Titanic by Author Renee’ Drummond-Brown
Tired is as tired does. She floats on
carless streams; who knows no love. She floats on river-banks
giving her all to the poor. She floats on oceanic “blues”
of a dark history’s past
“SEEshores” + “SEEshells” – white beaches = black quicksand. She’s
not built to last. Duracell, ALKALINE and Energizer
keeps her going and going and going. CHARGE-she’s gone!
Can’t you “sea?” The saltwater pressures her blood
greater than the strength of them waterfalling hearts. She boils!
She boils!! She boils!!! And can’t hide!
Ain’t no pearls clamed inside. Can’t you “sea?”
Her lake’s shallow and parliament knee deep. They can’t
swim like she
and never did they learn. Can’t you “sea?”
Her army, her navy, her coastguard are the few, were the proud,
but in no way can withstand alone without THE marine!
Walking by faith
gets momma utterly exhausted for which she terminates
the struggle for them quote-un-quote
Forevermore, can she no longer float on
sureSEEs and/or SEEshores; whichever!
when them momma’s give up; WATCH IT NOW
and i mean everyone; FOR “SHORE!”
“Their” life jackets will forever work
Sending out an’ SOS
can’t help the raging of an angry battered sea.
Nothin’ like a shipwreck
that gets tossed
Dedicated to: The heart of the ocean!
A B.A.D. RocDeeRay poem
Renee’ B. Drummond is a renowned poetria and artist from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She is the author of: The Power of the Pen, SOLD TO THE HIGHEST BIDDER, Renee’s Poems with Wings are Words in Flight-I’ll Write Our Wrongs, and Renee’s Poems with Wings are Words in Flight. Her work is viewed on a global scale and solidifies her as a force to be reckoned with in the literary world of poetry. Renee’ is inspired by non-other than Dr. Maya Angelou, because of her, Renee’ posits “Still I write, I write, and I’ll write!”
No, I will not buy you an aardvark by Ryan Quinn Flanagan
No, I will not buy you an aardvark.
You are not Noah, and there are monetary constraints.
Just like they use at the asylum, but without all that tussle.
I haven’t screamed in decades.
I should get paid for that if it makes me half-professional.
Conformity is simple as waiting on steeping tea.
Removing the bag, we all have our rituals.
Or standing in an elevator watching the bright red numbers of gravity prove themselves indoors.
In a controlled environment. Large oak desks and uniforms to give the impression of permanence.
And grazing upon the avenues, I stumble upon a new pair of eyes; 3 pairs for $5 the sign reads, as though anyone requires three pairs of eyes.
I left abundance with the bill seven rentals ago.
In a room with vaulted ceilings so shut-ins could enjoy the sky.
Have you seen the 8 tonne Henry Moore sculpture outside the AGO?
Large Two Forms they plan on moving to a park. It always made me think of fat sex if I am honest.
No, I will not buy you a tree sloth either.
There are speed limits to follow, and you must make your own way now.
To Nirvana or Tallahassee.
Who can tell one from the other?
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, Piker Press, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.
Love is our master by Allison Grayhurst
The tone resonated the red heat
of a sea of lava burning away the dead cells,
activating a living substance. We held
hands, walking in the deserted late-December streets.
Ours is nobody’s but ours – broken train tracks carried,
dropped, put back together. The lapping wind of the spirit
like a bell in the far distance, calling us here, there
and always home.
Your pockets are full of roots, ones
you chopped from the ground, left there with no tree
or shrub to source its life out to. But those roots still thirst,
so you place them in a high jar in our bedroom, tend to them,
give them the attention of your brilliant mind, hurting
for their inadequacies. I love you deep in the hole and in
the twilight of an open summoning space or when locked
in desire, the two of us, giants without chains – the illusion of
isolation shed, heroes to each other’s loneliness, and the rising
of our blood that has no ancestry, no pastlives or this life before.
We are the keepers of this conversation. You are the place where
all my ships land, in the infinity of your eyes, a strong arrow spark
of awe-striking connection, where underground tunnels are excavated.
