Where the World Unfolds
The brown moth of solitude settled down
Amid the verdant boughs that my head crown.
And by and by, the woods opened their doors
Showing many leaves scattered on their floors.
A faint sound arose as from distant shores,
Waves softly flapping through the sycamores.
A laughter I heard raining with the dew,
Rising up to the clouds as the wind blew.
My heart’s waters became a lucid pond,
Gazing the azure, the sun as it dawned,
And my soul running with the crystal streams
Stood to feel the world, the breath of its beams.
- Copyright Pierre Mhanna @weaveofsilence Beirut, Lebanon - 2013
Biography: Pierre Mhanna, a wandering poet.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The Enchanted Lady
An enchanted lady, she is…
Her eyes, a pair of brilliant stars
Those warmth hands full with embrace
Time to time, she stood against the wind
Knitted a sheet of love and peace
One day when the wind crazed
That laid her down in a valley of aches
And put the thorns inside pulmonary
In her everyday rest
Yet she built freedom outside her downfall
And fought like a warrior
Never gave up life
Though the pain killed her rhyme
Yet in the end, an angel gave her wings
She smiled, flew away and free.
- Copyright Anita Leowardi @nocturnegrace Indonesia - 2013
Jasmine #gogyohka
Fragrance of Jasmine
breeds upon the air
when tiny drops
of twisted clouds
lay upon petals.
- Copyright Anita Leowardi @nocturnegrace Indonesia - 2013
Biography: Anita Leowardi is a poet from Indonesia. She enjoys exploring poems, storytellings, quotations, and wordsplay. She appreciates the journey of imagination. http://www.nocturnegrace.wordpress.com
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The brown moth of solitude settled down
Amid the verdant boughs that my head crown.
And by and by, the woods opened their doors
Showing many leaves scattered on their floors.
A faint sound arose as from distant shores,
Waves softly flapping through the sycamores.
A laughter I heard raining with the dew,
Rising up to the clouds as the wind blew.
My heart’s waters became a lucid pond,
Gazing the azure, the sun as it dawned,
And my soul running with the crystal streams
Stood to feel the world, the breath of its beams.
- Copyright Pierre Mhanna @weaveofsilence Beirut, Lebanon - 2013
Biography: Pierre Mhanna, a wandering poet.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The Enchanted Lady
An enchanted lady, she is…
Her eyes, a pair of brilliant stars
Those warmth hands full with embrace
Time to time, she stood against the wind
Knitted a sheet of love and peace
One day when the wind crazed
That laid her down in a valley of aches
And put the thorns inside pulmonary
In her everyday rest
Yet she built freedom outside her downfall
And fought like a warrior
Never gave up life
Though the pain killed her rhyme
Yet in the end, an angel gave her wings
She smiled, flew away and free.
- Copyright Anita Leowardi @nocturnegrace Indonesia - 2013
Jasmine #gogyohka
Fragrance of Jasmine
breeds upon the air
when tiny drops
of twisted clouds
lay upon petals.
- Copyright Anita Leowardi @nocturnegrace Indonesia - 2013
Biography: Anita Leowardi is a poet from Indonesia. She enjoys exploring poems, storytellings, quotations, and wordsplay. She appreciates the journey of imagination. http://www.nocturnegrace.wordpress.com
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
- All Works Copyright Mahoor Jamal @Karwa_Karaila Peshawar, Pakistan - 2013
Biography: A nineteen year old form Pakistan, who has found art to be her best companion since childhood. I find beauty & inspiration in everything around me. I'm pretty much self-taught, since I never got to attend any kind of art classes. My interests include Sketching, Painting, Digital Art, Photography, Embroidery & Baking. I keep posting my artworks & crafts on my blog: http://mahoorjamal94.wordpress.com
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
As the world breathes in
He breathes out
And with that he whispers
His last words
That get carried away
And lost with the wind
Only to be found
Rusted and broken
from all those years of lonely.
- Copyright Sultan Abdul Haseeb @hasee6 Islamabad, Pakistan - 2013
Biography: Just another dreamer in this world who wants to stand out from the crowd. Have been writing since I was 9 years old and published in various international magazines. Blogs at www.sultanabdulhaseeb.wordpress.com
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
a cup of tea my brother
hello my friend
it is okay
you know
I am here for you
as you fight
it bothers me
the sneak-thief of death
to visit you
as he has done
riddling you
with his vulgar love
to hear you tell me
that
you
are
too young
to die
I cry dear brother
these tears that drip
these eyes
that leak
as you tell me
the illness has engulfed
and I am without words
my brother
I am cold
shivering
and this thing is real
and this thing is real
as are these tears now slipping
down my neck
where are you brother
do not leave
we shall fight
together
for in this life
we are drowning
in the forever high tide
by the undertow
as we are pulled by the dying moon
scorched by a euthanized sun
pointing the finger at no one
for these things occur
as they do
sorrowfully brother
that death
has
reached out
to you
here I sit
awaiting
your last breath
or your first
so that maybe
when you return
full circle
full cycle
a cup of tea my brother
a little jazz
a toast to a new life
and all things grand
yes
to all things grand
- Copyright Nate Kryston @NateK78 New York, USA - 2013
ArT
a FoRM oF eXPrEssioN THAT
cONstiTUTes
A
SINgUlar/PersonAL
sTyLe
WHICH
MANIfests
the idealistic
VIEWpoint
of EITHER
inTErnAL
exTErnAL
spIRitUAl
emOTionAL
OR A CULMINATION
of EVERYTHING
poinTED
within
the
heart
mind
and
body
OF the
ARTIST
- Copyright Nate Kryston @NateK78 New York, USA - 2013
Wantling
Hey there old timer,
How are things? Well, I just thought you
might like to know that I perused 7 on Style. Okay…okay.
Yeah, it was like a symphony with Thelonious and John.
Right, right, here it is, finally! A man with the juevos to say so.
Should have took it easy big fella,
that wine is good,
but,
mixing is fatal.
Hey, hey, hey, who are [we] to judge? Here I sit, Jaeger
on the rocks, life melting away,
my hero playing a fine tenor solo…
…life melting away.
So, the beat, the CHOP!
first rule of the three. I got it, man, dig it, man.
With the bushwa and the further efforts of filth
and stink,
the poet rides out with loud thunderous clap,
lightning bolt,
rain,
snow,
sleet,
sheets of sound,
sounds and sheets,
paper—kool, style.
—Style is one’s soul
—Style is one’s heart
—Style are eggs, bacon, and toast cooked to perfection and served
on a clean plate, with clean silverware, and napkin in the lap
with a mess left behind, grease on the stovetop,
pan and egg carton and bacon left out to rot,
eggshells loosely tossed…
—Style speaks more volumes than one can express in a lifetime
—Style distances itself from form/structure
—Style – the backbone of the individual
Okay. You take care big fella. Don’t waste the moment with
drab inconsistency. See you soon. We’ll talk more later.
- Copyright Nate Kryston @NateK78 New York, USA - 2013
nothing wrong with Hemingway
Hemingway
we are all familiar with
and if you are not
then
it
is
quite
simply
your
loss
yes
he drank
because
he was that way
people today
frown upon that
they say
great writer
but a filthy-drunken louse
have we become that blind
Hemingway drank
at times
drunk before noon
some writers
and artist
bumped heroin
and so what
it is always
the work
that matters
and nothing more
- Copyright Nate Kryston @NateK78 New York, USA - 2013
blue Trane, keep on, keep on
what was that you said
melody
harmony
color and complexity
simplicity
had a good run my friend
you really showed them
showed them all
yeah yeah
you and Elvin
shit that did it
the infamous duo
right in the mix of innovation
you did it my brother
you went from student
to innovator
Alto
Soprano
Tenor
Clarinet
blue you
Blue Trane
bye-bye Sonny
take it easy Bird
the Trane is comin
round the bend
hard and fast
w/o rest
for those that tried to follow
have gravely failed
you had the courage for exploration
many have mimicked your grand style
but remain nothing more
than a the side-show act
now remember
the man with the longer legs
takes the giant steps
Blue Trane
- Copyright Nate Kryston @NateK78 New York, USA - 2013
Biography: I am a writer and freelance photographer from New York. When I am not typing poetry on my 1970 Smith Corona Galaxie II, manual-portable typewriter, you will find me on the streets with my camera in hand. Writing has been a passion of mine for as long as I can remember--it has replaced the beating of my heart. I also enjoy kayaking, hiking, reading, and plenty of wine.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
On Being Tricked By The Devil
He said you can’t hide from love.
I said oh yes I can.
He said you can’t, I said I can
and so it went on
long into the night and part
of the next day, until I was blind
with rage and dying to pee/sleep/eat, but damned
if I’ll give way to a black and white mind.
To prove my point I hid myself
in the darkest recesses of the world. Moved
with the kind of filth no girl would dare to
(unless she had a point to prove).
And it sucked me down, in, under - I drowned
and burned and screamed and stank,
howled, growled and begged for mercy
realising, at last, who it was I had to thank
for this brutal hell, this loveless place. Alright -
you win! Damn, you’re good, I choked and cried.
Now please, let me go. I don’t think so, said a voice
that sounded like mine and came from inside.
- Copyright Dill Darling @DillDarling68 London, United Kingdom - 2013
Unrest In The Kennels
Today could be one of those days
when cats ride in cars with the wind in their ears
and dogs don’t give a damn
for people-pleasing.
Inspired by the boldness of their pets, men
will leave for work without a tie. Overnight
the collar will become obsolete, by the end of the week
the suit will follow.
Telephone salesmen will croon
I just called to say I Iove you
and doctors confess -
the drugs don’t work.
We’ll see chicken shed doors left ajar,
electric fences powered down,
televisions hurled from hotel windows
and people stepping outside.
Women will come together to reinvent cheese
with nothing but cheese in it.
Young people might just hitchhike again
and there’ll be plenty more fish in the clear blue sea.
Yes, my friends, today
could be one of those days.
If only cats and dogs could be relied upon
to stop scratching and spearhead a revolution.
- Copyright Dill Darling @DillDarling68 London, United Kingdom - 2013
Biography: Dill Darling is a writer and artist (and a few other things) currently living in London and the Cotswolds, England. Her poems have been published in a number of magazines and anthologies and she’s been nominated for the Forward Prize for Poetry 2013. She’s currently working towards publication of a pamphlet while also making surreal collages of hybrid human-animal creatures, re-learning to play piano, and messing around with some slightly odd song lyrics.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Biography: A nineteen year old form Pakistan, who has found art to be her best companion since childhood. I find beauty & inspiration in everything around me. I'm pretty much self-taught, since I never got to attend any kind of art classes. My interests include Sketching, Painting, Digital Art, Photography, Embroidery & Baking. I keep posting my artworks & crafts on my blog: http://mahoorjamal94.wordpress.com
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
As the world breathes in
He breathes out
And with that he whispers
His last words
That get carried away
And lost with the wind
Only to be found
Rusted and broken
from all those years of lonely.
- Copyright Sultan Abdul Haseeb @hasee6 Islamabad, Pakistan - 2013
Biography: Just another dreamer in this world who wants to stand out from the crowd. Have been writing since I was 9 years old and published in various international magazines. Blogs at www.sultanabdulhaseeb.wordpress.com
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
a cup of tea my brother
hello my friend
it is okay
you know
I am here for you
as you fight
it bothers me
the sneak-thief of death
to visit you
as he has done
riddling you
with his vulgar love
to hear you tell me
that
you
are
too young
to die
I cry dear brother
these tears that drip
these eyes
that leak
as you tell me
the illness has engulfed
and I am without words
my brother
I am cold
shivering
and this thing is real
and this thing is real
as are these tears now slipping
down my neck
where are you brother
do not leave
we shall fight
together
for in this life
we are drowning
in the forever high tide
by the undertow
as we are pulled by the dying moon
scorched by a euthanized sun
pointing the finger at no one
for these things occur
as they do
sorrowfully brother
that death
has
reached out
to you
here I sit
awaiting
your last breath
or your first
so that maybe
when you return
full circle
full cycle
a cup of tea my brother
a little jazz
a toast to a new life
and all things grand
yes
to all things grand
- Copyright Nate Kryston @NateK78 New York, USA - 2013
ArT
a FoRM oF eXPrEssioN THAT
cONstiTUTes
A
SINgUlar/PersonAL
sTyLe
WHICH
MANIfests
the idealistic
VIEWpoint
of EITHER
inTErnAL
exTErnAL
spIRitUAl
emOTionAL
OR A CULMINATION
of EVERYTHING
poinTED
within
the
heart
mind
and
body
OF the
ARTIST
- Copyright Nate Kryston @NateK78 New York, USA - 2013
Wantling
Hey there old timer,
How are things? Well, I just thought you
might like to know that I perused 7 on Style. Okay…okay.
Yeah, it was like a symphony with Thelonious and John.
Right, right, here it is, finally! A man with the juevos to say so.
Should have took it easy big fella,
that wine is good,
but,
mixing is fatal.
Hey, hey, hey, who are [we] to judge? Here I sit, Jaeger
on the rocks, life melting away,
my hero playing a fine tenor solo…
…life melting away.
So, the beat, the CHOP!
first rule of the three. I got it, man, dig it, man.
With the bushwa and the further efforts of filth
and stink,
the poet rides out with loud thunderous clap,
lightning bolt,
rain,
snow,
sleet,
sheets of sound,
sounds and sheets,
paper—kool, style.
—Style is one’s soul
—Style is one’s heart
—Style are eggs, bacon, and toast cooked to perfection and served
on a clean plate, with clean silverware, and napkin in the lap
with a mess left behind, grease on the stovetop,
pan and egg carton and bacon left out to rot,
eggshells loosely tossed…
—Style speaks more volumes than one can express in a lifetime
—Style distances itself from form/structure
—Style – the backbone of the individual
Okay. You take care big fella. Don’t waste the moment with
drab inconsistency. See you soon. We’ll talk more later.
- Copyright Nate Kryston @NateK78 New York, USA - 2013
nothing wrong with Hemingway
Hemingway
we are all familiar with
and if you are not
then
it
is
quite
simply
your
loss
yes
he drank
because
he was that way
people today
frown upon that
they say
great writer
but a filthy-drunken louse
have we become that blind
Hemingway drank
at times
drunk before noon
some writers
and artist
bumped heroin
and so what
it is always
the work
that matters
and nothing more
- Copyright Nate Kryston @NateK78 New York, USA - 2013
blue Trane, keep on, keep on
what was that you said
melody
harmony
color and complexity
simplicity
had a good run my friend
you really showed them
showed them all
yeah yeah
you and Elvin
shit that did it
the infamous duo
right in the mix of innovation
you did it my brother
you went from student
to innovator
Alto
Soprano
Tenor
Clarinet
blue you
Blue Trane
bye-bye Sonny
take it easy Bird
the Trane is comin
round the bend
hard and fast
w/o rest
for those that tried to follow
have gravely failed
you had the courage for exploration
many have mimicked your grand style
but remain nothing more
than a the side-show act
now remember
the man with the longer legs
takes the giant steps
Blue Trane
- Copyright Nate Kryston @NateK78 New York, USA - 2013
Biography: I am a writer and freelance photographer from New York. When I am not typing poetry on my 1970 Smith Corona Galaxie II, manual-portable typewriter, you will find me on the streets with my camera in hand. Writing has been a passion of mine for as long as I can remember--it has replaced the beating of my heart. I also enjoy kayaking, hiking, reading, and plenty of wine.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
On Being Tricked By The Devil
He said you can’t hide from love.
I said oh yes I can.
He said you can’t, I said I can
and so it went on
long into the night and part
of the next day, until I was blind
with rage and dying to pee/sleep/eat, but damned
if I’ll give way to a black and white mind.
To prove my point I hid myself
in the darkest recesses of the world. Moved
with the kind of filth no girl would dare to
(unless she had a point to prove).
And it sucked me down, in, under - I drowned
and burned and screamed and stank,
howled, growled and begged for mercy
realising, at last, who it was I had to thank
for this brutal hell, this loveless place. Alright -
you win! Damn, you’re good, I choked and cried.
Now please, let me go. I don’t think so, said a voice
that sounded like mine and came from inside.
- Copyright Dill Darling @DillDarling68 London, United Kingdom - 2013
Unrest In The Kennels
Today could be one of those days
when cats ride in cars with the wind in their ears
and dogs don’t give a damn
for people-pleasing.
Inspired by the boldness of their pets, men
will leave for work without a tie. Overnight
the collar will become obsolete, by the end of the week
the suit will follow.
Telephone salesmen will croon
I just called to say I Iove you
and doctors confess -
the drugs don’t work.
We’ll see chicken shed doors left ajar,
electric fences powered down,
televisions hurled from hotel windows
and people stepping outside.
Women will come together to reinvent cheese
with nothing but cheese in it.
Young people might just hitchhike again
and there’ll be plenty more fish in the clear blue sea.
Yes, my friends, today
could be one of those days.
If only cats and dogs could be relied upon
to stop scratching and spearhead a revolution.
- Copyright Dill Darling @DillDarling68 London, United Kingdom - 2013
Biography: Dill Darling is a writer and artist (and a few other things) currently living in London and the Cotswolds, England. Her poems have been published in a number of magazines and anthologies and she’s been nominated for the Forward Prize for Poetry 2013. She’s currently working towards publication of a pamphlet while also making surreal collages of hybrid human-animal creatures, re-learning to play piano, and messing around with some slightly odd song lyrics.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
- Copyright Jenny Pearson @PearsonReport Vancouver, BC, Canada - April 2013
TAKE TIME
look, so very deep
in and out
take time
to feel
your
heart
beat
look, so very far
left and right
take time
to find
your
soul
look, so very high
up and around
take time
to seek
your
voice
together they come
all around you
take time
to be
one
take time
for you
- Copyright Jenny Pearson @PearsonReport Vancouver, BC, Canada - April 2013
LOSS
crying, weeping, sad
alone
the wind contorts
whistling, whispering, chillingly bold
still
as in stillness?
no, just still
be still, sit so to be forgotten
soon shadows close in
holding tightly
the fears of loss
where did it go
a precious moment
lost
soft grey fills the space
where you once sat
next to me
not long ago
____________
Hard day today; just needed to close my eyes and let my thoughts drift aimlessly across the letters; stringing them together subconsciously, like a weaver after years of labour, not needing to look; the weight of the words rush forth like a river echoing the tears falling on silk.
- Copyright Jenny Pearson @PearsonReport Vancouver, BC, Canada - June 2012
Biography: Back in 2010, I started Pearson Report (www.PearsonReport.ca) a blog where "I write about things I see, things I do and things that pique my curiosity." Having dabbled in stand-up comedy I enjoy interjecting humour in my writing. I have participated in the Blogging from A-Z Challenge for the past three years where my creative writing gets a real workout. In the fall of 2012 I enrolled in art classes - and found a long buried passion come to life; I discovered my love of portrait drawing. For me, poetry writing is a form of art whereby I try to draw a picture of what I am feeling using words; I find it a beautiful complement to my drawing.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Learning Now
Now is all there is
And I want it!
There are days that I am
So absolutely consumed
By what might be coming,
Or the way I screwed up in the past,
Or my longing, aching heart,
That I miss the way the sun is shining
Through the bare limbs of my oak tree.
During the last meteor shower
I went into my yard in my robe and slippers.
I breathed in the cold air
And watched the universe
Perform. Her. Magic.
The moment was perfect.
The "now" took my breath away.
I want that feeling.
I want to share it with you
Always.
- Copyright Lauree Ashcom @LaureeAshcom Alabama, USA - 2013
Even the Lake Mourns
The lake mourns
Because one who loved it
Has gone.
I wonder if, in some way,
He is now a part of it
Miraculously and wholly.
Is the mourning
A part of the process
Of becoming more beautiful,
More perfect?
Tomorrow the sun may shine
On a mirrored surface
With only the occasional breaching fish
To disturb its perfection.
And the joy of the sky
Will echo back
And sing.
- Copyright Lauree Ashcom @LaureeAshcom Alabama, USA - 2013
Biography: Lauree Ashcom is a Southern artist and poet who also writes under a pseudonym. Follow her on Twitter because her life is changing and her new blog will reflect the changes.
TAKE TIME
look, so very deep
in and out
take time
to feel
your
heart
beat
look, so very far
left and right
take time
to find
your
soul
look, so very high
up and around
take time
to seek
your
voice
together they come
all around you
take time
to be
one
take time
for you
- Copyright Jenny Pearson @PearsonReport Vancouver, BC, Canada - April 2013
LOSS
crying, weeping, sad
alone
the wind contorts
whistling, whispering, chillingly bold
still
as in stillness?
no, just still
be still, sit so to be forgotten
soon shadows close in
holding tightly
the fears of loss
where did it go
a precious moment
lost
soft grey fills the space
where you once sat
next to me
not long ago
____________
Hard day today; just needed to close my eyes and let my thoughts drift aimlessly across the letters; stringing them together subconsciously, like a weaver after years of labour, not needing to look; the weight of the words rush forth like a river echoing the tears falling on silk.
- Copyright Jenny Pearson @PearsonReport Vancouver, BC, Canada - June 2012
Biography: Back in 2010, I started Pearson Report (www.PearsonReport.ca) a blog where "I write about things I see, things I do and things that pique my curiosity." Having dabbled in stand-up comedy I enjoy interjecting humour in my writing. I have participated in the Blogging from A-Z Challenge for the past three years where my creative writing gets a real workout. In the fall of 2012 I enrolled in art classes - and found a long buried passion come to life; I discovered my love of portrait drawing. For me, poetry writing is a form of art whereby I try to draw a picture of what I am feeling using words; I find it a beautiful complement to my drawing.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Learning Now
Now is all there is
And I want it!
There are days that I am
So absolutely consumed
By what might be coming,
Or the way I screwed up in the past,
Or my longing, aching heart,
That I miss the way the sun is shining
Through the bare limbs of my oak tree.
During the last meteor shower
I went into my yard in my robe and slippers.
I breathed in the cold air
And watched the universe
Perform. Her. Magic.
The moment was perfect.
The "now" took my breath away.
I want that feeling.
I want to share it with you
Always.
- Copyright Lauree Ashcom @LaureeAshcom Alabama, USA - 2013
Even the Lake Mourns
The lake mourns
Because one who loved it
Has gone.
I wonder if, in some way,
He is now a part of it
Miraculously and wholly.
Is the mourning
A part of the process
Of becoming more beautiful,
More perfect?
Tomorrow the sun may shine
On a mirrored surface
With only the occasional breaching fish
To disturb its perfection.
And the joy of the sky
Will echo back
And sing.
- Copyright Lauree Ashcom @LaureeAshcom Alabama, USA - 2013
Biography: Lauree Ashcom is a Southern artist and poet who also writes under a pseudonym. Follow her on Twitter because her life is changing and her new blog will reflect the changes.
- Copyright Lauree Ashcom @LaureeAshcom Alabama, USA - 2013
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The Gossip
Her face hangs long
and narrow with
eyes clacking
back and forth,
left to right,
tick to tock,
Keeping measures,
meters of importance,
social grace,
water cooler rumors,
her mind counting down,
her gears winding
up,
turning moments
into memories,
tying minutes to
her tongue, waiting
to open her mouth
and let it rock,
back and forth,
left to right,
tick to tock.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The Gossip
Her face hangs long
and narrow with
eyes clacking
back and forth,
left to right,
tick to tock,
Keeping measures,
meters of importance,
social grace,
water cooler rumors,
her mind counting down,
her gears winding
up,
turning moments
into memories,
tying minutes to
her tongue, waiting
to open her mouth
and let it rock,
back and forth,
left to right,
tick to tock.
- Copyright Ripley DeArcos @SansArmor Illinois, USA - 2013
Monday Mantra
I will not
scream at stop lights
glare at coffee pots
nor envy my office mates new
computer screen.
I will not think
about hiding tacks on seats
turning power breakers off
of my failed expectations
and where they could have taken me.
I will
turn on fifth street
take the stairs on the way up
straighten up my desk and, maybe,
wash out my coffee cup (for once).
I will think
of how this is helping
of where I am going
of when I will get there
and what time I get off.
I will
learn from my mistakes which
I will not
be stupid enough to make again.
I will
remember all my hopes and dreams and
I will not
ever lose sight of them.
- Copyright Ripley DeArcos @SansArmor Illinois, USA - 2013
Biography: Coming from the cornfields of Illinois, USA, Ripley DeArcos divides her time between writing poetry, short fiction, and blogging at her blog A is for Amuseless (amuseless.wordpress.com). Through all of her writing, she often highlights the amusing points of life with a snarky though positive tone summing up her motto that ‘life is far too serious to take the small things so seriously’. When not poking fun at some aspect of life, she spends the rest of her time working towards her bachelor’s degree in Communications or being an avid cupcake aficionado.
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that honey
My insides, you're right,
words that are thick in her chapstick
beware!
I feel pro-pressed lately
On top of an iron on top of the good universe
words moistened by the stamp of honey sludge get on me though, plush sweat in the blankets of lords.
I guess they get the makers' pounce, that comes from their by-our-universe-re-and-re-and-re-nowned knees.
Their smooth knees,
their quick knees,
their private kneeling
in the holy corners of her blankness
be careful not to swallow
(that goes for both of us)
- Copyright Oscar Soucy, Kansas City, Missouri, USA - 2013
lasting
we lay out
one over the other
so close our noses bleed.
one of our long nails peels us apart.
whose?
- Copyright Oscar Soucy, Kansas City, Missouri, USA - 2013
I thought an angel spoke to me while I was faithfully roasting in her furnace nooks. It's cigar breathed belch decree trumpeted the truth that inside her I knew her heart to it's cavities' depths, and throbbing in our Cool Whipped bodies sequined with sugar kiss flurries an understanding that our souls are hosing off sin's rot Satan's radio nails clenching lustfully, just as her meek grip inherits the curls of my hair. Cast to the angel's minty words' easy toothpaste sauna after orgasm, dressed up wet for Church, I flipped The Lord on to the television, and in communion closed my eyes and skated a prayer over her frictionless hip tide. We sighed our love's holiness on each other's lips, it's goodness consummated there.
- Copyright Oscar Soucy, Kansas City, Missouri, USA - 2013
Biography: My name is Oscar Soucy; I am 19 and am from Kansas City, Missouri. I am a poet, a musician, and a visual artist. To me art is the second most important innovation that humans have developed, and my goal is to take myself as far as I can go as an artist in my pursuit to figure out just exactly what it is I was made to produce. I know I won't ever figure it out, but I think that is the point of it all, not just art but life in general. Also guess what? I love humans more than I like my own life. They are the most beautiful thing on the planet and I wish I could marry every last one of them, but alas, there are too many.
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Slipping away.
Little by little as all subsides, I hold onto the familiar space,
Walking on a similar pace, Letting everything go.
Little by little.
Second by second it slips away, blurring into an abyss,
So dark it becomes, unknown to eyes, disappearing into a void.
Second by second.
Page by page, as the memories flood, meaningless,
Don’t they become? Fading are the words that adorned the sheets.
Page by page.
Color by color, it washes away, losing charm as they become,
Nothing other than hidden grays. Pale and dreary, as if they decay.
Color by color.
Skin by skin, bone by bone, the muscles chew off as nothing I form.
A carcass of naught that now rests, only in deeds, only in minds.
Thought by thought.
- Copyright Momina Latif @mominalatif Pakistan - 2013
Lost and Gone
Like a silhouette,
In candle light.
He stood out
But never shined.
Ducking his head,
With shame, remorse.
An evil smirk
Spreading across
The face paled.
The blood flowed
Seeping through
The murky snow.
One last time,
The eyes close.
A single tear
Of regret and loss.
A chilly wind,
And he’s gone.
- Copyright Momina Latif @mominalatif Pakistan - 2013
TO EVERYONE, THEIR OWN
For all it was a curse, an unattainable destiny.
But then, maybe it was a blessing,
Bestowed on only a few.
For me it you it was joy, a reason to smile,
But then, for the rest it was just the sky
Crying it all out.
For some it was a path straighter than any,
But then, there were bends further ahead,
When our road was clear.
For most it was claustrophobic and confined,
But then, for them it was different;
Where they were alive.
For us it was melancholy, sorrow and sadness.
But then for some, it was only then,
That they smiled.
- Copyright Momina Latif @mominalatif Pakistan - 2013
Biography: An eighteen year old from Pakistan who finds solace in writing. I am a speck among other specks. Distinct and special just like the rest. http://momina17.blogspot.com/
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Waves swirling, crashing
on the beach. A distant crow
calls, haunting my dreams.
- Copyright April J.E. Gilliland @ajegilliland Victoria, British Columbia, Canada - 2013
Biography: April J.E. Gilliland spent a decade studying and practising law. Now she is a non-practising member of the Law Society of British Columbia. Currently she is focussing on fictional writing in the form of novels, poetry, and art including pottery and painting. She contributes her haiku poetry to her blog Haiku a Day and Twitter. She markets her pottery and paintings in and around Victoria, BC, through businesses and directly to businesses and individuals. View her poetry blog athttp://apriljegilliland.blogspot.ca/. Follow her on Twitter @ajegilliland.
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Never
Never…
Never to men
Whose heads
Held high
Filled with
Glory and pride
for all the tears they fought
for all the battles they cried
for every little in-between
that was never known
or even seen
For all the days
Unaccounted for
For the nights
Hidden behind
An empty door
Never……
Never to the brave
Who fell with honor
Never to the strong
How stood
With horror
Never….
will you be forgotten
Never…
Will you be taken for granted
Never
Will you be unloved
You battle because you have to
You battle for what you believe in
You battle for what is just
You believe in peace
And hope no child
Hurts like you do
But remember that
no matter what
you are not alone
And like the light that stands
At harbor
Your light will glow
No matter the storm
Nor fog or snow
Your light will shine
And with privilege be shown.
- Copyright Soad Hachami @jumping_cricket As Samawah, Iraq - 2013
Biography: Hello. My name is Soad Hachami. I am 25 years old and from As Samawah, Iraq. I love to read, write and dream of better days. My favourite authors are Edgar Allan Poe, Walt Whitman and William Shakespeare. You can read my poetry on the following blog site: soadhachami.wordpress.com.
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Silhouette
Stand before the great paladin
And cast your shadow, long and black.
See it mingle in long branches,
Twisting bitter in Winter Solstice
The wind asks vexing questions
As it struggles through your hair,
Causing the faintest ripple-crown
In the shadow you have grown.
Shout down the lane that opens inside of you
Call the beggars, tramps and whores
A ragged parade of rummy-tumblers,
An open mouth, now full of sores.
You vomit money as you gather
Debts once owed for shallow deeds
And say a prayer for rotting fathers
A diver’s paradise in coin fountain splendor.
Retrace your steps on silver-soles
Tip your cap and face down the sun.
Its light is fire; breaking blackness
Exposing the hole, where the blood pump had toiled.
Spread your skin over distant farmlands
Ripe, with cancer for a bark
A phoenix hears the raven calling
Sultry notes, a mouth-harp chorus.
Old blues in long coat and tall hat
Old scars coated with cream
Like stitching the equator with silk strings:
Her silhouette dances an impossible majick.
- Copyright Jeff Sloan @pyratebass Welland, Ontario, Canada - 2013
Biography: I was born in Whitby, Ontario Canada in 1979. I am a musician, a painter and a writer raising a family in the Niagara area. I have never taken an art or music class. For me, it is important to be self-taught, as I believe there is a purity of creativity that is preserved when an artist learns a craft on their own.
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Phobia without a Pause
I heard the FDNY vomiting its sound
my heart starts fast punching my chest
an earthquake flowing through my entire body
a condition of uneasiness is encircling me
I am thinking of terror robbing self-discipline
sweat of panic is trickling off my frighten face
a shortness of oxygen did not avoid me
anxiety is undeniably a wicked curse
I desperately am wishing to be deaf to all sirens
*
The baleful flashes made from siren
are my bullies
I never handled the noisy harassment well
the anxiety assaults weaken my pleasant mind
infected my brain with a mental turmoil
for which there is no known healing
crated my sociable strength
implanted a fear on my outside world
feeling paranoid like a crystal meth user
*
I am engineering holes so anxiety’s blood
could drip out of me
I am big failure on hypnotizing self
to abolish the overpowering fear that always corrupt my inner being
I am changing into self-abuser
to mend the fabric of my damaged brain
I am awake with counselor, therapist, and psychiatrist
all struggling to edit phobia episode
that was debuted by traumatic experience
*
A decade has played its show
I still have not been a non-afraid
to step out of this shade
The fear of siren is my recognized phobia
since the day
mother baptized her coat on lethal gasoline
since the day
mother put on coat
since the day
mother lit coat
since the day
mother adopted the shout of a desperate person to voice
“Wanna burn in earth’s hell, I have ruined my fine lord!”
since the day
I heard just sirens while mother was getting eaten by fire
since the day
mother got burnt to a dead corpse
- Copyright Ley Samdez @povertypod New York City, New York, USA - 2013
Biography: Ley Samdez is a poet. He hails from NYC. His current project is entitled "To Be Lost In The World." Check him out at leysamdez.tumblr.com
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Unlocking Which Door?
I have heard it said;
Education is the key.
Yet, I am left to wonder,
Is it, like beauty,
Dependent upon the beholder?
I have also heard it said:
It is worse to be sighted and lack vision, than it is to be blind.
But what is to be my beacon?
Staggering through alleys,
The darkest valleys,
With the "guide" programed into our impressionable minds,
One is yet to find the door to unlock with all -
This?
This?
This what really?
Words to slide off one's tongue like a drop of dew down a blade of grass?
Do you recall the subtle encouragement to be crabs in a barrel,
Pulling down our kin to be top of class?
Cream of crop?
While we truly rot.
As we forget to stretch our limbs at play,
For we are punished for undefined sins as the sun fades away.
As the yellow star bids good day till another 'marrow
The night awakens more sorrow.
If only these ghosts would massage my tired neck,
Maybe then i wouldn't have to drink away my regret.
Maybe I should have sat up a bit more straight.
Banish the distractions of youth,
Prayed and studied with more faith.
Then, maybe,my back wouldn't be eternally stooped,
Beneath the weight of too little resources,
To feebly fend off life's too expensive forces.
Oh, my little one,
Christened by mommy's tears,
Bullied by monstrous fears.
Should I impart this nugget of the use of education?
They say you are the future of the nation.
Though it seems you may have to grease a palm or two,
Pretend your morals are dead, or very few.
Perhaps I have already fallen in the trap,
For daily I tug you along to join the zombie masses.
Defy, my little one.
Fell the trees of deception.
Let the wind and sand teach you instead.
Unearth our hope.
- Copyright Ann-Marie Spence, Kingston, Jamaica - 2013
Dollies
Tipsy from these thoughts,
Having had one thought too many.
Dizzy
Walking along the orbit of my mind.
Stooping for a drink from the fountain of mental whispers,
I feel the first tug of being unraveled.
Quite like a child fondling with the hem of his shirt…
Up and out I go…
Further into the labyrinth of my mind.
Memories scattered across the lake confined behind my skull,
Much like water lilies lay poised atop a pond.
Like buoys, they collide into each other.
The psychedelic explosion projecting mirroring images of me.
A me nonparallel to her…
I suppose your insatiable appetite constantly gapes more is better…
Piling high your plate to suit your appetence.
Much like a hoarder,
A penchant for vulnerable china dolls.
A buffet of smiles and ripples of laughter,
The array of textures of skin beneath your finger tips.
Each a fresh field to sow false seeds of hope,
Each guarding a chimera of a heart you claim to share.
The more pieces scattered,
The less of you I have.
A sharp tug to hold me in place,
Poised and strong,
Kissed by beauty,
Wide smile,
Empty eyes.
Just another marionette in your odalisque.
- Copyright Ann-Marie Spence, Kingston, Jamaica - 2013
Biography: Everyone seems to have a definition of who I am, and who I should be. However, I am more than one's opinion; for there are many more facets to be discovered. Seeking to break down the chains of society's idiosyncrasies to find just who I am, and what I believe. I have never physically left this shore but I travel through reading, music is therapy to my thirsty soul. I want to be remembered as a young woman who steadily thrives to overcome. Always adorned with a quick smile and a helping hand. Endless possibility is trapped in this 5ft body.
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Springtime
She lives in springtime where all seems new
Where hearts reblossom at the first morning’s dew
Where green leafed buds shoot up from meadow grounds
And magic seems to be drifting all around
She lives in springtime where floral skirts dance
Where every scene depicts romance
Where sleeping beats rise once again
And children play in the afternoon rain
She lives in springtime with sunlit painted walls
Where all of winter’s problems now seem so very small
Howl
The old wind howled, repeating his name
Reminding him he was to blame
You sinful man! Oh fore shame!
How could you play such wicked games
She was not such and awful dame
Yet he broke her heart and left her shammed
All so her fortune he could claim
She knew she’d never be the same
For her love was true, not a game
But he took advantage all the same
Distressed, she set herself aflame
He fled from town feeling ashamed
But still his innocence he proclaimed
The wind cried, you are not tame
You stole her, love, life, and fame
I will avenge her by moaning your name
Let everyone know who’s to blame
Meadow Maiden
She is made of misty meadows and clover buds where babe fawn lay
Her favorite song is the bubbling brook that lulls her cares away
The sunlight on her freckled skin is the warmest friend she knows
On her head are wild seeds for flower crowns to grow
She is made of meadows where crickets tell her tales
And on sweet lilac breezes she lets her daydreams sail
- Copyright Adelaide Love @ladyadelaide Alberta, Canada - 2013
Biography: Adelaide Love is a ghost writer from West Africa, currently residing in Alberta, Canada. Though most of her work is published under the names of her clients, you can read her poems and short stories on her blog decembermonologue.wordpress.com.
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Constance
Your red takes my breath, stained, strained, I sway, you lay in suspender pain, I would take your place a thousand times as they drip you fake saline rain.
Each tube filled, twisted, listed, misted into messy roller coaster games. Uncontrollable cavities cascading, raising up and falling, aiding deventilated veins.
Rehydrating mistakes, sixteen hours too late, your breathing difficult, shallow, laboured, your beautiful face is glazed… an oxygen mask masks, hides, and diagnoses a fatal malaise.
Dismayed. Blistering burns, lace your smooth soft skin, pointing to unremedied septics, raging infections multiplying within. Unfailing indestructibility compromised, antibodies are being destroyed, emotions played upon by dark angels, deranged arrangement, plagued, voided, toyed.
There’s no collaboration in this twilight, your silent sunset approaches… Even the medication isn’t coping… unable to numb, stun, contain your hurt, we’re left with solemn hoping, quiet reflection and all the while Azrael flirts.
Your strong unwavering voice grazes, gasps, rasps, even faith escapes. Hazing yellow I kiss your cheek and whisper, you acknowledge my final wave, Be Strong I lipped, but it was deemed to be our final day. Ordained. His final say. Forsaking in dimmed light, poisoned by too many toxins, treacherous biting, hindsight, foresight, reciting.
Dazed. Crazed. Dawn breaks for us before first prayer, maximum medication appears to fail all avenues of critical care: consultations conclude the inconclusive virus is far too rare. Livid. Spare. Shock.
Fits of tears drop like igneous rocks.
Lost.
Request to acquiesce, consent denied for blue light fares, godly truths or satanic dares, scattering particles neither here nor there… It ends with rejecting resuscitation when you pass into the next phase, you rapidly continue to, continue to, continue to, fade, you melt into illumination we are forbidden to share… all of us trapped in stagnant magnetised limbo lair.
Memory. Sensory. Trajectory. Anaesthetised. Asleep. Your spirit, essence, your you disappearing into an invisible periphery only you can see.
I wish I could change how I feel, divert you from slipping away. Sedated consciousness, machinery deep, your heart beat ebbing clay. My soul fragments, breaks, shatters,,,, at the end of each and every, each and every, each and every single day.
I wait, and I pray, and I stay, for a way, to lay, my head by your hand again.
- Copyright Saiqa @babbledomia Location Undisclosed - 2013
Biography: A British-born Muslim growing up with English novels and tales of Arabic myth escaping the humdrum of the West Midlands. With a strict upbringing as the only young female, secretly writing poetry allowed a balanced sanity in a sheltered world. Saiqa completed a BA (Hons) in English Literature avoiding all the poetry modules to major in Critical Theory & Aesthetics.
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The Water Goddess
Full body, mind armoured
Impenetrable
Not numb, but frozen stiff
She approaches
Effortlessly, defenses fall
What magic is this?
Barely a chance to ask the question
A glance
My heart beats as if it was just born
She flows closer
Hands of ice begin to warm
She smiles and laughs
The iron thins
The water goddess takes my hand
Armour melts away
I am exposed
Raw
Full body, mind are hers
- Copyright Karl Schmidt @IoNPulse Vancouver, BC, Canada - 2013
Digital exclamation
A friendly greeting,
To all, forever exclaimed.
I have run!
I have performed my written duty!
I have a creator, and was instructed to do as I did.
As such, you see my greeting promptly.
A message for all the ages.
A rite of passage.
Hello, World!
I shall report back successfully.
Accompanying code the poem is based on:
#include <stdio.h>
int main()
{
printf("Hello, world!\n");
return 0;
}
- Copyright Karl Schmidt @IoNPulse Vancouver, BC, Canada - 2013
A simple loop
To i I say, be clear! You shall represent the number of none.
Once you reach the threshold, I shall cease.
And by my count, you shall increase by one.
Each time we go 'round, we shall emit that which you represent.
The user will see this, and to that end, a new line shall be written.
We shall check the threshold, and once expired, cease and return.
Accompanying code the poem is based on:
#include <stdio.h>
int main()
{
for( int i = 0; i < threshold; ++i )
{
printf( "%d\n", i );
}
return 0;
}
- Copyright Karl Schmidt @IoNPulse Vancouver, BC, Canada - 2013
Biography: Karl is a lifelong technologist, currently working in the video game industry. He is working on growing and expressing his creativity, and taking part in this poetry project is one of the ways he is achieving that. Karl lives with his inspirational wife Olya, and their uber-cute bunny Daisy.
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body numb
mind on hold
in tremor, the hands and voice
fingers and feet on ice
stomach churning
head spinning
lips dried out
once wet from passionate kisses
when will the ears have to hear,
or, the eyes read
what must have been long in process
how hot, the blaze on the corpse?
how deep, the cut in the heart?
- Copyright Hülya Yilmaz @HULYAYILMAZ4 State College, Pennsylvania, USA - 2013
sense of paralysis
gaps in comprehension
rapid heartbeat
dryness in the throat
the mouth as well
eyes flashing
one memory after another
gasping for air
as if stabs here and there
could never say goodbye
- Copyright Hülya Yilmaz @HULYAYILMAZ4 State College, Pennsylvania, USA - 2013
Untitled
yanma kalbim, ne olursun, yanma
senin gibi sevemeyenlere
alışkanlıklarına hayat diyenlere
rahatlık adına mutluluktan vazgeçenlere
biliyorum, perişansın, içten yandın
yoluna git, ne olursun, sen ancak öyle varsın
durmaz, bilirim, iner ard arda o alev yaşlar
günün birinde ama bu acı da yavaşlar
sanma ki, için hep böyle kavlar
eş ruhun bildin, sevgiye özünü verdin
göz kamaştıran bir serapmış meğer
yanma kalbim, ne olursun, yanma
artık ne farkeder?
sen sevdin, biteviye sevdin, ölesiye sevdin
günün birinde bu yanık ta geçer.
- Copyright Hülya Yilmaz @HULYAYILMAZ4 State College, Pennsylvania, USA - 2013
"Untitled" (Translated from Turkish by Hülya Yilmaz)
(Posted on storiesspace.com and WritersCafe.org with the title “a fireball of tears”)
Don’t be burning, oh heart;
don’t be yearning
for those who can’t afford a love like you,
mistake life for this and that routine,
hold on to joys so dull and mundane.
You are in misery,
burnt from the core.
They can’t possibly cease,
these fireball tears.
And yet, one hopeful day,
also this hurt will fade away.
Don’t be dismaying, oh heart:
You will not always be ablaze.
You took your other half as love,
devoted to it your innermost.
However mesmerizing it has been
A mere mirage is all that it was.
Don’t be yearning, oh heart;
don’t be burning.
You loved to self-annihilate
What difference does it make?
Someday, this burn, too, will abate.
- Copyright Hülya Yilmaz @HULYAYILMAZ4 State College, Pennsylvania, USA - 2013
Litanei
heute noch spielt sie litany
heute noch in seiner pråsenz
er, vor ihr; neben ihr; in ihr
sie, halb? nicht mehr
eins mit ihrem ganzen wesen
eins durch seine liebe
heute noch beherrscht sie doch
der verdacht:
war sie die liebe
seines lebens,
wie sie gedacht,
wie er gesagt
die er nie habe stårker gefühlt
ihr gegenüber nur?
oder bloss eine phase
eine glückliche aber doch nur eine phase...
das erste treffen
das dem ewigen abschied folgte
mit verspåtung
heute noch spielt sie litany
heute noch in seiner pråsenz
er, vor ihr; neben ihr; in ihr
du gehörst ihr, sah sie schwerleidend ein;
ich håtte mich dir nicht offenbaren sollen
haben wir’s nicht verdient, hat’s nicht unsere magische liebe?
die sanfteste versicherung in seinen worten
sowohl in seiner stimme:
keine andere, absolut keine andere
habe ich je so leidenschaftlich
lieben können wie dich
ich liebe dich
ich liebe dich
jedoch kamen aus ihm auch die worte
sowohl die stimme, die der trennung ihren brutalen ton gaben
wie? dachte sie, tag und nacht
tag und nacht
tag und nacht...
in jenen dunklen
einsamen
schmerzvollen
erbarmungslosen
ewig langen
trostlosen
stunden
wie?
kann er mich liebkosen
voll mit sehnen
voll mit gefühl
voll mit verlangen
voll mit leidenschaft
überwaeltigt mit liebe
mit ihrer pråsenz
mit seele und wesen
mit verstand und herz
wie dann?
kann er mich hinrichten
kaltblütig
ohne verweigern
ohne rücksicht
ohne nachdenken
ohne zögern
ohne seine sanftigkeit
wie dann?
kann er sachlich
hången auf mich
das zweite todesurteil:
ich kann’s nicht anders!
ich wollt’s nie anders!
gewöhn dich dran!
verteufelt human!
verpfutschtes leben noch daran!
wie långer muss sie noch leiden
sich von diesem leiden zu scheiden
wann ist’s genug
wann ist’s getan?
heute noch spielt sie litany
heute noch als ob in seiner pråsenz
als ob er, vor ihr; neben ihr; in ihr
was aber schmerzvoller...
der verdacht, der erbarmungslose verdacht...
seine worte sowohl seine tat
keine andere, absolut keine andere
habe ich je so leidenschaftlich
lieben können wie dich
...all dies sei nur erdacht...
- Copyright Hülya Yilmaz @HULYAYILMAZ4 State College, Pennsylvania, USA - 2013
litany (Translated from German by Hülya Yilmaz)
today still
she and litany
today still
in his presence
he, before her; next to her; in her
she, halved? no more
one with her entire
being wedded in his love
yet, today still
doubts overcome her:
was she the love of his life,
how she assumed,
as he had worded
the one love etched in him
one he only had for her,
ever so much stronger now –
or, was it a mere phase
an overjoyous one
but still a mere phase…
the first encounter
after the eternal farewell
with grave delay
today still
she and litany
today still in his presence
he, before her; next to her; in her
you belong to her, said out loud her immense pain;
should not have confessed to you
Have we not earned it; has not our loyal love?
softest assurance in his words
his voice as well:
No other, absolutely no other
have I been able to love as I have you
I love you
I so love you.
Yet, also the admittance exited his lips
the brutal tone of the lurking departure
How?
She dwelt, day and night
day and night
day and night…
in those dark
aching
lonely
cruel
hours long as eternity
ever so merciless
How?
could he caress me so
with immense yearning
pained emotions
through such passion
overwhelmed by love
in her presence
soul and body
mind and heart
How then?
condemn me
in cold blood
with no hesitation
no after thought
without empathy
how then
serenely
sentence me
to the unliving
all over again?
I can’t do anything else.
I could never intend it to.
You must get used to it.
For the mislead, forgive me.
darned, you, human!
you, wasted life!
how much longer must you suffer
for this agony to part
when is it enough?
when is it done?
today still
she and litany
today still as if in his presence
as were he before her; next to her; in her
what is more hurtful yet
the doubt, that relentless one…
for his conduct, his words
no other, absolutely no other
have I been able to love as I have you
I love you
I so love you
…to have been all a mere dream up
- Copyright Hülya Yilmaz @HULYAYILMAZ4 State College, Pennsylvania, USA - 2013
Free
A life of convenience. Over 4000 square feet.
Privileged. Secured. Drawn, his future’s map.
Dark window covers.
Tinted windows.
Dark shutters.
Then...
There is you.
My love on you;
your love and you;
the skin-tight you.
A gift nearby
yet from afar,
where the sun wakes up the sea,
the sea tucks in the sun.
Yearning, unceasing…
Yes. Oh yes.
The sun does set.
But…
it rises again.
- Copyright Hülya Yilmaz @HULYAYILMAZ4 State College, Pennsylvania, USA - 2013
Biography: Just another traveler who happens to hold the name hülya yılmaz and the hope to be read at sometime – if not here, then at dolunaylaben.wordpress.com.
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A Cease In The Silence Of Night
The hushed tranquil room
of the mislaid memoirs, and I –
Always usher one another,
in the intense silence of night…
When the pitter pat of rain
from the mighty sky sings –
The ditty of many tales,
My heart begins to ding;
the warmth of deserted love,
The ache of past reminiscences,
The snivel in the air,
And sighs in my breathe…
I sit with empty eyes
A blank sheet in front of me,
And the mind so vacant;
From my numbed fingers, suddenly
Falls that valued asset of mine –
The pen so esteemed…
Lost in my aimlessness
I gaze at the stars;
Those twinkle, shine and lustrous,
My ears snoop around;
The creepy yowls of wind,
My smoldering flesh feels;
The coldness in environs,
The rain drops splash
Brutally against my cheeks;
Piercing into the bruises
And rotting the wounds…
But I feel frozen,
In this hour of twinge
For someone, somewhere is –
Dying in the flames;
Of severance and deceit,
Of rioter and disgust,
And the snuffle of broken trust…
Summarily passes a wave;
Of insight in my soul
And I empathize,
The generous sky is sniveling
On this malicious parting,
Of those two paramours,
Of love so devoted
And warmth so sedated…
Ah’ the throb stings my heart
Suddenly a breathe is missed;
That follows a chain, of all broken beats;
There ends a story;
Of parted worship and adore,
It marks a cease;
Of the soul much deceived…
- Copyright Hira Nazir @HiraNazir23 Location Undisclosed - 2013
Over a cup of coffee, with the strings of guitar!
the lulled bleak night -
She sat lone;
With her past,
And echoing tunes of -
That melodic bare guitar.
Over a steaming cup of coffee,
She puffed her miseries -
With a deep sore sigh,
That tore her pectus,
and crippled the soul.
Lost in the nullity,
Her fingers moved -
To and fro, over the rusted strings
And bounced in the desolate vibe
was a glum lorn symphony.
Like an old photo album,
The tunes sang to her;
All the lullabies of her lose,
The dingy murmurs
and delusive laughter.
Caught in the whistling vibe,
On the road to nostalgia
She traveled silently;
Bare footed and broken-heart,
Like a lost sobbing traveler.
Abruptly was she shaken,
Off her fictive fantasy,
When a silent throbbing tune -
Of her dead mute heart was stricken,
Against the numbed cold sentiments.
A dead dim glare shone -
From her solitude blue bubble,
And taking in the warmth of burnt umber,
She felt the truth, deep down herself;
For in real the brutal misery is,
Dying deeply inside thy spirit
while dwelling forged in appearance.
- Copyright Hira Nazir @HiraNazir23 Location Undisclosed - 2013
Biography: A very naive poet and not-so-adept writer who has been writing since the age of seven. I find solace in writing and tried my luck in every genre of literature. I might be a very ignorant writer who can not create exquisite pieces but yes, whatever I do write is to the best of my ability. Vintage stuff attracts me. I find speech in the unspoken too and blank sheets and canvases fascinate as well. I can apprehend the untold stories well and can continue the told tales, too. Somehow, I am a good orator. Give me the good company of words and I will love you forever. Words, books, my writings, my speeches, rhetoric, syllables - all are my best friends. Believe me, I am a Healer! =) http://hiranazir66.wordpress.com/
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Revolution Spoken
As it is written
Tongues bitten
Hearts and minds smitten
Made before the earth and Heaven
From the beginning until the end of time
Meant to be the stars that shine
The future was mine
Like angels we were divine
Fulfilled broken promises
That were written from Revelation to Genesis
Redemption was the emphasis
Temptation a crisis
Death was an incurable diagnosis
Forgive us for our sins
We got God's CROWNING and we are the eternal
queens and kings
My soul shouts and sings
These words so truthful
Truth a spoonful
Heaven a place placed on pages written in black
Torn pages from the Book of Life
As it is spoken
By destiny we have been chosen
Souls, hopes, dreams have been broken
Joyous light has been stolen
From our dreams we've been awoken
Silence has swollen
Words are a token
In true rhymes
In lines that take me high
No word is a lie
Fantasies flow
Silent whispers echo
And our voices bellow
- Copyright Tebogo Mokhele @Mozes_ISSUE Soweto, South Africa - 2013
Stars in my eyes
And you can see the
Stars in my eyes
Windows of my soul scared
By the lies and cries
But I know I'll see the sun rise
You're blinded by visions of my demise
Sordid realities flash back painful memories of life and you
Mind's eye playback dreams fantasy of futures hopefully true
As you can see my heart and soul's pain though silent bitter rains
Glint glisten glittering undying passionate fires
Unseen desires
Eyes burdened with unanswered why's
Sights of the old and wise
You've seen where tomorrow lies
You've seen the stars in my eyes
You've seen Heaven and eternal skies
I hope you see the stars in my eyes
Before you see flash lights, lime lights, spot lights
Shining bright in my eyes
- Copyright Tebogo Mokhele @Mozes_ISSUE Soweto, South Africa - 2013
Tall Jozi*
Tall Jozi, a place where my soul, inspiration and life intertwines with others
Tall Jozi most infamous
Africa's most glorious.
Tall Jozi with:
Money makers
Body shakers
La breakers
Skyscrapers
Advertising, tantalizing papers
Broken dream and hope chasers
Givers and takers
City racers
Different races and faces
Summer sun shining embraces
Notorious places
Cheap corner bakers
Invaders and real fakers
Tall Jozi (with) retailing
No place in here for smooth sailing
Tall Jozi to those who come
And souls forever gone
Those who come with hope all alone
Hustling hands as hard as the concrete jungle stone
A distant and foreign home
Remembering home while home is in the
Dark nights, street lights cold
Heights of success in offices so forlorn
This is Jozi
*Jozi - common name for Johannesburg
- Copyright Tebogo Mokhele @Mozes_ISSUE Soweto, South Africa - 2013
Biography: Tebogo Mokhele commonly known as "ISSUE" was born in Soweto, S.A in 1991 and raised by my grandmother. I grew up as a shy, quiet but also opinionated boy. Through life in search of ways to express myself, deep, personal, interesting and observant thoughts and feelings I wrote my first poem in 2003 before entering high school. After writing my first two poems I developed a passion for writing stories, poems, essays, a bit of rapping and wants to eventually work in the media and entertainment industry. I have a growing collection of essays, poems and short stories currently unpublished. I'm currently studying communication science and psychology. I'm also currently writing a fictional series that I hope will get published soon. My writing style is creative, perspective, reflective, spontaneous, personal and has been described as touching and inspiring. I am inspired by a lot of things and people but mostly my close group of friends who support and love my work.
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Monday Mantra
I will not
scream at stop lights
glare at coffee pots
nor envy my office mates new
computer screen.
I will not think
about hiding tacks on seats
turning power breakers off
of my failed expectations
and where they could have taken me.
I will
turn on fifth street
take the stairs on the way up
straighten up my desk and, maybe,
wash out my coffee cup (for once).
