Poetrypoeticspleasure Ezine Volume 1; Issue 7; December 2017

Poet of the Month: Wayne Russell
Me, Myself, and Solitaire by Christine Tabaka
Shangrila by Daniel de Culla
His Soul was Operated on in1998 by Grant Guy
Onika by Gary Ingram
Impersonations by Chad M. Horn
A Time of Night by Steve Klepetar
Flight by Dev Dutt
Waiting Time by Marc Carver
About the Poets


Poet of the Month: Wayne Russell

Still Life

I reached out across the miles, flesh, and blood stretching.
I cried out from the mountain tops and moonlit shorelines.
You abandon me, never once looking back, to say farewell.
Still life in my eyes, it comes out in twinkles and brief flashes.
Still, life in the bottom of my neurotic soul, though it never feels
that way.

 

Age is a Beast

The sparkle in my eyes may have dimmed with the cruel passing of time.
Yes, the flesh of my body now creaks, knees and hips moan, as I struggle
up the stairs; in Winter the scream loudest.

I have my daemons, we all have them, I like the pint a bit too much, and
for that, the weight seems to stick around, like a lover that won’t leave after
the act is done and the words hover over our heads like apparitions.

To age is the thorny crown of cruelty, thrust down upon our imperfect souls,
flesh and blood weeping, fragmented in uncleansed streets and moaning; howling
at the spontaneous stars, stars that gallop across virgin skies, luminous!

Age is a beast, slow hands of time are the enemy, we all march along this
dusty path of our mission; merely actors that enter and exit right on cue,
when the time is right, we take our bow, thank you and good night.

the loner

the eccentric loner stalks these streets
back at what he knows best
scrubbing the backside of society
in old folks homes and madhouses
in supermarkets
and war machine
makers of death
planes hovering
cloaked in the plague of observing humanity
basking in these isles run by
the vagrant dogs of greed and pestilence
the nights
where we roam and we wish that we were no more
and we just wish that he could push this broom aside
and elope with them
the free
the dead of reckoning
calculating our next
move

self-destruction

when sweet dreams faze into nightmares
when happiness metamorphizes into melancholic
symphonies of the damned

when the innocence of childhood is replaced by
the status quo of a bloodletting that plunges rusted
daggers into stone hearts

when agape love that we thought that was here
to cradle us into the grave yet abandon us
into marching relics of the sweet nectar jaded vine

golden circles of infinite promise wedding vows cast
aside into the abyss of an evil world transfixed into
the choking cosmos regurgitating the loss now so

abundantly clear leave us then like this onslaught of
reds oranges yellows and browns a kaleidoscope of
death and of dying

innocent tears of wretched globes tribal hemispheres
have ceased to be love a noose around the inhabited
neck of avalanche frozen in the sick moment of black
plague death

narcissist ego left on the epoch of Bedlam

down by the sea

down by the sea
we toppled
excited
entranced with intellect
and souls that confused
the stars
galloping in their
complacent gaze
Charleston beach dreams
unfolding and submissive
jasmine hair
raven
and death coal black eyes
upturned nose
and we kissed and held hands
two skeletons stuck in between
mirrors of early 90’s sway
in the moment
oblivious to life
far removed from shadow claws
of raven infinite slumber
i hold onto our moment
a relic now lost
in the ambiance
of time

Me, Myself, and Solitaire by Christine Tabaka

Playing solitaire on a lazy afternoon
as a patch of sunlight
moves slowly across the floor,
the cat follows it stretched out,
and belly up.

In the monotonous rhythm
of turning over cards in threes,
I catch myself cheating.
I discover the red queen and yell
“off with her head.”
The cat looks up at me and blinks.
She knows that I am mad.

The sunlight begins to fade.
I tire of shuffling cards.
We both become bored
with the mundane.
Cards scatter on the floor with a flourish,
as the cat runs off to hide
under the bed.

I am now left all alone
with me, myself, and I.
Shangrila by Daniel de Culla

-¿Dónde vas, James Hilton
Dónde vas, triste de ti?

