Contributor: Utari V. Caircannon
- -
I raised my daughter to carry a sword
I raised my daughter to laugh in the rain
I raised my daughter to be the thunder
I raised my daughter to be the flame
Then came the dawning
Her rise into the light
She became his sky full of stars
He became her night
I held her when she fell to earth
I held her while the wind whipped the trees
I held her through the storms
I helped her stand when storms gave way to breeze.
I raised my daughter to carry a sword
And again she laughs full-faced in the rain.
Again, she is the thunder,
Again, she is the flame.
- - -
Pages
▼
Saturday, November 30, 2019
Friday, November 29, 2019
To My Dear Knight
Contributor: Arlene Antoinette
- -
There’s a chink forming in your brilliant armor,
as you fight those ferocious dragons. Don’t
become fearful as you continue on with your
quest. You don’t need to be perfect; you
just need to believe you can make a difference,
as I believe you will.
- - -
Arlene writes poetry, flash fiction and song lyrics. Additional work may be found @ Your Daily Poem, Foxglove Journal, Mojave Heart Review and Cagibi Magazine.
- -
There’s a chink forming in your brilliant armor,
as you fight those ferocious dragons. Don’t
become fearful as you continue on with your
quest. You don’t need to be perfect; you
just need to believe you can make a difference,
as I believe you will.
- - -
Arlene writes poetry, flash fiction and song lyrics. Additional work may be found @ Your Daily Poem, Foxglove Journal, Mojave Heart Review and Cagibi Magazine.
Thursday, November 28, 2019
The Lovers' Park
Contributor: Pranab Ghosh
- -
The darkness all around.
The benches, the cool
Evening air, the seated
Figures hugging each
Other’s soul and feeling
An unworldly comfort.
The dim light adding
To the darkness around;
The pangs, the sighs of the
Shadowy figures, the
Agony of being close to
Each other and the ecstasy,
Created by the illusion
That time indeed can
Stand still in the shade
Of the lonely casuarinas
Planted by the walkways
At equal distance, creating
A net of secrecy, underneath,
By the side and behind,
Where they lock lips
And forget the pangs
Of fleeting time that
Separates their souls
And their bodies, as they
Long for the park, which
They turn into their homes,
Without the limiting walls, and
The trees, as their nets,
To hide themselves from
The jealous stare of the
Civilization, where they can
Return, evening after evening
To find solace to their bruised
Existence that struggles to
Survive in the slowed-down
World, where prices, bills, taxes
Rise higher than the tallest
Building in the city, two blocks
Away and opposite to their
Lovely open-air studio apartment!
- - -
Pranab Ghosh is a journalist and poet. His poems have been published in several international magazines. His second book of poems Soul Searching and other Poems was published by a Toronto-based publishing house.
- -
The darkness all around.
The benches, the cool
Evening air, the seated
Figures hugging each
Other’s soul and feeling
An unworldly comfort.
The dim light adding
To the darkness around;
The pangs, the sighs of the
Shadowy figures, the
Agony of being close to
Each other and the ecstasy,
Created by the illusion
That time indeed can
Stand still in the shade
Of the lonely casuarinas
Planted by the walkways
At equal distance, creating
A net of secrecy, underneath,
By the side and behind,
Where they lock lips
And forget the pangs
Of fleeting time that
Separates their souls
And their bodies, as they
Long for the park, which
They turn into their homes,
Without the limiting walls, and
The trees, as their nets,
To hide themselves from
The jealous stare of the
Civilization, where they can
Return, evening after evening
To find solace to their bruised
Existence that struggles to
Survive in the slowed-down
World, where prices, bills, taxes
Rise higher than the tallest
Building in the city, two blocks
Away and opposite to their
Lovely open-air studio apartment!
- - -
Pranab Ghosh is a journalist and poet. His poems have been published in several international magazines. His second book of poems Soul Searching and other Poems was published by a Toronto-based publishing house.
Wednesday, November 27, 2019
Lover's Crescendo
Contributor: Bruce Levine
- -
The last ember of solitude
Racks my brain
The frozen stillness
As I walk my dog
In the frigid hour after midnight
At the end of January
Days pass with unearthly speed
As time enfolds the lovers
In its embrace
And light the way across the crevasse
Of uncertainty
Leading the way
Holding hands
Never-ending ribbons of golden thread
Wrapped in the silent clothes of ecstasy
As the frantic pace of civilization
Consumes the hours
Leaving only the last embers
To warm the souls
Of those who remember
Those who hold dear
A time when daydreams met reality
That lasted into eternity
- - -
Bruce Levine, a 2019 Pushcart Prize Poetry Nominee, has spent his life as a writer of fiction and poetry and as a music and theatre professional. His literary catalogue includes four novels, short stories, humorous sketches, flash fiction, poetry, essays, articles and a screenplay. Nearly one-hundred-fifty of his works are published in over twenty-five on-line journals including Ariel Chart, Friday Flash Fiction, Literally Stories; over thirty print books including Poetry Quarterly, Haiku Journal, Dual Coast Magazine, and his shows have been produced in New York and around the country. His seven eBooks are available from Amazon.com. His work is dedicated to the loving memory of his late wife, Lydia Franklin. He lives in New York with his dog, Daisy. Visit him at www.brucelevine.com.
