Bio: An American poet with a passion for social issues, Samantha Terrell is the author of multiple five-star collections and curator of the poetry series, SHINE, featuring her fellow contemporaries from around the globe. Terrell's poems have been widely published, including in: Door=Jar, Eunoia Review, Fevers of the Mind, In Parentheses, Poetry Quarterly, The Orchards Poetry Journal, and others. Find her online at: www.SamanthaTerrell.com.
Mighty Force
My heart is full of thunderstorms, these days. Nightmarish claps of personal thunder interrupt my vulnerable ways, and social woes rain down in torrents. But yesterday, you told me my mind thinks in poetry, and daylight pierced my stormy veil.
Tracking lightning bolts no longer seems as relevant. So I will let go of distant threatening rumbles and the perforating cries of need and need, and needs; acknowledge my heart is also full of serenity; that love is as powerful in its abundance, as it is in its fragility.
Save or Be Saved?
I’m in a church belfry, cowering low. An active-shooter’s in pursuit, though you’re the only one who knows. The oblivious congregation gathers, filling straight-backed rows, they form a din of chatter, passing naive ideas of peace. You can’t hear me above the fray, and they wonder what’s the matter, as I’m forced to join them, choose my seat.
Shooter’s in the building now, as gathering crowds await the main event. I want to make them understand about the impending dreadful scene. I search for words and go down front trying to stand up on a bench, confused by my predicament. Naked, unsure, exposed, I struggle with my own descent. Still, you’re the only one who knows.
I look at you and hope it's not too late.
Migraine Relief
Brawn might be admirable, but brains won’t bite. Besides, arguing and over-thinking both cause headaches. Butting heads is concussion-causing, dumbing-down, patronizing.
Rather than ignorance; wiser than arrogance; more responsible than indolence – compromise requires acceptance. For when empathy tires, approbation inspires.
Each admission of weakness provides for complement, avoids resentment. So, with contentment, use muscles and mind, and allies, not enemies, find
Elizabeth Cusack is a native of California. She has lived in towns and villages in England, in the City of London, and in Seoul, South Korea. She completed a Bachelor of Arts degree in Art at Colby-Sawyer College, New London, New Hampshire. Elizabeth began acting professionally at the age of eighteen and for most of her life has been active in the dramatic arts. Since 2020 she has published poetry online and with Fevers of the Mind Press. Lovers Leap (2024), her first book of poetry, was inspired by the life of the ancient Greek poetess Sappho. Her latest book Nothing But the Sea (2024) is suitable as a short play or performance piece celebrating Sappho.
We're Me Too
Woman is the N—— of the World ~ John Lennon and Yoko Ono
You might’ve broken me But I found a way out I never looked back But I watch my back
You do not own my body And you never will
The Thirteenth Amendment Freed me, though you Would not recognize that Though you cut me out of that
You do not own my body And never will again You did not break me I’m stronger than you
You raped my sister You raped my daughter You blamed me too
We see you shouting How we must breed You tell us we’re to blame We see you, we’re me too.
Freaks on the Phone
There ain’t no guru who can see through your eyes ~John Lennon
No Jesus for you Hare Krishna suits you Or some slimming solution Like love again I suspected you were fake False crazy, well what can I say It takes years to make the grade When every synapse in your brain Refuses to lie down and behave.
In Grace
We’re bigger than Jesus now
~ John Lennon
I’m a safe alternative Until they decide I am not I am but a voice in space Another slave Waiting to be erased So they can be happy in grace.
Really Swing
Just Give Me Some Truth ~ John Lennon
squirrels and acorns sweet stupid things no more remarks sling anything really swing
Isolation and Dope
They didn’t want me so they made me a star ~ John Lennon
Be empty It’s alright Get a rope Hold on tight Then let go It’s your ride You’ll be a star Slide into the night
I feel sorrow I swallow pain I’m never alone However far away
Facing the sun My life’s insane And flying away Taking a chance Branches breaking
I’m doing fine Money for rope So now I’m a star So now I will sleep
Mama was a star Walking the edge Balancing on bridges She could slip under rails She could fly off balconies Daddy was a munitions man She learned to push everything
Flying high Falling hard I did not crawl Crashing through I ran before I walked
Be empty It’s alright Get a rope Hold on tight Then let go It’s your ride You’ll be a star
I’m doing fine Money for rope So now I’m a star So now I will sleep Isolation and dope.
