Poetrypoeticspleasure Ezine Volume 2; Issue 11; December 2018

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

Easel by Eliza Segiet

Haikus by David Estringel

Massage by Ann Christine Tabaka

Above it All by Kelli J Gavin

At Home by Guy Farmer

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.






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






White bolts from above

Rain cuts on kitchen tables,

releasing bad blood.







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.