- -
The last ember of solitude
Racks my brain
The frozen stillness
As I walk my dog
In the frigid hour after midnight
At the end of January
Days pass with unearthly speed
As time enfolds the lovers
In its embrace
And light the way across the crevasse
Of uncertainty
Leading the way
Holding hands
Never-ending ribbons of golden thread
Wrapped in the silent clothes of ecstasy
As the frantic pace of civilization
Consumes the hours
Leaving only the last embers
To warm the souls
Of those who remember
Those who hold dear
A time when daydreams met reality
That lasted into eternity
- - -
Bruce Levine, a 2019 Pushcart Prize Poetry Nominee, has spent his life as a writer of fiction and poetry and as a music and theatre professional. His literary catalogue includes four novels, short stories, humorous sketches, flash fiction, poetry, essays, articles and a screenplay. Nearly one-hundred-fifty of his works are published in over twenty-five on-line journals including Ariel Chart, Friday Flash Fiction, Literally Stories; over thirty print books including Poetry Quarterly, Haiku Journal, Dual Coast Magazine, and his shows have been produced in New York and around the country. His seven eBooks are available from Amazon.com. His work is dedicated to the loving memory of his late wife, Lydia Franklin. He lives in New York with his dog, Daisy. Visit him at www.brucelevine.com.
Tuesday, November 26, 2019
A Mortal Owl
Contributor: Billie Elizabeth Zehendler
- -
Why flies the owl? I think I know.
because it makes him happy
full of joy, like a vivid rainbow,
I watch and wish I could take wing
so easily.
The only other sound is the break,
of distant waves and birds awake
to sing the coming dawn
into being.
I would sing
if I too could take wing
lift freezing feet
from fetid soil
and see what lays beyond
the reddening rim of dawn.
- - -
- -
Why flies the owl? I think I know.
because it makes him happy
full of joy, like a vivid rainbow,
I watch and wish I could take wing
so easily.
The only other sound is the break,
of distant waves and birds awake
to sing the coming dawn
into being.
I would sing
if I too could take wing
lift freezing feet
from fetid soil
and see what lays beyond
the reddening rim of dawn.
- - -
Monday, November 25, 2019
In Vino Veritas
Contributor: Gregory Z. Farelite
- -
My passion is an amber wave
I crave that liquid love
that gilt, gilt washing
the sloshing and the swashing
of time and mind
distilled in sweet bee brew
so strong it leaves me burning
burning for this, for words, for more
and the waves come and come
and I bottle it all for myself
sharing only scant sips with others
for fear I might one day go without
that liquid gold
and be beached dry without mead
without the me I am
when I drink myself
to the true side
of who I really want to be.
- - -
I run everywhere instead of walking; saves on gym bills and keeps the diets away.
- -
My passion is an amber wave
I crave that liquid love
that gilt, gilt washing
the sloshing and the swashing
of time and mind
distilled in sweet bee brew
so strong it leaves me burning
burning for this, for words, for more
and the waves come and come
and I bottle it all for myself
sharing only scant sips with others
for fear I might one day go without
that liquid gold
and be beached dry without mead
without the me I am
when I drink myself
to the true side
of who I really want to be.
- - -
I run everywhere instead of walking; saves on gym bills and keeps the diets away.
Sunday, November 24, 2019
Late Year Yields
Contributor: Wisen Erlach
- -
In a kingdom full of eucalypts
eagerly I looked for the vines
for the hickories beyond blooming
for the dogwoods twixt the pines
but the wild grapes had all gone barren
all I found was a handful of hardened blackberries
took home what I could not chew
only this and a sagging bayberry.
- - -
- -
In a kingdom full of eucalypts
eagerly I looked for the vines
for the hickories beyond blooming
for the dogwoods twixt the pines
but the wild grapes had all gone barren
all I found was a handful of hardened blackberries
took home what I could not chew
only this and a sagging bayberry.
- - -
Saturday, November 23, 2019
Never Enough Pills
Contributor: Korven V. Keown
- -
On that day my soul grew splendid
corpulent and fetid
"Take the moonlight from out my heart"
I cried
as I threw my night upon the floor
lay waiting upon the morrow
and your gaze
and the causes, never willing
still they're killing
still they're killing
the us we loved
the me you needed
and all the wet pain
I twist within
and you between.
- - -
Korven is slow to trust other people, but gladly pens poetry for people he will never meet. He occasionally quotes his father.
- -
On that day my soul grew splendid
corpulent and fetid
"Take the moonlight from out my heart"
I cried
as I threw my night upon the floor
lay waiting upon the morrow
and your gaze
and the causes, never willing
still they're killing
still they're killing
the us we loved
the me you needed
and all the wet pain
I twist within
and you between.
- - -
Korven is slow to trust other people, but gladly pens poetry for people he will never meet. He occasionally quotes his father.
Friday, November 22, 2019
Her Birthday – November 22nd
Contributor: Bruce Levine
- -
A special day
A wondrous day
A profound day
A day filled with happy moments
Of hope for the future
A day filled with sadness
And reflections of the past
Opening a window
Turning the key in the lock
That closes the door
And opens on the other side
Of the ocean
A chasm crossed physically
And metaphorically
A lifetime ahead
Filled with hope and dreams
Love and laughter
A special day
A wondrous day
A profound day
- - -
Bruce Levine, a native Manhattanite, has spent his life as a writer of fiction and poetry and as a music and theatre professional. His literary catalogue includes four novels, short stories, humorous sketches, flash fiction, poetry, essays, magazine articles and a screenplay His works are published in over twenty-five on-line journals, over twenty-five books and his shows have been produced in New York and around the country. His work is dedicated to the loving memory of his late wife, Lydia Franklin, and his wife Jane. He lives in New York with Jane and their dog, Daisy. Visit him at www.brucelevine.com.