Dead Inside
Ah! Bowakawa, pousse pousse ~ John Lennon
You come like a UFO I have a sword for sorrow My life’s been one fist fight I shovel smoke with pitchforks Out of the blue I can answer you You be the door and I’ll be the key Nazis in the bathroom? No surprise The markets are full of the dead inside.
Looney Tunes
Jump when your momma tell you anything ~ John Lennon
Cartoon graveyards in your booze Sniffing coke and sweet perfume Using her for an afternoon
Jesus, you’re Christ on a joy ride Hare Krishna n’ Looney Tunes Till you come around too soon
You’re so smug just lying there Burying her inside your head Casino engines overhead.
Dracula and Frankenstein
One thing you can’t hide is when you’re crippled inside
~ John Lennon
Are you feeling kindness Or have you given up? Another cruise to Malibu Maybe Budapest or Timbuktu With a girl to dangle by a rope Or a handsome boy down below Or a grand old lady in her grave Or a new girl out for a honeymoon A giggling priestess back from Spain Or maybe Camilla Parker Bowles Or a tryst with a nun just for fun? The list is long but not long enough That cash-rich mistress you made so sad She died last night in an ambulance Nothing seems to add up about you Your crying jags are just for show Your neck of flesh is black and blue And May Day is too hot for you The princess with the pea in the petticoat Did she know you play the same game Over and over, every day Reeling them in and spitting them out Cleopatra with a needle on an empty stage Addicted for a month to your bruising brain? You think you’re real, but maybe you’re not.
Rhetorical Question
Ah, how do you sleep? ~ John Lennon
You’re so fucking hot How do you stand it at all Smug little bastard Got a sister or an uncle Ready to stand in with an excuse When you can’t face yourself Don’t expect milk from a leopard Or kindness from a shepherd He’s only in it for the money And he’s out for a holiday I’m expecting acorns.
Credibly Deniable
Expert textpert choking smokers Don't you think the joker laughs at you? ~ John Lennon / Paul McCartney
Well, it’s winter and he needs a fix The north is nought but frozen tits It’s biting when he walks outside And if he texts, his fingers just die
He only calls when he’s alone He never explains why that is But he needs a trip to Tenerife He’s nervous as hell on the line
And if he texts, it’s emojis and lies He’s credibly deniable at all times And sad old ladies keep him alive.
So Long, Twenty Twenty-Four
But first you must learn how to smile as you kill ~ John Winston Ono Lennon
They pass for empathy They have a conversation They read photographs They block classical art They ban Michelangelo His bits and phalluses Graven images of the naked gods Even undressed store-front mannequins The Algorithm decides, our Little Adam But where is Eve? They locked her up Did you hear them chanting? College boys voted her off the street So what is there that a robot can’t do?
This is where the lone wolf reigns He avoids truth with open eyes He changes his mind at any time He eats then drops when he’s satisfied So why do we go outside? Because we like to be victimized? They’re telling us to stay inside The Lone Wolf is transparent He joins a pack only to leave The pack wises up eventually So long, Twenty Twenty-Four.
Boy, Oh Boy
Well, I just had to laugh I saw the photograph ~ John Lennon
It’s you again, nail-biting and running Your face in the phone is stunning You’re ducking, but it’s too late The road goes the other way Your head hits pavement Your body rolls away It makes the grade Another hole Is filled Boy
The dripping slowly entered his waking conscience, insisting that its presence take top priority.
“Oh, no,” thought Alan, “they’ve gone and done it again. Idiots!”
