Poet of the Month: Glory Sasikala
2 Poems by Gary Lawrence Ingram
2 Poems by Ken Allan Dronsfield
2 Poems by Ryan Quinn Flanagan
Poet of the Month: Glory Sasikala
Buy a Ticket
at the doorway
you will have to leave
your control issues
and possessiveness
your idiosyncrasies
and mood swings
your petty games
of yes and no
your see-saws
of love and hate
and mainly,
those three-petalled clovers
of ‘i love you’
‘i love you not’
along with your shoes
to enter my world
I am Ganga!
Where Ganga meets Yamuna
Confluence or conflict?
Conflict I say, Yamuna so calm
And Ganga – raging!
I am Ganga.
Sunlight and breeze
and tornado at times.
Don’t try to own me
Just feel…enjoy…
Till I decide to whip you along
Into my whirlpool –
Your calm, meditative ways
And common sense
And cool demeanour
A part now
Of the raging, rolling torrent
That I am!
Dance of the Possessed
my feet moved on their own
to the beat of the music
the drums beat a slow beat
then faster, faster
and faster and faster
and my body swayed
to the rhythm
my feet out of control
my head rotated
hair flying
i threw my hands in the air
and danced with abandon
hopping from one feet to another
faster and faster
till i was nothing but a blur
the drums paused
and started a slower
rhythmic tatoo
and i fell forward and backward
in keeping
forward and backward
forward and backward
and then the drums went still
and i stopped
then started a slow beat
and i swirled and swirled
and swirled
till i fell
the drums picked up speed
moving through to the next
faster and faster
faster and faster
but i lay there
motionless and still.
Their Cities
Their cities appeared on the map
She looked at his forehead and said
“The people in your city are intelligent.”
He looked at her hands and said,
“Your city is clean and small!”
She looked in his eyes and said,
“A fresh breeze blows through your city”
He looked at her hair and said,
“There’s a lovely river in yours.”
She drew in her breath at his smile and asked,
“Why are the people in your city so happy?”
He watched her as she walked and said,
“Deer prance in your city.”
She walked into his arms and said,
“Your city is very warm.”
He held her close and said,
“There are flowers in your city.”
She closed her eyes and said,
“Evenings come too soon in your city.”
He closed his eyes and said,
“There’s a lullaby in yours.”
When it was time to leave, she said,
“I wish I could come to your city.”
And he replied,
“I wish I could come to yours.”
Their cities disappeared from the map.
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.
2 Poems by Gary Lawrence Ingram
Christmas with mother
The house we lived in had a fire place,
and the house smelled of burnt logs most of the time until it was time for spring cleaning
I’ll remember those days for the rest of my life
Grandad was in his nineties on his last legs I prefer to say,
he was a good man full of stories and loved to make everyone laugh
In grandads days he made a bit of moonshine,
no one ever knew it we just kept it to ourselves
Growing up came too soon,
before I knew it I had moved away but came back for my family my mother and grandfather R.J Rankin
Some of us never really grew up when all we ever knew was hell raising and having a good time
“Me”, I could have been anything at the time but I had a job that could pay the bills,
I kinda figured that’s all it was to being a man
So many mistakes and so many bad lifestyle choices ended on the last Christmas with mother
It snowed that Christmas year and mom still made me hang my stockings by the fire that crackled and popped into midnight
It’s now many years later beyond the ham on the table and the fresh rolls that filled the house with such an aroma
I find myself looking back wishing my gift to mom coulda been better
Granddad still asked for a snoot or a shot most of you may say, I never turned him down even though he was close to meeting Jesus
The burdens that a man keeps inside for a lifetime often finds ways to track him down after many years when he has more to give and filled with a love inside that only God could have put there
My stair way to heaven was every step I made and every battle I fought trying to find a better me and a better life ,it was the mountain I climbed
Now, I’ve reached the top of that ole mountain but Ive found myself alone looking down on the other side, wishing mother and granddad could see me now I think they’d be proud
Whenever you reach the top of wherever you’re headed in life
take the time to look back at all of your memories,
never leave them behind ,remember your roots and where you came from as you strive to make not only your dreams come alive but those dreams others had for themselves as they lie somewhere lost in time saying prayers for you
Hello ,to my family somewhere up in heaven
and mom your prayers for your son have finally been answered
Thinking of you on every Christmas with tears
Dad’s advice
Dad was a quiet man that worked hard from dark to dark,
he never had a bad word to say about anyone he just kept it to himself
I’ll always remember none of us kids ever done without in fact he gave us his all
Dad was the kind of man who enjoyed surprising mom,
sometimes a new dress or something she could use in the kitchen
Each year and every occasion dad often sat me down in quiet places telling me what is to be a man and how important it is to love God and all of his creatures
Dad if you’re up there looking down,
sir I remember everything you ever told me
and I may not be perfect or half the man you were
but I’ll try my best just like the day I told you that before I went to college
Gary Lawrence Ingram is an Oklahoma based writer. His paperback book “Shadows of the Past” is available at amazon.com. Gary has recently been published in The Secret Life of Poets Magazine, at youtube.com, and in the anthology Dandelion in a Vase of Roses. His newest book, One Thousand Love Poems is the latest flow of words from this poet.
2 Poems by Sanghpriya Gautam
Listen pale child
Listen pale child before your bones are weary,
Born blue you were, cradled beneath the grey sky,
Still can breathe, though coughs are dreary,
And still sail amidst the sea of deafening sighs.
You who were born blue beneath the grey sky,
Are blessed with a chance, can hear the breath of winds
And still sail amidst the sea of deafening sighs,
Learn from those who have and yet not sinned;
Are blessed with a chance, hear the breath of winds,
Light up that undying soul which persist,
Learn from those who have and yet not sinned
Be the hope of this dying world and resist.