- -
A special day
A wondrous day
A profound day
A day filled with happy moments
Of hope for the future
A day filled with sadness
And reflections of the past
Opening a window
Turning the key in the lock
That closes the door
And opens on the other side
Of the ocean
A chasm crossed physically
And metaphorically
A lifetime ahead
Filled with hope and dreams
Love and laughter
A special day
A wondrous day
A profound day
- - -
Bruce Levine, a native Manhattanite, has spent his life as a writer of fiction and poetry and as a music and theatre professional. His literary catalogue includes four novels, short stories, humorous sketches, flash fiction, poetry, essays, magazine articles and a screenplay His works are published in over twenty-five on-line journals, over twenty-five books and his shows have been produced in New York and around the country. His work is dedicated to the loving memory of his late wife, Lydia Franklin, and his wife Jane. He lives in New York with Jane and their dog, Daisy. Visit him at www.brucelevine.com.
Thursday, November 21, 2019
Like Sisyphus
Contributor: Lyla Sommersby
The only joy is hope
and hope is only ever momentary
each expectant pregnancy
ending only in stillbirth sorrow
the falling off the mountain
the broken leg
halfway up the peak
but you crawl
and you crawl
and you try to forget
all the pointless hours
all the blood and sweat
spilled freely
always freely
in the hope of promises
that fall apart
like dust in the hand
but again, you hope
again, you pick yourself up
and you find some way to accept it
until all that remains is a whisper,
the words:
I may not have gotten what was promised
but at least I'm still alive to try again.
- - -
I am a student in Miami, Florida. Painting is my other love. My first book, Sketches of Someone, is available through Thunderune Publishing.
The only joy is hope
and hope is only ever momentary
each expectant pregnancy
ending only in stillbirth sorrow
the falling off the mountain
the broken leg
halfway up the peak
but you crawl
and you crawl
and you try to forget
all the pointless hours
all the blood and sweat
spilled freely
always freely
in the hope of promises
that fall apart
like dust in the hand
but again, you hope
again, you pick yourself up
and you find some way to accept it
until all that remains is a whisper,
the words:
I may not have gotten what was promised
but at least I'm still alive to try again.
- - -
I am a student in Miami, Florida. Painting is my other love. My first book, Sketches of Someone, is available through Thunderune Publishing.
Wednesday, November 20, 2019
Love Rules
Contributor: Bruce Mundhenke
- -
I watched for years,
As I grew old,
Saw life abounds,
And death surrounds,
Life and death dance daily,
To the music
Of this realm.
Love and fear
Are also here,
Both abound,
Both surround,
But love will
Rule the day.
Sow seeds of love
To reap harvests of joy,
Fear will pass away.
- - -
Bruce Mundhenke has published poetry and short fiction in many magazines in the US and the UK. He lives in a small town in Illinois with his wife and their dog and cat.
- -
I watched for years,
As I grew old,
Saw life abounds,
And death surrounds,
Life and death dance daily,
To the music
Of this realm.
Love and fear
Are also here,
Both abound,
Both surround,
But love will
Rule the day.
Sow seeds of love
To reap harvests of joy,
Fear will pass away.
- - -
Bruce Mundhenke has published poetry and short fiction in many magazines in the US and the UK. He lives in a small town in Illinois with his wife and their dog and cat.
Tuesday, November 19, 2019
Skateboard Angels
Contributor: Mark Tulin
- -
The sun shines on skateboard angels
where teenagers do figure eights
in oval parks near ocean waves,
sliding along the silver rails
doing backflips and somersaults
over lazy seagulls and narrow walls
while kicking up their spinning boards,
snatching victory in the jaws of disaster.
The faces of the skaters change,
but the sounds of the skatepark remain;
wheels grinding on swooping concrete,
boards colliding in midair,
skaters tumbling from a hard fall,
war stories told to neophytes,
counting bumps and bruises;
immune to it all.
When you’re a young California kid,
your hair’s as yellow as the sun
and your mind knows no fear;
you take chances on the sharp curves
and the edges of the sloping bends,
believing that everything you try
will work out in the end.
- - -
Mark is a former therapist who lives in California. He has a chapbook, Magical Yogis, and two upcoming books: Awkward Grace, and The Asthmatic Kid and Other Stories. He’s been featured in Fiction on the Web, Ariel Chart, Leaves of Ink, among others.
- -
The sun shines on skateboard angels
where teenagers do figure eights
in oval parks near ocean waves,
sliding along the silver rails
doing backflips and somersaults
over lazy seagulls and narrow walls
while kicking up their spinning boards,
snatching victory in the jaws of disaster.
The faces of the skaters change,
but the sounds of the skatepark remain;
wheels grinding on swooping concrete,
boards colliding in midair,
skaters tumbling from a hard fall,
war stories told to neophytes,
counting bumps and bruises;
immune to it all.
When you’re a young California kid,
your hair’s as yellow as the sun
and your mind knows no fear;
you take chances on the sharp curves
and the edges of the sloping bends,
believing that everything you try
will work out in the end.
- - -
Mark is a former therapist who lives in California. He has a chapbook, Magical Yogis, and two upcoming books: Awkward Grace, and The Asthmatic Kid and Other Stories. He’s been featured in Fiction on the Web, Ariel Chart, Leaves of Ink, among others.
Monday, November 18, 2019
Buckles and Bruises
Contributor: Betal P.K. Pelario
- -
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Intervention is energetic,
And so are you.