He dragged himself into the kitchen, which was situated next to his bedroom in this early-seventies shared student house. The debris no longer disgusted him; several months of living with his flat-mates had anaesthetized him to their excesses. He took a deep breath, and immediately regretted it. He reached the sink, and switched off the dripping tap. Silence.
“Hello!” he called. No reply. Alone, Alan began the process of breaking himself slowly into another dreary day. He knew his odd, shiftwork hours were unlikely to mesh with the lifestyle of the students with whom he shared, but accommodation was hard to come by; well, cheap accommodation, anyway.
The blackened, greasy frying pan repelled thoughts of a cooked breakfast. Maybe later. What he really needed was a drink. Tea, that would do it. A good, reviving cuppa. Alan’s search for a mug eventually proved fruitful. He knew his flat-mates were coffee drinkers (instant, of course) so the teapot had remained relatively untouched by the unhealthy lifestyles of his companions. But was there any tea? Gingerly scrabbling around the deeper, darker recesses of the cupboards, he eventually found an old tin that looked like it might hold something brewable. Cautiously opening the lid, Alan discovered the tin to be a quarter-full with finely chopped, dried leaves. The contents smelt slightly fusty, but not unpleasant.
As the water came to the boil, he spooned leaves into the teapot (two spoons for himself, and one for the pot). As it brewed, Alan searched for milk, but couldn’t steel himself sufficiently to open the fridge door. He’d have to drink it black.
He sat down at the only corner of the kitchen table currently uncluttered by scabby plates, mold-encrusted mugs, antique pizza, crumpled magazines, roll-your-own butt ends, un-darned socks, unpaid bills, and the general detritus of people sharing a flat but not standards. Alan shuddered. He sipped his drink as he contemplated what he should eat.
Marmalade, I like marmalade, he thought. To his surprise, the loaf of bread had survived relatively intact and, after having cut two thick slices, he placed them on the eyelevel grill (removing yesterday’s kipper beforehand). Butter should help, but that would mean he’d definitely have to open the fridge door. He took another sip from his mug, and walked to the fridge. He opened it slightly, and took a swift sniff. Wow, he thought, that’s amazing. Strawberry turpentine! He flung the door open wide. The fridge light was dazzling, flooding the interior with yellow light, which then subtly morphed into orange. Cool, he thought, then started giggling at the idea of describing the fridge as cool. Cool, cool, cool. He liked that. Marmalade, I like marmalade. Butter. No, cheese. Yes, cheese. Cheese and marmalade. On toast. That’s it. He took another sip of his drink.
Placing the cheese and marmalade on the kitchen table, Alan returned to the eyelevel grill. He stood motionless, fascinated by the gentle browning effect of the heat on bread. Wow, I’m watching the actual birth – no, the creation of toast. Righteous.
Turning over the bread to toast the other side did not occur to Alan. He simply transferred the half-browned bread to his plate, added the butter and cheese, and then spread the whole ensemble liberally with marmalade. He took another sip of the brew.
After having taken two bites of his breakfast creation, Alan became bored, and switched his attention to cereal. He found a half-consumed box of Ricicles. He tried conversing with the three pixies on the box but they must have been hung-over because they wouldn’t talk with him. He stared long and hard at their images before adding a generous portion of cereal to a semi-clean, non-stick pan. Milk, I need milk, he thought.
The trip to the fridge was well worth the effort. Flinging open the door, the light once more entered the kitchen, casting kaleidoscopic patterns over everything. Alan chuckled to himself as he realized the air was being tie-dyed. Swaying slightly on unsteady feet, he stared intently for minutes, until he grew bored with the entertainment. He then took a bottle to the table and poured milk over the cereal. He sipped his drink once more.
Snap, Crackle, Pop. Wow, those advertisements weren’t wrong. But it’s too loud. Oh, no, thought Alan, my breakfast cereal is trying to deafen me. Snap, Crackle, Pop are no longer my friends, but marmalade, I like marmalade. And toast, that’s it, more toast.
