Poet of the Month: Joan McNerney
My Surname is The Night by Ahmad Al-Khatat
The Christmas prayer by Gary Lawrence Ingram
Where did the Lake Go? by Glory Sasikala
Massage by Ann Christine Tabaka
Memories of Rain (haiku Sequence) by James G. Piatt
Poet of the Month: Joan McNerney
I Believe in Trees
Those silent citadels
standing against long
nights of wind and cold.
Broken willow bramble
scratches a pale sky after
yesterday’s ice storm.
Each spring small buds
blossom as bugs and
butterflies orbit boughs.
Green new leaf fits
your hand so perfectly.
The future lies in your palm.
Birds reciting litany in woods.
Each rainfall the forest
grows taller, more verdant.
Summer afternoons…trees
sashay in sunshine showing
off their emerald gowns.
Winds sway maple branches.
Leaves drop like butterflies
falling to the warm earth.
Red yellow brown carpets
of crunchy foliage spread
over roads welcoming us.
Live Oak Boughs
Boughs build archways as tips
of trees touch each other. What
was shaded green becomes
nocturnal shadow. A
crescent moon hangs from
heaven. Light tracing
foliage falls dropping
dusty deep upon ground.
Secrets lie inside the
edged shadow. Animals
hide under darkness
resounding through night
as leaves rustle.
All changing except
this pattern of what
is now formed.
Wildflowers
Bobbing in open fields.
Two fabulous daffodils sprout
from your eyes. Falling dizzy in
love as o so lackadaisical
breeze tugs at shirt sleeves.
Again we are flushed in
warm love caress. Solar
energy orbiting billions of
grass blades. Hum hum
hummingbirds hurry hurry
pass us tripping giddy
in love.
Effective Immediately
I want to become an
Ambassador for Rain!
Why the bad image?
Birds love rain.
Tweeting through
dry spells for water.
They flutter from leaf
to bud for a sip.
It’s super creative…
feeding tree roots, wild flowers.
Without rain…no blessed
blue lakes, rivers, streams.
Open your eyes. Rain clings
to window panes, miniature globes
of splendor. Listen as pitter
pattering skips over rooftops.
Consider your thirst for
liquid pleasures. Gather up
in green reverie. Dance
barefoot on this emerald earth
joining me in jubilant chorus.
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.
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.
The Christmas prayer by Gary Lawrence Ingram
The church bells near the town square were ringing to the sounds of Christmas music
The wind had turned a bit brisk and the cool of the season had just begun the splashing of the tires from cars made me feel much colder than it really was but when you don’t have a home the smell of ham and the heat of an old fashioned wall heater warming the back of your pants was all I could think of
All of the years I never knew what I wanted for Christmas but this year I did because as I found a dry bench sitting out under an old oak tree I sat there watching families coming in and out of the little shops around the square wearing their holiday smiles and laughing together
For once I knew what I wanted and that night as the mist from the rain began covering my face I prayed I prayed all night
Now life is much better and I’m wearing a Christmas smile this year
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.
Where did the Lake Go? by Glory Sasikala
Bulrushes by the lake
What are you?
Tiny bird on bulrush, where did you come from?
Sunrise, Sunset, all shimmering ripples now
that my feet send out swinging as I sit
on the dhobi-stone.
He washes clothes, he beats them
He stomps on them for hours
Varicose veins bulging
He, the lake, the clothes
and the expanse of sky.
He has forgotten how to speak
I try to teach him as he stomps.
How long? Where is your house? Does your leg ache?
He does not answer
But he is not there now –
gone to eat silently the food his wife has prepared
and black out in bed.
And I swing my legs in the water
seated on the dhobi-stone.
Little fish kiss my feet
A little hanky thrown in
yields a small fish-fortune.
But slowly, slowly the glorious Sunset
overwhelms me as I watch the grand show
so taken for granted because it is free,
because it is there.
As clouds turn light pink, dark pink, then roll and fade away,
rays disbanding in a fire play.
The trees, their branches reaching out to the waters
their leaves closing.
Birds that hurry home, the incessant chatter
as they settle down.
Now silence prevails
In a dark night.
The lights from the hangars reflect in the lake.
Far away, on the island, the old man and his son swing a lantern
and lo! it is the Smiling Moon herself!
I see all these things in my mind’s eyes
as I stand where the lake was,
trying to reconcile the multi-storey apartments now
that have replaced the irreplaceable.
