Arbor of Wisteria and Clematis
I reflect upon the lavender Wisteria;
the lilacs and lonely gardenias.
I uncover the grand butterfly bush
Quoth the Nepeta, ‘keep to the path’.
Those shrubby pussy willows bloom,
a burning felt deep within the Clematis.
What could be more purely aglow?
Only this and a Thimble-berry pie.
There perched, a crow upon the arbor
craving the bi-colored, brag bonnet.
A harlequin colored sky now aflame
The rooster never asked for the time.
Orange bells fall from the trumpet vine,
first touch of frost kisses a naked leaf.
leaves soar and spin in the north winds.
Of Time Slowly Passing
Of shallow labored breaths
a lone kiss in the of predawn,
rattle and hum whispers within,
wish only sleep during cold times.
Yellowish orbs dart all about trees,
kisses spread from the tip of sprigs
spiraling down into the old garden
I try to reach out and touch them.
My ride takes us through the gates
grass glistens in the carriage-lights
touch of frost left upon a naked leaf
skies of yesterday; dreams of today.
Albino raven’s roost in the old cedar
pious penance delivered by rosary.
Moldy smell of freshly shoveled earth
thoughts linger within lofty reflections;
the things that can never be unseen
a taste of solace within old memories.
Prayers answered with a lilac scent
I feel small in this time of my passing
Resurrection Lilies sprouting nearby
fragrant Red Roses whisper to me.
Into the Burning Man
Blasphemy courted with anecdotal perversity
limitless chatter echoes through the canyon
all now weeping at the sight of blind hypocrisy
catching the dancing orbs with a butterfly net
seeking a peace but tripping through garbage
sands stained with the blood from star shards
music calms the beast, but on the jungle roars
pinnacle of life, enchanted in an icy cold desert.
tutelage from shamans; swaying to a spirit drum
casting of vows into pious devotional candlelight
earthy spirited flutes touch the heart and soul
bodies float down into the heart of white flames
albino raven’s perch upon high sandstone glyph’s
my vision now doubling objects indiscriminately to
the many I wish to see, and those which I do not.
The images are now imprinted upon my eyelids
overlap, confusing, awkwardly, as a child’s collage.
Yet, I can now see beyond the darkness, beyond
the terrors, beyond the bright white crystal sparks
a burning man now tosses ink onto the parchment..
Ken Allan Dronsfield is a disabled veteran, prize winning poet and fabulist from New Hampshire, now residing on the plains of Oklahoma. He is published in magazines, journals, reviews and anthologies throughout the US and abroad. Ken has three poetry collections, “The Cellaring”, 80 poems of light horror, paranormal, weird and wonderful work. His second book, “A Taint of Pity”, contains 52 Life Poems Written with a Cracked Inflection. Ken’s third poetry collection, “Zephyr’s Whisper”, 64 Poems and Parables of a Seasonal Pretense, and includes his poem, “With Charcoal Black, Version III”, selected as the First Prize Winner in Realistic Poetry International’s recent Nature Poem Contest. Ken won First Prize for his Haiku on the Southern Collective Experience Haiku Contest. He’s been nominated three times for the Pushcart Prize and six times for the Best of the Net for 2016-2018. Ken loves writing, hiking, thunderstorms, and spending time with his cats Willa and Yumpy.
In the cemetery, I was standing on my knees,
reading verses of the holy book to the tombs
I was praying with tears on my cheeks
until the graveyard stopped me and asked me if
I was reading verses or reading sorrows
with an emotionless face, he asked to repeat
I started reading again and, his face was getting
red as his eyes were dropping my unrhymed tears
he stopped me with anger and screamed out
why more grieves, why more death, and less peace
I responded to him, why did hope sold us to traitors
why life is struggling with us, why did the wars rape us shamelessly
we cried together as he was saying that he’s listening to
spirits weeping with us, as the clouds will rain again
he asked me again, why our world is no longer bright
instead, it’s full of darkness and lots of bloody cuts
our grandparents were the farmers, who lift the sunshine
and brunt themselves to death, just to protect the seeds
our mothers stole the moon from the wall of the night
they hid in their coffins and the stars after our fathers
turned the rainbow into a solider in the zone of death
and made the snow into a drinkable water to survive
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 smell of smoke from the fireplace and the bacon cooking on the cast iron skillet was my alarm each day
My mornings to me at that time we’re just ordinary I never knew any better until now as I look back listening to my memories speaking to me from another time
Granny was always standing there wearing her apron and a smile waiting for me to wander in rubbing my eyes as I staggered to the table
Homemade biscuits and gravy were always steaming beneath the tea towel that granny always placed there to keep everything fresh and warm for me
The humming coming from the kitchen was something that always told me granny was happy and she loved what she did for me grandad
Sometimes on those rainy days which I called them I could hear her saying prayers with a soft sobbing sound that made me sit still and think about things myself or those in need or in a bad way
Grandpa was always gone when I’d get up he was a busy man and spent most of his time taking from the forest to keep us alive but he always gave back by planting new saplings ,he taught me that God put the trees and the animals here for us to use but we must respect the things He’s given us just like life and the home we lived in
That slow moving stream that came down out of the mountains with its silver hair tangling here and there still remains beside the house that held so much love and reason for living
I can still hear granny praying in the kitchen and smell the bacon swirling in the cool winters air just like then I’m sitting still and remembering why I’m praying now
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.
