, England. He was a precursor to the Romantic Movement and his work is considered important. When young he showed a talent for drawing and printmaking, and began studying poetry. He is known for allegory and symbolism in his spiritualist creations of poetry and drawing that may have been prophetic. He married Catherine Boucher and they had a daughter, a marriage that lasted until the Artist's death. He is best known for his books of poetry with illustrations, Songs of Innocence and Experience, The Book of Thel, and the illustrations of Dante's The Divine Comedy and Paradise Lost by John Milton, amongst others.

Forrest Jamie is a passionate creator in several different mediums. An emerging writer, makeup & SPFX artist, she is also very invested in mental health advocacy, having personal experience with mental illness.

Rollo Nye is a poet who lives in New York. His poetry has recently appeared in The Red River Review and Synaeresis.

Sunayana Pal. Born and raised in Mumbai, India, Sunayana Pal moved to USA after her marriage. A double Post-graduate from XLRI and Annamalai University, she worked in the corporate world for five odd years before opting out to embark on her heart's pursuits. She sold art for NGOs and became a certified handwriting analyst. A new mother who devotes all her free time to writing and Heartfulness, many of her articles and poems have been published and she is a proud contributor of many international anthologies. Her name has recently appeared in "The Hindu", "Women's Era", "Feminine Collective", and "Silver Birch Press". She is part of an anthology that is about to break the Guinness World Book of Records. Know more on www.sunaynapal.com.

Don Yorty "(writer & teacher). Once saved a Community Park in NYC {La Plaza Cultural at 9th St. & Ave. C}. Like to cook, especially for friends and loved ones. Like to walk in the woods. Live and let live. Even little insects, try not to step on them. Published work: What Night Forgets, A Few Swimmers Appear, Poet Laundromat, the prologue." - from www.donyorty.com.