Two Poems by Diane Webster

GOT TO GET OUT

The underground parking lot
screams in echoes
from top to bottom
in screeching curves
round and round
in a spiraling vortex
of constant wind
swirling down the drain
below the street to seep
like earthworms crawling
to the surface drowning
with seashell roar
rushing against current.

HAZE OF ALMOST

Every morning she graces
her front porch steps
with voluminous flows and folds
of summer nightgown
as she orgasmically smokes
her first cigarette of the day;
as night’s chill escapes
the concrete slab beneath
her bed-warm buttocks
and would purr like a November cat
curled up on a fireplace lap
so silent and still except
for the hand-to-lip ritual
exhaled like her dreams
in a haze of almost remembrance.

For 30 years Diane Webster has worked in a newspaper office. She enjoy drives in the mountains and looking for poetry ideas in everyday life. Her work has appeared in "The Common Ground Review," "The Hurricane Review" "Philadelphia Poets" and other literary magazines.

 

A Poem by Shellie Richards

 

ON THE WAY TO GAUTREAU’S

in NEW ORLEANS

 

I walk on up ahead of you

On the way to Gautreau’s

 

Across the street the butterscotch Greek revival is ablaze

with hot pink and white azaleas

The glossy lime of fresh boxwood hedges

caress my fingers and I hear

your footsteps behind me

And somewhere in the sound of the grinding gravel

the promise of your touch on my bare shoulders

You take my hand like a young lovebird

the faint smell of your perspiration hangs in the air between us…

and I am humming our national anthem and

looking at you in your navy blazer

- the gravitas with which you wore it –

 

Like you’re the next State Senator –

And for just a second my mind wanders and thoughts of the maybe years and what if times…

 

And thinking there are few things in this life as sexy as a boxwood hedge

except maybe you

On the way to Gautreau’s.

 

 

 

Shellie Richards’ work has previously appeared in Bartleby Snopes (winner, story of the month), the Belmont Literary Journal, The Chaffey Review and Vanderbilt University’s Tabula Rasa. She lives in Nashville with her husband and three children. She works at Vanderbilt University where she edits scientific papers for publication and is currently finishing an M.A. in English (writing) while working on her first novel.

Three Poems by Felino A. Soriano

Of bass

 

║12║

 

excursion of this cursive

fanciness

                        this

                                    spin of silk from hands or / of

                                    purposeful delusion

reinvented as

                                               whole

                                                                        compressions

used in the fantasy of

 

musical

 

indentations

 

presented as such a

newness

            created

            from

            formulated canvases

                                    stretched to condemn outward

predetermined

canards

 

 

║13║

 

                                                                                            in the

                                                                     harmony of

                                 this immanent

         thinking

              intrinsic

         structural

              momentums

          reenact

                      reactive spatial (renaming →the)

 

ornamentation

                                  wraps circa corporeal mentalities

                                  engaging thus meshing temporal participations

involving methods of

listening

within deciphering these

 

symptoms of elongated

                                                                          measures                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 

 

║14║

 

veracity            voluminous

                  sensitive                responsive

 

unbalance of notified cultural

imprisonme(a)nt

 

as relegated sustenance, hollowed

in the naming of various

legends

 

                                   approbated in the abbreviated freedom of

others’ definitional

confinement

 

 

 

Felino A. Soriano has authored 51 collections of poetry, including Of oscillating fathoms these nonverbal chants (Argotist Ebooks, 2012), Analyzed Depictions (white sky books, 2012) and Intentions of Aligned Demarcations (Desperanto, 2011). He publishes the online endeavors Counterexample Poetics and Differentia Press. His work finds foundation in philosophical studies and connection to various idioms of jazz music. He lives in California with his wife and family and is a case manager and advocate for adults with developmental and physical disabilities. For further information, please visit www.felinoasoriano.info.

A Poem by P.A. Levy

A Very Suburban Scene of Arcadia Avenue in Spring.

 

Looking out from a second storey window

onto clouds of pink blossom, a perspective distorted

when caught in such colour.

  (As if hand tinted for a dream.)