I pin you to the floor
You kick me in the face
Your mother grabs your hands
Your father grabs the mace
The jacket is white
Your eyes are wide
The men wrap your arms
Nowhere to hide.
The needle goes deep
Not your preferable high
But it gets you in the truck
It keeps you alive.
Roses and red,
Violets are blue
We'll visit you on Sundays
Until I find someone new.
- - -
- -
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Intervention is energetic,
And so are you.
I pin you to the floor
You kick me in the face
Your mother grabs your hands
Your father grabs the mace
The jacket is white
Your eyes are wide
The men wrap your arms
Nowhere to hide.
The needle goes deep
Not your preferable high
But it gets you in the truck
It keeps you alive.
Roses and red,
Violets are blue
We'll visit you on Sundays
Until I find someone new.
- - -
Sunday, November 17, 2019
The Ebb And Flow of Fascism
Contributor: Louie T. Clocksworth
- -
I saw the the love state of my nation laid waste,
how I mourned the freedom
the surrender to fascism
once again
as if it were the forties
as if it were the fifties
as if it were the eighteen-fifties
as if it were any period white-washed
in American history books
to make the normals of our nation look like the good guys
when just as often, we've been bullies.
- - -
- -
I saw the the love state of my nation laid waste,
how I mourned the freedom
the surrender to fascism
once again
as if it were the forties
as if it were the fifties
as if it were the eighteen-fifties
as if it were any period white-washed
in American history books
to make the normals of our nation look like the good guys
when just as often, we've been bullies.
- - -
Saturday, November 16, 2019
Not Anymore
Contributor: Cynthia Pitman
- -
I don’t think about you anymore.
Not about the first days
when I shyly took your offered hand
and walked with you
wherever you went.
Not about our first kisses,
sweet electric sparks
that shocked my heart.
Not about our late-night trysts,
the urgent touching,
the fierce yearning,
the heat.
Not about the inevitable waning days
of passion that chilled our fervor
and silenced our hearts.
Not about the break,
the crack,
the crevice,
the final breach.
Not about the later walks
without your hand to hold,
not about our ended endless kisses,
not about our distant frenzied trysts.
Not about any of it.
Not about you.
Never about you.
Not anymore.
- - -
I am a retired teacher with work published in Leaves of Ink, 3rd Wednesday (contest finalist), Vita Brevis, and others. My book, The White Room, is forthcoming.
- -
I don’t think about you anymore.
Not about the first days
when I shyly took your offered hand
and walked with you
wherever you went.
Not about our first kisses,
sweet electric sparks
that shocked my heart.
Not about our late-night trysts,
the urgent touching,
the fierce yearning,
the heat.
Not about the inevitable waning days
of passion that chilled our fervor
and silenced our hearts.
Not about the break,
the crack,
the crevice,
the final breach.
Not about the later walks
without your hand to hold,
not about our ended endless kisses,
not about our distant frenzied trysts.
Not about any of it.
Not about you.
Never about you.
Not anymore.
- - -
I am a retired teacher with work published in Leaves of Ink, 3rd Wednesday (contest finalist), Vita Brevis, and others. My book, The White Room, is forthcoming.
Friday, November 15, 2019
A Skin For Sins
Contributor: Vaunna Fostertagg
- -
Is it a sad soul that stalks a cheater?
is it a sadder soul that shakes loose
that severs soft skin where it presses
and holds
and leaves
for another
for other skin
because skin
is all that really matters
skin and the stain of sin
left in the wake
of lazy liaisons.
- - -
Florida native with a heart of gold, sometimes.
- -
Is it a sad soul that stalks a cheater?
is it a sadder soul that shakes loose
that severs soft skin where it presses
and holds
and leaves
for another
for other skin
because skin
is all that really matters
skin and the stain of sin
left in the wake
of lazy liaisons.
- - -
Florida native with a heart of gold, sometimes.
Thursday, November 14, 2019
Household Drums
Contributor: Carrie Hooper
- -
Household Drums
When I was little,
Round containers
Made excellent drums.
I played
The oatmeal box drum,
The coffee can drum,
The butter drum,
And the peanut butter drum.
I discovered
Percussive possibilities
In everyday objects.
- - -
Carrie Hooper lives in Elmira, New York. She teaches voice and piano lessons, gives vocal concerts, teaches and learns languages, and writes poetry.
- -
Household Drums
When I was little,
Round containers
Made excellent drums.
I played
The oatmeal box drum,
The coffee can drum,
The butter drum,
And the peanut butter drum.
I discovered
Percussive possibilities
In everyday objects.
- - -
Carrie Hooper lives in Elmira, New York. She teaches voice and piano lessons, gives vocal concerts, teaches and learns languages, and writes poetry.
Wednesday, November 13, 2019
A Well-Formed Squiggle
Contributor: Wyatt Mitchell
- -
I’m nothing in relation to me
A white picket fence dripping in sobriety
Painted four months clean
With two eyes too blind to see
A body dead inside the living
A soul that’s nothing more than giving
Is breathing considered sinning?
I’m bleeding but I’m still grinning
So empty I can’t cry for myself
My tainted heart upon a broken shelf
Sitting silent and all alone
One-of-a-kind and it can’t be cloned
A perfect pair of listening ears
Yet all I hear are internalised fears
A childhood filled with parental abandon
What trauma creates is far from canon
Scared to speak the thoughts I hold within
My mind’s a burden considered too maudlin
Tortured by all that I contain
When I die will my life still remain?