We are a perfect rub and flow, and we flow, fingers
over the tender inner thigh, mouths
braving more than kisses. We built a bridge and we crossed it,
holding hands, watching each other’s back. We take off our shoes,
a field is before us.
All animals are gorgeous, each with a full and necessary soul.
Animals peer out from behind the curtain of high trees
lining the field, waiting for us to run. We run
and twirl and lay down in laughter, like we once did long ago.
We are good just as we are. We are one at the knees and at the core.
Hell and the moaning of withheld mercy is far behind us,
we have been devoured and we dissolve –
our shells and our centers, seasoned, spring-woven,
what is ours, what is God’s, combined, surrendered.
Allison Grayhurst is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. Four times nominated for “Best of the Net”, 2015/2017, she has over 1125 poems published in over 450 international journals and anthologies. She has 21 published books of poetry, six collections and six chapbooks. She lives in Toronto with her family. She is a vegan. She also sculpts, working with clay; http://www.allisongrayhurst.com
Exploring silence by Reena Prasad
The sound stills itself at times
waiting for cleverer ones to have their say
In that brief interlude, I search
for a reverberation of my thoughts
in this orb of acoustic mazes
Drop a silent sigh here
It rebounds back the next moment
its echoes lingering, feeling, exploring the twilight zones
hanging like bats in unseen crooks
to come flying back
and swat me into stillness
In the dissonance of lively voices
talking themselves hoarse to keep out milder ones,
the rustles, the sighs, the whispers, the hums
make me marvel at their innate softness
but my silence
kept out of the picture for too long
envies these mellow beauties
and longs to make itself heard too
It thunders, it yells, it roars, it wails
There is no respite ever.
Reena Prasad is a poet from India, currently living in Sharjah (United Arab Emirates). Her poems have been published in several anthologies. She is the Destiny Poets UK’s, Poet of the year for 2014 and co-editor of The Significant Anthology & Silhouette I & 2. She is the winner of the Reuel international prize for Poetry, 2018.
A Lonely Tree and A Longing, Sharp as Knife by Asha Viswas
A Lonely Tree
A calligraphy in ochre
On a blanket of sighs :
A sea of sibilance .
The wind whipped tree
Holding a single leaf
The next gust signs it off ,
Like the trace of a dream.
The shadow of the tree
Rests in the backyard-
Loneliness- bleak and nameless,
Fear howls in the silent house.
A Longing, Sharp as Knife
I walk through the rooms
Nothing is lost, not even the sounds.
I rummage through the many cupboards
Where dream and memory live together.
As I open the door, another dream sprouts
An old, gentle but sad face
That still waits for a fistful of light
Through the darkened road .
The dream stops at the edge of a thought-
A paradigm for a few question marks.
Realizing that I am encroaching
On somebody else’s dream, I shut the door.
Slowly the house turns into an allegory of words
Without a future, without a past
syllables, and not a trace of you.
I wish the ghosts could sleep forever in peace.
Asha Viswas is a much awarded Indian poet whose poems have been published, praised and liked all over the world.
Rhapsodies of the East by Pitambar Naik
I enameled those whom I love
With the green pride
And those of the up-shoots of the green coppice.
Dreams which needed to be freed
I let them fly as birds in the deep blue sky
I let them sing the song of liberty.
Along the bank of my fickle mind
I let blossom a lot many divine lotuses
To carve the eternal pride
The words which appealed me
I let them be enlivened with the life of my life
To hear the rhapsodies
Of the new stanzas of the east.
