Oatleaf

 ... What can I do with these raspberries? Stain my lips, my cheeks, to bloom again in the mirror’s eye, to paint life back onto my frail face? Yes. Yes. Please. They were made in this fall of new beginnings, for me. My eyes were closed, hands trembling, yet I held the fruit’s red promise— a quiet shield against the past. It was made to bring me back, to kiss my own reflection and tell it I’m still here, clean, sober, and ready to fight again. No grand gesture, just color, and the will to keep saying no, as I bathe in crimson, reclaiming the warmth of life. ... Virginia Guarddon, known as Wildwood Writer, was born in the Canary Islands, Spain, but spent most of her life in the United States. Most recently, she lived in Colorado, where she built a life with her husband and family. Writing has been a lifelong passion for Virginia, beginning when she was just six years old. Instead of keeping a diary, she filled her days with poetry, which quickly became her creative outlet. After a s...

 ... Chicago to D.C. We’re taking the long way, following a locomotive in the VIP seats. The diesel engines don’t smoke, or steam or puff, they just go. On the locomotive there are no safety belts on the seats. Accidents happen. When a train derails outside of town, people come to see. I don’t think about whether we’ll make it to D.C. I’m already planning what we’ll do where we’ll go what to see. It’s not faith. The engine goes on and we wait, the trembling cars following the train.

April has come to an end and we'd like to say thank you to our wonderful contributors! We are so, so glad that you chose Oatleaf to showcase your work. ... We are grateful to: rob mclennan | Autobiography James Lilliefors | Inversion Mike O'Brien | Golden Butterfly Ellen Forkin | Gleam ... We appreciate the work you put out into the world!

 ... The relentless tide Washing over and over The sands, rippling Drags in a twist Of turquoise rope Water bottle, crushed Shards of plastic A decomposing dolphin The stench of seaweed Rancid, choking It’s hard to breathe Hard to focus On the horizon’s gleam Even the sky threatens The tide is a pull To the ocean’s oblivion But stand in the shallows Breathe in deeply Spy a piece of sea glass A groatie buckie— for luck And a seal’s soft gaze Out beyond in the water Stand and look up The gleaming—shines on ... Ellen Forkin is a chronically ill artist, writer and poet living in Orkney, Scotland. www.ellenforkin.co.uk @ellen_forkin | Instagram Ellen Forkin Art | Facebook @ellenforkin.bsky.social | Bluesky @ellen.forkin | TikTok

 ... A golden butterfly fell from the sky At twenty four karats an hour A uranium bee fell from a tree And that season’s Honey was sour ... Mike O’Brien lives in South Yorkshire, England. He has previously been published in the Black Nore Review, the Stone Circle Review and Dreamcatcher. He publishes his own poetry online at Sixty Odd Poems (zoomburst.substack.com) and the work of others at Sixty Odd Poets (sixtyoddpoets.substack.com). He also publishes selections from these sites as physical volumes and organises regular open mic nights in Mexborough to showcase the work of the Sixty Odd project and encourage others to get involved.

 ... Start with things we know      but can’t name. Sacred things our words have failed to find, falling headlong through open fingers into a rush of sun-warmed summer rivers. We live on the suburban branch, navigating in naked vessels made by human hands, yearning to be clothed in something eternal as we turn toward cooler waters that crackle with the static of old vinyl dreams. As a child, I swam the other way, upriver, fighting the currents because I could. Life was made of named things then, things we didn’t know, some of them scary. I’ll name one: Viet Nam. But we were nourished by secret instincts: suburban rivers were just a surface thing;  underneath, the world moved in circles, a giant turntable turning too slow to make much sense to children. Still –  those who named things expected us to be part of their revolution, to let their needles make impressions, inject us, wear down our grooves, so that all lives crackled the same, eventually. ... James ...

 ... 1.   Plinths and ornaments; a cavalcade of bookshelves.   The pulsing energy                   of continuity: e-learning mornings. Rose, in headphones: jumping jacks. She smacks   a stack of paper loose, to the hardwood. A handful of pencils, scraps. Their grade two   calisthenics routine. They shake their sillies out. Across the living room, Aoife shifts and re-shifts   zoom backgrounds: outer space, blue cloudscape, a temperament of snow. She responds, when challenged: My teacher taught me.   Junior kindergarten sight words, reading: the, a, she. A writing grid of nine, for Bingo, before they launch into a story   of a springtime frog. The blank space   of theoretical clarity.     2.   Home, home. We are home. We are endlessly, truly home. Isolating daily rounds of paired coffee, corner office margins.   Scoped and paired, these opposites rarely meet. Two positives c...