PPP Ezine: Poetrypoeticspleasure Ezine. Volume 7; Issue 6; June 2023

June 14, 2023 by rajnishmishrabanaras in PPP Ezine | Leave a comment

Poet of the Month: Mykyta ryzkyh

This Lonely Unease by Edward Lee

Over the Threshold by Dibyasree Nandy

as the party ends by Joseph A Farina

Everything Is Burning by Glen Armstrong

Illustrious by David Flynn

Life Tips Haiku by Jay Bond

Identity by Ananya Sarkar

Capitalism Is the Only Viable System We Have for Organizing Progress: A Cento by Michael Brockley

Climate-connected Conflicts by Ndaba Sibanda

Poet of the Month: Mykyta ryzkyh

gods don’t write poetry
because they don’t feel pain

pain over everything in the world

and it doesn’t hurt me anymore

fighting gods can turn into monsters
What kills us makes us immortal
When we die we take the whole world with us

It’s written in the sacred book of assassins.
So says the pain in the hearts of widows
birds die flying in the windows

and then the last song begins
The last song of the bird is unmistakable
the last song of a bird is better not to know and not to hear

other free birds sit in the trees
fear of freedom in feathers sits in the trees

people sit around blood and murder
people sit inside the blood and murders

the google translator can’t stand the screaming of the letters
and the book of killers explodes unable to remain silent

sometimes it seems that people start wars because
it’s easier to hate the living
it’s easier to rejoice in the dead

Mykyta Ryzhykh from Ukraine is the winner of the international competition Art Against Drugs and some Ukrainian awards; laureate of the literary competition named after Tyutyunnik, Lyceum, Twelve, named after Dragomoshchenko. Nominated for Pushcart Prize.

This Lonely Unease by Edward Lee

A lifetime of trying on

different people

has left me standing

in cold rooms

longer than is healthy,

for body,

or mind,

and I have yet

to find someone who fits,

and so I must continue seeking,

no matter the cold

that I swear has begun

to invade my soul,

the lonely nights

becoming more lonely,

the silence louder.

Edward Lee’s poetry, short stories, non-fiction and photography have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen, The Blue Nib and Poetry Wales. His poetry collections are Playing Poohsticks On Ha’Penny Bridge, The Madness Of Qwerty and A Foetal Heart.

He also makes musical noise under the names Ayahuasca Collective, Orson Carroll, Lego Figures Fighting, and Pale Blond Boy.

His blog/website can be found at https://edwardmlee.wordpress.com

Over the Threshold by Dibyasree Nandy

The feel of grass, not wood, beneath the feet

Beyond the cloying door, a land unknown

Drowning in the trills of birds, braving sleet

One step ahead, away by the wind borne.

Over the threshold, mighty mountains loom

Shadows on the cage of bricks scare no more

Emerald trees, florets of ruby bloom

The untrodden road speaks of unheard lore.

Hems of clothes trailing, dusty; shroud unveiled

Faded orders, chipped plates in kitchens cold

For years festering… In pain, long since dwelled

Summer-tide beckoned, the silver seas called.

No chains bind, wrists strong; the inviting dawn

To the golden meadows, the heart is drawn.

Dibyasree Nandy (she/her) is from Kolkata, West Bengal. She is 30 years old and began writing during the lockdown period of the Covid-19 situation. She has authored poetry collections (more than 400 haiku, 200 sonnets, free verses, rhyming poems, ekphrastic forms), novellas, short-story ensembles and full-length fiction. Her individual prose and poetry pieces have appeared in around 60 anthologies and magazines. She has two Master degrees in science and technology.

as the party ends by Joseph A Farina

there was music playing downstairs

sitting in the dark, pretending to be cool

when we were falling apart

there’s laughing in the corner

I see you close smiling at him

here in the shadows you can’t see me cry

the invited couples start holding each close

kissing and slowdancing without any shoes

I move towards to ask you as you take my hand

we dance but not as close as before

I try to guess what your thinking

but I can’t be sure

I’d wanted tell you I love you

but I was only thirteen ,would it have meant anything

would it have been believed

walking back home

both of us feeling alone

feeling the pieces letting us go

a ghost of my teens

my immaculate grade school love

I kiss your memory with my prose

Joseph A Farina is a retired lawyer in Sarnia, Ontario, Canada. drawing from his profession and his sicilian-canadian back round, he is an internationaly award winning and published poet. Several of his poems have been published in Quills Canadian Poetry Magazine,The Wild Word,The Chamber Magazine, Lothlorian Poetry Journal,Ascent ,Subterranean Blue and in The Tower Poetry Magazine, Inscribed, The Windsor Review, Boxcar Poetry Revue , and appears in many anthologies including: Sweet Lemons: Writings with a Sicilian Accent, Canadian Italians at Table, Witness from Serengeti Press and Tamaracks: Canadian Poetry for the 21st Century . He has had poems published in the U.S. magazines Mobius, Pyramid Arts, Arabesques, Fiele-Festa, and Philedelphia Poets . He has had two books of poetry published— The Cancer Chronicles and The Ghosts of Water Street and an e-book,Sunsets in Black and White.

Everything Is Burning by Glen Armstrong

The young people pool their money

for a pack of Djarum Blacks.

The problem of consciousness

is a problem of limitation.

•

One of them is secretly writing

a story about a tree

that falls in love with a bicycle.

Chain and padlock

have had their suspicions

from the start.

Glen Armstrong (he/him) holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters. His latest book is Night School: Selected Early Poems.

Social Media:

https://www.facebook.com/glen.armstrong.5

Illustrious by David Flynn

Illustrious.

Well, that I’m not.

Born in a small Southern town.

Father a purchasing agent in a textile mill.

Drank.

Mother broke her back.

Then five degrees, including a doctorate.

Dr. Flynn.

Then

not much.

But

I have lived in Japan, Israel, Macedonia, Ukraine, Indonesia, and

Nashville.

Nashville a lot.

I have met

other non-illustrious people

by the thousands.

I have written

a lot.

Published a lot in magazines.

Have a daughter, granddaughter, grandson.

The grandson is 1.

Own

not much.

Read

a lot.

Struggle

every second of every day of every week of every year of every decade.

So there I am.

Illustrious?

Nah.

That’s for the TV people.

I am my own brain.

Good enough?

Nah.

But for today I can sit here,

not satisfied,–

I am never satisfied,–

but alive

enough.

David Flynn was born in the textile mill company town of Bemis, TN. His jobs have included newspaper reporter, magazine editor and university teacher. He has five degrees and is both a Fulbright Senior Scholar and a Fulbright Senior Specialist with a recent grant in Indonesia. His literary publications total more than 240. He lives in Nashville, TN.

Life Tips Haiku by Jay Bond

If sad, draw a tree

press firmly, tips cast to sky

repeat carelessly

If you keep seeing

a cerise sports car, it means

all hope is lost

If lost, stand by cloud

fold together until mix

springs. lightly. edge on

Jay Bond is an Australian who returned in 2020 to her city of birth, Melbourne, after a few decades teaching in Asia and the United States, now refocusing on writing.

Published writer of poetry: Luna and Meanjin magazines, early 1980s; more recently in Litterateur Rw magazine, Argotist Online Poetry.

Identity by Ananya Sarkar

I am not you and you are not me

So don’t frown when I don’t say

the things you want to

Walk that perfect life

Smile that perfect smile

that you want to and would always do

Because

I am not you and you are not me

A choice made not by me alone

But both of us.

Ananya Sarkar is a short story writer, poet and book reviewer from Kolkata. Her work has been published in The Times of India, Muse India, Woman’s Era, New Woman, 4indianwoman, Children’s World, KidsWorldFun, Induswomanwriting, Conversations Across Borders, Indian Ruminations, Earthen Lamp Journal, Spark, The Madras Mag, Teesta Review and Borderless.

She won the first prize in both the Story Writing Contest by the American Library, Kolkata as part of the Fiction Festival 2008; and Induswomanwriting Poetry Contest, 2012. She was also a prize winner in the LoudReview Review Writing Competition, 2012 and Writers’ HQ Story Competition, 2016. She was longlisted for the Wordweavers Flash Fiction Competition 2014 and the Wordweavers Short Fiction Competition 2015. Ananya has also interviewed writers C Y Gopinath, Swapna Dutta, Kavita Kane and Richa Wahi, and accessibility consultant Shivani Gupta. Ananya has conducted poetry and story sessions at Lampshade Writers and Kahini, respectively.

Apart from reading and writing, she loves to go for long walks, stargaze and imagine the seemingly impossible. She can be found at just_1ananya on Instagram and ananya7891@gmail.com

Capitalism Is the Only Viable System We Have for Organizing Progress: A Cento by Michael Brockley

I came from a ghost Eden, where the horses ran back to their stalls, and histories were preserved in unmatched Tupperware. A place so deep inside America it couldn’t be seen. An auction barn where St. Joseph asked how a poor man could stand such times and live. I prayed in the strip malls of Bangor, Maine and revised the beatitudes of California until even the cliches resembled new foxes. I traveled through Napa Valley with a satyr’s heart. A Lazarus carrying the last fireflies to the Queen of Versailles. I flirted with Florida house hunters who wore red sweaters and had cokes with their idols and cakes with their icons. In Colorado my father scoured and stacked dishes while I scaffolded emptiness until it became the language of the moon. Faith embedded grime in my nails and knuckles. Hydraulic fluid. Slivers of steel. I strong-armed the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere into composing love letters to the wolf of Wall Street while God was waiting for a bus. My love for money the only scent I believed in.

Credits for the Cento: Capitalism Is the Only Viable System We Have for Organizing Our Economy: A Cento

“Capitalism Is the Only Viable System We Have for Organizing Our Economy,” Lucy Turnbull

“Ghost Eden,” Erika Meitner

“The Horses Run Back to Their Stalls,” Linda Gregerson

“A History,” dawn lonsinger

“Ode to Tupperware,” dawn lonsinger

“I Come from a Place So Deep Inside America It Can’t Be Seen,” Kari Gunter-Seymour

“St. Joske’s,” Deborah Paredez

“How Can a Poor Man Stand Such Times and Live,” Bruce Springsteen

“Prayer in the Strip Mall, Bangor, Maine,” Stuart Kestenbaum

“The Beatitudes of Malibu,” Rowan Ricardo Phillips

“Fox News,”dawn lonsinger

“Napa Valley,” Brigit Pegeen Kelly

“The Satyr’s Heart,” Brigit Pegeen Kelly

“Poor Lazarus,” Laura Da’

Grave of the Last Fireflies, Isao Takahata

The Queen of Versailles, Lauren Greenfield

“Florida Doll Sonnet,” Denise Duhamel

“House Hunters,” Kevin Prufer

“The Red Sweater,” Richard O. Legaspi

“Having a Coke with You,” Frank O’Hara

“The Idol and the Icon,” Gina Franco

“Cake,” Noah Eli Gordon

“In Colorado My Father Scoured and Stacked Dishes,” Eduardo Corral

“Letting the Emptiness Become My Government,” Marcus Jackson

“Language of the Moon,” Major Jackson

“My Faith Gets Grime under Its Nails,” Sarah Ghazal Ali

“Steel,” Kwame Dawes

“Poem for the Poorest Country in the Western Hemisphere,” Danielle Legros Georges

“On the Sale by Auction of Keat’s Love Letters,” Oscar Wilde

The Wolf of Wall Street, Jordan Belfort

“More Money Than God,” Richard Michelson

“While Waiting for the Bus,” Eliot Khalil Wilson

“I Know You by Your Scent,” Ricardo Aleixo

Michael Brockley is a retired school psychologist who lives in Muncie, Indiana. His poems have appeared in the Tom Waits online anthology, Whiskey Mule Diner, Wordpeace, and Ekphrastic Review. Poems are forthcoming in Down in the Dirt, Vagabond Dissent, Jasper’s Folly Poetry Journal, and The Parliament Literary Journal.

Climate-connected Conflicts by Ndaba Sibanda

It is an irrefutable conflict threat multiplier

in more than one way or shape or size or color.

It has the effect of worsening political, social,

economic and cultural tensions and conflicts.

For it escalates cases and situations of water

scarcity, food insecurity and resource competition.

From time to time, it causes conflicts and violence

as displaced groups fight for farming and grazing land.

Environmental conflicts spring up as people’s clashing

interests, views and values on land come to the fore.

Climate conflicts happen as populaces differ on public land

use, private land development ,waste disposal and hazards.

Climate change is a conflict threat multiplier as it spurs

migration, overexploitation, land degradation and grabbing.

Ndaba Sibanda is a Zimbabwean-born poet, novelist, and nonfiction writer who has a passion for themes and topics around conservation, nature, development and justice. He believes that he is a poet in prose, and hence he has never looked back since building and marching into the very first poetry pharmacy in the world, where poetry … and poetry and poetics are the most tonic threesome prescriptions!

Sibanda has received the following nominations: the National Arts Merit Awards (NAMA), the Mary Ballard Poetry Chapbook Prize, the Best of the Net Prose and the Pushcart Prize. Sibanda`s book Notes, Themes, Things And Other Things: Confronting Controversies ,Contradictions And Indoctrinations was considered for The 2019 Restless Book Prize for New Immigrant Writing in Nonfiction.Ndaba`s book titled Cabinet Meetings: Of Big And Small Preys was considered for The Graywolf Press Africa Prize 2018. Sibanda is a three-time Pushcart nominee. He can be spotted landscaping, lurking, lounging and even lost on various and many media networks.

Links:https://www.amazon.com/Books-Ndaba-Sibanda/s?rh=n%3A283155%2Cp_27%3ANdaba+Sibanda

https://www.pagespineficshowcase.com/ndaba-sibanda.html.

Let`s Get Cracking!

PPP Ezine: Poetrypoeticspleasure Ezine. Volume 7; Issue 5; May 2023 (Sixth Anniversary Issue)

Poet of the Month: Michael Lee Johnson

Time by Marc Isaac Potter

Poem by Terry Trowbridge

Poem by Mykyta Ryzhykh

Why a Day at the Beach is Like a Day Everywhere by John Grey

Kisses are Miracles by Peter Mladinic

Last Meet with My First Love: for Yi Ming by Yuan Changming

My Right Eye Twitcheth in America by James Croal Jackson

The Blank Canvas of Dreams by Lynn Long

The Opposite of Insomnia by Richard LeDue

Poet of the Month: Michael Lee Johnson

Most Poems

Most poems are pounded out

in emotional flesh, sometimes

physical skin scalped feelings.

It’s a Jesus hanging on a cross

a Mary kneeling at the bottom

not knotted in love but roped,

a blade of a bowie knife

heavenward.

I look for the kicker line

the close at the bottom

seek a public poetry forum

to cheer my aspirations on.

I hear those faraway voices

carrying my life away-

a retreat into insanity.

Poets in the Rain (V4)

All poets are crazy. Listen to them soak

sponge in early rain medley notes sounding off.

Crazy, and suicidal, we know who they are:

Edgar Allan Poe, Sylvia Plath, Dylan Thomas

the drunk, Anne Sexton, Teasdale.

This group grows a Pinocchio nose.

At times I capture you here under control.

I want to inspect you.

All can be found in faith once

now gone in time.

With all your concerns, I see

your eyes layered in shades of green,

confused within you about me.

Forgive me; I’m just a touch

of wild pepper, dry Screaming Eagle

Cabernet Sauvignon, and dying selfishly.

We don’t know if it is all worth it.

I have refined my image, and my taste

continues to thrust inside your crevices.

Templates of hell break loose thunder, belches, and anomie.

Asteroid Ceres looks like you are passing gas,

exposes her buttocks, and moves on just like ice

on a balmy rock just like yours.

I will wait centuries, like critics, to review

this fecund body of yours-

soiled, then poppies,

poetry in the rain.

Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet in the greater Chicagoland area, IL. He has 272 YouTube poetry videos. Michael Lee Johnson is an internationally published poet in 44 countries, has several published poetry books, has been nominated for 5 Pushcart Prize awards, and 6 Best of the Net nominations. He is editor-in-chief of 3 poetry anthologies, all available on Amazon, and has several poetry books and chapbooks. He has over 443 published poems. Michael is the administrator of 6 Facebook Poetry groups. Member Illinois State Poetry Society: http://www.illinoispoets.org/.

Time by Marc Isaac Potter

Pairs of little bare feet

Running across the Kentucky Bluegrass,

Children laugh as they run,

Showing off their new Easter clothes.

Pappa pops a beer

In the hot pool and chugs this one too.

Momma is in the house

Peeling carrots while Auntie

Cleans in another part of the house.

All is being readied

For the disaster.

Marc Isaac Potter (we/they/them) … is a differently-abled writer living in the SF Bay Area. Marc’s interests include blogging by email and Zen. They have been published in Fiery Scribe Review, Feral A Journal of Poetry and Art, Poetic Sun Poetry, and Provenance Journal. Twitter @marcisaacpotter.

Poem by Terry Trowbridge

These backward-flowing tears the nearest breaking

but withheld, soak the spirit in purest ablution,^[1]

The eyes swell, with a heat of their own,

full of water that will not flow in full cry,

nor whisper away in quiet weeping.

The eyes’ diameters distort the scene,

ahead the colours polluted with salt waters,

then shine, sheen, slick like oil on top of mulled wine,

blinded in the folds of their epicanthus.

Their lifted lids come close to closed

but pressure is the migraine’s sodium pentothal

for soft tissue to tell the truth.

You cannot see, the migraine says,

you haven’t the energy left to tell a lie.

Lie down and the eyes, still swollen,

are capsules of their uncrying soul’s self-baptism.

They are the proof that there is redemption, they withhold it.

The eyes withhold redemption as long a they can,

merely insinuating it, promising it, but not following through

until a moment of insight.

Insight, blindness, insight, blindness,

no forgiveness without enlightenment,

in the smutched oily colours of overwatered patinas

and over-ripe retinas.

^[1] The title is two lines from a rough draft of a poem by Marc di Saverio, 2017.

Recess Apple

Terry Trowbridge is a Canadian PhD candidate in Socio-Legal Studies. His poems have appeared in The New Quarterly, Carousel, subTerrain, paperplates, The Dalhousie Review, untethered, The Nashwaak Review, Orbis, Snakeskin Poetry, M58, CV2, Brittle Star, Lady Lazarus Experimental Poetry, The American Mathematical Monthly, Canadian Woman Studies, The Mathematical Intelligencer, The Canadian Journal of Family and Youth, The Journal of Humanistic Mathematics, The Beatnik Cowboy, Borderless Magazine, Fine Lines, and many, many more. His lit crit has appeared in Ariel, Hamilton Arts & Letters, Episteme, Studies in Social Justice, Rampike, and The /t3mz/ Review.

Poem by Mykyta Ryzhykh

I get killed with a gun full of fears
Abandoned graves

Graves are silent
It feels like the end

I cannot be revived by pain
My thirst cannot be quenched by tears

The birds sit in the trees
All the terror of the birds are in the trees

That’s all
The end of the road

Why a Day at the Beach is Like a Day Everywhere by John Grey

Laura

won’t stand still

for the camera.

She figures

if the waves,

sandpipers, gulls,

are in perpetual motion,

then why shouldn’t she be.

She suggests

I aim my camera

where I think she’ll be

in the time it takes

to press click.

Forget the steady hand.

Eschew the proper focus.

She is the woman

who I must learn to anticipate.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Washington Square Review and Floyd County Moonshine. Latest books, “Covert” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the McNeese Review, Santa Fe Literary Review and Open Ceilings.

Kisses are Miracles by Peter Mladinic

Flames in winter, buds in spring,

summer’s rose, autumn’s gold leaf,

our kisses. Neither of us has a car.

I have a driver’s license, you have too,

but we walk a lot. I’m not going to lie,

you’re the world’s best kisser.

We ride bicycles out to Lake Harriet

and sit under an elm, all these trees wish

to be with you. Your eyes enchant mine.

A Sunday afternoon in May, a different lake,

a different tree. Our kissing on a train?

The ride itself happens,

and your eyes, nose and mouth.

No eyelashes lovelier than yours.

One morning as you sleep I kiss your lips.

Our first kiss, near a big white house

on a corner, a late night snow falling,

you’re the miracle.

Peter Mladinic’s fifth book of poems, Voices from the Past, is forthcoming from Better Than Starbucks Publications. An animal rights advocate, he lives in Hobbs, New Mexico, USA.

Last Meet with My First Love: for Yi Ming by Yuan Changming

meeting you face to face

you seem to hide yourself

behind a fog in another world

separated by the pacific in between

you often look like the flower

blooming on my window ledge

have a blue dream

and you will see a little cloud

drifting around like me

near that borderline

I have packed you up tightly

into my backpack, the luggage

I cannot consign, or sent by mail

but carry it with me

close to my chest

you are neither light

nor heavy, but you will

occupy a solid space

in the closet of my heart

Yuan Changming hails with Allen Yuan from poetrypacific.blogspot.ca. Credits include Pushcart nominations besides appearances in Best of the Best Canadian Poetry (2008-17) & BestNewPoemsOnline, among others. Recently, Yuan published his eleventh chapbook Limerence, and served on the jury for Canada’s 44th National Magazine Awards (poetry category).

My Right Eye Twitcheth in America by James Croal Jackson

Long failure of land sand

chains brains. Can’t abbreviate

history. Name names the land

taketh etc. etc. Fuck Lord

Bezos the delivery ecosystem. Trucks

with your mother’s eyelashes.

Dad’s been dead awhile now

and Columbus drowns down the river

now, FINALLY, we can keep

pushing down. You can thank

God, god of

showering the Lords

with the blood

off our backs.

James Croal Jackson is a Filipino-American poet who works in film production. He has three chapbooks: Count Seeds With Me (Ethel Zine & Micro-Press, 2022), Our Past Leaves (Kelsay Books, 2021), and The Frayed Edge of Memory (Writing Knights, 2017). He edits The Mantle Poetry from Pittsburgh, PA. (jamescroaljackson.com)

The Blank Canvas of Dreams by Lynn Long

Caught up in the nine to five

Still seeking a sustainable dream

Entwining the two…

The spider’s web of deceit

For time ever moving

A vortex in the abyss

of one’s soul

Alas, mere perception

Pauses in the creative flow

Like a lasso to the moon

The kraken’s tentacle pulls

Gravity beckons

And for just a moment

I’ve lost the muse

Yet, the artist within still resides

Dancing the wanton path

Waltzing high

In homage to reverie

A symphony at play

Time ever present

Hear the Koto sing

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Hidden hues still sought

Amid a barren plain

Splashes of color

Upon the blank canvas

of dreams

Lynn Long

Poet, writer, dreamer

And believer in the impossible…

Residing somewhere in time

Artist at https://hitrecord.org/

https://linktr.ee/lunadeity

The Opposite of Insomnia by Richard LeDue

I shouldn’t have fallen asleep

with this poem only half done-

a sentence left incomplete

as a broken fingernail,

while my eyes closed like hands,

trying to grasp something

they’ll never have, and…

Richard LeDue (he/him) currently lives in Norway House, Manitoba. He has been published in various places online and in print. He is the author of six books of poetry. His sixth book, “A Hard Homecoming,” is forthcoming in July 2022 from Alien Buddha Press.

PPP Ezine: Poetrypoeticspleasure Ezine. Volume 7; Issue 4; April 2023

April 9, 2023 by rajnishmishrabanaras in PPP Ezine | 1 Comment

Poet of the Month: Ndaba Sibanda

The Leaving by Marianne Tefft

The Leaving by Jay Bond

A New Morning by Ananya Sarkar

Dropping Black Downs by Sanghpriya Gautam

Full Moon Journey by Petrouchka Alexieva

The Last Time I Was Here, Potential Bloomed by James Croal Jackson

On a Chair by Bruce McRae

Poetry by Lynn Long

Joyce’s The Dead by Peter Mladinic

Poet of the Month: Ndaba Sibanda

A Healing Heart

inner beauty is priceless

its twinkle is taintless

its hoot is humankind

its love is one of a kind

inner beauty is invaluable

its splash & sparkle ,silent & able

it is an oak wood which is yielded

from the solidest timber ever preserved

in general, it provides trust, temperature

moderation & is prized for real furniture,

groundwater recharge, water pollution

attenuation & air pollution reduction

like an oak tree, its heart is harvested

& invested in humanity, it`s cultivated

to weather moisture, rotting and decay

during different seasons & times, I say!

butted by lost winds & earths that are unclean,

inner beauty remains shiny, solid & evergreen,

it grows both in temperate & tropical climates,

a handsome heart heals medical ailments & mates

We Are Nature

tell me, how do we rescue ourselves

from our propensity for self-destruction?

from self-hatred, self-delusion, self-infliction?

an investment to save the natural world

is a welcome development to save life,

for we are inseparable from nature

wetlands are no longer wet,

for humanity has become brutal,

no longer loving, caring and romantic,

do we see the trees’ tears

when we tease and hack them

for no reason or for the fun of it?

do we hear the poor animals’ pleas

when we pester and poach them

for the love of money, meat and abuse?

do we appreciate the importance of trees?

do we recognize the damage of tossing

litter around, or plastics around beaches?

rainforests are unfriendly, furious and fiery,

coral reefs are quarrelling with extinction

because life`s support systems are stressed!

nature is glory and glory is nature

but nature calls for regeneration,

determination, not decimation

trees, rivers and oceans cry foul,

they say their ruin is our tragedy,

indiscriminate tree-cutters , heed!

there is no place for plastic polluters,

for plastic pollution is harmful to humans,

animals and plants as it affects the food chain

is the protection of the planet

not the protection of the people?

is a bulge of natural ruins not enough?

a sick planet dogged by polluted air, water

and soil, struggling with floods, fires, hunger

and starvation: global warming is real and scary

please poachers and polluters,

precious is life, fragile is our planet,

we plead on the edge of extinction

all peoples should be preservers,

put our planet before pride and greed,

deforestation, devastation, extinction

are we ready to consume less, use less water,

upcycle more, turn trash into treasure, compost

food scraps, shop secondhand, walk, bike, not drive?

Ndaba Sibanda is a Bulawayo-born poet, novelist, thought leader and nonfiction writer who has authored twenty-eight published books of various genres and persuasions and coauthored more than 100 published books. Some of Ndaba`s works are found or forthcoming in Page & Spine, Piker Press , SCARLET LEAF REVIEW , Universidad Complutense de Madrid, the Pangolin Review, Kalahari Review ,Botsotso, The Ofi Press Magazine, Hawaii Pacific Review, Deltona Howl, The song is, JONAH magazine, The Polk Street Review, Poetry Potion, Saraba Magazine, The Borfski Press, East Coast Literary Review and Whispering Prairie Press. Sibanda has received the following nominations: the National Arts Merit Awards (NAMA), the Mary Ballard Poetry Chapbook Prize, the Best of the Net Prose and the Pushcart Prize. He is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee. Sibanda`s book Notes, Themes, Things And Other Things: Confronting Controversies ,Contradictions And Indoctrinations was considered for The 2019 Restless Book Prize for New Immigrant Writing in Nonfiction. Ndaba`s book titled Cabinet Meetings: Of Big And Small Preys was considered for The Graywolf Press Africa Prize 2018. Sibanda is a three-time Pushcart nominee.

Links:https://www.amazon.com/Books-Ndaba-Sibanda/s?rh=n%3A283155%2Cp_27%3ANdaba+Sibanda

https://www.pagespineficshowcase.com/ndaba-sibanda.html.

Let`s Get Cracking!

International Poetry Review | Ana Hontanilla | University of North Carolina Press (uncpress.org)

CEArts 2022 The Polk Street Review book launch Presentations 12-16

Seeking Refuge by Ndaba Sibanda (read during The Polk Street Review Book Launch 2020) – YouTube

You Have Never Seen the Ocean by Marianne Tefft

You Have Never Seen the Ocean

Is it true, love

You have never seen the ocean

You come from an ancient land

Locked away from the sea

Where the first hunters roamed

In waist-high grass

And climbed for days

To the tops of cloud-wreathed mountains

Now you stand on the edge of a new land

Birthed from ancient volcanic hips

Cradled in the waves

Where the first fishers dove through spindrift

To forage plains of turtle grass

Is it true, love

You have never seen the ocean

Run beside her with languid steps

Out-racing footprints indelible

Only for the time between the crests

That endlessly erase the shore

Seen the Sun caress the horizon

Strewing rubies and diamonds

That dissolve into the sea

With a flash of phosphorescent green

Is it true, love

You have never seen the ocean

Plunged beneath the waves

To bathe in a timeless caress

And leaped through the surface

Your smile effervescent

As you raise your chin

Your mighty locks flinging

Prismatic water-fans

Into the luminous moonset

Is it true, love

You have never seen the ocean

Here you will write windswept poems

Breathing in the salty exhalations

Of our restless mother

By night the stars will crown my hair

Candelabrum around my head

Shining on our table in the sand

Where we dine on each other

Long and lingering feast

As Aldebaran and Rigel arc across the sky

And the waves kiss our bare feet

Is it true, love

You have never seen the ocean

Marianne Tefft is a poet, lyricist and voiceover reader who daylights as a Montessori teacher on the Dutch Caribbean island of Sint Maarten. Her poems appear online and in print in Canada, the U.S., the U.K., Serbia, India and Sint Maarten. She is the author of the poetry collections Full Moon Fire: Spoken Songs of Love (June 2022) and Moonchild: Poems for Moon Lovers (coming in December 2022).

The Leaving by Jay Bond

A Villanelle

Our world is departing without leaving word

In lands without names there is nothing left to say

We’re running out of words to save the world

As we speak the world is leaving leaving as it turns

Without taking leave our world has turned away

Leaving forests without songs or singing birds

The trees are fading tell the birds tides have turned

All the words in the world can’t save the day

Life is waning, our undoing air forsakes the ancient ferns

Home has fled the scene, slammed the door. Shadows burn.

The ways to save our lives have run away

Grass ungreens light waves in falls streams depart without return

Spinning skew we watch the leaving at the turning of day

Creation hangs unknowing still we fall apart in space unstirred

Life is leaving all our doing at last closing of the day

We have failed to save the words to turn the dying of the day

Jay Bond is an Australian who returned in 2020 to her city of birth, Melbourne, after a few decades teaching in Asia and the United States, now refocusing on writing. Published writer of poetry: Luna and Meanjin magazines, early 1980s; more recently in Litterateur Rw magazine, Argotist Online Poetry.

A New Morning by Ananya Sarkar

I woke to the sound of bulbuls

And the cool morning breeze

Then I noticed your packed suitcase

And pretended

That instead of leaving

You had just arrived.

She won the first prize in both the Story Writing Contest by the American Library, Kolkata as part of the Fiction Festival 2008; and Induswomanwriting Poetry Contest, 2012. She was also a prize winner in the LoudReview Review Writing Competition, 2012 and Writers’ HQ Story Competition, 2016. She was longlisted for the Wordweavers Flash Fiction Competition 2014 and the Wordweavers Short Fiction Competition 2015. Ananya has also interviewed writers C Y Gopinath, Swapna Dutta, Kavita Kane and Richa Wahi, and accessibility consultant Shivani Gupta. Ananya has conducted poetry and story sessions at Lampshade Writers and Kahini, respectively.