-Voy en busca de mis Horizontes Perdidos
En la gran montaña azulada del Karakal

En Baskul, Afganistán.
-Si Tomás Moro ya se ha muerto
En su Utopía, que yo le vi
Escondido en una Shamballa
Más allá de las montañas nevadas
De la cordillera del Himalaya.
Su cadáver le velaba el cónsul británico
Hufg Conway, su asistente Charles Mallinson
La misionera cristiana Roberta Brinklow
Y el comerciante estadounidense
Henry D. Barnard.
También estaba King Kong
Que murió por nuestros pecados
Guardián de Shangrila
Que a las parejas de novios que vienen
Nos les deja entrar entre semana
Y al caballero lozano, que se le enfrenta
Porque quiere meterse para adentro

Le grita:

-Tú, no. Primero, la bella dama.
Y él le responde:
-Pero si usted es mi padre

Y yo soy su hijo, ¡Viejo¡
Como dice Charles Darwin.
Shangrila (English)

-Where are you going, James Hilton?
Where are you going, sad about you?
-I’m looking for my Lost Horizons
On the great bluish mountain of the Karakal

In Baskul, Afghanistan.
-If Tomás Moro is already dead
In his Utopia, I saw him
Hidden in a Shamballa
Beyond the snowy mountains
From the Himalayas range.
His body was guarded by the British consul
Hufg Conway, his assistant Charles Mallinson
Christian missionary Roberta Brinklow
And the American merchant
Henry D. Barnard.
There was also King Kong
Who died for our sins
Guardian of Shangrila

That to the bridal couples that are coming
He don’t let in, only between week
And to the lusty gentleman, who faces him
Because he wants to get inside

He kick up a great fuss:
-You, not. The beautiful lady, first¡

He answering:
-But if you are my father
And I am Your son, Viejo [Old man]¡
As Charles Darwin says.

 

Translation -Daniel de Culla

His Soul was Operated on in 1998 by Grant Guy
His soul was operated on in 1998
He no longer needed and had it extracted
Since he had not loved since 1971 what good is a soul
He gave up on man and the world in 1972

Things went down hill after that
Until God’s roof caved in on him
That was the final straw
Since he gave up on God in 1963

Sure he could have ended it all
Jumping on the Disraeli Bridge
Stealing his brother’s gun
Falling in front of an oncoming bus like his friend in 1958

None of that was good enough

No
He was going to be a useless thorn
In the side of the world’s declining humanity

Rose by any other name is a prick
Onika by Gary Ingram

Placid lakes,winds blow her name ,
Onika

From the mountain tops , across the plains to the seas ,and far beyond

Troubled times, I think not, the spirit of the mountain is my name I once belonged to the world of man but now I’ve come to all as a friend

Like roaring rivers buried in hidden forests, all the trees that live there know my name

I whispered the name of my fathers into the mountain air

Let swirling winds and memories end, bound by heaven a child did descend

Let all your troubled pain within the life you lead
Rest in but a single tear
Knowing that Onika is near,

Let the breath of heaven swirl and sway all around you

I am here now, and she is with me, a hand so precious, Onika, she says is her name

I’ll guard her from fire ,as angels eyes and mine will be the veil that covers you

Until. Your daylights no more, till the joining of two

.I must go now, for the winds call me home

Onika and I, say farewell, we’ll see you on the other side

Hold your chin up n smile with joy, a blessing you made, to play with the other girls and boys

Life’s sometimes a tragic thing, but remember my voice ,as u will know I’m near

It whispers, I’m here

 

Impersonations by Chad M. Horn

Imitated by poet dead-panners
Manipulated musings compromised
Penetrated prose-like penning matters
Eliminated strict-form formalized
Radiated rigidness improvised
Simulated soliloquy outlined
Overstated and overemphasized
Narrated neurosis of mastermind
Animated mimicking much maligned
Titillated sonnet-shaping aping
Inflated ego? my bylines unsigned
Opinionated critique escaping
Negated need for muse-juice battery
Sophisticated form of flattery

A Time of Night by Steve Klepetar

“I have seen the building drift moonlight through geraniums
late at night when trucks were few”

W. S Merwin

There’s a time of night when bricks and steel
shimmer into pools: absent,
iridescent, insubstantial, cold.
Were you awake then,
or was it your shadow prowling the ledge,
looking down at trash cans and cats?
I felt you move along the walls,
and I shuddered in my bed, as if a northern wind
blew down the avenue.
I thought I wrapped myself in furs,
but that was a dream, where snow piled up
almost to the windows.
Tonight the trucks have gone, their groaning
like a silence in the street.
I thought I saw you in moonlight,
your silver hair burning in the dark.
I thought you reached for me, long fingers
stretching across a universe of years.
You were mirrored by snow, and around your feet
cats spun and fought for scraps of food.
Fur and blood, night noises to wake the neighborhood.
I search, but you are gone, and again the seasons change.
At the window my eyes sting in gray dawn.
Buildings melt, slowly drizzling in the grainy light.
Flight by Dev Dutt

Your migration
to another tree
beyond my fencing
was not unusual,
you saw rainbows
on hanging creepers
with wild passion,
against my dark
shadowed moribund
branches,
fruits I bear
no more sweeten
your tongue
since you tasted
fruits beyond my fencing…
Waiting Time by Marc Carver

I wait
then wait some more
sometimes it is hard to wait.
You have to stop yourself,
take a deep breath
know that it is not quite the right time.