In the breeze these trees look like whispers of bouquets

pretending to be the song

of summers past and gone, but the melody

soon fades; it’s the realisation that this

can’t be set paperweight surreal in acetate.

 

The houses in neat rows, gables in lines of blank expressions

wear a sad countenance of resignation, so very unnatural,

but so are lies,

like the ones believed by the paving slabs

that life was eternal until they saw the cracks.

The dark line that zigzags through us all, and the gap

gets driven further apart by self seeding weeds

to nod their yellow heads and laugh at where the time goes.

 

  Time goes grey…

 

fades far away, like turning the volume down on life.

This unearthly silence is not town or country,

no traffic roar, no birdsong, just the gentle hum

of daisy cutters flexing their blades like savage weapons.

 

And some remember once, scenes of angels on the dancefloor,

  then again,

that could have been a myth created when they pulled the bandstand

down and the music stopped.

  Treading air.

  Standing still,

like two washed out milkbottles

watching grey time from the doorstep.

Patiently they sit in the shade under forsythia’s dying flame

saying nothing to each other.

 

 

 

Born East London but now residing amongst the hedge mumblers of rural Suffolk, P.A.Levy has been published in many magazines, from ‘A cappella Zoo’ to ‘Zygote In My Coffee’ and stations in-between. He is also a founding member of the Clueless Collective and can be found loitering on page corners and wearing hoodies at www.cluelesscollective.co.uk

Three Poems by Kevin Ridgeway

Staring at Dogs

The cloth mural sits over
my desk, having dwelled
in this room for decades

dogs playing pool,
smoking cigars,
drinking beer
and staring out
at me vacantly

as a child,
I thought dogs
could smoke
and drink beer
and play billiards

as an adult,
in times of boredom,
especially,
I am one hundred
percent convinced
these dogs have
seen more secrets told
and more
nightmarish scenes
of debauchery
in this lonely room
than I ever will
in my lifetime

so I light a cigarette,
swig a beer
and stare at them
until they all blend
together into one
six-headed super beast
of vice and sin
and I glance at my
hand, which is beginning
to resemble a worn paw


Dollar Store Blues

around the corner from my house
sits a massive discount palace
flooded by people at all hours of the day

one day, while perusing the dented cans
of lima beans and the tattered boxes of oatmeal,
a man approached me with a jug of wine
in one hand and a large knife in the other

“This is the only place where you can
get drunk and get a nice sharp knife,”
he whispered to me
fumes of alcohol escaping his
overgrown mustachioed mouth

I wondered to myself if he was
going to kill someone in a
snockered rage and I try to
comfort myself with the thought
that a person could get drunk
and kill someone
for only two dollars,
which, when you think about it,
is a real bargain in these
tight financial times


Layover

Claustrophobia kicks in once
the sleepy feet
of this worn
post-vacation traveler drag
resembling
the stomping,
chaotic drunken
hesitation of
a bloated
Frankenstein monster
out the gate and
spilling into the
great throat of the
airport terminal where
newspapers flutter,
stained butterflies
of ink and bad news
abbreviated lives
are rolled in luggage
of all shapes and sizes

people of all colors and
blemishes mill about,
awaiting their exit from
this temporary depot into
the mighty skies above
the continent and the oceans
to scattered destinations
across the country and the world


hung over from over consumption,
covered in red mosquito
bite dots in thong sandals that
breathe itchy death against
the toxins of every fuming
soul and their swarm of germs,
I retreat to the nearest shop
and overdose on vitamin C
praying that I make my
connection on time,
bound for the California
shore and far away from
this southern Atlantic
nightmare of iron birds,
peppered accents and drunken
mid-morning mimosa arguments
travelers on their way to
the paradise of vacation
while my paradise has wilted
into weeds bound for
the reality of home

I sit upright in my chair,
the plane jostles violently
into the air and curves over
the rippling waves of the
ocean and the tentacles growing
in my brain swim as I clamor
for the paper bag folded in
the compartment between
my shivering knees



Kevin Ridgeway is a writer from Southern California, where he resides in a shady bungalow with his girlfriend and their one-eyed cat. Recent work has appeared in Emerge Literary Journal, Underground Voices and Gutter Eloquence Magazine. His chapbook of poetry, Burn through Today, is now available from Flutter Press.