Apart from reading and writing, she loves to go for long walks, stargaze and imagine the seemingly impossible. She can be found at just_1ananya on Instagram and ananya7891@gmail.com

Dropping Black Downs by Sanghpriya Gautam

In what shadows

My teeth tread upon the skin of the night

Merge with the sewing machine!

The fingers turn cold–

And bite into the flesh

Wild on the brink of inducing

Pain

And ecstasy.

And the sweet suffusing desires

Embossed like stars

Gleaming in their unsettled fury–

The rage of pleasure

The rush of wilderness;

In mellowed meadows by the drowning sun

And the crows taking over the sky

The spring drifting into vapours

From the crack in the mountains

The miniscule wet chambers dry

And still ache in the memory of flow;

Freed but only

To be captured in the lull

Of chasing freedom!

The polite intrusion

Of romance and of humility

Over burgeoning despair

of life’s calming volatility

As age fathoms in air

The dropping black downs.

Sanghpriya Gautam is an aspiring poet who is trying to find life’s meaning in between the leaves through the busyness of life. He has done his MPhil in English Literature and is currently pursuing Ph.D in English Literature.

Full Moon Journey by Petrouchka Alexieva

II.

Dawn has passed & its

colors faded into bright

cerulean sky.

That full moon sets o’er a cragged

hill & eucalyptus trees.

Lorraine Caputo is a documentary poet, translator and travel writer. Her works appear in over 250 journals on six continents; and 18 collections of poetry – including On Galápagos Shores (dancing girl press, 2019) and Escape to the Sea (Origami Poems Project, 2021). She also authors travel narratives, articles and guidebooks. In 2011, the Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada honored her verse. Caputo has done literary readings from Alaska to the Patagonia. She journeys through Latin America, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth.

The Last Time I Was Here, Potential Bloomed by James Croal Jackson

At Ineffable Ca Phe, December 2021

Now, a beautiful day, mid-50’s, bare

as the bald-headed trees against the sky,

as droopy as the finger plants out of

the neighbor’s city garden. If not for

the randomness of passersby (appearing

in long intervals), I may have lost

devotion. I consider texting I wish

you were sitting across from me

but I see the tomato branches

beside me cracked. Dirt from

a different era. Thankful, still,

we remain in this muck.

On a Chair by Bruce McRae

I’m sitting on a chair made out of tindersticks and time.

I’m sitting alongside a curtainwall of pale water and light.

Sunset is pouring out its glass of red wine.

The stars are hornets rustling their bedclothes

or the sister Fates making sparks by rubbing their thighs.

The moon is a motherly button.

I’m sitting inside a circle of crushed beetles’ wings,

translating salt into a palatable sugar,

spinning yarn out of my abdomen,

retracing the patient constellations.

I’m sitting. And I’m thinking.

I’m thinking about sitting and thinking.

About fingers, jawbones, instances.

Where I’ll sleep tonight, I’ve yet to decide,

I’m so taken up with just sitting.

On a throne shaped like a milking stool.

On a beach chair folded into seven dimensions.

There’s a moist-warmed mist around my ankles.

My pulse is tangled in fibrous wire and snares.

In truth, I’ve been sitting here for several millennia,

my stones whistling in the relentless heat.

The Blue Nile and White Nile are meeting

here, just under my black feet.

There’s interference on nineteen frequencies.

The vibrations are post-apocalyptic.

I sense them with my million moth-antennae.

It’s a message repeating itself in the far future.

My molars are rattling in sympathy.

My bloodstream jingle-jangles unobtrusively.

Just sitting and sitting . . .

Listening to the underscore of earthly music.

Twisting the dreaded locks in my hair.

Gazing out the window at a mind full of sky,

the years nibbling on the wheels of my chair,

the years forever unsatiated, smoke in their mouths,

a new language taking shape, truth divided by lies,

lost love divvying out its smaller portions,

life’s door closing like an eye, like Horus’s eye,

that was lost in battle, his sacrifice symbolic,

the pillar of Osiris rising . . .

Bruce McRae, a Canadian musician, is a multiple Pushcart nominee with poems published in hundreds of magazines such as Poetry, Rattle and the North American Review. His books include ‘The So-Called Sonnets (Silenced Press); ‘An Unbecoming Fit Of Frenzy; (Cawing Crow Press) and ‘Like As If” (Pski’s Porch), Hearsay (The Poet’s Haven)

Poetry by Lynn Long

Memories of childhood

For me, a blur…

A contortion of thoughts

Rooms larger in my child’s mind

Filled with music and light

And shadows too.

Hidden in plain sight

Where a thinly disguised veil often hung…

Casually draped over the windows and above the doors

A remnant of youth

I carry with me

Alas, all that is seen is never truly as it seems.

And though the veil disguised

Remained

There awaited a magical place

Just beyond its reach

Lined with citrus and magnolia trees

Beckoning with the first rays of dawn

I can still remember sitting beneath those trees.

The feelings of innocence shared with friends and siblings-

as we told stories and took swigs from a soda bottle

Germs… never a forefront of thought in our minds

Dreaming of future worlds…

Knowing we’d someday leave this one behind.

And time… effervescent as the bubbles

in Ginger Ale

Escaping without our consent

Lynn Long

Poet, writer, dreamer

And believer in the impossible…

Residing somewhere in time

Artist at https://hitrecord.org/

https://linktr.ee/lunadeity

Joyce’s The Dead by Peter Mladinic

James Joyce’s “The Dead” is the final story

in his collection Dubliners.

I wasn’t Lily at the start of the party bitter

about the men these days who wanted her

only for what they could get out of her,

nor was I Gretta at the end, at a window

with snow falling fast in the dark, lost in

her memory of Michael Fury. I was Gretta

on the staircase listening enraptured to

Bartell D’Arcy sing “The Lass of Aughrim.”

I was on a love seat, looking up at screen

seeing, hearing “Heart’s Desire,” when

the water welled and spilled a little onto

bags under my eyes, the water standing as

I sat not thinking about but feeling

the warmth of one who was absent. Dumb

to care for one who cares not a jot for you,

I thought upon waking this morning.

Joyce nailed that music and memory thing.

As did Baldwin, in “Sonny’s Blues,” maybe

the greatest American story ever written.

In his essay “Notes of a Native Son,”

music takes him back to childhood, his

father dabbed iodine on his scraped knee.

Like Joyce he nailed music and memory,

its stomping ground the human psyche.

I was Gretta on the stairs wrapt in rhythms

of a voice, only I wasn’t, like Gretta, seeing

Michael Fury. I was looking up at a screen,

none of Gretta’s nobility with me, that night.

I suppose I was more like Lilly, about men.

I was about a woman I felt things for.

When Byron wrote “She walks in beauty,”

she was the one he was talking about.

There I sat, hearing “Heart’s Desire.”

I thought “I was over you.” Many times

those words came out of a juke

in a county bar at night. I was at home.

I was fine, then, from the screen on the wall,

came the song, you came, your face,

my feelings. I felt jittery when you smiled.

Out Getta’s window the snow was falling.

Peter Mladinic’s fifth book of poems, Voices from the Past, is forthcoming from Better Than Starbucks Publications. An animal rights advocate, he lives in Hobbs, New Mexico, USA.

PPP Ezine: Poetrypoeticspleasure Ezine. Volume 7; Issue 3; March 2023

March 10, 2023 by rajnishmishrabanaras in PPP Ezine and tagged v7i3 | Leave a comment

Poet of the Month: Robert Beveridge

March haiku near the QEW by Terry Trowbridge

Poems by Mykyta Ryzhykh

The Manna of the Nighttime Stroll by John Grey

Please Stay by Petrouchka Alexieva

Witchy Halloween by Michael Lee Johnson

Transparent Men and Women by Yuan-Hongri

Poet of the Month: Robert Beveridge

Images of Amanda Yoder

Your hair floats in the wind
frames your features
like a brown thicket

your silver cross
cold in the morning
framed by your gentle breasts

Ring, serrated,
slipped onto your thumb
a curled-up dragon napping

your dress flows
down your body
rainwater unfortunately opaque

Serpents

There are snakes on the path. Snakes.
The path continues into the forest
beyond them; all we have to do is step.
The darkest part of the wood awaits.

Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Of Rust and Glass, The Museum of Americana, and Quill and Parchment, among others.

March haiku near the QEW by Terry Trowbridge

My toes left twiggy

prints in the snow, each hop was

colder than the last.

Seasons here might have

features you don’t expect. Still,

look for snow, birds, births.

Now the rabbits set

their clocks by streetlights, sounds made

by commuter cars.

Our toads are burrowed

and even that evidence

is hid under twigs.

Poems by Mykyta Ryzhykh

people love dogs
gods love people

no one believes in love

***
what are we looking for instead of freedom?
a man walks by himself along the road
and the road seems to him a path to paradise

what do we do in times of war?
only to go on and seek peace
only to live at any cost price

what is man in essence?
The whole range of despair from red to white
and that child that walks along the front road

where will he get to?

The Manna of the Nighttime Stroll by John Grey

A discrete moon,

misty tracing from tree to tree,

distant details vanquished,

stars twinkle like the muted chuckles

of mourners at a wake –

in the woods,

life-forms sleep or hunt

converse to day’s routine –

with people, approaches to dark

go their separate ways,

some to restorative repose,

others to match their lights with neon –

I prefer the company of a river

reduced to nothing but

the flow of its sounds –

and the breeze of course,

those fluttering demoiselle feathers –

ah, how easily the world

erases all that’s unnecessary –

I can fall into the pleasant pace

of my thoughts.

I can so easily begin.

Please Stay by Petrouchka Alexieva

Please stay,

I need you next to the fire.

The flames will paint

Your lovely face in the sky

My simple desire is

Dance with me in their time.

Please stay,

‘Till the evening dives slowly

Into your heavenly eyes.

I know, the stars will glow shortly,

I will cushion you

With all the clouds above us.

Please stay, don’t run,

I’ll give you the sweetest dream…

I’d like to see how the sun

Will golden your beautiful skin.

Please stay, don’t go anywhere,

I need you. I swear…

Ms. Petrouchka Alexieva is a well-known as a feminist and a LOVE poet, well-known scholar and TV persona. She is a life-time member of four Distinguished Scholar Societies; a Cum Laude graduate at CSULA (2009) and “All American Scholar Award“recipient (2008). Speaking 8+ languages, her literary and scholarly works, photo-documentaries were highlighted in varieties of venues, on ”Daheli Live!” TV show, opening ceremonies and numerous open mics.

For her outstanding life-long achievements, Ms. Alexieva’s name was included two times among the most distinguished Earth’s citizens list of NASA’s Mars Exploration Rover (2003) capsule and Science Laboratory Rover (2011) list, for which she has awarded with honorable certificates.

Witchy Halloween by Michael Lee Johnson

Inside this late October 31st night,

this poem turns into a pumpkin.

Animation, something has gone

devilishly wrong with my imagery.

I take the lid off the pumpkin’s headlight

and the pink candles inside.

Demons cry, crawl, split, fly outsides —

escape through the pumpkin’s eyes.

I’m mixed in fear with this scary, strange creation.

Outside, quietly tapping Hazel the witch,

her broomstick against my windowpane rattles.

She says, “nothing seems to rhyme anymore,

nothing seems to make any sense,

but the night is young.

Give me back my magical bag of tricks.

As Robert Frost said:

“But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep.”

Transparent Men and Women by Yuan-Hongri

Translator Wit lee

Transparent men and women

Men and women more beautiful than colored butterflies

Maybe really a group colored butterflies

Dancing from Zhuangzi ‘s big dream

But I see cities, crystal transparent cities

Like city’s dream, city’s love

Through the walls could reach the other shore

Light, may transcend time

Above the sea surface of time, boats of light are flying

On a little island

I see other men and women

This calendar tells us a window

After days are still another days

It is the illusion of days that besiege us

Justas my flesh is my own shadow

Yesterday’s leafs and water drops

Pebbles I played with in my childhood

The sun I see for the first time

Those all things are smiling in a house of light

Eyes of men and women

Eyes more charming than the rainbow

On vibrant morning

In intoxicating dusk

Flying water drowned men and women

I found one sun in my own chest

I discovered cities in my head

The water of the past turned into crystal, diamond

There are stars sailing in my bones

Ah, a young girl in dream

Maybe came from some day a hundred years ago

Still I miss that moment

That vision disappeared when I wake up

That momentary smile, how warm it was

Who made you appear in my dream?

I believe in dream, as I believe in the sun

And in dreamland I saw another me

Shadows of Phoenix and Unicorn

Once in dream came down

On the mountain top

I dreamed a house of heaven

Blood is another river

Blood in my body also has its own dream

I set foot on a ladder of days

But on the other mountain

LeisurelyI’m flying

Shadows of men and women

Blooms in a smile

The seasons of men and women

Days are like pieces of stones

I opened an photo album sealed for many years

I saw Yellow Emperor rambling in the city

One shadow is among many shadows

On another wild field

Ancient years are shouting and fighting

On grassland all kinds of flowers are laughing

Living in glass I

Don’t know their names

Water of yearning, water of sweet and fragrant spring

Flyfrom inside rocks

A girl is like a colorful flyingphoenix

Only dream tells us the illusory of time

Outside time’s gate

There is another sun

Who was playing games inside ancient rocks

Igniting gold piece by piece

On pieces of transparent boulders

Drawing seas and cities

I was sitting in a house filed with light

With a picture album hold in my hand

In the buildings of ancient times

Caught sight of the future emperors

Who’s blood was the plum flower drinking

Which girl’s song was it singing

When I got up

I saw a white jade, glittering its smile

In the age when rock drifted fragrance

Queen Mother of the West was a witch

Tow eyes have intoxicated the handsome and strong MU Tianzi

This is a gold sculpture

But I don’t know

Am I in times of heaven or mundane?

On days when Goddess stepped on auspicious clouds

Where am I?

On which star

Still preserves my house of past?

Form east to west

There is a road of gold

Perhaps there is a blonde

To be my companion of tomorrow

The earth is a crystal jade

In lover’s mouth

Atmosphere is as sweet as wines

And in one dreamland

I’m still a baby

Every city and county I passedby

Have all left my shadow

Thousand years after they will still be golden and shining

Bread that I eat was my own blood

A girl that I loved once loved me a thousand years ago

I saw in the arms of the rocks

Girls were lying down, cheeks fresh and red

Skins were as transparent as jade

Hieroglyphs and letters

Were glittering and shining on the sun

God is holding a brush in his hand

Waving a pen in heaven

Those cities of gold and silver

In an eye’s twinkling flew toward the human world

On the edge of a big river bank

There was one house of mine

A garden yieldedfull of golden fruits

On the other mountain, red plum blossomed spreading the top

My shadow turned into a Kylin

In the house builtwith white jade

I wrote down a volume of poetry

Each line of verse is a star in the blue sky

A tortuous, quite and secluded path

Walked through from a garden

The sun shed its golden drizzle

Golden spiral ladders

Was in another crystal sky

I opened my own head

There are more suns

Spinning ,singing

Girl of light, petal of smile

On a lake green-jade-like

Reflecting the red houses

A cluster of green leaves transmit bright red lips

Smiling faces of the alley paved by stones

To where shall it lead me?

Blooming peach tree of early spring

Upon the hillside ,bees of sunlight are buzzing

Through the street of trams and crowd

In front of the glorious and magnificent mansions

Look up forward a piece of crystal blue sky

In the thoughts of white clouds

Is the city beautiful?