Biting my nails is far from my worst habit
The one I need to break is that which turns me rabid
Drinking of myself to see what has been seen
Eating my own flesh to stimulate self-healing
Holes in my skin become scars that are indenting
Bug bites are wounds with scabs that are impending
Performing minor surgeries with tweezers and a scalpel
But not everyone considers such masochism to be palatable
I hurt myself and I like the pain it takes
It reminds me of reality when I disassociate
Shamed for enjoying that which causes harm
Is infection reason for all my future alarm?
Bandages cover my legs and sleeves disguise my arms
I find I must admit that self-abuse has its charms
The taste of iron oxide pouring from my mouth
Skinning my lips in chunks for I am devout
Seeking alternative pleasure often bloody and obscene
Picking apart the pieces of me; an addiction most unhealthy
Drawn in by the desperate need to control what’s even real
Not noticing I’m a contributing factor to why I’m yet to heal
The desire to stop means nothing without commitment
Upon many things is ending dependency contingent
For relapse is not a single part of recovery
One cut or burn is a moment I’ve stopped loving me
Drowning in the epitome of my own insanity
Unable to tell the difference between what’s false and what’s me
Scared the lies I tell myself are those that I’m becoming
I look into the mirror and wonder if I’m coming or if I’m running
Tripped up by the love that’s in my shattered heart
Aiming to be passionate from an unexpected start
Never questioning these feelings that I was meant to have
Yet trembling at the thought of what could possibly go bad
What if giving all I’ve got doesn’t ever make it enough?
What if light is the darkness of which we’re meant to snuff?
What if God is, He who leads us to the Devil?
What if a converted spirit doesn’t put you on a saintly level?
What if screaming for help doesn’t mean that you’ll be heard?
What if preaching religious scripture doesn’t make it the lord’s word?
What if miracles and blessings aren’t necessarily holy?
What if my heart hurts because it’s limited by “If only”?
Scrounging for emotion; I’m pissed, numb, and on the verge of tears
Three days I’ve wanted to smoke and I’m not yet in the clear
Trying to suppress all recent addictive desire
Fighting my mind often leaves me drained and quite tired
Spending my nights and days tossing and turning my life away
Biding hours of my time just to regain what energies are rightfully mine
Sundown arises and I find strength to put on my human suit
Covering depression in various fabrics so no one has the slightest clue
A breakdown is coming; I can feel it in my eyes
The devil is inside me; my body is his disguise
Drowning the world in tears; I fall and then I rise
- - -
- -
I’m nothing in relation to me
A white picket fence dripping in sobriety
Painted four months clean
With two eyes too blind to see
A body dead inside the living
A soul that’s nothing more than giving
Is breathing considered sinning?
I’m bleeding but I’m still grinning
So empty I can’t cry for myself
My tainted heart upon a broken shelf
Sitting silent and all alone
One-of-a-kind and it can’t be cloned
A perfect pair of listening ears
Yet all I hear are internalised fears
A childhood filled with parental abandon
What trauma creates is far from canon
Scared to speak the thoughts I hold within
My mind’s a burden considered too maudlin
Tortured by all that I contain
When I die will my life still remain?
Biting my nails is far from my worst habit
The one I need to break is that which turns me rabid
Drinking of myself to see what has been seen
Eating my own flesh to stimulate self-healing
Holes in my skin become scars that are indenting
Bug bites are wounds with scabs that are impending
Performing minor surgeries with tweezers and a scalpel
But not everyone considers such masochism to be palatable
I hurt myself and I like the pain it takes
It reminds me of reality when I disassociate
Shamed for enjoying that which causes harm
Is infection reason for all my future alarm?
Bandages cover my legs and sleeves disguise my arms
I find I must admit that self-abuse has its charms
The taste of iron oxide pouring from my mouth
Skinning my lips in chunks for I am devout
Seeking alternative pleasure often bloody and obscene
Picking apart the pieces of me; an addiction most unhealthy
Drawn in by the desperate need to control what’s even real
Not noticing I’m a contributing factor to why I’m yet to heal
The desire to stop means nothing without commitment
Upon many things is ending dependency contingent
For relapse is not a single part of recovery
One cut or burn is a moment I’ve stopped loving me
Drowning in the epitome of my own insanity
Unable to tell the difference between what’s false and what’s me
Scared the lies I tell myself are those that I’m becoming
I look into the mirror and wonder if I’m coming or if I’m running
Tripped up by the love that’s in my shattered heart
Aiming to be passionate from an unexpected start
Never questioning these feelings that I was meant to have
Yet trembling at the thought of what could possibly go bad
What if giving all I’ve got doesn’t ever make it enough?
What if light is the darkness of which we’re meant to snuff?
What if God is, He who leads us to the Devil?
What if a converted spirit doesn’t put you on a saintly level?
What if screaming for help doesn’t mean that you’ll be heard?
What if preaching religious scripture doesn’t make it the lord’s word?
What if miracles and blessings aren’t necessarily holy?
What if my heart hurts because it’s limited by “If only”?
Scrounging for emotion; I’m pissed, numb, and on the verge of tears
Three days I’ve wanted to smoke and I’m not yet in the clear
Trying to suppress all recent addictive desire
Fighting my mind often leaves me drained and quite tired
Spending my nights and days tossing and turning my life away
Biding hours of my time just to regain what energies are rightfully mine
Sundown arises and I find strength to put on my human suit
Covering depression in various fabrics so no one has the slightest clue
A breakdown is coming; I can feel it in my eyes
The devil is inside me; my body is his disguise
Drowning the world in tears; I fall and then I rise
- - -
Tuesday, November 12, 2019
A Man's Cave Is His Castle
Contributor: Perry Gardbakken
- -
Alone
where even the silence echoes
where the black marks of high fires
scorch the painted stone
the prints of magic hands
pressed in paint for all to see
Alone
and I love it here
and I wish I felt as free
in every moment
as I do in the confines
of this stony hole.