I will think
of how this is helping
of where I am going
of when I will get there
and what time I get off.
I will
learn from my mistakes which
I will not
be stupid enough to make again.
I will
remember all my hopes and dreams and
I will not
ever lose sight of them.
- Copyright Ripley DeArcos @SansArmor Illinois, USA - 2013
Biography: Coming from the cornfields of Illinois, USA, Ripley DeArcos divides her time between writing poetry, short fiction, and blogging at her blog A is for Amuseless (amuseless.wordpress.com). Through all of her writing, she often highlights the amusing points of life with a snarky though positive tone summing up her motto that ‘life is far too serious to take the small things so seriously’. When not poking fun at some aspect of life, she spends the rest of her time working towards her bachelor’s degree in Communications or being an avid cupcake aficionado.
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that honey
My insides, you're right,
words that are thick in her chapstick
beware!
I feel pro-pressed lately
On top of an iron on top of the good universe
words moistened by the stamp of honey sludge get on me though, plush sweat in the blankets of lords.
I guess they get the makers' pounce, that comes from their by-our-universe-re-and-re-and-re-nowned knees.
Their smooth knees,
their quick knees,
their private kneeling
in the holy corners of her blankness
be careful not to swallow
(that goes for both of us)
- Copyright Oscar Soucy, Kansas City, Missouri, USA - 2013
lasting
we lay out
one over the other
so close our noses bleed.
one of our long nails peels us apart.
whose?
- Copyright Oscar Soucy, Kansas City, Missouri, USA - 2013
I thought an angel spoke to me while I was faithfully roasting in her furnace nooks. It's cigar breathed belch decree trumpeted the truth that inside her I knew her heart to it's cavities' depths, and throbbing in our Cool Whipped bodies sequined with sugar kiss flurries an understanding that our souls are hosing off sin's rot Satan's radio nails clenching lustfully, just as her meek grip inherits the curls of my hair. Cast to the angel's minty words' easy toothpaste sauna after orgasm, dressed up wet for Church, I flipped The Lord on to the television, and in communion closed my eyes and skated a prayer over her frictionless hip tide. We sighed our love's holiness on each other's lips, it's goodness consummated there.
- Copyright Oscar Soucy, Kansas City, Missouri, USA - 2013
Biography: My name is Oscar Soucy; I am 19 and am from Kansas City, Missouri. I am a poet, a musician, and a visual artist. To me art is the second most important innovation that humans have developed, and my goal is to take myself as far as I can go as an artist in my pursuit to figure out just exactly what it is I was made to produce. I know I won't ever figure it out, but I think that is the point of it all, not just art but life in general. Also guess what? I love humans more than I like my own life. They are the most beautiful thing on the planet and I wish I could marry every last one of them, but alas, there are too many.
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Slipping away.
Little by little as all subsides, I hold onto the familiar space,
Walking on a similar pace, Letting everything go.
Little by little.
Second by second it slips away, blurring into an abyss,
So dark it becomes, unknown to eyes, disappearing into a void.
Second by second.
Page by page, as the memories flood, meaningless,
Don’t they become? Fading are the words that adorned the sheets.
Page by page.
Color by color, it washes away, losing charm as they become,
Nothing other than hidden grays. Pale and dreary, as if they decay.
Color by color.
Skin by skin, bone by bone, the muscles chew off as nothing I form.
A carcass of naught that now rests, only in deeds, only in minds.
Thought by thought.
- Copyright Momina Latif @mominalatif Pakistan - 2013
Lost and Gone
Like a silhouette,
In candle light.
He stood out
But never shined.
Ducking his head,
With shame, remorse.
An evil smirk
Spreading across
The face paled.
The blood flowed
Seeping through
The murky snow.
One last time,
The eyes close.
A single tear
Of regret and loss.
A chilly wind,
And he’s gone.
- Copyright Momina Latif @mominalatif Pakistan - 2013
TO EVERYONE, THEIR OWN
For all it was a curse, an unattainable destiny.
But then, maybe it was a blessing,
Bestowed on only a few.
For me it you it was joy, a reason to smile,
But then, for the rest it was just the sky
Crying it all out.
For some it was a path straighter than any,
But then, there were bends further ahead,
When our road was clear.
For most it was claustrophobic and confined,
But then, for them it was different;
Where they were alive.
For us it was melancholy, sorrow and sadness.
But then for some, it was only then,
That they smiled.
- Copyright Momina Latif @mominalatif Pakistan - 2013
Biography: An eighteen year old from Pakistan who finds solace in writing. I am a speck among other specks. Distinct and special just like the rest. http://momina17.blogspot.com/
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Waves swirling, crashing
on the beach. A distant crow
calls, haunting my dreams.
- Copyright April J.E. Gilliland @ajegilliland Victoria, British Columbia, Canada - 2013
Biography: April J.E. Gilliland spent a decade studying and practising law. Now she is a non-practising member of the Law Society of British Columbia. Currently she is focussing on fictional writing in the form of novels, poetry, and art including pottery and painting. She contributes her haiku poetry to her blog Haiku a Day and Twitter. She markets her pottery and paintings in and around Victoria, BC, through businesses and directly to businesses and individuals. View her poetry blog athttp://apriljegilliland.blogspot.ca/. Follow her on Twitter @ajegilliland.
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Never
Never…
Never to men
Whose heads
Held high
Filled with
Glory and pride
for all the tears they fought
for all the battles they cried
for every little in-between
that was never known
or even seen
For all the days
Unaccounted for
For the nights
Hidden behind
An empty door
Never……
Never to the brave
Who fell with honor
Never to the strong
How stood
With horror
Never….
will you be forgotten
Never…
Will you be taken for granted
Never
Will you be unloved
You battle because you have to
You battle for what you believe in
You battle for what is just
You believe in peace
And hope no child
Hurts like you do
But remember that
no matter what
you are not alone
And like the light that stands
At harbor
Your light will glow
No matter the storm
Nor fog or snow
Your light will shine
And with privilege be shown.
- Copyright Soad Hachami @jumping_cricket As Samawah, Iraq - 2013
Biography: Hello. My name is Soad Hachami. I am 25 years old and from As Samawah, Iraq. I love to read, write and dream of better days. My favourite authors are Edgar Allan Poe, Walt Whitman and William Shakespeare. You can read my poetry on the following blog site: soadhachami.wordpress.com.
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Silhouette
Stand before the great paladin
And cast your shadow, long and black.
See it mingle in long branches,
Twisting bitter in Winter Solstice
The wind asks vexing questions
As it struggles through your hair,
Causing the faintest ripple-crown
In the shadow you have grown.
Shout down the lane that opens inside of you
Call the beggars, tramps and whores
A ragged parade of rummy-tumblers,
An open mouth, now full of sores.
You vomit money as you gather
Debts once owed for shallow deeds
And say a prayer for rotting fathers
A diver’s paradise in coin fountain splendor.
Retrace your steps on silver-soles
Tip your cap and face down the sun.
Its light is fire; breaking blackness
Exposing the hole, where the blood pump had toiled.
Spread your skin over distant farmlands
Ripe, with cancer for a bark
A phoenix hears the raven calling
Sultry notes, a mouth-harp chorus.
Old blues in long coat and tall hat
Old scars coated with cream
Like stitching the equator with silk strings:
Her silhouette dances an impossible majick.
- Copyright Jeff Sloan @pyratebass Welland, Ontario, Canada - 2013
Biography: I was born in Whitby, Ontario Canada in 1979. I am a musician, a painter and a writer raising a family in the Niagara area. I have never taken an art or music class. For me, it is important to be self-taught, as I believe there is a purity of creativity that is preserved when an artist learns a craft on their own.
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Phobia without a Pause
I heard the FDNY vomiting its sound
my heart starts fast punching my chest
an earthquake flowing through my entire body
a condition of uneasiness is encircling me
I am thinking of terror robbing self-discipline
sweat of panic is trickling off my frighten face
a shortness of oxygen did not avoid me
anxiety is undeniably a wicked curse
I desperately am wishing to be deaf to all sirens
*
The baleful flashes made from siren
are my bullies
I never handled the noisy harassment well
the anxiety assaults weaken my pleasant mind
infected my brain with a mental turmoil
for which there is no known healing
crated my sociable strength
implanted a fear on my outside world
feeling paranoid like a crystal meth user
*
I am engineering holes so anxiety’s blood
could drip out of me
I am big failure on hypnotizing self
to abolish the overpowering fear that always corrupt my inner being
I am changing into self-abuser
to mend the fabric of my damaged brain
I am awake with counselor, therapist, and psychiatrist
all struggling to edit phobia episode
that was debuted by traumatic experience
*
A decade has played its show
I still have not been a non-afraid
to step out of this shade
The fear of siren is my recognized phobia
since the day
mother baptized her coat on lethal gasoline
since the day
mother put on coat
since the day
mother lit coat
since the day
mother adopted the shout of a desperate person to voice
“Wanna burn in earth’s hell, I have ruined my fine lord!”
since the day
I heard just sirens while mother was getting eaten by fire
since the day
mother got burnt to a dead corpse
- Copyright Ley Samdez @povertypod New York City, New York, USA - 2013
Biography: Ley Samdez is a poet. He hails from NYC. His current project is entitled "To Be Lost In The World." Check him out at leysamdez.tumblr.com
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Unlocking Which Door?
I have heard it said;
Education is the key.
Yet, I am left to wonder,
Is it, like beauty,
Dependent upon the beholder?
I have also heard it said:
It is worse to be sighted and lack vision, than it is to be blind.
But what is to be my beacon?
Staggering through alleys,
The darkest valleys,
With the "guide" programed into our impressionable minds,
One is yet to find the door to unlock with all -
This?
This?
This what really?
Words to slide off one's tongue like a drop of dew down a blade of grass?
Do you recall the subtle encouragement to be crabs in a barrel,
Pulling down our kin to be top of class?
Cream of crop?
While we truly rot.
As we forget to stretch our limbs at play,
For we are punished for undefined sins as the sun fades away.
As the yellow star bids good day till another 'marrow
The night awakens more sorrow.
If only these ghosts would massage my tired neck,
Maybe then i wouldn't have to drink away my regret.
Maybe I should have sat up a bit more straight.
Banish the distractions of youth,
Prayed and studied with more faith.
Then, maybe,my back wouldn't be eternally stooped,
Beneath the weight of too little resources,
To feebly fend off life's too expensive forces.
Oh, my little one,
Christened by mommy's tears,
Bullied by monstrous fears.
Should I impart this nugget of the use of education?
They say you are the future of the nation.
Though it seems you may have to grease a palm or two,
Pretend your morals are dead, or very few.
Perhaps I have already fallen in the trap,
For daily I tug you along to join the zombie masses.
Defy, my little one.
Fell the trees of deception.
Let the wind and sand teach you instead.
Unearth our hope.
- Copyright Ann-Marie Spence, Kingston, Jamaica - 2013
Dollies
Tipsy from these thoughts,
Having had one thought too many.
Dizzy
Walking along the orbit of my mind.
Stooping for a drink from the fountain of mental whispers,
I feel the first tug of being unraveled.
Quite like a child fondling with the hem of his shirt…
Up and out I go…
Further into the labyrinth of my mind.
Memories scattered across the lake confined behind my skull,
Much like water lilies lay poised atop a pond.
Like buoys, they collide into each other.
The psychedelic explosion projecting mirroring images of me.
A me nonparallel to her…
I suppose your insatiable appetite constantly gapes more is better…
Piling high your plate to suit your appetence.
Much like a hoarder,
A penchant for vulnerable china dolls.
A buffet of smiles and ripples of laughter,
The array of textures of skin beneath your finger tips.
Each a fresh field to sow false seeds of hope,
Each guarding a chimera of a heart you claim to share.
The more pieces scattered,
The less of you I have.
A sharp tug to hold me in place,
Poised and strong,
Kissed by beauty,
Wide smile,
Empty eyes.
Just another marionette in your odalisque.
- Copyright Ann-Marie Spence, Kingston, Jamaica - 2013
Biography: Everyone seems to have a definition of who I am, and who I should be. However, I am more than one's opinion; for there are many more facets to be discovered. Seeking to break down the chains of society's idiosyncrasies to find just who I am, and what I believe. I have never physically left this shore but I travel through reading, music is therapy to my thirsty soul. I want to be remembered as a young woman who steadily thrives to overcome. Always adorned with a quick smile and a helping hand. Endless possibility is trapped in this 5ft body.
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Springtime
She lives in springtime where all seems new
Where hearts reblossom at the first morning’s dew
Where green leafed buds shoot up from meadow grounds
And magic seems to be drifting all around
She lives in springtime where floral skirts dance
Where every scene depicts romance
Where sleeping beats rise once again
And children play in the afternoon rain
She lives in springtime with sunlit painted walls
Where all of winter’s problems now seem so very small
Howl
The old wind howled, repeating his name
Reminding him he was to blame
You sinful man! Oh fore shame!
How could you play such wicked games
She was not such and awful dame
Yet he broke her heart and left her shammed
All so her fortune he could claim
She knew she’d never be the same
For her love was true, not a game
But he took advantage all the same
Distressed, she set herself aflame
He fled from town feeling ashamed
But still his innocence he proclaimed
The wind cried, you are not tame
You stole her, love, life, and fame
I will avenge her by moaning your name
Let everyone know who’s to blame
Meadow Maiden
She is made of misty meadows and clover buds where babe fawn lay
Her favorite song is the bubbling brook that lulls her cares away
The sunlight on her freckled skin is the warmest friend she knows
On her head are wild seeds for flower crowns to grow
She is made of meadows where crickets tell her tales
And on sweet lilac breezes she lets her daydreams sail
- Copyright Adelaide Love @ladyadelaide Alberta, Canada - 2013
Biography: Adelaide Love is a ghost writer from West Africa, currently residing in Alberta, Canada. Though most of her work is published under the names of her clients, you can read her poems and short stories on her blog decembermonologue.wordpress.com.
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Constance
Your red takes my breath, stained, strained, I sway, you lay in suspender pain, I would take your place a thousand times as they drip you fake saline rain.
Each tube filled, twisted, listed, misted into messy roller coaster games. Uncontrollable cavities cascading, raising up and falling, aiding deventilated veins.
Rehydrating mistakes, sixteen hours too late, your breathing difficult, shallow, laboured, your beautiful face is glazed… an oxygen mask masks, hides, and diagnoses a fatal malaise.
Dismayed. Blistering burns, lace your smooth soft skin, pointing to unremedied septics, raging infections multiplying within. Unfailing indestructibility compromised, antibodies are being destroyed, emotions played upon by dark angels, deranged arrangement, plagued, voided, toyed.
There’s no collaboration in this twilight, your silent sunset approaches… Even the medication isn’t coping… unable to numb, stun, contain your hurt, we’re left with solemn hoping, quiet reflection and all the while Azrael flirts.
Your strong unwavering voice grazes, gasps, rasps, even faith escapes. Hazing yellow I kiss your cheek and whisper, you acknowledge my final wave, Be Strong I lipped, but it was deemed to be our final day. Ordained. His final say. Forsaking in dimmed light, poisoned by too many toxins, treacherous biting, hindsight, foresight, reciting.
Dazed. Crazed. Dawn breaks for us before first prayer, maximum medication appears to fail all avenues of critical care: consultations conclude the inconclusive virus is far too rare. Livid. Spare. Shock.
Fits of tears drop like igneous rocks.
Lost.
Request to acquiesce, consent denied for blue light fares, godly truths or satanic dares, scattering particles neither here nor there… It ends with rejecting resuscitation when you pass into the next phase, you rapidly continue to, continue to, continue to, fade, you melt into illumination we are forbidden to share… all of us trapped in stagnant magnetised limbo lair.
Memory. Sensory. Trajectory. Anaesthetised. Asleep. Your spirit, essence, your you disappearing into an invisible periphery only you can see.
I wish I could change how I feel, divert you from slipping away. Sedated consciousness, machinery deep, your heart beat ebbing clay. My soul fragments, breaks, shatters,,,, at the end of each and every, each and every, each and every single day.
I wait, and I pray, and I stay, for a way, to lay, my head by your hand again.
- Copyright Saiqa @babbledomia Location Undisclosed - 2013
Biography: A British-born Muslim growing up with English novels and tales of Arabic myth escaping the humdrum of the West Midlands. With a strict upbringing as the only young female, secretly writing poetry allowed a balanced sanity in a sheltered world. Saiqa completed a BA (Hons) in English Literature avoiding all the poetry modules to major in Critical Theory & Aesthetics.
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The Water Goddess
Full body, mind armoured
Impenetrable
Not numb, but frozen stiff
She approaches
Effortlessly, defenses fall
What magic is this?
Barely a chance to ask the question
A glance
My heart beats as if it was just born
She flows closer
Hands of ice begin to warm
She smiles and laughs
The iron thins
The water goddess takes my hand
Armour melts away
I am exposed
Raw
Full body, mind are hers
- Copyright Karl Schmidt @IoNPulse Vancouver, BC, Canada - 2013
Digital exclamation
A friendly greeting,
To all, forever exclaimed.
I have run!
I have performed my written duty!
I have a creator, and was instructed to do as I did.
As such, you see my greeting promptly.
A message for all the ages.
A rite of passage.
Hello, World!
I shall report back successfully.
Accompanying code the poem is based on:
#include <stdio.h>
int main()
{
printf("Hello, world!\n");
return 0;
}
- Copyright Karl Schmidt @IoNPulse Vancouver, BC, Canada - 2013
A simple loop
To i I say, be clear! You shall represent the number of none.
Once you reach the threshold, I shall cease.
And by my count, you shall increase by one.
Each time we go 'round, we shall emit that which you represent.
The user will see this, and to that end, a new line shall be written.
We shall check the threshold, and once expired, cease and return.
Accompanying code the poem is based on:
#include <stdio.h>
int main()
{
for( int i = 0; i < threshold; ++i )
{
printf( "%d\n", i );
}
return 0;
}
- Copyright Karl Schmidt @IoNPulse Vancouver, BC, Canada - 2013
Biography: Karl is a lifelong technologist, currently working in the video game industry. He is working on growing and expressing his creativity, and taking part in this poetry project is one of the ways he is achieving that. Karl lives with his inspirational wife Olya, and their uber-cute bunny Daisy.
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body numb
mind on hold
in tremor, the hands and voice
fingers and feet on ice
stomach churning
head spinning
lips dried out
once wet from passionate kisses
when will the ears have to hear,
or, the eyes read
what must have been long in process
how hot, the blaze on the corpse?
how deep, the cut in the heart?
- Copyright Hülya Yilmaz @HULYAYILMAZ4 State College, Pennsylvania, USA - 2013
sense of paralysis
gaps in comprehension
rapid heartbeat
dryness in the throat
the mouth as well
eyes flashing
one memory after another
gasping for air
as if stabs here and there
could never say goodbye
- Copyright Hülya Yilmaz @HULYAYILMAZ4 State College, Pennsylvania, USA - 2013
Untitled
yanma kalbim, ne olursun, yanma
senin gibi sevemeyenlere
alışkanlıklarına hayat diyenlere
rahatlık adına mutluluktan vazgeçenlere
biliyorum, perişansın, içten yandın
yoluna git, ne olursun, sen ancak öyle varsın
durmaz, bilirim, iner ard arda o alev yaşlar
günün birinde ama bu acı da yavaşlar
sanma ki, için hep böyle kavlar
eş ruhun bildin, sevgiye özünü verdin
göz kamaştıran bir serapmış meğer
yanma kalbim, ne olursun, yanma
artık ne farkeder?
sen sevdin, biteviye sevdin, ölesiye sevdin
günün birinde bu yanık ta geçer.
- Copyright Hülya Yilmaz @HULYAYILMAZ4 State College, Pennsylvania, USA - 2013
"Untitled" (Translated from Turkish by Hülya Yilmaz)
(Posted on storiesspace.com and WritersCafe.org with the title “a fireball of tears”)
Don’t be burning, oh heart;
don’t be yearning
for those who can’t afford a love like you,
mistake life for this and that routine,
hold on to joys so dull and mundane.
You are in misery,
burnt from the core.
They can’t possibly cease,
these fireball tears.
And yet, one hopeful day,
also this hurt will fade away.
Don’t be dismaying, oh heart:
You will not always be ablaze.
You took your other half as love,
devoted to it your innermost.
However mesmerizing it has been
A mere mirage is all that it was.
Don’t be yearning, oh heart;
don’t be burning.
You loved to self-annihilate
What difference does it make?
Someday, this burn, too, will abate.
- Copyright Hülya Yilmaz @HULYAYILMAZ4 State College, Pennsylvania, USA - 2013
Litanei
heute noch spielt sie litany
heute noch in seiner pråsenz
er, vor ihr; neben ihr; in ihr
sie, halb? nicht mehr
eins mit ihrem ganzen wesen
eins durch seine liebe
heute noch beherrscht sie doch
der verdacht:
war sie die liebe
seines lebens,
wie sie gedacht,
wie er gesagt
die er nie habe stårker gefühlt
ihr gegenüber nur?
oder bloss eine phase
eine glückliche aber doch nur eine phase...
das erste treffen
das dem ewigen abschied folgte
mit verspåtung
heute noch spielt sie litany
heute noch in seiner pråsenz
er, vor ihr; neben ihr; in ihr
du gehörst ihr, sah sie schwerleidend ein;
ich håtte mich dir nicht offenbaren sollen
haben wir’s nicht verdient, hat’s nicht unsere magische liebe?
die sanfteste versicherung in seinen worten
sowohl in seiner stimme:
keine andere, absolut keine andere
habe ich je so leidenschaftlich
lieben können wie dich
ich liebe dich
ich liebe dich
jedoch kamen aus ihm auch die worte
sowohl die stimme, die der trennung ihren brutalen ton gaben
wie? dachte sie, tag und nacht
tag und nacht
tag und nacht...
in jenen dunklen
einsamen
schmerzvollen
erbarmungslosen
ewig langen
trostlosen
stunden
wie?
kann er mich liebkosen
voll mit sehnen
voll mit gefühl
voll mit verlangen
voll mit leidenschaft
überwaeltigt mit liebe
mit ihrer pråsenz
mit seele und wesen
mit verstand und herz
wie dann?
kann er mich hinrichten
kaltblütig
ohne verweigern
ohne rücksicht
ohne nachdenken
ohne zögern
ohne seine sanftigkeit
wie dann?
kann er sachlich
hången auf mich
das zweite todesurteil:
ich kann’s nicht anders!
ich wollt’s nie anders!
gewöhn dich dran!
verteufelt human!
verpfutschtes leben noch daran!
wie långer muss sie noch leiden
sich von diesem leiden zu scheiden
wann ist’s genug
wann ist’s getan?
heute noch spielt sie litany
heute noch als ob in seiner pråsenz
als ob er, vor ihr; neben ihr; in ihr
was aber schmerzvoller...
der verdacht, der erbarmungslose verdacht...
seine worte sowohl seine tat
keine andere, absolut keine andere
habe ich je so leidenschaftlich
lieben können wie dich
...all dies sei nur erdacht...
- Copyright Hülya Yilmaz @HULYAYILMAZ4 State College, Pennsylvania, USA - 2013
litany (Translated from German by Hülya Yilmaz)
today still
she and litany
today still
in his presence
he, before her; next to her; in her
she, halved? no more
one with her entire
being wedded in his love
yet, today still
doubts overcome her:
was she the love of his life,
how she assumed,
as he had worded
the one love etched in him
one he only had for her,
ever so much stronger now –
or, was it a mere phase
an overjoyous one
but still a mere phase…
the first encounter
after the eternal farewell
with grave delay
today still
she and litany
today still in his presence
he, before her; next to her; in her
you belong to her, said out loud her immense pain;
should not have confessed to you
Have we not earned it; has not our loyal love?
softest assurance in his words
his voice as well:
No other, absolutely no other
have I been able to love as I have you
I love you
I so love you.
Yet, also the admittance exited his lips
the brutal tone of the lurking departure
How?
She dwelt, day and night
day and night
day and night…
in those dark
aching
lonely
cruel
hours long as eternity
ever so merciless
How?
could he caress me so
with immense yearning
pained emotions
through such passion
overwhelmed by love
in her presence
soul and body
mind and heart
How then?
condemn me
in cold blood
with no hesitation
no after thought
without empathy
how then
serenely
sentence me
to the unliving
all over again?
I can’t do anything else.
I could never intend it to.
You must get used to it.
For the mislead, forgive me.
darned, you, human!
you, wasted life!
how much longer must you suffer
for this agony to part
when is it enough?
when is it done?
today still
she and litany
today still as if in his presence
as were he before her; next to her; in her
what is more hurtful yet
the doubt, that relentless one…
for his conduct, his words
no other, absolutely no other
have I been able to love as I have you
I love you
I so love you
…to have been all a mere dream up
- Copyright Hülya Yilmaz @HULYAYILMAZ4 State College, Pennsylvania, USA - 2013
Free
A life of convenience. Over 4000 square feet.
Privileged. Secured. Drawn, his future’s map.
Dark window covers.
Tinted windows.
Dark shutters.
Then...
There is you.
My love on you;
your love and you;
the skin-tight you.
A gift nearby
yet from afar,
where the sun wakes up the sea,
the sea tucks in the sun.
Yearning, unceasing…
Yes. Oh yes.
The sun does set.
But…
it rises again.
- Copyright Hülya Yilmaz @HULYAYILMAZ4 State College, Pennsylvania, USA - 2013
Biography: Just another traveler who happens to hold the name hülya yılmaz and the hope to be read at sometime – if not here, then at dolunaylaben.wordpress.com.
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A Cease In The Silence Of Night
The hushed tranquil room
of the mislaid memoirs, and I –
Always usher one another,
in the intense silence of night…
When the pitter pat of rain
from the mighty sky sings –
The ditty of many tales,
My heart begins to ding;
the warmth of deserted love,
The ache of past reminiscences,
The snivel in the air,
And sighs in my breathe…
I sit with empty eyes
A blank sheet in front of me,
And the mind so vacant;
From my numbed fingers, suddenly
Falls that valued asset of mine –
The pen so esteemed…
Lost in my aimlessness
I gaze at the stars;
Those twinkle, shine and lustrous,
My ears snoop around;
The creepy yowls of wind,
My smoldering flesh feels;
The coldness in environs,
The rain drops splash
Brutally against my cheeks;
Piercing into the bruises
And rotting the wounds…
But I feel frozen,
In this hour of twinge
For someone, somewhere is –
Dying in the flames;
Of severance and deceit,
Of rioter and disgust,
And the snuffle of broken trust…
Summarily passes a wave;
Of insight in my soul
And I empathize,
The generous sky is sniveling
On this malicious parting,
Of those two paramours,
Of love so devoted
And warmth so sedated…
Ah’ the throb stings my heart
Suddenly a breathe is missed;
That follows a chain, of all broken beats;
There ends a story;
Of parted worship and adore,
It marks a cease;
Of the soul much deceived…
- Copyright Hira Nazir @HiraNazir23 Location Undisclosed - 2013
Over a cup of coffee, with the strings of guitar!
the lulled bleak night -
She sat lone;
With her past,
And echoing tunes of -
That melodic bare guitar.
Over a steaming cup of coffee,
She puffed her miseries -
With a deep sore sigh,
That tore her pectus,
and crippled the soul.
Lost in the nullity,
Her fingers moved -
To and fro, over the rusted strings
And bounced in the desolate vibe
was a glum lorn symphony.
Like an old photo album,
The tunes sang to her;
All the lullabies of her lose,
The dingy murmurs
and delusive laughter.
Caught in the whistling vibe,
On the road to nostalgia
She traveled silently;
Bare footed and broken-heart,
Like a lost sobbing traveler.
Abruptly was she shaken,
Off her fictive fantasy,
When a silent throbbing tune -
Of her dead mute heart was stricken,
Against the numbed cold sentiments.
A dead dim glare shone -
From her solitude blue bubble,
And taking in the warmth of burnt umber,
She felt the truth, deep down herself;
For in real the brutal misery is,
Dying deeply inside thy spirit
while dwelling forged in appearance.
- Copyright Hira Nazir @HiraNazir23 Location Undisclosed - 2013
Biography: A very naive poet and not-so-adept writer who has been writing since the age of seven. I find solace in writing and tried my luck in every genre of literature. I might be a very ignorant writer who can not create exquisite pieces but yes, whatever I do write is to the best of my ability. Vintage stuff attracts me. I find speech in the unspoken too and blank sheets and canvases fascinate as well. I can apprehend the untold stories well and can continue the told tales, too. Somehow, I am a good orator. Give me the good company of words and I will love you forever. Words, books, my writings, my speeches, rhetoric, syllables - all are my best friends. Believe me, I am a Healer! =) http://hiranazir66.wordpress.com/
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Revolution Spoken
As it is written
Tongues bitten
Hearts and minds smitten
Made before the earth and Heaven
From the beginning until the end of time
Meant to be the stars that shine
The future was mine
Like angels we were divine
Fulfilled broken promises
That were written from Revelation to Genesis
Redemption was the emphasis
Temptation a crisis
Death was an incurable diagnosis
Forgive us for our sins
We got God's CROWNING and we are the eternal
queens and kings
My soul shouts and sings
These words so truthful
Truth a spoonful
Heaven a place placed on pages written in black
Torn pages from the Book of Life
As it is spoken
By destiny we have been chosen
Souls, hopes, dreams have been broken
Joyous light has been stolen
From our dreams we've been awoken
Silence has swollen
Words are a token
In true rhymes
In lines that take me high
No word is a lie
Fantasies flow
Silent whispers echo
And our voices bellow
- Copyright Tebogo Mokhele @Mozes_ISSUE Soweto, South Africa - 2013
Stars in my eyes
And you can see the
Stars in my eyes
Windows of my soul scared
By the lies and cries
But I know I'll see the sun rise
You're blinded by visions of my demise
Sordid realities flash back painful memories of life and you
Mind's eye playback dreams fantasy of futures hopefully true
As you can see my heart and soul's pain though silent bitter rains
Glint glisten glittering undying passionate fires
Unseen desires
Eyes burdened with unanswered why's
Sights of the old and wise
You've seen where tomorrow lies
You've seen the stars in my eyes
You've seen Heaven and eternal skies
I hope you see the stars in my eyes
Before you see flash lights, lime lights, spot lights
Shining bright in my eyes
- Copyright Tebogo Mokhele @Mozes_ISSUE Soweto, South Africa - 2013
Tall Jozi*
Tall Jozi, a place where my soul, inspiration and life intertwines with others
Tall Jozi most infamous
Africa's most glorious.
Tall Jozi with:
Money makers
Body shakers
La breakers
Skyscrapers
Advertising, tantalizing papers
Broken dream and hope chasers
Givers and takers
City racers
Different races and faces
Summer sun shining embraces
Notorious places
Cheap corner bakers
Invaders and real fakers
Tall Jozi (with) retailing
No place in here for smooth sailing
Tall Jozi to those who come
And souls forever gone
Those who come with hope all alone
Hustling hands as hard as the concrete jungle stone
A distant and foreign home
Remembering home while home is in the
Dark nights, street lights cold
Heights of success in offices so forlorn
This is Jozi
*Jozi - common name for Johannesburg
- Copyright Tebogo Mokhele @Mozes_ISSUE Soweto, South Africa - 2013
Biography: Tebogo Mokhele commonly known as "ISSUE" was born in Soweto, S.A in 1991 and raised by my grandmother. I grew up as a shy, quiet but also opinionated boy. Through life in search of ways to express myself, deep, personal, interesting and observant thoughts and feelings I wrote my first poem in 2003 before entering high school. After writing my first two poems I developed a passion for writing stories, poems, essays, a bit of rapping and wants to eventually work in the media and entertainment industry. I have a growing collection of essays, poems and short stories currently unpublished. I'm currently studying communication science and psychology. I'm also currently writing a fictional series that I hope will get published soon. My writing style is creative, perspective, reflective, spontaneous, personal and has been described as touching and inspiring. I am inspired by a lot of things and people but mostly my close group of friends who support and love my work.
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Art: TAUSALA/VELONIKA (Samoan beauty with green eyes)
- Copyright James Toma @Jamztoma Silver Spring, Maryland, USA - 2013
- Copyright James Toma @Jamztoma Silver Spring, Maryland, USA - 2013
Art: TAULE'ALE'A (Face of a Samoan young male)
- Copyright James Toma @Jamztoma Silver Spring, Maryland, USA - 2013
NUMBER 1
All the girls that wear sarongs
All the guys that feel my song
All them people who belong
I dare you all to move along
At the beating of the drums
Your lips start to move and hum
You jump up to have your fun
You are so a number 1
At the cry of the conch
You begin to feel the funk
You are acting like a punk
But you’re not even drunk
All the fish and spirits they watch
All the birds and beasts and such
All the trees that I have touched
They have called me a top-notch
At the beating of the drums
Get out, be loud, enjoy the sun
At the cry of the conch
Jump up, don’t stop, be a number 1
All the girls that wear sarongs
All the guys that feel my song
All them people who belong
I dare you all to move along
Now here’s a message to everyone
Even if you don’t feel this song
Don’t give up, just look above
You should know you’re always loved
Because in His eyes you’re number 1
- Copyright James Toma @Jamztoma Silver Spring, Maryland, USA - 2013
VOLCANO
Do you know about the volcano girl?
Do you dare to be invited into her lair?
Sink beneath her lava flow
And get singed by her inferno?
I saw her on full moon night
Clad in red, a hibiscus in her ear
Eyes like embers so sly
Mad beauty that people fear
Have you seen her hair?
Have you seen her tears?
Have you seen her limu?
She is Pele
goddess of fire, a femme fatale
Come to seek le Hi’iaka
And battle le Kamapua’a
Do you know of the volcano lady?
Do you wish to dance in her burning glory?
Fall prey to her powers
And be one of her lovers?
I saw her on full moon night
With a boar’s tooth and verdant attire
Her lips sweet like ‘ohelo berries so ripe
A mad goddess surrounded by fire
Have you seen her hair?
Have you seen her tears?
Have you seen her limu?
She is Pele
Mistress of lightning, a femme fatale
Come to seduce you into the night
And battle Na-Maka-o-Kahai
Do you really want to see the volcano queen?
Make sure she’s not just a fierce, unpleasant dream?
Then come to Hawaii…
- Copyright James Toma @Jamztoma Silver Spring, Maryland, USA - 2013
Biography: James Toma is a Polynesian-American (Samoan) poet and artist who resides in Silver Spring, Maryland (USA). He loves reading and runs a blog online called The Island of Jamztoma.
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- Copyright James Toma @Jamztoma Silver Spring, Maryland, USA - 2013
NUMBER 1
All the girls that wear sarongs
All the guys that feel my song
All them people who belong
I dare you all to move along
At the beating of the drums
Your lips start to move and hum
You jump up to have your fun
You are so a number 1
At the cry of the conch
You begin to feel the funk
You are acting like a punk
But you’re not even drunk
All the fish and spirits they watch
All the birds and beasts and such
All the trees that I have touched
They have called me a top-notch
At the beating of the drums
Get out, be loud, enjoy the sun
At the cry of the conch
Jump up, don’t stop, be a number 1
All the girls that wear sarongs
All the guys that feel my song
All them people who belong
I dare you all to move along
Now here’s a message to everyone
Even if you don’t feel this song
Don’t give up, just look above
You should know you’re always loved
Because in His eyes you’re number 1
- Copyright James Toma @Jamztoma Silver Spring, Maryland, USA - 2013
VOLCANO
Do you know about the volcano girl?
Do you dare to be invited into her lair?
Sink beneath her lava flow
And get singed by her inferno?
I saw her on full moon night
Clad in red, a hibiscus in her ear
Eyes like embers so sly
Mad beauty that people fear
Have you seen her hair?
Have you seen her tears?
Have you seen her limu?
She is Pele
goddess of fire, a femme fatale
Come to seek le Hi’iaka
And battle le Kamapua’a
Do you know of the volcano lady?
Do you wish to dance in her burning glory?
Fall prey to her powers
And be one of her lovers?
I saw her on full moon night
With a boar’s tooth and verdant attire
Her lips sweet like ‘ohelo berries so ripe
A mad goddess surrounded by fire
Have you seen her hair?
Have you seen her tears?
Have you seen her limu?
She is Pele
Mistress of lightning, a femme fatale
Come to seduce you into the night
And battle Na-Maka-o-Kahai
Do you really want to see the volcano queen?
Make sure she’s not just a fierce, unpleasant dream?
Then come to Hawaii…
- Copyright James Toma @Jamztoma Silver Spring, Maryland, USA - 2013
Biography: James Toma is a Polynesian-American (Samoan) poet and artist who resides in Silver Spring, Maryland (USA). He loves reading and runs a blog online called The Island of Jamztoma.
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- Copyright Emmett Wheatfall @emmettwheatfall Portland, Oregon, USA - 2013
Biography: Emmett Wheatfall lives in Portland, Oregon where he reads, writes, and performs poetry. He has published three books of poetry entitled He Sees Things (2010), We Think We Know (2011), and The Meaning of Me (2012).
He has published four chapbooks under the titles Queen of the Nile, I Too Am A Slave, The Majestic, and Midnight In Madrid through Portland publishing company Naviguer Les Mers Publishing. Also, a number of his poems have been published by online journals and periodicals.
He has released two lyrical poetry CDs. When I Was Young (2010) is a highly regarded thematic CD that speaks to love, hope, betrayal, and fidelity addressed in various social and cultural context. I Loved You Once (2011) contains great poetry writing set to jazz, blues, and pop musical influences.
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The Grey Lady (Sonnet)
From a portrait, black and white
Eyes that peer into my soul
Angel in my thoughts ignite
The fires that burn in my skull
The soft features of her face
Reverently reconciled
I see sadness, I see grace
I see mercy meek and mild
I see someone kind and dear
That can melt heart carved of stone
Someone honest and sincere
I see queen without a throne
When I look at her picture
I no longer feel alone
Copyright Timothy James Therien @tjtherien Eastern Townships, Quebec, Canada - 2013
Pyramus and Thisbe (The inspiration for Shakespeare’s “Romeo & Juliet”)
I
Once upon a time in Babylon
Such a cruel Fate would befall
Two lovers dote and linger on
Ear pressed to a crack in the wall
Forbade the two should ever meet
Whispers they exchanged in secret
Their love would have to be discreet
Through fissure in the parapet
II
A bitter feud would prevail
Between two houses connected
Even the Gods themselves would wail
Lovers adversely affected
Planned a clandestine meeting
Under the old mulberry tree
To capture one moment fleeting
To savour one kiss meant to be
III
Thisbe neared the tomb of Ninus
But a lion on the trail
Stood between her and Pyramus
Fleeing Thisbe dropped her veil
The lion chewed and gnawed
The piece of cloth upon the ground
Soaked in blood torn and clawed
By Pyramus the silk was found
IV
Believing his lover was dead
Pyramus cursed cruel reward
After severing the lion’s head
Pyramus fell upon his sword
He died clinging to the veil
His blood staining leaves and fruit
Beneath the mulberry tree impaled
His limbs entwined with mighty root
V
Returning that she might explain
She was horrified by the sight
She killed herself to end the pain
To join Pyramus that night
Thisbe’s lament by the Gods weighed
So memory never be forgotten
Thus the mulberry got its shade
In honor of love verboten
Copyright Timothy James Therien @tjtherien Eastern Townships, Quebec, Canada - 2013
I Dream Of A Day
I dream of a day when I could say
You know things weren’t always this way
Gone are undo hardships and strife
And other things that complicate life
We have cured illness and disease
Done away with mental maladies
There is no more murder, no more war
No one left lacking and wanting for
There is no more need to do without
The song has replaced the protest shout
No more distinction of caste or class
And slavery is dead in the past
I have seen a lot in my short life
Marriage was once between man and wife
I witnessed shift in attitude
And for that you have my gratitude
A fellowship of man we embrace
Regardless one’s religion or race
I dream of a day when I can say
You know things weren’t always this way
One last thing you might find pretty cool
Did you know we once used fossil for fuel…
Copyright Timothy James Therien @tjtherien Eastern Townships, Quebec, Canada - 2013
Biography: T J Therien was born in Toronto, Ontario, Canada. He currently resides in the Eastern Townships, Quebec, Canada. He blogs at Liars Hypocrites and the Development of Human Emotion (http://tjtherien.wordpress.com/) and also contributes to Poet’s Corner on Wordpress.
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Oubliette
You never expect this kind of treachery.
The creaking seven-legged spider unfolds itself
On a Tuesday at 4am. So off-kilter it lacks the decency
To begin on a Monday, as a good week should.
It creeps down from the ceiling. You feel like a child
Whose cardigan is fastened second-button in first-buttonhole.
What is this? What’s going on? What’s wrong?
You take a bus back and forth to purgatory every day,
Sitting in a seat designed to be a modern torture device.
The twisted back leaves you no room to breathe,
Or wonder why you’re at the bottom of someone’s To Do list.
Exhaustion has a lot to answer for: the slithering
Pain in your belly, the mist you strain
To see through – but it never speaks to you.
The dim tension culminates in the clocks going forward
Whilst you are still awake. When sleep is caught
In a headlock, wrestled down at five-thirty a.m.,
To the soundtrack of birdsong at the grey window.
Greeted by this weekend ellipsis, your lover sees you
Crying at the kitchen table. He trudges up the stairs,
And leaves you in your trapdoor Sunday dungeon.
- Copyright Kate Garrett @andlavendercats Sheffield, UK - 2013
Growing Like a
He spins in wide circles,
trying to shake the sudden
surge inside his head.
I’d said,You’re growing like a weed!
He said
to stop saying he’s growing
like a weed, he said
he’s not like a weed at all. He
said weeds are bad, unwanted.
And then he started spinning.
So he spins.
I say
No sweetheart, no, weeds grow
fast. And not all weeds are
bad: nettle tea, dandelion wine,
clover smells sweet in late
afternoon sunshine.
He stops, looks at me.
I say,
I love you
and you could not be more
wanted. And you are sweet
like clover, and lucky like
the ones with four leaves, too.
Then he smiles (smiles: bright,
common, but suddenly beautiful, like
the first dandelion heads in early summer).
I love you too, Mum,
he says.
My son hugs me (hugs: rare,
special, also like four leaf clovers)
and I have to reconsider
my use of simile and metaphor.
- Copyright Kate Garrett @andlavendercats Sheffield, UK - 2013
Lush and Verdant
Legs crossed on the lawn,
Ivy tips her absinthe glass.
She watches moss grow –
silent, creeping – up a tree,
and wears rings of finest jade.
- Copyright Kate Garrett @andlavendercats Sheffield, UK - 2013
Biography: Kate Garrett was born thirtysomething years ago in Cincinnati, Ohio, USA. She moved to the UK in 1999, flitting here and there before landing and settling in Sheffield, South Yorkshire. Kate is halfway through her BA in Creative Writing at Sheffield Hallam University (better late than never!), and when she isn't writing or performing poetry, she is busy raising her three young sons.
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Faith
To believe, in the absence of evidence,
that a thing is other than it really is,
that impossible events are actual and all
is possible if the object of your faith is
given the respect and worship it demands.
To accept that not all pleas for help
bring reward or required results.
To raise belief above reason,
sacrifice knowledge on the altar of dogma,
reject all that contradicts belief.
To promote one set of beliefs
as the ultimate faith.
Supreme above all other cults,
declare war on such as enemies
of the true and real way.
To place human life in danger
as afterlife is supreme,
though evidence for it never exists.
To kill in the name of beliefs based
on words without foundation.
To believe devotion will bring
rewards for the faithful in person.
To understand and accept that nothing,
nothing, nothing matters more
than your own soul at death.
To believe that death is not an end
but a beginning, in spite of logic.
To deny the worth of evidence
when it fails to support belief,
but embrace it those few times it does.
To deny life to those outside the club,
regardless of worth or contribution.
To raise killers higher than peacemakers.
To deny the equal rights of women
and treat them as goods and chattels.
To select those parts of a creed
to form a specific faction
and dispute all other persuasive sects.
To declare one interpretation more valid
when no logical choice exists.
To distort truth, declare lies facts,
ignore reality and observable actuality
in favour of beliefs supporting
particular readings of a given dogma,
and declare heretic any who dare disagree
To found law on outmoded priorities
of traditions long shown to be unjust.
To deny equality of treatment because
custom and tradition, however wrong,
require such ancient ways to be.
This is faith. This is what worship means.
This is the cost of membership,
bought under threat as fear drives adherents.
Fear of unknowns made knowns by those who
know only the mind of man and his fears
Faith declares itself good and moral,
thinks itself worthy and honourable,
is deaf to truth, finds fact inexplicable,
believes reason its enemy,
and is blind to honesty, love and truth.
- Copyright Stuart Aken @stuartaken East Yorkshire, UK - 2013
Biography: Born, against the odds, to a widowed artist, in a neighbour's bed. Husband, father, novelist, playwright, short story writer, blogger, word wrangler, committed agnostic, romantic open-minded optimistic radical liberal, sometimes dangerous to know. Raised by a mother who knew what love meant and a step-father who lacked imagination but loved and educated me in things natural and worldly. Writing the wrong things for half a lifetime, until I learned who I was and understood my opinion was as valid as that of anyone. My fiction, the only place I ever bend truth and which, after love, remains my raison dêtre, includes romance, science fiction, fantasy, erotica, horror and something that purports to be literary. Poetry is new for this purveyor of prose: an attempt to educate those synapses that deal with word associations. Find me athttp://stuartaken.blogspot.co.uk/
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
THE SINKING SHIP
The fleeting ship drifts swiftly in the ocean,
majestically wading through the mighty waves,
facing the winds vigorously,
heading towards a faraway destination...
The gigantic mast blows with the wind,
navigating the direction,
equilibrating the speed,
on the voyage ... in search of the horizon,
where sun and the earth meet.
over the smoothly moving ship,
suddenly grey clouds hover,
darkening the path...
visibility becomes blur...
In the storm of the raging fears,
the ship of life quivers,
apprehending to get abandoned,
The belief becomes shaky and wavers...
How to escape the unknown tempest,
what to hold onto in the darkest,
no light to guide or steer the wheel...
The mind becomes pessimistic.
When the last thread of hope breaks,
when knowledge dissolves in the rage,
a twinkling light flashes across,
A lighthouse is seen in the midst of the waves...
- Copyright Soumya Vilekar @metalpowdergirl United Arab Emirates
AMBROSIA
Adorned with ardent flowers of magical lilies,
enamouring becomes the breeze,
when the shy blooms bend and blush,
smiling innocently with the petals curled !
A breath of sweet redolence,
absorbed within the nectar,
Ambrosia becomes the secretion,
when the flora absorbs the entrancing air!
Captivating is the scenic visage,
seizing the minds and hearts ...
weaving a thread of impeccable love...
mesmerizing the life with beguiling charm!
I wonder ! about the joyous beauty!
The tranquil and everlasting essence,
bedecked in the lap of nature,
Ambrosia remains immaculate!
- Copyright Soumya Vilekar @metalpowdergirl United Arab Emirates
Biography: Soumya Vilekar is a poet by passion whose profession is in the field of powder metallurgy. She gets inspired by nature and believes hope and faith can do wonders. She is a published author of two anthologies of poems. An Indian by origin, she presently resides in UAE.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
a thin line between Stagg and Moore
there were two weeks left on the rent.
they got my phone, house keys,
a few days' worth of cash
and my ID;
plus I had just broken the bed with a blonde
from somewhere along the North Shore and
nearly blown my head off with
a faulty hair dryer.
room for drinks? you know it.
I grabbed my old leather jacket and hustled out
into January, Brooklyn,
where you can feel a rush of ball-biting wind
coming from five blocks away,
where cool kids go to make it
on the small screen,
the land of lost boys and weeping
young girls on torn balconies.
I went out into that
and moved toward the nearest dive,
looking for an unknown pleasure:
be it whiskey, ale,
or dear old vodka with a
splash of soda.
"surprise me, pard."
Jameson, rocks:
the blood of an eel.
Occupy Wall Street was the word of the day
back then, but none of that mattered―
for every pseudo-activist there was
either one good-timer or
one recluse in the joint.
hard to raise a stink with all that weight
over your shoulder.
I sat and watched the faces,
the way they kept to their drinks and only
motioned when somebody
came close.
we were all done-in and we knew it.
screaming women and rotten bosses alone
made up half of everyone's
ailments, back pain and herpes and
back rent aside.
you couldn't find a bigger wrench
to throw in the mix.
I lifted my glass with the coaster intact
and drained the damn thing,
then saw the business card lying
on the oak:
PSYCHIC READINGS
Sheena
One Free Question
(and the number.)
Sheena had something
to say.
I didn't.
- Copyright Adam Moursy @moursyadam New York City, New York, USA - 2013
...and the painters and the pianists and the poets alike
held by the anchor,
sliced by the blade,
we sing to the trauma brought on
by time
and decay.
we are the odd ones,
the creators: young and old
and young again.
and the best of us rot openly,
while the worst pose with
cereal box smiles.
that painting,
that song,
that book―
if it's real,
it was once terror,
with cruelty and sadness
as a backdrop.
it arrived because we suffered.
so be careful when you tell us
not to brood:
there's something awful about
happy art.
- Copyright Adam Moursy @moursyadam New York City, New York, USA - 2013
Biography: Adam Moursy was born in New York City in 1986. He's lived in and around the city ever since, with much of his adult life influenced by street culture, heavy drinking and overall debauchery. Moursy's first poetry collection, Slinking Under The Electric Bulb (http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00A9BJGSW), was published in 2012; with a second title, Dizzied By Chance, due out later this Spring.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
PLEASE LISTEN
We had an ordinary love affair
And it all seemed perfect
You were once sweet and gentle
I could not ask for more
We had good moments together
Like we were inseparable
Everything seemed unreal
Everything was so good to be true
Then that day came
The day I feared to happen
You suddenly acted cold and distant
Like we were strangers
Those moments we had shared
Were like dried leaves of Autumn
That slowly withered
As winter approached
I thought ours was forever
But I was all mistaken
You changed more and more
Became somebody that I used to know
What about the dreams we dreamed together?
You said you love me,
You said I was meant for you
Where had I gone wrong?
I never cried
You should be proud of me
I was strong enough
And stood on my ground
I waited for your words
Waited to hear your voice
But who was that?
She seemed so close to you.
I watched from afar
Saw you embraced her so tight
The way you used to embrace me
And made promises
Tell me, please
Where did I go wrong?
I want you back
I want us back
I beg you
Don't hurt me like this
I still believe
We could make it work out
Don't crumple my heart
I still hold on to you
Don't throw my love away
Give us a chance
If I made mistakes
Forgive me so
I know where I stand
If you need space, so be it
Think of it a thousand times
and as time goes by
Always remember
I will wait for you until whenever
- Copyright Ronna Fe Almazan @now_pulseless Philippines
THE NIGHT AWAITS
Here comes
The black curtain
That slowly covers
The windows of my soul
The theatre
To which I stand still
Is now dark
And no one to hold.
It's another night
To sleep by
Another nightmare
To struggle upon
As strangled thoughts
Multiply
Fear encloses my being
And so on.
I breathe in
And breathe out
Sweating over fright
Of the unknown.
Unstable ground
Keeps my knees weak
Yet I stand still.
Alas! My fear has grown.
- Copyright Ronna Fe Almazan @now_pulseless Philippines
BROKEN VOW
Glances of these frightened eyes
Tears flood this wounded soul
Heart of the melting Queen of Ice
Turn to pieces, never been whole
I whisper through these silent sobs
As I face the shattered mirrors.
Memories trail; no single scrub
Could erase this pain forever
My king, my hero,and my knight
It's a fairytale with no ending
You leave, without giving a fight
I cry but you ain't listening
I tiptoe over broken glass
Blood drips, I can no longer hide
Only you can heal, I won't last
For today you leave, today I die
- Copyright Ronna Fe Almazan @now_pulseless Philippines
A KINGDOM OF HEAVEN
War over one kingdom,
Chased for power and dignity;
Danced with, and cheated Death.
He who lived, hailed strongest.
Blood fed the soil--
Vultures flew back and forth
Over rotten, slain brave warriors.
Unfortunate captives,
Differ nothing to the deads.
Swords of the devil
Cursed the young flesh,
Left wounded souls that
Led to the fiery furnace...
A king's head,
A trophy to win!
The battlefield held proof,
Of the bloody mayhem.
Would history claim
This subtle war?
Would it be remembered down
The memory lane?
For every droplet of
Blood and sweat,
For every cry of suffering,
Served as key to victory.
Frozen stares of these
Masked monsters,
Callous and relentless;
The story of the fallen warriors
Seemed endless!
A territory to protect,
A haven to fight for,
An abode worth saving,
A kingdom of heaven.
- Copyright Ronna Fe Almazan @now_pulseless Philippines
BROKEN WINGS
An epic beauty lives
Within a lone wolf.
Her innocent soul,
Tormented, treaded, and injured!
"What's my worth?".
An unanswered question
Gradually crushed her being,
Left hanging...
Mind of a genius
Heart of a saint
Love of a mother
Innocence of a child.
For all its worth,
A question remains,
"What's my worth?".
She awaits the dawn
Coming...
Half smiles whilst
Watching...
Waiting...
Waiting...
Raindrops start to fall,
Her tears, out of control.
Hurt, sadness and bitterness
Encapsulate her
Now darkened soul.
It rings again
To her hand-covered ears
"What's my worth?".
A never-ending question
killing her entire sanity.
"What's my worth?".
It echoes in the abyss
Mimicking her cry,
And prolonging her agony.
She, in total despair,
In her subconsciousness,
Awaits a response,
From the blurry depths
Of the dark valleys.
Null!
No response!
She fails!
She lives, yet dies!
She flies with broken wings.
And the suffering continues...
A living dead...
- Copyright Ronna Fe Almazan @now_pulseless Philippines
Biography: My name is Ronna. I write poems to express what I feel, like a typical amateur writer does--or so I figure. I was enticed to writing poems when I was in my teenage days and tried to develop it over the years. Aside from it, I also read books, which has an equal gravity to my passion for writing. These two activities certainly keep me out from boredom and stress. You can see my simple works at ronnafe.wordpress.com.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
OPERATION BIRD’S NEST
The Caribbean invaded China
Yes, they attacked Beijing!
With a multi-coloured army
Stretched from Bahamas to Trinidad.
They settled around the Bird’s Nest
Where the battle would be fought,
With spikes sharp like razor
And javelin- focused heart.
But it was the squadron from Jamaica
With camouflage, gold, green and black
Who took the bull by the horns
And led the frontal attack.
At the sound of the gun
The Jamaicans knew what to do,
With three Bolts of lightening!!
The squad took the cue.
Melaine launched her hurdles missile
Shericka glided smoothly from the back,
After the secret weapon revealed
The mighty threesome attack.
And there was the dessert eagle
One of a Veronica kind,
Who blew away a Felix
She left the field behind.
And then the final assault
Many thought this was troubled water,
Nesta, Frater, and lightening Bolt
Golden record brought with Asafa.
- Copyright Kenneth Grant, Kingston, Jamaica - 2013
Biography: Emmett Wheatfall lives in Portland, Oregon where he reads, writes, and performs poetry. He has published three books of poetry entitled He Sees Things (2010), We Think We Know (2011), and The Meaning of Me (2012).
He has published four chapbooks under the titles Queen of the Nile, I Too Am A Slave, The Majestic, and Midnight In Madrid through Portland publishing company Naviguer Les Mers Publishing. Also, a number of his poems have been published by online journals and periodicals.