Along the street of billboards and neon lights

Big trees covered with green hair

Enable me miss the distant mountains and the clear springs

Children’s smiling faces are no unfamiliar

Black jade eyes, pink lips

At this moment, men and women flow stream endlessly

It was fashion and vanity that noised the street

I planted myself here

Left a thousand shadows

To cultivate a thousand gardens

To pave the gold onto road like the stones

Let every stone melt into crystal

In wind language there were sounds of stars

Rocks and pine trees of distant mountains

Poetry rhythm of the sea

There were underground burieddreaming words of ancient people, blooming red flower

And there were remote poems I eager to go back

Every single green tree beside the street loves us

Under the hot sun, wordless green shade

Every flower has its own language

People with crystal eyes

Will see flower’s smile

Ah, every time the sun rises

We all woke up from death

The dead us,where have been kept?

Do not belittle a stone

It hummed the song of universe

The young girl’s smiling face of the very days

Turned into a white cloud

Upon the mirror face of the sky

All the saints could be seen

I was silent in the fire, went through

The flame of men and women

In the high streets and back lanes of cities

Wind of time blown colorful flags

Under the blue sky, river of life is flouring and rushing

I tried to open the memory door

On another planet

Leisure and happy time

The night of death subsided

And on the red clouds of dawn

Golden smile face of the sun

The initial men and women

Men and women without names

Men and women created God

The initial poets were a couple of lovers

When the blood started to sing

I heard the language of the sun and stars

On some wonderful and joyous occasionsthe sun smiled outside the window

A young girl walked into your window

Her eyes are two stars

Came from ancient space

How transient this prosperity in front of us

This street, city of labyrinth

The old man sitting on the street playing with chess

Still missing thehouse of gone away

The young girl of that very year was still walking past the street

Only turned into a transparent shadow

Tomorrow is in white clouds’ hometown

Tomorrow’s sun is still smiling and silent

Every moment of mine is departing me

Big birds of time were darting in the sky

Brightly coloured feathers

Glitter in the sky, knowingnowhere to leisurely fly down

In a palace

I’m an old man, sitting on golden chair

Missing me

I walked into a stone

Saw another sky

On a vast sea

There was an island of peach flower

Days of riding a Phoenix

Where are my companions

Walking on the street of Wangfujing

I miss the Yellow emperor riding a dragon up to the heaven

Light is my only food

Light of the sun, moon, and stars

Became my bones

Ancient Greek and Rome

Is now in front of me

Poems of Homer and Sappho

Turned into my sweet spring

Many countries I travelled

Flying in the space-time of words

A thousand years and ten thousand years

Made me lament: transience

And now every drop of blood today

Is all a ruby

Every inch of the land I’ve stepped on

Is all ancient gold

Whose jade body am I walking on?

Ancient sweet and beautiful songs

Enables me fall in love with the ancient girl

In a transparent jade

Will your laughter be preserved?

Sometimes on one star

I saw your beautiful face

Ah, golden words

Stars of east and west

How many poets’ kingdom they have entered?

Strings of shiningglorious names

Engraved on the chest of the sun

Upon the ocean of the sky

How many happy gardens are there?

I’m just fluttering away

Making a temporary farewell from the mundane world for a millennium

When Sappho returns again

A new song must be chanted

Days of labyrinth in front of us

Time played the strings of the sun and the moon

Words flied from the stars

I walked into the days of phantom overlapped

I can’t tell the past from the future

Now I’m alone and unconventional

And under the sun I lost the shadow

Is this body accompanied me

The narrow boat of time?

Above the waves of the Three Gorges

I galloped forward

Understand the songs of green shade

Drink a wine of silent time

A golden daisy

During my midnap

Turned into a girl

Poplars and willows on lake shore stand by each sides

Are they still waiting

The lovers strolling in the evening?

The sunset is waving a handkerchief of twilight

The light of love

Is soaring in the clean breeze

Pairs of star eyes

Where are they twinkling today?

On whose forehead they are inlaid

Singing and chanting to me now?

I stepped across the gates of light

Having no idea where to wake up from drunken sleep

In the labyrinth weaved by the light

Drink up the sweet wine of words to my heart’ content

Those golden smiling faces

Come from east and west

In the kingdom of poetry

Bosom friends and partners everywhere abound

I lingeredabout in day times

Opened doors and windows in the wall of light

Had a sweetdeep sleep in the white jade case

Dreaming of my own footprints

Radiating golden light in the sky

Loneliness became God

Will loneliness hear the words of sky?

Swim across the long river of shadow

I’m a shadow forgetting himself

In a house by the street

What kind of time there have been ?

Every day on the earth

Flame of time, burns endlessly

Let red lips of lovers fade

Black hair run into dust

Smell the fragrance of the mud

Whose love do you think and recollect?

Everything is colorful and transparent

Every stone keeps its own memory

A pile of shattered stone statues

Smile at me in the sun

Maybe we’d known each othera thousand years ago

Blood of stone is golden and transparent

Time flower is gold and precious stones

Where are the charming figures today?

Left rolls and volumes poetry of light behind

Those shadows are still brilliant

Vivid and bright-colored as ever in transparent words

A withered flower has a beautiful memory

An instant bloom embraces eternity

Memory walks to memory, where shall we go?

The first drop of water turned into an ocean

All things I witnessed come from the past

Tomorrow will born in my palm

By whom the chess pieces of the stars are driven?

In whose eyes the earth is also a chess piece

I watched my own life on the earth

Drinking water, having meals, heart full of yearning

Another me perhaps always keep me accompany

Only he knows my secrets

Words I said may have been said

Roads I traveled may have been traveled

I seem to be repeating one by one the me of the past

On my tired days, eagerfor fall down and die

Like zhuang Zi,became a free butterfly

As soon as I wake up, I see the sun

Auspicious clouds spread their fragrance beside me

Rivers flowed out from the embrace of the mountain

Again back to the ancient sea

My memory ocean maybe is just ahead

Where is the time hidden exactly?

Come with no sign and go with no trace

Upon the mirror surface of time

Only see my own shadow

My songs can be heard by the stars

Walk on the city street

White clouds walk with me

I walked into a church

Caught a sight of Jesus holding a baby in his arms

God stands in heaven,waits and watches us

My god is myself

I sat in the heaven, looked at myself

A big seven-colored bird

Spread the wings of sky

Watched me walking on the earth

Death’ black night curtain

Covered heaven of gold and silver

At this moment where do I live on earth?

Drink up all this glass of wine

Blood of time is brewed into nectar

No time for hesitation and hovering

Not to be sad in the face of heaven

What cannot be retained is the shadow one after another

My songs are a paradise that will not wither

Who is not hungry and thirsty in city desert?

Colorful sand and gravel accumulated into time

Flame refined out transparent bones

Drink the bright jade body

More brighter and glorious than diamonds

In pavilions of sky,read volumes of golden books

In time and space labyrinth,write volumes of poetry

In the world of mortals, who is my bosom friend?

Caress a street tree, listen to the whisper of the green leaves

Transparent crystal world, countless brilliant smiling faces

Open the wall thus can walk into

A house full of laughter

Tomorrow is just a landscape

Long has been hanging in the balcony of sky

The sun walked forth and back in the sky

Made tomorrow’s lunch prepared

Let me sit down and caress the time’s silk

Cut it to make you a new dress

Walk into the bosom of the sun

Through the flame

And turn into a beam of pure light

Glass of the blue sky, melted in the flame

You will see the young girl singing on the star

Garden of earth blossom once again

The human world is full of transparent butterflies flying all around

Labyrinth city, colorful river

Wind blows flags of dream

In whose blood the ancient song is sounded?

The Hurrying footsteps beat the drum for an expedition

Those eyes glisteringstarry bright

Seems contain ancient sweet spring

A seed of gold

Is sprouting on your palm, full of bloom

Beijing, August 1998

Bio of the author：Yuan Hongri (born 1962) is a renowned Chinese mystic, poet, and philosopher. His work has been published in the UK, USA, India, New Zealand, Canada, and Nigeria; his poems have appeared in Poet’s Espresso Review, Orbis, Tipton Poetry Journal, Harbinger Asylum, The Stray Branch, Acumen, Pinyon Review, Taj Mahal Review, Madswirl, Shot Glass Journal, Amethyst Review, Fine Lines, and other e-zines, anthologies, and journals. His best known works are“Platinum City”and “Golden Giant”. His works explore themes of prehistoric and future civilization.Its content is to show the solemnity,sacredness and greatness of human soul through the exploration of soul.

Bio of the translator: Wit Lee, whose Chinese name is Li Hui, and pen name is Muzihuixin. She is a female poet born in Jining ,Shandong province, and now lives at the foot of Mountain Taishan. She is an editor of Taishan University Journal, a member of Taian Writer’s Association and Taian Poets’ Association. She has published many poems and one poetry book: Beyond Time

Email:3112362909@qq.com Hongri Yuan Phone:+86 15263747339

Address:No.18 middle school Yanzhou District ,Jining City, Shandong Province, China

PPP Ezine: Poetrypoeticspleasure Ezine. Volume 7; Issue 2; February 2023

February 10, 2023 by rajnishmishrabanaras in PPP Ezine and tagged v7i2 | Leave a comment

Poet of the Month: Bruce McRae

Something happening by D S Maolalai

Honey Coated Death by James Piatt

Chance Adaptability by Joshua Martin

Full Moon Journey by Lorraine Caputo

The Nest by James Mulhern

God Tests by Peter Mladinic

When Words Feel Like Noise by Richard LeDue

The Dance by Strider Marcus Jones

Broke the Spell by Linda M. Crate

Lies/truths by Edward Lee

8000 Years of Philosophy by Allan Lake

Poet of the Month: Bruce McRae

The Clouds Bursting

The night in smudged charcoal.

Thunder devouring what remains unseen.

Lightning cutting its own throat.

I remember a thick slobber of rain.

It was coming down hard, relentlessly,

like celestial spit or cherubs pissing.

Brother, I was building a boat out of love.

For nails, I was pinching the wind.

For my sails, torn thunderheads.

My rudder the sea-surge gushing ashore.

I remember a pillar of darkness,

concern carving its idolatrous god,

worry wringing its handbell.

Sister, how well I recall

thunderbolts sharpening themselves

on the whetstone of my thinking.

The ocean tearing sheets.

Our town barging miles inland.

The houses rocking.

It was like waking up in one dream

and falling asleep in another.

It was like swimming into the underworld

or a held breath in the womb.

Everything moving, everything alive . . .

But I need you to understand the rain

was a symbol, and not a sign.

That I had one foot in the afterlife

and the other in prehistory.

That there was no night, no rain, no I.

That a storm never ends

in a world neverending.

A Little Chat With Ourself

I’m talking to you through a rip in the seaside,

out of a warmed dent in the passing nothingness,

from behind a loop of tightly woven angel-hair.

I’m talking to you, and the wind is rubbing a cornfield.

I’m telling you the sun is sawing its right hand.

That the moon is a knothole in God’s coffin,

the stars His marred and excitable match-heads.

I’m going along, caught between a feather and a flower.

I’m shouting from the top of my voice,

from the foot of the stairs.

I’m talking to you from a squeak at the circus.

Pointing out opossum’s breath.

Explaining, carefully, gunpowder.

I’m telling you the world is a fog of consciousness.

I’m telling you about the mountain chain

that’s fallen in love with a river.

About a river pouring itself into your tea.

About a cup of tea embarrassed by the cosmos’s antics.

You’re listening to me spouting forth

from the swirling vortex in mommy’s sewing machine.

You’ve been asleep under a stone for a thousand years.

You’re hearing my voice, but believe it’s the rain falling,

and that each cold drop is a planet or miniature Himalayas.

I’m talking to you from the ragged hum of my hands.

I want you to realize that I’m snow

drifting in a far-off land.

I want you to see how the world still loves you.

To know the stars understand.

Something happening by D S Maolalai

like opening a zip,

the sound of encircling

helicopters, buzzing their circles

above calm dublin skies.

somewhere distant something

is happening. someone

is somewhere

in distress.

DS Maolalai has been nominated nine times for Best of the Net and seven times for the Pushcart Prize. His poetry has been released in two collections, “Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden” (Encircle Press, 2016) and “Sad Havoc Among the Birds” (Turas Press, 2019).

Honey Coated Death by James Piatt

He drifted in a flowing rivulet of

Perfumed honey; it celebrated his

Betrothal to the holy moisture that

Meandered through meadows

Smelling of black daffodils, and

The odor of oxidized bereavement.

He sensed a heavy sweetness

Entering Into his unholy being

And knowing that this was death,

He breathed In the sugary

Dampness, and was liberated

From the bitter irony of his

Agonizing life.

James, a Best of Web nominee and three time Pushcart nominee, has had four collections of poetry; “Solace Between the Lines,” “Light,” “Ancient Rhythms,” and “The Silent Pond,” over 1525 poems, five novels and 35 short stories published worldwide. He earned his BS and MA from California State Polytechnic University, SLO, and his doctorate from BYU.

Chance Adaptability by Joshua Martin

Look package up & down

flutter pocketful of essentials

carted off into deadpan lab

door to mole gazing thrust

talking pause whiplash fine

wish a wish a monument

period of rehearsed hysteria

stands outside naturalism

somewhat frantic confidence

attempt white lies verbatim

affluent analytical eradication

exact understatement control

written between frame guise

oyster sunset gin joint actors

less scene than secondary

prints trust ghostly variances

reserved for standing remedies

goose intellectual shows violence

for platonic admission stable

proof that gauntlet grovel

Joshua Martin is a Philadelphia based writer and filmmaker, who currently works in a library. He is the author of the books combustible panoramic twists (Trainwreck Press), Pointillistic Venetian Blinds (Alien Buddha Press) and Vagabond fragments of a hole (Schism Neuronics). He has had numerous pieces published in various journals including Otoliths, M58, The Sparrow’s Trombone, Coven, Scud, Ygdrasil, RASPUTIN, Ink Pantry, and Synchronized Chaos. You can find links to his published work at joshuamartinwriting.blogspot.com.

Full Moon Journey by Lorraine Caputo

Full moon a-risen

o’er southern Ecuador. Its

light seeps through tattered

clouds. The mountains silhouette

against grey pollera sky.

The Nest by James Mulhern

I imagine you looking at the robins’ nest

in the Maple outside your bedroom window.

You can’t see the blue eggs, but you watch

the male bring dry grass and twigs.

He offers dirt, too, dipped in a birdbath

or from a swampy spot at the yard’s edge.

The female cements the nest,

protecting her brood of four or five.

Sometimes you stare at your body cast,

a remnant of your spinal surgery,

but most hours you watch the tree,

the birds, the clouds, and the sky.

The days pass slowly, but at two weeks

you see tips of yellow mouths.

You think of the day your hardened mold

cracks open and you walk outside.

How you will look upward, smiling,

scanning the blue and clouds and sun,

hoping to glimpse a fledgling,

or any free bird flying high.

Where it travels is not your concern.

Your joy is that it does.

James Mulhern’s writing has appeared in literary journals over two hundred times and has received many awards. In 2015, Mr. Mulhern was granted a writing fellowship to Oxford University. That same year, a story was longlisted for the Fish Short Story Prize. In 2017, he was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. His novel, Give Them Unquiet Dreams, is a Kirkus Reviews Best Book of the Year. He was shortlisted for the Aesthetica Creative Writing Award 2021 for his poetry.

God Tests by Peter Mladinic

The oak limb handsomely caved

the parked Camaro’s roof.

God or nature? Preordained,

the storm that swept inland?

A shark sighting? Will prayer

keep apart swimmer and shark?

God had no hand in it, the bite

that took the boy’s leg.

Some say it’s part of the plan:

heart, cancer, earthquakes,

accidents, estrangements, assaults.

The last three, people’s faults.

God tests, how many kinds?

True and false, multiple choice, essay?

Or more like being boxed in,

a test of weakness and strength?

How much, how much can I

take and for how long?

Each in the box asked the darkness

of that cramped space.

You did something bad to yourself

and others, or something good

for yourself and others.

Always others, always God.