A Poem by Gale Acuff

Volare

 

One day I'll go see God, Miss Hooker says.

She should know--she's my Sunday School teacher.

She means when I'm dead, a long time from now

I hope. I'm only 10, she's 25,

so she'll get there sooner, by fifteen years

unless something bad happens to either

of us and we don't die of natural

old age, some accident that kills her or

me, or maybe even both of us. Sure,

God is good and His mercy endureth

forever and all that but I don't want

to die at all, not even if it means

 

I'd live forever, my soul that is--I

like my body, too, but Miss Hooker says

that there's no room for it in Heaven and

besides I'll get an all-new one but it

won't be like my body here, it will be

no thicker than a soul, I guess. I'll be

like a ghost, kind of invisible and

without blond hair and green eyes and freckles.

Well, actually they're hazel, my eyes

I mean. I don't mind living forever

as long as it's on earth, the only place

I've ever known, for as long as I can

remember. Who knows where I was before

 

--maybe Heaven again. If so, I've lost

my memory, or maybe I wasn't

anything before I was born. I asked

Father and Mother again at supper

last night and Mother said, That's a good one,

and Father said, Not that one now--eat your

beans, which means that he doesn't know, either.

I don't really know how babies get here

but somehow my folks are responsible

for me but they're not talking. Miss Hooker

probably knows but I doubt she'll tell me

anything that isn't in the Bible

 

and I'll bet that's not. In Sunday School this

morning we sang "Onward, Christian Soldiers,"

a number about soldiers without guns

and who won't kill so they don't stand much chance

in battle, poor guys, unless God helps them

and Jesus and the Holy Ghost pitch in.

Then we said the Lord's Prayer and went home.

I could've been killed crossing the highway

to our house. Miss Hooker could've gotten

smashed to smithereens by a Red Ball van

as she was driving her Volare home.

Down here I hope that didn't happen but

if it did then up there, in Heaven, she's

happy, I hope. And to complicate things

 

unless I cut down on my sinning then

I'll go to Hell, she says, and be living

forever but eternally condemned

and tortured endlessly by Satan, which

sounds mighty rough but not much different

from school, just more fiery flames maybe.

So Heaven's probably the place to be

at least until after I graduate

and won't get picked on or flunk quizzes or

throw up my lunch during recess or girls

won't laugh when I tell them they're beautiful

or I lose my milk-and-cookie money

 

or fall asleep during history class

and get licked in exchange for one short dream

or get caught thumbing through Deadman in class.

I'd like to live forever but not long.

Grandpa's 92. Sometimes he funks out

--I can't remember shit, he moans. I wish

I was dead. So I tell him, Believe me,

it's not what folks make it out to be, like

I'm dead myself and here to tell him. Then

he remembers who I am, and tells me.

 

 

 

 Gale Acuff has had poetry published in Ascent, Ohio Journal, Descant, Adirondack Review, Ottawa Arts Review, Worcester Review, Maryland Poetry Review, Florida Review, South Carolina Review, Arkansas Review, Carolina Quarterly, Poem, South Dakota Review, Santa Barbara Review, Sequential Art Narrative in Education, and many other journals. He has authored three books of poetry: Buffalo Nickel (BrickHouse Press, 2004), The Weight of the World (BrickHouse, 2006), and The Story of My Lives (BrickHouse, 2008).

Gale has taught university English in the US, China, and the Palestinian West Bank.

Two Poems by Ashley Fisher

Muse

We didn't meet the day after he
found you, his new muse, who
would be painted for the price
of a cup of tea. You were sure
that this flaneur was your way out,

he even provided a constant supply
of tobacco (though he viewed the
need with disdain). But by May
your novelty had worn off,
his exhibition had been a success

and his artistic mission was
complete. And I would happily
shared a stale roll-up with
you as we sat in the rain
on a town centre bench.




Uckaluk

Sailing from Greenland
you came with your husband,
part documentary,
part penny-gaffe curio.
You were paraded with native
costume and paraphernalia
throughout
the north of England.
Onlookers would pay
a shilling each to witness
the exotic travellers from
the Cumberland Straits.