He has released two lyrical poetry CDs. When I Was Young (2010) is a highly regarded thematic CD that speaks to love, hope, betrayal, and fidelity addressed in various social and cultural context. I Loved You Once (2011) contains great poetry writing set to jazz, blues, and pop musical influences.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The Grey Lady (Sonnet)
From a portrait, black and white
Eyes that peer into my soul
Angel in my thoughts ignite
The fires that burn in my skull
The soft features of her face
Reverently reconciled
I see sadness, I see grace
I see mercy meek and mild
I see someone kind and dear
That can melt heart carved of stone
Someone honest and sincere
I see queen without a throne
When I look at her picture
I no longer feel alone
Copyright Timothy James Therien @tjtherien Eastern Townships, Quebec, Canada - 2013
Pyramus and Thisbe (The inspiration for Shakespeare’s “Romeo & Juliet”)
I
Once upon a time in Babylon
Such a cruel Fate would befall
Two lovers dote and linger on
Ear pressed to a crack in the wall
Forbade the two should ever meet
Whispers they exchanged in secret
Their love would have to be discreet
Through fissure in the parapet
II
A bitter feud would prevail
Between two houses connected
Even the Gods themselves would wail
Lovers adversely affected
Planned a clandestine meeting
Under the old mulberry tree
To capture one moment fleeting
To savour one kiss meant to be
III
Thisbe neared the tomb of Ninus
But a lion on the trail
Stood between her and Pyramus
Fleeing Thisbe dropped her veil
The lion chewed and gnawed
The piece of cloth upon the ground
Soaked in blood torn and clawed
By Pyramus the silk was found
IV
Believing his lover was dead
Pyramus cursed cruel reward
After severing the lion’s head
Pyramus fell upon his sword
He died clinging to the veil
His blood staining leaves and fruit
Beneath the mulberry tree impaled
His limbs entwined with mighty root
V
Returning that she might explain
She was horrified by the sight
She killed herself to end the pain
To join Pyramus that night
Thisbe’s lament by the Gods weighed
So memory never be forgotten
Thus the mulberry got its shade
In honor of love verboten
Copyright Timothy James Therien @tjtherien Eastern Townships, Quebec, Canada - 2013
I Dream Of A Day
I dream of a day when I could say
You know things weren’t always this way
Gone are undo hardships and strife
And other things that complicate life
We have cured illness and disease
Done away with mental maladies
There is no more murder, no more war
No one left lacking and wanting for
There is no more need to do without
The song has replaced the protest shout
No more distinction of caste or class
And slavery is dead in the past
I have seen a lot in my short life
Marriage was once between man and wife
I witnessed shift in attitude
And for that you have my gratitude
A fellowship of man we embrace
Regardless one’s religion or race
I dream of a day when I can say
You know things weren’t always this way
One last thing you might find pretty cool
Did you know we once used fossil for fuel…
Copyright Timothy James Therien @tjtherien Eastern Townships, Quebec, Canada - 2013
Biography: T J Therien was born in Toronto, Ontario, Canada. He currently resides in the Eastern Townships, Quebec, Canada. He blogs at Liars Hypocrites and the Development of Human Emotion (http://tjtherien.wordpress.com/) and also contributes to Poet’s Corner on Wordpress.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Oubliette
You never expect this kind of treachery.
The creaking seven-legged spider unfolds itself
On a Tuesday at 4am. So off-kilter it lacks the decency
To begin on a Monday, as a good week should.
It creeps down from the ceiling. You feel like a child
Whose cardigan is fastened second-button in first-buttonhole.
What is this? What’s going on? What’s wrong?
You take a bus back and forth to purgatory every day,
Sitting in a seat designed to be a modern torture device.
The twisted back leaves you no room to breathe,
Or wonder why you’re at the bottom of someone’s To Do list.
Exhaustion has a lot to answer for: the slithering
Pain in your belly, the mist you strain
To see through – but it never speaks to you.
The dim tension culminates in the clocks going forward
Whilst you are still awake. When sleep is caught
In a headlock, wrestled down at five-thirty a.m.,
To the soundtrack of birdsong at the grey window.
Greeted by this weekend ellipsis, your lover sees you
Crying at the kitchen table. He trudges up the stairs,
And leaves you in your trapdoor Sunday dungeon.
- Copyright Kate Garrett @andlavendercats Sheffield, UK - 2013
Growing Like a
He spins in wide circles,
trying to shake the sudden
surge inside his head.
I’d said,You’re growing like a weed!
He said
to stop saying he’s growing
like a weed, he said
he’s not like a weed at all. He
said weeds are bad, unwanted.
And then he started spinning.
So he spins.
I say
No sweetheart, no, weeds grow
fast. And not all weeds are
bad: nettle tea, dandelion wine,
clover smells sweet in late
afternoon sunshine.
He stops, looks at me.
I say,
I love you
and you could not be more
wanted. And you are sweet
like clover, and lucky like
the ones with four leaves, too.
Then he smiles (smiles: bright,
common, but suddenly beautiful, like
the first dandelion heads in early summer).
I love you too, Mum,
he says.
My son hugs me (hugs: rare,
special, also like four leaf clovers)
and I have to reconsider
my use of simile and metaphor.
- Copyright Kate Garrett @andlavendercats Sheffield, UK - 2013
Lush and Verdant
Legs crossed on the lawn,
Ivy tips her absinthe glass.
She watches moss grow –
silent, creeping – up a tree,
and wears rings of finest jade.
- Copyright Kate Garrett @andlavendercats Sheffield, UK - 2013
Biography: Kate Garrett was born thirtysomething years ago in Cincinnati, Ohio, USA. She moved to the UK in 1999, flitting here and there before landing and settling in Sheffield, South Yorkshire. Kate is halfway through her BA in Creative Writing at Sheffield Hallam University (better late than never!), and when she isn't writing or performing poetry, she is busy raising her three young sons.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Faith
To believe, in the absence of evidence,
that a thing is other than it really is,
that impossible events are actual and all
is possible if the object of your faith is
given the respect and worship it demands.
To accept that not all pleas for help
bring reward or required results.
To raise belief above reason,
sacrifice knowledge on the altar of dogma,
reject all that contradicts belief.
To promote one set of beliefs
as the ultimate faith.
Supreme above all other cults,
declare war on such as enemies
of the true and real way.
To place human life in danger
as afterlife is supreme,
though evidence for it never exists.
To kill in the name of beliefs based
on words without foundation.
To believe devotion will bring
rewards for the faithful in person.
To understand and accept that nothing,
nothing, nothing matters more
than your own soul at death.
To believe that death is not an end
but a beginning, in spite of logic.
To deny the worth of evidence
when it fails to support belief,
but embrace it those few times it does.
To deny life to those outside the club,
regardless of worth or contribution.
To raise killers higher than peacemakers.
To deny the equal rights of women
and treat them as goods and chattels.
To select those parts of a creed
to form a specific faction
and dispute all other persuasive sects.
To declare one interpretation more valid
when no logical choice exists.
To distort truth, declare lies facts,
ignore reality and observable actuality
in favour of beliefs supporting
particular readings of a given dogma,
and declare heretic any who dare disagree
To found law on outmoded priorities
of traditions long shown to be unjust.
To deny equality of treatment because
custom and tradition, however wrong,
require such ancient ways to be.
This is faith. This is what worship means.
This is the cost of membership,
bought under threat as fear drives adherents.
Fear of unknowns made knowns by those who
know only the mind of man and his fears
Faith declares itself good and moral,
thinks itself worthy and honourable,
is deaf to truth, finds fact inexplicable,
believes reason its enemy,
and is blind to honesty, love and truth.
- Copyright Stuart Aken @stuartaken East Yorkshire, UK - 2013
Biography: Born, against the odds, to a widowed artist, in a neighbour's bed. Husband, father, novelist, playwright, short story writer, blogger, word wrangler, committed agnostic, romantic open-minded optimistic radical liberal, sometimes dangerous to know. Raised by a mother who knew what love meant and a step-father who lacked imagination but loved and educated me in things natural and worldly. Writing the wrong things for half a lifetime, until I learned who I was and understood my opinion was as valid as that of anyone. My fiction, the only place I ever bend truth and which, after love, remains my raison dêtre, includes romance, science fiction, fantasy, erotica, horror and something that purports to be literary. Poetry is new for this purveyor of prose: an attempt to educate those synapses that deal with word associations. Find me athttp://stuartaken.blogspot.co.uk/
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
THE SINKING SHIP
The fleeting ship drifts swiftly in the ocean,
majestically wading through the mighty waves,
facing the winds vigorously,
heading towards a faraway destination...
The gigantic mast blows with the wind,
navigating the direction,
equilibrating the speed,
on the voyage ... in search of the horizon,
where sun and the earth meet.
over the smoothly moving ship,
suddenly grey clouds hover,
darkening the path...
visibility becomes blur...
In the storm of the raging fears,
the ship of life quivers,
apprehending to get abandoned,
The belief becomes shaky and wavers...
How to escape the unknown tempest,
what to hold onto in the darkest,
no light to guide or steer the wheel...
The mind becomes pessimistic.
When the last thread of hope breaks,
when knowledge dissolves in the rage,
a twinkling light flashes across,
A lighthouse is seen in the midst of the waves...
- Copyright Soumya Vilekar @metalpowdergirl United Arab Emirates
AMBROSIA
Adorned with ardent flowers of magical lilies,
enamouring becomes the breeze,
when the shy blooms bend and blush,
smiling innocently with the petals curled !
A breath of sweet redolence,
absorbed within the nectar,
Ambrosia becomes the secretion,
when the flora absorbs the entrancing air!
Captivating is the scenic visage,
seizing the minds and hearts ...
weaving a thread of impeccable love...
mesmerizing the life with beguiling charm!
I wonder ! about the joyous beauty!
The tranquil and everlasting essence,
bedecked in the lap of nature,
Ambrosia remains immaculate!
- Copyright Soumya Vilekar @metalpowdergirl United Arab Emirates
Biography: Soumya Vilekar is a poet by passion whose profession is in the field of powder metallurgy. She gets inspired by nature and believes hope and faith can do wonders. She is a published author of two anthologies of poems. An Indian by origin, she presently resides in UAE.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
a thin line between Stagg and Moore
there were two weeks left on the rent.
they got my phone, house keys,
a few days' worth of cash
and my ID;
plus I had just broken the bed with a blonde
from somewhere along the North Shore and
nearly blown my head off with
a faulty hair dryer.
room for drinks? you know it.
I grabbed my old leather jacket and hustled out
into January, Brooklyn,
where you can feel a rush of ball-biting wind
coming from five blocks away,
where cool kids go to make it
on the small screen,
the land of lost boys and weeping
young girls on torn balconies.
I went out into that
and moved toward the nearest dive,
looking for an unknown pleasure:
be it whiskey, ale,
or dear old vodka with a
splash of soda.
"surprise me, pard."
Jameson, rocks:
the blood of an eel.
Occupy Wall Street was the word of the day
back then, but none of that mattered―
for every pseudo-activist there was
either one good-timer or
one recluse in the joint.
hard to raise a stink with all that weight
over your shoulder.
I sat and watched the faces,
the way they kept to their drinks and only
motioned when somebody
came close.
we were all done-in and we knew it.
screaming women and rotten bosses alone
made up half of everyone's
ailments, back pain and herpes and
back rent aside.
you couldn't find a bigger wrench
to throw in the mix.
I lifted my glass with the coaster intact
and drained the damn thing,
then saw the business card lying
on the oak:
PSYCHIC READINGS
Sheena
One Free Question
(and the number.)
Sheena had something
to say.
I didn't.
- Copyright Adam Moursy @moursyadam New York City, New York, USA - 2013
...and the painters and the pianists and the poets alike
held by the anchor,
sliced by the blade,
we sing to the trauma brought on
by time
and decay.
we are the odd ones,
the creators: young and old
and young again.
and the best of us rot openly,
while the worst pose with
cereal box smiles.
that painting,
that song,
that book―
if it's real,
it was once terror,
with cruelty and sadness
as a backdrop.
it arrived because we suffered.
so be careful when you tell us
not to brood:
there's something awful about
happy art.
- Copyright Adam Moursy @moursyadam New York City, New York, USA - 2013
Biography: Adam Moursy was born in New York City in 1986. He's lived in and around the city ever since, with much of his adult life influenced by street culture, heavy drinking and overall debauchery. Moursy's first poetry collection, Slinking Under The Electric Bulb (http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00A9BJGSW), was published in 2012; with a second title, Dizzied By Chance, due out later this Spring.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
PLEASE LISTEN
We had an ordinary love affair
And it all seemed perfect
You were once sweet and gentle
I could not ask for more
We had good moments together
Like we were inseparable
Everything seemed unreal
Everything was so good to be true
Then that day came
The day I feared to happen
You suddenly acted cold and distant
Like we were strangers
Those moments we had shared
Were like dried leaves of Autumn
That slowly withered
As winter approached
I thought ours was forever
But I was all mistaken
You changed more and more
Became somebody that I used to know
What about the dreams we dreamed together?
You said you love me,
You said I was meant for you
Where had I gone wrong?
I never cried
You should be proud of me
I was strong enough
And stood on my ground
I waited for your words
Waited to hear your voice
But who was that?
She seemed so close to you.
I watched from afar
Saw you embraced her so tight
The way you used to embrace me
And made promises
Tell me, please
Where did I go wrong?
I want you back
I want us back
I beg you
Don't hurt me like this
I still believe
We could make it work out
Don't crumple my heart
I still hold on to you
Don't throw my love away
Give us a chance
If I made mistakes
Forgive me so
I know where I stand
If you need space, so be it
Think of it a thousand times
and as time goes by
Always remember
I will wait for you until whenever
- Copyright Ronna Fe Almazan @now_pulseless Philippines
THE NIGHT AWAITS
Here comes
The black curtain
That slowly covers
The windows of my soul
The theatre
To which I stand still
Is now dark
And no one to hold.
It's another night
To sleep by
Another nightmare
To struggle upon
As strangled thoughts
Multiply
Fear encloses my being
And so on.
I breathe in
And breathe out
Sweating over fright
Of the unknown.
Unstable ground
Keeps my knees weak
Yet I stand still.
Alas! My fear has grown.
- Copyright Ronna Fe Almazan @now_pulseless Philippines
BROKEN VOW
Glances of these frightened eyes
Tears flood this wounded soul
Heart of the melting Queen of Ice
Turn to pieces, never been whole
I whisper through these silent sobs
As I face the shattered mirrors.
Memories trail; no single scrub
Could erase this pain forever
My king, my hero,and my knight
It's a fairytale with no ending
You leave, without giving a fight
I cry but you ain't listening
I tiptoe over broken glass
Blood drips, I can no longer hide
Only you can heal, I won't last
For today you leave, today I die
- Copyright Ronna Fe Almazan @now_pulseless Philippines
A KINGDOM OF HEAVEN
War over one kingdom,
Chased for power and dignity;
Danced with, and cheated Death.
He who lived, hailed strongest.
Blood fed the soil--
Vultures flew back and forth
Over rotten, slain brave warriors.
Unfortunate captives,
Differ nothing to the deads.
Swords of the devil
Cursed the young flesh,
Left wounded souls that
Led to the fiery furnace...
A king's head,
A trophy to win!
The battlefield held proof,
Of the bloody mayhem.
Would history claim
This subtle war?
Would it be remembered down
The memory lane?
For every droplet of
Blood and sweat,
For every cry of suffering,
Served as key to victory.
Frozen stares of these
Masked monsters,
Callous and relentless;
The story of the fallen warriors
Seemed endless!
A territory to protect,
A haven to fight for,
An abode worth saving,
A kingdom of heaven.
- Copyright Ronna Fe Almazan @now_pulseless Philippines
BROKEN WINGS
An epic beauty lives
Within a lone wolf.
Her innocent soul,
Tormented, treaded, and injured!
"What's my worth?".
An unanswered question
Gradually crushed her being,
Left hanging...
Mind of a genius
Heart of a saint
Love of a mother
Innocence of a child.
For all its worth,
A question remains,
"What's my worth?".
She awaits the dawn
Coming...
Half smiles whilst
Watching...
Waiting...
Waiting...
Raindrops start to fall,
Her tears, out of control.
Hurt, sadness and bitterness
Encapsulate her
Now darkened soul.
It rings again
To her hand-covered ears
"What's my worth?".
A never-ending question
killing her entire sanity.
"What's my worth?".
It echoes in the abyss
Mimicking her cry,
And prolonging her agony.
She, in total despair,
In her subconsciousness,
Awaits a response,
From the blurry depths
Of the dark valleys.
Null!
No response!
She fails!
She lives, yet dies!
She flies with broken wings.
And the suffering continues...
A living dead...
- Copyright Ronna Fe Almazan @now_pulseless Philippines
Biography: My name is Ronna. I write poems to express what I feel, like a typical amateur writer does--or so I figure. I was enticed to writing poems when I was in my teenage days and tried to develop it over the years. Aside from it, I also read books, which has an equal gravity to my passion for writing. These two activities certainly keep me out from boredom and stress. You can see my simple works at ronnafe.wordpress.com.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
OPERATION BIRD’S NEST
The Caribbean invaded China
Yes, they attacked Beijing!
With a multi-coloured army
Stretched from Bahamas to Trinidad.
They settled around the Bird’s Nest
Where the battle would be fought,
With spikes sharp like razor
And javelin- focused heart.
But it was the squadron from Jamaica
With camouflage, gold, green and black
Who took the bull by the horns
And led the frontal attack.
At the sound of the gun
The Jamaicans knew what to do,
With three Bolts of lightening!!
The squad took the cue.
Melaine launched her hurdles missile
Shericka glided smoothly from the back,
After the secret weapon revealed
The mighty threesome attack.
And there was the dessert eagle
One of a Veronica kind,
Who blew away a Felix
She left the field behind.
And then the final assault
Many thought this was troubled water,
Nesta, Frater, and lightening Bolt
Golden record brought with Asafa.
- Copyright Kenneth Grant, Kingston, Jamaica - 2013
Naked Truth
If truth be told
It’s like the wind,
Pure undiluted truth
Not clothed in leaf our animal skin.
Truth does not depend
On the medium or speaker,
The waters of the Nile
Flow down stream.
Truth is like the bird
That flies and not crawls,
It remains as truth
Even if unspoken.
Naked truth remains
Never can be changed,
Even if cloaked in selfishness
Truth is truth.
The road may twist and turn
The valleys deep or mountain steep,
The colour of the wind we may not see
Yet truth is like the wind.
- Copyright Kenneth Grant, Kingston, Jamaica - 2013
If truth be told
It’s like the wind,
Pure undiluted truth
Not clothed in leaf our animal skin.
Truth does not depend
On the medium or speaker,
The waters of the Nile
Flow down stream.
Truth is like the bird
That flies and not crawls,
It remains as truth
Even if unspoken.
Naked truth remains
Never can be changed,
Even if cloaked in selfishness
Truth is truth.
The road may twist and turn
The valleys deep or mountain steep,
The colour of the wind we may not see
Yet truth is like the wind.
- Copyright Kenneth Grant, Kingston, Jamaica - 2013
Biography: Kenneth Grant has been writing from the early 1980s and has won awards and recognition in Jamaica’s annual National Literary competition. Kenneth is a Chartered Accountant having attained his ACCA qualification in 2003, and writes whenever he feels inspired. He considers reading and writing of poetry as a balance to his daily life of dealing with figures. He is a past student of Camperdown High School and spent his first eleven years growing up in the cultural community of Trench Town. Kenneth believes that God has given every person at least one talent and it is very important that we do not bury it. We should, after finding it use it or lose it.
He can be contacted at kennethgrantjm@yahoo.com
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The Straight Road
Am I proud to be an arrow,
Shooting through life?
Strong. Unbending. Direct.
Only hitting the target. Only hitting the target
With such force all else is destroyed
And when the target is finally obliterated
I am blunted by my own ambition.
A Roman road,
There are no surprises.
Single minded; one destination
With tunnel vision – refusing the fork in the proverbial road
Choosing not the unexpected
Ignoring the road less travelled
Missing the spontaneous
Clambering for excitement
Settling for the foreseeable future
The ‘destiny’ mother always dreamed for me.
When did it become my dream?
I have arrived at my destination
And look back.
Did I miss
Out?
- Copyright Jemma Dippnall @Teachertrying Oldham, United Kingdom - 2013
Aging Friendship
You watch it as a teenager – tied so strongly to those that know you the best.
You confide in those about the loneliness of adults.
You snigger at the lack of friends your parents seem to have.
You vow never to be that way.
Then you grow…
You don’t feel yourself changing,
You don’t see your friends parting,
You don’t recognise you’re living,
The teenager in you is furious!
You anger at your friends’ betrayal,
You cry over the emptiness in your heart,
You ignore the silent phone.
This is aging.
Suddenly you are the future you weren’t prepared for.
The one with a comfortable job.
The one with a mortgage.
The one with a partner to share your time with.
You met all expectations
But they didn’t prepare you for the unexpected…
I didn’t see the threads of friendship pull apart
Stretched by different paths,
Torn- by -opposite-choices,
Ripped-
By-
Miscommunication.
I sit at the end of my friendship
Clutching the last threads.
I fight to keep them together;
I hold close my teenage vow
But I know it is failing.
I am losing.
I am lost.
I am alone in my friendship.
- Copyright Jemma Dippnall @Teachertrying Oldham, United Kingdom - 2013
I Present My Case.
I admit to you my faults
And yes I meant the ‘s.’
But before I allow this autopsy
I want some kind of guarantee
That my testament will not misrepresent
My integrity
nor desire for your
witty repartee!
Thus I proceed
Stating for the record
The case of
Yours truly vs Emotional Resilience.
How do I plead?
Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.
The irony in the over stated
Should not be allowed to go unmissed
First witness to the judge and jury
Surrounds my tendency towards fury.
Like a witches brew it bubbles and bitches
Until it bleeds through every artery
in a rush of cathartic energy.
Spent and haggard my fury climbs back into its hole.
Second witness to face the panel
Hides behind my nervous channel
Stammering through every vocal chord
As nauseous as the thought of facing this board;
Like an alien invasion
It controls the amateur show.
Third witness refuses to cooperate
She is in that much of a sorrowful state.
My final witness, my closing statement in this case.
She lacks the strength to be heard.
Yet her beam still reaches the bench
Her eyes join in the display
Her whole face is alight
And in that rare occasion it is a sight
One to value and evoke
When my emotional resilience goes up in smoke!
- Copyright Jemma Dippnall @Teachertrying Oldham, United Kingdom - 2013
Biography: I am currently an Advanced Skills English teacher at a high school in Oldham. Despite studying poetry throughout my education it is only now I find its form a fantastic form of expression (and outlet) and I love to teach, discuss and debate the language of poetry with my students. As a rather new teacher (five years) and an even more novice poet (2 years) I welcome the opportunity for criticism, comment and a chance to share my writing with others.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Lost Patience
I thought the plan was in full gear.
Yes, yes, you said. Soon! you replied
soon after.
Perfect, I reckoned.
Perfect place, you affirmed.
One more thing, the exact details of the plan?
A few days and nights I wa -- I was panicking as though hell broke out and the continuous melting of ice caps had started to drown all the land masses but at the same time I was preparing a little short speech for you and maybe some topics out of which we can make small talks once we get to see each other but then I trashed them because I think the more spontaneous the better and I was hoping in dreams and hoping in reality that we iron our the details of our rendezvous since I cannot bear the agony of wallowing in the lack of certainty and I was also suspecting that maybe you've forgotten my invitation and instead agreed to another engagement which probably was set after my invite but I hated to think about it because I know you're better than that and that was obnoxiously made by my paranoia and frustration over the delay of your response and now I hope we can set the plan in stone and so that I can make sure everything will be perfect for us but why do you not reply now? -- ited.
- Copyright Chino Cua (@chinooocua) Metro Manila, Philippines - 2011
You’ve Grown
They say that one must eat breakfast like a king.
How loaded your breakfast has been
for the past year or so –
put-downs that fried you alive,
rumor-mongering that almost choked you,
physical assault that charred your dignity.
How challenging it must have always been,
to put every jab in your mouth,
to swallow the ridicule in one go,
to stomach this whole experience.
You take in water through your mouth,
instead of letting some spill from your eyes.
It is always hard to eat in the morning,
difficult to feed a stomach not ready
to undertake a big battle anew –
one that drains your ego
and pains your appetite.
Yet you war and never yield.
For your stubbornness, you've grown.
A boon is the obdurate in you.
For lapping it all up, morsel by morsel,
you've learned the tricks of the trade,
and grown tired of the anticipated pain.
As you toiled, it dawned on you
that breakfast was indeed the best meal.
It strengthens you, invigorates you.
It has helped you grow a great deal.
- Copyright Chino Cua (@chinooocua) Metro Manila, Philippines - 2011
Biography: Chino Cua (@chinooocua) is an economics student residing in Metro Manila, Philippines. He is proficient in English and Filipino, has copacetic skills in Mandarin, and has dabbled in French, Spanish, Italian, and German. He loves artisanal things and enjoys exploring new places. Ironically, he loves going to coffeehouses for the ambience or the kaffeeklatsch with friends, but not necessarily for the coffee (well, not yet).
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Postcard From Beyond The Looking Glass
I said goodbye to sanity one Thursday late in June.
I kissed it fondly on the cheek and gave it a balloon.
It soared into the clear blue sky under a gibbous moon.
I shed a melancholic tear and sang a mournful tune.
I parted from reality, after a pipe or two,
And surfed across dimensions on a wave of irish stew,
The recipe for which was told me by an old gnu,
In transit on a scooter to romantic rendezvous.
The first postcard I sent en route to Lunacy was dear,
I bought it in a kasbah in a back street in Tangier,
From five performing oysters with a taste for yorkshire beer,
And all with scottish accents, which I found a little queer.
The terminal provided for the weary and confused,
Was furnished quite eclectically to calm and keep amused
The screw deficient travellers, who wandered and perused
The waiting room in search of comfy chairs on which to snooze.
My life now is anomalous, with chaos everywhere,
But I've made most uncommon friends, and what we have we share.
I spend my time with Baxter, an eccentric white March hare,
And I am happy here beyond the looking glass somewhere.
- Copyright Jonathan Humble @NorthernJim United Kingdom - 2011
Biography: NorthernJim is an ex-lettuce picker and itinerant beard grower. His hobbies include beard growing, pointing at poppies whilst saying "Oooo, they look nice!" and keeping the international coffee industry afloat with his patronage. He apologises profusely for any offence caused to the poetry community through his misuse of the word 'poem.' Find him on SoundCloud: http://soundcloud.com/northernjim
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Masks
Underneath the ghost light
The painted faces of forgotten players
Watch the empty seats.
We learn our lines,
A facade of love,
the grammar of the masters has only served to divide.
We touch for a moment,
two understudies insecure in our roles.
Deep down we both know we will never shine.
- Copyright Nick Hetherington @nhead77 Co. Kildare, Ireland - 2013
Brother
I heard a man crying,
A history of sorts
of all the blows he had absorbed
He counted out the cost.
You know what everybody says:
boys they shouldn’t cry
So, we grow up to be men
Burying it deep inside…but
I heard a man crying
And no matter how I tried
I could not look upon that face
I could not meet those eyes.
At night when I try to sleep
I hear his heart break again
I remember when we were boys,
and now we are only men.
- Copyright Nick Hetherington @nhead77 Co. Kildare, Ireland - 2013
Enough
I,
I was not enough
that is the only certainty.
Well, that and the fact you no longer love me.
Long hair against white skin
secret things you said.
Sacred moments shared.
Now all I have left are a few photographs,
this stunted poem
and the certainty
That I,
I was not enough.
- Copyright Nick Hetherington @nhead77 Co. Kildare, Ireland - 2013
Biography: My name is Nick Hetherington and I am from Co. Kildare, Ireland. I am 35 and have been writing for years.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Speaking Of History
Each thing speaks of itself and in speaking names, refers, connects others into
the fabric of things.
Each day has its own menu, then corn becomes maize, eggs become Benedict
and so on, pushing us along until we stop, waiting, until we realize that time
never was about fair shares. Time began as waiting and so continues, as the
weather moves yet does not go away. Wait for it to matter, perhaps not to
surprise, but still count, enough, like a share.
The measures of time are as notes to chords to stanzas…, seconds to minutes to
hours…, quantities, almost persons, grasped like stones rather than abstractions
scattered across pages deconstructing an unfinished aria turning everything to
caricature. If the key can be changed, the tempo altered, the symphony
redeemed, we might all stand smiling under the whole expanse of sky where
a share is equal for those who seek it.
Here again the speaking, naming, referring, connecting. Then it is out into the
night which is less than too anything so you leave the sweater on the veranda.
But the weave reminds you of Einstein, the fabric of space, and the needles of
time piercing your skin dragging you along by the pores, and this is what counts
for an inner life. Yet the fabric is there comforting your anguish,
because it IS there.
And this is what counts for History – what you find around the corner, in a bar,
at the office – the moments when you pause are the life you have. History without dates is infinity, the grand abstraction refusing to be tamed by our
notions of fairness -acting like a God.
- Copyright Ronald Shields @ronaldanne Pittsford, New York, USA - 2013
Biography: My name is Ronald E. Shields. I am married, a father of two boys, and a retired baker. I am too young and broke to retire, but did it anyway so I can devote as much time as possible to reading and writing poetry. www.poetryontherun.wordpress.com
He can be contacted at kennethgrantjm@yahoo.com
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The Straight Road
Am I proud to be an arrow,
Shooting through life?
Strong. Unbending. Direct.
Only hitting the target. Only hitting the target
With such force all else is destroyed
And when the target is finally obliterated
I am blunted by my own ambition.
A Roman road,
There are no surprises.
Single minded; one destination
With tunnel vision – refusing the fork in the proverbial road
Choosing not the unexpected
Ignoring the road less travelled
Missing the spontaneous
Clambering for excitement
Settling for the foreseeable future
The ‘destiny’ mother always dreamed for me.
When did it become my dream?
I have arrived at my destination
And look back.
Did I miss
Out?
- Copyright Jemma Dippnall @Teachertrying Oldham, United Kingdom - 2013
Aging Friendship
You watch it as a teenager – tied so strongly to those that know you the best.
You confide in those about the loneliness of adults.
You snigger at the lack of friends your parents seem to have.
You vow never to be that way.
Then you grow…
You don’t feel yourself changing,
You don’t see your friends parting,
You don’t recognise you’re living,
The teenager in you is furious!
You anger at your friends’ betrayal,
You cry over the emptiness in your heart,
You ignore the silent phone.
This is aging.
Suddenly you are the future you weren’t prepared for.
The one with a comfortable job.
The one with a mortgage.
The one with a partner to share your time with.
You met all expectations
But they didn’t prepare you for the unexpected…
I didn’t see the threads of friendship pull apart
Stretched by different paths,
Torn- by -opposite-choices,
Ripped-
By-
Miscommunication.
I sit at the end of my friendship
Clutching the last threads.
I fight to keep them together;
I hold close my teenage vow
But I know it is failing.
I am losing.
I am lost.
I am alone in my friendship.
- Copyright Jemma Dippnall @Teachertrying Oldham, United Kingdom - 2013
I Present My Case.
I admit to you my faults
And yes I meant the ‘s.’
But before I allow this autopsy
I want some kind of guarantee
That my testament will not misrepresent
My integrity
nor desire for your
witty repartee!
Thus I proceed
Stating for the record
The case of
Yours truly vs Emotional Resilience.
How do I plead?
Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.
The irony in the over stated
Should not be allowed to go unmissed
First witness to the judge and jury
Surrounds my tendency towards fury.
Like a witches brew it bubbles and bitches
Until it bleeds through every artery
in a rush of cathartic energy.
Spent and haggard my fury climbs back into its hole.
Second witness to face the panel
Hides behind my nervous channel
Stammering through every vocal chord
As nauseous as the thought of facing this board;
Like an alien invasion
It controls the amateur show.
Third witness refuses to cooperate
She is in that much of a sorrowful state.
My final witness, my closing statement in this case.
She lacks the strength to be heard.
Yet her beam still reaches the bench
Her eyes join in the display
Her whole face is alight
And in that rare occasion it is a sight
One to value and evoke
When my emotional resilience goes up in smoke!
- Copyright Jemma Dippnall @Teachertrying Oldham, United Kingdom - 2013
Biography: I am currently an Advanced Skills English teacher at a high school in Oldham. Despite studying poetry throughout my education it is only now I find its form a fantastic form of expression (and outlet) and I love to teach, discuss and debate the language of poetry with my students. As a rather new teacher (five years) and an even more novice poet (2 years) I welcome the opportunity for criticism, comment and a chance to share my writing with others.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Lost Patience
I thought the plan was in full gear.
Yes, yes, you said. Soon! you replied
soon after.
Perfect, I reckoned.
Perfect place, you affirmed.
One more thing, the exact details of the plan?
A few days and nights I wa -- I was panicking as though hell broke out and the continuous melting of ice caps had started to drown all the land masses but at the same time I was preparing a little short speech for you and maybe some topics out of which we can make small talks once we get to see each other but then I trashed them because I think the more spontaneous the better and I was hoping in dreams and hoping in reality that we iron our the details of our rendezvous since I cannot bear the agony of wallowing in the lack of certainty and I was also suspecting that maybe you've forgotten my invitation and instead agreed to another engagement which probably was set after my invite but I hated to think about it because I know you're better than that and that was obnoxiously made by my paranoia and frustration over the delay of your response and now I hope we can set the plan in stone and so that I can make sure everything will be perfect for us but why do you not reply now? -- ited.
- Copyright Chino Cua (@chinooocua) Metro Manila, Philippines - 2011
You’ve Grown
They say that one must eat breakfast like a king.
How loaded your breakfast has been
for the past year or so –
put-downs that fried you alive,
rumor-mongering that almost choked you,
physical assault that charred your dignity.
How challenging it must have always been,
to put every jab in your mouth,
to swallow the ridicule in one go,
to stomach this whole experience.
You take in water through your mouth,
instead of letting some spill from your eyes.
It is always hard to eat in the morning,
difficult to feed a stomach not ready
to undertake a big battle anew –
one that drains your ego
and pains your appetite.
Yet you war and never yield.
For your stubbornness, you've grown.
A boon is the obdurate in you.
For lapping it all up, morsel by morsel,
you've learned the tricks of the trade,
and grown tired of the anticipated pain.
As you toiled, it dawned on you
that breakfast was indeed the best meal.
It strengthens you, invigorates you.
It has helped you grow a great deal.
- Copyright Chino Cua (@chinooocua) Metro Manila, Philippines - 2011
Biography: Chino Cua (@chinooocua) is an economics student residing in Metro Manila, Philippines. He is proficient in English and Filipino, has copacetic skills in Mandarin, and has dabbled in French, Spanish, Italian, and German. He loves artisanal things and enjoys exploring new places. Ironically, he loves going to coffeehouses for the ambience or the kaffeeklatsch with friends, but not necessarily for the coffee (well, not yet).
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Postcard From Beyond The Looking Glass
I said goodbye to sanity one Thursday late in June.
I kissed it fondly on the cheek and gave it a balloon.
It soared into the clear blue sky under a gibbous moon.
I shed a melancholic tear and sang a mournful tune.
I parted from reality, after a pipe or two,
And surfed across dimensions on a wave of irish stew,
The recipe for which was told me by an old gnu,
In transit on a scooter to romantic rendezvous.
The first postcard I sent en route to Lunacy was dear,
I bought it in a kasbah in a back street in Tangier,
From five performing oysters with a taste for yorkshire beer,
And all with scottish accents, which I found a little queer.
The terminal provided for the weary and confused,
Was furnished quite eclectically to calm and keep amused
The screw deficient travellers, who wandered and perused
The waiting room in search of comfy chairs on which to snooze.
My life now is anomalous, with chaos everywhere,
But I've made most uncommon friends, and what we have we share.
I spend my time with Baxter, an eccentric white March hare,
And I am happy here beyond the looking glass somewhere.
- Copyright Jonathan Humble @NorthernJim United Kingdom - 2011
Biography: NorthernJim is an ex-lettuce picker and itinerant beard grower. His hobbies include beard growing, pointing at poppies whilst saying "Oooo, they look nice!" and keeping the international coffee industry afloat with his patronage. He apologises profusely for any offence caused to the poetry community through his misuse of the word 'poem.' Find him on SoundCloud: http://soundcloud.com/northernjim
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Masks
Underneath the ghost light
The painted faces of forgotten players
Watch the empty seats.
We learn our lines,
A facade of love,
the grammar of the masters has only served to divide.
We touch for a moment,
two understudies insecure in our roles.
Deep down we both know we will never shine.
- Copyright Nick Hetherington @nhead77 Co. Kildare, Ireland - 2013
Brother
I heard a man crying,
A history of sorts
of all the blows he had absorbed
He counted out the cost.
You know what everybody says:
boys they shouldn’t cry
So, we grow up to be men
Burying it deep inside…but
I heard a man crying
And no matter how I tried
I could not look upon that face
I could not meet those eyes.
At night when I try to sleep
I hear his heart break again
I remember when we were boys,
and now we are only men.
- Copyright Nick Hetherington @nhead77 Co. Kildare, Ireland - 2013
Enough
I,
I was not enough
that is the only certainty.
Well, that and the fact you no longer love me.
Long hair against white skin
secret things you said.
Sacred moments shared.
Now all I have left are a few photographs,
this stunted poem
and the certainty
That I,
I was not enough.
- Copyright Nick Hetherington @nhead77 Co. Kildare, Ireland - 2013
Biography: My name is Nick Hetherington and I am from Co. Kildare, Ireland. I am 35 and have been writing for years.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Speaking Of History
Each thing speaks of itself and in speaking names, refers, connects others into
the fabric of things.
Each day has its own menu, then corn becomes maize, eggs become Benedict
and so on, pushing us along until we stop, waiting, until we realize that time
never was about fair shares. Time began as waiting and so continues, as the
weather moves yet does not go away. Wait for it to matter, perhaps not to
surprise, but still count, enough, like a share.
The measures of time are as notes to chords to stanzas…, seconds to minutes to
hours…, quantities, almost persons, grasped like stones rather than abstractions
scattered across pages deconstructing an unfinished aria turning everything to
caricature. If the key can be changed, the tempo altered, the symphony
redeemed, we might all stand smiling under the whole expanse of sky where
a share is equal for those who seek it.
Here again the speaking, naming, referring, connecting. Then it is out into the
night which is less than too anything so you leave the sweater on the veranda.
But the weave reminds you of Einstein, the fabric of space, and the needles of
time piercing your skin dragging you along by the pores, and this is what counts
for an inner life. Yet the fabric is there comforting your anguish,
because it IS there.
And this is what counts for History – what you find around the corner, in a bar,
at the office – the moments when you pause are the life you have. History without dates is infinity, the grand abstraction refusing to be tamed by our
notions of fairness -acting like a God.
- Copyright Ronald Shields @ronaldanne Pittsford, New York, USA - 2013
Biography: My name is Ronald E. Shields. I am married, a father of two boys, and a retired baker. I am too young and broke to retire, but did it anyway so I can devote as much time as possible to reading and writing poetry. www.poetryontherun.wordpress.com
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Summer paradise
We have been having daunting dreams in winter sunset breeze
We have been chasing clouds, staring at starlight rays and wishing on the shooting star in midnight darkness
This summer paradise we dream of is like sun shooting down on our warm bodies
Dashed in sands, sprawled out near the waves of the beach and nature’s finest at its very best
Perching birds, coconut trees swaying to the tune of breezy air, the summer breeze rocks us as a lullaby slowly we sleep
Passing hours, unknown time,
Carefree,
No worries under sun.
- Copyright Christena AV Williams @worldclasspoet1 Jamaica - 2013
Out of many one people
Beat the Congo
Blow the horn
Wave your hand
Out of many one people
What a vibration
In a this little island
Even though we can’t live as one
But when a party time
We unite
Nuh matter the culture (it doesn’t)
We a full joy we self
You have Rasta talking
Christians praying
Bay song playing (in the context Bay means a lot)
Smiles on everybody faces
Out many one people
So come the Chinese, British, Syrians, Americans, Indians
Every Caribbean and rest of the world
Come to Jamaica
And feel alright
Listen some Bob
Don’t carry no jewelry
Because you will get rob
But come and eat
Have a feast
Enjoy we beach
Entertainment
Energy a shot
Dink a cold beer
Relax under the coconut tree
Feel free
We have jerk chicken
Curry goat
Festival, rice, Bammy
Fry and steam fish
Come enjoy we cultural dish
Food galore
Go back a your country
Tell every boy and girl
Say Jamaica nice
We know say crime and violence
Corruption
A plague
But don’t let that stop you
Cause everybody welcome
Nuh matter taste (It doesn’t)
Come in a haste
Cause we have a celebration
Jam dung vibration
Me a tell the politician
Say me a send out a special invitation
But first we yard need renovation
Build up Jamaica
And education
Cause we live in a paradise
Black, green and gold
We proud and bold
As we motto say
Out of many one people.
- Copyright Christena AV Williams @worldclasspoet1 Jamaica - 2013
I Drank poetry
Bartender
Pour me some more
Let me stumble through the back door
Let the police
Smell the poignant aroma of rhythm and blues
Collide with my Genius creative expression
Handcuff me for resisting being silent
Check my breath for the bubbles of a drunken poet
Spitting up words and rhymes
Expressively with profanity of poetry
Charge me with intoxication
Verbal sensation
Before the judge
I plea guilty
Poetic confinement recommended
On the walls I write art
Painting out the graffiti of the prisoner’s thoughts
And colouring with poetic expressions
Bartender
Pour me some more
Until my cup overflows
I just can’t get enough
Let this liquor become embedded in my arteries and lungs
Let it be in my very DNA
Let it flow through my blood and veins
Through my heart and mind
Let it be hypnosis for my dreams
I drank poetry and it tasted delicious.
- Copyright Christena AV Williams @worldclasspoet1 Jamaica - 2013
Remove the barriers
Oh lord!
I can’t understand
Why there’s no more love
Remove the barriers
Of racial segregation
Disunity of religion
The political division
I cry not for blacks or white
But I cry for mankind
Oh lord!
As you created this world
I knew this wasn’t your plan
Men sought power and greed
And for that slavery was to be
No one cares for you or me
So lord remove the barriers
So I and all may live as one
We are royal
We are all kings and queen
So what made you think?
You were more supreme
And we all are created in the image of the king
Oh lord!
Remove the barriers.
- Copyright Christena AV Williams @worldclasspoet1 Jamaica - 2013
Wake up world
I dream a dream
I dreamt the day when we were not perfect or immune to fear
But we were in one accord, despite our doubts and differences
I couldn’t believe my eyes when I felt love so strong in an atmosphere of once
So war and anger,
For the first time babies stare
For the first time the homeless was fed and cared
For the first time I thought, Christmas came everyday
This was a dream within my dreams
A dream I dream never to be awaken
This is my letter to the world,
I dream a dream,
That every boy and girl will be taught that they are special
And have an uplifted self esteem,
I envision the sun shining through the cracks of dawn,
The day that injustice will be mercy’s pawn,
I dream of a better world perceived through the eyes of unblemished child,
I dream of sunsets in smiles
I dream of masks removing beneath the disguise,
I dream… To scream like a timid girl, yell on top of my voice:
Wake up world.
- Copyright Christena AV Williams @worldclasspoet1 Jamaica - 2013
Rhymes Rebirth
They going to hear rhymes they never heard before
It will come as a rap beat, right down to Biggie and Tupac
So slick and hardcore
I am the rebirth
I am like an angel that walks the earth
I revolutionized
I am the element of surprise
Read my script like an animation on paper
For this new millennium
I plan to start the New Year
As a fresh poet and poetical rapper
With a little more style and more grammar
So don’t mistake me for those wannabees
I will work my ass off to fulfill my destiny
I will never sell my soul
To achieve the worlds gold and vanity
But I stay true and conscious
Because I know I am precious
With Christ I grow old
I am black and bold
My rhymes are a combination of words and grammar
A few misfits, an editor would penalized
But when you check my style
A gift you just can’t deny
I don’t beg for recognition
I don’t kiss asses to gain fame or do self proclamation
I am the phantom that will earn my respect
In print my name is engraved
My path is paved, many are called
But only a few is chosen by God
Against all the odd
Connect my analogy
I am a poetical Genius
My lyrics are like a composed orchestrated
Musical rhapsody
Call me prodigy
I am the rebirth of Modern Rhymery.
- Copyright Christena AV Williams @worldclasspoet1 Jamaica - 2013
Summer paradise
We have been having daunting dreams in winter sunset breeze
We have been chasing clouds, staring at starlight rays and wishing on the shooting star in midnight darkness
This summer paradise we dream of is like sun shooting down on our warm bodies
Dashed in sands, sprawled out near the waves of the beach and nature’s finest at its very best
Perching birds, coconut trees swaying to the tune of breezy air, the summer breeze rocks us as a lullaby slowly we sleep
Passing hours, unknown time,
Carefree,
No worries under sun.
- Copyright Christena AV Williams @worldclasspoet1 Jamaica - 2013
Out of many one people
Beat the Congo
Blow the horn
Wave your hand
Out of many one people
What a vibration
In a this little island
Even though we can’t live as one
But when a party time
We unite
Nuh matter the culture (it doesn’t)
We a full joy we self
You have Rasta talking
Christians praying
Bay song playing (in the context Bay means a lot)
Smiles on everybody faces
Out many one people
So come the Chinese, British, Syrians, Americans, Indians
Every Caribbean and rest of the world
Come to Jamaica
And feel alright
Listen some Bob
Don’t carry no jewelry
Because you will get rob
But come and eat
Have a feast
Enjoy we beach
Entertainment
Energy a shot
Dink a cold beer
Relax under the coconut tree
Feel free
We have jerk chicken
Curry goat
Festival, rice, Bammy
Fry and steam fish
Come enjoy we cultural dish
Food galore
Go back a your country
Tell every boy and girl
Say Jamaica nice
We know say crime and violence
Corruption
A plague
But don’t let that stop you
Cause everybody welcome
Nuh matter taste (It doesn’t)
Come in a haste
Cause we have a celebration
Jam dung vibration
Me a tell the politician
Say me a send out a special invitation
But first we yard need renovation
Build up Jamaica
And education
Cause we live in a paradise
Black, green and gold
We proud and bold
As we motto say
Out of many one people.
- Copyright Christena AV Williams @worldclasspoet1 Jamaica - 2013
I Drank poetry
Bartender
Pour me some more
Let me stumble through the back door
Let the police
Smell the poignant aroma of rhythm and blues
Collide with my Genius creative expression
Handcuff me for resisting being silent
Check my breath for the bubbles of a drunken poet
Spitting up words and rhymes
Expressively with profanity of poetry
Charge me with intoxication
Verbal sensation
Before the judge
I plea guilty
Poetic confinement recommended
On the walls I write art
Painting out the graffiti of the prisoner’s thoughts
And colouring with poetic expressions
Bartender
Pour me some more
Until my cup overflows
I just can’t get enough
Let this liquor become embedded in my arteries and lungs
Let it be in my very DNA
Let it flow through my blood and veins
Through my heart and mind
Let it be hypnosis for my dreams
I drank poetry and it tasted delicious.
- Copyright Christena AV Williams @worldclasspoet1 Jamaica - 2013
Remove the barriers
Oh lord!
I can’t understand
Why there’s no more love
Remove the barriers
Of racial segregation
Disunity of religion
The political division
I cry not for blacks or white
But I cry for mankind
Oh lord!
As you created this world
I knew this wasn’t your plan
Men sought power and greed
And for that slavery was to be
No one cares for you or me
So lord remove the barriers
So I and all may live as one
We are royal
We are all kings and queen
So what made you think?
You were more supreme
And we all are created in the image of the king
Oh lord!
Remove the barriers.
- Copyright Christena AV Williams @worldclasspoet1 Jamaica - 2013
Wake up world
I dream a dream
I dreamt the day when we were not perfect or immune to fear
But we were in one accord, despite our doubts and differences
I couldn’t believe my eyes when I felt love so strong in an atmosphere of once
So war and anger,
For the first time babies stare
For the first time the homeless was fed and cared
For the first time I thought, Christmas came everyday
This was a dream within my dreams
A dream I dream never to be awaken
This is my letter to the world,
I dream a dream,
That every boy and girl will be taught that they are special
And have an uplifted self esteem,
I envision the sun shining through the cracks of dawn,
The day that injustice will be mercy’s pawn,
I dream of a better world perceived through the eyes of unblemished child,
I dream of sunsets in smiles
I dream of masks removing beneath the disguise,
I dream… To scream like a timid girl, yell on top of my voice:
Wake up world.
- Copyright Christena AV Williams @worldclasspoet1 Jamaica - 2013
Rhymes Rebirth
They going to hear rhymes they never heard before
It will come as a rap beat, right down to Biggie and Tupac
So slick and hardcore
I am the rebirth
I am like an angel that walks the earth
I revolutionized
I am the element of surprise
Read my script like an animation on paper
For this new millennium
I plan to start the New Year
As a fresh poet and poetical rapper
With a little more style and more grammar
So don’t mistake me for those wannabees
I will work my ass off to fulfill my destiny
I will never sell my soul
To achieve the worlds gold and vanity
But I stay true and conscious
Because I know I am precious
With Christ I grow old
I am black and bold
My rhymes are a combination of words and grammar
A few misfits, an editor would penalized
But when you check my style
A gift you just can’t deny
I don’t beg for recognition
I don’t kiss asses to gain fame or do self proclamation
I am the phantom that will earn my respect
In print my name is engraved
My path is paved, many are called
But only a few is chosen by God
Against all the odd
Connect my analogy
I am a poetical Genius
My lyrics are like a composed orchestrated
Musical rhapsody
Call me prodigy
I am the rebirth of Modern Rhymery.
- Copyright Christena AV Williams @worldclasspoet1 Jamaica - 2013
Biography: Christena AV Williams is a young Jamaican poet and author of Pearls Among Stones. She writes with passion and radical evoking feelings. This young poet, through many circumstances, writes like a lioness - a warrior at heart. Her versatile writings are inspired by God and music, as well other phenomenal poets whether known or unknown to the world. She is a lover of oldies, classic, country and sweet reggae of Bob Marley as well as her poetic beats and rhythms from rap. Sometimes her poetry is so profound that it inspires positivity and creates an Irie vibez.
She is featured in the Gleaner Company of Jamaica, online magazines, and poetry anthologies. She is humbled by all her achievements and hopes to inspire other young poets as well.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Mighty Homestead
The cries of playing children slowly die in a diminuendo,
Goats and sheep systematically replace them,
Cows and their young ones join the dead end of the treble.
It's dark,
Night is approaching in the African homestead.
As nature hurries to put things in order,
Only men will dare challenge the forces of nature.
They gather round huge fireballs in order of their ranks,
They sip,
Sneeze,
The blazes they make standing out like stars from a far,
Here the future of our clan is put to perspective.
At the warmth of three black balls,
Fire insects walk up and down the cooking pot,
As grandma call the troupes to order,
Here the history and culture of our people is tossed beyond doubt.
A painless paradise that almost put many to sleep,
Had it not been for its magic spell,
The power of grandma's words,
Laughter living between life and death,
Experience that went beyond mortal power.
It's dark,
Night is falling in the African homestead,
But the masters of the night must surely perform their jazz,
The solo of the wild insects,
Tied to the other end by the rhythms of the night birds,
The wonderful vocals of the hyena,
I have never seen one in the contemporary world,
We will never see one in the modern world,
We blindly crossed the bridge and water has swept it downstream,
My son will never see it,
My grandson will never hear about.
The magic stick lay in front of me shaking,
Bound by the fairy tales of history,
If at all we had listened!
The sin of keeping our hands clean,
Too late to pass a blame,
For the pain of wearing a forced smile abound large.
History is sweet,
A tale almost fair,
Yet,
It can not create the might African home.
- Copyright Tom Okenye Otero @lfoTom Kisii, Kenya, Africa - 2013
Biography: My name is Tom Okenye Otero. I am a Kenyan, aged 37, married with three children. I have a bachelors degree in commerce and am working as an audit assistant with an educational institution in the country. I write for leisure and much of my work has not been published due reasons beyond my reach.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Dancing like leaves to the new morning
with the romance of the violins scoring
With technique and rigors played
This interweaving dance
She lily-white he bronze toned
Love played in glissando
Deeply enthroned
how the violin sways to the protracted imagination
with her body being the most elegant vase
Soft movements one eyes traced
From fingertips to tiptoe
Such flowing lines of grace
body arcs in sway with fingers
in first position of quarter tones
his muscle rib expansion stunning
he her pirouette spur ballerinas exaltation
limes extends like
archers arms
cupids arrow in capriccio
listing for the happy moan and whine
when dancing together in naked infusion
his fingers from blonde fleece
gliding sliding along the side
glanced her petite breast
with strings of the violin
in tempo to poetry pace
such passion shown in vibrato
with timely pulsating rhythm
Venus blew her sweetest kiss
when bowing to the tailpiece
of the complied master pieces
to their day of love
saut de basque
love graced the air
till sunsets rest
now love lives for a new day
when ballet with poetry
sway to love of violin playing
with the encore of such love
played out to another full sketched day.
- Copyright Steve James @Karmavirtuverse London, United Kingdom - 2013
Biography: Steve James: After losing two loves in my life, I discovered that my emotions went well in poetry, which I try to articulate. Hope you enjoy.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The goddess with a golden mane
Kingdom of heaven, goddess with mane of gold,
They say unlimited joy; she provides the young and the old.
All want to play and seldom hear,
The untold story in her eyes full of fear.
Among the merry mob, I happened to swing by,
Struck by her beauty yet moved by her plight, I asked her why.
The gaze shone bright, twinkle in her eye,
All she did was smile and wipe her tears dry.
Ask me no story, she said, as I know not the reason,
Its been so long within me, now everyday is just another season.
Cause better it is to die in this lasting hell,
Much worse it is to live in hope, that you sell….
- Copyright Kewal Kotian @kewalcalling Mumbai, India - 2013
Loving Strangers…
As the sun goes down on another bottle of wine,
Light conversations and evening seems fine.
The barman regales with his narration,
The drunk pilgrim, he never fails to mention.
As you look around, everyone has a familiar look,
Happy faces, but a cover never tells the story of the book.
Many troop in and so swells the crowd,
Most keeping to themselves, as they are shy or even proud.
Soon enough I catch an innocent eye.
Share conversations as time goes by.
It’s closing the time and I wish I had more.
Hopeful look to barman, just another drink he may pour.
He says with a cheeky smile,
Wrapping-up all the while.
Look carefully, my friend, there is no one there,
All evening, you’ve been talking to thin air.
Fret not; I see this often with lonely rangers
Come again, there will always be another night for loving strangers.
- Copyright Kewal Kotian @kewalcalling Mumbai, India - 2013
Biography: Mumbai. India. World. That’s where it all started for me. Been in sales, advertising, banking and marketing – it’s been a ride. But have I hit the sweet spot yet? No way! Not sure what you’ll find me doing next. Been writing for a while now and my first works have been experimental doodles. I call them - ‘Random Musings’. They are all simple stories. Its only when the story has achieved some form of direction, is when they take various forms of poems, couplets, verses and sometimes even letters. And so begins another journey of putting together these random thoughts. Hop on…enjoy the ride.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
To Carry
always a cost to carry –
question cargo
think of hull
pushing
out boat’s
bottom
of coal extinguished
on tracks
boxcars
slowing
of removed change
disconnected
pressing
elsewhere
- Copyright Kenyatta Jean-Paul Garcia Brooklyn, New York, USA - 2013
Somewhere Hidden
hope=wall
not mirror
though time is spent
looking into it –attempting at-
finding all exactitude
of desires
within its frame
* * *
“Thoughts become inert, what they insert
Is meant to hurt.” Marie Étienne
* * *
passion’s other name
is disaster
* * *
loneliness found beside a lover
is a lie
somewhere hidden
- Copyright Kenyatta Jean-Paul Garcia Brooklyn, New York, USA - 2013
Diminishing
displaced sentiment
watched
from window
a walk
come long down the block
then diminishing
- Copyright Kenyatta Jean-Paul Garcia Brooklyn, New York, USA - 2013
Biography: Kenyatta Jean-Paul Garcia is the author of This Sentimental Education and other collections of poetry. He was raised in Brooklyn, NY and has degrees in English and Linguistics. After spending ten years as a cook and many other jobs in the restaurant industry he has returned his focus to poetry. By day he runs both kjpgarcia.wordpress.com and altpoetics.wordpress.com. By night, he gets paid to put boxes on shelves.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Death Song
One day
My bones
Turned to ash
Will blow
Across prairies, plains
Tossed by gentle winds
Dismissed
I will go home
And rest
- Copyright Melissa Fry Beasley @Melissa74016 Chelsea, Oklahoma, USA - 2013
Wind
Wind takes me somewhere
I never want to forget
Twisting
Like a breeze off the ocean
Men walking on water
Girls waiting like oysters
To be opened
Enjoyed
Their pearls buried in the deeps like
Ideas running through old channels
Fog rising from rivers
Lifting prayers like fish
Alluvial shores
Loose like love or easy women
Seagull picks at empty sand
Anointed by the sun
Baptized in place
- Copyright Melissa Fry Beasley @Melissa74016 Chelsea, Oklahoma, USA - 2013
A Poem Of My Grandmother
Piecing together life
Pain
Joy
Smiles
Into amazing squares
Of faith and strength
Catching laughter
Binding tears
Placing them just so
Feather stitching chaos into order
Into your hoop
Go dreams of the people
Memories of family
Nations quilted into glorious hugs and well wishes
Sent across miles
Or just around the corner
Wrapped tightly
Safely shielded from the elements
Harshness of the world
History woven into each block
Every blanket containing a piece of you
Your wisdom
Reminding us who we are
Where we came from
In one of your blankets I saw chickens in a coop
Another contained startstuffs and Heaven
I've seen wedding rings
A trail across Kansas
Even the path of a drunkard
I saw the blanket of Chiefs and
One men wrap up in to see Holy things
There was even one made by your Grandmother so long ago
When she was still little
Love in each stitch
Prayer in every thread
So much magic in each creation of your beautiful hands
I found my Grandmother
Her Grandmothers
Blowing in the breeze
Soaking in the sun
As this blanket was just hanging there.