Alone
and no one to find me if I fall
but I want it that way
I want my bones to lay in this cave
until even I
become one
with the Earth.
- - -
Perry saw twenty winters before he left the mountains. He writes in nature, sometimes while sitting in trees.
- -
Alone
where even the silence echoes
where the black marks of high fires
scorch the painted stone
the prints of magic hands
pressed in paint for all to see
Alone
and I love it here
and I wish I felt as free
in every moment
as I do in the confines
of this stony hole.
Alone
and no one to find me if I fall
but I want it that way
I want my bones to lay in this cave
until even I
become one
with the Earth.
- - -
Perry saw twenty winters before he left the mountains. He writes in nature, sometimes while sitting in trees.
Monday, November 11, 2019
The Eye of the Storm
Contributor: Bruce Levine
- -
Wind blowing the trees –
Waiting
Rain pelting the roofs –
Waiting
Warnings – fear – panic –
Waiting
False alarms and near death situations –
Waiting
Tree limbs, branches and twigs
Scatter the lawn now
Tearing asunder
A long standing dream
Follow the plan – follow the leader
Running to safety or so they believe
Storing up water – storing up food-stuffs
Counting the days they’ll all do without
Fixing the time, it can’t last forever
Praying they’ll all see the very next dawn
Watching the wind – moments of calmness
Gusts overtaking those moments of ease
Clouds overhead as dark as the night now
Following shadows cast off on their own
Ev’ryday fears amplified grandly
Leaving all thought and reason behind
Lightning and thunder – power lines bursting
Freezing the time in a moment of light
Tracing the tempest with photograph mem’ry
Timelines projecting the hurricane path
Watching the day creeping by slowly
Hours of watching and waiting to come
Watching a squirrel scamper up tree limbs
Looking for shelter from the eye of the storm
- - -
Bruce Levine, a native Manhattanite, has spent his life as a writer of fiction and poetry and as a music and theatre professional. His literary catalogue includes four novels, short stories, humorous sketches, flash fiction, poetry, essays, articles and a screenplay His nearly one-hundred-fifty works are published in magazines, over twenty-five on-line journals, thirty books and his shows have been produced in New York and around the country. His work is dedicated to the loving memory of his late wife, Lydia Franklin. He lives in New York with his dog, Daisy. Visit him at www.brucelevine.com.
- -
Wind blowing the trees –
Waiting
Rain pelting the roofs –
Waiting
Warnings – fear – panic –
Waiting
False alarms and near death situations –
Waiting
Tree limbs, branches and twigs
Scatter the lawn now
Tearing asunder
A long standing dream
Follow the plan – follow the leader
Running to safety or so they believe
Storing up water – storing up food-stuffs
Counting the days they’ll all do without
Fixing the time, it can’t last forever
Praying they’ll all see the very next dawn
Watching the wind – moments of calmness
Gusts overtaking those moments of ease
Clouds overhead as dark as the night now
Following shadows cast off on their own
Ev’ryday fears amplified grandly
Leaving all thought and reason behind
Lightning and thunder – power lines bursting
Freezing the time in a moment of light
Tracing the tempest with photograph mem’ry
Timelines projecting the hurricane path
Watching the day creeping by slowly
Hours of watching and waiting to come
Watching a squirrel scamper up tree limbs
Looking for shelter from the eye of the storm
- - -
Bruce Levine, a native Manhattanite, has spent his life as a writer of fiction and poetry and as a music and theatre professional. His literary catalogue includes four novels, short stories, humorous sketches, flash fiction, poetry, essays, articles and a screenplay His nearly one-hundred-fifty works are published in magazines, over twenty-five on-line journals, thirty books and his shows have been produced in New York and around the country. His work is dedicated to the loving memory of his late wife, Lydia Franklin. He lives in New York with his dog, Daisy. Visit him at www.brucelevine.com.
Sunday, November 10, 2019
One Of Your Poems
Contributor: Lyla Sommersby
I, a leaf
from your book.
I, a sheaf
of inkspotted paper.
and I
I'm just one of your poems
now.
I saw your face
a reflection in a window
and I stopped to see
how you were
how you've fared
through all the years of silence.
but you're the same.
you've changed
only in one way:
you've forgotten me.
I remember what was
I remember
for both of us now.
and the shard in my soul has dulled
has softened enough
that I can see you
smiling with her
hear your kisses
romantic words
and not hurt
so deeply
inside.
- - -
I am a student in Miami, Florida. Painting is my other love. My first book, Sketches of Someone, is available through Thunderune Publishing.
I, a leaf
from your book.
I, a sheaf
of inkspotted paper.
and I
I'm just one of your poems
now.
I saw your face
a reflection in a window
and I stopped to see
how you were
how you've fared
through all the years of silence.
but you're the same.
you've changed
only in one way:
you've forgotten me.
I remember what was
I remember
for both of us now.
and the shard in my soul has dulled
has softened enough
that I can see you
smiling with her
hear your kisses
romantic words
and not hurt
so deeply
inside.
- - -
I am a student in Miami, Florida. Painting is my other love. My first book, Sketches of Someone, is available through Thunderune Publishing.