Before you left,
they cast your heads
in plaster as a memento
for the people of Hull,
and gave gifts for your return.
But you never reached Nyatlick,
being burned up by fever,
leaving only
your bust in a museum's
glass casing, immune
to any virus or
inconvenient sense of self.



Ashley Fisher is a UK based poet and performer. He runs the Fresh Ink
Open Mic nights in Hull and co-edits the poetry magazine Turbulence.
His poetry has been published in magazines and journals on three
continents. His first chapbook, “Dead Crabs”, was published by Fire
Hazard in 2011. His website can be found at www.ashleyfisher.co.uk

Three Poems by Stephen Jarrell Williams

Every Night I Dream

Walking down streets
empty of traffic and intruders
I seek a glance of your silhouette
in a window
in the distance
when we were young
and could run away
from everything
before the mist turned to rain
and the neon lights broke
into a long drone of thunder.


Nightly

I tried to climb inside her.
Too near the sky she was.
So I settled...
listening to her holy song
sweeping through the tree leaves,
grass fields, and flower of my soul.


Help Us Through This

Hear our cries
in the middle of the night
and dust of day.
Help us through this
Babylon.


Stephen Jarrell Williams loves to stay up all night and write with lightning bolts until they fizzle down behind the dark horizon. His poetry has recently appeared in a handful of stones, The Camel Saloon, The Rainbow Rose, protestpoems, Black-Listed Magazine, BoySlut, Orion headless, The Carnage Conservatory, and Aphelion.

He is the editor of Dead Snakes at http://deadsnakes.blogspot.com/

Two Poems by Paul David Adkins

THE TOY SAFE, 1967

 

My brother buried it in our yard,

then forgot the spot.

If you find it? — The five bucks inside is yours.

With metal detector and trowel,

I unearthed ten coins,

four cans, one cap.

Dirt piles marred lawn.

Mom snatched me up,

shoved me inside.

I knew it was there --

that safe now cradling dust

and a doily knit from green lace.

 

 

 

PHARMACEUTICALS

 

Abarelix, bismuth,

leperudin, doxepin –

Such beautiful names

they might be flowers,

releasing seed in streams

they bloom beside.

Glimiperide, esmolol,

riluzole, tygecycline.

They could be hardwood trees,

scientific names for winds

or galaxies.

The things we ponder, fear

as human – clouds

transformed to heads

and hands,

caw of crow

mimicking my mother –

Bob Bob Bob –

branch tapping window

with a black

curled nail.

 

 

 

Paul David Adkins grew up in South Florida and lives in New York.

Two Poems by Valentina Cano

 

A Regret

 

Now I know what

you meant to say

that day with the clouds

in your mouth.

I know you were choking

on gray thoughts,

fearing there’d be no way

of ever saying them.

I wish I’d torn open a vein,

red and hot like boiling cinnamon,

and let you see that my insides

were just as dark,

just as pulsing as yours.

 

 

Shared Night

 

The man screamed,

a jackal of fears

ripping the night in two.

She woke,

leaping into consciousness

so quickly she bounced

off it and landed

in the dark half of her mind.

Experimenting with inky pools.

The two of them shook

like bells that night,

ringing the morning closer.

 

 

Valentina Cano is a student of classical singing who spends whatever free time either writing or reading. Her works have appeared in Exercise Bowler, Blinking Cursor, Theory Train, Cartier Street Press, Berg Gasse 19, Precious Metals, A Handful of Dust, The Scarlet Sound, The Adroit Journal, Perceptions Literary Magazine, Welcome to Wherever, The Corner Club Press, Death Rattle, Danse Macabre, Subliminal Interiors, Generations Literary Journal, Super Poetry Highway, Stream Press, Stone Telling, Popshot, Golden Sparrow Literary Review, Rem Magazine, Structo, The 22 Magazine, The Black Fox Literary Magazine, Niteblade, Tuck Magazine, Ontologica, Congruent Spaces Magazine, Pipe Dream, Decades Review, Anatomy, Lowestof Chronicle, Muddy River Poetry Review, Lady Ink Magazine, White Masquerade Anthology and Perhaps I'm Wrong About the World. You can find her here: http://carabosseslibrary.blogspot.com

Two Poems by Yevgeniy Levitskiy

Re-Evaluating Existence

I lost the skeletons in my closet and

dusted off the cobwebs in my mind.