When we think we’re alone, well,

yeah, at birth and death,

but in between, that’s a delusion

even when I am alone.

Peter Mladinic’s fourth book of poems, Knives on a Table is available from Better Than Starbucks Publications.An animal rights advocate, he lives in Hobbs, New Mexico.

When Words Feel Like Noise by Richard LeDue

Another empty speech bubble kind of day,

where words feel like noise

echoing, while I look out

a window with my poet’s eyes

(whatever that means),

wondering if snow thinks

acid rain a trashy cousin

they try not to talk to

(but only about),

as sentences like these start to envy

silence, even the sort

that smothers a conversation

because someone wasn’t listening,

too busy chewing

(definitely with their mouth open)

on gossip

about a neighbour’s whisky breath.

The Dance by Strider Marcus Jones

pull the roof off

knock the walls down

touch the forest

climb those mountains

and smell the sea

again.

watch how life

decomposes

in death

going back to land

to reform and be reborn

as something and someone else.

there’s no great secret to it all.

no need to overthink it through

food and shelter

fire and shamens

clothes and coupling

used to be enough

with musicians

artists

and poets

interpreting the dance.

then warriors with armies

religions with god

and minds buying and selling

stole the landscape

and changed time.

smash the windows

break down the doors

melt the keys

rub evil words from their spells

and puncture the lungs of their wheels

before they kidnap you from bed

call you dissident

hold you without charge

wheel you out on a stretcher

from waterboard torture

for years

without trial

in Guantanamo Bay.

they are selling

the sanctuary

we made

with our numbers

bringing back chains

making some of us slaves

outside the dance

in the five coloured rings

making winners

and losers

holding flags and flames.

Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms. His poetry has been published in numerous publications including: Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Melbourne Culture Corner; Literary Yard Journal; The Honest Ulsterman; Poppy Road Review; The Galway Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; A New Ulster; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine Poetry Magazine and Dissident Voice.

Broke the Spell by Linda M. Crate

your dark magic

had hold of me

too long,

but i broke the spell

in learning to love myself

and my own

magic;

reclaimed my voice and learned

i never needed you but i had wanted you—

also learned never to lose myself

in loving someone else

because there’s nothing more horrible

than not knowing or valuing yourself,

and i am no longer despondent

that you were a lesson learned and bridge burned

along the way.

Linda M. Crate (she/her) is a Pennsylvanian writer whose poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. She has eleven published chapbooks the latest being: fat & pretty (Dancing Girl Press, June 2022). She is also the author of the novella Mates (Alien Buddha Publishing, March 2022).

Lies/truths by Edward Lee

Told too many people

too many lies, so,

many of those people

no longer believe

a word I say,

most of them unwilling

to listen to any word I say.

I can’t blame them,

I suppose. I don’t, most

of the time, though those times

I do mind, those times

when I am telling the truth,

it scratches under my skin,

to tell a truth

and be thought a liar

(and yes, I know exactly

how that sounds).

If I haven’t re-earned

their trust by now,

I never will, and

why are we wasting words,

true or otherwise,

on each other

when there are thousands of people

who have never lied to them,

and thousands more who do not know

that I had told more lies

than any one person ever should

even if they lived a dozen lifetimes?

Edward Lee’s poetry, short stories, non-fiction and photography have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen, The Blue Nib and Poetry Wales. His play ‘Wall’ received a rehearsed reading as part of Druid Theatre’s Druid Debuts 2020. He also makes musical noise under the names Ayahuasca Collective, Orson Carroll, Lego Figures Fighting, and Pale Blond Boy. His blog/website can be found at https://edwardmlee.wordpress.com

8000 Years of Philosophy by Allan Lake

Thoughtful Greek philosophers and un-

educated Canadian grandmother, who

referred to child me as a bad weed,

advised all who’d listen how to

think and behave, above all

to ‘Be Good’.

Both were knowledgeable

about invisible celestial beings

that fly through the ether and get up

to all sorts of tricks. Neither knew about

hosts of less extraordinary things, black holes.

Allan Lake is a poet, originally from Allover, Canada, who now writes in Allover, Australia. His latest collection, published by Ginninderra Press, is called “My Photos of Sicily”. It contains no photos, only poems.

PPP Ezine: Poetrypoeticspleasure Ezine. Volume 7; Issue 1; January 2023

January 1, 2023 by rajnishmishrabanaras in PPP Ezine | 2 Comments

PPP Ezine welcomes all poetry lovers to this new year of new dreams, hopes and poems. Happy reading and happy writing to all our poet-friends and poetry lovers. May this year bring you more beauty, more joy and more poetry.

Poet of the Month: Michael Lee Johnson

Love Symbiosis by Petrouchka Alexieva

Whisper and Shouts by Sanghpriya Gautam

For Qi Hong: The Darkest Energy in the Universe by Yuan Changming

Twix by James Croal Jackson

Micropoetry by Lynn Long

Friction Fiction by Mark Young

Woman by Mykyta Ryzhykh

God (Part 3) by Robert Beveridge

While the Young Sunbathed in Silence by Heath Brougher

It’s So Quiet by Strider Marcus Jones

celestial crow woman by Joan McNerney

Poet of the Month: Michael Lee Johnson

My Life

My life began with a skeleton

with a smile and bubbling eyes

in my garden of dandelions.

Everything else fell off the edge,

a jigsaw puzzle piece cut in half.

When young, I pressed

against my mother’s breast,

but youthful memories fell short.

I tried at 8 to kiss my father,

but he was a welder, fox hunter,

coon hunter, and voyeuristic man.

My young life was a mixture

of black, white, dark dreams,

and mellow yellow sun bright hopes.

Rewind, sunshine was a stranger

in dandelion fields,

shadows in my eyes.

I grabbed my injured legs

leap forward into the future.

I’m now a vitamin C boy

it keeps me immured

from catching colds or Covid-19.

Everything now still leaks, in parts,

but I press forward.

Jesus and How He Must Have Felt

Staggering out Wee-Willy’s

dumpy dive bar, droopy eyes,

my feelings desensitizing,

confusing my avocado fart,

at 3:20 a.m., with last night

splash on Brut aftershave.

Whispering to my outcast

self-sounding is more like pending death.

My body detaching from myself,

numbed by winter’s fingers.

I creak up these outside stairs

to my apartment after an all-night drunk,

cheap Tesco’s Windsor Castle

London Dry Gin—on the rocks.

I thought of Jesus

how He must have felt

during His resurrection

dragging His holy body

up that endless stairwell

spiraling toward heaven.

Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet in the greater Chicagoland area, IL. He has 272 YouTube poetry videos. Michael Lee Johnson is an internationally published poet in 44 countries, has several published poetry books, has been nominated for 5 Pushcart Prize awards, and 6 Best of the Net nominations. He is editor-in-chief of 3 poetry anthologies, all available on Amazon, and has several poetry books and chapbooks. He has over 443 published poems. Michael is the administrator of 6 Facebook Poetry groups. Member Illinois State Poetry Society: http://www.illinoispoets.org/.

Love Symbiosis by Petrouchka Alexieva

I am the grain in your shoe

That bothers you all the time.

Maybe, I cost some pain, some issues,

But you still walk with me around.

In the mornig, I’m your little excuse

to be clamsy and a little bit late

When everything is suddenly wrong

Or you just need to wait.

You told me you love me, I know,

There is no other way around.

I am your little regret and joy

When at night, you are awfully stumbled.

You wanted me as a glove on your hand.

I am still not that soft and cushy,

I am rough and tough, but you are afraid

to throw me away because

I am the only one to blame

When you are backwardly and go

Through a hormonal metamorphosis.

We both know the name of this game –

It is called LOVE SYMBIOSIS.

Ms. Petrouchka Alexieva is well-known as a feminist and a LOVE poet, scholar and TV persona. She is a life-time member of four Distinguished Scholar Societies; a Cum Laude graduate at CSULA (2009) and “All American Scholar Award” recipient (2008). For her outstanding life-long achievements, Ms. Alexieva’s name was included two times among the most distinguished Earth’s citizens list of NASA’s Mars Exploration Rover (2003) capsule and Science Laboratory Rover (2011) list, for which she has been awarded with honorable certificates.

Whisper and Shouts by Sanghpriya Gautam

Whispers in the crowd

Shout in absolute silence;

Thick desperation clouds

The other side of violence.

For Qi Hong: The Darkest Energy in the Universe by Yuan Changming

Is no other than fear, I well know that, but just

Cannot help feeling afraid you would turn away

From me the next moment, or become upset

With what I have to say, or refuse to answer my

Call, or remove me from your weixin list, or

Cut off all my links to your world before I

Weave your being into the fabric of my love, or

Show no more initiative in contacting me, or lose

Interest in me & my life, or become really fed up

With my word-service, or stop missing me

As your old flame, or fail to pass the secular tests

Of time, or withdraw your affection under

The pressure of guilt or gossip, or lock your

Self up suddenly within the cage of traditional

Values & moral concerns… yes,

I fear you

Would do all such things, one or another, for

Some or no reason at all; I fear you would not

Hold your love for long; I fear you would change

Your heart (again as about half a century ago

On the other side of this world); indeed, I fear

My ugly wrinkled face, shrunk statue &

Softened manhood would disappoint you; in

Particular, I fear you would stamp out my

Inspirations before I burn them into poetry; above

All, I fear you are never afraid of my fears about you

Yuan Changming hails with Allen Yuan from poetrypacific.blogspot.ca. Credits include Pushcart nominations besides appearances in Best of the Best Canadian Poetry (2008-17) & BestNewPoemsOnline, among others. Recently, Yuan published his eleventh chapbook Limerence, and served on the jury for Canada’s 44th National Magazine Awards (poetry category).

Twix by James Croal Jackson

If there is a bowl

of Twix at work,

I will act apathetic

when others are

around. Alone I will

bury open wrappers

tenfold in the trash.

Perhaps I have been

watching too much

true crime television,

or lived in the U.S.

too long– standing

over candy, ripping open

Twix after inadequate

Twix, I find the initial

bite of chocolate

caramel into biscuit

enough to make me

want the whole stick,

the whole candy bowl,

everything I can have

that’s for the taking,

like anything has ever

been entitled to me.

James Croal Jackson is a Filipino-American poet who works in film production. He has three chapbooks: Count Seeds With Me (Ethel Zine & Micro-Press, 2022), Our Past Leaves (Kelsay Books, 2021), and The Frayed Edge of Memory (Writing Knights, 2017). He edits The Mantle Poetry from Pittsburgh, PA. (jamescroaljackson.com).

Micropoetry by Lynn Long

A gentle zephyr

Honeybees and painted blooms

The promise of spring

Raindrops dancing on sunbeams

A summer shower

Amid the flowers and trees

The ocean touched the sea

And in perfect symphony

Waves crashed blissfully

Lynn Long

Poet, writer, dreamer

And believer in the impossible…

Residing somewhere in time

Artist at https://hitrecord.org/

https://linktr.ee/lunadeity

With published pieces in various

online publications, journals, E-zines and anthologies

Friction Fiction by Mark Young

We lean out of the window

as the car goes

round the corner. Too fast

but we don’t care. It’s

life, it’s sun, it’s something

to do as the car

leans out the window as

the world goes round

the corner.

Mark Young was born in New Zealand but now lives in a small town in North Queensland in Australia. He has been publishing poetry for over sixty years, & is the author of around sixty books, primarily text poetry but also including speculative fiction, vispo, creative nonfiction, & art history. His most recent book is Songs to Come for the Salamander, Poems 2013-2021, selected & introduced by Thomas Fink, co-published by Meritage Press & Sandy Press.

Woman by Mykyta Ryzhykh

a woman
with tears instead of a body
digs her own grave and becomes
a small insect for big husband

Mykyta Ryzhykh is the winner of the international competition Art Against Drugs and some Ukrainian awards; laureate of the literary competition named after Tyutyunnik, Lyceum, Twelve, and has been Nominated for Pushcart Prize. He has been published many times in the journals Dzvin, Dnipro, Bukovinian magazine, Polutona, Rechport, Topos, Articulation, Formaslov, Literature Factory, Literary Chernihiv, Tipton Poetry Journal, Stone Poetry Journal, Divot journal , dyst journal, Superpresent Magazine, Allegro Poetry Magazine, Alternate Route , Better Than Starbucks Poetry & Fiction Journal, Littoral Press , Book of Matches, on the portals Litсenter, Ice Floe Press and Soloneba, in the Ukrainian literary newspaper.

God (Part 3) by Robert Beveridge

they say
to make the earth
god pulled
an allnighter
and celebrated
by conjuring up
a fluted
glass of dom
perignon.

i say
after the day
it took to make you
god went
on a three-day
m

While the Young Sunbathed in Silence by Heath Brougher

It isn’t being punched in the jaw by death

or a headlock from god-

no, it’s all those wasted moments:

goodbyes that were never said,

unused hellos practised in front of a mirror,

complaints about the weather

among bus stop strangers.

Those moments are plentiful

as sand on a beach

that gets in your shoes,

under socks,

makes you swear at the blue sky,

until a high blood pressure nosebleed

wins the argument you were having with yourself,

as your own blood smells cheaper

than your grandmother’s jar of pennies,

smashed open after the funeral

because what else could you do?

It’s So Quiet by Strider Marcus Jones

It’s so quiet

our eloquent words dying on a diet

of midnight toast

with Orwell’s ghost-

looking so tubercular in a tweed jacket

pencilling notes on a lung black cigarette packet-

our Winston, wronged for a woman and sin

re-wrote history on scrolls thought down tubes

that came to him

in the Ministry Of Truth Of Fools

where conscience learns to lie within.

not like today

the smug-sly haves say and look away

so sure

there’s nothing wrong with wanting more,

or drown their sorrows

downing bootleg gin

knowing tomorrows

truth is paper thin

at home

in sensory

perception

with tapped and tracked phone

the Thought Police arrest me

in the corridors of affection-

where dictators wear, red then blue, reversible coats

in collapsing houses, all self-made

and self-paid

smarmy scrotes-

now the Round Table

of real red politics

is only fable

on the pyre of ghostly heretics.

they are rubbing out

all the contusions

and solitary doubt,

with confusions

and illusions

through wired media

defined in their secret encyclopedia-

where summit and boardroom and conclave

engineer us from birth to grave.

like the birds,

i will have to eat

the firethorn

berries that ripen but sleep

to keep

the words

of revolution

alive and warm

this winter, with resolution

gathering us, to its lantern in the bleak,

to be reborn and speak.

Strider Marcus Jones is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms. His poetry has been published in numerous publications including: Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine

celestial crow woman by Joan McNerney

they tried to tame me,

fight the monsters out of

me;

take my wilds and cut them

out of me—

it didn’t work,

my heart and soul

are both wild things;

my heart resents being

caged by my ribs

wants to fly free to where the wild things are—

my soul wearies of people

committed to misunderstanding

or using me,

so don’t be surprised if one day i sprout wings

and fly away to live with the clouds and the moon;

becoming a celestial crow woman instead of human

playing with my inner fire, whilst dancing in the

ocean of the sky.

PPP Ezine: Poetrypoeticspleasure Ezine. Volume 6; Combined Issue 11-12; November-December 2022

December 14, 2022 by rajnishmishrabanaras in PPP Ezine | Leave a comment

Poet of the Month: Jennifer Bradpiece

When Suicide Slithered In Like A Snake by Ndaba Sibanda

The Last Oak by John Grey

My Surname is The Night by Ahmad Al-Khatat

Holy Spur by Anupama Bhattacharya

On A Rose’s Edge by Fethi Sassi

I Live by Glory Sasikala

Expiation by Guna Moran

Severe Humidity by Heath Brougher

Yearning for Thy Touch by Tabassum Tahmina Shagufta Hussein

Beach by Joan McNerney

Poet of the Month: Jennifer Bradpiece

The Task at Hand

Exhume the roses only

if they have meaning left to you.