Light up that undying soul which persist,
Stretch arms to the stranded who are left to die,
Be the hope of this dying world and resist
Your tears will melt away the desolate sky.
Stretch arms to the stranded who are left to die,
They still can breathe, though coughs are dreary.
Your tears will melt away the desolate sky,
Listen pale child before your bones are weary.
I saw a crooked little boy
I saw a crooked little boy.
Sitting with his fingers interdigitated,
Looking at several cars that hurried by,
And buses that stopped every moment that flitted,
In front of our eyes.
I wondered if we looked at the same world,
With him, all young, tired and perhaps hungry,
His eyes were staring at every movement
That went by with winds howling
And horns blaring.
I wondered for a little while
And then drifted in a grim dream.
.
There no movement passed by
And no sound swirled about.
Suddenly the green warped around
And near-far-away a crystalline sound
Was heard where thick fragrant rainbow sheen slime
Curls in circles, twirling in a dark pool.
And all weird sweet smells wafted in the winds
From gaudy pink and red unnatural flowers
And sky appeared in a dangerous blue colour,
In between the dappled sky and golden showers.
Crass cacophony of weird animate objects…
That fluttered like command prompts on a computer screen
From one brown pole, through one green to another,
Out of order, unconcerned and disrespecting.
I shouted! when I saw at him, Absolute Anarchy!
His eyes were drenched weak, his clothes poor,
His heart I could hear, oh so deafening,
The hair glowed on his head against gravity,
His Face stubborn, What blasphemy!
Child! I shouted! You are a piece of vile vermin,
Of degenerates who filled people with dreams
How dare you-you little– gave me once again,
Such unnerving sight of peace in this darkling rain.
Oh! The smoke once again filled my senses
The soot drew me black once again
I called the executioners at once,
My countrymen, the holy men!
For whom I will gladly live.
Sanghpriya Gautam is an Indian poet. He is a busy student in daylight but when the sun sets, the poet rises, and then his imagination paints a world with words on pages.
2 Poems by Ken Allan Dronsfield
Arbor of Wisteria and Clematis
I reflect upon the lavender Wisteria;
the lilacs and lonely gardenias.
I uncover the grand butterfly bush
Quoth the Nepeta, ‘keep to the path’.
Those shrubby pussy willows bloom,
a burning felt deep within the Clematis.
What could be more purely aglow?
Only this and a Thimble-berry pie.
There perched, a crow upon the arbor
craving the bi-colored, brag bonnet.
A harlequin colored sky now aflame
The rooster never asked for the time.
Orange bells fall from the trumpet vine,
first touch of frost kisses a naked leaf.
leaves soar and spin in the north winds.
Of Time Slowly Passing
Of shallow labored breaths
a lone kiss in the of predawn,
rattle and hum whispers within,
wish only sleep during cold times.
Yellowish orbs dart all about trees,
kisses spread from the tip of sprigs
spiraling down into the old garden
I try to reach out and touch them.
My ride takes us through the gates
grass glistens in the carriage-lights
touch of frost left upon a naked leaf
skies of yesterday; dreams of today.
Albino raven’s roost in the old cedar
pious penance delivered by rosary.
Moldy smell of freshly shoveled earth
thoughts linger within lofty reflections;
the things that can never be unseen
a taste of solace within old memories.
Prayers answered with a lilac scent
I feel small in this time of my passing
Resurrection Lilies sprouting nearby
fragrant Red Roses whisper to me.
Ken Allan Dronsfield is a disabled veteran, prize winning poet and fabulist from New Hampshire, now residing on the plains of Oklahoma. He is published in magazines, journals, reviews and anthologies throughout the US and abroad. Ken has three poetry collections, “The Cellaring”, 80 poems of light horror, paranormal, weird and wonderful work. His second book, “A Taint of Pity”, contains 52 Life Poems Written with a Cracked Inflection. Ken’s third poetry collection, “Zephyr’s Whisper”, 64 Poems and Parables of a Seasonal Pretense, and includes his poem, “With Charcoal Black, Version III”, selected as the First Prize Winner in Realistic Poetry International’s recent Nature Poem Contest. Ken won First Prize for his Haiku on the Southern Collective Experience Haiku Contest. He’s been nominated three times for the Pushcart Prize and six times for the Best of the Net for 2016-2018. Ken loves writing, hiking, thunderstorms, and spending time with his cats Willa and Yumpy.
2 Poems by Ryan Quinn Flanagan
Weaving Between Convictions like a Late Model Four Door in Traffic
It takes a wise man
to show restraint.
Jackson Pollock
used to get drunk
and start arguments
at the Cedar Bar,
then leave suddenly
while others were left to
continue the argument
he had started.
Imagine the discipline it takes
to convince others
of the sincerity of your argument,
only to leave without notice
and not care in the least
about a resolution
either way.
There will always be takers
on every side
of the argument,
but wise is he who has no stake
in the matter.
Weaving between convictions
like a late model four door
in traffic.
With Mozart on the radio
and the top down.
And an odometer that looks
like a speedometer
in the right
light.
Journalists are a Prison Break with Credentials
The temperature never falls for you.
This is a love of outside motivations.
Fisherman gutting the daily catch
on tiny wood blocks
along the pier.
And to get to the bottom of anything
is to have your glass topped up again.
Journalists are a prison break
with credentials.
That perilous way your knuckle cracks
like a stoolie under hard questions.
State secrets
and the broken telephone
game.
Old movie posters
you think of while sitting
up in bed.
Running your nails over strange blankets
like a human record player.
The window opened up
for circulation.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, PPP Ezine, In Between Hangovers, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.