With this wonderful pre-existing idea,

I’ve evaluated the stems of cut-throat

flowers and dived into the obese sea.

No longer dividing existence by days

and numbers of a Mayan calendar,

keeping integrity at any cost.

Believing in truth is suffice to say,

that her arrival will repair bridges and

brain cells.

For it is all determined by the unspoken

word in my household,

which they pray to appear before me,

in some shape, form or size.

Normal Conversations

Normal conversations are those

that involve interpretations of

minds and souls,

when thoughts are

simple matter

that don’t involve

parental obligations, favors

or permission.

It’s similar to head hunters

in Africa or palm reading gypsies,

the believable tales of

miracles, and yet nothings

never been recorded,

except for bibles and

other archaic books.

Religion has no place

in modern society,

for how can people

believe in the same

thing the Mayans

and Egyptians

prayed to?

Sun and rain gods

partying with

foreign deities.

But then I remember,

Reclining my head on

the plexiglas window,

and for once,

thinking I was in…

Yevgeniy Levitskiy has received a B.A. in English-Education from Brooklyn College, and is currently pursuing a M.A. His writing has been published numerous times in The Junction. His forthcoming publications include The Books They Gave Me (Free Press/Simon & Schuster), Maggot Bible, and Eunoia Review. He is currently at work on his second novel.

Two Poems by Dr. Ernest Williamson III

Cleanin' House

better daze
summer in autumn
corrosive headwinds
landing in dreams,
held in arms of chipped trees;
spruces were timetables of minced mustard seeds
bleeding from the orifice in hulk and blasting prodding lent.
better daze
comin' my way.
winter in spring
damaging racial spatial slurs;
marked with smut and planked scratches on parched
wood and stony rock;
swindlers and liars
leadin' me into the wasted new world,
but the blues is chewing my sores
so better days are comin'.
but not now
so I lean with glossy wine
waitin' on the street corner
dividing the prayers I've thrown
over and under the bridge
in better daze;
in better mocks of folk songs,
and corporate wrongs.
so
so long
to goodbyes
since I still have till sunrise
to shut up
and
die.



Peeling Gray Apples

acid from my eyes
melts the snow.
hemlock and bonfires erupt
in mid air.
spoken word,
poetry has lifted callow bricks
brick red
dead roads
leading to what we reap.
inside I've wrestled with terrorists
germs
inebriated coughing
deep bursting ash
from broken ties.
why must we bomb the earth again!
in the same places
places common
with grinding
grit.
pulse feeds no man.
in these days,
poets fill up Abbey Road
to find no
red wine,
just drips of water
making rhythm
with one too many
smiling
sinks.
the trees have titled downwardly
moaning for fruit,
for logic
for law
for order
for God.



Dr. Ernest Williamson III has published poetry and visual art in over 380 national and international online and print journals. Some of Dr. Williamson's visual art and/or poetry has been published in journals representing over 30 colleges and universities around the world.His poetry has been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology three times.Dr. Williamson teaches at Nyack College in Manhattan, New York and at Essex County College. Visit Dr. Williamson's website: www.yessy.com/budicegenius

Three Poems by Mike Berger

Fire Storm


Blackened rubble lay where my home
had been. Fire had destroyed everything.
There were no words of comfort me.

Orders to evacuate had come none to
soon; the flames glowed in the night sky.
Black smoke hung heavy; it stuck in my
throat. Wincing as the heavy shroud stung
my eyes.

The forest was ablaze; swirling orange
flames filled the black sky. Popping and
snapping of burning scrub echoed in my
ears,

I joined the snaggle toothed caravan heading
across the flats. We took shelter in a school
cafeteria. The served up lunch but I couldn’t
eat.

Three days later I went back. There are no
words to describe the agony ricocheting in my
gut. All that I owned and treasured are gone
in a wisp of smoke. I wiped the tears from
my eyes. Too damned hurt to rebuild.