I’ve hardly use for them myself.

Take the leg of the chair

to the vanity mirror.

Gather only the brutal shards.

If these split your toughest skin,

I’ll need what bleeds

collected in a cut crystal bowl

to re-examine the facets through.

If the small hairs on your

left arm lift, take the nail scissors

to them, let them fall into the bowl.

This is vital.

Rearrange every painting, the drapes,

the way the light pierces each window.

I will hate whatever you choose to change.

This is of little consequence.

Hide my favorite tweezers in the planter

or between the dusty stacks of journals

by the bed—don’t tell me!

Find my make up drawer of tricks.

There will be body bags of excess glitter.

Leave them curbside on trash day.

Any tears go in that bowl.

Amusement too.

Box each flat iron word or phrase

and store in the attic until

their re-animation dates.

As to editing these poems,

when I insist, “Poetry is

the sharpest knife

seeking the deepest cut,”

refute this.

Poetica Couture

Its that hot bath sink

into brain suds.

That half past two AM

hunger.

That trying on,

ripping off.

Trading buttons

for boning.

And in the end,

selling:

Hoping some piece of you

fits

some part of them.

Jennifer Bradpiece was born and raised in the multifaceted muse, Los Angeles, where she still resides. She remains active in the Los Angeles writing and art scene. Jennifer has interned at Beyond Baroque, and often collaborates with multi-media artists on projects. Her poetry has been published in various anthologies, journals, and online zines, including Redactions, Mush Mum, and The Common Ground Review. She has poetry forthcoming in The Ekphrastic Review, Stimulus Respond, and The Bacopa Literary Review among others. In 2016, Jennifer’s manuscript, Lullabies for End Times, was acknowledged as one the final ten favorites in the Paper Nautilus Debut Series Chapbook Contest.

When Suicide Slithered In Like a Snake by Ndaba Sibanda

Oh, Oh, Onah, do you sometimes soberly run your numb nose

over your armpits to detect where the odor comes from

or just revel being in denial: scapegoating, playing to the gallery?

am l talking in parables, dear daughter of patriotism?

l’m talking of how the War Compensation Fund

fell victim to corrupt business practices!

didn’t the cabinet members use it

to look after their interests?

don’t they live in obscene opulence?

Oh, Oh, Onah, don’t start me on that one,

you sought preferential admission

into educational institutions,

preferential access to housing,

government employment,

residential and business stands

and land, and was there a full stop?

let us go down memory…

do you remember on August 21, 1997

when the ruling party`s first secretary finally

yielded and rolled out a gratuity of Z$50,000

(USD 4000) and a Z2, 000 (USD 150) monthly

pension for each ex-combatant?

nose-diving, you harped blame

on detractors and the West

didn’t your president then say this?:

“there is greater readiness

than there has ever been to assist you…

we will find the money for this and we

can borrow if we need to,

have you ever heard of a country

that has collapsed because of borrowing?”

if ever there was a demonstration of populism,

when you talk of the menace of sanctions, remember

where we are coming from, your role in the mess, the rot,

Oh, Oh, Onah, what a development , that was a moment

of economic suicide , doesn’t your denying head think so?

let`s look at its disturbing, disastrous consequences …

what did economists call it? recklessness? graft? what?

guess what , trade balance turned negative

as exports plunged, citizens were heavily taxed

remember there was no meaningful investment

in the country…except perhaps for daily price hikes,

later the country experienced shortages of basic items

and state brutality and a daily dose of propaganda,

remember, how some beneficiaries went on a spending spree?

One man hiring a bus, ladies of the night…cows watching TVs !

Oh,oh, Onah, wasn’t that a moment of economic madness, too?

Links:https://www.amazon.com/Books-Ndaba-Sibanda/s?rh=n%3A283155%2Cp_27%3ANdaba+Sibanda

https://www.pagespineficshowcase.com/ndaba-sibanda.html.

Let`s Get Cracking!

International Poetry Review | Ana Hontanilla | University of North Carolina Press (uncpress.org)

CEArts 2022 The Polk Street Review book launch Presentations 12-16

The Last Oak by John Grey

With landscaping all around,

it’s wonder nature survives.

And when workers put down

their mowers, clippers and hoes,

relax on the lawn smoking cigarettes,

how much does the last of the old forest oaks

breathe of that second hand smoke?

Everything must be

pruned and shaped

to match the tastes, the whims,

of the rich estate owner.

Did he not see that tree

or is there a spark of some

latent John Muir aesthetic

that believes man’s plans

inferior to God’s?

Maybe he’s just a blind man

who can glean one ray of light.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, “Leaves On Pages” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Ellipsis, Blueline and International Poetry Review.

My Surname is The Night by Ahmad Al-Khatat

I once applied to work for a company,

the manager saw my surname and asked

the meaning behind my first name

I answered him that it means that during the

night I live as a joyful person in the rain,

and realize that I am not lonely when I cry

nowadays, my name is the night itself,

due to my daily sorrows that rise with

the presence of the moon along with the stars

my spirit becomes the star that lights

my path to a broken heart, walking back home,

my eyes become the autumn season that rains

yet, nobody has a moment to listen to me,

the sightless flowers whisper to the deaf branches

as I want to wipe my falling tears, but I have failed

I see death play as the responsible adult

As we low human being’s, destroy

each other’s bodies to mangled beings

the reason that holds the night as my name

is to rest the children’s mind of poverty, the

river of blood, and the imaginary of an endless war

Ahmad Al-Khatat was born in Baghdad, Iraq on May 8th. He has been published in several press publications and anthologies all over the world and has poems translated in several languages. He has published two poetry books “The Bleeding Heart Poet” and “Love On The War’s Frontline” which are available on Amazon. Most of his new and old poems are also available on his official page Bleeding Heart Poet on Facebook.

Holy Spur by Anupama Bhattacharya

My morning awakes to a holy spur

Leaving behind the smells of petrol

As my faith rides me home

Far away from the madding crowd.

Through the pane I gaze and wonder

Cocooned in childhood nostalgia:

Vitality of the plains. Pondering on

the secrets of simple living

so much do I miss to capture.

En route my station.

Yet I come back every time

Waving past the beckoning paddy fields

And Kans grass like fairy’s wings.

To my vapmire’s lair.

To the taste of urban malls.

Could Eve and Adam settle in Eden

after tasting the forbidden fruit?

How could I?

With an M.A in English literature Anupama Bhattacharya is a teacher by profession. Her poems have found place in platforms like The Time of India, Ceasurae Literary Magazine and Ethos Literary Magazine. She calls herself an aspiring poet because she thinks there’s always so much to learn. Many other Kolkata based little magazines like The Beacon Kolkata have also published her work. With specialization in kathak and Rabindranritya she tries to find immanence in dance as well. An ardent lover of music, literature and poetry she believes in healing the world with words and rhythm. She can be contacted at anu14bhatta@gmail.com

On A Rose’s Edge by Fethi Sassi

He was standing alone on a rose’s edge,

Without a single word and

Looking over the horizon.

Suddenly, he took a glimpse of an olive tree kissing a

sleeping willow

tree from afar.

At that moment, poetry and space fused together.

He saw a boat near a star…

It belonged to a fisherman who lost his paddle near the water’s

whooping cough.

He quickly carried a star, walked away

And left his paddle on a rose’s edge…

Fethi Sassi is a writer of prose poetry and short poems and haiku ; translator of all his poems to English . A member in the Tunisian Writers’ Union ; and in the Literature club at the cultural center of Sousse . 1- first book entitled “A Seed of Love” was published in 2010. 2- ) I dream …. and I sign on birds the last words ) in 2013 . 3- ” A sky for a strange bird “ first edition in Egypt in 2016. Second edition in September 2018 in Tunisia . 4- published in Egypt in march 2017(As lonely rose ..one a chair) – Poetic book in 2018 Egypt ( I used to hang my face behind the door)

I Live by Glory Sasikala

In just outside the clock

along the periphery of your dreams

an invisible line in picture frames

as a criss-cross in your hand

in a story never to be told

in just an intake of breath

in fading ink of yellow parchment paper

in a fleeting knowledge of your soul

in the realms of the Universe

where I am with God

looking down upon you

in a dream

that vanishes like mist with the dawn

in a sudden lightening moment of truth

in the knowing smile with which I left you

once again to your mundane existence

I Live.

Glory Sasikala is a poet and writer currently residing in Chennai, Tamilnadu, India. She is the Editor and Publisher of the Monthly Online Prose and Poetry magazine, ‘GloMag’ and is the administrator of the group of the same name on Facebook. She is a language editor and quality analyst by profession.

Expiation by Guna Moran

Translated from Assamese – Bibekananda Choudhury

Motion of Life

Truthward

It is in the tonque

Where

Truth turns untruth

Or the reverse of it

It plays the game of

Cat and mouse

The winner of the game

Is finally found accused

Of hundred sins

So he makes atonement

By setting fire on the face

Of his abode

Guna Moran is an Assamese poet and critic. His poems and literary pieces are published in national and international magazines, journals, webzines, newspapers and anthologies such as –

(i) Tuck magazine (ii) Merak (iii) Spillword

(iv) Setu (v)Story Mirror (vi) Glomag (vii) Poem Hunter

(viii) The Sentinel (ix) The Hills Times (x) Litinfinte (xi) Best Poetry (xii)Academy of the Heart and Mind (xiii) The Creation times (xiv)Infinite sky (xv) International Anthology of Poems on Autism (xvi) International Anthology on Water (Waco Fest Anthology 2019) (xvii) International anthology on TIME (xviii) THE VASE : 12th Guntur International Poetry Fest Anthology 2019. (xix) POETICA : The Inner Circle Writer’s Group Poetry Anthology 2019 (xx) Nocturne (poetry of the Night, An Anthology). (xxi) Phantasmagoria Magazine.

Apart from this, his poems have been translated into Italian and French, Bangla language also.

About The translator

Bibekananda Choudhury

Bibekananda Choudhury, an electrical engineer by profession working with the State Government of Assam has completed his Masters from BITS-Pilani. He has also earned a diploma in French language from Gauhati University. He has got published works (both original and translated) in Assamese, Bengali & English in popular periodicals and newspapers. His translated poems have been published in ‘Indian Literature’, the bi-monthly journal of sahitya akademy. ‘Suryakatha’, the Bengali adaptation done by him of the is being taught in the undergraduate Courses of Banglore University and Post graduate Courses of Gauhati University. A collection of 101 folk tales from the foothillsof Patkai translated by him has also been taken up by publication by Gauhati University. He is presently the editor-in-chief of Dimorian Review a multidisciplinary web journal.

Severe Humidity by Heath Brougher

This particular summer’s humidity sweltered

Caused me to carry a wet rag with me wherever I went.

Once the high temperature had risen to such a level

That I could feel it sewn into midnight hours

I knew there was no redemption

And gave up on my air conditioner.

I had to drink every bottle of water I bought

Right then and there or else they’d evaporate.

I wanted to drink of azure lakes and streams.

I wanted to drink their entirety, but even they were searing.

I wanted to wipe out an entire cool pond

With my strong throat.

But I never made it there

Because this unimaginable humidity

Had dried-out my bones and inner organs.

Heath Brougher is the poetry editor of Into the Void, winner of the 2017 and 2018 Saboteur Award for Best Magazine. He is a multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee as well the winner of The Taj Mahal Review’s 2018 Poet of the Year Award. His work has been translated into several languages other than English. His newest books are To Burn in Torturous Algorithms (Weasel Press, 2018) and The Ethnosphere’s Duality(Cyberwit.Net, 2018).

Yearning for Thy Touch by Tabassum Tahmina Shagufta Hussein

Oh dear,do swing my heart

With Thy gentle touch,

Of Thine gentle hands,

Make me forget

Whatever they say about Thee.

They merely entrap me every moment.

In the sticky clay of words.

Help open those traps.

By the sweet melody of Thy flute.

I recall the countless days and nights

When I had no one.

Hold me today with Thy hands.

In Thy every presence.

Rouse in my heart.

Engulf me.

Thou joyous waves of eternal presence.

Tabassum Tahmina Shagufta Hussein is the International Fellow -2020, International Human Rights Arts FestivalWriter, ( https://ihraf.org/international-fellows) (https://ihraf.org/ ). Poet, Columnist, Translator, Contributor, DifferentTruths, India https://www.differenttruths.com/author/tabassum-tahmina-s-h/ Bangla Translator, ITHACA Foundation, Spain http://www.point-edition

s.com

Beach by Joan McNerney

My mind is an ocean

where swimmers, surfers,

sun worshippers cavort.

Long salty hair

held between

their teeth.

Flourishing

wild flowered gowns

…streams of silk

waves of taffeta

splashy lace.

They sail through

my watery face

combing my eyes

whispering in my ears.

Alone, under a pointillist sky.

Gulls flying around me.

Black waters touched by

moon of vague prophecy.

Joan McNerney’s poetry has been included in numerous literary zines such as Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze, Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Blueline, Halcyon Days and included in Bright Hills Press, Kind of A Hurricane Press and Poppy Road Review anthologies. She has been nominated four times for Best of the Net.

PPP Ezine: Poetrypoeticspleasure Ezine. Volume 6; Issue 10; October 2022

October 23, 2022 by rajnishmishrabanaras in PPP Ezine and tagged Ezine, poetry, v6i10 | Leave a comment

Poet of the Month: Ndaba Sibanda

Morning Escapade by Joanne Olivieri

Decomposing Reality by James G Piatt

Keyboard by Michael Lee Johnson

Tomcat by DS Maolalai

planted feet invest the obvious by Joshua Martin

Rise and Fall by Sanghpriya Gautam

Mucuchies by Lorraine Caputo

Piano by James Mulhern

Forest Fires by Peter Mladinic

Direction by Mark Young

Poet of the Month: Ndaba Sibanda

Ready To Take Off For What?

The race for space

Shouldn’t be a costly disgrace,

To cruise to the moon, to Mars

Should be more decent than a gaze,

Satellites launched or put into orbit

Should be for growth, security and what?

Seeking New Solutions and Visions

She claimed that her life

was deprived of livelihood,

that pay never paid her a visit,

that delight was a dim delusion,

that lying love made her unwell,

and that her existence was a shell

hard-pressed for optimism and drive

to impact change , to make sense of a life

of senselessness, that she sought the thrills

and skills of parenting her boorish pair of eyes

of hills and frills with new solutions and visions.

Ndaba has authored 24 published books and coauthored more than 100 published books. Sibanda is the author of Cabinet Meetings, The Immigrant With A Difference, Notes, Themes, Things And Other Things, The Gushungo Way, Sleeping Rivers, Love O’clock, The Dead Must Be Sobbing, Football of Fools, Cutting-edge Cache, Of the Saliva and the Tongue, When Inspiration Sings In Silence, The Way Forward, Sometimes Seasons Come With Unseasonal Harvests, As If They Minded: The Loudness Of Whispers, This Cannot Be Happening :Speaking Truth To Power, The Dangers Of Child Marriages: Billions Of Dollars Lost In Earnings And Human Capital, The Ndaba Jamela and Collections and Poetry Pharmacy. His work is featured in The Anthology House, in The New Shoots Anthology, and in The Van Gogh Anthology, and A Worldwide Anthology of One Hundred Poetic Intersections. Some of Ndaba`s works are found or forthcoming in Page & Spine, Peeking Cat, Piker Press , SCARLET LEAF REVIEW , Universidad Complutense de Madrid, the Pangolin Review, Kalahari Review ,Botsotso, The Ofi Press Magazine, Hawaii Pacific Review, Deltona Howl, The song is, Indian Review, Eunoia Review, JONAH magazine, Saraba Magazine, Poetry Potion, Saraba Magazine, The Borfski Press, Snippets, East Coast Literary Review, Random Poem Tree, festival-of-language and Whispering Prairie Press.