Translated from Purbaraga by Debendra Kumar Bauri
Mora antahina bhalapaiba mananku
pingheideli patrapari kanluthiba
gachhara sabuja spardhaku
Mukti loduthiba swapnamanku
Purnaswadhinatara geeta gaibaku
Mora chapalakhialara kule kule
Aneka brahma kamala
Rachibaku shashwata garimaku
Mote jeevana maguthiba shabdamanku
Mun pranaru prana deli
Sunibaku nuaeka panktire
Pitambar Naik is an Indian poet. Odisha is the state where he was born and grew up amidst paddy fields hearing heartrending folk songs and playing kabbadi. He toils hard and sweats in an advertising studio as a creative writer for a living and writes poetry and short fiction to live his passion. His works have appeared in Literary Orphans, Occulum, Moonchild Magazine, Bhashabandhan Review, HEArt Online,
Coldnoon Travel Poetics, Spark Magazine, and The New Indian Express and PPP Ezine among others. He can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org
Poem #5 by Grant Guy
He flipped hamburgers
He flipped her heart
She worked the counter
At the A&W in Transcona
That was enough of a common ground
To base their 35 year marriage on
Their three children
And their eight grandchildren
All worked at the A&W in Transcona
For three generations they were the Burger Family
They called their marriage a success
Grant Guy is a Winnipeg, Canada, poet, writer and playwright. His poems and short stories have been published in Canada and Internationally. He has three books published: Open Fragments (Lives of Dogs), On the Bright Side of Down and Bus Stop Bus Stop (Red Dashboard). His plays include an adaptation of Paradise Lost and the Grand Inquisitor. He was the 2004 recipient of the Manitoba Arts Council’s 2004 Award of Distinction and the 2017 recipient of the Winnipeg Arts Council’s Making A Difference Award.
Chickens Hatching by Scott Thomas Outlar
Even when there remains
nothing left to say,
our silence can prove to be
the weapon of gold
that helps to save
lost souls in the end.
There is no war
to convince me
to flick my tongue
or pick up a sword
All of my dragons
lay out slain
on the path;
their bones buried
beneath the ash.
We breathe this sacrament
of sacred fire
into our lungs
together as One;
and now only
to be slaughtered
until we have recovered
all of the blood
Scott Thomas Outlar hosts the site 17Numa.wordpress.com where links to his published poetry, fiction, essays, interviews, reviews, live events, and books can be found. His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Scott was a recipient of the 2017 Setu Magazine Award for Excellence in the field of literature. His words have been translated into Albanian, Afrikaans, Persian, French, and Italian.
Regrets Nothing by Kelli J Gavin
The moments I have lived
The times I have treasured
The words left unspoken
The conversations I have entered
I Regret Nothing
Each instance serving a purpose
I Regret Nothing
The heartache that breaks me
The joy that rebuilds me
The children that fulfil me
The husband that completes me
I Regret Nothing
The days I have conquered
The illness that consumed me
The lessons learned over
the excessive passage of time
The light bulb moments now gone dim
I Regret Nothing
A life well lived
Not a moment wasted
Each day grasped
and fully experienced
The nights that restore and quench
I Regret Nothing
Kelli J Gavin lives in Carver, MN with Josh, her husband and two crazy kids. She is a Professional Organizer, owns two small companies, and is a Writer. She is a blogger, writes for newspapers and for online sites as a guest columnist. Her focus is special needs parenting, non-fiction stories from her own life and poetry that often can’t be contained.
Remolded by Heath Brougher
of the reverberation
reflected and refracted
down the rectangular roads
ravaging a reality recently revived
and repaired and repaved
in real time.
Reassured no one was relinquished from the realm
of reamed recognition.
the ravage of the repulsive ravines
now reigning and running randomly
throughout the rent ruins we pretended not to see.
Heath Brougher is the co-poetry editor of Into the Void Magazine, winner of the 2017 Saboteur Award for Best Magazine. He is a multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net Award Nominee and his work has been translated into journals and anthologies in Albania and Kosovo. He was the judge of Into the Void’s 2016 Poetry Competition and edited the anthology Luminous Echoes, the proceeds of which were all donated to an organization which helps prevent suicide/self-harm. He published three chapbooks in 2016, two full-length collections About Consciousness (Alien Buddha Press 2017), To Burn in Torturous Algorithms (Weasel Press 2018), and has 3 collections forthcoming in 2018. His work has appeared in Taj Mahal Review, Chiron Review, MiPOesias, Blue Mountain Review, Main Street Rag, eFiction India, Loch Raven Review, Boston Poetry Magazine, Setu Bilingual, BlazeVOX, and elsewhere.