Saturday, November 9, 2019
Seasons of Our Life
Contributor: Bruce Mundhenke
- -
We lived through many changes,
Some hard times with strife,
We laughed and cried,
We loved and lived,
We knew pain and joy and sadness;
We took what we were given,
Enjoyed the good,
Endured the bad,
We thought both our due,
We made of them the best we could,
As we tended to the seasons
Of our life.
- - -
Bruce Mundhenke writes in Illinois, where he lives in a small town with his wife and their dog and cat.
- -
We lived through many changes,
Some hard times with strife,
We laughed and cried,
We loved and lived,
We knew pain and joy and sadness;
We took what we were given,
Enjoyed the good,
Endured the bad,
We thought both our due,
We made of them the best we could,
As we tended to the seasons
Of our life.
- - -
Bruce Mundhenke writes in Illinois, where he lives in a small town with his wife and their dog and cat.
Friday, November 8, 2019
Wish In One Hand, Spit In The Other
Contributor: J. White Welchev
If I could escape this grind
if could slip the bonds
the linear of time
and unbind
all that I am
I'd gather the best days of my life
compress them to a single, endless moment
and live within it
forever.
But, then again
who's to say my now
is not as good as my then.
I have a different spouse,
different friends
different job
different likes
Where I am
doesn't feel like progress
Where I am
feels like a different me
a different everything
But then again,
The grass is always greener
on the other side of the fence
by the sewer pond
we crawled out of.
- - -
If I could escape this grind
if could slip the bonds
the linear of time
and unbind
all that I am
I'd gather the best days of my life
compress them to a single, endless moment
and live within it
forever.
But, then again
who's to say my now
is not as good as my then.
I have a different spouse,
different friends
different job
different likes
Where I am
doesn't feel like progress
Where I am
feels like a different me
a different everything
But then again,
The grass is always greener
on the other side of the fence
by the sewer pond
we crawled out of.
- - -
Thursday, November 7, 2019
The Way You Tasted
Contributor: Obellia Pitlex
My heart races
I miss you
I miss the way you watched me
I miss the look of love in your eyes
I miss
the way you undressed
the way you laid back
the way you showed your world to me
the way you arched at the touch of my breath
the way you tasted
the way you opened to me
and held me
until we both were lost
in the sway
until there was nothing left
but endless initiation
into cloudborne castles
of a future I thought would last forever
though you knew
secretly
the we I needed
was just a feather
in the drifting wind.
- - -
I build bits and suffer fools only because the pay is great.
My heart races
I miss you
I miss the way you watched me
I miss the look of love in your eyes
I miss
the way you undressed
the way you laid back
the way you showed your world to me
the way you arched at the touch of my breath
the way you tasted
the way you opened to me
and held me
until we both were lost
in the sway
until there was nothing left
but endless initiation
into cloudborne castles
of a future I thought would last forever
though you knew
secretly
the we I needed
was just a feather
in the drifting wind.
- - -
I build bits and suffer fools only because the pay is great.
Wednesday, November 6, 2019
Hávamál 52
Contributor: James Ashton Fiddlestone
- -
A smoke
a cup of coffee
something to cast the blizzard out
to warm the bones
to bring heat
into ragged fingers
for one
succulent
moment
We work the streets
we laugh, we share
what little we have
because half a cigarette
or a pinch of the good stuff
buys a story and a smile
when you need it most
and you need it most
in the winter.
- - -
The poetry of JAF has been featured in such street-zines as Cannery Retrograde, Stabat Pater and Zenmerica Plus.
- -
A smoke
a cup of coffee
something to cast the blizzard out
to warm the bones
to bring heat
into ragged fingers
for one
succulent
moment
We work the streets
we laugh, we share
what little we have
because half a cigarette
or a pinch of the good stuff
buys a story and a smile
when you need it most
and you need it most
in the winter.
- - -
The poetry of JAF has been featured in such street-zines as Cannery Retrograde, Stabat Pater and Zenmerica Plus.
Tuesday, November 5, 2019
The Stallion
Contributor: Cynthia Pitman
- -
The raven-black stallion,
tired of being saddled
with people and their problems,
broke from the barn
and headed straight for the hill.
The closer he got,
the faster he ran
and the more he sweated
until, at last, he reached the top.
There, in his own sweat,
he baked in the kiln of the noon sun,
becoming a hard, dark totem
of running free.
- - -
I am a retired teacher with work published in Leaves of Ink, 3rd Wednesday (contest finalist), Vita Brevis, and others. My book, The White Room, is forthcoming.
- -
The raven-black stallion,
tired of being saddled
with people and their problems,
broke from the barn
and headed straight for the hill.
The closer he got,
the faster he ran
and the more he sweated
until, at last, he reached the top.
There, in his own sweat,
he baked in the kiln of the noon sun,
becoming a hard, dark totem
of running free.
- - -
I am a retired teacher with work published in Leaves of Ink, 3rd Wednesday (contest finalist), Vita Brevis, and others. My book, The White Room, is forthcoming.
Monday, November 4, 2019
Things We Don't Discuss
Contributor: Perry Gardbakken
- -
Bringing babies into being by the bunches
my Mormon cousins keep white skin in circulation
but we don't talk about that
just like we don't talk about the "Mark of Cain"
or the lack of lay-pastors
of colors deeper than Grecian
Leniency toward Leviticus
is always a popular option
except when it comes to acceptance
of all the gay cousins
massacred by black guns
in angry white hands.
In truth,
I've seen all I need to see
in the casinos that crowd against the Utah border
but my cousins keep on calling
saying "jack" this and "daniels" that
while I share my drinks with sinners
on a Saturday evening
knowing I won't be waking
to meet the "needs" of the ward
I've been assigned to.