Alan staggered to the fridge once more and opened the door with dramatic relish. He saw other munchables, and, by the light of the fridge, began to prepare a larger breakfast.
Sometime later, as charred bread under the eyelevel grill spontaneously combusted, two of Alan’s flat-mates returned home, saw the smoke, and reacted quickly. Entering the kitchen, they immediately doused the fire, turned, and were met with the following scene.
Beneath smoke now blackening the ceiling, Alan was sitting peacefully, chatting once more with his three new best friends, Snap, Crackle, and Pop, each smiling inanely from the side of the cereal box. The frying pan, containing six unbroken eggs and several rashers of bacon, still in the butcher’s paper, rested precariously on the, thankfully, unlit stove. Around his neck, Alan wore raw linked sausages like a scarf. Most bewildering, though, was the proliferation of uneaten toast, cheese, and marmalade littering every surface.
“Alan, what’s goin’ on, man?”
“Marmalade, I like marmalade,” was the only response.
“Hey, man, where’s my stash? I keep it here in this tin.”
“Oops! It’s in the tea-pot. Haha, get it, eh?! Tea. Pot. Oh, my head’s a blank.”
Matt Guntrip is a guitarist, songwriter and indie musician in the UK, who has published four albums, and four singles – Penthesilea, Democracy, Anything and The Line – via CD Baby, available on most channels. He was a New Music Generator nominated artist on Cambridge 105FM in 2024, 2023 & 2021.
The craft of writing lyrics interests him. Through creative writing, he is working to improve and explore the human experience, nature, time, love, loss, rejection, hope and injustice, and thus write better songs.
Matt’s writing has been published in The Belfast Review, Fevers of The Mind (Starman David Bowie anthology & Johnny Cash, The Beat Outlaws), Folkheart Press Blog, GAS Poetry & Art on YouTube, Starbeck Orion Substack and the Wombwell Rainbow website.
Seven-four riff brilliance personified in bass The tension in the band reflecting the dangers of the subject; “Don’t take a slice of my pie” Shifting seamlessly to a relentless four four, as if any signature is possible, as long as the beat flows Masterly roaming of the fretboard with solos most can only dream of, as if Money makes everything possible Maybe it does… This hallowed disc in vinyl copy impossible to forget as if it were the fabric of audio itself
- Matt Guntrip
Time
F sharp minor Dropping down to E Just two chords shock full of tension like nobody else could sound
This song that captures everything, Everything that binds us and destroys us The sheer spine-tingling majesty of the guitar solo, Before chords of gentle resolution at the end
I’ve spent my life fascinated and worried by time the books, the concept and the song Nothing could ever match the brilliance of Time So I went for vocal layers on mine…
“Hear me I am calling From your first breath I leave you vast wealth I am recalling
Know me Like a river Feel my strength flow do your bones know? I am Time” *
Matt Guntrip
* Lyrics from the song Time on Archaeology of Love by Matt Guntrip 2020
Wish You Were Here
Acoustic intro Iconic Recognisable in an instant So often covered, always sung along to “We’re just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl Year after year”
Four years of us trying to make sense of how even the toxins made the highs worthwhile.
Until you changed your bowl something, someone, bigger, better, cooler, icy..
So for now, I strum the bowl without you Trying to make sense of how
Matt Guntrip
Shine on You Crazy Diamond
In the band Blood Group* The UK band not the US version Barry loved to tell the tale of Syd Barrett Walking out halfway through a rehearsal never to return
He understood
I remember the first time I heard this A study room in a school dormitory Physics on the table I’d never understand.. Ethereal keyboard music and ghostly guitar “This sounds like Pink Floyd to me..” A knock on the door, I had to know, James Webb no less, not the James Webb, but still.. There was the cover, the art, a statement
I used to fall asleep to side one at night woken by the party noises and the elevator at the end I think it helped me understand the insanity of life
Fevers of the Mind 