- Copyright Melissa Fry Beasley @Melissa74016 Chelsea, Oklahoma, USA - 2013
Biography: Melissa Fry Beasley is a Poet, Artist, and Activist from Oklahoma. She is proud to have red dirt running through her veins. She has been published in print and online. Her blog is here: http://melissafrybeasley.wordpress.com/
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Maybe Man
-For Mahabubur, Abdul Malek Road corner, Chittagong
His beard an inch of white
at root and eight more yellow.
A light lychee bushel hanging
from rusted nail rolls to fall.
He tilts his head and presses on
his inner brow with his thumb
and I sense his stress entirely
wrong. His thumb slides across
to wring his brow like a rag.
No drips, a splash, two fists
gather to retie his lungi.
He looks at me like yesterday
when I said “maybe tomorrow”
but meant “not now, I’m tired.”
Today, even his eyes have ribs
so when they looked at me
and he said “maybe tomorrow”
but meant “please, please buy”
I sat beside him at his stall,
emptied my wallet of taka
and we peeled back the rough
lychee skin to sweet bursting.
- Copyright Cameron Conaway @CameronConaway Bangkok, Thailand - 2013
Biography: Cameron Conaway is a former MMA fighter, an award-winning poet and the Social Justice Editor at the Good Men Project, where he has published work based on his international investigations into topics such as child labor and human trafficking. Follow him on Twitter @CameronConaway.
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Little Miss Emily Dickinson
Little Miss Emily Dickinson
cocooned
in white silk in her sitting room.
Dreaming a web
of words around her
then gathering them
back into her
pocket
again.
Oh why doesn't she open
a window?
And let the poor things fly?
Perhaps she fears
that like the
spider
if she gives birth
she'll
die.
- Copyright Michele Seminara @SeminaraMichele Sydney, Australia - 2013
Adrift
Her mind was strong
but now it's gone
adrifting out to sea
and barnacles
and sucker fish
are living there for free.
Her thoughts, like eels, are slippery
they shimmer in the wet,
enticing her to hook their tails
with language she'll forget.
Life must feel so unnerving
without handles to hold on -
a mind that's lost its labels is
a maze you can't escape from.
Trapped in watery corridors
with no words to let you out,
identity is cast away
her treasures sunk throughout.
- Copyright Michele Seminara @SeminaraMichele Sydney, Australia - 2013
Biography: Michele Seminara is a poet who lives in Sydney, Australia. She has been published in several online journals and blogs at http://micheleseminara.wordpress.com/
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Arrested By The Grammar Police
It seems that lately I can’t get no peace,
From all those so-called Grammar Police,
Who for some reason think that I should care,
The difference between there, they’re and their.
They want to analyze everything I say,
Just waiting for me to lie when I want to lay,
And I really think they just do it because,
They want to further some petty cause.
So, what I do is I mess with there head,
I write the word red when I really mean read,
And I couldn’t care less if they throe a fit,
Should I confuse the words elicit with illicit.
And it really don’t phase me if I’m derelict,
By writing something like “cause and affect,”
I’ll just stare and say “Whatcha gonna do?”
If I want to write that the sky is blew.
Though I really shutter at the very thought,
I’ll try to be discrete and not get caught,
But if they should arrest me and throe me in jail,
Just bee sure and come and post my bale.
- Copyright Alan W. Jankowski @Exakta66 New Jersey, USA - 2013
Please Tell Me That You Can Stay
I watch you lie so quiet and still,
You really are a lovely sight,
So many dreams you helped fulfill,
As I recall our previous night.
As the morning sun begins to rise,
I watch you lie silent on the bed,
A soft glow dances upon your eyes,
The pillow softly cradles your head.
The morning sun bathes you in light,
As you slowly start to awake,
My thoughts soon turn to delight,
As I think of the love we can make.
Though we loved the night before,
I wished it would never end,
At the sight of you I yearn for more,
To make love to you again.
Your smile drives my imagination wild,
Please tell me that you can stay,
Your touch releases my inner child,
My inner child wants to play.
It's in these quiet times we spend,
That it's you I'm thinking of,
Times I wish would never end,
I will never tire of your love.
- Copyright Alan W. Jankowski @Exakta66 New Jersey, USA - 2013
What A Difference A Year Can Make
Nothing in life is guaranteed,
Of this lesson I should take heed,
For what life gives it can surely take,
What a difference a year can make.
A year ago I was standing tall,
It seemed as though I had it all,
Somehow though my luck had turned,
I consider it a lesson learned.
Failure is hard, but so is success,
Too many drown in their own excess,
But no matter what, my spirit won't break,
What a difference a year can make.
- Copyright Alan W. Jankowski @Exakta66 New Jersey, USA - 2013
Translation: Zang Xiaoyan
天下万事都无法保证，
这点我是深有体会。
来的容易，去的更快，
今年过了，又有什么不同？
年前我志得意满、
世界被我踩在脚下。
后来风向变了，没跟着转...
罢了，成功与失败一样困难。
太多人玩过了头，
再怎么说，我的精神总算还不错，
今年的确大为不同。
Biography: Alan W. Jankowski is the award winning author of well over one hundred short stories, plays and poems. His stories have been published online, and in various journals including Oysters & Chocolate, Muscadine Lines: A Southern Journal, eFiction Magazine, Zouch, The Rusty Nail, and a few others he can't remember at the moment. His poetry has more recently become popular, and his 9-11 Tribute poem was used extensively in ceremonies during the tenth anniversary of this tragic event...
http://www.storiesspace.com/forum/yaf_postst538_My-911-Tribute-poem-has-been-in-print-at-least-fourteen-times-in-2011.aspx
When he is not writing, which is not often, his hobbies include music and camera collecting. He currently resides in New Jersey. He always appreciates feedback of any kind on his work, and can be reached by e-mail at: Exakta66@gmail.com
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The Sands
Under a rock I foun
d where all the wo
rds you lost had
been tumbled b
y the sea unti
l little by l
ittle they
broke int
o letter
s half-
burie
d in t
he s
an
d
- Copyright Anthony DiMartino @addimartino Hamden, Connecticut, USA - 2013
Serendipity on Cedar Lane
Once last year
I went for a walk; a long walk I suppose. It was summertime
And the siblings, who would wonder where I would be,
Were off at school, probably taking another test or two.
I had to claim a destination, for I am prone to
Mindless wandering around, gazing at the point where
The sky touched the ground and feeling satisfied.
This small world made life, and it was mine
To rummage and discover once more.
I walked farther down the road,
Leisurely taking in the bland scenery I had grown
Accustomed to over the years here by
Residing around it, alongside its careful grasp.
The large trees that fell with the wind and grew
Back up had entertained me once
But were commonplace today,
Yet I remember it so vividly.
I walked farther down the road.
Nevertheless I reveled in what I saw.
Upon stopping for a moment I witnessed
The moon shrouded behind the oaks and a deep
Blue sky, deliberately blinding the innocent world
That was so unaware that the night was inevitable.
And in the role that the oaks had played,
I knew enough to say that they
Protected us, but from what I was unsure.
I walked farther down the road.
And with the night comes the day, too,
So have no fear yet for what will always disappear
In the blink of an eye, in a cycle that we accept;
And so it goes back and forth, back and forth.
Despite the endless, good-willed tunes,
The carousel halts eventually and so also
Does the amusement park it reigns over.
I walked farther down the road.
There’s a stream in the backyard of
My neighbors’ place where I used to play and
Bolt around, like the little ball lightning I
Remember seeing myself as in the mirror.
I gathered the energy today to dash through
The yard and reach the stream, which hadn’t
Any water anymore. I returned to the street, and
I walked farther down the road.
In the summertime the heat intensified my
Desire to explore, but today I knew that
There was nothing left for me to uncover,
No more rocks with special secrets underneath.
Yet upon that realization I was happy, and
The nostalgic feelings delivered me the sight
Of what I once knew so well. And I felt serendipitous, so
I walked farther down the road, and
Didn’t regret a moment spent.
- Copyright Anthony DiMartino @addimartino Hamden, Connecticut, USA - 2013
Heroism
Heroic shades of white
Overlapping on a grassy field
A sound of blackness in the distance,
A herd of gunfire stampeding
With no remorse
But the man in the heroic pose,
His shoulders firm with a
Letter emblazoned on his chest, and
His multicolored cape swaying
Gracefully behind him,
Believes with pride that
The living innocents, the innocent innocents
Would stay unharmed and
Protected, so to speak,
With his heroic assistance.
“A hero is what these innocents need,
And that hero will be me,” he proclaims
With a voice louder than the
Horn of the heavens.
He flies into the fray regardless of the
Blizzard of bullets storming from all ends,
The innocents dying of wounds beside him
And with ignorance and
Perceived valor and
Perceived strength
And real bravery and
Nothing,
He’s gone,
Disappeared, missing in action,
Another sheep in the conveyor line,
Another ant stomped under the foot of
A more menacing power
Without the flowing cape, the
Strong pose, the
Generosity, the
Selflessness, the
Firm shoulders, the
Grace, or the
Pride.
He was simply another ant,
But a stronger one,
Who did not let the idea of
Heroism
Go to his head
Before the idea was mutilated.
- Copyright Anthony DiMartino @addimartino Hamden, Connecticut, USA - 2013
Biography: Anthony DiMartino is an aspiring journalist, poet, novelist, and educator living in Hamden, Connecticut. He studies at Quinnipiac University as a freshman English major and seeks to publish a novel or book of poetry before he graduates. He is a Staff Writer at the Quad News, as well as a daily blogger at http://wordswithoutpages.wordpress.com/. You can reach him at his blog or at his twitter, @addimartino.
She is featured in the Gleaner Company of Jamaica, online magazines, and poetry anthologies. She is humbled by all her achievements and hopes to inspire other young poets as well.
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Mighty Homestead
The cries of playing children slowly die in a diminuendo,
Goats and sheep systematically replace them,
Cows and their young ones join the dead end of the treble.
It's dark,
Night is approaching in the African homestead.
As nature hurries to put things in order,
Only men will dare challenge the forces of nature.
They gather round huge fireballs in order of their ranks,
They sip,
Sneeze,
The blazes they make standing out like stars from a far,
Here the future of our clan is put to perspective.
At the warmth of three black balls,
Fire insects walk up and down the cooking pot,
As grandma call the troupes to order,
Here the history and culture of our people is tossed beyond doubt.
A painless paradise that almost put many to sleep,
Had it not been for its magic spell,
The power of grandma's words,
Laughter living between life and death,
Experience that went beyond mortal power.
It's dark,
Night is falling in the African homestead,
But the masters of the night must surely perform their jazz,
The solo of the wild insects,
Tied to the other end by the rhythms of the night birds,
The wonderful vocals of the hyena,
I have never seen one in the contemporary world,
We will never see one in the modern world,
We blindly crossed the bridge and water has swept it downstream,
My son will never see it,
My grandson will never hear about.
The magic stick lay in front of me shaking,
Bound by the fairy tales of history,
If at all we had listened!
The sin of keeping our hands clean,
Too late to pass a blame,
For the pain of wearing a forced smile abound large.
History is sweet,
A tale almost fair,
Yet,
It can not create the might African home.
- Copyright Tom Okenye Otero @lfoTom Kisii, Kenya, Africa - 2013
Biography: My name is Tom Okenye Otero. I am a Kenyan, aged 37, married with three children. I have a bachelors degree in commerce and am working as an audit assistant with an educational institution in the country. I write for leisure and much of my work has not been published due reasons beyond my reach.
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Dancing like leaves to the new morning
with the romance of the violins scoring
With technique and rigors played
This interweaving dance
She lily-white he bronze toned
Love played in glissando
Deeply enthroned
how the violin sways to the protracted imagination
with her body being the most elegant vase
Soft movements one eyes traced
From fingertips to tiptoe
Such flowing lines of grace
body arcs in sway with fingers
in first position of quarter tones
his muscle rib expansion stunning
he her pirouette spur ballerinas exaltation
limes extends like
archers arms
cupids arrow in capriccio
listing for the happy moan and whine
when dancing together in naked infusion
his fingers from blonde fleece
gliding sliding along the side
glanced her petite breast
with strings of the violin
in tempo to poetry pace
such passion shown in vibrato
with timely pulsating rhythm
Venus blew her sweetest kiss
when bowing to the tailpiece
of the complied master pieces
to their day of love
saut de basque
love graced the air
till sunsets rest
now love lives for a new day
when ballet with poetry
sway to love of violin playing
with the encore of such love
played out to another full sketched day.
- Copyright Steve James @Karmavirtuverse London, United Kingdom - 2013
Biography: Steve James: After losing two loves in my life, I discovered that my emotions went well in poetry, which I try to articulate. Hope you enjoy.
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The goddess with a golden mane
Kingdom of heaven, goddess with mane of gold,
They say unlimited joy; she provides the young and the old.
All want to play and seldom hear,
The untold story in her eyes full of fear.
Among the merry mob, I happened to swing by,
Struck by her beauty yet moved by her plight, I asked her why.
The gaze shone bright, twinkle in her eye,
All she did was smile and wipe her tears dry.
Ask me no story, she said, as I know not the reason,
Its been so long within me, now everyday is just another season.
Cause better it is to die in this lasting hell,
Much worse it is to live in hope, that you sell….
- Copyright Kewal Kotian @kewalcalling Mumbai, India - 2013
Loving Strangers…
As the sun goes down on another bottle of wine,
Light conversations and evening seems fine.
The barman regales with his narration,
The drunk pilgrim, he never fails to mention.
As you look around, everyone has a familiar look,
Happy faces, but a cover never tells the story of the book.
Many troop in and so swells the crowd,
Most keeping to themselves, as they are shy or even proud.
Soon enough I catch an innocent eye.
Share conversations as time goes by.
It’s closing the time and I wish I had more.
Hopeful look to barman, just another drink he may pour.
He says with a cheeky smile,
Wrapping-up all the while.
Look carefully, my friend, there is no one there,
All evening, you’ve been talking to thin air.
Fret not; I see this often with lonely rangers
Come again, there will always be another night for loving strangers.
- Copyright Kewal Kotian @kewalcalling Mumbai, India - 2013
Biography: Mumbai. India. World. That’s where it all started for me. Been in sales, advertising, banking and marketing – it’s been a ride. But have I hit the sweet spot yet? No way! Not sure what you’ll find me doing next. Been writing for a while now and my first works have been experimental doodles. I call them - ‘Random Musings’. They are all simple stories. Its only when the story has achieved some form of direction, is when they take various forms of poems, couplets, verses and sometimes even letters. And so begins another journey of putting together these random thoughts. Hop on…enjoy the ride.
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To Carry
always a cost to carry –
question cargo
think of hull
pushing
out boat’s
bottom
of coal extinguished
on tracks
boxcars
slowing
of removed change
disconnected
pressing
elsewhere
- Copyright Kenyatta Jean-Paul Garcia Brooklyn, New York, USA - 2013
Somewhere Hidden
hope=wall
not mirror
though time is spent
looking into it –attempting at-
finding all exactitude
of desires
within its frame
* * *
“Thoughts become inert, what they insert
Is meant to hurt.” Marie Étienne
* * *
passion’s other name
is disaster
* * *
loneliness found beside a lover
is a lie
somewhere hidden
- Copyright Kenyatta Jean-Paul Garcia Brooklyn, New York, USA - 2013
Diminishing
displaced sentiment
watched
from window
a walk
come long down the block
then diminishing
- Copyright Kenyatta Jean-Paul Garcia Brooklyn, New York, USA - 2013
Biography: Kenyatta Jean-Paul Garcia is the author of This Sentimental Education and other collections of poetry. He was raised in Brooklyn, NY and has degrees in English and Linguistics. After spending ten years as a cook and many other jobs in the restaurant industry he has returned his focus to poetry. By day he runs both kjpgarcia.wordpress.com and altpoetics.wordpress.com. By night, he gets paid to put boxes on shelves.
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Death Song
One day
My bones
Turned to ash
Will blow
Across prairies, plains
Tossed by gentle winds
Dismissed
I will go home
And rest
- Copyright Melissa Fry Beasley @Melissa74016 Chelsea, Oklahoma, USA - 2013
Wind
Wind takes me somewhere
I never want to forget
Twisting
Like a breeze off the ocean
Men walking on water
Girls waiting like oysters
To be opened
Enjoyed
Their pearls buried in the deeps like
Ideas running through old channels
Fog rising from rivers
Lifting prayers like fish
Alluvial shores
Loose like love or easy women
Seagull picks at empty sand
Anointed by the sun
Baptized in place
- Copyright Melissa Fry Beasley @Melissa74016 Chelsea, Oklahoma, USA - 2013
A Poem Of My Grandmother
Piecing together life
Pain
Joy
Smiles
Into amazing squares
Of faith and strength
Catching laughter
Binding tears
Placing them just so
Feather stitching chaos into order
Into your hoop
Go dreams of the people
Memories of family
Nations quilted into glorious hugs and well wishes
Sent across miles
Or just around the corner
Wrapped tightly
Safely shielded from the elements
Harshness of the world
History woven into each block
Every blanket containing a piece of you
Your wisdom
Reminding us who we are
Where we came from
In one of your blankets I saw chickens in a coop
Another contained startstuffs and Heaven
I've seen wedding rings
A trail across Kansas
Even the path of a drunkard
I saw the blanket of Chiefs and
One men wrap up in to see Holy things
There was even one made by your Grandmother so long ago
When she was still little
Love in each stitch
Prayer in every thread
So much magic in each creation of your beautiful hands
I found my Grandmother
Her Grandmothers
Blowing in the breeze
Soaking in the sun
As this blanket was just hanging there.
- Copyright Melissa Fry Beasley @Melissa74016 Chelsea, Oklahoma, USA - 2013
Biography: Melissa Fry Beasley is a Poet, Artist, and Activist from Oklahoma. She is proud to have red dirt running through her veins. She has been published in print and online. Her blog is here: http://melissafrybeasley.wordpress.com/
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Maybe Man
-For Mahabubur, Abdul Malek Road corner, Chittagong
His beard an inch of white
at root and eight more yellow.
A light lychee bushel hanging
from rusted nail rolls to fall.
He tilts his head and presses on
his inner brow with his thumb
and I sense his stress entirely
wrong. His thumb slides across
to wring his brow like a rag.
No drips, a splash, two fists
gather to retie his lungi.
He looks at me like yesterday
when I said “maybe tomorrow”
but meant “not now, I’m tired.”
Today, even his eyes have ribs
so when they looked at me
and he said “maybe tomorrow”
but meant “please, please buy”
I sat beside him at his stall,
emptied my wallet of taka
and we peeled back the rough
lychee skin to sweet bursting.
- Copyright Cameron Conaway @CameronConaway Bangkok, Thailand - 2013
Biography: Cameron Conaway is a former MMA fighter, an award-winning poet and the Social Justice Editor at the Good Men Project, where he has published work based on his international investigations into topics such as child labor and human trafficking. Follow him on Twitter @CameronConaway.
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Little Miss Emily Dickinson
Little Miss Emily Dickinson
cocooned
in white silk in her sitting room.
Dreaming a web
of words around her
then gathering them
back into her
again.
Oh why doesn't she open
a window?
And let the poor things fly?
Perhaps she fears
that like the
spider
if she gives birth
she'll
die.
- Copyright Michele Seminara @SeminaraMichele Sydney, Australia - 2013
Adrift
Her mind was strong
but now it's gone
adrifting out to sea
and barnacles
and sucker fish
are living there for free.
Her thoughts, like eels, are slippery
they shimmer in the wet,
enticing her to hook their tails
with language she'll forget.
Life must feel so unnerving
without handles to hold on -
a mind that's lost its labels is
a maze you can't escape from.
Trapped in watery corridors
with no words to let you out,
identity is cast away
her treasures sunk throughout.
- Copyright Michele Seminara @SeminaraMichele Sydney, Australia - 2013
Biography: Michele Seminara is a poet who lives in Sydney, Australia. She has been published in several online journals and blogs at http://micheleseminara.wordpress.com/
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Arrested By The Grammar Police
It seems that lately I can’t get no peace,
From all those so-called Grammar Police,
Who for some reason think that I should care,
The difference between there, they’re and their.
They want to analyze everything I say,
Just waiting for me to lie when I want to lay,
And I really think they just do it because,
They want to further some petty cause.
So, what I do is I mess with there head,
I write the word red when I really mean read,
And I couldn’t care less if they throe a fit,
Should I confuse the words elicit with illicit.
And it really don’t phase me if I’m derelict,
By writing something like “cause and affect,”
I’ll just stare and say “Whatcha gonna do?”
If I want to write that the sky is blew.
Though I really shutter at the very thought,
I’ll try to be discrete and not get caught,
But if they should arrest me and throe me in jail,
Just bee sure and come and post my bale.
- Copyright Alan W. Jankowski @Exakta66 New Jersey, USA - 2013
Please Tell Me That You Can Stay
I watch you lie so quiet and still,
You really are a lovely sight,
So many dreams you helped fulfill,
As I recall our previous night.
As the morning sun begins to rise,
I watch you lie silent on the bed,
A soft glow dances upon your eyes,
The pillow softly cradles your head.
The morning sun bathes you in light,
As you slowly start to awake,
My thoughts soon turn to delight,
As I think of the love we can make.
Though we loved the night before,
I wished it would never end,
At the sight of you I yearn for more,
To make love to you again.
Your smile drives my imagination wild,
Please tell me that you can stay,
Your touch releases my inner child,
My inner child wants to play.
It's in these quiet times we spend,
That it's you I'm thinking of,
Times I wish would never end,
I will never tire of your love.
- Copyright Alan W. Jankowski @Exakta66 New Jersey, USA - 2013
What A Difference A Year Can Make
Nothing in life is guaranteed,
Of this lesson I should take heed,
For what life gives it can surely take,
What a difference a year can make.
A year ago I was standing tall,
It seemed as though I had it all,
Somehow though my luck had turned,
I consider it a lesson learned.
Failure is hard, but so is success,
Too many drown in their own excess,
But no matter what, my spirit won't break,
What a difference a year can make.
- Copyright Alan W. Jankowski @Exakta66 New Jersey, USA - 2013
Translation: Zang Xiaoyan
天下万事都无法保证，
这点我是深有体会。
来的容易，去的更快，
今年过了，又有什么不同？
年前我志得意满、
世界被我踩在脚下。
后来风向变了，没跟着转...
罢了，成功与失败一样困难。
太多人玩过了头，
再怎么说，我的精神总算还不错，
今年的确大为不同。
Biography: Alan W. Jankowski is the award winning author of well over one hundred short stories, plays and poems. His stories have been published online, and in various journals including Oysters & Chocolate, Muscadine Lines: A Southern Journal, eFiction Magazine, Zouch, The Rusty Nail, and a few others he can't remember at the moment. His poetry has more recently become popular, and his 9-11 Tribute poem was used extensively in ceremonies during the tenth anniversary of this tragic event...
http://www.storiesspace.com/forum/yaf_postst538_My-911-Tribute-poem-has-been-in-print-at-least-fourteen-times-in-2011.aspx
When he is not writing, which is not often, his hobbies include music and camera collecting. He currently resides in New Jersey. He always appreciates feedback of any kind on his work, and can be reached by e-mail at: Exakta66@gmail.com
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The Sands
Under a rock I foun
d where all the wo
rds you lost had
been tumbled b
y the sea unti
l little by l
ittle they
broke int
o letter
s half-
burie
d in t
he s
an
d
- Copyright Anthony DiMartino @addimartino Hamden, Connecticut, USA - 2013
Serendipity on Cedar Lane
Once last year
I went for a walk; a long walk I suppose. It was summertime
And the siblings, who would wonder where I would be,
Were off at school, probably taking another test or two.
I had to claim a destination, for I am prone to
Mindless wandering around, gazing at the point where
The sky touched the ground and feeling satisfied.
This small world made life, and it was mine
To rummage and discover once more.
I walked farther down the road,
Leisurely taking in the bland scenery I had grown
Accustomed to over the years here by
Residing around it, alongside its careful grasp.
The large trees that fell with the wind and grew
Back up had entertained me once
But were commonplace today,
Yet I remember it so vividly.
I walked farther down the road.
Nevertheless I reveled in what I saw.
Upon stopping for a moment I witnessed
The moon shrouded behind the oaks and a deep
Blue sky, deliberately blinding the innocent world
That was so unaware that the night was inevitable.
And in the role that the oaks had played,
I knew enough to say that they
Protected us, but from what I was unsure.
I walked farther down the road.
And with the night comes the day, too,
So have no fear yet for what will always disappear
In the blink of an eye, in a cycle that we accept;
And so it goes back and forth, back and forth.
Despite the endless, good-willed tunes,
The carousel halts eventually and so also
Does the amusement park it reigns over.
I walked farther down the road.
There’s a stream in the backyard of
My neighbors’ place where I used to play and
Bolt around, like the little ball lightning I
Remember seeing myself as in the mirror.
I gathered the energy today to dash through
The yard and reach the stream, which hadn’t
Any water anymore. I returned to the street, and
I walked farther down the road.
In the summertime the heat intensified my
Desire to explore, but today I knew that
There was nothing left for me to uncover,
No more rocks with special secrets underneath.
Yet upon that realization I was happy, and
The nostalgic feelings delivered me the sight
Of what I once knew so well. And I felt serendipitous, so
I walked farther down the road, and
Didn’t regret a moment spent.
- Copyright Anthony DiMartino @addimartino Hamden, Connecticut, USA - 2013
Heroism
Heroic shades of white
Overlapping on a grassy field
A sound of blackness in the distance,
A herd of gunfire stampeding
With no remorse
But the man in the heroic pose,
His shoulders firm with a
Letter emblazoned on his chest, and
His multicolored cape swaying
Gracefully behind him,
Believes with pride that
The living innocents, the innocent innocents
Would stay unharmed and
Protected, so to speak,
With his heroic assistance.
“A hero is what these innocents need,
And that hero will be me,” he proclaims
With a voice louder than the
Horn of the heavens.
He flies into the fray regardless of the
Blizzard of bullets storming from all ends,
The innocents dying of wounds beside him
And with ignorance and
Perceived valor and
Perceived strength
And real bravery and
Nothing,
He’s gone,
Disappeared, missing in action,
Another sheep in the conveyor line,
Another ant stomped under the foot of
A more menacing power
Without the flowing cape, the
Strong pose, the
Generosity, the
Selflessness, the
Firm shoulders, the
Grace, or the
Pride.
He was simply another ant,
But a stronger one,
Who did not let the idea of
Heroism
Go to his head
Before the idea was mutilated.
- Copyright Anthony DiMartino @addimartino Hamden, Connecticut, USA - 2013
Biography: Anthony DiMartino is an aspiring journalist, poet, novelist, and educator living in Hamden, Connecticut. He studies at Quinnipiac University as a freshman English major and seeks to publish a novel or book of poetry before he graduates. He is a Staff Writer at the Quad News, as well as a daily blogger at http://wordswithoutpages.wordpress.com/. You can reach him at his blog or at his twitter, @addimartino.
‘The Realisation of Reincarnation’
As surely as each day ends, another begins. The same is true of our lives.
Painting: Copyright Peter Allen Eaglesfield Clarke @eaglesfield63 Winchester, United Kingdom - 2013
A prison of pain
Clinical white cleanliness
The dentist frees me
- Copyright Peter Allen Eaglesfield Clarke @eaglesfield63 Winchester, United Kingdom - 2013
Pay Homage to the Machine
I am sitting alone in my cell
Staring out at the cold dull concrete of the prison yard
My only entertainment the raindrops on the window
I silently bet which one will win
I lose
This is not unexpected
I always lose
Hindsight is a great teacher
I smile inwardly because who else will I smile to?
I am alone in here
I can be thankful for that at least
Hindsight! Another cliché
My life is one endless cycle of rehashed ideas
I only have a few left to serve
Serve, what a joke.
I am here because I chose not to serve
Or rather only serve myself
So what advice will I give to myself in the future?
A future me who already has the wisdom I do not?
Stay on the straight and narrow?
Easy to say
When I get out of here my choices will be limited
My life hard
No friends
No money
No future
No home
Sure I deserve it
Yes I committed a crime
Help others?
Do the right thing?
Help the weak and oppressed?
More clichés, more bullshit
More unrealistic claptrap
Face facts future self
It's a dog eat dog world
You need big teeth to survive
So this time play the game
Pay homage to the machine
Suck up to your masters
Reap the rewards of selling out your belief
In a pharmaceutical Utopia
The bars I see are the cold blue gun steel of addiction
For this is a cell of my own making
In the hospital where I now stand
The best advice?
Ignore the painted on smiles
Step away from the lure of buzzing neon dreams
There is no easy way
You will have to work hard
When you are clean
Work and reap the reward of the self-satisfaction
You only get
From a job well done
- Copyright Peter Allen Eaglesfield Clarke @eaglesfield63 Winchester, United Kingdom - 2013
Assembly
The crowds have gathered
There is an expectant hush
So quiet that each tick of a nearby clock
Crashes out its rhythmic beat ‘tick tick tick tock’
A child too young to know embarrassment
Reflects the mood ‘This is boring’
Nervous laughter breaks the tension
A hundred faces search for recognition
Small and large are gathered here
A palpable sense of pride
As the ritual plays out before them
In time honoured tradition
People
He sat there quietly in the Doctor’s Surgery
He looked up briefly at the queue of anxious humanity
Then turned away, not bothering to register their existence
His attention turned inward
His dreams dead
Is this what dying feels like?
If so, bring on death and its oh so sweet release
She sat in the park watching as the leaves blew
Swirling in rainbow eddies
Hints of red, gold, green and yellow
Dying reflections of the summer fun
She smiled and pulled her coat closer
The autumnal wind had just a hint of chill
What fun she’d had here just a few weeks ago
He sat behind the steering wheel
He allowed his hands to run over the smooth varnished wood
This was his dream
He touched the accelerator with just a hint of childish glee
Relished in the dull roar as the pistons picked up speed
Remembered his impersonation in the school yard
As he pushed the scale model of this dream along the wall
She looked at the mildewed walls that surrounded her
Through bleary eyes that refused to focus
This at least was freedom from.....from what?
She could barely remember
She took a long pull on the reefer
She exhaled slowly, savoring every spiral and twist
The smoke an unintentional metaphor of her life
‘I’m David Beckham, I’m David Beckham’, he shrieked
His vivid yellow shirt proudly proclaiming his loyalty to the legend
He danced and weaved like a seasoned pugilist
In hypnotic trance, connecting only when he chose
The ball directed perfectly with a whispered touch
The words of his father burnt into his brain
‘Practice makes perfect’
- Copyright Peter Allen Eaglesfield Clarke @eaglesfield63 Winchester, United Kingdom - 2013
Biography: Peter A.E. Clarke is a poet who experiments with a number of different styles and regularly performs his work in Winchester and Southampton (UK). He sees poetry as a journey. Poetry has many forms and each is as valid as another; whether it be in sonnet form, urban rhyme, free verse or haiku. A good poet has the ability to paint pictures in the mind of the listener. As a poet, Peter thinks that it’s vital to remain open minded to all forms of artistic spoken or written expression. Peter's poetry has developed in the two years he has been writing, and will continue to do so as he continues his life journey.
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Seed of Overpopulation
Cash crops like
Lottery tickets – Why risk pestilence
For mortal lives?
- Copyright Michael Cravey @MichaelMcCravey Austin, Texas, USA - 2013
Implemented Communism
Like ants we
Serve for there must always
Be a queen
- Copyright Michael Cravey @MichaelMcCravey Austin, Texas, USA - 2013
Implemented Capitalism
Cycles eternal
Abundance and poverty
Intertwined dueling
- Copyright Michael Cravey @MichaelMcCravey Austin, Texas, USA - 2013
Yangtze Contemplation
Walking up to the Grey Fort
My boots struggling free with every step
From the mud fertile with silt.
My eyes wander to the marigold
Whose reflection in the delicate pool
Is now reminded only by the algae
Twisting and gasping in the bog.
Seven years on the Yangtze have done little
To lift my eyes from the quiet earth
For the skies of yellow and grey choke
Onlooker eyes and expanding lungs.
Tripping over a low earthen wall
Colored in hues of moss, silt, and clay,
These ancient dykes ward the eternal
Ebbing flow of the tide,
Shielding my face
From a rusted can
I fall on the shore of the pool.
Leaping to my feet I look for cuts -
A small gash at the tip of my thumb
Sets my pace to a run.
Entering the Grey Fort I search frantically
For the balm,
Discovering its white hue under a pile of oak wood
I disinfect my wound.
With a sigh I remember the first time
I came to the Grey Fort on the banks of the Yangtze
With my family for the Festival of Lights.
When fear had not yet gripped our hearts
Before the grand
Opening of the factories
And their pipes spilling red,
Blue, and yellow bile into the river.
Before the chemical brought cancer
To the fish and farmers,
Before the air became thick
From the soot and smoke.
Gazing up at the thin yew
I fall into a dream,
Remembering the slender frame
And caring heart of my sister
Liao, who died from cancer
Born in the wake of a red wave.
- Copyright Michael Cravey @MichaelMcCravey Austin, Texas, USA - 2013
Biography: Michael Cravey is an aspiring Haiku, Senryu, and Free Verse Master hailing from Austin, Texas. He is a sophomore at Westwood High School, where he develops his skill in poetry in such classes as TAG English and Creative Writing. He has been striving in the field of poetry for five years in which time he has received five silver key awards and two honorable mentions just this year from The Alliance for Young Artists & Writers as well as other accolades including placing 2nd in the State of Texas by one point in original poetry at the Texas Scholastic Junior Classical League state tournament, 4th in the United States at the National Junior Classical League convention, and being published over twenty other times. He is also the proud “Poetry Coach” for his published sisters Abby and Carolyn Cravey. His blog can be found at http://whorlstrom.wordpress.com/.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
SUSPIRE
Poison.
The permanence scares me
But the word permanent prepares me.
It's not a battle, it's decided
Completely satisfied with the riot
Trapped in a room, all the right keys
But my heart and head have contrasting needs.
I grasp each second
Desire each smile, every blink
Wrap my eyes around your vision
My mind around how you think.
I’m trapped, I’m not trapped
The only way I reason
Why I step on your mines
Just to prove my own meaning.
Its pulsing fast, running through my veins
Like venom quickly rushing
from wound to heart to brain
Heart headed, that’s why I choose to not react
Why I stand still, aware
Of each silent violent attack.
But the pleasure, I’m pleased
only satisfaction as I bleed.
Death by kiss, you’re poisoning me.
- Copyright Maggie Miller @mmaggiemiller New York City, New York, USA - 2013
Biography: Maggie Miller is a poet, singer/songwriter and musician currently living in New York City. While enjoying the city, she has been focused on putting together an album of original music as well as compiling her highly anticipated poetry collection titled after one of the songs "Sense Love". You can follow her on Twitter @mmaggiemiller, and follow her blog at http://themaggiemiller.tumblr.com/
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
peaches
golden healers.
I remember '78.
the double bed,
brown édredon -
tucked inside padded
squares and Mamie's love,
struck with illness so juvenile,
pêche melba for fighting hurt & chickenpox,
she gave me peaches for a smile.
'78 - her tenderness poached
inside fruits;
another year & latitude,
this time,
en tête-a-tête
with viral hell,
torn ligaments,
my childlike hand handles
a spoon inside a jar waiting for me in the larder.
and remember my grandmother,
smiles of pleasure,
ripe tenderness;
I still taste it,
as I delve again in nectar.
- Copyright Nat Hall @nordicblackbird Shetland, Scotland, United Kingdom - 2013
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
As surely as each day ends, another begins. The same is true of our lives.
Painting: Copyright Peter Allen Eaglesfield Clarke @eaglesfield63 Winchester, United Kingdom - 2013
A prison of pain
Clinical white cleanliness
The dentist frees me
- Copyright Peter Allen Eaglesfield Clarke @eaglesfield63 Winchester, United Kingdom - 2013
Pay Homage to the Machine
I am sitting alone in my cell
Staring out at the cold dull concrete of the prison yard
My only entertainment the raindrops on the window
I silently bet which one will win
I lose
This is not unexpected
I always lose
Hindsight is a great teacher
I smile inwardly because who else will I smile to?
I am alone in here
I can be thankful for that at least
Hindsight! Another cliché
My life is one endless cycle of rehashed ideas
I only have a few left to serve
Serve, what a joke.
I am here because I chose not to serve
Or rather only serve myself
So what advice will I give to myself in the future?
A future me who already has the wisdom I do not?
Stay on the straight and narrow?
Easy to say
When I get out of here my choices will be limited
My life hard
No friends
No money
No future
No home
Sure I deserve it
Yes I committed a crime
Help others?
Do the right thing?
Help the weak and oppressed?
More clichés, more bullshit
More unrealistic claptrap
Face facts future self
It's a dog eat dog world
You need big teeth to survive
So this time play the game
Pay homage to the machine
Suck up to your masters
Reap the rewards of selling out your belief
In a pharmaceutical Utopia
The bars I see are the cold blue gun steel of addiction
For this is a cell of my own making
In the hospital where I now stand
The best advice?
Ignore the painted on smiles
Step away from the lure of buzzing neon dreams
There is no easy way
You will have to work hard
When you are clean
Work and reap the reward of the self-satisfaction
You only get
From a job well done
- Copyright Peter Allen Eaglesfield Clarke @eaglesfield63 Winchester, United Kingdom - 2013
Assembly
The crowds have gathered
There is an expectant hush
So quiet that each tick of a nearby clock
Crashes out its rhythmic beat ‘tick tick tick tock’
A child too young to know embarrassment
Reflects the mood ‘This is boring’
Nervous laughter breaks the tension
A hundred faces search for recognition
Small and large are gathered here
A palpable sense of pride
As the ritual plays out before them
In time honoured tradition
People
He sat there quietly in the Doctor’s Surgery
He looked up briefly at the queue of anxious humanity
Then turned away, not bothering to register their existence
His attention turned inward
His dreams dead
Is this what dying feels like?
If so, bring on death and its oh so sweet release
She sat in the park watching as the leaves blew
Swirling in rainbow eddies
Hints of red, gold, green and yellow
Dying reflections of the summer fun
She smiled and pulled her coat closer
The autumnal wind had just a hint of chill
What fun she’d had here just a few weeks ago
He sat behind the steering wheel
He allowed his hands to run over the smooth varnished wood
This was his dream
He touched the accelerator with just a hint of childish glee
Relished in the dull roar as the pistons picked up speed
Remembered his impersonation in the school yard
As he pushed the scale model of this dream along the wall
She looked at the mildewed walls that surrounded her
Through bleary eyes that refused to focus
This at least was freedom from.....from what?
She could barely remember
She took a long pull on the reefer
She exhaled slowly, savoring every spiral and twist
The smoke an unintentional metaphor of her life
‘I’m David Beckham, I’m David Beckham’, he shrieked
His vivid yellow shirt proudly proclaiming his loyalty to the legend
He danced and weaved like a seasoned pugilist
In hypnotic trance, connecting only when he chose
The ball directed perfectly with a whispered touch
The words of his father burnt into his brain
‘Practice makes perfect’
- Copyright Peter Allen Eaglesfield Clarke @eaglesfield63 Winchester, United Kingdom - 2013
Biography: Peter A.E. Clarke is a poet who experiments with a number of different styles and regularly performs his work in Winchester and Southampton (UK). He sees poetry as a journey. Poetry has many forms and each is as valid as another; whether it be in sonnet form, urban rhyme, free verse or haiku. A good poet has the ability to paint pictures in the mind of the listener. As a poet, Peter thinks that it’s vital to remain open minded to all forms of artistic spoken or written expression. Peter's poetry has developed in the two years he has been writing, and will continue to do so as he continues his life journey.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Seed of Overpopulation
Cash crops like
Lottery tickets – Why risk pestilence
For mortal lives?
- Copyright Michael Cravey @MichaelMcCravey Austin, Texas, USA - 2013
Implemented Communism
Like ants we
Serve for there must always
Be a queen
- Copyright Michael Cravey @MichaelMcCravey Austin, Texas, USA - 2013
Implemented Capitalism
Cycles eternal
Abundance and poverty
Intertwined dueling
- Copyright Michael Cravey @MichaelMcCravey Austin, Texas, USA - 2013
Yangtze Contemplation
Walking up to the Grey Fort
My boots struggling free with every step
From the mud fertile with silt.
My eyes wander to the marigold
Whose reflection in the delicate pool
Is now reminded only by the algae
Twisting and gasping in the bog.
Seven years on the Yangtze have done little
To lift my eyes from the quiet earth
For the skies of yellow and grey choke
Onlooker eyes and expanding lungs.
Tripping over a low earthen wall
Colored in hues of moss, silt, and clay,
These ancient dykes ward the eternal
Ebbing flow of the tide,
Shielding my face
From a rusted can
I fall on the shore of the pool.
Leaping to my feet I look for cuts -
A small gash at the tip of my thumb
Sets my pace to a run.
Entering the Grey Fort I search frantically
For the balm,
Discovering its white hue under a pile of oak wood
I disinfect my wound.
With a sigh I remember the first time
I came to the Grey Fort on the banks of the Yangtze
With my family for the Festival of Lights.
When fear had not yet gripped our hearts
Before the grand
Opening of the factories
And their pipes spilling red,
Blue, and yellow bile into the river.
Before the chemical brought cancer
To the fish and farmers,
Before the air became thick
From the soot and smoke.
Gazing up at the thin yew
I fall into a dream,
Remembering the slender frame
And caring heart of my sister
Liao, who died from cancer
Born in the wake of a red wave.
- Copyright Michael Cravey @MichaelMcCravey Austin, Texas, USA - 2013
Biography: Michael Cravey is an aspiring Haiku, Senryu, and Free Verse Master hailing from Austin, Texas. He is a sophomore at Westwood High School, where he develops his skill in poetry in such classes as TAG English and Creative Writing. He has been striving in the field of poetry for five years in which time he has received five silver key awards and two honorable mentions just this year from The Alliance for Young Artists & Writers as well as other accolades including placing 2nd in the State of Texas by one point in original poetry at the Texas Scholastic Junior Classical League state tournament, 4th in the United States at the National Junior Classical League convention, and being published over twenty other times. He is also the proud “Poetry Coach” for his published sisters Abby and Carolyn Cravey. His blog can be found at http://whorlstrom.wordpress.com/.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
SUSPIRE
Poison.
The permanence scares me
But the word permanent prepares me.
It's not a battle, it's decided
Completely satisfied with the riot
Trapped in a room, all the right keys
But my heart and head have contrasting needs.
I grasp each second
Desire each smile, every blink
Wrap my eyes around your vision
My mind around how you think.
I’m trapped, I’m not trapped
The only way I reason
Why I step on your mines
Just to prove my own meaning.
Its pulsing fast, running through my veins
Like venom quickly rushing
from wound to heart to brain
Heart headed, that’s why I choose to not react
Why I stand still, aware
Of each silent violent attack.
But the pleasure, I’m pleased
only satisfaction as I bleed.
Death by kiss, you’re poisoning me.
- Copyright Maggie Miller @mmaggiemiller New York City, New York, USA - 2013
Biography: Maggie Miller is a poet, singer/songwriter and musician currently living in New York City. While enjoying the city, she has been focused on putting together an album of original music as well as compiling her highly anticipated poetry collection titled after one of the songs "Sense Love". You can follow her on Twitter @mmaggiemiller, and follow her blog at http://themaggiemiller.tumblr.com/
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
peaches
golden healers.
I remember '78.
the double bed,
brown édredon -
tucked inside padded
squares and Mamie's love,
struck with illness so juvenile,
pêche melba for fighting hurt & chickenpox,
she gave me peaches for a smile.
'78 - her tenderness poached
inside fruits;
another year & latitude,
this time,
en tête-a-tête
with viral hell,
torn ligaments,
my childlike hand handles
a spoon inside a jar waiting for me in the larder.
and remember my grandmother,
smiles of pleasure,
ripe tenderness;
I still taste it,
as I delve again in nectar.
- Copyright Nat Hall @nordicblackbird Shetland, Scotland, United Kingdom - 2013
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Collage Image: Copyright Robert Jones @TheInfp Sydney, Australia - 2013
Butterfly thoughts
Fairy thoughts;
Butterflies in my head
Flit, float, glide every way,
On gossamer wings.
Too many to count,
Too many to catch.
Ideas bursting forth
As sparks from fire soar free,
Flying to burn brightly,
Twisting, twirling, twinkling,
Glowing, fading, to die.
Forgotten.
- Copyright Robert Jones @TheInfp Sydney, Australia - 2013
Kindness
It’s a self fulfilling state of being,
not to be switched on and off, to be kind,
it needs patience, caring, presence of mind,
active listening, compassion and seeing;
sharing from my heart enriches I find,
the soul, while relieving the daily grind,
and empathy holds the gift of freeing.
Tender caress of a warm, gentle breeze
carries a message from the divine,
“use feather light fingertips of kindly hands,
bring forth light from within to share, to shine”,
I drift away on barely rocking seas,
reflecting on deeds; my learning expands.
- Copyright Robert Jones @TheInfp Sydney, Australia - 2013
Biography: Robert Jones is from England, he moved to Sydney, Australia with his partner in 1998. In his spare time, Robert enjoys writing poetry, experimenting with photography, watercolours and creating digital art. He can be found on his blog http://theINFP.com and twitter @TheInfp.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Modernization
padded by cotton
blocking out the sound
ears ringing aloud
as technology abounds
crush my hands
against the noise
my cries abound
i break the toys
advancements in life
we esteem and boast
damage we hail
who has the most
self destruction
gaining more power
gathering toxins
forgetting the flowers
smother creation
stomp downward spin
improvement enhancement
just pack it all in
lost is the flavor
of simple hard work
sitting in the corner
where stupidity lurks
sad state of affairs
the direction we head
look at our children
well enough has been said
- Copyright P.S. Rowland @Trinket_Writer, Washington, USA - 2013
Hush-Hush
Forbidden love amplified
distorted in the mind
the kind of images shown on screen
play before my eyes
Missing pieces in my life
create fractures I long to fill
real or not I fool myself,
and write it with a quill
The thrill is strong I long to touch
a quick glance is not enough
heat surges through my secret parts
where fire connects, and melts
Will it ever come to be
I'll feel the swelter within
a kin to my thoughts you are
making my lonely heart spin
Apart we are for now
I allow my mind to drift
the rift you fill is endless
granting me such bliss
- Copyright P.S. Rowland @Trinket_Writer, Washington, USA - 2013
If Chairs Could Talk
Butterfly thoughts
Fairy thoughts;
Butterflies in my head
Flit, float, glide every way,
On gossamer wings.
Too many to count,
Too many to catch.
Ideas bursting forth
As sparks from fire soar free,
Flying to burn brightly,
Twisting, twirling, twinkling,
Glowing, fading, to die.
Forgotten.
- Copyright Robert Jones @TheInfp Sydney, Australia - 2013
Kindness
It’s a self fulfilling state of being,
not to be switched on and off, to be kind,
it needs patience, caring, presence of mind,
active listening, compassion and seeing;
sharing from my heart enriches I find,
the soul, while relieving the daily grind,
and empathy holds the gift of freeing.
Tender caress of a warm, gentle breeze
carries a message from the divine,
“use feather light fingertips of kindly hands,
bring forth light from within to share, to shine”,
I drift away on barely rocking seas,
reflecting on deeds; my learning expands.
- Copyright Robert Jones @TheInfp Sydney, Australia - 2013
Biography: Robert Jones is from England, he moved to Sydney, Australia with his partner in 1998. In his spare time, Robert enjoys writing poetry, experimenting with photography, watercolours and creating digital art. He can be found on his blog http://theINFP.com and twitter @TheInfp.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Modernization
padded by cotton
blocking out the sound
ears ringing aloud
as technology abounds
crush my hands
against the noise
my cries abound
i break the toys
advancements in life
we esteem and boast
damage we hail
who has the most
self destruction
gaining more power
gathering toxins
forgetting the flowers
smother creation
stomp downward spin
improvement enhancement
just pack it all in
lost is the flavor
of simple hard work
sitting in the corner
where stupidity lurks
sad state of affairs
the direction we head
look at our children
well enough has been said
- Copyright P.S. Rowland @Trinket_Writer, Washington, USA - 2013
Hush-Hush
Forbidden love amplified
distorted in the mind
the kind of images shown on screen
play before my eyes
Missing pieces in my life
create fractures I long to fill
real or not I fool myself,
and write it with a quill
The thrill is strong I long to touch
a quick glance is not enough
heat surges through my secret parts
where fire connects, and melts
Will it ever come to be
I'll feel the swelter within
a kin to my thoughts you are
making my lonely heart spin
Apart we are for now
I allow my mind to drift
the rift you fill is endless
granting me such bliss
- Copyright P.S. Rowland @Trinket_Writer, Washington, USA - 2013
If Chairs Could Talk
Summer is a drift with each
passing sunset
Many happy days we have
seen and felt
Warmth, laughter, tears,
and sentimental thoughts
We quietly remain as our people,
events, and weather pass
Proud we are to be a
part of so much
Privileged to enjoy moments
kept secret among lovers
Quiet are the times ahead
for the season of fall
Banished we are when days
of winter arrive
- Copyright P.S. Rowland @Trinket_Writer, Washington, USA - 2013
Wicked Season
Desolate the chill deep within
desperate to cling to the warmth that once was
changes for which there is no power
adaptation is key to survival, to exist
I search the clouds for answers
they laugh and mock me, making me shrink
The earth is betraying my soul
ripping my bosom to pieces
he laughs, I fade, unsure of the future
long and futile this season will be
remembrance of change that is inevitable
praying for comfort from the solar gods
My misery is toxic to those around me
losing my soul, extracting, and pulling
searching for light, warmth I crave
I search deep inside to grasp, hang on
screaming for power, yet nothing
gurgling within causes exhaustion, saps my strength
What do others see in the windows of my soul
they cannot help, they turn with disgust
weak and pitiful they see me
cast aside and forgotten as I weep
I cry for what should be, for what isn't
the putrid death within me begins to stink
I gaze up, broken, frail,
my life force flowing back to the earth
the same sphere that produced the season
that started the cycle of my darkness
longing for the elixir from natures heat source
a potion that will restore me
- Copyright P.S. Rowland @Trinket_Writer, Washington, USA - 2013
Biography: P.S. Rowland resides in the beautiful state of Washington, where she writes poetry, dabbles in photography, and enjoys cruising with her husband on their Harley Davidson. She has been published in a variety of online poetry sites, and papers. She’s currently working on publishing her first collection of works. You can follow her on Twitter @Trinket_Writer, and follow her blog at http://whimsical-hummingbirdflitters.blogspot.com/
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
passing sunset
Many happy days we have
seen and felt
Warmth, laughter, tears,
and sentimental thoughts
We quietly remain as our people,
events, and weather pass
Proud we are to be a
part of so much
Privileged to enjoy moments
kept secret among lovers
Quiet are the times ahead
for the season of fall
Banished we are when days
of winter arrive
- Copyright P.S. Rowland @Trinket_Writer, Washington, USA - 2013
Wicked Season
Desolate the chill deep within
desperate to cling to the warmth that once was
changes for which there is no power
adaptation is key to survival, to exist
I search the clouds for answers
they laugh and mock me, making me shrink
The earth is betraying my soul
ripping my bosom to pieces
he laughs, I fade, unsure of the future
long and futile this season will be
remembrance of change that is inevitable
praying for comfort from the solar gods
My misery is toxic to those around me
losing my soul, extracting, and pulling
searching for light, warmth I crave
I search deep inside to grasp, hang on
screaming for power, yet nothing
gurgling within causes exhaustion, saps my strength
What do others see in the windows of my soul
they cannot help, they turn with disgust
weak and pitiful they see me
cast aside and forgotten as I weep
I cry for what should be, for what isn't
the putrid death within me begins to stink
I gaze up, broken, frail,
my life force flowing back to the earth
the same sphere that produced the season
that started the cycle of my darkness
longing for the elixir from natures heat source
a potion that will restore me
- Copyright P.S. Rowland @Trinket_Writer, Washington, USA - 2013
Biography: P.S. Rowland resides in the beautiful state of Washington, where she writes poetry, dabbles in photography, and enjoys cruising with her husband on their Harley Davidson. She has been published in a variety of online poetry sites, and papers. She’s currently working on publishing her first collection of works. You can follow her on Twitter @Trinket_Writer, and follow her blog at http://whimsical-hummingbirdflitters.blogspot.com/
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
broken bells
the mercurial sky hung above
me like the milkiness of a blind
woman’s eye furthering the hermetic
loneliness of my grey day
and my
ego floated around
me like
a slight breeze and
i thought about the
sad ghosts, the scarred
angels rotting quietly in
their dark corners of the
city like dead cockroaches
their egos simply
fading like
broken bells content
with the silence
their steps
like seconds
ticking down an
hour and
their breath
like a
slight breeze
i don’t want to
die with holes in my
shoes i
want to dance i
want to hear
the ringing of
those
broken bells
- Copyright Lou Graves @Lou__Graves Saint Augustine, Florida, USA - 2013
trash
after we’d had sex she turned to
me and threw her head back saying
“oh shit, i forgot to take out
the trash”
her sunken face almost
smiling “and now it’s
raining”
i could see shanks (her cat)
moving through the
hallway and could
hear the rain and my
lips spilled my thoughts
“well, let’s get
dressed, smoke a cigarette and
i’ll take out the trash”
she thought about it then
pulled my body towards hers and
we remained
naked and warm falling
asleep together
and the trash
never got taken
out
- Copyright Lou Graves @Lou__Graves Saint Augustine, Florida, USA - 2013
Biography: Lou Graves is a poet and an artist who has been writing ever since he was able to hold a crayon. He was born and raised in the south of England but left for America at seventeen and has lived there ever since. He has lived in Los Angeles and Colorado but currently lives in Saint Augustine, Florida. Lou sees words as an extension of breath, as a way to purge the sickness and to turn life’s destitution into it's exaltation. www.lougraves.webs.com
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
AGE FOOLS US
owl is howling into the deep of the night
date is changed within one second
I'm sitting on the bottom of your closet
your clothes hanging like dead bodies
while you lay naked on the sofa, asleep
the hot air plays tricks with the mind
I can barely remember how I felt turning twenty-two
---- my favourite number
spent it with strangers who were too eager to become friends
and you'd like to believe the fun will last
but it's no better than those birthday parties I had as a kid,
when nobody showed up
feeling uncomfortable in clothes they made me wear
now I can't recapture the meaning a cake had
god is like a girl picking daisies
playing "love me, love me not" with our lives
we like to believe we change
but there are things we can't shake off
never being courageous enough to trust myself
with responsibility on my hands
always feeling like a first time playing the game
akwardness in my mouth and my fingers
forgive me for always doubting, never trusting the words
and you use the sweetest one's which calm me down like a spell
I'll take you for a walk if you can listen to my silent thoughts
age carries prejudice into which we are fooled to believe
as if years shape all of us in the same way
as if we gain respect by mere number of our age
as if it really matters how old our flesh is
age fools us in a way and leaves no room for closeness
but I just want to sit beside you as you paint
- Copyright Nataša Dolenc @Natasek86 Slovenia - 2013
CHILD LEFT BEHIND
days roll faster and faster
things you knew and loved
have gone away or been replaced
pages written have gotten fewer and fewer
you acknowledge the change in the years number
but you're stuck at a point in the past
abandoned by the spoken words
mind free to run through the fields and far beyond
to bathe in the lake of your imagination
found yourself in a conflict with the form
for it is unmoving, stable and caught
but it taught you senses through which you feel
in search for a way in which you could be at ease
to grab the thing that keeps you from singing
and not to be a friend of shadows
there are so many stories in which you played a part
but left them before the end was written
in this world it only matters
how good you sell yourself
how good you please others
what kind of living is this?
when you feel most alive in your dreams
but the fear and expectations push you further
as the desire to return to the child
left behind gets bigger and bigger
- Copyright Nataša Dolenc @Natasek86 Slovenia - 2013
Biography: Nataša Dolenc was born in November, 1986. Although she hails from Slovenia, she soon adopted the English language as a way of expressing her thoughts. She has been writing poems since a young age and that remains her passion till this day. Poems come to her, demanding their own style, without form or rhyme. They have been published on website pages under the pen name Natasek and in a collection of poems and photographs called “Colours of the sea”. Her formal education includes a degree in public administration and midwifery. She can be found on blogspot: natasek.blogspot.com and twitter: @Natasek86.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
the mercurial sky hung above
me like the milkiness of a blind
woman’s eye furthering the hermetic
loneliness of my grey day
and my
ego floated around
me like
a slight breeze and
i thought about the
sad ghosts, the scarred
angels rotting quietly in
their dark corners of the
city like dead cockroaches
their egos simply
fading like
broken bells content
with the silence
their steps
like seconds
ticking down an
hour and
their breath
like a
slight breeze
i don’t want to
die with holes in my
shoes i
want to dance i
want to hear
the ringing of
those
broken bells
- Copyright Lou Graves @Lou__Graves Saint Augustine, Florida, USA - 2013
trash
after we’d had sex she turned to
me and threw her head back saying
“oh shit, i forgot to take out
the trash”
her sunken face almost
smiling “and now it’s
raining”
i could see shanks (her cat)
moving through the
hallway and could
hear the rain and my
lips spilled my thoughts
“well, let’s get
dressed, smoke a cigarette and
i’ll take out the trash”
she thought about it then
pulled my body towards hers and
we remained
naked and warm falling
asleep together
and the trash
never got taken
out
- Copyright Lou Graves @Lou__Graves Saint Augustine, Florida, USA - 2013
Biography: Lou Graves is a poet and an artist who has been writing ever since he was able to hold a crayon. He was born and raised in the south of England but left for America at seventeen and has lived there ever since. He has lived in Los Angeles and Colorado but currently lives in Saint Augustine, Florida. Lou sees words as an extension of breath, as a way to purge the sickness and to turn life’s destitution into it's exaltation. www.lougraves.webs.com
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
AGE FOOLS US
owl is howling into the deep of the night
date is changed within one second
I'm sitting on the bottom of your closet
your clothes hanging like dead bodies
while you lay naked on the sofa, asleep
the hot air plays tricks with the mind
I can barely remember how I felt turning twenty-two
---- my favourite number
spent it with strangers who were too eager to become friends
and you'd like to believe the fun will last
but it's no better than those birthday parties I had as a kid,
when nobody showed up
feeling uncomfortable in clothes they made me wear
now I can't recapture the meaning a cake had
god is like a girl picking daisies
playing "love me, love me not" with our lives
we like to believe we change
but there are things we can't shake off
never being courageous enough to trust myself
with responsibility on my hands
always feeling like a first time playing the game
akwardness in my mouth and my fingers
forgive me for always doubting, never trusting the words
and you use the sweetest one's which calm me down like a spell
I'll take you for a walk if you can listen to my silent thoughts
age carries prejudice into which we are fooled to believe
as if years shape all of us in the same way
as if we gain respect by mere number of our age
as if it really matters how old our flesh is
age fools us in a way and leaves no room for closeness
but I just want to sit beside you as you paint
- Copyright Nataša Dolenc @Natasek86 Slovenia - 2013
CHILD LEFT BEHIND
days roll faster and faster
things you knew and loved
have gone away or been replaced
pages written have gotten fewer and fewer
you acknowledge the change in the years number
but you're stuck at a point in the past
abandoned by the spoken words
mind free to run through the fields and far beyond
to bathe in the lake of your imagination
found yourself in a conflict with the form
for it is unmoving, stable and caught
but it taught you senses through which you feel
in search for a way in which you could be at ease
to grab the thing that keeps you from singing
and not to be a friend of shadows
there are so many stories in which you played a part
but left them before the end was written
in this world it only matters
how good you sell yourself
how good you please others
what kind of living is this?
when you feel most alive in your dreams
but the fear and expectations push you further
as the desire to return to the child
left behind gets bigger and bigger
- Copyright Nataša Dolenc @Natasek86 Slovenia - 2013
Biography: Nataša Dolenc was born in November, 1986. Although she hails from Slovenia, she soon adopted the English language as a way of expressing her thoughts. She has been writing poems since a young age and that remains her passion till this day. Poems come to her, demanding their own style, without form or rhyme. They have been published on website pages under the pen name Natasek and in a collection of poems and photographs called “Colours of the sea”. Her formal education includes a degree in public administration and midwifery. She can be found on blogspot: natasek.blogspot.com and twitter: @Natasek86.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Hunt at Night III – after Paolo Uccello
Copyright Robert Fitzmaurice @robfitzmaurice Reading, Berkshire, UK - 2013
THE ARCHERY LESSON
I watched the course of the arrow loosed
how the swift arc proceeded from the tilted bow
And led all the way to gold - a perfect centre.