You have to look at it from the other side
You can look into the window
and you see something totally different from when you look out
but still
it is the same window.

So still I am here
and the wait goes on
as it may forever.

He never finished anything, they may say about me
he said it was never the right time
but they don’t understand
the waiting
is the most important part.
Wild Was the Wind by John Robbins

Nothing smells like the wind that blows across the dessert at night.

Nothing looms heavier than bad choices and burnt out lives .
She always liked my hands between her thighs as we drove at night.

She laid her head on my shoulder as the wind through the window was are music, And the miles seemed endless.

That feeling can haunt a man’s
Soul when its gone .

She clung to me a pillar within the darkness.
Straddled me as we parked and released her passions with the nights embrace .

I have forgotten much in my time but I have never forgotten her or that moment .

Sunrise was magic but so was all I experienced with you.

I left a rose upon your headstone,
Not all things stay buried with the past.
Wild is the wind that blows across the dessert tonight.

It haunts me as do you .

Somewhere else sweetheart .
I will know you again .

 

Wild was the wind that drove you from my side .

About the Poets

Wayne Russell is a creative writer and amateur photographer, that was born and raised in Florida, he has traveled the world and has resided in Dunoon, Scotland, and Wellington, New Zealand, currently resides in Columbus, Ohio. Waynes writing and photography dwell upon the more painful events that have shaped his life and shape the world around him. Whether it be issues of social justice, homelessness, governmental corruption, depression, autism, abandonment, alcohol abuse, and isolation; he is musing about it and churning out the poems, songs, and short fiction stories. Waynes has been published in Poets Espresso Review, Nomadic Voices Magazine, Zaira Journal, Danse Macabre, The Bitchin’ Kitschs’ and the Rolling Thunder Press.

Ann Christine Tabaka lives in Delaware, USA. She is a published poet and artist. She loves gardening and cooking. Chris lives with her husband and two cats. Her most recent credits are The Paragon Journal, The Literary Hatchet, The Metaworker, Raven Cage Ezine, RavensPerch, Anapest Journal, Mused, Apricity Magazine, Longshot Island, Indiana Voice Journal, Halcyon Days Magazine, The Society of Classical Poets, and BSU’s Celestial Musings Anthology.

Daniel de Culla is a writer, poet, and photographer. He’s member of the Spanish Writers Association, Earthly Writers International Caucus, Poets of the World, (IA) International Authors, Surrealism Art, and others. Director of Gallo Tricolor Review, and Robespierre Review. He participated in many Festivals of Poetry, and Theater in Madrid, Burgos, Berlin, Minden, Hannover and Genève. 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.

Grant Guy is a Winnipeg, Canada, poet, writer and playwright. Former artistic director of Adhere + Deny. His writings have been published in Canada, the United States, Wales, India and England. He has three books published. He was the 2004 recipient of the MAC’s 2004 Award of Distinction and the 2017 recipient of the WAC’s Making A Difference Award.

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 for whom writing is a nece

Chad M. Horn has served as emcee for numerous poetry events over the year; including annual Kentucky Writer’s Day programs and readings. He is an honorary Lifetime Member of the Elizabeth Madox Roberts Society.

Steve Klepetar lives in Saint Cloud, Minnesota. His work has received several nominations for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize, including four in 2016. Recent collections include Family Reunion (Big Table), A Landscape in Hell (Flutter Press), and How Fascism Comes to America (Locofo Chaps).

Dev Dutt is a Banker,writing is his passion and poetry his breath. He has many published poems to his credit in anthologies and periodicals in India and abroad. He was nominated in finalist list of Poetry contest conducted by American Poetry Society and won prize for his poem ” Confessions of a dying man” by The Quest, Ranchi.

Marc Carver is a lover of poetry and a practitioner of the mysterious art of poetry writing.

John Patrick Robbins is a barroom poet who’s work has Appeared in In between Hangover’s, Your One Phone Call, The Outlaw Poetry Network, and The Poets Community. His words, like his work are always unfiltered.

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