- - -
Perry saw twenty winters before he left the mountains. He writes in nature, sometimes while sitting in trees.
- -
Bringing babies into being by the bunches
my Mormon cousins keep white skin in circulation
but we don't talk about that
just like we don't talk about the "Mark of Cain"
or the lack of lay-pastors
of colors deeper than Grecian
Leniency toward Leviticus
is always a popular option
except when it comes to acceptance
of all the gay cousins
massacred by black guns
in angry white hands.
In truth,
I've seen all I need to see
in the casinos that crowd against the Utah border
but my cousins keep on calling
saying "jack" this and "daniels" that
while I share my drinks with sinners
on a Saturday evening
knowing I won't be waking
to meet the "needs" of the ward
I've been assigned to.
- - -
Perry saw twenty winters before he left the mountains. He writes in nature, sometimes while sitting in trees.
Sunday, November 3, 2019
An Alternate Universe
Contributor: Bruce Levine
- -
Living in an alternate universe
Ignoring pop culture
By choice
Searching and seeking another reality
Another voice
Unaware of mainstream hyperbole
Disdaining ideology
Disavowing hypocrisy
Technology
Longing for another era
Through socio-anthropology
Fearing the fate of society
Civilization
The human condition
And the disappearance
Of humanity
Portable souls in cell phones
Replacing perception
The golden age of the written word
Reduced to a hundred and forty characters
Life condensed to a text message
Social interaction forsaken
For a higher score of tech magic
Leaving the alternate universe
The only hope
Of sanity
- - -
Bruce Levine, a native Manhattanite, has spent his life as a writer of fiction and poetry and as a music and theatre professional. His literary catalogue includes four novels, short stories, humorous sketches, flash fiction, poetry, essays, articles and a screenplay His nearly one-hundred-fifty works are published in magazines, over twenty-five on-line journals, thirty books and his shows have been produced in New York and around the country. His work is dedicated to the loving memory of his late wife, Lydia Franklin. He lives in New York with his dog, Daisy. Visit him at www.brucelevine.com.
- -
Living in an alternate universe
Ignoring pop culture
By choice
Searching and seeking another reality
Another voice
Unaware of mainstream hyperbole
Disdaining ideology
Disavowing hypocrisy
Technology
Longing for another era
Through socio-anthropology
Fearing the fate of society
Civilization
The human condition
And the disappearance
Of humanity
Portable souls in cell phones
Replacing perception
The golden age of the written word
Reduced to a hundred and forty characters
Life condensed to a text message
Social interaction forsaken
For a higher score of tech magic
Leaving the alternate universe
The only hope
Of sanity
- - -
Bruce Levine, a native Manhattanite, has spent his life as a writer of fiction and poetry and as a music and theatre professional. His literary catalogue includes four novels, short stories, humorous sketches, flash fiction, poetry, essays, articles and a screenplay His nearly one-hundred-fifty works are published in magazines, over twenty-five on-line journals, thirty books and his shows have been produced in New York and around the country. His work is dedicated to the loving memory of his late wife, Lydia Franklin. He lives in New York with his dog, Daisy. Visit him at www.brucelevine.com.
Saturday, November 2, 2019
Personal
Contributor: John R. Parmensonne
Don't take it personally
we say
but we never take our own advice
never stop to think before we yell
before we beg for vengeance
try to find
ways to obliterate the inconvenient
leave scorched earth
where once
someone tried to help us
tried to do nice
and tripped
or fell
back into human ways
maybe snapped
under the strain
of too many red-faced anuses
clouding up the day
with self-important rage
while the leaves blow on
and autumn comes
and nothing but the scars
remains.
- - -
I live in a basement of my own regrets.
Don't take it personally
we say
but we never take our own advice
never stop to think before we yell
before we beg for vengeance
try to find
ways to obliterate the inconvenient
leave scorched earth
where once
someone tried to help us
tried to do nice
and tripped
or fell
back into human ways
maybe snapped
under the strain
of too many red-faced anuses
clouding up the day
with self-important rage
while the leaves blow on
and autumn comes
and nothing but the scars
remains.
- - -
I live in a basement of my own regrets.
Friday, November 1, 2019
Our Poetic License
Contributor: Carrie Hooper
- -
To obtain our poetic license,
We do not need to complete an application,
Show multiple forms of identification,
And wait for a document
To arrive in the mail.
God gave us our poetic license
When He created us.
It gives us the freedom to choreograph
The rhythms, rhymes, and meters
Of our life dance.
It endows our voice
With silver toned songs
Accompanied by the harp strings
Of similes and metaphors.
With poetic license in hand,
Our playful contemplative souls
Find artistic pleasure
In versifying every wondrous moment.
- - -
Carrie Hooper lives in Elmira, New York. She teaches voice and piano lessons, gives vocal concerts, teaches and learns languages, and writes poetry.
- -
To obtain our poetic license,
We do not need to complete an application,
Show multiple forms of identification,
And wait for a document
To arrive in the mail.
God gave us our poetic license
When He created us.
It gives us the freedom to choreograph
The rhythms, rhymes, and meters
Of our life dance.
It endows our voice
With silver toned songs
Accompanied by the harp strings
Of similes and metaphors.
With poetic license in hand,
Our playful contemplative souls
Find artistic pleasure
In versifying every wondrous moment.
- - -
Carrie Hooper lives in Elmira, New York. She teaches voice and piano lessons, gives vocal concerts, teaches and learns languages, and writes poetry.