It was one act: departure and arrival fused
So that I knew well before the flight's show
The exact point where the arrow would enter.
This manifest rightness, it felt like a long letting go
My bow arm slowly falling back to earth
And the release, an agent of my controlled breath.
From that moment on I felt possessed
By a kind of knowledge that not transcribed
Yet passes from generation to generation.
How I wanted this to be the way to strike all butts,
But somehow in the wanting something got lost -
My victories in the field became fewer - I stopped.
Then my youth ran on till a grown man hunted.
Other angles of elevation, other angles of error
Became vane targets, yet a grown man found his way.
Years later I sold the bow, the still sharp arrows
And all the accoutrements. I said goodbye to the metal sight
its micrometer of infinite adjustment I never used that day.
- Copyright Robert Fitzmaurice @robfitzmaurice Reading, Berkshire, UK - 2013
Biography: Originally from the Midlands, Robert studied Fine Art at the universities of Sunderland and Reading, after which he went on to be selected by Adrian Heath as 'Artist of the Day' at Angela Flowers Gallery, London. Since then he has continued to evolve a personal, lyrical figuration, expressed in painting, drawing and other media. He lives and creates in Reading, Berkshire.
Work falls into three main categories: single standing figures, figure groups, and figures in landscape/seascape. Often the stating and re-stating of the image in paint is augmented by the introduction of other substances, such as sawdust, so that painting becomes a series of negotiations between image, time and materials. This concern - to unite the pictorial, physical and psychological - is central to his practice.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The Dream of A Poet
I woke up with a start some time ago;
A very familiar path;
from sleep infused, in semiconscious state,
with dreams of the unpleasant,
into a slow and rude awakening.
Was it a mystery magician or
con artist, the evil one,
who managed to deprive me of my freedom;
usurp my own free will;
transport me where I never want to go.
And then, somehow it dawned on me that I,
apropos my own illusion,
had written words that weren't exactly true?
I’m not sure how this is...
but missive written. For poets. How to write!
Astonishing!
The anti-hero in my fated dream
insisted I capitulate
and turn my trade to more constructive end
by which it sought the truth
of why I wish to make my dreams come true.
It asked me who I thought I was and then,
without so much as by
your leave, it pulled me back into oblivion.
It also didn’t hear me
when my stentorian protest made no sound.
It was a vision; a reverie that spoke
of fantasies; woolgathering.
It is, in truth, as truth is meant to be
none other than my conscience,
speaking of the will to write and dream.
If answer there is one, I do not know;
so often out of our control.
The only thing I have to say is this:
it’s always up to you.
Only you can judge what’s best... for you.
By your own best devices, you don’t need
to take advice from where
there is no guidance better than your own
...save rules, and even they
can be ignored once you have mastered them.
[This poem combines the subjects of the dream I had last night and certain aspects of my last blog post. The dream left me with a strong impression of a magician with magical, but evil powers and quite possibly a conspiracy that threatens the world of future times. I have written a synopsis of it in my notes on future project ideas, because I had strong feelings that it would make a fantastic storyline for a Sci-Fi novel, but, more than this I cannot tell; you'll have to wait to see if this particular dream comes true. In the meantime, you can read the blog post to which this refers:http://poetjanstie.blogspot.com/2012/01/writing-poetry-unique- perspective.html
- Copyright John Anstie @poetjanstie Sheffield, UK – 2012
Venus and The Crescent Moon
Copyright Robert Fitzmaurice @robfitzmaurice Reading, Berkshire, UK - 2013
THE ARCHERY LESSON
I watched the course of the arrow loosed
how the swift arc proceeded from the tilted bow
And led all the way to gold - a perfect centre.
It was one act: departure and arrival fused
So that I knew well before the flight's show
The exact point where the arrow would enter.
This manifest rightness, it felt like a long letting go
My bow arm slowly falling back to earth
And the release, an agent of my controlled breath.
From that moment on I felt possessed
By a kind of knowledge that not transcribed
Yet passes from generation to generation.
How I wanted this to be the way to strike all butts,
But somehow in the wanting something got lost -
My victories in the field became fewer - I stopped.
Then my youth ran on till a grown man hunted.
Other angles of elevation, other angles of error
Became vane targets, yet a grown man found his way.
Years later I sold the bow, the still sharp arrows
And all the accoutrements. I said goodbye to the metal sight
its micrometer of infinite adjustment I never used that day.
- Copyright Robert Fitzmaurice @robfitzmaurice Reading, Berkshire, UK - 2013
Biography: Originally from the Midlands, Robert studied Fine Art at the universities of Sunderland and Reading, after which he went on to be selected by Adrian Heath as 'Artist of the Day' at Angela Flowers Gallery, London. Since then he has continued to evolve a personal, lyrical figuration, expressed in painting, drawing and other media. He lives and creates in Reading, Berkshire.
Work falls into three main categories: single standing figures, figure groups, and figures in landscape/seascape. Often the stating and re-stating of the image in paint is augmented by the introduction of other substances, such as sawdust, so that painting becomes a series of negotiations between image, time and materials. This concern - to unite the pictorial, physical and psychological - is central to his practice.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The Dream of A Poet
I woke up with a start some time ago;
A very familiar path;
from sleep infused, in semiconscious state,
with dreams of the unpleasant,
into a slow and rude awakening.
Was it a mystery magician or
con artist, the evil one,
who managed to deprive me of my freedom;
usurp my own free will;
transport me where I never want to go.
And then, somehow it dawned on me that I,
apropos my own illusion,
had written words that weren't exactly true?
I’m not sure how this is...
but missive written. For poets. How to write!
Astonishing!
The anti-hero in my fated dream
insisted I capitulate
and turn my trade to more constructive end
by which it sought the truth
of why I wish to make my dreams come true.
It asked me who I thought I was and then,
without so much as by
your leave, it pulled me back into oblivion.
It also didn’t hear me
when my stentorian protest made no sound.
It was a vision; a reverie that spoke
of fantasies; woolgathering.
It is, in truth, as truth is meant to be
none other than my conscience,
speaking of the will to write and dream.
If answer there is one, I do not know;
so often out of our control.
The only thing I have to say is this:
it’s always up to you.
Only you can judge what’s best... for you.
By your own best devices, you don’t need
to take advice from where
there is no guidance better than your own
...save rules, and even they
can be ignored once you have mastered them.
[This poem combines the subjects of the dream I had last night and certain aspects of my last blog post. The dream left me with a strong impression of a magician with magical, but evil powers and quite possibly a conspiracy that threatens the world of future times. I have written a synopsis of it in my notes on future project ideas, because I had strong feelings that it would make a fantastic storyline for a Sci-Fi novel, but, more than this I cannot tell; you'll have to wait to see if this particular dream comes true. In the meantime, you can read the blog post to which this refers:http://poetjanstie.blogspot.com/2012/01/writing-poetry-unique- perspective.html
- Copyright John Anstie @poetjanstie Sheffield, UK – 2012
Venus and The Crescent Moon
Venus & The Crescent Moon (26th March 2012 at 11:15 pm)
An area of high pressure
heralded the clearest starlit sky
that befell the northern hemisphere.
No news or talk of it; no questions why,
except among the experts and the poets.
I saw her there, shimmering,
a vision unexpectedly imbued,
converging, as she was, with crescent moon,
with brightest light of vestal pulchritude,
she has no equal in any other sphere.
It was as if no one had heard;
as though her visit was only meant for me
like no one knew of her great revelation.
She peered at me, through branches of a tree;
enticingly, she twinkled wistfully.
Her intentions, abundantly clear
I fancied that she missed a former lover,
as Juno reined the angry monster in.
and left her alone, save one significant other,
who longed to cradle her affection.
But she had only eyes for me
and warmed my soul in coldest dark of night.
Lucky are those, who see the poetry,
who can describe the meaning of her light,
that burns the skin with ancient holy fire.
But we know why she’s here; in truth
to hear the yearnings of our lonely heart,
that craves salvation from another world,
wherein may lie a greater amity and art
that illuminates a world where no one starves.
I know that she’ll be gone too soon,
elsewhere, her love and beauty to disperse,
and leave us feeling empty, but knowing she will
return one day to this, our universe,
to feel her love embrace the crescent moon.
[With the high pressure that was lodged over Great Britain, at the time this poem was written, and the clear skies we had enjoyed as a result, the night this picture was taken revealed an astonishing view of Venus in conjunction with a new moon. It was an irresistible view, even through the branches of our trees, it was so bright. I just didn’t feel the cold of the late evening, when I took the photo; it was actually about 11:15pm. In the weeks leading up to this moment, Venus had been in conjunction with Jupiter, which I couldn’t see that night; hence the reference to Juno (Jupiter’s wife).
For those with an interest in photography, I took the photo with a Panasonic Lumix DMC-FZ30 Prosumer SLR, zoom to the max at 400mm 1 sec at f6.3 Film speed ISO 200. The camera was tripod mounted, but I suspect some shake as evidenced by fact that Venus looks rather like a dove on the wing, which I rather like]
- Copyright John Anstie @poetjanstie Sheffield, UK – 2012
Biography: John lives in Sheffield, England. He trained as a scientist and engineer. Through his working life, he has been variously farmworker, ice-cream salesman, security guard, metallurgist, export sales manager, IT and ATM engineer, project manager and Managing Director of his own business. He discovered his ‘inner poet’ in 2009. He reckons his thirty-five years spent in a creative desert, whilst pursuing a career and raising a family, enriched and ennobled his writing. Among the Poets who impress him are William Shakespeare, for his poetic form, Alfred Lord Tennyson for his epic long and pithy short poems, John Clare for his ability, in spite of his lowly upbringing, W B Yeats for his romantic lyricism, Simon Armitage for his undeniable and his down to earth appeal and finally, John Updike for his lyrical but rooted story telling. John writes prose at ‘Forty Two’ (http://poetjanstie.blogspot.co.uk/); poetry at (http://poetjanstie.wordpress.com/).
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Zen
By risking you discover your freedom. By daring you realize your potential. By moving into the unknown you find yourself.
The gift within your misery is noticing that you are the source. By noticing this you become the source of your joy instead.
You are the Sculptor. Attention is your Hand. Thought is the Clay. Emotion is the Form. Experience is the Sculpture you create.
- Copyright Michael Robert Lawrence @TheUHMethod California, USA - 2013
Love
My heart is singing your name. My life song is for you.
I see home in your eyes. You are where my destiny lies.
If you could see into my mind.
You would always feel desired.
If you could see into my heart.
You would always feel loved.
If you could see into my soul.
You would always feel complete.
- Copyright Michael Robert Lawrence @TheUHMethod California, USA - 2013
Happiness
There are no coincidences,
Life unfolds as it should.
Everything serves a purpose
and understanding is not necessary.
Accept this completely,
and happiness will find you.
- Copyright Michael Robert Lawrence @TheUHMethod California, USA - 2013
Biography: Michael Robert Lawrence is an author, poet, speaker and teacher from New England living in California. Michael teaches you how to control your mind from his direct experience of gaining conscious control of the mind. He wrote The Universal Happiness Method: How to be Happy and Live without Stress and is currently writing The Universal Manual for Your Mind and The Grieving Path to Joy with Tonya Ouimet.
TheUniversalHappinessMethod.com
Twitter.com/TheUHMethod
Youtube.com/TheUHMethod
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Critique Of A Winter Tree
A wooden thespian dramatically
enters the bleak stage,
playing the closing scene,
uncharacteristically.
Baring all, it splinters
the panoramic with an
air-shattering illusion.
A skeletal hand reaching
towards a godless sky, trembling...
delivering sparse monologue.
Page upon page of script.
(this show has many layers)
“Brainstem scribble
in a doodle-delicate mist.
Naked, waiting, green.
I see (wo)man as me. Not
a carbon copy but close.”
Directed by shivering sunlight.
Produced by freezing rainfall.
The theatre of the absurd.
This ‘one-off’ performance,
melts haunting afterimages
upon my icy retinas.
Leaves a fading echo.
Encore!
- Copyright Richard Biddle @littledeaths68, United Kingdom - 2013
Biography: @littledeaths68 a Poet/writer/collaborator - recently published in 'Time Lines' a new anthology of writing by a small group of avid tweeters. Also a member of @echovirus12 an innovative experiment including acclaimed author @jeffnoon that uses twitter as an experimental writing platform. Most recent projects include 'Transformations' devised by @artipeep (poetry inspired by Ovid's Metamorphoses) and @cosmologgorhea a collaboration with fellow tweeter poet @badbadpoet. You can find more evidence of my writing here - http://writings43.blogspot.co.uk
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
A GREAT FORCE UNSEEN!
I have sowed a seed of corn
And watched it break the ground
And emerge as a shoot.
I watched in wonder as it grew
Rising tall in nature’s benevolent space.
I have watched many a woman
Ailing with missing flowers
I have marveled over the months
How the middle expanded
Like a pumping balloon;
Until love became a deadly foe
Wearing the mask of untold violence.
I have been stunned how she cried
And wriggled restlessly in severe pains
That seemed to herald death
Only to precede a great cry of joy
From a new life bigger than her tommy
Moulded from invisibility;
How her anguish instantly escaped.
A great force unseen
Directed meticulously from within
The programmed path to visibility.
Oh my God!
I hail and praise thee
For great miracles we see daily
And yet take for granted
Because we neither really know Thee,
Nor who we are.
- Copyright Victor Okechukwu Anyaegbuna @voanyaegbuna Lagos, Nigeria - 2013
BEWARE VALENTINE
Love and lust are but one person
The front and back of reason.
They both burn like wild fire
Trailing a solitary melting wire.
Attraction is their escort
To the quixotic fueling target.
Lust thrusts like an ancient dinosaur
While love backs down, meek in war.
If lust’s pressures and aggressions sail,
Cunning as a fox, tricky as a tortoise;
Love recedes and takes a refuge.
If lust’s pressures and aggressions fail,
Love wakes and takes the front stage;
Invincible as a lion, firm as erection!
And life sails on divine dictum.
- Copyright Victor Okechukwu Anyaegbuna @voanyaegbuna Lagos, Nigeria - 2013
ELEGY TO THE DANCING POET
(FOR IFY OMALICHA AGWU)
Let me sleep, now that dreams are born
To create awesome visions at dawn;
Let me see haloed belle at dusk,
That exposed my tottering mask;
Now that angled hopes flashed me high
To comb the sparkle in that eye;
Her dance pampered me to the beat,
Stopping short at my nervous feet.
Now that my trembling mortal frame
Rattled to stunning humble fame
From rendition not often seen
In life’s contest, so cool and keen.
Let vibrant dreams that stir my heart
Wreck this silence that cows my might
To seize charm that called at my feet,
That my reticence minced like meat.
That my adoring heart warmed up
To cool embrace fated to flop;
But raised hopes, that would never be,
To sugar my pedantic tea;
In cluttered fantasies of life
That past struggles straggled in strife
When a deft star, from the sky drooped,
But too soon halted, and tendered.
Now that the best moons are stillborn,
How would granny hear, rise and mourn?
The joy she gave that hatched your name,
Conferred identity, to tame
The monster your sanctified shine
Subdued, that gave you wings so fine;
Stagecraft, elocution; such skill
That providence so chose to kill.
Now that these potent dreams are dead,
Where will this angel find her bed?
Now that such hurtful sorrows burn
Where will dance and choreo store pain?
That glamour may see far beyond
Delightful welcomes, lost and found,
When very great pleasures that quit,
Crush the pain in my battered heart.
Your genes, talents will rise and glow
In that infant that watched you go.
Your grand dreams will be born again
In stardom veiled in drops of rain;
That will rouse you, as renditions,
On same stage you stirred great motions.
The world will stand and see it done
Then, the dreams will be truly born.
- Copyright Victor Okechukwu Anyaegbuna @voanyaegbuna Lagos, Nigeria - 2013
Biography: Victor Okechukwu Anyaegbuna is a Poet, Writer, Novelist, and Playwright, and has published three literary works available at amazon.com He is an alumnus of Government Secondary School, Afikpo in Eastern Nigeria, and a graduate of both the University of Lagos and University of Nigeria. He is also a Medical Doctor practising in Lagos Nigeria, and is a Member of the American College of Physician Executives.
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The Standstill Of Time
We stand at the pinnacle of consciousness,
Where space and time interject
The lines of time pass those of space,
In a circular motion light begins to flow
There are no limitations to everything,
No inadequacies in the working perfection
Though, we stand pointlessly orientated
Along with those who look to the heavens
and see a God with a face
They do not look within to see greatness,
But outside of everything
They perceive the exterior to be superior
And reality, the waiting room
Alas, time recedes
The present works along with the past
The circle has no endings or beginnings,
It doesn’t need a point
It merely meanders perpetually
The present is all that stands
Be weary of the detrimental,
Grateful for the wonderful
Corrosion can occur in an empty tomb
But light shall proceed in the eye of hope
- Copyright Callum Costello @callycos Northern Ireland - 2013
Biography: I am young poet from Northern Ireland. My name, Callum Costello. I have posted several poems on BlogSpot amongst other websites but have yet to have much feedback. Here, in this poem, I have explored the idea of cyclical being - in that we are all a mass entity that lives on forever.
If you are interested, here is a blog entry of mine:
http://theheartofminds.blogspot.co.uk/
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My god, there’s a tree!
and it’s running down the muddy lane
flapping, shaking
Bits are falling off
twigs, leaves, acorn-type berries
Now skeletal
dancing, writhing
Go back
add moon
add fingers of dark cloud
add war-time searchlights
hard shadows that bruise
Too long sat by the fire
Too much green smoke inhaled
Drowsy, it’s easy to burn
Inside falls out
Add stars
in clusters
stars, like solo, but clustered
as if lovers
lovers who burn logs and watch the unreal
15 moon-degrees per segment
lovers who break apart the hearth
take sunrise
into a new day
- Copyright Ashley Bovan @ashley_bovan Cardiff, United Kingdom - 2013
It's an old map
so no surprise when I end up
in my muddy boots
facing across a brand new dual carriageway
Not what you would call busy
but there’s motion
people off somewhere
and each car is like I’m watching
a day in the life of myself
especially this month
when sunrise blends straight into sunset
Each December
you’re on your own
dragged into the self-obsessed orgy of solstice
Just you
All the birds have flown
All the flowers have dropped
dead
- Copyright Ashley Bovan @ashley_bovan Cardiff, United Kingdom - 2013
Flying kites
I like
I paint a big red heart on one
stand, back to the wind
and let out the string
Way beyond
poking above the top of an Ash tree
I see a bright yellow kite
I'm not alone
- Copyright Ashley Bovan @ashley_bovan Cardiff, United Kingdom - 2013
Biography: Ashley Bovan lives and writes in Cardiff, UK and has recently completed his MA studies. He has been widely published and has a website at www.ashley-bovan.co.uk
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The Banalities of Describing a Sunset
From the book Flesh Pilot
100 little, orange orgasms...
or 1,000 red medium-sized sneezes?
O' the banalities of describing a sunset!
I'm sitting on my roof watching it.
Watching hell deflate in a busty, dark-indigo hug.
But I scratch that out because that's not quite right.
That orgasm/sneeze line needs to go too.
The angels burning the gardens of heaven applaud.
Or are they pouring orange soda on a defibrillator?
Frying the floating swarms of chartreuse Martian eyes,
Ashen lashes skittering onto the ghost
chewing the slow, slow grenade.
I'm thankful for words like "indescribable"
that make poetry easy.
It's not my lack of vocabulary or creativity.
This sunset's simply indescribable. Ha! Heh.
Oh God.
And whirling about in what language to paste where
Straining to MAKE POETRY HAPPEN!
I become senseless to the poetry happening to me.
A man on his roof, trying to describe a sunset
to a piece of paper, but he can't because it's impossible.
THAT'S the poem!
Should I put the pen down and wake to the poetry abounding
Relentlessly, each burning moment?
I cannot. Caught up in this flourish
of self-mechanizing chaos.
It is like describing a sunset...
- Copyright Jeremy Johnson @SchofieldAlan Omaha, Nebraska, USA - 2013
Biography: Schofield Alan (born Jeremy Johnson) resides in Omaha, NE where he writes plays and poems while searching for sales on liquor. He has written a book of poems called Flesh Pilot and a two-volume short story series called Fairytales For Serious Children. All told, he's relatively happy.
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Breathless Notes
Oceans of lyrics cover
The track beside my piano.
Holding your hand.
Sweet emotion.
Smooth proportion.
Breathless notes
Of endless
feelings.
Mix my face
With your emotion.
Enter the chorus of
Infinite
joy.
Mix my soul
Endless caring for you.
Being homeless
In the
deepest
Blossom lagoon.
Rolling faces
Through the notes
Endless pages
Of sweet quotes.
- Copyright Maria Rosa Gomez @MariaRosa_Spain Madrid, Spain – 2013
Biography: Maria Gomez holds a Bachelor of Arts in English Language and Literature from the University of Granada, Spain, with Honours in PGCE. She has a vast experience in teaching English as a Foreign Language and translations. She loves the Arts.
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【銀のスプーン】
銀のスプーンはわたしの夢を
ひとつすくってどこかへ隠した
銀のスプーンはわたしのこころを
浅く何度もそぎ取った
スープ皿の上には淡白な憧れだけが残った
- Copyright THE IHONO BRAND @IHONOfukushima, Aichi, Japan - 2013
ENGLISH TRANSLATION:
【Silver Spoon】
Silver Spoon upped my dreams a spoonful,
and hid somewhere.
Silver spoon stripped shallow my mind
many times.
On a soup plate, only my pale yearning remained.
- Copyright THE IHONO BRAND @IHONOfukushima, Aichi, Japan - 2013
Poem：Naoki Saiki（詩／斉木直樹）
Music：Kaoru Fukushima（音楽／福島 馨）@IHONOfukushima
Illustration：Miyako Kato（絵／加藤 都）
Reciter：Kuriko
** Recording of【銀のスプーン】”Silver Spoon”:
https://soundcloud.com/ihono/ihono-silver-spoon
Biography: IHONO is an Art & Music group composed of Naoki Saiki, Kaoru Fukushima, and Miyako Kato. Original works of poetry are recited in accompaniment to music. http://www.interq.or.jp/japan/ihono/
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Can
Can life exist if death didn’t?
Can love exist without broken hearts?
Can peace be something if war wasn’t?
Can happiness exist without sorrow?
Can there be belief, without disbeliefs?
Can blessing be something, if sinning wasn’t?
Can one win if no one loses?
Can one be right, if no one is wrong?
Can you really experience one and not the other?
- Copyright Yasmine Khater @Yasminekhater Madrid, Spain - 2013
Biography: Yasmine Khater is an adventurer, coach, writer, and speaker. She coaches ambitious professionals to live the life they’ve always imagined. yasminekhater.com
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…All I have got ..was all I was going to get ..
Memories are fading,
carried away by the wind,
darkness is falling,
lights are shading,
taking away my dreams,
knowing it could never be,
All I have got,
was all I going to get.
What keeps crossing my mind
are unspoken words,
what only persists
is illumination about reality ...
- Copyright Alice K. Green @AliceKGreen Germany - 2013
An area of high pressure
heralded the clearest starlit sky
that befell the northern hemisphere.
No news or talk of it; no questions why,
except among the experts and the poets.
I saw her there, shimmering,
a vision unexpectedly imbued,
converging, as she was, with crescent moon,
with brightest light of vestal pulchritude,
she has no equal in any other sphere.
It was as if no one had heard;
as though her visit was only meant for me
like no one knew of her great revelation.
She peered at me, through branches of a tree;
enticingly, she twinkled wistfully.
Her intentions, abundantly clear
I fancied that she missed a former lover,
as Juno reined the angry monster in.
and left her alone, save one significant other,
who longed to cradle her affection.
But she had only eyes for me
and warmed my soul in coldest dark of night.
Lucky are those, who see the poetry,
who can describe the meaning of her light,
that burns the skin with ancient holy fire.
But we know why she’s here; in truth
to hear the yearnings of our lonely heart,
that craves salvation from another world,
wherein may lie a greater amity and art
that illuminates a world where no one starves.
I know that she’ll be gone too soon,
elsewhere, her love and beauty to disperse,
and leave us feeling empty, but knowing she will
return one day to this, our universe,
to feel her love embrace the crescent moon.
[With the high pressure that was lodged over Great Britain, at the time this poem was written, and the clear skies we had enjoyed as a result, the night this picture was taken revealed an astonishing view of Venus in conjunction with a new moon. It was an irresistible view, even through the branches of our trees, it was so bright. I just didn’t feel the cold of the late evening, when I took the photo; it was actually about 11:15pm. In the weeks leading up to this moment, Venus had been in conjunction with Jupiter, which I couldn’t see that night; hence the reference to Juno (Jupiter’s wife).
For those with an interest in photography, I took the photo with a Panasonic Lumix DMC-FZ30 Prosumer SLR, zoom to the max at 400mm 1 sec at f6.3 Film speed ISO 200. The camera was tripod mounted, but I suspect some shake as evidenced by fact that Venus looks rather like a dove on the wing, which I rather like]
- Copyright John Anstie @poetjanstie Sheffield, UK – 2012
Biography: John lives in Sheffield, England. He trained as a scientist and engineer. Through his working life, he has been variously farmworker, ice-cream salesman, security guard, metallurgist, export sales manager, IT and ATM engineer, project manager and Managing Director of his own business. He discovered his ‘inner poet’ in 2009. He reckons his thirty-five years spent in a creative desert, whilst pursuing a career and raising a family, enriched and ennobled his writing. Among the Poets who impress him are William Shakespeare, for his poetic form, Alfred Lord Tennyson for his epic long and pithy short poems, John Clare for his ability, in spite of his lowly upbringing, W B Yeats for his romantic lyricism, Simon Armitage for his undeniable and his down to earth appeal and finally, John Updike for his lyrical but rooted story telling. John writes prose at ‘Forty Two’ (http://poetjanstie.blogspot.co.uk/); poetry at (http://poetjanstie.wordpress.com/).
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Zen
By risking you discover your freedom. By daring you realize your potential. By moving into the unknown you find yourself.
The gift within your misery is noticing that you are the source. By noticing this you become the source of your joy instead.
You are the Sculptor. Attention is your Hand. Thought is the Clay. Emotion is the Form. Experience is the Sculpture you create.
- Copyright Michael Robert Lawrence @TheUHMethod California, USA - 2013
Love
My heart is singing your name. My life song is for you.
I see home in your eyes. You are where my destiny lies.
If you could see into my mind.
You would always feel desired.
If you could see into my heart.
You would always feel loved.
If you could see into my soul.
You would always feel complete.
- Copyright Michael Robert Lawrence @TheUHMethod California, USA - 2013
Happiness
There are no coincidences,
Life unfolds as it should.
Everything serves a purpose
and understanding is not necessary.
Accept this completely,
and happiness will find you.
- Copyright Michael Robert Lawrence @TheUHMethod California, USA - 2013
Biography: Michael Robert Lawrence is an author, poet, speaker and teacher from New England living in California. Michael teaches you how to control your mind from his direct experience of gaining conscious control of the mind. He wrote The Universal Happiness Method: How to be Happy and Live without Stress and is currently writing The Universal Manual for Your Mind and The Grieving Path to Joy with Tonya Ouimet.
TheUniversalHappinessMethod.com
Twitter.com/TheUHMethod
Youtube.com/TheUHMethod
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Critique Of A Winter Tree
A wooden thespian dramatically
enters the bleak stage,
playing the closing scene,
uncharacteristically.
Baring all, it splinters
the panoramic with an
air-shattering illusion.
A skeletal hand reaching
towards a godless sky, trembling...
delivering sparse monologue.
Page upon page of script.
(this show has many layers)
“Brainstem scribble
in a doodle-delicate mist.
Naked, waiting, green.
I see (wo)man as me. Not
a carbon copy but close.”
Directed by shivering sunlight.
Produced by freezing rainfall.
The theatre of the absurd.
This ‘one-off’ performance,
melts haunting afterimages
upon my icy retinas.
Leaves a fading echo.
Encore!
- Copyright Richard Biddle @littledeaths68, United Kingdom - 2013
Biography: @littledeaths68 a Poet/writer/collaborator - recently published in 'Time Lines' a new anthology of writing by a small group of avid tweeters. Also a member of @echovirus12 an innovative experiment including acclaimed author @jeffnoon that uses twitter as an experimental writing platform. Most recent projects include 'Transformations' devised by @artipeep (poetry inspired by Ovid's Metamorphoses) and @cosmologgorhea a collaboration with fellow tweeter poet @badbadpoet. You can find more evidence of my writing here - http://writings43.blogspot.co.uk
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A GREAT FORCE UNSEEN!
I have sowed a seed of corn
And watched it break the ground
And emerge as a shoot.
I watched in wonder as it grew
Rising tall in nature’s benevolent space.
I have watched many a woman
Ailing with missing flowers
I have marveled over the months
How the middle expanded
Like a pumping balloon;
Until love became a deadly foe
Wearing the mask of untold violence.
I have been stunned how she cried
And wriggled restlessly in severe pains
That seemed to herald death
Only to precede a great cry of joy
From a new life bigger than her tommy
Moulded from invisibility;
How her anguish instantly escaped.
A great force unseen
Directed meticulously from within
The programmed path to visibility.
Oh my God!
I hail and praise thee
For great miracles we see daily
And yet take for granted
Because we neither really know Thee,
Nor who we are.
- Copyright Victor Okechukwu Anyaegbuna @voanyaegbuna Lagos, Nigeria - 2013
BEWARE VALENTINE
Love and lust are but one person
The front and back of reason.
They both burn like wild fire
Trailing a solitary melting wire.
Attraction is their escort
To the quixotic fueling target.
Lust thrusts like an ancient dinosaur
While love backs down, meek in war.
If lust’s pressures and aggressions sail,
Cunning as a fox, tricky as a tortoise;
Love recedes and takes a refuge.
If lust’s pressures and aggressions fail,
Love wakes and takes the front stage;
Invincible as a lion, firm as erection!
And life sails on divine dictum.
- Copyright Victor Okechukwu Anyaegbuna @voanyaegbuna Lagos, Nigeria - 2013
ELEGY TO THE DANCING POET
(FOR IFY OMALICHA AGWU)
Let me sleep, now that dreams are born
To create awesome visions at dawn;
Let me see haloed belle at dusk,
That exposed my tottering mask;
Now that angled hopes flashed me high
To comb the sparkle in that eye;
Her dance pampered me to the beat,
Stopping short at my nervous feet.
Now that my trembling mortal frame
Rattled to stunning humble fame
From rendition not often seen
In life’s contest, so cool and keen.
Let vibrant dreams that stir my heart
Wreck this silence that cows my might
To seize charm that called at my feet,
That my reticence minced like meat.
That my adoring heart warmed up
To cool embrace fated to flop;
But raised hopes, that would never be,
To sugar my pedantic tea;
In cluttered fantasies of life
That past struggles straggled in strife
When a deft star, from the sky drooped,
But too soon halted, and tendered.
Now that the best moons are stillborn,
How would granny hear, rise and mourn?
The joy she gave that hatched your name,
Conferred identity, to tame
The monster your sanctified shine
Subdued, that gave you wings so fine;
Stagecraft, elocution; such skill
That providence so chose to kill.
Now that these potent dreams are dead,
Where will this angel find her bed?
Now that such hurtful sorrows burn
Where will dance and choreo store pain?
That glamour may see far beyond
Delightful welcomes, lost and found,
When very great pleasures that quit,
Crush the pain in my battered heart.
Your genes, talents will rise and glow
In that infant that watched you go.
Your grand dreams will be born again
In stardom veiled in drops of rain;
That will rouse you, as renditions,
On same stage you stirred great motions.
The world will stand and see it done
Then, the dreams will be truly born.
- Copyright Victor Okechukwu Anyaegbuna @voanyaegbuna Lagos, Nigeria - 2013
Biography: Victor Okechukwu Anyaegbuna is a Poet, Writer, Novelist, and Playwright, and has published three literary works available at amazon.com He is an alumnus of Government Secondary School, Afikpo in Eastern Nigeria, and a graduate of both the University of Lagos and University of Nigeria. He is also a Medical Doctor practising in Lagos Nigeria, and is a Member of the American College of Physician Executives.
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The Standstill Of Time
We stand at the pinnacle of consciousness,
Where space and time interject
The lines of time pass those of space,
In a circular motion light begins to flow
There are no limitations to everything,
No inadequacies in the working perfection
Though, we stand pointlessly orientated
Along with those who look to the heavens
and see a God with a face
They do not look within to see greatness,
But outside of everything
They perceive the exterior to be superior
And reality, the waiting room
Alas, time recedes
The present works along with the past
The circle has no endings or beginnings,
It doesn’t need a point
It merely meanders perpetually
The present is all that stands
Be weary of the detrimental,
Grateful for the wonderful
Corrosion can occur in an empty tomb
But light shall proceed in the eye of hope
- Copyright Callum Costello @callycos Northern Ireland - 2013
Biography: I am young poet from Northern Ireland. My name, Callum Costello. I have posted several poems on BlogSpot amongst other websites but have yet to have much feedback. Here, in this poem, I have explored the idea of cyclical being - in that we are all a mass entity that lives on forever.
If you are interested, here is a blog entry of mine:
http://theheartofminds.blogspot.co.uk/
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My god, there’s a tree!
and it’s running down the muddy lane
flapping, shaking
Bits are falling off
twigs, leaves, acorn-type berries
Now skeletal
dancing, writhing
Go back
add moon
add fingers of dark cloud
add war-time searchlights
hard shadows that bruise
Too long sat by the fire
Too much green smoke inhaled
Drowsy, it’s easy to burn
Inside falls out
Add stars
in clusters
stars, like solo, but clustered
as if lovers
lovers who burn logs and watch the unreal
15 moon-degrees per segment
lovers who break apart the hearth
take sunrise
into a new day
- Copyright Ashley Bovan @ashley_bovan Cardiff, United Kingdom - 2013
It's an old map
so no surprise when I end up
in my muddy boots
facing across a brand new dual carriageway
Not what you would call busy
but there’s motion
people off somewhere
and each car is like I’m watching
a day in the life of myself
especially this month
when sunrise blends straight into sunset
Each December
you’re on your own
dragged into the self-obsessed orgy of solstice
Just you
All the birds have flown
All the flowers have dropped
dead
- Copyright Ashley Bovan @ashley_bovan Cardiff, United Kingdom - 2013
Flying kites
I like
I paint a big red heart on one
stand, back to the wind
and let out the string
Way beyond
poking above the top of an Ash tree
I see a bright yellow kite
I'm not alone
- Copyright Ashley Bovan @ashley_bovan Cardiff, United Kingdom - 2013
Biography: Ashley Bovan lives and writes in Cardiff, UK and has recently completed his MA studies. He has been widely published and has a website at www.ashley-bovan.co.uk
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The Banalities of Describing a Sunset
From the book Flesh Pilot
100 little, orange orgasms...
or 1,000 red medium-sized sneezes?
O' the banalities of describing a sunset!
I'm sitting on my roof watching it.
Watching hell deflate in a busty, dark-indigo hug.
But I scratch that out because that's not quite right.
That orgasm/sneeze line needs to go too.
The angels burning the gardens of heaven applaud.
Or are they pouring orange soda on a defibrillator?
Frying the floating swarms of chartreuse Martian eyes,
Ashen lashes skittering onto the ghost
chewing the slow, slow grenade.
I'm thankful for words like "indescribable"
that make poetry easy.
It's not my lack of vocabulary or creativity.
This sunset's simply indescribable. Ha! Heh.
Oh God.
And whirling about in what language to paste where
Straining to MAKE POETRY HAPPEN!
I become senseless to the poetry happening to me.
A man on his roof, trying to describe a sunset
to a piece of paper, but he can't because it's impossible.
THAT'S the poem!
Should I put the pen down and wake to the poetry abounding
Relentlessly, each burning moment?
I cannot. Caught up in this flourish
of self-mechanizing chaos.
It is like describing a sunset...
- Copyright Jeremy Johnson @SchofieldAlan Omaha, Nebraska, USA - 2013
Biography: Schofield Alan (born Jeremy Johnson) resides in Omaha, NE where he writes plays and poems while searching for sales on liquor. He has written a book of poems called Flesh Pilot and a two-volume short story series called Fairytales For Serious Children. All told, he's relatively happy.
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Breathless Notes
Oceans of lyrics cover
The track beside my piano.
Holding your hand.
Sweet emotion.
Smooth proportion.
Breathless notes
Of endless
feelings.
Mix my face
With your emotion.
Enter the chorus of
Infinite
joy.
Mix my soul
Endless caring for you.
Being homeless
In the
deepest
Blossom lagoon.
Rolling faces
Through the notes
Endless pages
Of sweet quotes.
- Copyright Maria Rosa Gomez @MariaRosa_Spain Madrid, Spain – 2013
Biography: Maria Gomez holds a Bachelor of Arts in English Language and Literature from the University of Granada, Spain, with Honours in PGCE. She has a vast experience in teaching English as a Foreign Language and translations. She loves the Arts.
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【銀のスプーン】
銀のスプーンはわたしの夢を
ひとつすくってどこかへ隠した
銀のスプーンはわたしのこころを
浅く何度もそぎ取った
スープ皿の上には淡白な憧れだけが残った
- Copyright THE IHONO BRAND @IHONOfukushima, Aichi, Japan - 2013
ENGLISH TRANSLATION:
【Silver Spoon】
Silver Spoon upped my dreams a spoonful,
and hid somewhere.
Silver spoon stripped shallow my mind
many times.
On a soup plate, only my pale yearning remained.
- Copyright THE IHONO BRAND @IHONOfukushima, Aichi, Japan - 2013
Poem：Naoki Saiki（詩／斉木直樹）
Music：Kaoru Fukushima（音楽／福島 馨）@IHONOfukushima
Illustration：Miyako Kato（絵／加藤 都）
Reciter：Kuriko
** Recording of【銀のスプーン】”Silver Spoon”:
https://soundcloud.com/ihono/ihono-silver-spoon
Biography: IHONO is an Art & Music group composed of Naoki Saiki, Kaoru Fukushima, and Miyako Kato. Original works of poetry are recited in accompaniment to music. http://www.interq.or.jp/japan/ihono/
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Can
Can life exist if death didn’t?
Can love exist without broken hearts?
Can peace be something if war wasn’t?
Can happiness exist without sorrow?
Can there be belief, without disbeliefs?
Can blessing be something, if sinning wasn’t?
Can one win if no one loses?
Can one be right, if no one is wrong?
Can you really experience one and not the other?
- Copyright Yasmine Khater @Yasminekhater Madrid, Spain - 2013
Biography: Yasmine Khater is an adventurer, coach, writer, and speaker. She coaches ambitious professionals to live the life they’ve always imagined. yasminekhater.com
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…All I have got ..was all I was going to get ..
Memories are fading,
carried away by the wind,
darkness is falling,
lights are shading,
taking away my dreams,
knowing it could never be,
All I have got,
was all I going to get.
What keeps crossing my mind
are unspoken words,
what only persists
is illumination about reality ...
- Copyright Alice K. Green @AliceKGreen Germany - 2013
- Copyright Alice K. Green @AliceKGreen Germany - 2013
…A Ghost of Time ..
All that is left ...
It is a ghost of you,
A ghost of time,
of love, .. and affection.
A ghost of memories ..
endless nights, meaningful dreams ..
unforgotten ones, .. they never fade ..
The effigy of your face, .. always stayed.
Remaining memories, unsaid words,
feelings, shown by two souls, hidden by two hearts,
expressed by silence ..
a moment of silence, realizing this connection.
Quiet in the crowd, ..but days of hearing people’s minds,
months of your silence, but hearing your thoughts loudly ..
having all this, but having nothing left to lose ..
- Copyright Alice K. Green @AliceKGreen Germany - 2013
Biography: Alice K. Green, 26, was born and raised in Germany. Alice is an author, freelance writer, poet and correspondent. She writes for online publications and has been published by the local newspaper several times. Alice has been writing since the age of 14. Love poetry became her passion. She is also active in several animal protection associations and acts for Human Rights. In addition to her writing involvement, Alice is a self-employed hairstylist and beauty specialist. Her first book “Wonderland’s Seasons of Love ~ when your heart learns to speak, because words can’t” is available on Amazon and Kindle Shop (ebook and paperback).
Facebook Fanpage: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Wonderlands-Seasons-of-Love/272905849419784
Blog : http://wonderlandsseasonsoflove.blogspot.com/
Website : http://wonderlandsseasonsoflove.npage.de/
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
…A Ghost of Time ..
All that is left ...
It is a ghost of you,
A ghost of time,
of love, .. and affection.
A ghost of memories ..
endless nights, meaningful dreams ..
unforgotten ones, .. they never fade ..
The effigy of your face, .. always stayed.
Remaining memories, unsaid words,
feelings, shown by two souls, hidden by two hearts,
expressed by silence ..
a moment of silence, realizing this connection.
Quiet in the crowd, ..but days of hearing people’s minds,
months of your silence, but hearing your thoughts loudly ..
having all this, but having nothing left to lose ..
- Copyright Alice K. Green @AliceKGreen Germany - 2013
Biography: Alice K. Green, 26, was born and raised in Germany. Alice is an author, freelance writer, poet and correspondent. She writes for online publications and has been published by the local newspaper several times. Alice has been writing since the age of 14. Love poetry became her passion. She is also active in several animal protection associations and acts for Human Rights. In addition to her writing involvement, Alice is a self-employed hairstylist and beauty specialist. Her first book “Wonderland’s Seasons of Love ~ when your heart learns to speak, because words can’t” is available on Amazon and Kindle Shop (ebook and paperback).
Facebook Fanpage: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Wonderlands-Seasons-of-Love/272905849419784
Blog : http://wonderlandsseasonsoflove.blogspot.com/
Website : http://wonderlandsseasonsoflove.npage.de/
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
- Copyright Gwylym Owen @Iliteratepoet United Kingdom - 2013
Biography: Visual Artist, Performer, Poet, Sculptor, Visceral sense of humour, straight talking, soft underbelly, underrated genius, modest.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The cake
It fills the fridge with its own light
cloud white, pineapple, crushed from sun.
It is a cake called hummingbird.
It is a tower which has three floors
but this weekend our daughter flies
as bright and far as hummingbirds
so who will eat the handsome nuts
the smoky peel, the crumbling walls,
excessive as the hummingbird?
It was absurd to nurse all night
wire racks; cream beating; radio song
flashed through the heart like hummingbirds.
The cold rain licks the unwashed pane,
holiday drowns, without a word,
brings cream’s white, burnt gold, thought of you
crazy as time, the hummingbird.
- Copyright Alison Brackenbury @ABRACKENBURY Gloucestershire, UK - 2013
And
Why are the days not infinite
so I can watch
a plane tilt into light
the hills whose limestone folds?
Because it is not time.
Because, when I am old,
I will become that tilt of light,
the limestone’s fold.
- Copyright Alison Brackenbury @ABRACKENBURY Gloucestershire, UK - 2013
Biography: Alison Brackenbury's eighth collection of poems, Then, will be published in April 2013 by Carcanet Press.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
DE PLEK
steeds op dit punt
na een eind wandelen
vanaf mijn logeeradres
hier waar de elektriciteitsdraden
dit landweggetje oversteken
op deze open plek
dacht ik steeds toen
aan de andere kant van mijn leven
daar in de verte
de plek waar het licht was, waar werd geleefd
die prachtige Zuid-Europese stad
waar jij met de anderen was
waar de draden heen leidden
om jou te verlichten
waar te spannende dingen gebeurden
relaties werden gevormd
dat moet wel
waar ik niet bij mocht zijn
precies op dit punt sta ik
nu alles anders is
opnieuw versnelt mijn hartslag
te weinig om mij weer jong te voelen
jij moet nu een oude vrouw zijn
ik voel genoeg om te voelen
hoe het voelde
nu ik terug ben
- Copyright Michiel Hanon @MichielHanon The Hague, Netherlands – 2013
THE PLACE
everytime at this point
after a long walk
from my sleeping address
here where the electric wires
cross this little country road
on this open place
I kept thinking of
the other side of my life
there in the distance
the enlightened place, where one enjoyed life
that beautiful Southern-European town
where you were with the others
where the wires led to
to enlight you
where things happened which are too exciting
relationships were shaped
it must be
where I wasn’t allowed to be
exactly at that point I am standing
now everything has changed
and again my heartbeat rises
too less to feel young again
you have to be an old lady by now
I feel enough to feel
how it felt
now I am back
- Translation by Stefan Wijjers, Gouda, Netherlands - 2013
Biografie: Ik heb diverse keren werk gepubliceerd op de website van het Nederlandse literaire tijdschrift (uit Den Haag) “Extaze” (columns en gedichten), in het Vlaams-Nederlands literair-cultureel tijdschrift “Schoon Schip” (gedichten) en in diverse bloemlezingen met gedichten en met korte verhalen. Bij de Nederlandse Turing Gedichtenwedstrijd behoorde ik in 2012 tot de Top 100. Op Twitter en Facebook ben ik actief met korte teksten en teksten die op de actualiteit inspelen.
Ik woon in Den Haag, Nederland, en heb psychologie en rechten gestudeerd.
Graag nodig ik u uit mijn website te bezoeken: http://michielhanon.webklik.nl
Hierop staan in het Nederlands gedichten en columns die eerder werden gepubliceerd.
Biography: My work has been published several times on the website of the Dutch literary magazine (The Hague) "ecstasy" (columns and poems), in the Flemish-Dutch literary-cultural magazine "Clean Ship" (poems) and in several anthologies of poetry and short stories. In the Dutch Turing Poetry I belonged in 2012 to the Top 100. On Twitter and Facebook I am active with short texts and texts that respond to current events.
I live in The Hague, Netherlands, and have studied law and psychology.
I invite you to visit my website: http://michielhanon.webklik.nl
It shows in Dutch poems and columns that were previously published.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Biography: Visual Artist, Performer, Poet, Sculptor, Visceral sense of humour, straight talking, soft underbelly, underrated genius, modest.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The cake
It fills the fridge with its own light
cloud white, pineapple, crushed from sun.
It is a cake called hummingbird.
It is a tower which has three floors
but this weekend our daughter flies
as bright and far as hummingbirds
so who will eat the handsome nuts
the smoky peel, the crumbling walls,
excessive as the hummingbird?
It was absurd to nurse all night
wire racks; cream beating; radio song
flashed through the heart like hummingbirds.
The cold rain licks the unwashed pane,
holiday drowns, without a word,
brings cream’s white, burnt gold, thought of you
crazy as time, the hummingbird.
- Copyright Alison Brackenbury @ABRACKENBURY Gloucestershire, UK - 2013
And
Why are the days not infinite
so I can watch
a plane tilt into light
the hills whose limestone folds?
Because it is not time.
Because, when I am old,
I will become that tilt of light,
the limestone’s fold.
- Copyright Alison Brackenbury @ABRACKENBURY Gloucestershire, UK - 2013
Biography: Alison Brackenbury's eighth collection of poems, Then, will be published in April 2013 by Carcanet Press.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
DE PLEK
steeds op dit punt
na een eind wandelen
vanaf mijn logeeradres
hier waar de elektriciteitsdraden
dit landweggetje oversteken
op deze open plek
dacht ik steeds toen
aan de andere kant van mijn leven
daar in de verte
de plek waar het licht was, waar werd geleefd
die prachtige Zuid-Europese stad
waar jij met de anderen was
waar de draden heen leidden
om jou te verlichten
waar te spannende dingen gebeurden
relaties werden gevormd
dat moet wel
waar ik niet bij mocht zijn
precies op dit punt sta ik
nu alles anders is
opnieuw versnelt mijn hartslag
te weinig om mij weer jong te voelen
jij moet nu een oude vrouw zijn
ik voel genoeg om te voelen
hoe het voelde
nu ik terug ben
- Copyright Michiel Hanon @MichielHanon The Hague, Netherlands – 2013
THE PLACE
everytime at this point
after a long walk
from my sleeping address
here where the electric wires
cross this little country road
on this open place
I kept thinking of
the other side of my life
there in the distance
the enlightened place, where one enjoyed life
that beautiful Southern-European town
where you were with the others
where the wires led to
to enlight you
where things happened which are too exciting
relationships were shaped
it must be
where I wasn’t allowed to be
exactly at that point I am standing
now everything has changed
and again my heartbeat rises
too less to feel young again
you have to be an old lady by now
I feel enough to feel
how it felt
now I am back
- Translation by Stefan Wijjers, Gouda, Netherlands - 2013
Biografie: Ik heb diverse keren werk gepubliceerd op de website van het Nederlandse literaire tijdschrift (uit Den Haag) “Extaze” (columns en gedichten), in het Vlaams-Nederlands literair-cultureel tijdschrift “Schoon Schip” (gedichten) en in diverse bloemlezingen met gedichten en met korte verhalen. Bij de Nederlandse Turing Gedichtenwedstrijd behoorde ik in 2012 tot de Top 100. Op Twitter en Facebook ben ik actief met korte teksten en teksten die op de actualiteit inspelen.
Ik woon in Den Haag, Nederland, en heb psychologie en rechten gestudeerd.
Graag nodig ik u uit mijn website te bezoeken: http://michielhanon.webklik.nl
Hierop staan in het Nederlands gedichten en columns die eerder werden gepubliceerd.
Biography: My work has been published several times on the website of the Dutch literary magazine (The Hague) "ecstasy" (columns and poems), in the Flemish-Dutch literary-cultural magazine "Clean Ship" (poems) and in several anthologies of poetry and short stories. In the Dutch Turing Poetry I belonged in 2012 to the Top 100. On Twitter and Facebook I am active with short texts and texts that respond to current events.
I live in The Hague, Netherlands, and have studied law and psychology.
