Poetrypoeticspleasure Ezine
Volume 2; Issue 5; June 2018
Poet of the Month: Lynn Long
Poems by Margarita Serafimova
Commitment by Allison Grayhurst
Freedom by Antony King
Exchanges by Darrell Herbert
Trying too Hard by Steve Klepetar
I am… by Meekha Singh
Veil of the Moon by Ahmad Al-khatat
More In Common Than Not by Kelli Gavin
To the Cobbler Who Took My Shoes by Ryan Quinn Flanagan
Poet of the Month: Lynn Long
Her canvas
His words
Together
come to
life in the
silence
heard…
Painted
in loves
true rarity
Alive with
vibrant
clarity
Her canvas
His words
resound
in the
silence
heard…
In a dream
In a dream
I see my destiny
A love so real
I wake anew,
but daylight is
my harsh reality
and I struggle
to get through
The morning after
is my only clue..
In a parallel universe
In a parallel universe
where day is night,
exists a world of
my own device
Where reality is
never sure, for
the road ahead
is often blurred
And, perception
once perceived,
is now deception
masked in dream
Both worlds must
collide, yet, only
one shall survive
Which one will
I choose, knowing
either way, I
lose…
Lynn Long is a poet, writer, aspiring novelist, as well as a daydreamer and firm believer in the impossible. She has been published in the following ezines, journals and online publications: Stanzaic Stylings, PPP Ezine, Antarctica Journal, Contributing artist at HitRECord.org and Scriggler.com
Poems by Margarita Serafimova
God-coloured sea,
I was having you,
and not having you.
*
Bodies of birds are shining in your sky,
and winter forests are overflowing.
Air, air and truth.
*
A brown little fish
in the sun.
Your eye in my desire.
*
One is the true place, said the food.
The moment, said the lights and the sounds.
One only, confirmed my great I.
*
The Sea of Dimitris
There it is,
beautifully dark like eternity,
and ever lighter like a coming day.
Margarita Serafimova was shortlisted for the Montreal International Poetry Prize 2017. She has two collections in the Bulgarian: “Animals and Other Gods” (2016), “Demons and World” (2017). Some of her work: https://www.facebook.com/MargaritaISerafimova/?ref=aymt_homepage_panel.
Commitment by Allison Grayhurst
Take the end of the root and
squeeze. Air is not wind or
a wave. Gazing into the darkest of eyes,
needs forgotten in the tale
of becoming something more than shape,
someone more than someone who rocks
in despair or madness.
I held you with my
mind and in my arms, held you broken and stoic
as all dangerous dreams. I was afraid to tell you
but I told you anyway and the song grew into a sunset.
Eaten by gravity, blurring in potency as it traveled
past the horizon. I saw
you were the willow tree, the pine tree and the birch
that scattered leaves and seeds throughout the large acreage yard.
I was a raccoon, a beetle bug and a tiny bird.
I moved through you, across you,
made my home inside of you. Can you see
how much of what was mine depended on yours?
When the yard caught on fire,
the fire seeped into my joints, extending into my aura
and all your seeds around me of brown and green.
Not a single day when I did not fight to keep your will and commands,
not a day without struggle to keep afloat, keep at bay the urge to
sink or draw the ravenous sharks near and nearer until
they touched – fin against my flesh and then something
sharper.
You love me you say, but it is a love
I cannot understand. I know it is a love, colossal, ruthless
in its perfection but it hurts like withholding, hurts
as I try to adore you and be absolved by a mutual tenderness.
You are final and in this I have no say. I love you, but we are not
dancing. I trust you, but we are not
sharing with ease. I am left aching, in sharp
icicle-tip-pounding-lack, struggling to make sense and find “the law”
if there is no mercy to be seen.
I should be lucky to know you even as I do, as most
walk the Earth without discovering a trace of your existence.
But is there something new for us?
Is there a bouquet around the corner? A line we can cross and keep
on the other side? I give you my wings, my prints
and all of my sacred stones. Take me
into your softness or leave me here
on these barren sharp ridges. Between us,
there are no secrets, even my children
are freely yours.
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
Freedom by Antony King
Tears for the forgotten
The ones that stay behind
Ones that have abandoned
The peace that love provides.
Those who stand on different lines
And rally for their cause…
Leaving hatred in the hearts of some
Causing some.. to rebuild walls.
But is passion for the weak of heart
The quiet timid souls…
Or do we roar like lions
As poetic warrior foes.
For the heart it knows no boundary
Its choice we can’t deny
The bonds that join two heart alike..
Can never be untied.
Antony King is a writer/Poet from Eastern Kentucky. His formal years were spent in Cleveland Ohio were he was privately educated in The Arts, Music and Literature. Antony is an active member in several poetry societies and his works have been read in the UK. He is currently working on the first of two poetry offerings that will be available soon.
Exchanges by Darrell Herbert
Betrayal comes from those who we least expect
Well, if that’s the case then I encounter neglect
Well, if that’s the case then I decline accept
Please give me what I need
A love that I’ve not received
In exchange for you and me
Exchanges, we’re only humans going through changes
Now we’re just strangers who are the strangest
Laziest, no, the craziest
Rejection comes from those who we want the most
Ignoring phone calls to avoid the toast
We’d do anything for the host
Yet we hate when they go ghost
Please give me what I need
A love that I’ve not received
In exchange for you and me
Please give me what I need
A love that I’ve not received
In exchange for you and me
I want to OD on my DOB
Darrell Herbert is a recipient of the 5 American Visions and 5 American Voices Award, as well as a national silver medal in the 2014 Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, presented by the Alliance for Young Artists & Writers. He is a gold key recipient of poetry, presented by Casita Maria Center for the Arts & Education. He has been featured on the 2016 November issue of Not Only Street Magazine. He is also a recipient of the 2016 Scythe Prize, and the 2017 Scythe Prize. He was one of the winners in the second North Street Book Prize competition. He is a recipient of NY Literary Magazine’s 5 Star Writer Award and the Best Story Award. He was named a winner in the Fall 2017 Writing and Art Contest. His fiction and non-fiction has appeared in the Utica College Ampersand. His poetry has been featured in the likes of “The Best Teen Writing of 2014,” by Hannah Jones, HangTime Magazine, UC English Corner etc.