Morning Escapade by Joanne Olivieri

Behind fog

the sea plays hide n seek

where sea meets land

Commingling

our bodies touch

in sweet passion

Gentle breeze

warm kisses

delicately caress

our morning escapade.

Joanne has been writing for 50 years. She is a published poet and photographer. Her works have appeared in numerous in print and online publications such as The Parnassus Literary Journal, Westward Quarterly, The San Diego Arts and Poets Magazine, Nomads Choir, SP Quill, just to name a few. She was awarded a round-trip ticket to Hong Kong in 2007 by Cathay Pacific Airways for her winning entry in their poetry contest. Joanne is the founder and editor of Stanzaic Stylings Literary Ezine.

Joanne enjoys reading, writing, collecting old poetry books, live music concerts, roaming art galleries and museums, leisurely lunches with friends in diners, getting out in nature with her camera and making toys for and playing with her feathered companion, Sammers. You can learn all there is to know about her by visiting her website/blog at http://poeticshutterbug.blogspot.com

Decomposing Reality by James G Piatt

Arriving in the late hours of

an iron colored and eerie night,

rusting symbols

covered with an aging patina of dark contradictions

whispered across forgotten memories

causing screams of agony:

My crystal poems

written in scarlet ink,

were shattered by metamorphic hammers

pounding words of grief

into shattered synonyms,

causing dark allegories to become lost

inside the cold weariness of my aging bones.

While walking in a cemetery,

images of broken tombstones

in a field of unknown graves

entered my consciousness

and trails of tears melted into the cemetery’s soil

filling it with sorrow.

I sensed once forgotten memories

being awakened in my brain,

and sharp pangs of grief

started piercing my collapsing mind

in a fit of decomposing reality.

Keyboard by Michael Lee Johnson

Keyboard dancing, poet-writer,

old bold, ribbons are worn out,

type keys bent out of shape.

40 wpm, high school,

Smith Corona 220 electric ultimately

gave out, carrying case, lost key.

No typewriter repairman anymore.

It is this media, new age apps,

for internet dreams, forged nightmares,

nothing can go wrong, right?

Cagey, I prefer my Covid-19 shots

completed one at a time.

Unfinished poems can wait,

hang start-up like Jesus

ragged on that wooden cross,

revise a few lines at a time;

near the end, complete to finish.

I will touch my way out of this life;

as Elton John says,

“like a candle in the wind.”

I will be at my keyboard late at night

that moment I pass, my fingertips stop.

Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada, Vietnam era. Today he is a poet in the greater Chicagoland area, IL. He has 259 YouTube poetry videos. Michael Lee Johnson is an internationally published poet in 44 countries, several published poetry books, nominated for 4 Pushcart Prize awards and 5 Best of the Net nominations. He is editor-in-chief of 3 poetry anthologies, all available on Amazon, and has several poetry books and chapbooks. He has over 443 published poems. Michael is the administrator of 6 Facebook Poetry groups. Member Illinois State Poetry Society: http://www.illinoispoets.org.

Tomcat by DS Maolalai

stylish as a tomcat

walking, I tell her. thorny

as a tomcat, wild as a tomcat,

beautiful and permanent

and always falling over

as walls where tom-

cats walk. you are all

these things, I tell her,

and a boy also, if you like, which is like

a tomcat also. and more than me

a tomcat, and more a girl

as well. you are all these things,

it’s wonderful – I’m in love (my god)

with everything! I lie about,

we lie about, her legs

on mine and bent a little

like broken gutters

hanging from a wall and creaking.

that’s the thing – I can pull

the words sometimes.

planted feet invest the obvious by Joshua Martin

that’s 11 months’ worth of

spin class vibrating throat

muscle defended parabola

plenty the dagger of a horse

head planted feet first

16 going on hydroelectric

through last worded sushi

bar way out in space station

weighing head holding starfish

interviewing presidential hairpiece

lusty rug clipped to back

shaping leopard chinstrap

approaching physical barrier

withering park ranger willful

eponymous zoning code violation

Rise and Fall by Sanghpriya Gautam

I wake as from a sleep

everyday,

weaved in the rise and fall.

I rise and I fall

I sleep and I wake

I dream

but dream constantly…

Do I weave the dream

or the dream weaves me?

Does it hold dearly

the death of me?

and apocryphal me at sunset?

Like a wind that rise and fall with every breath

the sun’s loop of moodiness,

snowy light from stars glittering in the night’s eyes,

endlessly I wake and I sleep

in dreams.

In my dreams or the new one weaved

everyday?

How much of it is me?

The discovery in freezing droplets

of a mountaineer’s breath,

sinking in the williwaw

treading from eastern summit;

The drops gleam

and last as long as the memory of the thought,

of the moments,

its beginning.

Mucuchies by Lorraine Caputo

Golden grasses &

soft-leaf frailejones patch

the high páramo.

On scarce-tree mountains

stone walls undulate with the

earth, parceling her

into farms. Campesinos

plow fields with oxen.

Early afternoon

clouds float low, disappearing

the world in their swirl..

Piano by James Mulhern

On that gray day, you chopped the Steinway piano with an ax.

Surrounded by yellow and red leaves on the hard earth,

you raised your arm to smash it all apart.

I could only wonder. You were a man raised to think

crying was weak. Strength and power should define you.

Men like you couldn’t voice their secrets or despair.

You shattered the instrument, exorcising its shiny veneer.

Resin-impregnated paper, dovetail joints, wooden ribs,

and polished mahogany scattered around you.

Slowly the curved outline of the piano became a ragged mess.

The soundboard heart cracked. Small planks of air-dried wood

joined the miscellany of strings, keys, and padded hammers.

I thought of my mother, the day she moved out,

how you changed the locks and emptied every closet,

destroying each vestige of your shared lives.

If I had left the window to join you outside,

I would have seen your tears,

glistening strings on the soundboard of a broken soul.

Forest Fires by Peter Mladinic

Forest fires are good,

a man explained, in gym’s locker room

ten years ago. A cleansing

that makes possible the growth of new

plants, bushes, trees.

I’m not sure how that works.

It seems ironic that fire, what destroys

inadvertently creates.

I can’t look down at a tiny bush and hear

it say, Out of flames I was born.

He explained, I didn’t doubt him.

He knew fire firsthand, I gathered

from how he spoke.

I could ask my retired fire chief neighbor

How is a forest fire good?

Homes in or near one burn

to the ground. Squirrels, rabbits, deer

and birds die.

A forest fire is good.

With only a towel around him,

he sat near an open locker.

I didn’t know his name. I only saw him

a few afternoons. He talked

about fire.

Different just watching, not being in it.

Peter Mladinic’s fourth book of poems, Knives on a Table is available from Better Than Starbucks Publications. An animal rights advocate, he lives in Hobbs, New Mexico.

Direction by Mark Young

Specificity is

not required.

Vague words,

curtailed gest-

ures, the new

moon pregnant

with the old.

Enough to

point a rough

but ready way.

Mark Young was born in New Zealand but now lives in a small town in North Queensland in Australia. He has been publishing poetry for over sixty years, & is the author of around sixty books, primarily text poetry but also including speculative fiction, vispo, creative nonfiction, & art history. His most recent book is Songs to Come for the Salamander, Poems 2013-2021, selected & introduced by Thomas Fink, co-published by Meritage Press & Sandy Press.

PPP Ezine: Poetrypoeticspleasure Ezine. Volume 6; Issue 9; September 2022

September 10, 2022 by rajnishmishrabanaras in PPP Ezine and tagged v6i9 | 1 Comment

Poet of the Month: Lynn Long

97, Coming to Terms & Goodbye by Michael Lee Johnson

As Cold as She is Beautiful by Robert Beveridge

L’Avventura by Mark Young

After the Zoo by James Croal Jackson

The Bubble by Peter Mladinic

The Guard by James Mulhern

Good Morning by Ahmad Al-Khatat

What Will We Do? By Eric Golden

Progressive Education by Gary Beck

Poet of the Month: Lynn Long

Reflections

Familiar feelings

Adrift on the fallen leaves

Chasing summer winds

Ever the student

Still learning to embrace change

I wander the path

Time ever keeping

I’ve traveled the road before

Present entwines past

Amid Autumn woes

Melancholy paints the sky

Crimson shades of blue

And I am here once more

I thought I’d write a poem

I thought I’d write a poem,

perhaps about the moon

lulling me to sleep

Or the stars in which I dream

upon from afar

But the morning sun took my

words- its beauty a silence

…only my soul heard

Sunset

And she whispers goodbye

to amber hues in a painted sky

To feelings long held, no longer

the same…

For she is twilight

And he … the setting of day

Lynn Long

Poet, writer, dreamer

And believer in the impossible…

Residing somewhere in time

Artist at https://hitrecord.org/

https://linktr.ee/lunadeity

With published pieces in various

online publications, journals, E-zines and anthologies

https://www.elephantjournal.com/profile/zolanymph1/

https://poetrypoeticspleasureezine.wordpress.com/?s=lynn+long&submit=Search

http://www.arielchart.com/

http://duanespoetree.blogspot.com/

http://stanzaicstylings.blogspot.com/search?q=lynn+long

https://www.localgemspoetrypress.com/florida-bards-west-tampa-preorders.html

https://yasouezine.blogspot.com/

97, Coming to Terms & Goodbye by Michael Lee Johnson

(An atheist faces his own death)

By Michael Lee Johnson

Wait until I have to say goodbye,

don’t rush; I’m a philosophical professor

facing my own death on my own time.

It takes longer to rise to kick the blankets back.

I take my pills with water and slowly lift

myself out of bed to the edge of my walker.

Living to age 97 is an experience I share

with my caretaker and so hard to accept.

It’s hard for youngsters who have not experienced

old age to know the psychology of pain

that you can’t put your socks on or pull

your own pants up without help anymore—

thank God for suspenders.

“At a certain point, there’s no reason

to be concerned about death, when you die,

no problem, there’s nothing.”

But why in my loneness, teeth stuck

in with denture glue, my daily pillbox complete,

and my wife, Leslie Josephine, gone for years,

why does it haunt me?

I can’t orchestrate, play Ph.D. anymore,

my song lyrics is running out, my personality

framed in a gentler state of mind.

I still think it necessary to figure out

the patterns of death; I just don’t know why.

“There must be something missing

from this argument; I wish I knew.

Don’t push me, please wait; soon

is enough to say goodbye.

My theater life, now shared, my last play,

coming to this final curtain, I give you

grace, “the king of swing,” the voice of

Benny Goodman is silent now,

an act of humanity passes, no applause.

*Dedicated to the memory of Herbert Fingarette, November 2, 2018 (aged 97). Berkeley, California, U.S.A. Video credit and photo credits: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qX6NztnPU-4.

As Cold as She is Beautiful by Robert Beveridge

… fallen avatar,

visiting hours are over

take me to your cell

shake the frost from your blanket

and cover us

your lips to mine this kiss

warms us,

warms the bars,

the walls,

melts the mahogany of your hair,

the clouds your areolae,

the frost on the ceiling

the wet tick of droplets on melting ice

take me into you and let me feel

how the connection closed radiates,

and the walls, the floor, the writing desk

bloom, saturate.

The water closes over us

outside the glass

your lips to mine this kiss

share my breath

Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Of Rust and Glass, The Museum of Americana, and Quill and Parchment, among others.

L’Avventura by Mark Young

& then he

made, or jotted

down, or

maybe just

thought, a few

words about

this movie

in which the

leading lady

vanishes part

way through

with the rest

of the film

given over

to the search

but when he

left the cinema

he found all

his words had

disappeared.

Mark Young was born in New Zealand but now lives in a small town in North Queensland in Australia. He has been publishing poetry for over sixty years, & is the author of around sixty books, primarily text poetry but also including speculative fiction, vispo, creative nonfiction, & art history. His most recent book is Songs to Come for the Salamander, Poems 2013-2021, selected & introduced by Thomas Fink, co-published by Meritage Press & Sandy Press.

After the Zoo by James Croal Jackson

the offense was claws in which I tore

the seams of treaded jeans we admired

of hornbills suspended in the space

between freedom and constriction

and contrails the zest of the situation

lingered in halves the happening and aftermath

a baptismal drizzle of your departing hatchback

entirely left to the discretion of satellites

The Bubble by Peter Mladinic

The bubble in the shield of my iPhone

is flat, silver as spittle,

shaped like candy wax soda bottles

sold in the 1950s, a bottle you’d eat

not drink from, pure sugar parents

let their kids to buy.

Some got allowances, lucky brats!

That laminate bubble bothered me

but now it’s just part of my life,

unlike my parents, both dead before data

was stored in the cloud. Bluetooth:

That the Everly Brothers’ “Birddog”

comes through my sunglasses

would thrill them. They’d be amazed.

On walkie-talkie banana portables

with antennas God told them:

Your day is coming. Phil and Don sang

“Wake Up, Little Susie.” One night

I lost it, with a brick cracked my Sony

46 inch screen which I then had to dump.

Today I hear my mother,

“Bet you’ll never do that again!”

I remember rainbow colors,

wax soda bottles I broke my teeth.

Peter Mladinic’s fourth book of poems, Knives on a Table is available from Better Than Starbucks Publications. An animal rights advocate, he lives in Hobbs, New Mexico.

The Guard by James Mulhern

I sit in the pew next to the stained glass

of Veronica wiping the face of Jesus.

I enjoy the play of light—

red, gold, and green illuminations.

Jesus, a wooden cross covering

his cream tunic and carmine cape,

bends down and speaks to Veronica,

who kneels, veiled in blue and white.

She holds a cloth to wipe his face.

What does Jesus say to her?

Thank you, I suppose.

The guard behind them watches.

Is he a sad witness?

Does he have doubts like me?

Perhaps he listens, as I do, for an illumination.

Or maybe he just wants to escape the searing sun.

Good Morning by Ahmad Al-Khatat

I wake up on my alarm clock,

It doesn’t say to me good morning

I drink my first cup of coffee,

It doesn’t say to me good morning

I eat my first bites of bacon,

It doesn’t say to me good morning

I see my same old neighbour,

he doesn’t say to me good morning

I take the bus to go to work

Nobody says to me good morning

I arrive at work, my coworkers

and customers don’t say good morning

I am so lonely that I forget to say

to the photos in my office good morning

Ahmad Al-Khatat was born in Baghdad, Iraq. His work has appeared in print and online journals globally and has poems translated into several languages. He has been nominated for Best of the Net 2018. He is the author of The Bleeding Heart Poet, Love On The War’s Frontline, Gas Chamber, Wounds from Iraq, and Roofs of Dreams all of which are available from Amazon. He lives in Montreal, Canada.

What Will We Do? By Eric Golden

What will we do when the newness wears off?

The laughter is silenced, but at what cost

The tears fall, the hearts break

I know I’ve had about enough of all I can take

Push came to shove & I got shoved over the edge

But now were both going down cuz I’ve pulled you off the ledge

This is the point where emotions have gone astray

When kissing your mouth is like kissing a dirty ashtray

I’m not attracted to you anymore either

What you say fucked that up long ago & the knife just got deeper

This is the point where hopelessness had made it’s way in

There’s no turning back now, nowhere to begin

Words have lost their effectiveness actions no longer count

The only thing that I feel is the numbness of emotions & constant doubt

Too scared to leave, yet too hurt to stay

We repeat the process day after day

Misery loves company, I guess that’s true what they say

A glutton for punishment & sometimes I like it that way

Because I get to at least feel something instead Of being dead inside

I’m sorry things couldn’t be different, I apologize for the tears you’ve cried

I guess my love wasn’t enough, I guess I couldn’t step up to the plate

Couldn’t do what needed to be done & I’m sorry for my mistakes

I really hate the fact that you’re never satisfied

I’m trying as hard as I can, but this is it…end of the ride

Why can’t you get over your insecurities?