I invite you to visit my website: http://michielhanon.webklik.nl
It shows in Dutch poems and columns that were previously published.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
- Copyright Susie Clevenger @wingsobutterfly Houston, Texas, USA - 2013
- Copyright Susie Clevenger @wingsobutterfly Houston, Texas, USA - 2013
- Copyright Susie Clevenger @wingsobutterfly Houston, Texas, USA - 2013
Between the Commas
The poem rewrote itself
before I had written
the lines of the last stanza.
Life happened between
the commas with the insertion
of its own conjunctions.
I began with a pessimistic
spilling of malignant discontent
only to find light erasing hostility.
The woe that had burnt my voice
was transformed by the beauty
of love from the most unexpected.
Life has shown me it will continue to edit
my verses until I sleep beneath the daises
beyond the reach of paper and pen.
- Copyright Susie Clevenger @wingsobutterfly Houston, Texas, USA - 2013
Biography: Susie Clevenger is an author who refers to the whole world as her muse and translates her observations of life into verse. As a young girl she spent many evenings dreaming of what lay beyond dirt roads, wanting the freedom to express what was inside of her. Susie recently published her first poetry collection, Dirt Road Dreams, which brought that yearning for personal expression to print.
Susie is a member of the Academy of American Poets, a coordinator for the New World Creative Union, and a member of the online writing community, Imaginary Garden with Real Toads. Her work has been featured online in The Creative Nexus, Poetry & Prose Magazine, and The Brinks Gallery. She is also a photographer who enjoys further artistic expression through her camera lens. You can find links to Susie’s written work and photography as well as links to connect with her on social media at her author’s page, susieclevenger.com
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Between the Commas
The poem rewrote itself
before I had written
the lines of the last stanza.
Life happened between
the commas with the insertion
of its own conjunctions.
I began with a pessimistic
spilling of malignant discontent
only to find light erasing hostility.
The woe that had burnt my voice
was transformed by the beauty
of love from the most unexpected.
Life has shown me it will continue to edit
my verses until I sleep beneath the daises
beyond the reach of paper and pen.
- Copyright Susie Clevenger @wingsobutterfly Houston, Texas, USA - 2013
Biography: Susie Clevenger is an author who refers to the whole world as her muse and translates her observations of life into verse. As a young girl she spent many evenings dreaming of what lay beyond dirt roads, wanting the freedom to express what was inside of her. Susie recently published her first poetry collection, Dirt Road Dreams, which brought that yearning for personal expression to print.
Susie is a member of the Academy of American Poets, a coordinator for the New World Creative Union, and a member of the online writing community, Imaginary Garden with Real Toads. Her work has been featured online in The Creative Nexus, Poetry & Prose Magazine, and The Brinks Gallery. She is also a photographer who enjoys further artistic expression through her camera lens. You can find links to Susie’s written work and photography as well as links to connect with her on social media at her author’s page, susieclevenger.com
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
- Copyright Dutch @haikuverse, The Netherlands - 2013
Biography: Dutch Haikuverse lives and works in The Netherlands. Zen poetry and other Oriental decorative arts are the inspiration for a life with words and images. Dealing art and antiques makes life often less relaxed, than shown in haiga and haiku.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The Meds
Don’t always work.
Words fall like rain
Soaking the discards.
My coffee grows cold.
There seems no exit,
This medicated haze.
I understand, Sylvia.
It all makes sense.
And the cat sleeps on the floor.
- Copyright Mark Dennis Stratton @mdstratts Missouri, USA - 2013
Kiss
I still want to kiss you.
Those melancholy lips.
The trees ignore them but I cannot.
I missed the metaphor the other day.
It ambled past, confident.
The trees took notice, but I did not.
The thought of you,
The simple thought
Of you I wanted to kiss
I still wanted to
I hope you’ll still let me kiss you.
- Copyright Mark Dennis Stratton @mdstratts Missouri, USA - 2013
Biography: mark Stratton is a poet and writer who lives in Central Missouri with his wife and three cats. When not writing or reading poetry, he can be found slouched on the couch staring mindlessly into space. He has had work appear in "The American Zig-Zag" Volumes 1&2, Mediavirus Magazine, Four and Twenty and elsewhere. He also has published a small collection titled, "Tender Mercies.” He likes pie.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The Birth of Kainu
A Mythic poem of the origins of Kainu people, sung by The First Mother.
Translated by Petteri Hannila from the Finnish poem ”Kainujen Synty.”
Before a time, before a place
Before the man and beast
The endless sea, so dark and vast
Reached round from west to east
From the depths now grew a cliff
A cliff so big and white
Rising from the shoreless sea
A shard in ocean's might
All alone were sea and stone
Until the Seagull came
A bird of sea, a bird of stone
Without a home or name
He found the stone, he found the cliff
He laid his nest in peace
At last he thought, the time has come
The endless search will cease
But bitter was the lonely sea
Its hate flowed cold and dark
It raised a wave from murky depths
Destruction at its mark
There was the rock, there was the nest
All torn down with the wave
It blew the nest and blew the bird
Took eggs to watery grave
The bird of sea, the bird of stone
Rose high on wings of gold
He opened up his beak and let
His magic song unfold
His golden eggs all torn and wet
Transformed under his might
To earth and sky he changed them all
To shine he made sun bright
All of this and so much more
He built with words said true
The land of life, the land of death
All this his magic grew
There was the world, so beautiful
So beautiful but bare
He took the last of golden eggs
Caressed it with much care
From it he drew the best of all
His work of finest birth
A beast, a bird, a fish in sea
All beings on this earth
Then he did it all again
For we all need a mate
But when he got to humankind
Wise bird could see our fate
“You shall walk this earth alone
I shall not give a bride
You'll bring forth the great turmoil
That lasts till all have died”
So it was the bitter man
Went on his way alone
Fishing in the empty sea
With endless wail and groan
“Oh I am the poorest soul
Without a love or care
Fishes rotting in the sun
And no one here to share"
Suddenly from darkest sea
An eerie voice did say
"I can make a woman too
But there's a price to pay
She will be fine, she will be fair
She is what you have craved
She has a mind of sharpened blade
She has your soul enslaved
She cooks your fish, she makes you strong
She burns your love as fuel
You shall do everything she wants
Your people, she will rule
Shall I give this woman then
Creature of highest might
To carry and give birth to you
To be your brightest light?”
Man was eager to respond
"I want her as my own
Unite us now, o eerie voice
I loathe to live alone"
In the sea the work was done
Under the depths unknown
Flesh was made from fishy hides
Skin from grasses sown
From the stream the blood was boiled
Scales so tough to bone
Girl of highest might was done
To carry and give birth
Quivers through man's world would run
She was her payment's worth
So begins the tale of the people known as the Kainu
- Copyright Petteri Hannila @Fargoerbooks Jyväskylä, Finland - 2012
Biography: I am a writer from Central Finland, a software designer by day and a dad/husband/dreamer/martial artist by evening.
It all started when I was eight years old. I found out that there were books of Tarzan, my childhood hero. My mother started to read them to me, but censored them - all of you who have read them know why. Annoyed by this, I started to read them on my own. Dreams and legends have followed me from that time, as companions on my voyage through life.
For me, the natural choice was to start writing science fiction and fantasy. Some years ago I came up with the idea of Fargoer, and writing about Vierra's adventures has been my love interest since then. I've written eight short stories of Vierra which form the first Fargoer novel. My other short stories have been published in Finnish genre magazines.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Biography: Dutch Haikuverse lives and works in The Netherlands. Zen poetry and other Oriental decorative arts are the inspiration for a life with words and images. Dealing art and antiques makes life often less relaxed, than shown in haiga and haiku.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The Meds
Don’t always work.
Words fall like rain
Soaking the discards.
My coffee grows cold.
There seems no exit,
This medicated haze.
I understand, Sylvia.
It all makes sense.
And the cat sleeps on the floor.
- Copyright Mark Dennis Stratton @mdstratts Missouri, USA - 2013
Kiss
I still want to kiss you.
Those melancholy lips.
The trees ignore them but I cannot.
I missed the metaphor the other day.
It ambled past, confident.
The trees took notice, but I did not.
The thought of you,
The simple thought
Of you I wanted to kiss
I still wanted to
I hope you’ll still let me kiss you.
- Copyright Mark Dennis Stratton @mdstratts Missouri, USA - 2013
Biography: mark Stratton is a poet and writer who lives in Central Missouri with his wife and three cats. When not writing or reading poetry, he can be found slouched on the couch staring mindlessly into space. He has had work appear in "The American Zig-Zag" Volumes 1&2, Mediavirus Magazine, Four and Twenty and elsewhere. He also has published a small collection titled, "Tender Mercies.” He likes pie.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The Birth of Kainu
A Mythic poem of the origins of Kainu people, sung by The First Mother.
Translated by Petteri Hannila from the Finnish poem ”Kainujen Synty.”
Before a time, before a place
Before the man and beast
The endless sea, so dark and vast
Reached round from west to east
From the depths now grew a cliff
A cliff so big and white
Rising from the shoreless sea
A shard in ocean's might
All alone were sea and stone
Until the Seagull came
A bird of sea, a bird of stone
Without a home or name
He found the stone, he found the cliff
He laid his nest in peace
At last he thought, the time has come
The endless search will cease
But bitter was the lonely sea
Its hate flowed cold and dark
It raised a wave from murky depths
Destruction at its mark
There was the rock, there was the nest
All torn down with the wave
It blew the nest and blew the bird
Took eggs to watery grave
The bird of sea, the bird of stone
Rose high on wings of gold
He opened up his beak and let
His magic song unfold
His golden eggs all torn and wet
Transformed under his might
To earth and sky he changed them all
To shine he made sun bright
All of this and so much more
He built with words said true
The land of life, the land of death
All this his magic grew
There was the world, so beautiful
So beautiful but bare
He took the last of golden eggs
Caressed it with much care
From it he drew the best of all
His work of finest birth
A beast, a bird, a fish in sea
All beings on this earth
Then he did it all again
For we all need a mate
But when he got to humankind
Wise bird could see our fate
“You shall walk this earth alone
I shall not give a bride
You'll bring forth the great turmoil
That lasts till all have died”
So it was the bitter man
Went on his way alone
Fishing in the empty sea
With endless wail and groan
“Oh I am the poorest soul
Without a love or care
Fishes rotting in the sun
And no one here to share"
Suddenly from darkest sea
An eerie voice did say
"I can make a woman too
But there's a price to pay
She will be fine, she will be fair
She is what you have craved
She has a mind of sharpened blade
She has your soul enslaved
She cooks your fish, she makes you strong
She burns your love as fuel
You shall do everything she wants
Your people, she will rule
Shall I give this woman then
Creature of highest might
To carry and give birth to you
To be your brightest light?”
Man was eager to respond
"I want her as my own
Unite us now, o eerie voice
I loathe to live alone"
In the sea the work was done
Under the depths unknown
Flesh was made from fishy hides
Skin from grasses sown
From the stream the blood was boiled
Scales so tough to bone
Girl of highest might was done
To carry and give birth
Quivers through man's world would run
She was her payment's worth
So begins the tale of the people known as the Kainu
- Copyright Petteri Hannila @Fargoerbooks Jyväskylä, Finland - 2012
Biography: I am a writer from Central Finland, a software designer by day and a dad/husband/dreamer/martial artist by evening.
It all started when I was eight years old. I found out that there were books of Tarzan, my childhood hero. My mother started to read them to me, but censored them - all of you who have read them know why. Annoyed by this, I started to read them on my own. Dreams and legends have followed me from that time, as companions on my voyage through life.
For me, the natural choice was to start writing science fiction and fantasy. Some years ago I came up with the idea of Fargoer, and writing about Vierra's adventures has been my love interest since then. I've written eight short stories of Vierra which form the first Fargoer novel. My other short stories have been published in Finnish genre magazines.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
- Copyright Image: Monique Rockliffe @monrockliffe Johannesburg, South Africa - 2013
Let Rested Soul Magic’s Flame Reignite
When words do dwell in shadows’ knell,
and heart and mind reach forth from cell,
yet doors remain closed here within,
and make my soul and spirit dim.
When passion sleeps – a deep, drowning swirl,
and dreams come fast yet nil reveal,
I lay a-pant and wish and long
for more of that which once magic spun.
Magic eludes my heart and mind,
only bringing forth the dark’s unkind,
when I listen not to Source’s trill within,
and harken only to soulless din.
Now I remind kindly me and you . . .
How can you scribe and not hear well,
when heart and mind and soul do tell,
to open up your inner-Sun
and give that golden power Gun?
By nature, Gun must burn and fire
for soul and heart and mind to flower!
Its sparks must shower upon that within,
which creates and births the magic din.
For absent magic cannot glory make,
neither golden page nor moving tale,
that brings tear or joy or laughter true
to reader, writer, listener . . . or you.
Find rest, dear writer, yon weary soul,
to keep alive yon glorious goal.
Make time for love, light, joy, and fun,
and don’t forget to fire that Gun!
Magic needs fiery Source-born Gun
to make its energy flare and words become spun.
Seek Muse in rest then write as though
your tale shall become this world’s greatest show!
For Gun and Muse and Magic must flare;
three united yon goal shall easily ensnare
each reader, writer, listener and you;
no looking back once choice to fire Gun comes true.
Listen well, dear writer, to heart’s quiet plea
to rest, to find magic, to make magic in thee.
All exists already there in soul’s warm glare,
just trust in the Magic and make Gun flare!
- Copyright Monique Rockliffe @monrockliffe Johannesburg, South Africa - 2013
Biography: Monique was born in Johannesburg, South Africa, where she currently resides with her husband.
Always the avid reader, she spent every available moment since childhood reading, which fuelled her already boundless imagination. She loved watching as many fantasy and science fiction films as possible, establishing her love and passion for storytelling of the Otherworldly kind.
She became a dancer at age five which turned into a successful professional career, but she never lost her first passion. She began writing seriously in 2009 when her dancing career came to an end and her husband and greatest supporter urged her to finally make a start.
She currently has two Epic Fantasy novels published and available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble. The Sword Bearers: Book 1 and The Sword Bearer’s Journey: Book 2 are part of a tetralogy. The third, The Sword Bearer’s Awakening, will be available around April 2013. The Door, a sci-fi short story, is also available on Smashwords.
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Investing in Strangers
Fortune feasts, while
famine tides the shore
mounting illusions
as they prey
Tread impacting, creating
textured moments
too difficult to remember
too sour to forget
Mindful adaptation, twisting
and tearing into the time we share
Teaching our subconscious
to rest quietly
blanketed in a soothing blue nectar
Thick and unsolicited banter
mystifying the experience, while
wanting to be within
the faint afterthought
of gone and forgotten
- Copyright Priscilla Newman @mossandmilk, Location Undisclosed - 2013
Biography: Priscilla Newman is a poet and mixed media abstract painter and blogger. She recently started a poetry blog, www.mossandmilk.wordpress.com incorporating new works as well as featuring her works from different compilations and chapbooks from the past fifteen years. www.mossandmilk.wordpress.com
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5 Updates on Us
I.
I think outside the box
there is a second box.
Resolving our conflicts
requires breaking 2 locks.
2 heads are better
than 1, they say.
I say our intellects
get in our way.
What you do to you
and what I do to me
can't beat the havoc
we wreak as a team.
II.
We wanted to change but we were in chains.
We got unchained but we stayed unchanged.
Where was the key to keep us sane?
Breaking the locks brought us no luck.
Either way we were stuck.
So we found a way to wait,
which lifted the weight.
Then one day we could move,
but were in no mood.
III.
I see I need a knot to knead –
but to pick at our problems
won't make them recede.
Needing is itself a knot.
Resisting resistance
just tightens the weave.
IV.
Why don't you take a short swim
back to our boat.
Why don't you peer long
at your reflection in the water
till you see me there.
You and I are cut
from the same pirates' cloth.
Let us use it to mop
our blood from the boards.
We could scrub the decks clean
and hoist the stained swatch
into the air.
Would that we could sail the fair seas
and not assail.
Would that we could see fair.
V.
My pot calling your kettle black
is not to cause combat.
It is to say
we are like each other.
Don't be bothered
by my kitchen's heat.
The stove I stoke
is not to fan
a useless fire.
The food I cook is sweet.
And you will serve us both
better to sit beside me
and eat.
- Copyright Emily E. Axelrod @emilyeaxelrod, Location Undisclosed - 2013
Biography: Emily E. Axelrod is a college writing instructor & author. Read her longer poetry at www.BigCityLit.com, & micropoetry on Twitter @emilyeaxelrod.
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WHAT’S UNDERNEATH THE CLOAK MY LADY?
He asks questions that none have asked before;
He undresses me slowly,
Peeling away the many, velvet layers.
I stand, awkward in my exposed inhibition;
I have been brought up to cope,
Not ponder long on personal nuance.
I am naked before him.
I know he will find the deep core,
And caress with finite accuracy.
He calls me sharp,
But I would call him sharper,
In a gentle, focused way.
What’s underneath the cloak my Lady?
If I am to be your Stamen Gazer, Sir,
Will you be my Master of the Robes?
- Copyright Marina de Nadous @MarinaDeNadous Somerset, United Kingdom - 2013
Biography: Marina de Nadous is a novice author launching a series she has been working on for the past 7 years. She considers herself a scribe, recording a story that arrived unexpectedly in her lap.
Raised and educated in traditional Britain, Marina steps outside the conventional in her story-telling, taking the reader firmly by the hand as she opens doors to a unique creation and subsequent unravelling.
Marina helps run a small, alternative school in Somerset where she lives with her family. She considers New Zealand her second home.
She has a message for all couples; that emotional intimacy and spiritual connection are jewels beyond compare----and that they are achievable.
The Celestial Sea Voyages are published as Matador Titles. Details available through www.MarinaDeNadous.com
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The Llama Who Likes Drama
There’s a llama who likes drama
studying here in my school.
My teachers and my classmates
all think that he is cool.
He sports a tiny bow tie
complemented with a grin
as he recites a poem
with expression from within.
In front of everyone,
he likes to act and sing and dance
about suspense and tension
and then freedom and romance!
His wondrous drama skills
is something you can’t get enough.
He’ll make you laugh until you cry
and cry until you laugh!
His eyebrows can go up and down
and upside down with ease.
He can be mad and scream REAL LOUD!!!—
then whisper soft like breeze.
He can act classy, sharp, and smart,
with words as smooth as silk.
Or, he can act sad, blue, and down,
because of some spilled milk.
In drama competitions, boy,
he always wins the medals!
To show love and support,
we would all crown his head with petals.
You see, he acts dramatically,
sings operas aggressively,
and struts around excitingly,
as he acts happy naturally.
He can jump up and down
and dance around
just like a clown.
He can act angry,
mad, and hot.
He can act like his foot
is stuck in a pot!
He can act anything you want!
He can even act as a cactus plant!
He can play cook in bakery,
or soldier in an infantry,
or big boss running company,
or princess in a fantasy,
or teacher teaching “ABC”,
or British person drinking tea,
or pilot in the sky so free,
and then crash plane into a tree!
The llama who likes drama
is so very, very cool.
Don’t you wish there were a llama
doing drama in your school?
- Copyright Gloson Teh @Gloson, Petaling Jaya, Malaysia - 2012
Biography: Gloson has been writing funny poetry since he was 9 years old. He is now 15. He likes to rhyme with silliness and write about funny incidents, exaggerated ideas, and unexpected unexpectedness! In 2009, Gloson published two books, "Creative & Funny Poetry for Kids" and "Creative Row Your Boats". He has performed one of his poems in front of the Prime Minister of Malaysia (and his wife). In Sept 2009, Gloson was officially recognized as the "Youngest Published Poet in Malaysia". Now, Gloson occasionally gives visits to schools to inspire kids and entertain them with his poems. To read Gloson's poetry, go towww.poetrytalents.com.
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25 Versions of 1 Snowfall
the plural of snow
is snow, how flakes join and fall
into one wholeness
*
winter is
less snow and more cold
to keep it
*
snow does not
know us and happens
where it wills
whether we
welcome it or not. the trick is
to meet it smiling
*
In ten words, it spirals soft
from sky to earth
*
that bird
we call winter
lines her nest
today
and that softness
ripped from her breast
catches in my hair
white feathers
like missed kisses
melting
*
snowsnakes
slip from trees
to twist at my feet
*
shivering
newness
opening to
wonder
*
in Buffalo
it snows sideways
and from the ground up
a miracle
just like that rain
Forrest Gump hated
minus the heat
*
the constellations of winter
are lost in the steam of our breath:
the hunter, the bull
the greater and lesser dogs,
the sea monster and the man that killed him
rest by the celestial river
or reel with the twins
but those jewels, high up
cannot compete with the small stars that fall
to melt in our palms
*
the first snow
we never want to let go
the second and third ones
are what leave us so numb
*
he is set in snow
a ruby burning, preening
cardinal flames his wings
*
snow
a fall
erasure
winter’s white bloom
scentless daisy chains
cold covering in drifts
a blanket that cannot warm
yes, the snow itself is lonely
*
gifted
with this brilliance
this light-catching sameness
my ungrateful eyes
starve for green
*
there is physics to skating:
friction and momentum
curving Newton’s third law
into a glide
and physics in that lesson of snow
teaching lightness
in falling
*
the leaves fell, sparked
brightness arced fades
to dark, and snow
*
snowfall
winter’s beauty
paints this everything
with whiteness we shape angels in
snowfall
*
the radar-generated snow
falls, like feathers
from ripped pillows
I taste winter
with my tongue
and breathe
in this coldness
like oxygen
the spirit opens
to take deeper
*
we are snow
what is unique in us
melted & lost in water cycling
*
I am merely saying & saving
some of what’s wild, grinding
a brightness to pass to you
in a sting of snow, dancing inside a trace
of what phosphoresces under oceans
in a kiss we call sustenance:
what makes us go.
*
(E)very snowflake
is different.
How (can) we
get off our knees?
(erasure, Jeanette Winterson)
*
you sing summer to me
but our seasons are opposed–
winter in my heart
*
pieces of sky fall
sifted confectioner sweet–
we stick out our tongues
*
I crave that covering over
everything raw
snow promises
the blindness of winter
how small things together
change what is seen
to iced monochrome
*
what it means to be pine
memory quietly hummed
and almost scented
beneath the bite of snow
and resin they wear
*
the snow comes
gently, and with softness
in a careful arrangement of atoms
the snow comes
like sky broken into crumbs
but each one flawless
the snow comes
gently, and with softness
- Copyright Susan L. Daniels @susan_daniels Eden, New York, USA - 2012
Biography: Susan Daniels is a poet who lives in Western New York.
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She just drove away
Leaving the destruction all behind
Somewhere in between her cold mind and lost mind
She may have been good
But the anger she breathed stripped her nature to the nude
The pain and the shame
From him never touching her imperfect frame
Exploded in the sky
So she picked up her bags
And left us to die
The ground now haunted by a little whispered lie
"This isn't goodbye"
Leaving this house cold and dark
She believed in magic, she called it "art"
And she just drove away
- Copyright Engela Pretorius @EngelaPoetry, South Africa - 2013
Biography: I am a South-African poet. I am a 24-year-old woman. I started writing stories and poems when I was 7 years old. I am adventurous and a dreamer. Writing poetry takes me far away from the world and all its limitations. I write about the things I can't talk about. I write the unspoken feelings into consciousness. If that makes sense to you, you will enjoy my work. Follow me on Twitter @EngelaPoetry
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Man and Wife
She...
means
the world to me
we share a history
I do love her as a brother
because I'm that kind of guy
God has delivered me beauty personified
undercover natural lover candy for the eyes
How we differ makes me miss her
smacks you right
in the kisser ~
Mother nature's graceful favor
life between her thighs
- Copyright Darryl Omari @Scribe111, Philadelphia, PA, USA - 2013
Biography: I enjoy the use of language as a vehicle for self-expression. The blank page entices us to share both our success and failure with others. An experience that can be rewarding and therapeutic. Born in Philadelphia, PA (USCG Ret.) Lives in Austin, TX - Beloved worshiper of God the Highest. I am Darryl Abdu Omari, and am happy to share in the hope that someone can relate to a poem or two. I believe that there is a divine source of enlightenment available to artists of every ilk. Artists and others are afforded the privilege.
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Michelangelo
I would build you a glorious palace
with ornamental roads and
wondrous sculptures if I could
but I only have these two clumsy hands
to work with.
They are the best I have to offer you
but these hands will work wonders
if given the chance.
The trouble is, I don't really
know if I should have that chance.
Sometimes you have to do the best with
what you have to work with
and these hands may accidentally destroy
the very thing they are trying to make so
beautiful for you.
- Copyright Julian Gallo @JulianGallo66, New York City, NY, USA - 2013
Biography: Born and raised in New York City. Julian is a musician/writer/painter who has poems and short stories published in about 40 magazines and journals throughout the United States, Canada and Europe and also has 13 books under his belt: "Standing On Lorimer Street Awaiting Crucifixion" (Alpha Beat Press, 1996), "The Terror of Your Cunt is The Beauty of Your Face" (Black Spring Press, 1999), "Street Gospel Mystical Intellectual Survival Codes" (Budget Press, 2000), "Scrape That Violin More Darkly Then Hover Like Smoke In The Air" (Black Spring Press, 2001), "Existential Labyrinths" (Black Spring Press, 2003), "Window Shopping For A New Crown of Thorns" (Lulu Press, 2007), "November Rust" (Lulu Press, 2007), "My Arrival Is Marked By Illuminating Stains" (Lulu Press 2007), "A Symphony of Olives" (Propaganda Press, 2009) and "Divertimiento" (Propaganda Press, 2009). His second novel "Naderia" was released in January 2011, "Be Still and Know That I Am" (Beat Corrida) was released in September 2011. His fourth novel, Mediterraneo, was released in June 2012. He is also currently playing guitar and bass for NYC singer/songwriter Linda La Porte.
Contact: www.juliangallo66.blogspot.com
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Life…A Fathomless Illusion
This journey called life,
Is a fathomless illusion
Treacherous in its flow,
Why does it demand a comprehension?
It has so many faces,
Not knowing which one to trust,
Yet its facade creates so much a fuss.
Delving into it,
We’ve achieved nothing.
Rather have seem to lost
The sweet innocence of once being a kid…
- Copyright Sakshi Nigam, India - 2013
Biography: Hi, I am from India. I am a writer (both prose and poetry), editor, teacher and a consistent learner. I am a research scholar as well. With more than four years of work experience in Teaching and Writing and Editing, I now finally take the courage to express myself publicly (I am a reserved person). My entire academics has been in the field of management but my keen interest in Literature and Language has driven me towards writing. I’ve been associated with various writing projects in newspapers and websites from the past two years and would like to make writing and editing my career also. I am also editing a fiction book (soon to be published).
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My Sunrise
As her shimmering fingers drag the earth back to life, pulling it from its trembling slumber.
Just as she lifts the shadowy veil from distant horizons.
As her stern gaze pushes aside shadows, wrestles the darkness back into its corners and crevasses.
As her fingertips brush over chilled rock and stone, warming them as she passes.
Just as her bright mirth brings vigour to a gurgling creek.
Just as her hands rub the stiffness from gnarled trunks and branches.
Up country lanes and paths she silently wanders.
In meadows and gardens she lingers, opening rosebuds with light kisses
And just as she sales over mountains, cascades through forests and glides along fields, bringing with her songs and glorious laughter
Irresistible yet gentle, her radiance flitters like butterfly wings over our eyelids.
With the whispers of a thousand angels, she urges us to wake.
As our eyes open to her gentle caress, and with a stretch we acknowledge her as she holds us tightly to her breast, so does the radiance of your smile bring me warmth and rest
So do your eyes emblazon a sunrise over the landscapes of my heart.
So does you laugh lighten gullies and ravines of my existence
So does your voice trickle like a lively brook, bubbling over the bumps and bruises of my soul.
So does your tender touch bring healing to the scarred landscapes of my being.
And just as when she approaches, so do your footsteps bring a glowing dawn to my dark days
- Copyright Michael Taylor @MWTaylor7 Melbourne, Australia - 2013
Forever Destined
I'm forever destined to be destined... destined to nothing, destined to change, destined to remain the same. Destined for you to forget me, destined for you to know my name. If the sun should set now, this story will forever remain untold, forever a mystery is shall remain. It floats, it flies, It sinks, it swirls in afterthoughts, it pours down with the rain. Something never spoken. Something screamed from a thousand mouths. It is the word on the tip of your tongue, it is the thought in the back of your mind. It clings to hope, it crashes in the waves of the ocean. As obvious as the breeze on your skin, as easy to grasp as the morning mist running from the sun. It is my name. Stay with me, just one more hour, hold me steady for one more day. One more chance to touch your heart, one more chance to make you stay
- Copyright Michael Taylor @MWTaylor7 Melbourne, Australia - 2013
Take This Pen From Me
Take this pen from me and write these verses yourself.
Fill these pages with words that can scarce come out my mouth.
Take this vile thing and do with it as you please.
My mind is gone; my thoughts scattered as the autumn leaves.
My head is a web, a dark room, the blue sky, a fountain of words and thought.
Yet one look from you, my inspiration, all of it comes to naught.
You are meant to make me overflow with frenzied verse
Yet instead you have become my curse
The once peaceful rivers in my head are raging.
And you sit there so calm whilst my cognizance is disengaging
When will this war in my mind abate?
Where are these words that I could once create?
Take it, write something down.
Surely my motivation could also wear my crown.
- Copyright Michael Taylor @MWTaylor7 Melbourne, Australia - 2013
Forgive Me
The sun seeps in layered lines through the shutters, falling gently on her skin. Her hair splashed across her face and pillow, she shines golden in a pure white setting. Sleep brings a peacefulness to her face, that mask the hurt within. I cannot bring myself to wake her, yet a cannot bring myself to leave. As I stand above her, our hearts ache together, and beating as one. My throat burns, I quickly wipe my eyes, I see the scars running down her face, bearing testament to the tears that she shed for me, the tears that brought her sleep. Forever I will love her, my heart hers to keep, but my life is not mine to give. For my country calls me, to fight on borders not our own. My country needs me to protect her, and countless other hearts entwined like our own. Will I ever see her, hold her close again. I love you dear, and I hope that you understand, when you awake and I am gone that is it for you I fight, for you, brave I will stand. You will be in my every waking thought, my reason to go on. I gently kiss her forehead, I softly touch her skin. The heat of her body flows through me, warms me deeply, gives me hope. I quietly turn, stepping lightly as not to disturb her. As the sound of her breathing grows fainter, I allow my tears to flow. My hand closes on the door knob, I pause, hoping that she will call out to me, for her footsteps to ring out, for her to leap into my arms, one last goodbye. As the door closes, and the cool winters breeze chills me, I step out knowing that I left my soul behind, may it protect her, keep her safe, love her until I return.
- Copyright Michael Taylor @MWTaylor7 Melbourne, Australia - 2013
Biography: My name is Michael Taylor. I am South African, but live and work out of Melbourne, Australia. I am a sports fanatic, as most men are, soccer, cricket and rugby my sports of choice. I am a lot better at couch coaching than playing, but I play a mean game of tennis. I currently work in the software industry as a project manager. I am slowly but surely making my transition into full time writing. My first article as a freelance writer was published a few weeks ago and I am hoping to be a full time writer of poems, stories, articles and columns in the very near future.
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ΧΙΤΩΝ
*Dedicated to Greece*
Με ξεσκισμένο τον χιτώνα σου,
έρημη και προδομένη,
Τρικλίζεις στα σκοτεινά σοκάκια του Χειμώνα
Τα πόδια σου ματώσανε χωρίς σανδάλια
Τα βήματα σου, μάταια, πάνω σε αγκάθινα κοράλλια
Και γύρω σου τα άμοιρα παιδιά σου
Λιπόθυμα, στο έλεος του τυφώνα,
Δακρυγόνοι ικέτες της άμοιρης
Κόρης του Ήλιου.
Μνηστήρες ήρθανε και ‘φύγαν
Στολίζοντάς σε με υποσχέσεις
Βγαλμένες απ’ την κοιλιά της Χάρυβδης
Σε βάφτισαν στ’ όνομα της Ειρήνης
Μα σε ντύσανε με τα ερείπια του πολέμου.
Σε πρόδωσαν, σε λεηλάτησαν και σε ταπείνωσαν
Κανένας δεν αγάπησε
Τον πλούτο που βαστάς στα χέρια σου
Την αρετή που φέρεις στην ψυχή σου
Μα τα παιδιά σου δίψασαν
Για το γλυκό νερό της δικαιοσύνης
Οι ψίθυροί τους γίνανε λυγμοί
Κι ο κάθε λυγμός, τώρα, σπαράζει
Όμοιος με κραυγή!
Κραδαίνοντας το Κότινο στα χέρια
Βήμα το βήμα πήρανε τους δρόμους
Να κατακτήσουνε ξανά , με τόλμη και πυγμή
Το καταγάλανο ουρανό
που δίκαια τους ανήκει.
Translated from Greek:
CHITON
*Dedicated to Greece*
With your Chiton ripped;
Desolate and betrayed
You stagger into the darken alleys of the winter
Your feet, blooded, without sandals
Your footsteps, futile, over thorny corals;
and all around you, your unfortunate children,
collapsed, at the mercy of the typhoon;
lachrymose entreaters of the misfortune
Daughter of the Sun.
Pretenders came and left
adorning you with promises
delivered out of the potbelly of Charybdis
They baptized you in the name of Peace
But they robed you with the remains of War.
They betrayed you, pillaged and humiliated you.
No one loved
the wealth that you’re carrying in your hands;
the Virtue that you’re holding in your soul.
But your children are, now, thirsty
for the sweet water of justice.
And their whispers became sobs;
And each sob, now, convulses
Resemble to a shout!
Brandishing Kotinos in their hands
Step after step, they took the way
to conquer, once again, with boldness and fortitude
The azure sky
That fairly they own.
- Copyright ΔΕΣΠΟΙΝΑ ΘΕΟΔΩΡΙΔΟΥ
Despoina Theodoridou @Scent_of_Roses, Greece - 2011
Translation: Despoina Theodoridou
Dionysus and Aphrodite
Dionysus and Aphrodite
Are feeding their love’s appetite
Exchanging tempting Trochees
Blending sweets and toffees
Dionysus and Aphrodite
While resting on a Kline
Tempting their palates with wine
They learn the lover’s Alphabet
Gambling their nudeness on a bet
Dionysus and Aphrodite
They taste the grape’s sweetness
To nourish their soul’s completeness
Laying in silk and ebony
Erasing time’s memory
Dionysus and Aphrodite
On Tethrippons of ecstasy
Swirling pirouettes of fantasy
Intoning flavored Dithyrambs
Tickling their tongues; sipping Iambs
Dionysus and Aphrodite
Unfolding ribbons of their flesh
Following dance steps of a thresh
Crawling in sunsets’ sensual potion
Devouring driblets of emotion
Dionysus and Aphrodite
- Copyright ΔΕΣΠΟΙΝΑ ΘΕΟΔΩΡΙΔΟΥ
Despoina Theodoridou @Scent_of_Roses, Greece - 2011
No windows
Tonight,
There are
No windows
My soul
Stands
wide open,
bare and vulnerable.
I climb to the roof
to embrace the world.
Poseidon
stirs
the restless oceans;
the salty breeze
surrounds me.
Majestic horizon
And high above
Dark, ebony, dome
embroidered
with silver, silent, spirits;
Celestial whispers
The world lies at my feet
Impatient
ready to be conquered
Orion nods
asking me to pay attention
Its vigor bewitches me
While gushing
Ceaseless hope.
I close my eyes
Letting my senses
guide me.
I hear my soul’s
inhaling
No past
to look at
No reason
to regret
Dauntless,
I pace the
Venus'
Lane
For tonight
There are
No windows
And my soul
stands bare
and bold
In its authentic
Purity
- Copyright ΔΕΣΠΟΙΝΑ ΘΕΟΔΩΡΙΔΟΥ
Despoina Theodoridou @Scent_of_Roses, Greece - 2011
Biography: Despoina Theodoridou
Author http://www2.xlibris.com/books/webimages/wd/uk/303630/index.html
Pianist http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a8kfEO_tS7w&feature=youtu.be
Composer and LyricistVisit/follow "My Silver Rain Music and Poetry" blog at: http://debbie-t-ptr.blogspot.gr/
Twitter: @Scent_of_Roses
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A leaf in the wind
A leaf in the wind
My existence, all
I am nothing more
A falling world in ruins
An old city looted
Tired, so tired...trapped
No more place to go
Nobody to hold
Waiting for my sentence
To be executed
I pretend I live
I pretend am whole
Playing out my role
Spending all my flame
Waiting for the dice
I don't even care
For my foolish heart
For my wretched soul
Even God will throw it
Out of Paradise...
- Copyright Yiota Karioti @yiota143 Athens, Greece - 2013
Searching
I dance into the night
with my eyes to the stars
searching for a pair of broken wings
a conscious sinner to the bone
a lost traveler dreaming of a forgotten path
my flesh still palpitates,
its beating veins and blood and heart
tuned to an ancient rhythm
Frightened and cold
I missed my fate eons ago
but am still walking on this earth
with no destination, only love's light
dim and untouchable,
always elusive escaping through my fingers
to remind me of my soul cut in two
searching for its wings.....
- Copyright Yiota Karioti @yiota143 Athens, Greece - 2013
Journey into the night
Journey into the night, the moon on my shoulders
My path, like serpent’s skin, a shiny river
Bringing me to your white crossroad…
A sudden wind blows to my ears, your distant voice,
An echo
I should have known,
I should have known…
This world can’t keep me anymore, too full of you
My dusty paces lead the way of no return
Mile after mile, you will become a living memory
Nailed forever in my foolish, foolish heart …
- Copyright Yiota Karioti @yiota143 Athens, Greece - 2013
My love and four roses
My love and four roses
One for your gentle steps
when you come to me softly into the night
and take me in your burning arms
one for your loving hands
when they plant a crown of stars to my hair
making me queen of your dark desires
one for your lips
when they find their way, patiently, across the map of my body
in a land of intoxicating bliss
and one for your soft moan
when you breathe gently into my yearning mouth
a sigh of abandon
when we become one
under the cherry Moon…
- Copyright Yiota Karioti @yiota143 Athens, Greece - 2013
In loving you
In loving you I lose my self
I lose the beating of my heart
Nothing for me, all is for you
You are my dream’s most shining part
In loving you I find myself
For I was lost into the night
And you have found me wandering
Outside of time and space and light
But more than this, and more than words
All that is gentle, pure and true:
In loving you I love myself
And in myself I’m loving you…
- Copyright Yiota Karioti @yiota143 Athens, Greece - 2013
Biography: I am an ancient free spirit, a fairy jester of words, probably one of the last of my species. A short selection of my poems is hosted in the anthology “Fragments, Poetry Ancient and Modern”, by Blue Flute. My poetry and short stories can be found in my blog Four Seasons of My Soul. You can also follow me on twitter as @yiota143 and on facebook as Yiota Karioti.
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Banished to Eden
We blend into each other’s colours
begging serpent’s curiosity of insidious skin.
Sullen hand removed, reveals scars in their beauty
motherhood replaced by conjured virgin within
Love’s chameleon tongues a hedonism
anxious lips kiss curved ribs appled in eye
pole dancing a Jacob’s ladder of debauchery
“Don’t move” you cry, and I’m flung far and wide
Pulse thumped throat tightens, maddens,
desire’s fury to open violent playpen of lust
salivating our self absorbed paradise
brutish tender tones surprise with every push
Thumb in mouth. I suck hard, forsaken
and you greedy yourself in insatiableness
bruised by a ruse that love has no bounds
I am freed from my untamed contrariness
Defiantly swaying velvet to centre stage
I ride you deeply in transient dominance
gently to the back and front of your mind
lace and ribbons untangle any resistance
Climax flushes dapple of leo constellation
a delicacy radiates an interstellar delight.
Starcrossed, I’m miraged by your poetry
that one day you could be mine, despite.
Bright blue eyes disguise dark in sky
we lie in a guileless romantic tension.
Later, indulged, I sleep tight in your arms,
In a perpetual night of sexual possession.
- Copyright Katy Hughes @Katypoetess, Location Undisclosed - 2012
Of Lilith and Anthony
Candle flame doth gently sway
Conjures demon usually kept at bay
Lover’s felo de se shines bright as moon
She knows timing is far too soon
Shriek of hungry vixens surround
She runs to him on frozen ground
Barefoot beneath does not chill
the hunt to have desired kill
He pulls heavy curtains tight
Blocks out ever descending night
Clawing at window ‘til her hands bleed
He still does not feel her desperate need
Circling owl then descends, scratching skin
Swooping and tearing the rotten flesh within
Picking, consuming, in all of the glory
Each poisonous piece has its own story
He drifts, he wakes, he repeatedly stirs
She punishes him for not being hers
Never again will he peacefully sleep
She claims him every night to keep
Grateful for the morning dawn
he grows ever paler and deathly drawn
She secretes exorcism to set him free
Bound in her heart for him never to see
- Copyright Katy Hughes @Katypoetess, Location Undisclosed - 2012
Biography: My poetry is created out of an intense love affair of sexual possession and obsession. It reflects in the confessional poetic form a gothic romantic story of a frustrated marriage of two ever entwined souls that is forbidden to exist. Find out more at www.Katypoetess.com
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Let Rested Soul Magic’s Flame Reignite
When words do dwell in shadows’ knell,
and heart and mind reach forth from cell,
yet doors remain closed here within,
and make my soul and spirit dim.
When passion sleeps – a deep, drowning swirl,
and dreams come fast yet nil reveal,
I lay a-pant and wish and long
for more of that which once magic spun.
Magic eludes my heart and mind,
only bringing forth the dark’s unkind,
when I listen not to Source’s trill within,
and harken only to soulless din.
Now I remind kindly me and you . . .
How can you scribe and not hear well,
when heart and mind and soul do tell,
to open up your inner-Sun
and give that golden power Gun?
By nature, Gun must burn and fire
for soul and heart and mind to flower!
Its sparks must shower upon that within,
which creates and births the magic din.
For absent magic cannot glory make,
neither golden page nor moving tale,
that brings tear or joy or laughter true
to reader, writer, listener . . . or you.
Find rest, dear writer, yon weary soul,
to keep alive yon glorious goal.
Make time for love, light, joy, and fun,
and don’t forget to fire that Gun!
Magic needs fiery Source-born Gun
to make its energy flare and words become spun.
Seek Muse in rest then write as though
your tale shall become this world’s greatest show!
For Gun and Muse and Magic must flare;
three united yon goal shall easily ensnare
each reader, writer, listener and you;
no looking back once choice to fire Gun comes true.
Listen well, dear writer, to heart’s quiet plea
to rest, to find magic, to make magic in thee.
All exists already there in soul’s warm glare,
just trust in the Magic and make Gun flare!
- Copyright Monique Rockliffe @monrockliffe Johannesburg, South Africa - 2013
Biography: Monique was born in Johannesburg, South Africa, where she currently resides with her husband.
Always the avid reader, she spent every available moment since childhood reading, which fuelled her already boundless imagination. She loved watching as many fantasy and science fiction films as possible, establishing her love and passion for storytelling of the Otherworldly kind.
She became a dancer at age five which turned into a successful professional career, but she never lost her first passion. She began writing seriously in 2009 when her dancing career came to an end and her husband and greatest supporter urged her to finally make a start.
She currently has two Epic Fantasy novels published and available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble. The Sword Bearers: Book 1 and The Sword Bearer’s Journey: Book 2 are part of a tetralogy. The third, The Sword Bearer’s Awakening, will be available around April 2013. The Door, a sci-fi short story, is also available on Smashwords.
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Investing in Strangers
Fortune feasts, while
famine tides the shore
mounting illusions
as they prey
Tread impacting, creating
textured moments
too difficult to remember
too sour to forget
Mindful adaptation, twisting
and tearing into the time we share
Teaching our subconscious
to rest quietly
blanketed in a soothing blue nectar
Thick and unsolicited banter
mystifying the experience, while
wanting to be within
the faint afterthought
of gone and forgotten
- Copyright Priscilla Newman @mossandmilk, Location Undisclosed - 2013
Biography: Priscilla Newman is a poet and mixed media abstract painter and blogger. She recently started a poetry blog, www.mossandmilk.wordpress.com incorporating new works as well as featuring her works from different compilations and chapbooks from the past fifteen years. www.mossandmilk.wordpress.com
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5 Updates on Us
I.
I think outside the box
there is a second box.
Resolving our conflicts
requires breaking 2 locks.
2 heads are better
than 1, they say.
I say our intellects
get in our way.
What you do to you
and what I do to me
can't beat the havoc
we wreak as a team.
II.
We wanted to change but we were in chains.
We got unchained but we stayed unchanged.
Where was the key to keep us sane?
Breaking the locks brought us no luck.
Either way we were stuck.
So we found a way to wait,
which lifted the weight.
Then one day we could move,
but were in no mood.
III.
I see I need a knot to knead –
but to pick at our problems
won't make them recede.
Needing is itself a knot.
Resisting resistance
just tightens the weave.
IV.
Why don't you take a short swim
back to our boat.
Why don't you peer long
at your reflection in the water
till you see me there.
You and I are cut
from the same pirates' cloth.
Let us use it to mop
our blood from the boards.
We could scrub the decks clean
and hoist the stained swatch
into the air.
Would that we could sail the fair seas
and not assail.
Would that we could see fair.
V.
My pot calling your kettle black
is not to cause combat.
It is to say
we are like each other.
Don't be bothered
by my kitchen's heat.
The stove I stoke
is not to fan
a useless fire.
The food I cook is sweet.
And you will serve us both
better to sit beside me
and eat.
- Copyright Emily E. Axelrod @emilyeaxelrod, Location Undisclosed - 2013
Biography: Emily E. Axelrod is a college writing instructor & author. Read her longer poetry at www.BigCityLit.com, & micropoetry on Twitter @emilyeaxelrod.
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WHAT’S UNDERNEATH THE CLOAK MY LADY?
He asks questions that none have asked before;
He undresses me slowly,
Peeling away the many, velvet layers.
I stand, awkward in my exposed inhibition;
I have been brought up to cope,
Not ponder long on personal nuance.
I am naked before him.
I know he will find the deep core,
And caress with finite accuracy.
He calls me sharp,
But I would call him sharper,
In a gentle, focused way.
What’s underneath the cloak my Lady?
If I am to be your Stamen Gazer, Sir,
Will you be my Master of the Robes?
- Copyright Marina de Nadous @MarinaDeNadous Somerset, United Kingdom - 2013
Biography: Marina de Nadous is a novice author launching a series she has been working on for the past 7 years. She considers herself a scribe, recording a story that arrived unexpectedly in her lap.
Raised and educated in traditional Britain, Marina steps outside the conventional in her story-telling, taking the reader firmly by the hand as she opens doors to a unique creation and subsequent unravelling.
Marina helps run a small, alternative school in Somerset where she lives with her family. She considers New Zealand her second home.
She has a message for all couples; that emotional intimacy and spiritual connection are jewels beyond compare----and that they are achievable.
The Celestial Sea Voyages are published as Matador Titles. Details available through www.MarinaDeNadous.com
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The Llama Who Likes Drama
There’s a llama who likes drama
studying here in my school.
My teachers and my classmates
all think that he is cool.
He sports a tiny bow tie
complemented with a grin
as he recites a poem
with expression from within.
In front of everyone,
he likes to act and sing and dance
about suspense and tension
and then freedom and romance!
His wondrous drama skills
is something you can’t get enough.
He’ll make you laugh until you cry
and cry until you laugh!
His eyebrows can go up and down
and upside down with ease.
He can be mad and scream REAL LOUD!!!—
then whisper soft like breeze.
He can act classy, sharp, and smart,
with words as smooth as silk.
Or, he can act sad, blue, and down,
because of some spilled milk.
In drama competitions, boy,
he always wins the medals!
To show love and support,
we would all crown his head with petals.
You see, he acts dramatically,
sings operas aggressively,
and struts around excitingly,
as he acts happy naturally.
He can jump up and down
and dance around
just like a clown.
He can act angry,
mad, and hot.
He can act like his foot
is stuck in a pot!
He can act anything you want!
He can even act as a cactus plant!
He can play cook in bakery,
or soldier in an infantry,
or big boss running company,
or princess in a fantasy,
or teacher teaching “ABC”,
or British person drinking tea,
or pilot in the sky so free,
and then crash plane into a tree!
The llama who likes drama
is so very, very cool.
Don’t you wish there were a llama
doing drama in your school?
- Copyright Gloson Teh @Gloson, Petaling Jaya, Malaysia - 2012
Biography: Gloson has been writing funny poetry since he was 9 years old. He is now 15. He likes to rhyme with silliness and write about funny incidents, exaggerated ideas, and unexpected unexpectedness! In 2009, Gloson published two books, "Creative & Funny Poetry for Kids" and "Creative Row Your Boats". He has performed one of his poems in front of the Prime Minister of Malaysia (and his wife). In Sept 2009, Gloson was officially recognized as the "Youngest Published Poet in Malaysia". Now, Gloson occasionally gives visits to schools to inspire kids and entertain them with his poems. To read Gloson's poetry, go towww.poetrytalents.com.
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25 Versions of 1 Snowfall
the plural of snow
is snow, how flakes join and fall
into one wholeness
*
winter is
less snow and more cold
to keep it
*
snow does not
know us and happens
where it wills
whether we
welcome it or not. the trick is
to meet it smiling
*
In ten words, it spirals soft
from sky to earth
*
that bird
we call winter
lines her nest
today
and that softness
ripped from her breast
catches in my hair
white feathers
like missed kisses
melting
*
snowsnakes
slip from trees
to twist at my feet
*
shivering
newness
opening to
wonder
*
in Buffalo
it snows sideways
and from the ground up
a miracle
just like that rain
Forrest Gump hated
minus the heat
*
the constellations of winter
are lost in the steam of our breath:
the hunter, the bull
the greater and lesser dogs,
the sea monster and the man that killed him
rest by the celestial river
or reel with the twins
but those jewels, high up
cannot compete with the small stars that fall
to melt in our palms
*
the first snow
we never want to let go
the second and third ones
are what leave us so numb
*
he is set in snow
a ruby burning, preening
cardinal flames his wings
*
snow
a fall
erasure
winter’s white bloom
scentless daisy chains
cold covering in drifts
a blanket that cannot warm
yes, the snow itself is lonely
*
gifted
with this brilliance
this light-catching sameness
my ungrateful eyes
starve for green
*
there is physics to skating:
friction and momentum
curving Newton’s third law
into a glide
and physics in that lesson of snow
teaching lightness
in falling
*
the leaves fell, sparked
brightness arced fades
to dark, and snow
*
snowfall
winter’s beauty
paints this everything
with whiteness we shape angels in
snowfall
*
the radar-generated snow
falls, like feathers
from ripped pillows
I taste winter
with my tongue
and breathe
in this coldness
like oxygen
the spirit opens
to take deeper
*
we are snow
what is unique in us
melted & lost in water cycling
*
I am merely saying & saving
some of what’s wild, grinding
a brightness to pass to you
in a sting of snow, dancing inside a trace
of what phosphoresces under oceans
in a kiss we call sustenance:
what makes us go.
*
(E)very snowflake
is different.
How (can) we
get off our knees?
(erasure, Jeanette Winterson)
*
you sing summer to me
but our seasons are opposed–
winter in my heart
*
pieces of sky fall
sifted confectioner sweet–
we stick out our tongues
*
I crave that covering over
everything raw
snow promises
the blindness of winter
how small things together
change what is seen
to iced monochrome
*
what it means to be pine
memory quietly hummed
and almost scented
beneath the bite of snow
and resin they wear
*
the snow comes
gently, and with softness
in a careful arrangement of atoms
the snow comes
like sky broken into crumbs
but each one flawless
the snow comes
gently, and with softness
- Copyright Susan L. Daniels @susan_daniels Eden, New York, USA - 2012
Biography: Susan Daniels is a poet who lives in Western New York.
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She just drove away
Leaving the destruction all behind
Somewhere in between her cold mind and lost mind
She may have been good
But the anger she breathed stripped her nature to the nude
The pain and the shame
From him never touching her imperfect frame
Exploded in the sky
So she picked up her bags
And left us to die
The ground now haunted by a little whispered lie
"This isn't goodbye"
Leaving this house cold and dark
She believed in magic, she called it "art"
And she just drove away
- Copyright Engela Pretorius @EngelaPoetry, South Africa - 2013
Biography: I am a South-African poet. I am a 24-year-old woman. I started writing stories and poems when I was 7 years old. I am adventurous and a dreamer. Writing poetry takes me far away from the world and all its limitations. I write about the things I can't talk about. I write the unspoken feelings into consciousness. If that makes sense to you, you will enjoy my work. Follow me on Twitter @EngelaPoetry
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Man and Wife
She...
means
the world to me
we share a history
I do love her as a brother
because I'm that kind of guy
God has delivered me beauty personified
undercover natural lover candy for the eyes
How we differ makes me miss her
smacks you right
in the kisser ~
Mother nature's graceful favor
life between her thighs
- Copyright Darryl Omari @Scribe111, Philadelphia, PA, USA - 2013
Biography: I enjoy the use of language as a vehicle for self-expression. The blank page entices us to share both our success and failure with others. An experience that can be rewarding and therapeutic. Born in Philadelphia, PA (USCG Ret.) Lives in Austin, TX - Beloved worshiper of God the Highest. I am Darryl Abdu Omari, and am happy to share in the hope that someone can relate to a poem or two. I believe that there is a divine source of enlightenment available to artists of every ilk. Artists and others are afforded the privilege.
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Michelangelo
I would build you a glorious palace
with ornamental roads and
wondrous sculptures if I could
but I only have these two clumsy hands
to work with.
They are the best I have to offer you
but these hands will work wonders
if given the chance.
The trouble is, I don't really
know if I should have that chance.
Sometimes you have to do the best with
what you have to work with
and these hands may accidentally destroy
the very thing they are trying to make so
beautiful for you.
- Copyright Julian Gallo @JulianGallo66, New York City, NY, USA - 2013
Biography: Born and raised in New York City. Julian is a musician/writer/painter who has poems and short stories published in about 40 magazines and journals throughout the United States, Canada and Europe and also has 13 books under his belt: "Standing On Lorimer Street Awaiting Crucifixion" (Alpha Beat Press, 1996), "The Terror of Your Cunt is The Beauty of Your Face" (Black Spring Press, 1999), "Street Gospel Mystical Intellectual Survival Codes" (Budget Press, 2000), "Scrape That Violin More Darkly Then Hover Like Smoke In The Air" (Black Spring Press, 2001), "Existential Labyrinths" (Black Spring Press, 2003), "Window Shopping For A New Crown of Thorns" (Lulu Press, 2007), "November Rust" (Lulu Press, 2007), "My Arrival Is Marked By Illuminating Stains" (Lulu Press 2007), "A Symphony of Olives" (Propaganda Press, 2009) and "Divertimiento" (Propaganda Press, 2009). His second novel "Naderia" was released in January 2011, "Be Still and Know That I Am" (Beat Corrida) was released in September 2011. His fourth novel, Mediterraneo, was released in June 2012. He is also currently playing guitar and bass for NYC singer/songwriter Linda La Porte.
Contact: www.juliangallo66.blogspot.com
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Life…A Fathomless Illusion
This journey called life,
Is a fathomless illusion
Treacherous in its flow,
Why does it demand a comprehension?
It has so many faces,
Not knowing which one to trust,
Yet its facade creates so much a fuss.
Delving into it,
We’ve achieved nothing.
Rather have seem to lost
The sweet innocence of once being a kid…
- Copyright Sakshi Nigam, India - 2013
Biography: Hi, I am from India. I am a writer (both prose and poetry), editor, teacher and a consistent learner. I am a research scholar as well. With more than four years of work experience in Teaching and Writing and Editing, I now finally take the courage to express myself publicly (I am a reserved person). My entire academics has been in the field of management but my keen interest in Literature and Language has driven me towards writing. I’ve been associated with various writing projects in newspapers and websites from the past two years and would like to make writing and editing my career also. I am also editing a fiction book (soon to be published).