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.
Easel by Eliza Segiet
Translated by Artur Komoter
If you
kept me forever
in the clouds of pastels.
My body would seduce
with the smell of memories.
I would have dreamed
on the stone wall,
on the canvas.
I want to, on an easel,
invite to my sleep.
If you
kept me forever
in the smell of print.
Or maybe,
just keep me in the heart.
I know,
you won’t do that, because it died.
And I,
my Abelard,
am still headed for the love.
Eliza Segiet is Jagiellonian University graduate with a Master’s Degree in Philosophy. She completed postgraduate studies in Cultural Knowledge, Philosophy, Penal Fiscal and Economic Law, and Creative Writing at Jagiellonian University, as well as Film and Television Production in Łódź. She has published three poetry collections and two monodramas.
Haikus by David Estringel
Epiphanies
White bolts from above
Rain cuts on kitchen tables,
releasing bad blood.
Verse
Words collapse on tongues–
wicker baskets of water–
without poetry.
David Estringel is an avid reader, poet, and writer of fiction, creative non-fiction, & essays. His work has been accepted and/or published by Specter Magazine, Literary Juice, Foliate Oak Magazine, Indiana Review, Terror House Magazine, and many more. He is currently a Contributing Editor (fiction) at Red Fez, editor/columnist at The Good Men Project, and an editor/writer at The Elixir Magazine. David Estringel can be found on Twitter (@The_Booky_Man) and his blog “The Booky Man” at thebookyman.wordpress.com.
Massage by Ann Christine Tabaka
Navigating fingers
work their way over
the aches and pains
that invade my body.
Pressing deep into
knotted muscle,
releasing fascia,
easing tension.
Waves of pleasure
sweep over me.
Soothing music,
soft candle glow,
gifted hands
bestow relaxation.
The raging beast,
my body,
begins to purr.
Hour over,
I yearn for more,
as I lay there in
some universe
far away,
dreaming of the next time.
Candles extinguished,
music quieted,
life returns, but …
oh, just a little sweeter!
Ann Christine Tabaka was nominated for the 2017 Pushcart Prize in Poetry, has been internationally published, and won poetry awards from numerous publications. She lives in Delaware, USA. She loves gardening and cooking. Chris lives with her husband and three cats. Her most recent credits are: Ethos Literary Journal, North of Oxford, Pomona Valley Review, Page & Spine, West Texas Literary Review, The Hungry Chimera, Sheila-Na-Gig, Synchronized Chaos, Pangolin Review, Foliate Oak Review, Better Than Starbucks!, The Write Launch, The Stray Branch, The McKinley Review, Fourth & Sycamore.
Above it All by Kelli J Gavin
You’ve been elevated
Above it all
You have been placed
In a position
Above it all
The rest doesn’t matter
It is just background noise
I may have placed you there
To protect you
To make sure no one else
Could ever touch you
Hurt You
Take you
From Me
Above It all
Stay there
You’ve been elevated
Above it all
Kelli J 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. Look for Kelli’s first book of short stories and poems in 2019. You can find her work with The Ugly Writers, Sweatpants & Coffee, Writing In a Woman’s Voice among others. Find Kelli on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram @KelliJGavin Blog found at kellijgavin.blogspot.com
At Home by Guy Farmer
Anytime she meets
Someone in public,
She’s quick to smile
And assure them
That everything is
All right.
Her eyes dart around,
Worried that someone
Will see the secret
She thinks she’s hiding
But is abundantly apparent
To everyone else.
He awaits at home,
Permeated with
Unresolved anger,
Pacing back and forth,
A sordid creature
Guarding its lair.
Guy Farmer writes evocative, minimalist, modern poetry about the human condition. Visit him online at https://www.unconventionalbeing.com/.
Memories of Rain (haiku Sequence) by James G. Piatt
Rainy night appears
Bringing twilight’s mist to us
Moisture laden clouds
Cover the dry land
Memories of rain awaken
In our yearning souls
Dr. Piatt’s poetry collections include “The Silent Pond,” “Ancient Rhythms,” and “Light.” His poem “Teach Me,” was the poem of the year at Long Story Short, and many of his poems have been featured as ‘poems of the month’ in numerous magazines, including Poetry Poetics Pleasure. Several of his poems were nominated for both Pushcart, and Best of Web awards. He has published over 1130 poems. He earned his BS and MA from California State Polytechnic University, and his doctorate from BYU.
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