Darkened Earth


Suddenly, the lonesome valley burst
into light as lightning stair stepped
from the sky. A stunted juniper tree
exploded into flame.

Sparks were a thousand fireflies
doing a gypsy dance. Orange
tongue stabbed the evening skies.
Live sparks drifted--settling into
tinder dry grass erupting
into flame. The crackling was
a million crickets singing a
woeful song.

Fiery grasses torched other
junipers. The darkening sky was
ablaze with orange mixed with
dull gray smoke. A sleeping owl
awoke and took to flight, chased
by wicked flames.

There was a bizarre hissing as
the rain began to fall. The fire was
no match for that torrent; it flickered
and went out, but in its wake stark
goblins, pointed arms piercing the
sky and leaving an ocean of black.
Miles of juniper trees are gone.



Fire Mind


Fire rages without smoke;
flames lap that green water.

Sparks ascend rattling windows;
wiseman voices turn stone.

Drinking wisdom from the cliffs above,
it leaches into iconoclastic soil.

The eye of the oracle is blind; a
defiant rose delights hedonistic eyes.

The hand of a lover trembles as
tulips wither and die.

Time stand still; sands in the
hourglass refuse to fall.

The ancient guru whispers perfidy;
the dark abyss is made of glass.



Mike Berger is an MFA, PhD. He writes poetry and short stories full time
He has been writing poetry for less than four years. His work appear
in seventy-one journals. He has published two books of short stories
and eight poetry chapbooks .He is a member of The Academy of American
Poets.

A Poem by Jacqueline Markowski

Charlie Horse

 

I can see you spilling, like sour milk,

into the room through the crack

beneath the door. You incubate,

blatantly ignorant to what frightens

her at night, who her best friend is, why

she likes the color green so much.

It’s easier this way, I can smell

your selfish essence through

 

the reasons you utter when shame presses

you to give them. She is yours, you say,

like a possession, a doll. You need her,

you admit; she needs you, a broth you pour

when it’s convenient, never supposing

a stain might set. You don’t even know

she got her first hair cut. If you could see

 

her, holding tight to a balloon

you gave her nine months ago,

pretending it still floats. She talks

about you… about that time

she rode a horse named Charlie

and you stood in the shade

watching, pale with paranoia, exhausted

by the energy spent not knowing.

You preach at her that you’re her father—

No one else is Daddy… you say

sternly. She thinks she’s done something

wrong; she won’t trust her instincts

 

next time. Daddy means something different

to her than it does to her friends. It means:

 

sometimes, not for long, hotel rooms, promises

spent like pennies in a fountain. She

uses plain language to describe a father

who sleeps on the floor by her bed

when she’s frightened,

who bathes her, who reads her stories every

night, even when she doesn’t ask. Simpler words,

 

so that she doesn’t fail you, so that maybe

you’ll come back sooner. I stand off

to the side, mute like an unwound clock.

Nothing comes naturally, no excuses,

no reasons. Only regret. I kiss her

instincts, hoping maybe in time they’ll grow

back, hoping muscles sore

from the unforgiving saddle heal

quickly. If nothing else, hoping

the burlap of her plain language

doesn’t wear through like most

things do, meaning less than her

original intent. 

 

 

 

Jacqueline Markowski is a writer of poetry and short stories. She lives in Charlotte, NC where she divides her time between writing and being a homeschooling mother. Her poetry has appeared in Chronogram Magazine, Cochlea/The Neovictorian and Permafrost Literary Journal. She was awarded first place in poetry during the 2006 Sandhills Writers Conference. She is currently working on a compilation of short stories but who’s she kidding- she’ll never finish. 

Two Poems by Colin James

THE SYNONYMOUS SUBCONSCIOUS


Urgency is still used
as an aphrodisiac at work.
The worthy are transported
through the back lots of depression
known to propagate like goosebumps
at the inference of touch.
No need to flail,
we're all ingenious here.
Dramatic posteriors
dip in and out
of the steward's stem.
We could have a whip-round,
the outermost hand
grabbing what it can,
laboriously passing it back
to the centrifugal figure.
Rectal red, getting whiter.



NIGHT SHIFT

Baby, no use pretending
you don't have that sour night breath.
Kierkegaard of the neighborhood,
lambaster of the necessary.
Be thankful for
your far-out itinerary.