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My Sunrise
As her shimmering fingers drag the earth back to life, pulling it from its trembling slumber.
Just as she lifts the shadowy veil from distant horizons.
As her stern gaze pushes aside shadows, wrestles the darkness back into its corners and crevasses.
As her fingertips brush over chilled rock and stone, warming them as she passes.
Just as her bright mirth brings vigour to a gurgling creek.
Just as her hands rub the stiffness from gnarled trunks and branches.
Up country lanes and paths she silently wanders.
In meadows and gardens she lingers, opening rosebuds with light kisses
And just as she sales over mountains, cascades through forests and glides along fields, bringing with her songs and glorious laughter
Irresistible yet gentle, her radiance flitters like butterfly wings over our eyelids.
With the whispers of a thousand angels, she urges us to wake.
As our eyes open to her gentle caress, and with a stretch we acknowledge her as she holds us tightly to her breast, so does the radiance of your smile bring me warmth and rest
So do your eyes emblazon a sunrise over the landscapes of my heart.
So does you laugh lighten gullies and ravines of my existence
So does your voice trickle like a lively brook, bubbling over the bumps and bruises of my soul.
So does your tender touch bring healing to the scarred landscapes of my being.
And just as when she approaches, so do your footsteps bring a glowing dawn to my dark days
- Copyright Michael Taylor @MWTaylor7 Melbourne, Australia - 2013
Forever Destined
I'm forever destined to be destined... destined to nothing, destined to change, destined to remain the same. Destined for you to forget me, destined for you to know my name. If the sun should set now, this story will forever remain untold, forever a mystery is shall remain. It floats, it flies, It sinks, it swirls in afterthoughts, it pours down with the rain. Something never spoken. Something screamed from a thousand mouths. It is the word on the tip of your tongue, it is the thought in the back of your mind. It clings to hope, it crashes in the waves of the ocean. As obvious as the breeze on your skin, as easy to grasp as the morning mist running from the sun. It is my name. Stay with me, just one more hour, hold me steady for one more day. One more chance to touch your heart, one more chance to make you stay
- Copyright Michael Taylor @MWTaylor7 Melbourne, Australia - 2013
Take This Pen From Me
Take this pen from me and write these verses yourself.
Fill these pages with words that can scarce come out my mouth.
Take this vile thing and do with it as you please.
My mind is gone; my thoughts scattered as the autumn leaves.
My head is a web, a dark room, the blue sky, a fountain of words and thought.
Yet one look from you, my inspiration, all of it comes to naught.
You are meant to make me overflow with frenzied verse
Yet instead you have become my curse
The once peaceful rivers in my head are raging.
And you sit there so calm whilst my cognizance is disengaging
When will this war in my mind abate?
Where are these words that I could once create?
Take it, write something down.
Surely my motivation could also wear my crown.
- Copyright Michael Taylor @MWTaylor7 Melbourne, Australia - 2013
Forgive Me
The sun seeps in layered lines through the shutters, falling gently on her skin. Her hair splashed across her face and pillow, she shines golden in a pure white setting. Sleep brings a peacefulness to her face, that mask the hurt within. I cannot bring myself to wake her, yet a cannot bring myself to leave. As I stand above her, our hearts ache together, and beating as one. My throat burns, I quickly wipe my eyes, I see the scars running down her face, bearing testament to the tears that she shed for me, the tears that brought her sleep. Forever I will love her, my heart hers to keep, but my life is not mine to give. For my country calls me, to fight on borders not our own. My country needs me to protect her, and countless other hearts entwined like our own. Will I ever see her, hold her close again. I love you dear, and I hope that you understand, when you awake and I am gone that is it for you I fight, for you, brave I will stand. You will be in my every waking thought, my reason to go on. I gently kiss her forehead, I softly touch her skin. The heat of her body flows through me, warms me deeply, gives me hope. I quietly turn, stepping lightly as not to disturb her. As the sound of her breathing grows fainter, I allow my tears to flow. My hand closes on the door knob, I pause, hoping that she will call out to me, for her footsteps to ring out, for her to leap into my arms, one last goodbye. As the door closes, and the cool winters breeze chills me, I step out knowing that I left my soul behind, may it protect her, keep her safe, love her until I return.
- Copyright Michael Taylor @MWTaylor7 Melbourne, Australia - 2013
Biography: My name is Michael Taylor. I am South African, but live and work out of Melbourne, Australia. I am a sports fanatic, as most men are, soccer, cricket and rugby my sports of choice. I am a lot better at couch coaching than playing, but I play a mean game of tennis. I currently work in the software industry as a project manager. I am slowly but surely making my transition into full time writing. My first article as a freelance writer was published a few weeks ago and I am hoping to be a full time writer of poems, stories, articles and columns in the very near future.
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ΧΙΤΩΝ
*Dedicated to Greece*
Με ξεσκισμένο τον χιτώνα σου,
έρημη και προδομένη,
Τρικλίζεις στα σκοτεινά σοκάκια του Χειμώνα
Τα πόδια σου ματώσανε χωρίς σανδάλια
Τα βήματα σου, μάταια, πάνω σε αγκάθινα κοράλλια
Και γύρω σου τα άμοιρα παιδιά σου
Λιπόθυμα, στο έλεος του τυφώνα,
Δακρυγόνοι ικέτες της άμοιρης
Κόρης του Ήλιου.
Μνηστήρες ήρθανε και ‘φύγαν
Στολίζοντάς σε με υποσχέσεις
Βγαλμένες απ’ την κοιλιά της Χάρυβδης
Σε βάφτισαν στ’ όνομα της Ειρήνης
Μα σε ντύσανε με τα ερείπια του πολέμου.
Σε πρόδωσαν, σε λεηλάτησαν και σε ταπείνωσαν
Κανένας δεν αγάπησε
Τον πλούτο που βαστάς στα χέρια σου
Την αρετή που φέρεις στην ψυχή σου
Μα τα παιδιά σου δίψασαν
Για το γλυκό νερό της δικαιοσύνης
Οι ψίθυροί τους γίνανε λυγμοί
Κι ο κάθε λυγμός, τώρα, σπαράζει
Όμοιος με κραυγή!
Κραδαίνοντας το Κότινο στα χέρια
Βήμα το βήμα πήρανε τους δρόμους
Να κατακτήσουνε ξανά , με τόλμη και πυγμή
Το καταγάλανο ουρανό
που δίκαια τους ανήκει.
Translated from Greek:
CHITON
*Dedicated to Greece*
With your Chiton ripped;
Desolate and betrayed
You stagger into the darken alleys of the winter
Your feet, blooded, without sandals
Your footsteps, futile, over thorny corals;
and all around you, your unfortunate children,
collapsed, at the mercy of the typhoon;
lachrymose entreaters of the misfortune
Daughter of the Sun.
Pretenders came and left
adorning you with promises
delivered out of the potbelly of Charybdis
They baptized you in the name of Peace
But they robed you with the remains of War.
They betrayed you, pillaged and humiliated you.
No one loved
the wealth that you’re carrying in your hands;
the Virtue that you’re holding in your soul.
But your children are, now, thirsty
for the sweet water of justice.
And their whispers became sobs;
And each sob, now, convulses
Resemble to a shout!
Brandishing Kotinos in their hands
Step after step, they took the way
to conquer, once again, with boldness and fortitude
The azure sky
That fairly they own.
- Copyright ΔΕΣΠΟΙΝΑ ΘΕΟΔΩΡΙΔΟΥ
Despoina Theodoridou @Scent_of_Roses, Greece - 2011
Translation: Despoina Theodoridou
Dionysus and Aphrodite
Dionysus and Aphrodite
Are feeding their love’s appetite
Exchanging tempting Trochees
Blending sweets and toffees
Dionysus and Aphrodite
While resting on a Kline
Tempting their palates with wine
They learn the lover’s Alphabet
Gambling their nudeness on a bet
Dionysus and Aphrodite
They taste the grape’s sweetness
To nourish their soul’s completeness
Laying in silk and ebony
Erasing time’s memory
Dionysus and Aphrodite
On Tethrippons of ecstasy
Swirling pirouettes of fantasy
Intoning flavored Dithyrambs
Tickling their tongues; sipping Iambs
Dionysus and Aphrodite
Unfolding ribbons of their flesh
Following dance steps of a thresh
Crawling in sunsets’ sensual potion
Devouring driblets of emotion
Dionysus and Aphrodite
- Copyright ΔΕΣΠΟΙΝΑ ΘΕΟΔΩΡΙΔΟΥ
Despoina Theodoridou @Scent_of_Roses, Greece - 2011
No windows
Tonight,
There are
No windows
My soul
Stands
wide open,
bare and vulnerable.
I climb to the roof
to embrace the world.
Poseidon
stirs
the restless oceans;
the salty breeze
surrounds me.
Majestic horizon
And high above
Dark, ebony, dome
embroidered
with silver, silent, spirits;
Celestial whispers
The world lies at my feet
Impatient
ready to be conquered
Orion nods
asking me to pay attention
Its vigor bewitches me
While gushing
Ceaseless hope.
I close my eyes
Letting my senses
guide me.
I hear my soul’s
inhaling
No past
to look at
No reason
to regret
Dauntless,
I pace the
Venus'
Lane
For tonight
There are
No windows
And my soul
stands bare
and bold
In its authentic
Purity
- Copyright ΔΕΣΠΟΙΝΑ ΘΕΟΔΩΡΙΔΟΥ
Despoina Theodoridou @Scent_of_Roses, Greece - 2011
Biography: Despoina Theodoridou
Author http://www2.xlibris.com/books/webimages/wd/uk/303630/index.html
Pianist http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a8kfEO_tS7w&feature=youtu.be
Composer and LyricistVisit/follow "My Silver Rain Music and Poetry" blog at: http://debbie-t-ptr.blogspot.gr/
Twitter: @Scent_of_Roses
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A leaf in the wind
A leaf in the wind
My existence, all
I am nothing more
A falling world in ruins
An old city looted
Tired, so tired...trapped
No more place to go
Nobody to hold
Waiting for my sentence
To be executed
I pretend I live
I pretend am whole
Playing out my role
Spending all my flame
Waiting for the dice
I don't even care
For my foolish heart
For my wretched soul
Even God will throw it
Out of Paradise...
- Copyright Yiota Karioti @yiota143 Athens, Greece - 2013
Searching
I dance into the night
with my eyes to the stars
searching for a pair of broken wings
a conscious sinner to the bone
a lost traveler dreaming of a forgotten path
my flesh still palpitates,
its beating veins and blood and heart
tuned to an ancient rhythm
Frightened and cold
I missed my fate eons ago
but am still walking on this earth
with no destination, only love's light
dim and untouchable,
always elusive escaping through my fingers
to remind me of my soul cut in two
searching for its wings.....
- Copyright Yiota Karioti @yiota143 Athens, Greece - 2013
Journey into the night
Journey into the night, the moon on my shoulders
My path, like serpent’s skin, a shiny river
Bringing me to your white crossroad…
A sudden wind blows to my ears, your distant voice,
An echo
I should have known,
I should have known…
This world can’t keep me anymore, too full of you
My dusty paces lead the way of no return
Mile after mile, you will become a living memory
Nailed forever in my foolish, foolish heart …
- Copyright Yiota Karioti @yiota143 Athens, Greece - 2013
My love and four roses
My love and four roses
One for your gentle steps
when you come to me softly into the night
and take me in your burning arms
one for your loving hands
when they plant a crown of stars to my hair
making me queen of your dark desires
one for your lips
when they find their way, patiently, across the map of my body
in a land of intoxicating bliss
and one for your soft moan
when you breathe gently into my yearning mouth
a sigh of abandon
when we become one
under the cherry Moon…
- Copyright Yiota Karioti @yiota143 Athens, Greece - 2013
In loving you
In loving you I lose my self
I lose the beating of my heart
Nothing for me, all is for you
You are my dream’s most shining part
In loving you I find myself
For I was lost into the night
And you have found me wandering
Outside of time and space and light
But more than this, and more than words
All that is gentle, pure and true:
In loving you I love myself
And in myself I’m loving you…
- Copyright Yiota Karioti @yiota143 Athens, Greece - 2013
Biography: I am an ancient free spirit, a fairy jester of words, probably one of the last of my species. A short selection of my poems is hosted in the anthology “Fragments, Poetry Ancient and Modern”, by Blue Flute. My poetry and short stories can be found in my blog Four Seasons of My Soul. You can also follow me on twitter as @yiota143 and on facebook as Yiota Karioti.
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Banished to Eden
We blend into each other’s colours
begging serpent’s curiosity of insidious skin.
Sullen hand removed, reveals scars in their beauty
motherhood replaced by conjured virgin within
Love’s chameleon tongues a hedonism
anxious lips kiss curved ribs appled in eye
pole dancing a Jacob’s ladder of debauchery
“Don’t move” you cry, and I’m flung far and wide
Pulse thumped throat tightens, maddens,
desire’s fury to open violent playpen of lust
salivating our self absorbed paradise
brutish tender tones surprise with every push
Thumb in mouth. I suck hard, forsaken
and you greedy yourself in insatiableness
bruised by a ruse that love has no bounds
I am freed from my untamed contrariness
Defiantly swaying velvet to centre stage
I ride you deeply in transient dominance
gently to the back and front of your mind
lace and ribbons untangle any resistance
Climax flushes dapple of leo constellation
a delicacy radiates an interstellar delight.
Starcrossed, I’m miraged by your poetry
that one day you could be mine, despite.
Bright blue eyes disguise dark in sky
we lie in a guileless romantic tension.
Later, indulged, I sleep tight in your arms,
In a perpetual night of sexual possession.
- Copyright Katy Hughes @Katypoetess, Location Undisclosed - 2012
Of Lilith and Anthony
Candle flame doth gently sway
Conjures demon usually kept at bay
Lover’s felo de se shines bright as moon
She knows timing is far too soon
Shriek of hungry vixens surround
She runs to him on frozen ground
Barefoot beneath does not chill
the hunt to have desired kill
He pulls heavy curtains tight
Blocks out ever descending night
Clawing at window ‘til her hands bleed
He still does not feel her desperate need
Circling owl then descends, scratching skin
Swooping and tearing the rotten flesh within
Picking, consuming, in all of the glory
Each poisonous piece has its own story
He drifts, he wakes, he repeatedly stirs
She punishes him for not being hers
Never again will he peacefully sleep
She claims him every night to keep
Grateful for the morning dawn
he grows ever paler and deathly drawn
She secretes exorcism to set him free
Bound in her heart for him never to see
- Copyright Katy Hughes @Katypoetess, Location Undisclosed - 2012
Biography: My poetry is created out of an intense love affair of sexual possession and obsession. It reflects in the confessional poetic form a gothic romantic story of a frustrated marriage of two ever entwined souls that is forbidden to exist. Find out more at www.Katypoetess.com
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- Copyright Dan Haase @dthaase, Location Undisclosed - 2013
- Copyright The Professor of Whimsy, Location Undisclosed - 2013
Biography: The Professor of Whimsy can often be found looking for his keys and wondering what the dog ate. He enjoys avocado in his omelets. See his whimsy and add your own here: http://www.facebook.com/webofwhimsy. Or, send him something whimsical at webofwhimsy@gmail.com.
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Moon
A luminous
organic moon
rises high-
flashes its
mineral glow
a halo of orange
light dissolves
into gold
aglow, a blue
rim forms, like
a frozen pond-
magical for the
moment before
it dissolves,
the incandescent
purple-blue shine,
like the presence
of undesired bruises
tainting skin.
- Copyright Katie Beviss @KateBeMe, Stanstead Abbotts, United Kingdom - 2013
Biography: Katie Beviss grew up in a tiny village called Stanstead Abbotts in rural England. As a child she found the best way to express herself was through writing, coming from a loud and fairly big family it also gave her space. She has been writing poetry since she was eleven and wouldn’t know how to stop. She is currently a student and intends to study psychology and creative writing at university next year.
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However beautiful,
No pebble on the beach.
You were my touchstone.
And yes,
I have now smelt the perfume of the Gods.
If only for precious moments
Opened the gilded door
And walked through.
Set foot on hallowed ground,
Taken refuge where my soul longed to be,
In the sunlit meadow of my dreams.
Bathed in love and light,
Healed and nourished,
Elevated by experiences of wonder.
It was the miracle of how the needs,
The spiritual hunger
Of two separate physical beings,
Two fractured souls,
Could fit together so perfectly,
Like long lost pieces of some ancient code
That, once re-united, yielded up energies,
Ecstasies and insights beyond our imagining.
That was the key.
And far beyond any love affair
With its own predictable half-life
Of intensity, its cycle of emotion.
Instead a permanent path
That, once illuminated,
Goes ever onward – a way home…
- Copyright Scott Hastie @ScottHastiePoet, United Kingdom - 2012
Biography: Scott Hastie is a full-time writer and poet, based in the UK – fortunate enough to be living and working in tranquil surroundings of the English countryside, some twenty miles north of London.
Scott Hastie's poetry looks to positively explore human potential, with an emphasis on love, spiritual growth and self awareness. It is very important to Scott that his work remains as open, accessible and as simply expressed as possible. His influences vary from the great traditional English visionary romantics through to the distillation of thought and leanness of expression offered by the Japanese haiku tradition and later technical breakthroughs achieved by leading Scottish concrete poets, Ian Hamilton Finlay and Edwin Morgan.
Sparkling new poems & images at www.scotthastie.com
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Hei Tiki is an iconic male Māori cultural carving worn as a necklace. This poem is about a particular Hei Tiki I fell in love with, and gifted to my daughter, Mary-Rose Reedy for her 21st birthday. He now resides with her.
Hei Tiki
Hei Tiki, Taku Tau e...
Hauntingly translucent. Transfixed, I stare,
At a familiar icon, made exquisitely rare,
Light reveals loveliness, beyond compare,
I’ll have you for my own, oh Tiki, I will not share.
Your likeness is mine Tiki, but what is this?
A shadow interrupts, my glistening bliss,
My adoration is unrequited, you don’t see me at all,
Head cocked to the left, you listen for her call,
Hine Teiwaiwa e i e...
Your eyes seek her, they look right past me,
For you were the first man to solve her mystery,
Her beauty, beyond words, impresses you still.
If she called from the past, you would bend to her will.
You’d haka for her gladly, given the chance,
One hand beating your heart, to quicken the dance,
One hand slaps a thigh, to slow down the pace,
A stealthy routine repeated with fluidity and grace.
He Taonga Tuku Iho Koe...
I shall give you away Tiki since you don’t see me,
To a beautiful maiden from a town beside the sea,
She is not your love, nor a replacement could she be,
But she is so hauntingly exquisite, her love will set you free.
You are a weighty gift Tiki, and I give you with love,
To my dearest daughter, our gift born from love,
Hei Tiki, As she wears you and you fit like a glove
Bring her strength and courage to always rise above.
- Copyright, Katarina Reedy @bubblesreedy, Turanganui, Aotearoa, New Zealand – 2012
Biography: The Professor of Whimsy can often be found looking for his keys and wondering what the dog ate. He enjoys avocado in his omelets. See his whimsy and add your own here: http://www.facebook.com/webofwhimsy. Or, send him something whimsical at webofwhimsy@gmail.com.
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Moon
A luminous
organic moon
rises high-
flashes its
mineral glow
a halo of orange
light dissolves
into gold
aglow, a blue
rim forms, like
a frozen pond-
magical for the
moment before
it dissolves,
the incandescent
purple-blue shine,
like the presence
of undesired bruises
tainting skin.
- Copyright Katie Beviss @KateBeMe, Stanstead Abbotts, United Kingdom - 2013
Biography: Katie Beviss grew up in a tiny village called Stanstead Abbotts in rural England. As a child she found the best way to express herself was through writing, coming from a loud and fairly big family it also gave her space. She has been writing poetry since she was eleven and wouldn’t know how to stop. She is currently a student and intends to study psychology and creative writing at university next year.
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However beautiful,
No pebble on the beach.
You were my touchstone.
And yes,
I have now smelt the perfume of the Gods.
If only for precious moments
Opened the gilded door
And walked through.
Set foot on hallowed ground,
Taken refuge where my soul longed to be,
In the sunlit meadow of my dreams.
Bathed in love and light,
Healed and nourished,
Elevated by experiences of wonder.
It was the miracle of how the needs,
The spiritual hunger
Of two separate physical beings,
Two fractured souls,
Could fit together so perfectly,
Like long lost pieces of some ancient code
That, once re-united, yielded up energies,
Ecstasies and insights beyond our imagining.
That was the key.
And far beyond any love affair
With its own predictable half-life
Of intensity, its cycle of emotion.
Instead a permanent path
That, once illuminated,
Goes ever onward – a way home…
- Copyright Scott Hastie @ScottHastiePoet, United Kingdom - 2012
Biography: Scott Hastie is a full-time writer and poet, based in the UK – fortunate enough to be living and working in tranquil surroundings of the English countryside, some twenty miles north of London.
Scott Hastie's poetry looks to positively explore human potential, with an emphasis on love, spiritual growth and self awareness. It is very important to Scott that his work remains as open, accessible and as simply expressed as possible. His influences vary from the great traditional English visionary romantics through to the distillation of thought and leanness of expression offered by the Japanese haiku tradition and later technical breakthroughs achieved by leading Scottish concrete poets, Ian Hamilton Finlay and Edwin Morgan.
Sparkling new poems & images at www.scotthastie.com
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Hei Tiki is an iconic male Māori cultural carving worn as a necklace. This poem is about a particular Hei Tiki I fell in love with, and gifted to my daughter, Mary-Rose Reedy for her 21st birthday. He now resides with her.
Hei Tiki
Hei Tiki, Taku Tau e...
Hauntingly translucent. Transfixed, I stare,
At a familiar icon, made exquisitely rare,
Light reveals loveliness, beyond compare,
I’ll have you for my own, oh Tiki, I will not share.
Your likeness is mine Tiki, but what is this?
A shadow interrupts, my glistening bliss,
My adoration is unrequited, you don’t see me at all,
Head cocked to the left, you listen for her call,
Hine Teiwaiwa e i e...
Your eyes seek her, they look right past me,
For you were the first man to solve her mystery,
Her beauty, beyond words, impresses you still.
If she called from the past, you would bend to her will.
You’d haka for her gladly, given the chance,
One hand beating your heart, to quicken the dance,
One hand slaps a thigh, to slow down the pace,
A stealthy routine repeated with fluidity and grace.
He Taonga Tuku Iho Koe...
I shall give you away Tiki since you don’t see me,
To a beautiful maiden from a town beside the sea,
She is not your love, nor a replacement could she be,
But she is so hauntingly exquisite, her love will set you free.
You are a weighty gift Tiki, and I give you with love,
To my dearest daughter, our gift born from love,
Hei Tiki, As she wears you and you fit like a glove
Bring her strength and courage to always rise above.
- Copyright, Katarina Reedy @bubblesreedy, Turanganui, Aotearoa, New Zealand – 2012
- Copyright Photo by Mary-Rose Reedy, 2012
Four Micropoems from my twitter collection ...
"An indulgence into Micropoetry on Twitter”
I
Letting go
Is hard you know
I never thought it would be,
Fly redbreast
from this emptier nest
Swiftly to the sea,
All the best.
- Copyright, Katarina Reedy @bubblesreedy, Turanganui, Aotearoa, New Zealand – 2012
____________________
II
And I owe it to them
To write.
My grandchildren
Twinkles in the eyes
Of my babies.
I shan't delay
For tomorrow is too late.
Sure fingers begin to tap.
- Copyright, Katarina Reedy @bubblesreedy, Turanganui, Aotearoa, New Zealand – 2013
____________________
III
Contemplation.
An almost silence
A neighbor sings
As he paints his house
Cicadas harmonise
And the distant hum of traffic
Completes the band.
- Copyright, Katarina Reedy @bubblesreedy, Turanganui, Aotearoa, New Zealand – 2013
____________________
IV
Empathy
Is a fitting necklace
Bejeweled with many hearts
Held fast by the love of the world
Featuring a rough pendant
Circling forever...
- Copyright, Katarina Reedy @bubblesreedy, Turanganui, Aotearoa, New Zealand – 2013
Biography: My name is Katarina (Bubbles) Reedy. My Mountain is Hikurangi, My River is the Waiapu and my tribe is Ngāti Porou. I am Māori and from Aotearoa, New Zealand. I teach Digital Media and Technologies and Co-founded theTuranganui Poetry Collective. I am hooked on the power of the spoken word and love writing English medium poetry with flecks of "Te Reo" the language of my people in it such as the poem presented here “Hei Tiki”. I aspire to be published. My musings can be found herehttp://bubblesreedypoetry.blogspot.co.nz/
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Cold Feet
frozen pause ~
squirrel’s hesitation ~
to cross frosty lawn.
- Copyright Moon Batchelder @pasupatidasi, Location Undisclosed - 2013
Something Of A Zombie
a sea of mist
beneath a solid layer of storm arose,
in violent slow motion turbulence.
churning up in waves
pouring over distant hills.
thin slice of sky between them
bore their burden, gracefully.
the mountains stony totem faces
stood as tacit witnesses.
the winter storm upon the hills
made every valley groan,
beneath the weight of flood
that poured the contents of the heaven
through the granite veins of earth;
to the lowlands, to the sea.
grey answered unto grey.
great drops of rain on window panes,
tapped morse codes of warnings;
no end in sight, said they
the morning draped in grave clothes
like a ghoul or spectre
plodded over hills and mountains.
no relief upon horizons west,
and all the day seemed like
something of a zombie.
i confess
- Copyright Moon Batchelder @pasupatidasi, Location Undisclosed - 2013
Forgive Me, Little Emily
forgive me, little emily,
i used to burn my poetry.
because like yours it dared to rhyme,
sometimes...sometimes not.
i thought my muse beset with flaws;
anachronistic travesty.
each poem a season out of time
was fashioned in archaic rhyme
and after older laws.
what would ferlinghetti say?
confronted by such roundelays,
would allen ginsburg even read a word?
or should i care?
i used to burn them, no remorse,
until i read your legacy.
each poem a paradigm of heart,
a scupture and a work of art;
a deeply moving force.
they tell me, little emily,
you never sold your poetry.
perhaps, like me, you knew your muse
should not be subject to review.
i think there's much of you in me,
and should i live a few years more,
i'll bind my insights, love and rage
with pen and ink upon the page,
like you, my emily.
- Copyright Moon Batchelder @pasupatidasi, Location Undisclosed - 2013
Biography: I used to ritualistically burn my poetry journals...then, I read Emily Dickinson's collected works and thought "what if she'd done that?" Not that my work compares, but some might find some pleasure reading them.
So, ever since 2001, I have kept my poetry, shared it online, and discovered other unknown poets whose works have caused my soul to cry tears of laughter, or feel depths of another's sorrow, or soar to heights unexplored until the words of other people's poetry.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
That Vintage Turn-Table
That Vintage Turn-Table,
rendered absolutely incapable.
lays silently,
totally undemanding,
at the bedside of this Vintage Mind,
Just lays there,
Says nothing.
As if the cloak of Silence,
it wears with an enviable calm,
tends to speak in it's own serene manner,
of the Glory and the Pride,
of those little ways,
in forgotten old days,
in which we longed to listen,
to Symphonies of Beethoven,
and the ones of Mozart.
when we were not allowed to touch,
That Vintage Turn-Table.
- Copyright Ponderosa Monk @woodmonk, Location Undisclosed, 2013
Biography: Follower, Seeker, Questioner.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
33
An assemblage of comely
angels, squirting
muddy come, murky
ethereal orgasms.
masturbating to
Earthling lovers
understanding
they'll never
understand
the sweet
dalliance
between man
and
woman
God says,
"You can
be human.
Go."
- Copyright Jeremiah Walton @NostroviaPoetry New England, USA - 2013
Formulaic Future
Yellowed lungs
Tilted to the Sun
Open
Absorbing air purer than
Manchester Transit
Excreting screaming angels
Rejoicing with dried bums
Each convulsing,
sharing Holy Poverty,
Richness in thought
Corner of Brown
and Goff Falls Ave
Under bloody blue skies
Of H capital
Heavy on
Scenic railway of Man
- Copyright Jeremiah Walton @NostroviaPoetry New England, USA - 2013
HomeFull
Does the lonely desperate elderly woman,
with valley tits and witing eyes,
(eyes that have conceived enough and naught experience)
craving sexual attention,
care about gender?
- Copyright Jeremiah Walton @NostroviaPoetry New England, USA - 2013
Biography: Jeremiah Walton is the author of several publications including To Your Health: Humanity's Diagnosis (a non-profit e-book), LSD Giggles, Modus Operandi, and Nostrovia!.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
sewing rain
water threads
embroider loneliness
- Copyright Vo Tuan Hoang Vy @vonguyenphong22, My Tho City, Vietnam - 2013
red sunset
the silent river falls into
dreamy nostalgia
- Copyright Vo Tuan Hoang Vy @vonguyenphong22, My Tho City, Vietnam - 2013
passing plane
white line left behind
a crow keeps chasing
- Copyright Vo Tuan Hoang Vy @vonguyenphong22, My Tho City, Vietnam - 2013
Biography: Vo Tuan Hoang Vy, born in 1990, works as an officer. Vo loves writing haiku and stories.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
MY FATHER’S GHOST
If one should ask, “Do ghosts exist?”
Just look at me; I pass that test.
T’was not intent or my design,
And as a ghost I’m quite benign,
But ne’er believe if one should say,
”There’s no such thing as ghosts today.”
I live and keep the childhood land
That gave my father callused hand.
Like him, I lived for long removed
From life I could not know I Loved.
Like him, I learned one really can
Come home again to find the man
Who as a boy picked up and ran
From his deep roots and his born kin.
I live alone within the walls
Of where he lived before the calls
Of marriage took him from his home;
‘Tis not my plan to ever roam.
I live amongst his things and mine
His memory serves as the twine
That binds me to reality,
As well, my own mortality.
I hunt—or haunt—his favorite places,
The creek and trails where he still chases
Dreams through my activity,
And more. . .I see his face in me.
I am my father’s ghost, you see,
And proud. . .there’s naught I’d rather be.
- Copyright Monty Wheeler @bumfuzzled2004, Ozark Mountains, Arkansas, USA - 2013
SHADOWS (ballad)
The gull takes flight and yet the ground
Holds firm his shadow’s black.
I live to think that when we’re gone
Our shadows will come back.
I love to think our shadows mirror
Two souls forever tied
Slow-walk with me and hold my hand;
Our shadows must abide.
Comes nigh the day for some short while
One will walk alone;
Yet I’d believe our shadows will
Forever walk as one.
For shadows feel no pain or death,
And shadows know no fear.
As long as sun will warm the earth
Our shadows will be here.
I’d ask but one. . .a single vow;
When I’m laid to rest,
Hold out your hand and find my shadow;
Next to you, it’s cast.
- Copyright Monty Wheeler @bumfuzzled2004, Ozark Mountains, Arkansas, USA - 2013
DAYLIGHT’S MOON (terza rima)
Mid morning’s moon long-lingers in the sky;
There’s magic lurks in day’s nocturnal moon,
Ye moon! Lend not to fade! Refuse to die!
If myth and mystic do not lie, I’ll soon
Go moonstruck. . .stark insanity; I’ll hear
The breath of angels and the earth’s soft tune.
And if the slightly twisted eye I bear
Disturbs you in some awkward way, it should;
For Daytime Moon has cast its spell. Beware. . .
The crazed romantic in my soul I would
Forever hide, the moon has understood
- Copyright Monty Wheeler @bumfuzzled2004, Ozark Mountains, Arkansas, USA - 2013
Biography: Monty Wheeler, author of The Many Shades of Dark, his debut collection of formal verse that comes to the shelves via Winter Goose Publishing in March of 2013, considers himself naught but a little old feller living out his days in the foothills of the Ozark Mountains. With his work in meter and rhyme, he strives to keep the art of formal verse alive. His days, when not at the job that pays the bills, are spent in writing, fishing, hunting, and his newly-acquired want of gardening. You can find him on Twitter @bumfuzzled2004 and on Facebook as M. R. Wheeler.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Oh How
Oh, how I have loved you
You I’ve not known
Whose face I’ve not seen
Stalking lonely eyes
To fill midnight dreams
And rend my yearning heart
Yes, how I have loved you
You, who knows me not
Oh, how I have loved you
Yet never stood beside
Or ever chanced to move
While whimpered cries and urgent whines
Form my flesh and blood
Turning gray skies blue
Yes, how I have loved you
You, I’ll never touch
Oh, how I have loved you
Whose smile I’ve never seen
though burned into my eyes
lay scars of velvets sheen
From breasts I’ll never kiss
Yet yielding youth doth fill my lips
With joy for both enough
Yes, how I have loved you
You, who loves me not
- Copyright Tim Wilkinson @tlmntim9 Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, USA - 2013
For You
For you I’ve searched, yet failed to find
The eyes and lips I’ve yearned
Nor lovers gaze and muted squeal
Shall these I ever claim
For me, you see, these shall remain
But longings of my dreams
For life is short and my time long
While you, have passed me by
Yes I am old while you so young
Unborn till you had died
Yet each long day, I find you new
Yet never close beside
I see your eyes each day and night
In pictures on my screen
Or passing by on streets of cold
Yet never speak your name
Yet in my dreams and wishes of
A younger finer day
I reach for you to know your touch
As deep within I cry
Yes, take I, what midnight gifts
Till morning takes you way
When tears of supple, finer things
Do wet the lips of dawn
Oh I’ve loved you dearly, dear
Since first I drew a breath
And I will love you truly dear
Till first I taste of death
Yet never will I know your heart
Nor touch your face or breast
Nor ever will I know the truth
Of whom you’ve loved the best
No, never will I taste your lips
Nor feel your heated breath
Nor ever will I see your eyes
Roll in pleasures depth
Nor my ears shall ever hear
Your sounds and secrete sighs
For life for me is over dear
My hope for you has died
- Copyright Tim Wilkinson @tlmntim9 Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, USA - 2013
Lost in The Night
If I could gaze in your eyes
Till sun and the stars, spun out of sight
And kiss your cheeks as time wound out,
Life at last without a fight, could lay down
And love close its eyes…lost in the night
- Copyright Tim Wilkinson @tlmntim9 Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, USA - 2013
My Little Goldfish
My Little goldfish
queen of the pond
moves like a flash
through Saturday’s throng
Black eyed and pale
A mouth full of pink
White toothed and flushed
She shines
With eyes of a perch
Timid and frail
Full lips of a carp
Supple and round
Dream of my heart
Seen through a veil
Of black lace and curls
With gold in her hair
I’ve wished and I prayed
Though she’d never care
For the stranger who sits
Alone in his chair
Knowing full well this
queen of the pond
could never once love,
A beer drinking frog.
- Copyright Tim Wilkinson @tlmntim9 Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, USA - 2013
Will You
Will you love me, once I said
As I followed, her to bed
I know not what is wrong or right
Or who may win, the day or night
Yet I have all one ever might,
But lasting love and endless light
- Copyright Tim Wilkinson @tlmntim9 Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, USA - 2013
Why
Why does night last till the dawn,
Cover worlds in blackened spawn
Blind the eyes of those who‘d see
What beauty lies beneath her sheet
Why do shadows fear the light,
When light it is, gives shadow life
Offers form and shape enough,
Yet shades my heart with pending dusk
- Copyright Tim Wilkinson @tlmntim9 Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, USA - 2013
Loves Shadows
Loves shadows fail and form
In moonlight orbs and golden morns
They dance and weave beneath the light
Then fade away, back into night
For love, like shadow, shifts and sways
With too much sun, or darkened haze
- Copyright Tim Wilkinson @tlmntim9 Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, USA - 2013
Biography:
Father of two girls, Mr. Wilkinson has been writing since the age of twelve.
After spending thirty years working in the telecommunications industry, traveling and writing in between the often conflicting commitments of family, work, home and life in general, Mr. Wilkinson now focuses more time and effort on his most enduring dream, writing. Collections of his earlier works are available online, through Amazon-dot-com.
Recently accepted for publication in ‘The Path’, ‘The Speculative Edge’, Fictitious Magazine,’and ‘Static Movement’, he continues to write and seek new avenues for publication and distribution.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Mortality’s short, sweet kiss…
Morrow comes, heralding new dawn,
upon that day, will joy be born.
Patiently, must we wait,
We’ll know the time, won’t hesitate.
With both hands spread open wide,
We slow our fall, down terror’s slide.
~
An angel, trapped in mortal form,
filled, with anger, and disdain,
Though silenced is her voice,
her soul, untamed, remains.
Into deepest dark of night,
she turns her ever seeking eye,
and there, upon sunrise’s glow,
her hope, as a planted seed, doth sow.
~
Not coin, nor gold,
will purchase passage from this mortal realm,
into eternities, untold.
For the trip to there,
the price is set… in anguish.
Do all you can, while trapped here.
Secure… your own immortal soul.
~
Summer’s heat, through winter’s cold
An endless cycle, for the bold.
Set your weary feet,
Upon the path,
toward the final goal…
Escape… for each immortal soul.
~
From four corners,
east, and west,
the titans of this world contest.
North, and south,
the winds do blow,
freezing rain, before the snow
that chills… my immortal soul.
~
Though our fragile bodies,
the titans hold in thrall,
our souls, escape their clammy grasp.
Till, finally… we turn.
Behold, the Asp.
Our demise, through venom’s fang?
Or our escape, to destiny,
as ageless legends sang?
Through that path, so filled with pain,
must we venture, once again,
for at its end, does lie… our gain.
~
Into cold, slit eyes we stare,
the Asp, its fangs, doth turn, and bare.
Its promise?
With us, Eternity to share.
Upon those ivory tips,
so sharp,
do form two drops, two drips,
two promises… held true.
My soul’s release… from me, to you.
~
Into these gleaming gems,
we cast our eye.
Behold, our fate,
to do… and die.
~
Into venom we turn, and dive.
Within their pain, we won’t survive.
They promise us release…
and bliss…
our freedom…
from mortality’s short, sweet kiss.
- Copyright C.G. Ayling @CGAyling, Location Undisclosed, 2012
Four Micropoems from my twitter collection ...
"An indulgence into Micropoetry on Twitter”
I
Letting go
Is hard you know
I never thought it would be,
Fly redbreast
from this emptier nest
Swiftly to the sea,
All the best.
- Copyright, Katarina Reedy @bubblesreedy, Turanganui, Aotearoa, New Zealand – 2012
____________________
II
And I owe it to them
To write.
My grandchildren
Twinkles in the eyes
Of my babies.
I shan't delay
For tomorrow is too late.
Sure fingers begin to tap.
- Copyright, Katarina Reedy @bubblesreedy, Turanganui, Aotearoa, New Zealand – 2013
____________________
III
Contemplation.
An almost silence
A neighbor sings
As he paints his house
Cicadas harmonise
And the distant hum of traffic
Completes the band.
- Copyright, Katarina Reedy @bubblesreedy, Turanganui, Aotearoa, New Zealand – 2013
____________________
IV
Empathy
Is a fitting necklace
Bejeweled with many hearts
Held fast by the love of the world
Featuring a rough pendant
Circling forever...
- Copyright, Katarina Reedy @bubblesreedy, Turanganui, Aotearoa, New Zealand – 2013
Biography: My name is Katarina (Bubbles) Reedy. My Mountain is Hikurangi, My River is the Waiapu and my tribe is Ngāti Porou. I am Māori and from Aotearoa, New Zealand. I teach Digital Media and Technologies and Co-founded theTuranganui Poetry Collective. I am hooked on the power of the spoken word and love writing English medium poetry with flecks of "Te Reo" the language of my people in it such as the poem presented here “Hei Tiki”. I aspire to be published. My musings can be found herehttp://bubblesreedypoetry.blogspot.co.nz/
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Cold Feet
frozen pause ~
squirrel’s hesitation ~
to cross frosty lawn.
- Copyright Moon Batchelder @pasupatidasi, Location Undisclosed - 2013
Something Of A Zombie
a sea of mist
beneath a solid layer of storm arose,
in violent slow motion turbulence.
churning up in waves
pouring over distant hills.
thin slice of sky between them
bore their burden, gracefully.
the mountains stony totem faces
stood as tacit witnesses.
the winter storm upon the hills
made every valley groan,
beneath the weight of flood
that poured the contents of the heaven
through the granite veins of earth;
to the lowlands, to the sea.
grey answered unto grey.
great drops of rain on window panes,
tapped morse codes of warnings;
no end in sight, said they
the morning draped in grave clothes
like a ghoul or spectre
plodded over hills and mountains.
no relief upon horizons west,
and all the day seemed like
something of a zombie.
i confess
- Copyright Moon Batchelder @pasupatidasi, Location Undisclosed - 2013
Forgive Me, Little Emily
forgive me, little emily,
i used to burn my poetry.
because like yours it dared to rhyme,
sometimes...sometimes not.
i thought my muse beset with flaws;
anachronistic travesty.
each poem a season out of time
was fashioned in archaic rhyme
and after older laws.
what would ferlinghetti say?
confronted by such roundelays,
would allen ginsburg even read a word?
or should i care?
i used to burn them, no remorse,
until i read your legacy.
each poem a paradigm of heart,
a scupture and a work of art;
a deeply moving force.
they tell me, little emily,
you never sold your poetry.
perhaps, like me, you knew your muse
should not be subject to review.
i think there's much of you in me,
and should i live a few years more,
i'll bind my insights, love and rage
with pen and ink upon the page,
like you, my emily.
- Copyright Moon Batchelder @pasupatidasi, Location Undisclosed - 2013
Biography: I used to ritualistically burn my poetry journals...then, I read Emily Dickinson's collected works and thought "what if she'd done that?" Not that my work compares, but some might find some pleasure reading them.
So, ever since 2001, I have kept my poetry, shared it online, and discovered other unknown poets whose works have caused my soul to cry tears of laughter, or feel depths of another's sorrow, or soar to heights unexplored until the words of other people's poetry.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
That Vintage Turn-Table
That Vintage Turn-Table,
rendered absolutely incapable.
lays silently,
totally undemanding,
at the bedside of this Vintage Mind,
Just lays there,
Says nothing.
As if the cloak of Silence,
it wears with an enviable calm,
tends to speak in it's own serene manner,
of the Glory and the Pride,
of those little ways,
in forgotten old days,
in which we longed to listen,
to Symphonies of Beethoven,
and the ones of Mozart.
when we were not allowed to touch,
That Vintage Turn-Table.
- Copyright Ponderosa Monk @woodmonk, Location Undisclosed, 2013
Biography: Follower, Seeker, Questioner.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
33
An assemblage of comely
angels, squirting
muddy come, murky
ethereal orgasms.
masturbating to
Earthling lovers
understanding
they'll never
understand
the sweet
dalliance
between man
and
woman
God says,
"You can
be human.
Go."
- Copyright Jeremiah Walton @NostroviaPoetry New England, USA - 2013
Formulaic Future
Yellowed lungs
Tilted to the Sun
Open
Absorbing air purer than
Manchester Transit
Excreting screaming angels
Rejoicing with dried bums
Each convulsing,
sharing Holy Poverty,
Richness in thought
Corner of Brown
and Goff Falls Ave
Under bloody blue skies
Of H capital
Heavy on
Scenic railway of Man
- Copyright Jeremiah Walton @NostroviaPoetry New England, USA - 2013
HomeFull
Does the lonely desperate elderly woman,
with valley tits and witing eyes,
(eyes that have conceived enough and naught experience)
craving sexual attention,
care about gender?
- Copyright Jeremiah Walton @NostroviaPoetry New England, USA - 2013
Biography: Jeremiah Walton is the author of several publications including To Your Health: Humanity's Diagnosis (a non-profit e-book), LSD Giggles, Modus Operandi, and Nostrovia!.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
sewing rain
water threads
embroider loneliness
- Copyright Vo Tuan Hoang Vy @vonguyenphong22, My Tho City, Vietnam - 2013
red sunset
the silent river falls into
dreamy nostalgia
- Copyright Vo Tuan Hoang Vy @vonguyenphong22, My Tho City, Vietnam - 2013
passing plane
white line left behind
a crow keeps chasing
- Copyright Vo Tuan Hoang Vy @vonguyenphong22, My Tho City, Vietnam - 2013
Biography: Vo Tuan Hoang Vy, born in 1990, works as an officer. Vo loves writing haiku and stories.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
MY FATHER’S GHOST
If one should ask, “Do ghosts exist?”
Just look at me; I pass that test.
T’was not intent or my design,
And as a ghost I’m quite benign,
But ne’er believe if one should say,
”There’s no such thing as ghosts today.”
I live and keep the childhood land
That gave my father callused hand.
Like him, I lived for long removed
From life I could not know I Loved.
Like him, I learned one really can
Come home again to find the man
Who as a boy picked up and ran
From his deep roots and his born kin.
I live alone within the walls
Of where he lived before the calls
Of marriage took him from his home;
‘Tis not my plan to ever roam.
I live amongst his things and mine
His memory serves as the twine
That binds me to reality,
As well, my own mortality.
I hunt—or haunt—his favorite places,
The creek and trails where he still chases
Dreams through my activity,
And more. . .I see his face in me.
I am my father’s ghost, you see,
And proud. . .there’s naught I’d rather be.
- Copyright Monty Wheeler @bumfuzzled2004, Ozark Mountains, Arkansas, USA - 2013
SHADOWS (ballad)
The gull takes flight and yet the ground
Holds firm his shadow’s black.
I live to think that when we’re gone
Our shadows will come back.
I love to think our shadows mirror
Two souls forever tied
Slow-walk with me and hold my hand;
Our shadows must abide.
Comes nigh the day for some short while
One will walk alone;
Yet I’d believe our shadows will
Forever walk as one.
For shadows feel no pain or death,
And shadows know no fear.
As long as sun will warm the earth
Our shadows will be here.
I’d ask but one. . .a single vow;
When I’m laid to rest,
Hold out your hand and find my shadow;
Next to you, it’s cast.
- Copyright Monty Wheeler @bumfuzzled2004, Ozark Mountains, Arkansas, USA - 2013
DAYLIGHT’S MOON (terza rima)
Mid morning’s moon long-lingers in the sky;
There’s magic lurks in day’s nocturnal moon,
Ye moon! Lend not to fade! Refuse to die!
If myth and mystic do not lie, I’ll soon
Go moonstruck. . .stark insanity; I’ll hear
The breath of angels and the earth’s soft tune.
And if the slightly twisted eye I bear
Disturbs you in some awkward way, it should;
For Daytime Moon has cast its spell. Beware. . .
The crazed romantic in my soul I would
Forever hide, the moon has understood
- Copyright Monty Wheeler @bumfuzzled2004, Ozark Mountains, Arkansas, USA - 2013
Biography: Monty Wheeler, author of The Many Shades of Dark, his debut collection of formal verse that comes to the shelves via Winter Goose Publishing in March of 2013, considers himself naught but a little old feller living out his days in the foothills of the Ozark Mountains. With his work in meter and rhyme, he strives to keep the art of formal verse alive. His days, when not at the job that pays the bills, are spent in writing, fishing, hunting, and his newly-acquired want of gardening. You can find him on Twitter @bumfuzzled2004 and on Facebook as M. R. Wheeler.
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Oh How
Oh, how I have loved you
You I’ve not known
Whose face I’ve not seen
Stalking lonely eyes
To fill midnight dreams
And rend my yearning heart
Yes, how I have loved you
You, who knows me not
Oh, how I have loved you
Yet never stood beside
Or ever chanced to move
While whimpered cries and urgent whines
Form my flesh and blood
Turning gray skies blue
Yes, how I have loved you
You, I’ll never touch
Oh, how I have loved you
Whose smile I’ve never seen
though burned into my eyes
lay scars of velvets sheen
From breasts I’ll never kiss
Yet yielding youth doth fill my lips
With joy for both enough
Yes, how I have loved you
You, who loves me not
- Copyright Tim Wilkinson @tlmntim9 Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, USA - 2013
For You
For you I’ve searched, yet failed to find
The eyes and lips I’ve yearned
Nor lovers gaze and muted squeal
Shall these I ever claim
For me, you see, these shall remain
But longings of my dreams
For life is short and my time long
While you, have passed me by
Yes I am old while you so young
Unborn till you had died
Yet each long day, I find you new
Yet never close beside
I see your eyes each day and night
In pictures on my screen
Or passing by on streets of cold
Yet never speak your name
Yet in my dreams and wishes of
A younger finer day
I reach for you to know your touch
As deep within I cry
Yes, take I, what midnight gifts
Till morning takes you way
When tears of supple, finer things
Do wet the lips of dawn
Oh I’ve loved you dearly, dear
Since first I drew a breath
And I will love you truly dear
Till first I taste of death
Yet never will I know your heart
Nor touch your face or breast
Nor ever will I know the truth
Of whom you’ve loved the best
No, never will I taste your lips
Nor feel your heated breath
Nor ever will I see your eyes
Roll in pleasures depth
Nor my ears shall ever hear
Your sounds and secrete sighs
For life for me is over dear
My hope for you has died
- Copyright Tim Wilkinson @tlmntim9 Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, USA - 2013
Lost in The Night
If I could gaze in your eyes
Till sun and the stars, spun out of sight
And kiss your cheeks as time wound out,
Life at last without a fight, could lay down
And love close its eyes…lost in the night
- Copyright Tim Wilkinson @tlmntim9 Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, USA - 2013
My Little Goldfish
My Little goldfish
queen of the pond
moves like a flash
through Saturday’s throng
Black eyed and pale
A mouth full of pink
White toothed and flushed
She shines
With eyes of a perch
Timid and frail
Full lips of a carp
Supple and round
Dream of my heart
Seen through a veil
Of black lace and curls
With gold in her hair
I’ve wished and I prayed
Though she’d never care
For the stranger who sits
Alone in his chair
Knowing full well this
queen of the pond
could never once love,
A beer drinking frog.
- Copyright Tim Wilkinson @tlmntim9 Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, USA - 2013
Will You
Will you love me, once I said
As I followed, her to bed
I know not what is wrong or right
Or who may win, the day or night
Yet I have all one ever might,
But lasting love and endless light
- Copyright Tim Wilkinson @tlmntim9 Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, USA - 2013
Why
Why does night last till the dawn,
Cover worlds in blackened spawn
Blind the eyes of those who‘d see
What beauty lies beneath her sheet
Why do shadows fear the light,
When light it is, gives shadow life
Offers form and shape enough,
Yet shades my heart with pending dusk
- Copyright Tim Wilkinson @tlmntim9 Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, USA - 2013
Loves Shadows
Loves shadows fail and form
In moonlight orbs and golden morns
They dance and weave beneath the light
Then fade away, back into night
For love, like shadow, shifts and sways
With too much sun, or darkened haze
- Copyright Tim Wilkinson @tlmntim9 Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, USA - 2013
Biography:
Father of two girls, Mr. Wilkinson has been writing since the age of twelve.
After spending thirty years working in the telecommunications industry, traveling and writing in between the often conflicting commitments of family, work, home and life in general, Mr. Wilkinson now focuses more time and effort on his most enduring dream, writing. Collections of his earlier works are available online, through Amazon-dot-com.
Recently accepted for publication in ‘The Path’, ‘The Speculative Edge’, Fictitious Magazine,’and ‘Static Movement’, he continues to write and seek new avenues for publication and distribution.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Mortality’s short, sweet kiss…
Morrow comes, heralding new dawn,
upon that day, will joy be born.
Patiently, must we wait,
We’ll know the time, won’t hesitate.
With both hands spread open wide,
We slow our fall, down terror’s slide.
~
An angel, trapped in mortal form,
filled, with anger, and disdain,
Though silenced is her voice,
her soul, untamed, remains.
Into deepest dark of night,
she turns her ever seeking eye,
and there, upon sunrise’s glow,
her hope, as a planted seed, doth sow.
~
Not coin, nor gold,
will purchase passage from this mortal realm,
into eternities, untold.
For the trip to there,
the price is set… in anguish.
Do all you can, while trapped here.
Secure… your own immortal soul.
~
Summer’s heat, through winter’s cold
An endless cycle, for the bold.
Set your weary feet,
Upon the path,
toward the final goal…
Escape… for each immortal soul.
~
From four corners,
east, and west,
the titans of this world contest.
North, and south,
the winds do blow,
freezing rain, before the snow
that chills… my immortal soul.
~
Though our fragile bodies,
the titans hold in thrall,
our souls, escape their clammy grasp.
Till, finally… we turn.
Behold, the Asp.
Our demise, through venom’s fang?
Or our escape, to destiny,
as ageless legends sang?
Through that path, so filled with pain,
must we venture, once again,
for at its end, does lie… our gain.
~
Into cold, slit eyes we stare,
the Asp, its fangs, doth turn, and bare.
Its promise?
With us, Eternity to share.
Upon those ivory tips,
so sharp,
do form two drops, two drips,
two promises… held true.
My soul’s release… from me, to you.
~
Into these gleaming gems,
we cast our eye.
Behold, our fate,
to do… and die.
~
Into venom we turn, and dive.
Within their pain, we won’t survive.
They promise us release…
and bliss…
our freedom…
from mortality’s short, sweet kiss.
- Copyright C.G. Ayling @CGAyling, Location Undisclosed, 2012
Biography: C.G. Ayling. Musing misuser of words, lover of lyrical literature, author, occasional contrary thoughts. An honorable man’s name, in memoriam.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
- "ONE Blue Mind" Copyright Dorisella Batista @oshum, Location Undisclosed - 2013
Desire slept in sound’s embrace..
and dreamed itself in myriad ways.
In forms of light … and color too..
it brought to life…
a mind of ….. BLUE.
- Copyright Dorisella Batista @oshum, Location Undisclosed - 2013
Biography: Oshum is a 'Painter of Dreams.... a Mystic Wanderer ...rambling through the All that IS'. She lives on the East Coast in the Here and Now. She started painting and writing poetry in 2007 after having a series of vivid, compelling dreams. http://oshum.posterous.com
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
breathe
how do you surrender involuntary action?
when protocol requires hushed subservience
you must keep your confetti questions to yourself
to deny the reason for everything is blasphemy
talk to the velvet tongue, located inside your head
as you slowly attain the invisibility of the nightjar
layers of team players, will agree in your submission
engage in the strange dance of shared obedience
sit down, standup, recite, sit down, standup, recite
within conforming nods, restrained ideas squirm
don’t you say it! or condemnation will be wrought
you are a threat to society and all its institutions
institutions built upon the constructs of control
surrender your freewill because you have it
this suppression by the suppressed, is inane
how do i stop my brain from questioning?
how do i stop my diaphragm from contracting?
- Copyright Victor Perrotti @aranasuenoz, Virginia Beach, Virginia, USA - 2013
Desire slept in sound’s embrace..
and dreamed itself in myriad ways.
In forms of light … and color too..
it brought to life…
a mind of ….. BLUE.
- Copyright Dorisella Batista @oshum, Location Undisclosed - 2013
Biography: Oshum is a 'Painter of Dreams.... a Mystic Wanderer ...rambling through the All that IS'. She lives on the East Coast in the Here and Now. She started painting and writing poetry in 2007 after having a series of vivid, compelling dreams. http://oshum.posterous.com
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
breathe
how do you surrender involuntary action?
when protocol requires hushed subservience
you must keep your confetti questions to yourself
to deny the reason for everything is blasphemy
talk to the velvet tongue, located inside your head
as you slowly attain the invisibility of the nightjar
layers of team players, will agree in your submission
engage in the strange dance of shared obedience
sit down, standup, recite, sit down, standup, recite
within conforming nods, restrained ideas squirm
don’t you say it! or condemnation will be wrought
you are a threat to society and all its institutions
institutions built upon the constructs of control
surrender your freewill because you have it
this suppression by the suppressed, is inane
how do i stop my brain from questioning?
how do i stop my diaphragm from contracting?