not that i want answers
to a relationship
that seems to flex
to meet our erratic selves
so moody and unpredictable
so based on imperfection
but our sidelong glances ask
are we the ones?
are we cosy bed and pillows ad sheets?
are we cuddle, kiss, curl and sleep?
will you wipe the dishes while i wash
roll out the dough while i flip?
peeping over shoulders quadrupled vision
is it our laughter that will break the silence
of a dark night, startling the owl
and drawing stars closer?
i did not let the outside world in
i can walk away, can you?
at will, i ask you –
will we be the ones –
our fingers barely touching
a relationship on a shoestring budget
of superficial small talk
barely skimming the surface…
how far must we go before we know
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.
Translated by Artur Komoter
Ready for happiness,
we greedily go towards it.
And when it opens like a
it is not because
it will always be so,
but in order to enjoy
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.
There are bullfrogs
and there are screwdrivers
and there were knickknacks
and fireflies over Oregon
like cigarette burns
in the sleeveless shirt
of the universe.
And there are carnivorous plants
and chilled salad forks
and bathroom stall etchings
like a Rosetta stone
for the disinherited.
There are colonoscopies
and pay stubs
and grey owls
and grey hairs
and more colours to a windswept
than toes on the clubbed foot
I am not a very good noise maker.
I take it on the chin
and move on.
I am the milk-white muted womb
of no comment.
The toe jam regular of sand crabs
and Danish kings.
When I speak it is barely audible,
more mumble and grunts
than true syllables –
an economy of word
When I eat pea soup,
it is understated.
When I defecate I never push.
I just sit there and let it slide out
at its own pace
like faith in an old jalopy
will get there
I stand in a room
like a hat rack
stands in a room.
I love like gift cards
and general penmanship.
and overall existence
is low key.
I am a ghost
where there are no ghosts;
in the tilted can opener wisdom
There is a picture on my bedroom wall
many years younger
Surrounded by birthday goers
wearing birthday hats,
I am neither happy
or wearing a hat.
And I know that face I am wearing
just like I know there are shallots
in the crisper.
When I get mad
I don’t explode like some horny John
all over the blotchy face
I get quiet and frustrated instead
And then I drink more
than I’ve drank to this point
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.
The truth laid bare
at my feet
Deep dark secrets hide
within converging storms.
A cadence of emotions
My words are not your words.
We speak in different tongues.
It is as if you know the answer
before the question is posed.
You know me so well
yet not at all.
Fragments of life
falling into oblivion.
Forlorn and forgotten,
forsaken and lost.
Death closes the door
that love once opened.
there is no turning back.
Time does not allow
such luxuries as that.
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.
I will not say goodbye to you.
I won’t do it.
I will say so long.
In hopes of seeing you again.
I will not say goodbye to you.
Good bye always seems so final.
And saying goodbye to you isn’t possible.
I will always want you.
I will always need you.
I will see you soon.
I will see you again.
Because I will not say goodbye to you.
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
Stop their agenda,
Trying to feel
More secure in
A world made
Dangerous by them.
Guy Farmer writes evocative, minimalist, modern poetry about the human condition. Visit him online at https://www.unconventionalbeing.com/.
Echoes in my mind carrying my
Idle thoughts swirled around the
Burnished edges of eternity as I
Meandered through memories
Inside my dreams. I remembered
It was near a bark-covered path
Where I found the white stone
Hidden among beautiful flowers
In a meadow. I gave it to a lady
I Did not know, but recognized
From one of my dreams.
Old memories released visions
Where nothing existed except
Objects that emitted pleasant
Fragrances, and as I followed the
Aroma of red roses, Jasmine,
And lilacs, which floated up stairs
To an ancient clock, which had
Secrets hidden inside its golden
Works, I saw the lady siting in a
Rocking chair weaving dreams
Out of the white stone.
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.