Colin James has poems forthcoming in Nazar Look and Eudice...........

Three Poems by Dr. Vivekanand Jha

Smothering

Tethering under troubles,

trials and tribulations

widow neither lives nor dies

like a criminal sentenced

to rigorous imprisonment.

She keeps on burning into

two never extinguishing fires:

One within and other outside;

Like weakling man

Walking over a narrow ridge

That separates two deadly ditches.

The first fire caught the day

she lost her love, a stimulus to live

and meaning to life.

The other conflagrated by the spark

of stigmatic taunts of fellows or friends.

As radar keeps surveillance on airborne

So she is ogled by lecherous or vulgar eyes

from social forum to sanctorum.

She put up all persecutions passively

peeping through the orphan pane

like the fishes, snared into net,

remain restless and desperately stare.

Calamitous carnage

The poet of the cosmos

Composes metaphysical poetry:

Heavily loaded with obscurities

And far-fetched conceits;

Though a handful of avid readers

See through the styles, techniques,

Figures-metaphors employed by the Lord

And paraphrase them into their mind.

But remain passive onlookers and dare not

to spread the Poet’s connotation to the sea

of people who only adore poetasters.

Who only compose global warming,

Ecological crises, population explosion,

Rapes, pollution, corruptions,

moral degradations or misconducts.

Which reach in the hands of the readers

in the guise of tempest, hurricane,

flood, drought, quake, bloodshed,

landslide or other calamitous carnage.

The Burning Train

It’s breezy night,

My friend, appealing and gymnast,

Sitting on platform in resplendent ride

anxiously waiting for train to arrive.

Though train in motion was delayed

There arrived a train in passion

Gently in the gesticulation of gay,

Sat beside him for something to say.

First he shared what a co-traveler should

Next he exchanged what a reveler would.

He crept his hands like tortoise

towards touchy limb of my friend

My friend too was running short of leisure

That a traveler should have

When train’s timing is not in favour.

My friend displays his warm generosity

To the immediate and impending priority.

Dr. Vivekanand Jha is a translator, editor and award winning poet from India. He is Diploma in Electronics and Communication Engineering, Certificate in Computer Hardware and Networking, MA and Ph. D in English. He is a contributing poet to Wavelengths –2011 Savant Anthology of Poetry (USA) which has won first place in the 2011 London Book Festival. He has been Poetry Contest Winner-Third Place Winner for the poem “Hands Heave to Harm and Hamper”conducted by Beginners®, a documentary, graphic, nonfiction book series (USA). His poem, “Song of Woes” was featured in the 10 Selected Poems for Performance & 10 Selected Poems for Award in 2nd Korea-Nigeria Poetry Feast on 21st March 2012 organized by the Korean Cultural Centre Nigeria. He is the author of five books of poetry. He has also edited two critical anthologies on Indian English Novels. His works have been published in more than seventy five magazines round the world. Besides his poems have been chosen and published in more than fifteen poetry anthologies. He has more than twenty research and critical articles published in various national and international anthologies and referred journals. He is son of noted professor, poet and award winning translator Dr. Rajanand Jha (Crowned with Sahitya Akademi Award, New Delhi).

Website: http://poetvjha.wordpress.com

Two Poems by Neil Ellman

Elegy for Charles Bukowski

Much said

so many

   words from an open wound

                 pained

              biting hard

           teeth on flesh

       till more than words

           consonants torn

            from bone

          and every day

spoke as if the world were

       he

spit inquisitions of the soul

drowned in sacraments

     of wine

and then

the end

on staggering feet

still unrhymed.

All Saints I

(after the painting by Wassily Kandinsky)

Out of nothingness

nothing

zero

the shape of air

fire

kissing soundless lips

the saints of exasperation

red yellow blue

no shape

no words

flash

endless prayers

to empty space

Neil Ellman lives and writes in New Jersey. With almost 500 published poems to his credit, his work appears throughout the world, from Australia to Zimbabwe. The latest of his eight chapbooks, Convergence and Conversion, is just out from The Knives Forks and Spoons Press in the United Kingdom.