- Copyright Victor Perrotti @aranasuenoz, Virginia Beach, Virginia, USA - 2013
- Copyright Victor Perrotti @aranasuenoz, Virginia Beach, Virginia, USA - 2013
Biography: victor, carbon based unit, dreamer, husband, father, teacher, student, humanist, photographer, web designer, surfer, www.spiderdreams.info, @aranasuenoz
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
#31, a Five Tweet Poem
#31, Pt 1 of 5: All words to a loving purpose cannot fulfill their purpose unless #lyric. There can be naught but #poetry to the mystic.
#31, Pt 2 of 5: Does marking just some tweets #micropoem deny that daily speech is lyric or illuminate it? Should it stay secret?
#31, Pt 3 of 5: Indecipherable “#poems” can be elitist oxymorons to intimidate others into distrusting innate #lyric. #33
#31, Pt 4 of 5: Trying to make life a #poem, I can't mark just some tweets #micropoem; all—all, all—my words are sincere attempts at #lyric.
#31, Pt 5 of 5: I strive hard to make all my speech #poetry. If I mark tweets #micropoem, will someone still notice my other words' lyric?
Copyright - Francesca De Grandis @outlawbunny, Pennsylvania, USA - 2013
Less Talk
When poetry is no longer a puzzle made indecipherable by elite, it will belong to all of us again, the gorgeousness of daily speech recognized as invocation, sincere prose known as lyric and spell-casting. There will be less talk of magic. There will simply be magic, so a student will not choose spiritual teachers based on their words, but by the texture of their moments. There will be less talk of freedom. There will simply be freedom. When all talk is recognized as poetry and as spells, there will be less talk.
Copyright - Francesca De Grandis @outlawbunny, Pennsylvania, USA - 2013
Biography: De Grandis is a humorist, shamanic guide, mystic genius, public figure, semi-recluse, bard, painter, middle management for Chaos Gods, Whedon fan, spiritual innovator, busy elf. www.stardrenched.com
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Behold
Behold the Unlimited Power of the Mind,
creator and destroyer of Worlds
Behold the Unlimited Power of the Heart,
creator of Grand Designs and Epochs of Beauty
Behold the Unlimited Power of the Divine,
creator of Gaia and Forest and all Manifestations of Life
Behold the Unlimited Power of Love
creator and Binding Force of All Life.
- Copyright Clifton Goodwin @indigo_sky360, North Carolina, USA - 2012
Biography: Clifton Goodwin is an eccentric philosopher poet living in North Carolina.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
No. 16
pity me
for i am one
of infinity's monkeys
- Copyright "O" @ThePoemEpoch, Wales, UK - 2013
No. 18
the wild brushstrokes
of winter's wind
unleaf me
- Copyright "O" @ThePoemEpoch, Wales, UK - 2013
No. 22
On Our Wedding Day 4 January 2013
these rings
are collars
of doves
- Copyright "O" @ThePoemEpoch, Wales, UK - 2013
Biography: "O" loves tweeting and retweeting poetry at https://twitter.com/ThePoemEpoch
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The Ascension of The Goddess
Dedicated to all Goddesses yearning to break free and soar... your day will come!
I: Jewel
A young and fiery spirit light
Got trapped inside a jewel bright
The one who trapped her was cruel and crass
He drained her love into his broken glass
Dark and heartless were his ways
Captive, loveless were her days
His hateful spites were often told
Her once-bright glow was growing cold
But one day there came a ray of hope
The sound of sweet freedom, one note
One breath of life for her fiery glow
Her radiant spirit once more did grow
She sprouted wings that beat so fast
Her flight to freedom made at last
II: Hummingbird
Bright-eyed, beautiful
Hovering, finely balanced
Finally flying
III: Phoenix
The hummingbird flew far and fast
And found an autumn forest at last
The woods came alive all around
The spirits spoke without a sound
Her glow then grew much brighter
Engulfing, starting to ignite her
She dropped to the ground in a pile of ash
Slowly she rose up, now changed by the flash
She spread her great wings and took flight anew
A fiery red sky-trail behind as she flew
IV: Goddess
The Phoenix soared across the heavens, lighting up the skies
Atop a cold mountain top she paused, sensing a call of power
She opened her heart and mind and a voice filled her mind
Saying that her penance was paid and reward thus given
The Phoenix bowed graciously, grateful for the gift she’d received
But her heart pounded with fervor and she needed something more
For there was an imbalance that still needed righting
The unseen power knew her wish before she could make it
And her fiery glow blazed white-hot, burning her to down to ash once more
Smoldering glow, to darkness, to grey
An eternity passed, then another
Gradually she arose in form divine: A new goddess was born
She went forth into the troubled kingdoms, freeing other trapped souls
Liberating the down-trodden and oppressed, as she was once like them
She is an unstoppable force, fierce and relentless, never tiring
Hers is keen-eyed crystal vision; her song gives hope to all who hear it
When her work is done, she will ascend to the heavens, to dwell there for all eternity
- Copyright, Eric Alder @EricAlder, Michigan USA - 2013
Biography: victor, carbon based unit, dreamer, husband, father, teacher, student, humanist, photographer, web designer, surfer, www.spiderdreams.info, @aranasuenoz
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
#31, a Five Tweet Poem
#31, Pt 1 of 5: All words to a loving purpose cannot fulfill their purpose unless #lyric. There can be naught but #poetry to the mystic.
#31, Pt 2 of 5: Does marking just some tweets #micropoem deny that daily speech is lyric or illuminate it? Should it stay secret?
#31, Pt 3 of 5: Indecipherable “#poems” can be elitist oxymorons to intimidate others into distrusting innate #lyric. #33
#31, Pt 4 of 5: Trying to make life a #poem, I can't mark just some tweets #micropoem; all—all, all—my words are sincere attempts at #lyric.
#31, Pt 5 of 5: I strive hard to make all my speech #poetry. If I mark tweets #micropoem, will someone still notice my other words' lyric?
Copyright - Francesca De Grandis @outlawbunny, Pennsylvania, USA - 2013
Less Talk
When poetry is no longer a puzzle made indecipherable by elite, it will belong to all of us again, the gorgeousness of daily speech recognized as invocation, sincere prose known as lyric and spell-casting. There will be less talk of magic. There will simply be magic, so a student will not choose spiritual teachers based on their words, but by the texture of their moments. There will be less talk of freedom. There will simply be freedom. When all talk is recognized as poetry and as spells, there will be less talk.
Copyright - Francesca De Grandis @outlawbunny, Pennsylvania, USA - 2013
Biography: De Grandis is a humorist, shamanic guide, mystic genius, public figure, semi-recluse, bard, painter, middle management for Chaos Gods, Whedon fan, spiritual innovator, busy elf. www.stardrenched.com
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Behold
Behold the Unlimited Power of the Mind,
creator and destroyer of Worlds
Behold the Unlimited Power of the Heart,
creator of Grand Designs and Epochs of Beauty
Behold the Unlimited Power of the Divine,
creator of Gaia and Forest and all Manifestations of Life
Behold the Unlimited Power of Love
creator and Binding Force of All Life.
- Copyright Clifton Goodwin @indigo_sky360, North Carolina, USA - 2012
Biography: Clifton Goodwin is an eccentric philosopher poet living in North Carolina.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
No. 16
pity me
for i am one
of infinity's monkeys
- Copyright "O" @ThePoemEpoch, Wales, UK - 2013
No. 18
the wild brushstrokes
of winter's wind
unleaf me
- Copyright "O" @ThePoemEpoch, Wales, UK - 2013
No. 22
On Our Wedding Day 4 January 2013
these rings
are collars
of doves
- Copyright "O" @ThePoemEpoch, Wales, UK - 2013
Biography: "O" loves tweeting and retweeting poetry at https://twitter.com/ThePoemEpoch
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The Ascension of The Goddess
Dedicated to all Goddesses yearning to break free and soar... your day will come!
I: Jewel
A young and fiery spirit light
Got trapped inside a jewel bright
The one who trapped her was cruel and crass
He drained her love into his broken glass
Dark and heartless were his ways
Captive, loveless were her days
His hateful spites were often told
Her once-bright glow was growing cold
But one day there came a ray of hope
The sound of sweet freedom, one note
One breath of life for her fiery glow
Her radiant spirit once more did grow
She sprouted wings that beat so fast
Her flight to freedom made at last
II: Hummingbird
Bright-eyed, beautiful
Hovering, finely balanced
Finally flying
III: Phoenix
The hummingbird flew far and fast
And found an autumn forest at last
The woods came alive all around
The spirits spoke without a sound
Her glow then grew much brighter
Engulfing, starting to ignite her
She dropped to the ground in a pile of ash
Slowly she rose up, now changed by the flash
She spread her great wings and took flight anew
A fiery red sky-trail behind as she flew
IV: Goddess
The Phoenix soared across the heavens, lighting up the skies
Atop a cold mountain top she paused, sensing a call of power
She opened her heart and mind and a voice filled her mind
Saying that her penance was paid and reward thus given
The Phoenix bowed graciously, grateful for the gift she’d received
But her heart pounded with fervor and she needed something more
For there was an imbalance that still needed righting
The unseen power knew her wish before she could make it
And her fiery glow blazed white-hot, burning her to down to ash once more
Smoldering glow, to darkness, to grey
An eternity passed, then another
Gradually she arose in form divine: A new goddess was born
She went forth into the troubled kingdoms, freeing other trapped souls
Liberating the down-trodden and oppressed, as she was once like them
She is an unstoppable force, fierce and relentless, never tiring
Hers is keen-eyed crystal vision; her song gives hope to all who hear it
When her work is done, she will ascend to the heavens, to dwell there for all eternity
- Copyright, Eric Alder @EricAlder, Michigan USA - 2013
- Copyright, Eric Alder @EricAlder, Michigan USA - 2013
- Copyright, Eric Alder @EricAlder, Michigan USA - 2013
- Copyright, Eric Alder @EricAlder, Michigan USA - 2013
- Copyright, Eric Alder @EricAlder, Michigan USA - 2013
Biography: My name is Eric Alder. I’m 48 and I'm a life-long Michigander. I've been married over 18 years and we have one son, who's 16. I like music, photography, poetry, reading, fishing, camping, cooking/baking and good beer. Besides being on Twitter (https://twitter.com/EricAlder) I’ve got a few blogs:
Main Blog (poetry, etc).:http://thisisbubbasplace.blogspot.com/
Haiku: http://haiku-koo-koo.blogspot.com/
Photography: http://buddharocks.deviantart.com/gallery/
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Haikus by AshiAkira
Awoke to soft rain
Sparrows chirping on the eaves
Close my eyes again
--------------------------------
Shadows of tree leaves
Talking, giggling and laughing
Party in the breeze
---------------------------------
Amber leaves on twigs
Survived wintry wind night through
Glitter in sunlight
---------------------------------
Bare twigs shiver cold
Cradling tiny buds light green
Patiently waiting
----------------------------------
Cold wind but juicy
Persimmons left on the trees
Some birds know it well
-----------------------------------
Girls walking pretty
Winter sidewalk no flowers
Just the role they play
----------------------------------
Thickness of darkness
A starless night of winter
Silence to set in
---------------------------------
Red camellias
On bushes by the sidewalk
Smiling at cold rain
----------------------------------
Teacup warm in hands
Take a sip fragrance calming
Sound of rain eyes closed
-----------------------------------
Dark clouds overhead
Beams of sunlight through the cracks
Send hope to the ground
I Had an Asthma Attack
Fear covered my back
I was left in consciousness
Couldn’t breathe anymore
Lay still in quiet
Saw a land of misty glow
Here and far away
It all started with bouts of coughs.
Coughing lasted for weeks and became unbearable.
I saw a local doctor.
“Sounds like a typical case of whooping cough,” the doctor said.
“It’s spreading now. I have to take your blood sample for a test.
“It would take five days to know the result. Come back then.
“In the meantime, I’ll give you something for the cough.
Two days later, it first happened.
Constriction of my windpipe
No pain, but it was only a fear that covered my back.
I was extremely frightened.
Breathing slowly came back.
I ran to the doctor in the morning
without waiting for the five days.
“It’s very likely an asthma attack,” the doctor said.
“Could be triggered by the whooping cough.
“Maybe something else.
“I better see your lung X-rays.”
He put me into his X-ray room.
He examined my lung X-rays on the screen on his desk, and said,
“Normal. No sign of pneumonia.”
He then gave me a small sprayer and some other medication.
“Use this when you have an attack again.
“Read the instruction inside the box.
“It ought to be easy enough to use and effective.
“The attack should stop occurring when the whooping cough is gone.”
The attack came on the following night.
After that it happened once or twice a day.
Each time the spray was so effective,
I was sure the attacks would eventually go away.
But they didn’t. They rather seem to become severer.
Then after midnight on December 7,
It started seemingly just as another one of them.
I tried to use the spray but found it impossible to inhale.
I felt I was being suffocated.
I was frightened.
It was like a load of fear on my back that I might die.
I tried to use all the muscles in the body to breathe in and out.
But I couldn’t move, and the feeling of suffocation mixed with fear increased.
Suddenly the fear began to fade away.
Not that I was recovering, but it was more like I was losing the energy to feel it.
Then a feeling of pleasantness was taking over inside me.
Was it an ecstasy or bliss? I cannot tell.
I was perfectly conscious.
I was seeing a color.
What color it was I cannot describe.
But it was a mist of color floating like an island far away.
Yet I was in it, too.
It was in a pure and bright consciousness.
There was also some warmth.
I felt the warmth not in my body but far down in the island.
It was like a different world.
Was it the world where my mother-in-law went when she died a month ago?
On a hospital bed she stopped her last weak gasping for air.
The doctor completed his professional procedure and said, “6:56p.m.” to pronounce her death. He took a deep bow to her and to us standing by.
She was a single mother who lived through the tumultuous wartime years of militarism and male chauvinism and food shortages.
I know she had often had to go starving, but she did everything she could to raise her only child who was to become my wife.
Her hand was still warm.
She started whitening from the forehead area
Her eyes and mouth were wide open.
Yet she was beautiful.
Would I also look beautiful like that?
Reflecting lying and stealing and anger and hatred and all that I must confess I was guilty of in my lifetime, would I look like a goblin?
What would happen to me?
Go to Heaven or to Hell or simply to disappear into darkness?
Just then, what I must now say was a miracle happened.
I had the sensation of going back into my own body.
And there was a sharp pricking itchiness in the throat.
(I don’t want to died, I want to live.)
My own words also came back to sound inside me.
(If only I could breathe, I’d live.)
I intuitively knew inhalation would follow if I coughed.
I mustered all the might in my body to cough and groped for the sprayer.
A cough came out and I felt strange flow of warmth through my throat.
I sprayed into the throat like crazy and was soon breathing again.
Strength came back and I could move.
I hurriedly called up my wife who was sleeping in her mother’s house.
“I just had another attack. A big one this time. I think I’d better run to the hospital,” I said.
“Yes, you’d better… I’ll come over,” my wife answered.
“No, please don’t try to come.”
With her back ach it would take minutes just to get off the bed, and waiting would be excruciating for me.
“Stay in the bed. Keep your cellphone by you. I’ll keep in touch. And don’t worry.”
“Yes…”
I decided not to call for an ambulance. I felt I had to make a move by myself.
I threw the sprayer in my shoulder bag just in case I’d need it on the way.
It was close to 2a.m. and chances were slim I could catch a taxi at that hour. But I had only to try.
It’s about 50 meters from my house to a main street.
A flow of all sorts of cars were passing on the road but no taxicab in sight. I haled for one anyway, and one of the cars running toward me began flashing a red light on its windshield indicating it was a taxicab. It stopped by me.
“You never know how glad I am you are still working,” I said to the driver.
“”I just decided to call it a day, but saw you standing there. Where to?”
“Kokusai Iryo Center”
“On the Okubo street?”
“Yes.”
The driver nodded and immediately started speeding.
It’s the National Center for Global Health and Medicine, a big emergency hospital with 1,000 beds, good two miles away.
The driver somehow must have sensed my problem.
He slowed down a little at a crossing but ignored the stoplight.
I saw a determination on his countenance even to fight the police singlehanded if he had to.
Some traffic cops around here are notorious for skillfully making up offences against themselves from private drivers, all to satisfy their questionable quota of work.
After a while, I felt a bump under my bottom. The car stopped only a few meters away from the door on the side of the main hospital building that said: “Emergency Entrance”.
The car must have run over the curb and across the sidewalk to get this close to the door.
“Here you are, sir,” he said.
Good thing no cops were around.
He could have lost his entire day’s earnings to pay the ticket
(If I died here now with some of my life is still left but chopped off, please you take it over for me.) The words floated on my mind.
Down the road, which of the tail lamps were of his car, I could not tell.
I pressed on the emergency button and heard “Come in” and the click to unlock the door.
“What seems to be the problem,” the receptionist behind the dimly lit counter said.
I explained about my situation and the use of the sprayer that worked and I could come.
He fast turned look serious. He slid a sheet of paper on the counter to me saying,
“You just give me your name and address here.” He simultaneously picked up the phone and started talking.
I was shaky and couldn’t write well.
“That’s fine,” he said. “I can see it as your signature. Been to this hospital before? Got a card issued to you by this hospital?”
“Yes,” I said and I produced the card to him. “It’s very old. Hope it’s still good.”
“Good, good. If it’s one hundred years old, still good.”
His little joke encouraged me so greatly
“There. Can you walk?” He pointed at a door across the hall
Before I could reach the door, it was flung open from inside.
A tall white-coated man appeared.
“Are you the one who just registered at the counter?” he asked me.
He introduced himself as a doctor, but I failed to get his name.
“Come in here and sit on that chair there.
“You told him you had used a sprayer. Do you have it with you? Good, in here?”
He took my shoulder bag and hurriedly opened it.
“Is this the one?”
“”Yes, and I already used many times today,” I said remembering the instruction not to use it more than four times a day.
“Okay, okay. It worked for you, huh?” he said.
The doctor asked me questions, and I found myself answering them by reflex.
He gave a sign with his eyes to another man in the room who must be his assistant doctor. He flung away and back with plastic tubes and pushed them into my nostrils.
“Oxygen,” he said. He pinched my forefinger with a clip with a red beam on.
“Seventy-one and not moving,” he said to the tall doctor.
“I don’t like it,” the doctor said. He is typing something into a computer on his desk and talking simultaneously on the phone with someone apparently about me.
The assistant doctor dragged closer a drip stand and said, “I’ll put you on a drip. Right now, we have to fight the inflammation of your lungs.”
He randomly stuck a needle into my vein and said, “Now, I have to take your blood sample from your artery. That’s the way to check your oxygen intake rate more accurately.”
I felt a dull but very strong pain on my wrist.
The tall doctor came close to me from his desk and said, “Now, you’ll have a moku moku steamy. We have to get your lungs back open to work.”
A nurse came in pushing a nebulizer. She covered my face with a plastic mask.
She poured some liquid into the machine, and thick steam started coming to my face.
“You just breathe in and out as you can. You’ll be alright,” she said glancing up at me. She started tapping on the machine. I thought she was trying to send as much steam as possible to my face.
“How is it going?” the doctor asked the assistant doctor.
“Everything is coming out okay now,” the assistant said.
“I think you are okay enough now,” the doctor said to me.
“I’ll put you to the CT scan. It’s very rare people of your age to have an asthma attack for the first time. I have to see your lungs.
The nurse put me on a wheelchair and pushed me out of the room, dragging an oxygen tank behind her, to the CT scan room.
When we came back, the doctor was examining the pictures of my sliced lungs on the PC screen.
“No sign of pneumonia. Your lungs are perfectly normal,” he said.
“At any rate, our senior doctor says it would be too dangerous to let you go home with the data we have so far collected of you.
“You must be under our observation for a while, but we have a problem. We have no bed available for you just now.
“There is a room available, but it would cost you 35,000 yen per day. You don’t want to pay that kind of money. “
The doctor smiled, and I managed to smile back.
“Anyway, we have to put you up in the emergency lifesaving room for now,” the doctor said.
“This is a big hospital. People are going in and out all the time. There ought to be a full-coverage open for you soon enough.”
The nurse started pushing my wheelchair again.
The emergency room was on the seventh floor.
It was more like a school gymnasium.
Almost all the beds in there were filled by wailing and shouting people.
It was like a scene I was familiar with only in TV dramas.
But it was happening in reality here and now, and I am one of them.
I was still on a drip.
I felt oxygen flowing through the tubes into my nostrils.
A mask was put back on my face to continue the nebulization.
The medical staff frequently came to my bedside.
They checked the screen beside me and punched in the data they saw into the computer.
I heard the sound of the blinds of the large windows of the room being rolled up.
It was getting light outside.
(Am I the same person who rushed to this hospital a few hours ago?)
I thought of the taxi driver, the receptionist and the medical staff.
(If I had failed to meet any one of them at a right time in the past few hours, or if any of them hadn’t done what he or she actually did for me, would I have still lived?)
(What made all those people do what they did for me?)
I couldn’t think of any other word but “compassion”.
(How come they happened to have the compassion for me simultaneously?
(Or did it come from some one source, and it seeped through those people and converged on me?
(What did I do to deserve such a compassion?
(Was it given to me without my deserving it?)
The strange island of misty light that I saw when I felt the suffocation came to mind.
The island soon disappeared. It was replaced by a tiny light like the one that often lingers on the filament when an electric bulb is turned off.
The tiny light, too, disappeared but the warmth and the pleasantness remained.
I noticed two women standing by my bed.
“I’m Dr…, and this is Dr…,” one of them introduced herself and the other one, but I missed the names again.
“Three of us form a team to look after you here,” the introduced one said.
“There is another doctor who is the chief of this team. He could not come here just now.
“We treat you through consultation among us three.”
The first one is intently looking into my eye. She must be trying not to miss any slight reaction from me.
“I went through the report from the emergency staff and everything you said to them,” she said.
“I’ve also gone through your old medical file kept here. You came here for a different illness quite a while ago. Any address change since then?
“I’ll call your family. I’ll also talk to the doctor you saw before coming here today. We’ll compare notes.”
“We don’t think we were mistaken in treating you for an asthma attack,” she continued to speak.
“But we still need some more tests to see if you are really asthmatic or something else.
“You need to stay here for a week or for 10 days at most. You may need that rest, too.”
She smiled.
“Suppose it’s confirmed your case is really asthmatic, of course there are treatments when you have attacks like the sprayer you used,” she went on.
“But we don’t recommend that.
“Rather than that, there are ways to prevent the attacks from occurring again beforehand, and these are much better.
“We have a team in this hospital who can find you the best way for you.
“After you are discharged, you’ll come back to this hospital as an outpatient from time to time.
“The chief doctor sees outpatients on certain weekdays on the first floor and you will see him.
“Once the attack preventive medication is established for you, you have to continue it for the rest of your life.
“Some patients mistakenly believe they are completely cured after using the method for a while and stop it without consulting a doctor.
“And they suffer from attacks again. Often fatal.
“About 2,000 people die from asthmatic attacks each year in this country.
“So far, our tests show you are physically much younger than your actual age. You can have many more years to live, if you want to.”
She smiled again.
“Could I have been one of the 2,000?” I asked.
“The chief doctor said yours was one of the most serious cases. Yes, you could have been,” she said.
“From what you said to the emergency staff, you must have been near suffocation at home.
“You coughed and had the sprayer handy. You could catch a taxi at that hour to come here.
“I suppose a series of coincidences saved your life.”
Her cellphone in her breast pocket lit up.
“We’ll get back to you soon,” she said and the two doctors walked away.
The wailing of other patients, the footsteps of the medical staff running around, clinking sound of medical instruments filled the room. But I felt complete calmness.
My own words and voice without my control began mingling on my mind.
(I don’t want anything anymore if I can only keep breathing and live. What else is there to want anyway?)
“Take it, take it, take it,” the voice was heard.
(What is it that I must take?) I wondered.
“Take it. Let’s call it love for now. Just take it,” the voice went on.
“You don’t have to be grateful for it because it’s love. Just take it.
“The more you take it, the more it’ll be given to you, because it’s love.
“It’s the source of your life – your new life. Just take it more and more.
“It’s the only thing you are allowed to be greedy for.”
The morning sunlight began spilling over the top of a building across the hospital compound and came in through the windows.
The pleasantness lingered on inside me and became stronger.
(All are beautiful. There is nothing that‘s not beautiful.)
I covered my face with my sleeve. I didn’t want the medical staff running around to notice my tears.
- Copyright, AshiAkira @AshiAkira, Shinjuku Ward, Tokyo, Japan - 2012
Biography: Born and raised in Tokyo, Japan. Studied in the US 1958-63.Worked for a news agency for about 30 years. After leaving the agency at the mandatory retirement age of 60, wrote two books and many haikus in English. Now trying “story-poems” in which things are written as seen or experienced as simply and directly to the point as possible. Had a “near-death” experience in Dec. 2012, out of which a story-poem “I Had an Asthma Attack” was composed.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Biography: My name is Eric Alder. I’m 48 and I'm a life-long Michigander. I've been married over 18 years and we have one son, who's 16. I like music, photography, poetry, reading, fishing, camping, cooking/baking and good beer. Besides being on Twitter (https://twitter.com/EricAlder) I’ve got a few blogs:
Main Blog (poetry, etc).:http://thisisbubbasplace.blogspot.com/
Haiku: http://haiku-koo-koo.blogspot.com/
Photography: http://buddharocks.deviantart.com/gallery/
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Haikus by AshiAkira
Awoke to soft rain
Sparrows chirping on the eaves
Close my eyes again
--------------------------------
Shadows of tree leaves
Talking, giggling and laughing
Party in the breeze
---------------------------------
Amber leaves on twigs
Survived wintry wind night through
Glitter in sunlight
---------------------------------
Bare twigs shiver cold
Cradling tiny buds light green
Patiently waiting
----------------------------------
Cold wind but juicy
Persimmons left on the trees
Some birds know it well
-----------------------------------
Girls walking pretty
Winter sidewalk no flowers
Just the role they play
----------------------------------
Thickness of darkness
A starless night of winter
Silence to set in
---------------------------------
Red camellias
On bushes by the sidewalk
Smiling at cold rain
----------------------------------
Teacup warm in hands
Take a sip fragrance calming
Sound of rain eyes closed
-----------------------------------
Dark clouds overhead
Beams of sunlight through the cracks
Send hope to the ground
I Had an Asthma Attack
Fear covered my back
I was left in consciousness
Couldn’t breathe anymore
Lay still in quiet
Saw a land of misty glow
Here and far away
It all started with bouts of coughs.
Coughing lasted for weeks and became unbearable.
I saw a local doctor.
“Sounds like a typical case of whooping cough,” the doctor said.
“It’s spreading now. I have to take your blood sample for a test.
“It would take five days to know the result. Come back then.
“In the meantime, I’ll give you something for the cough.
Two days later, it first happened.
Constriction of my windpipe
No pain, but it was only a fear that covered my back.
I was extremely frightened.
Breathing slowly came back.
I ran to the doctor in the morning
without waiting for the five days.
“It’s very likely an asthma attack,” the doctor said.
“Could be triggered by the whooping cough.
“Maybe something else.
“I better see your lung X-rays.”
He put me into his X-ray room.
He examined my lung X-rays on the screen on his desk, and said,
“Normal. No sign of pneumonia.”
He then gave me a small sprayer and some other medication.
“Use this when you have an attack again.
“Read the instruction inside the box.
“It ought to be easy enough to use and effective.
“The attack should stop occurring when the whooping cough is gone.”
The attack came on the following night.
After that it happened once or twice a day.
Each time the spray was so effective,
I was sure the attacks would eventually go away.
But they didn’t. They rather seem to become severer.
Then after midnight on December 7,
It started seemingly just as another one of them.
I tried to use the spray but found it impossible to inhale.
I felt I was being suffocated.
I was frightened.
It was like a load of fear on my back that I might die.
I tried to use all the muscles in the body to breathe in and out.
But I couldn’t move, and the feeling of suffocation mixed with fear increased.
Suddenly the fear began to fade away.
Not that I was recovering, but it was more like I was losing the energy to feel it.
Then a feeling of pleasantness was taking over inside me.
Was it an ecstasy or bliss? I cannot tell.
I was perfectly conscious.
I was seeing a color.
What color it was I cannot describe.
But it was a mist of color floating like an island far away.
Yet I was in it, too.
It was in a pure and bright consciousness.
There was also some warmth.
I felt the warmth not in my body but far down in the island.
It was like a different world.
Was it the world where my mother-in-law went when she died a month ago?
On a hospital bed she stopped her last weak gasping for air.
The doctor completed his professional procedure and said, “6:56p.m.” to pronounce her death. He took a deep bow to her and to us standing by.
She was a single mother who lived through the tumultuous wartime years of militarism and male chauvinism and food shortages.
I know she had often had to go starving, but she did everything she could to raise her only child who was to become my wife.
Her hand was still warm.
She started whitening from the forehead area
Her eyes and mouth were wide open.
Yet she was beautiful.
Would I also look beautiful like that?
Reflecting lying and stealing and anger and hatred and all that I must confess I was guilty of in my lifetime, would I look like a goblin?
What would happen to me?
Go to Heaven or to Hell or simply to disappear into darkness?
Just then, what I must now say was a miracle happened.
I had the sensation of going back into my own body.
And there was a sharp pricking itchiness in the throat.
(I don’t want to died, I want to live.)
My own words also came back to sound inside me.
(If only I could breathe, I’d live.)
I intuitively knew inhalation would follow if I coughed.
I mustered all the might in my body to cough and groped for the sprayer.
A cough came out and I felt strange flow of warmth through my throat.
I sprayed into the throat like crazy and was soon breathing again.
Strength came back and I could move.
I hurriedly called up my wife who was sleeping in her mother’s house.
“I just had another attack. A big one this time. I think I’d better run to the hospital,” I said.
“Yes, you’d better… I’ll come over,” my wife answered.
“No, please don’t try to come.”
With her back ach it would take minutes just to get off the bed, and waiting would be excruciating for me.
“Stay in the bed. Keep your cellphone by you. I’ll keep in touch. And don’t worry.”
“Yes…”
I decided not to call for an ambulance. I felt I had to make a move by myself.
I threw the sprayer in my shoulder bag just in case I’d need it on the way.
It was close to 2a.m. and chances were slim I could catch a taxi at that hour. But I had only to try.
It’s about 50 meters from my house to a main street.
A flow of all sorts of cars were passing on the road but no taxicab in sight. I haled for one anyway, and one of the cars running toward me began flashing a red light on its windshield indicating it was a taxicab. It stopped by me.
“You never know how glad I am you are still working,” I said to the driver.
“”I just decided to call it a day, but saw you standing there. Where to?”
“Kokusai Iryo Center”
“On the Okubo street?”
“Yes.”
The driver nodded and immediately started speeding.
It’s the National Center for Global Health and Medicine, a big emergency hospital with 1,000 beds, good two miles away.
The driver somehow must have sensed my problem.
He slowed down a little at a crossing but ignored the stoplight.
I saw a determination on his countenance even to fight the police singlehanded if he had to.
Some traffic cops around here are notorious for skillfully making up offences against themselves from private drivers, all to satisfy their questionable quota of work.
After a while, I felt a bump under my bottom. The car stopped only a few meters away from the door on the side of the main hospital building that said: “Emergency Entrance”.
The car must have run over the curb and across the sidewalk to get this close to the door.
“Here you are, sir,” he said.
Good thing no cops were around.
He could have lost his entire day’s earnings to pay the ticket
(If I died here now with some of my life is still left but chopped off, please you take it over for me.) The words floated on my mind.
Down the road, which of the tail lamps were of his car, I could not tell.
I pressed on the emergency button and heard “Come in” and the click to unlock the door.
“What seems to be the problem,” the receptionist behind the dimly lit counter said.
I explained about my situation and the use of the sprayer that worked and I could come.
He fast turned look serious. He slid a sheet of paper on the counter to me saying,
“You just give me your name and address here.” He simultaneously picked up the phone and started talking.
I was shaky and couldn’t write well.
“That’s fine,” he said. “I can see it as your signature. Been to this hospital before? Got a card issued to you by this hospital?”
“Yes,” I said and I produced the card to him. “It’s very old. Hope it’s still good.”
“Good, good. If it’s one hundred years old, still good.”
His little joke encouraged me so greatly
“There. Can you walk?” He pointed at a door across the hall
Before I could reach the door, it was flung open from inside.
A tall white-coated man appeared.
“Are you the one who just registered at the counter?” he asked me.
He introduced himself as a doctor, but I failed to get his name.
“Come in here and sit on that chair there.
“You told him you had used a sprayer. Do you have it with you? Good, in here?”
He took my shoulder bag and hurriedly opened it.
“Is this the one?”
“”Yes, and I already used many times today,” I said remembering the instruction not to use it more than four times a day.
“Okay, okay. It worked for you, huh?” he said.
The doctor asked me questions, and I found myself answering them by reflex.
He gave a sign with his eyes to another man in the room who must be his assistant doctor. He flung away and back with plastic tubes and pushed them into my nostrils.
“Oxygen,” he said. He pinched my forefinger with a clip with a red beam on.
“Seventy-one and not moving,” he said to the tall doctor.
“I don’t like it,” the doctor said. He is typing something into a computer on his desk and talking simultaneously on the phone with someone apparently about me.
The assistant doctor dragged closer a drip stand and said, “I’ll put you on a drip. Right now, we have to fight the inflammation of your lungs.”
He randomly stuck a needle into my vein and said, “Now, I have to take your blood sample from your artery. That’s the way to check your oxygen intake rate more accurately.”
I felt a dull but very strong pain on my wrist.
The tall doctor came close to me from his desk and said, “Now, you’ll have a moku moku steamy. We have to get your lungs back open to work.”
A nurse came in pushing a nebulizer. She covered my face with a plastic mask.
She poured some liquid into the machine, and thick steam started coming to my face.
“You just breathe in and out as you can. You’ll be alright,” she said glancing up at me. She started tapping on the machine. I thought she was trying to send as much steam as possible to my face.
“How is it going?” the doctor asked the assistant doctor.
“Everything is coming out okay now,” the assistant said.
“I think you are okay enough now,” the doctor said to me.
“I’ll put you to the CT scan. It’s very rare people of your age to have an asthma attack for the first time. I have to see your lungs.
The nurse put me on a wheelchair and pushed me out of the room, dragging an oxygen tank behind her, to the CT scan room.
When we came back, the doctor was examining the pictures of my sliced lungs on the PC screen.
“No sign of pneumonia. Your lungs are perfectly normal,” he said.
“At any rate, our senior doctor says it would be too dangerous to let you go home with the data we have so far collected of you.
“You must be under our observation for a while, but we have a problem. We have no bed available for you just now.
“There is a room available, but it would cost you 35,000 yen per day. You don’t want to pay that kind of money. “
The doctor smiled, and I managed to smile back.
“Anyway, we have to put you up in the emergency lifesaving room for now,” the doctor said.
“This is a big hospital. People are going in and out all the time. There ought to be a full-coverage open for you soon enough.”
The nurse started pushing my wheelchair again.
The emergency room was on the seventh floor.
It was more like a school gymnasium.
Almost all the beds in there were filled by wailing and shouting people.
It was like a scene I was familiar with only in TV dramas.
But it was happening in reality here and now, and I am one of them.
I was still on a drip.
I felt oxygen flowing through the tubes into my nostrils.
A mask was put back on my face to continue the nebulization.
The medical staff frequently came to my bedside.
They checked the screen beside me and punched in the data they saw into the computer.
I heard the sound of the blinds of the large windows of the room being rolled up.
It was getting light outside.
(Am I the same person who rushed to this hospital a few hours ago?)
I thought of the taxi driver, the receptionist and the medical staff.
(If I had failed to meet any one of them at a right time in the past few hours, or if any of them hadn’t done what he or she actually did for me, would I have still lived?)
(What made all those people do what they did for me?)
I couldn’t think of any other word but “compassion”.
(How come they happened to have the compassion for me simultaneously?
(Or did it come from some one source, and it seeped through those people and converged on me?
(What did I do to deserve such a compassion?
(Was it given to me without my deserving it?)
The strange island of misty light that I saw when I felt the suffocation came to mind.
The island soon disappeared. It was replaced by a tiny light like the one that often lingers on the filament when an electric bulb is turned off.
The tiny light, too, disappeared but the warmth and the pleasantness remained.
I noticed two women standing by my bed.
“I’m Dr…, and this is Dr…,” one of them introduced herself and the other one, but I missed the names again.
“Three of us form a team to look after you here,” the introduced one said.
“There is another doctor who is the chief of this team. He could not come here just now.
“We treat you through consultation among us three.”
The first one is intently looking into my eye. She must be trying not to miss any slight reaction from me.
“I went through the report from the emergency staff and everything you said to them,” she said.
“I’ve also gone through your old medical file kept here. You came here for a different illness quite a while ago. Any address change since then?
“I’ll call your family. I’ll also talk to the doctor you saw before coming here today. We’ll compare notes.”
“We don’t think we were mistaken in treating you for an asthma attack,” she continued to speak.
“But we still need some more tests to see if you are really asthmatic or something else.
“You need to stay here for a week or for 10 days at most. You may need that rest, too.”
She smiled.
“Suppose it’s confirmed your case is really asthmatic, of course there are treatments when you have attacks like the sprayer you used,” she went on.
“But we don’t recommend that.
“Rather than that, there are ways to prevent the attacks from occurring again beforehand, and these are much better.
“We have a team in this hospital who can find you the best way for you.
“After you are discharged, you’ll come back to this hospital as an outpatient from time to time.
“The chief doctor sees outpatients on certain weekdays on the first floor and you will see him.
“Once the attack preventive medication is established for you, you have to continue it for the rest of your life.
“Some patients mistakenly believe they are completely cured after using the method for a while and stop it without consulting a doctor.
“And they suffer from attacks again. Often fatal.
“About 2,000 people die from asthmatic attacks each year in this country.
“So far, our tests show you are physically much younger than your actual age. You can have many more years to live, if you want to.”
She smiled again.
“Could I have been one of the 2,000?” I asked.
“The chief doctor said yours was one of the most serious cases. Yes, you could have been,” she said.
“From what you said to the emergency staff, you must have been near suffocation at home.
“You coughed and had the sprayer handy. You could catch a taxi at that hour to come here.
“I suppose a series of coincidences saved your life.”
Her cellphone in her breast pocket lit up.
“We’ll get back to you soon,” she said and the two doctors walked away.
The wailing of other patients, the footsteps of the medical staff running around, clinking sound of medical instruments filled the room. But I felt complete calmness.
My own words and voice without my control began mingling on my mind.
(I don’t want anything anymore if I can only keep breathing and live. What else is there to want anyway?)
“Take it, take it, take it,” the voice was heard.
(What is it that I must take?) I wondered.
“Take it. Let’s call it love for now. Just take it,” the voice went on.
“You don’t have to be grateful for it because it’s love. Just take it.
“The more you take it, the more it’ll be given to you, because it’s love.
“It’s the source of your life – your new life. Just take it more and more.
“It’s the only thing you are allowed to be greedy for.”
The morning sunlight began spilling over the top of a building across the hospital compound and came in through the windows.
The pleasantness lingered on inside me and became stronger.
(All are beautiful. There is nothing that‘s not beautiful.)
I covered my face with my sleeve. I didn’t want the medical staff running around to notice my tears.
- Copyright, AshiAkira @AshiAkira, Shinjuku Ward, Tokyo, Japan - 2012
Biography: Born and raised in Tokyo, Japan. Studied in the US 1958-63.Worked for a news agency for about 30 years. After leaving the agency at the mandatory retirement age of 60, wrote two books and many haikus in English. Now trying “story-poems” in which things are written as seen or experienced as simply and directly to the point as possible. Had a “near-death” experience in Dec. 2012, out of which a story-poem “I Had an Asthma Attack” was composed.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
-Copyright Mart @martsarts, Alkmaar, Netherlands - 2013
Biography: I'm Mart from Holland. I love short verse - especially Haiku in combination with images to express my experiences and opinions. I begin first with a picture, and then with a poem. I enjoy twitter because of the 140 character limit, and publishing power. You can follow me on @martsarts, http://www.martsarts.nl and http://www.martsart.wordpress.com .
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Five Twitter Poems
The taste the summer moon --
it reminds me of your kiss
and black currant tea.
* * *
I dream of an ordinary day,
when a familiar silence settles
inside the curves of his arms
* * *
love is a silent dream, a fantasy
gleaming under the moon's gaze;
and hope is kept on the mantle shelf
like a bronze ornament.
* * *
a knot sits at the pit of my gut,
tight and heavy
like a fist full of rocks.
* * *
A world that is half full,
men terrorized by the glimpse of
nothingness, --
an empty, shapeless fear --
and yet, there is calmness,
an eerie silence.
- Copyright Helena Malheur, Florida, USA - 2012
Oh Love
Oh love! Would it be fair to love you so
as you know not where my heart’s desires lie?
Alone with the night, I am ever awake
climbing a dream like a skilled mountaineer
with reaching hopes; I live to love and
love to live your blues. And the world
is undoubtedly bluest at daylight’s break.
You hold the world in your palm, spin it
on your finger. Yet, I shan't overlook
your ambiguous words and un-tucked whims.
You mustn't talk foolishly whilst I lean
even more awkwardly forward, steadfast
and right. If you only seek possibilities
but nothing more, don’t despair;
I will forever be tender-hearted –
forgo temptations to breathe without you –.
My disobedience of reason will endure.
And the consumption of my heart, my soul,
shall fare to seek remedy from your embrace.
- Copyright Helena Malheur @Lady_Malheur, Florida, USA - 2012
Biography: Helena Malheur is a pseudonym – Helena (conscience in Amharic) and Malheur (unfortunate in French). As I tend to write dark (some may call it a bit morose) confessional style prose and poetry, I thought it befitting. I am a Project Manager / Systems Analyst by day and an avid fan of literature (mostly philosophy and poetry) and of course, writing by night. I have been writing ever since I can remember. I have lived in three countries and over 13 states since I was born in NYC; now I live in sunny Florida. I started my twitter account around two years ago and I enjoy it very much.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
For John
But what do you want?
Something that smells like cedar
and old books
comfortable and well-worn.
Perhaps a giant black bowl
of stars,
spilled across
a huge, wild moon.
I can give you all of it.
I can give you more
than you ever even knew
you desired.
I just need a swift jolt
of something
like blazing courage.
A reason
to shrug off the fear
and edge forward
.
.
.
into us.
- Copyright Rebecca T. Dickson @rebeccatdickson, New Hampshire, USA - 2012
Biography: Becky is an author, editor and writing coach. Her newest release, a novella titled 'Say My Name' is available on Amazon: http://tinyurl.com/9xq7bma. For more information on her works and her author services, visit http://rebeccatdickson.com.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Miserable and bare and alive
Strong at the root and beautiful to boot
A testimony to all that we must rest
To wake again and be the best
A tree in winter is a tree nevertheless
- Copyright John D. McGlacken @JohnDMcGlacken, Ireland - 2013
(Currently living in Argovia, Switzerland)
Biography: Hi! I’m John, an English teacher by choice and a wordsmith by birth – or maybe it’s the other way around! Seriously though, I love to write and have finished my first full-length novel, which is still in MS form waiting to be “discovered” by an agent. I used to write a lot of poetry as a kid and have dabbled in it since, but when Michelle offered me this chance, I jumped at it. The piece I’ve submitted was written in a few minutes when I was in a very dark place in my heart – some people call it depression, but I call it a cleansing of the soul, which is sort of what the piece is about. More importantly though, it a homage to trees which I love and respect. They give and seldom take – a noble plant if not a humble one. Thanks for reading!
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Barnacles on the world of illusions,
of brightly lit rooms,
of glass covered walls,
of ghostly receptions,
the Security Guard waits emotionless
- Copyright Noel Adams @Dangtastic, London, UK - 2013
Biography: Noel Adams is Northern Irish poet, currently living in London. He enjoys photography, reading, travelling, writing and updating blog. He is the Co-founder of PlanetStompers.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Sun sleeps while moon dances in dawns after glow
skipping will-o'-the-wisp off waves crest
softly caressing sandy flesh with wet kisses
- Copyright, Mark @TearlessPoet, Wilmignton, Delaware - USA 2013
Biography: Mark is a poet of sorts and admirer of artistic expression. He is currently pursuing a degree in web design. He is a loving son, brother, and father. He is constantly growing.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
catfish
his mustache
and mine
- Copyright, Ed Bremson @EdBremson, Raleigh, North Carolina - USA 2012
- - -
rippling the creek
like raindrops –
minnows
- Copyright, Ed Bremson@EdBremson, Raleigh, North Carolina - USA 2012
- - -
on my table –
Buddha
with his back turned
- Copyright, Ed Bremson@EdBremson, Raleigh, North Carolina - USA 2012
- - -
Biography: Ed Bremson is an award winning haiku poet and founder of Mijikai Haiku group on Facebook. He earned his BA in Philosophy from North Carolina State University, and his MFA in Creative Writing from National University. He has been writing and publishing poetry for more than forty years. His poems have appeared in Wisconsin Review, Luna Negra, Chapel Hill News and other journals. Recently he has published several best-selling poetry ebooks. Ed lives in Raleigh, North Carolina.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Now
Pristine
Snow Falling
Upon a Warm Earth
Melts
- Copyright Kim @kimmiechem2 - location undisclosed, 2012
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Biography: I'm Mart from Holland. I love short verse - especially Haiku in combination with images to express my experiences and opinions. I begin first with a picture, and then with a poem. I enjoy twitter because of the 140 character limit, and publishing power. You can follow me on @martsarts, http://www.martsarts.nl and http://www.martsart.wordpress.com .
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Five Twitter Poems
The taste the summer moon --
it reminds me of your kiss
and black currant tea.
* * *
I dream of an ordinary day,
when a familiar silence settles
inside the curves of his arms
* * *
love is a silent dream, a fantasy
gleaming under the moon's gaze;
and hope is kept on the mantle shelf
like a bronze ornament.
* * *
a knot sits at the pit of my gut,
tight and heavy
like a fist full of rocks.
* * *
A world that is half full,
men terrorized by the glimpse of
nothingness, --
an empty, shapeless fear --
and yet, there is calmness,
an eerie silence.
- Copyright Helena Malheur, Florida, USA - 2012
Oh Love
Oh love! Would it be fair to love you so
as you know not where my heart’s desires lie?
Alone with the night, I am ever awake
climbing a dream like a skilled mountaineer
with reaching hopes; I live to love and
love to live your blues. And the world
is undoubtedly bluest at daylight’s break.
You hold the world in your palm, spin it
on your finger. Yet, I shan't overlook
your ambiguous words and un-tucked whims.
You mustn't talk foolishly whilst I lean
even more awkwardly forward, steadfast
and right. If you only seek possibilities
but nothing more, don’t despair;
I will forever be tender-hearted –
forgo temptations to breathe without you –.
My disobedience of reason will endure.
And the consumption of my heart, my soul,
shall fare to seek remedy from your embrace.
- Copyright Helena Malheur @Lady_Malheur, Florida, USA - 2012
Biography: Helena Malheur is a pseudonym – Helena (conscience in Amharic) and Malheur (unfortunate in French). As I tend to write dark (some may call it a bit morose) confessional style prose and poetry, I thought it befitting. I am a Project Manager / Systems Analyst by day and an avid fan of literature (mostly philosophy and poetry) and of course, writing by night. I have been writing ever since I can remember. I have lived in three countries and over 13 states since I was born in NYC; now I live in sunny Florida. I started my twitter account around two years ago and I enjoy it very much.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
For John
But what do you want?
Something that smells like cedar
and old books
comfortable and well-worn.
Perhaps a giant black bowl
of stars,
spilled across
a huge, wild moon.
I can give you all of it.
I can give you more
than you ever even knew
you desired.
I just need a swift jolt
of something
like blazing courage.
A reason
to shrug off the fear
and edge forward
.
.
.
into us.
- Copyright Rebecca T. Dickson @rebeccatdickson, New Hampshire, USA - 2012
Biography: Becky is an author, editor and writing coach. Her newest release, a novella titled 'Say My Name' is available on Amazon: http://tinyurl.com/9xq7bma. For more information on her works and her author services, visit http://rebeccatdickson.com.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Miserable and bare and alive
Strong at the root and beautiful to boot
A testimony to all that we must rest
To wake again and be the best
A tree in winter is a tree nevertheless
- Copyright John D. McGlacken @JohnDMcGlacken, Ireland - 2013
(Currently living in Argovia, Switzerland)
Biography: Hi! I’m John, an English teacher by choice and a wordsmith by birth – or maybe it’s the other way around! Seriously though, I love to write and have finished my first full-length novel, which is still in MS form waiting to be “discovered” by an agent. I used to write a lot of poetry as a kid and have dabbled in it since, but when Michelle offered me this chance, I jumped at it. The piece I’ve submitted was written in a few minutes when I was in a very dark place in my heart – some people call it depression, but I call it a cleansing of the soul, which is sort of what the piece is about. More importantly though, it a homage to trees which I love and respect. They give and seldom take – a noble plant if not a humble one. Thanks for reading!
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Barnacles on the world of illusions,
of brightly lit rooms,
of glass covered walls,
of ghostly receptions,
the Security Guard waits emotionless
- Copyright Noel Adams @Dangtastic, London, UK - 2013
Biography: Noel Adams is Northern Irish poet, currently living in London. He enjoys photography, reading, travelling, writing and updating blog. He is the Co-founder of PlanetStompers.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Sun sleeps while moon dances in dawns after glow
skipping will-o'-the-wisp off waves crest
softly caressing sandy flesh with wet kisses
- Copyright, Mark @TearlessPoet, Wilmignton, Delaware - USA 2013
Biography: Mark is a poet of sorts and admirer of artistic expression. He is currently pursuing a degree in web design. He is a loving son, brother, and father. He is constantly growing.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
catfish
his mustache
and mine
- Copyright, Ed Bremson @EdBremson, Raleigh, North Carolina - USA 2012
- - -
rippling the creek
like raindrops –
minnows
- Copyright, Ed Bremson@EdBremson, Raleigh, North Carolina - USA 2012
- - -
on my table –
Buddha
with his back turned
- Copyright, Ed Bremson@EdBremson, Raleigh, North Carolina - USA 2012
- - -
Biography: Ed Bremson is an award winning haiku poet and founder of Mijikai Haiku group on Facebook. He earned his BA in Philosophy from North Carolina State University, and his MFA in Creative Writing from National University. He has been writing and publishing poetry for more than forty years. His poems have appeared in Wisconsin Review, Luna Negra, Chapel Hill News and other journals. Recently he has published several best-selling poetry ebooks. Ed lives in Raleigh, North Carolina.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Now
Pristine
Snow Falling
Upon a Warm Earth
Melts
- Copyright Kim @kimmiechem2 - location undisclosed, 2012
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Copyright Image: Ozlem Baro, Melbourne, AUS - 2012
Haiku 189
Thread of memory
like cool opalescent glass
until it splinters
- Copyright Ozlem Baro @MyHaikuProject, Melbourne, AUS – 2012
Biography: Ozlem Baro is a poet and photographer based in Melbourne. She wrote one haiku everyday for a year on Twitter and is now combining them with images in order to share her vision of the words. Every now and again she travels to obscure countries for adventures.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Haiku 189
Thread of memory
like cool opalescent glass
until it splinters
- Copyright Ozlem Baro @MyHaikuProject, Melbourne, AUS – 2012
Biography: Ozlem Baro is a poet and photographer based in Melbourne. She wrote one haiku everyday for a year on Twitter and is now combining them with images in order to share her vision of the words. Every now and again she travels to obscure countries for adventures.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
"The Lake" (Drawing) by Jason Bush @ainahainas, Minneapolis, MN – USA 2013
The Lake
welcome tears
bittersweet goodbye
i could tell you of a sunrise
morning mist broken by the bow
of my silent canoe
in the night the leaves shake
cool spaces between the faces of the forest
an eagle flies
start to thinking that his eyes
are clear as the moonlight
breathe a last song into the walls
from the porch through the kitchen
round the halls
i hope this castle stands strong and tall
now that is all
that i can sing
history is memory
souvenirs are windows
come and go like seasons of the heart
what we hold on to makes the spaces between us
further and further apart
it takes each tree to make the forest
see a river flowing through the lake timeless
from the ocean to the source
we all run our course
blind to the force
that binds us
a child has to cry
tears that will
reach to the ocean
- Copyright Jason Bush, @ainahainas Minneapolis, MN – USA 2013
Biography: Raised in Hawaii and transplanted in Minnesota, Jason works as a designer for retail and more. He is a songwriter, musician and art enthusiast. Jason loves to surf.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Big Belly Jazz: The Interlude
popping, be-bopping, step-hopping,
soul-gawking, flip-flopping, hey! this stopping?
no clocking this jazz,
plaster beats, jittering jives, licking keys,
for the cries,
oh scat solo! heat drives,
built stomping,
free lives!
undulating bodies, swaying, fleeting,
sketched pathways,
jotting, jetting,
no lies.
bellow clean from horns past
yellow-bellied, whipped, fast!
ravished stage, wrinkled deep,
sonic poet, claiming a seat,
fizzing
heavy;
quilted, seep
fuzz flannel on the drums, the criss-cross,
brush strokes; softly caressing,
wrapping drones, ricocheted bones,
frolicked deep between the tones.
- Copyright Michelle Vinci @mvinci, Vancouver, BC - CAN 2012
Biography: Michelle Vinci is a highschool teacher, poet, musician and organizer of The Global Twitter Community Poetry Project. Michelle has been published in literary magazines and online publications including New Shoots, Uprooted, Contemporary Literary Horizon and A Hopeful Sign. Her self-published compilation of poems, entitled This Cornered Hour (September 2011) may be purchased on Amazon and/or CreateSpace. She is a member of the Vancouver Orchestra Club, currently playing the tenor saxophone with three diverse groups: a local jazz combo, symphony, and jazz band. Michelle can be found tweeting poetry and other musings @mvinci or on herFacebook page.
The Lake
welcome tears
bittersweet goodbye
i could tell you of a sunrise
morning mist broken by the bow
of my silent canoe
in the night the leaves shake
cool spaces between the faces of the forest
an eagle flies
start to thinking that his eyes
are clear as the moonlight
breathe a last song into the walls
from the porch through the kitchen
round the halls
i hope this castle stands strong and tall
now that is all
that i can sing
history is memory
souvenirs are windows
come and go like seasons of the heart
what we hold on to makes the spaces between us
further and further apart
it takes each tree to make the forest
see a river flowing through the lake timeless
from the ocean to the source
we all run our course
blind to the force
that binds us
a child has to cry
tears that will
reach to the ocean
- Copyright Jason Bush, @ainahainas Minneapolis, MN – USA 2013
Biography: Raised in Hawaii and transplanted in Minnesota, Jason works as a designer for retail and more. He is a songwriter, musician and art enthusiast. Jason loves to surf.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Big Belly Jazz: The Interlude
popping, be-bopping, step-hopping,
soul-gawking, flip-flopping, hey! this stopping?
no clocking this jazz,
plaster beats, jittering jives, licking keys,
for the cries,
oh scat solo! heat drives,
built stomping,
free lives!
undulating bodies, swaying, fleeting,
sketched pathways,
jotting, jetting,
no lies.
bellow clean from horns past
yellow-bellied, whipped, fast!
ravished stage, wrinkled deep,
sonic poet, claiming a seat,
fizzing
heavy;
quilted, seep
fuzz flannel on the drums, the criss-cross,
brush strokes; softly caressing,
wrapping drones, ricocheted bones,
frolicked deep between the tones.
- Copyright Michelle Vinci @mvinci, Vancouver, BC - CAN 2012
Biography: Michelle Vinci is a highschool teacher, poet, musician and organizer of The Global Twitter Community Poetry Project. Michelle has been published in literary magazines and online publications including New Shoots, Uprooted, Contemporary Literary Horizon and A Hopeful Sign. Her self-published compilation of poems, entitled This Cornered Hour (September 2011) may be purchased on Amazon and/or CreateSpace. She is a member of the Vancouver Orchestra Club, currently playing the tenor saxophone with three diverse groups: a local jazz combo, symphony, and jazz band. Michelle can be found tweeting poetry and other musings @mvinci or on herFacebook page.