Trying too Hard by Steve Klepetar
Rain all day, and orioles spin
from branch to branch in this
sudden cold. October Mountain
shrugs off the last snow.
Pines stand tall among birches.
We have been trying too hard,
washing windows, scrubbing floors.
Our hands have turned red,
our mops worn to ragged threads.
Outside the rain thickens.
It glistens on the long grass.
Past the pond, mountains
disappear behind a scrim of cloud.
Frogs cry as if their voices
would be lost without this mourning din,
these sharp sobs breaking new spring air.
Steve Klepetar lives and writes in the Berkshires, in western Massachusetts. His work has received several nominations for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize, including three in 2017. Recent collections include “A Landscape in Hell,” “How Fascism Comes to America,” and “Why Glass Shatters.”
I am… by Meekha Singh
I am the dream that never dreams
I search life’s intricacies inside a dewy petal
A life is a gasp of breath as quick as death
I know and I see and yet I persist
Beneath the muscles of a reflexive living
I seek passion’s evanescent touch
I know fear as I walk into the eye of the storm
I sew my gaping wounds with a needle overused
I breathe a smile onto the air that is free
I am
Wholesome
Meekha Singh is an IT professional from Southern India. He has been writing poems for past few years and has been self-published in various poetic communities under the pen name Kali (short for Kaleidoscope).
Veil of the Moon by Ahmad Al-khatat
My heart has many doors for you tonight
Many candles I have for our anniversary
But no more wishes are worth asking for,
When everything is falling apart ‘tween us
I miss listening to the music of my homeland
Where I see myself as lucky or even a loser
I’m a happy being dancing by the flowers
Stepping on the leaves that will hide my grave
I just want to go back and fix the damages
I tried to fold my mistakes from the past
While love letters and roses bloom under the rain
But you ignore my tears and miserable smile
My grandma died before Mother’s Day
She’s away and unseen, unheard, and unsure
If she will understand the reason why is her
Veil is now worn by the moon in the early dawn
Nobody wants to remember me anymore
Nobody cares if I will live for today or not
So many pictures taken and familiar faces,
Unfortunately, those faces are no longer the same
I’m sorry for being who I am to you all
Maybe I should let my heart break slowly to
Feel the distance between life and death
The veil of the moon is my grandma’s face waiting on me
Ahmad Al-Khatat was born in Baghdad on May 8th. From Iraq, he came to Canada at the age of 10, the same age when he wrote his very first poem back in the year 2000. He also has been published in several press publications and anthologies all over the world and currently studies Political Sciences, at the Concordia University in Montreal. He has recently published his first chapbook “The Bleeding Heart Poet” with Alien Buddha Press. It is available for sale on Amazon. Most of his new and old poems are also available on his official page Bleeding Heart Poet on Facebook.
More in Common Than Not by Kelli Gavin
When I admire the rolling hills,
you believe they are only more mountains to climb.
When I am inspired by a new challenge,
you are overwhelmed by the simple aspects of each day.
When your heart becomes heavy and your breathing labored,
take a deep breath, and begin to hold every thought captive.
When I am surrounded by others and thrive on the company,
you often retreat and are invigorated by the solace.
When I am delighted at the idea of travel and exploring,
you find the only outings necessary are for groceries or work.
I wonder if you and I will ever meet in between.
If we will ever have more in common than not.
When I am enthralled by an audience and take the stage,
you explore the back recesses of a coffee shop no one frequents.
When my mind wanders and I brainstorm about the future,
you find ways to dive into bed just so each day will end.
When your heart becomes heavy and your breath labored,
take a deep breath, and begin to hold every thought captive.
When I find myself enjoying friendships I never thought possible,
you draw your select few closer and avoid anyone new.
When I am filled with uncontainable joy and laugh freely,
you find unrestrained displays of emotion embarrassing.
I wonder if you and I will ever met in between.
If we will ever have more in common than not.
Kelli Gavin lives in Carver, Minnesota with Josh, her husband of an obscene amount of years and they have two crazy kids. She is a Writer, Professional Organizer and owns Home & Life Organization and a small Jewelry Company. She enjoys writing, reading, swimming, and spending time with family and friends. She abhors walks on the beach (sand in places no one wishes sand to be), candle lit dinners, (can’t see) and the idea of cooking two nights in a row (no thank you). Find Kelli on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram @KelliJGavin. Blog found at kellijgavin@blogspot.com
To the Cobbler Who Took My Shoes by Ryan Quinn Flanagan
We had an understanding –
that means something to me
the way you put on wire spectacles
to examine my shoes
myself, certain of their fatal disrepair,
the way the flaps had come loose
and hung down over the lip like the
dulap of wild moose
and your assurances
hot chocolate to warm cracking bones,
that thick industrial glue smell that hung
over everything like distant jungle
canopy
that kind of thickness, your wife having bore
nine children with those hips,
and now this sign:
Closed Until Further Notice!
the exclamation point only adding
to my worry
and this very simple question:
when will I get my shoes back, good sir?
I realize I did not pay in full, but a certain
amount of professionalism is expected
perhaps my shoes could not be salvaged,
just tell me, I will not embrace such news
as I would a lover, but I will accept it because there
is nothing else to do.
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.
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