This fighting is just killing me….

The nagging is too much

Can’t you just be nice for once? I thought we were In love

Let go of the past & don’t bring up things from 5 years ago

It’s time to end it & I’m sorry I couldn’t play the part in the show

So now when I touch you it’s like there’s something different

You’re randomly leaving w/o my permission

When you breathe I can tell that things aren’t right

When I lay next to you I cant stop thinking through the night

You’re isolating more & more & you don’t take my suggestions

You think I’m trying to boss you around when I want this marriage to have a resurrection

It’s dead & cold

What happened to the days where it was warm & bold?

Quit acting like you wanna be single

I can’t keep doing this cause I’m slowly starting to dwindle

Off into the darkness

I can’t lie because I’ve also been heartless

I’ve called you names, I cut you down

enough games, enough smashing each other into the ground

The guilt is all over my face

My pride is in the trash

Now we’re never gonna finish the race, were gonna finish last

You wanna fight in public, you wanna call me names

You wanna talk shit & I don’t have time for these games

You wanna talk shit on my family & fight in front of my kids

You’re a crazy ass bitch & so now I’ve flipped MY lid

You wanna hold resentments & grudges

Living in misery & I’m sick of your judgments

If you want a divorce fine, if you wanna leave then go

Yah it’s gonna hurt, but Ill get over it you know

Your lips are cold & your touch is hollow

What’s going on? Is there more misery to follow?

Eric was born in Omaha, Nebraska. He graduated from Boys Town high school and went on to get a degree in Social Work. He married at 19 but later got divorced and has raised two children alone. His love for music and arts has led him to his writing. Much of his poetry and writings come from experiences and love of life. He often adds humor to enlighten and has been writing for over 20 years.

Progressive Education by Gary Beck

Walter Lancaster’s parents died in an automobile accident when he was 3 years old. The drunken driver rammed into them after crossing the divider leaving the infant the only survivor. His father’s brother, Donald Lancaster, took him in and raised him in the family mansion with home schooling.

By the time Walter was 5, he was deeply immersed in Spanish, Chinese, Tae Kwon Do, classical music, and other subjects, taught by tutors. Uncle Donald told him about his father’s work as an nuclear engineer and his mother’s work as a physicist when he was 6. From that day on math and physics were priority studies.

Uncle Donald arranged visits to other homes with children and occasional children’s parties at home. As Walter got older he seemed to have little in common with the other kids and mostly observed their behavior, trying to understand what other kids were like. Exercise, training and diet stimulated his growth and at age 10 was big and confident beyond his years. Tutors started history, economics and literature and he was fascinated by great battles. When he was 12, Uncle Donald introduced him to politics, epeé fencing and shooting. He enjoyed everything he did, but fell in love with epeé fencing. He worked diligently with his instructors, already imagining fighting a duel someday. He listened intently to the admonition: ‘Control of your emotions is mandatory for a good fencer’.

At age 14, Walter was 5’10”. 165 lbs, and completely self-possessed. That summer, Uncle Donald took him on a wonderful trip to Spain, where he spoke to all classes of people, comfortable with all of them. The last stage of their trip was to Barcelona, where Uncle Donald told him about the Catalonian struggle for independence. They discussed the issues at length and Walter was inclined to side with the Catalans.

“If they become independent,” Uncle Donald said, “they’ll fracture Spain, which will become impoverished causing much suffering.”

“So it’s more complicated than a people wanting independence,” Walter responded.

“You should do some reading about it, then decide for yourself,” Donald suggested.

They got home in early August and Donald called Walter into his study for an important communication.

“I think you should go to a good private school to prepare you for college. If this appeals to you we’ll go to Creighton, in Connecticut and see if you like it.”

Walter was more than willing. They went to the posh old school where they met with the Headmaster, who was very eager to enroll the scion of a noted family. After the tour, they met in his office and he told Walter:

“If you decide to attend, you will be enrolled as a junior. That means many of the boys will be older and bigger then you. Will that be a problem?”

“No.”

“Also the school is sports oriented. Do you play any sports?”

“Tae Kwan Do and fencing.”

“Well we do have a fencing team.”

“What weapons do they use?”

“Foils.”

“I don’t fence foil.”

“Why not?”

“It’s too artificial for me.”

“Would you do it for the sake of the team?”

“No, sir. But I’ll teach epeé to anyone who wants to learn.”

“Some of the boys may think you lack school spirit.”

“Is that a problem for you, sir?”

“Not as long as you can deal with them.”

“Then I would like to attend Creighton, sir.”

“Welcome, Walter. I’ll send you an information packet that will prepare you for classes and life here. I’ll see you September 3rd.”

“I look forward to it, sir.”

They spent the night at a luxury resort not too far away, in an exclusive suite. Later that evening Walter was reading online about the school when there was a knock on the door.

“Come in, Uncle Donald.”

He looked around and a gorgeous redhead was standing in the doorway.

“I’m not Uncle Donald,” she murmured in the sexiest voice he ever heard.

She was tall, slim, shapely, wearing a short sleeveless dress, posed alluringly. He looked her up and down and knew he would fight a duel to the death for her.

“No. You’re not.”

She waited for him to say more, but when he didn’t:

“Who do you think I am?” In a voice that matched her body.

“The assistant hotel manager?”

She glared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing.

“I’m here to add to your education. Do you know what that means?”

“No. But I want to find out.”

She shut the door and walked towards him. He got an erection and his whole body started trembling. She noticed and said:

:”Are you nervous?”

“No. Excited.”

“Good. Then you’ll like this.” She slipped off her dress and was only wearing tiny black panties. She reached for him, pulling him to his feet, saw his excitation, whispered: “someone’s glad to see me,” took out his penis, put her mouth on it and he ejaculated. “Aren’t we eager.” She slowly undressed him, caressing him, and whispering erotic comments, until he was erect again. “I’m going to show you all kinds of things tonight. Am I welcome?”

“Oh, yes.”

It was a memorable night. By the time he fell asleep, sated with pleasure, he had learned where everything could go and how to do things with a woman. When he awoke in the morning she was gone. Part of him wanted to rush out and find her, keep her captive, bargain with her, not let her go. But he didn’t even know her name. He realized that she was a gift from Uncle Donald and maybe he could ask for her again sometime. Right now he had to wonder if a girl could ever feel as delicious as his beautiful instructor. He suddenly felt ravenously hungry, dressed, went into the living room where a huge room service breakfast was waiting.

“Morning, Uncle Donald. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Walt.”

As he started preparing a mindset for school, a thought popped into his head that made him smile. ‘I’m sure glad it wasn’t Uncle Donald’.

Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director and worked as an art dealer when he couldn’t earn a living in the theater. He has also been a tennis pro, a ditch digger and a salvage diver. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway. His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines and his published books include 34 poetry collections, 14 novels, 3 short story collections, 1 collection of essays and 5 books of plays. Published poetry books include: Dawn in Cities, Assault on Nature, Songs of a Clerk, Civilized Ways, Displays, Perceptions, Fault Lines, Tremors, Perturbations, Rude Awakenings, The Remission of Order, Contusions, Desperate Seeker, Learning Curve and : State of the Union (Winter Goose Publishing). Earth Links, Too Harsh For Pastels, Severance, Redemption Value, Fractional Disorder, Disruptions, Ignition Point, Resonance, Turbulence and Lacerations (Cyberwit Publishing. Forthcoming: Double Envelopment). Motifs (Adelaide Books). His novels include Extreme Change (Winter Goose Publishing). State of Rage, Wavelength, Protective Agency, Obsess, Flawed Connections and Still Obsessed (Cyberwit Publishing. Forthcoming: Call to Valor). His short story collections include: A Glimpse of Youth (Sweatshoppe Publications). Now I Accuse and other stories (Winter Goose Publishing). Dogs Don’t Send Flowers and other stories (Wordcatcher Publishing). Collected Essays of Gary Beck (Cyberwit Publishing). The Big Match and other one act plays (Wordcatcher Publishing). Collected Plays of Gary Beck Volume 1 and Plays of Aristophanes translated, then directed by Gary Beck, Collected Plays of Gary Beck Volume II and Four Plays by Moliere translated then directed by Gary Beck (Cyberwit Publishing. Forthcoming: Collected Plays of Gary Beck Volume III). Gary lives in New York City.

PPP Ezine: Poetrypoeticspleasure Ezine. Volume 6; Issue 8; Ausgust 2022

August 10, 2022 by rajnishmishrabanaras in PPP Ezine and tagged v6i8 | Leave a comment

Poet of the Month: Ndaba Sibanda

Poetry Man by Michael Lee Johnson

The sandwich by DS Maolalai

Why Would I Quit? by Heather Sager

New fuels see in the dark by Joshua Martin

The Splinter by Sanghpriya Gautam

Gift Shoes from Qi Hong by Yuan Changming

Homeward Bound by Lorraine Caputo

Leaves by James Mulhern

No Deer by John Grey

Poet of the Month: Ndaba Sibanda

True, Blue Or What He Flew

Like a chick

That will grow into a cock

Qhawe was spotted the day

He was born. Elders had a way

Of sniffing at a child`s greatness

They said he had a rare alertness

As legend would have it, Qhawe grew

You`ve no clue, how blue it was but he flew!.

The Magic Of The Rainbow

There is something intriguing

about a rainbow of nationalities

and a kaleidoscope of ethnicities

not only about their various cultures,

their colours, creeds and languages,

their interests, hobbies and visions

their food, farming and fooling ways,

their menus, mannerisms and music,

but also, about their understanding

of the sense of humanity and history

rooted in their many traditional stories,

imbedded and loud in their ethnic clothing,

their lives rich in colour, diversity & detail,

teaching us about our diverse walks in life

and the need to embrace the human race

in its diversity and depth as it is both a unit

and a badge of beauty, ability and creativity

Just Her Opinions and Beliefs

She doesn’t intend to be offensively offside,

yet you don’t need to be on Sithabile`s side,

She says: you may flag, scare, scold or strangle me,

A mother`s love is a mirror of care, agree to disagree.

Sithabile doesn’t always believe that Love and Sex

are synonymous in spite of that the worldly souls

seem to have applauded, attended and endorsed

their choreographed but contentious wedding.

She doesn’t believe that Holiday always

depends on Hotel for business or survival

but that Hotel eats, breathes and dreams Holiday.

She thinks Holy Day is petulant, precious and personal.

She believes that Good Health and Happiness

are good bedfellows we should invite always

on our dear friends` wedding anniversaries

or birthdays. Please make a date with them.

She doesn’t think that Money and Happiness are one

and the same, either. She believes that if she were to choose

between the two, Happiness would be the ultimate choice,

only if the absence of Money won’t be the absence of Happiness!

Sibanda has received the following nominations: the national arts merit awards (NAMA), 2016 Mary Ballard Poetry Chapbook Prize, The Best of the Net Prose and the Pushcart Prize.

Links:

https://www.amazon.com/Books-Ndaba-Sibanda/s?rh=n%3A283155%2Cp_27%3ANdaba+Sibanda

https://www.pagespineficshowcase.com/ndaba-sibanda.html.

Let`s Get Cracking!

Poetry Man by Michael Lee Johnson

I’m the poetry man, understand?

Dance, dance, dance to the crystals of night,

healing crystals detox nightmares, night tremors.

Death still comes in the shadow of grief,

hides beneath this blanket of time,

in the heat, in the cold.

Hold my hand on this journey

you won’t be the first, but

you may be the last.

You and I so many avenues,

ventures & turns, so many years together

one bad incident, violence, unexpected,

one punch, all lights dim out.

The sandwich by DS Maolalai

some ham,

a thick white

slice and butter. I bite

the soft brick

and feel the evening

clearer. such flavour –

even without

the filling. this flatness

of cheap

salt bread – 60c

at lidl. who wants

fishes?

all we need

are loaves.

Why Would I Quit? by Heather Sager

I touched

the glass

of alcohol—

looking—for

sweet escape—

To laugh—

until I couldn’t laugh

anymore

I wanted to be pulled

into the cosmic singularity

Running in between buildings,

I thought,

Why should I quit when

the vortex—the nothing,

event horizon—

hovers, it’s waiting for me,

above the crumbling street?

Heather Sager lives in Illinois, USA. Her most recent poetry appears in Fahmidan Journal, Magma Poetry, Version (9) Magazine, The Orchards Poetry Journal, Red Wolf, Trouvaille Review, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, and more. Recent fiction appears in The Fabulist and elsewhere.

New fuels see in the dark by Joshua Martin

Future bacteria saturate evolving skies

revival pig brains a theory of obesity

awkward forelimbs work the torso

through extra openings. Neck propulsion

disproportionate as tissue catapult

dazzling in its stance. An array into

bygone asteroid electric cortex box

locking fetus bookends between recoiled

medical calamity irrigation missile.

The Splinter by Sanghpriya Gautam

The splinter

one which was once chipped

breaches when it again finds its chipped off space!

The blood whistles and chatters

as it drops

from the edge of the splinter–

unusually thick it appears

for it enters headstrong

in the numb flesh

craving for its split soul.

The splinter

reaches deep

oozing

expression

In not a linear trajectory.

It springs forth with a curve

attempting to circumscribe

the prelapsarian feeling.

Gift Shoes from Qi Hong by Yuan Changming

I believe the pair of shoes you sent me as a

Birthday gift is made of genuine leather, but

It needs a pair of socks & even a pair of

Trousers made of natural, not artificial wool

To go with it, which in turn requires an

Equally authentic leather belt to tie my

No less faithful lower body, including my

Penis that has become softened with age

As with my mind & heart, but despite all

My bona fides, my upper body is clothed

With manmade or fake fibres, especially

My face masks, or faces per se, not only to

Protect me against covid-19, 22, or anything

Else like that, but to cover my mouth

& nose in case I should inhale false air

& spit out some hardened spittle of truth

About life, about the real world. Indeed

I am never sure if that’s your original in-

Tention, but I do like whatever is actually

Genuine, real, true, natural or authentic

While I keep walking along, or alone

Homeward Bound by Lorraine Caputo

Lightning pulses greyed

twilight. Trees sway, loosening

leaves twirling to earth.

A horse clops down this

lane, its driver’s legs dangling

o’er the wagon side.

Leaves by James Mulhern

That fall day we raked leaves from behind the shed.

Smell of earth and wet decay rose in the cold air.

We could see our breath.

Worms and beetles scattered through a fence.

I saw dirt and thought we had finished.

“Not yet,” you said.

The gray sky grew darker and the wind chilled.

When your flashlight showed not a speck of leaf,

you said, “We’re done.”

Today I look at the wet leaves below.

I kneel and clear your grave.

Again, I smell the earth and feel the biting cold.

The damp leaves shimmer like tears, not many,

that drop on the yellowed grass.

“We’re done,” I hear you say.

I say a prayer, cross myself, and rise.

I see my breath and imagine I see yours.

I should leave, I think, but not yet.

No Deer by John Grey

He’s hunkered down in a deer stand,

gun raised, listening for the crack

of hoof on twig, the fawn coat

passed between gaps in. brush,

jewel eyes peering through

the morning fog.

There’s life all around,

ferns and insects,

wildflowers and grasses,

jittery chipmunks,

acrobatic squirrel,

even a possum

clawing up a tree.

But all are trophy free.

It’s getting later and later.

Nothing shows up.

All he wants is

one decent buck,

one shot piercing the heart,

and it’s meat strapped to the icar roof,

one more rack up on the wall.

It’s the ancient integral,

natural law of kill or be killed,

the chain of life,

hunter and prey,

need and needed.

How can the deer not know this?