PPP Ezine: Poetrypoeticspleasure Ezine Volume 3; Issue 2; February 2019

v3i2

Poet of the Month: Ken Allan Dronsfield

In the Cemetery by Ahmad Al-Khatat

Prayers in the kitchen by Gary Lawrence Ingram

Are We? by Glory Sasikala

This Moment by Eliza Segiet

Cigarette Burns in the Sleeveless Shirt of the Universe by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

No Turning Back by Ann Christine Tabaka

So Long by Kelli J Gavin

Duplicity by Guy Farmer

The White Stone and Dreams by James G. Piatt

 

 

 

Poet of the Month: Ken Allan Dronsfield  

 

 

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 by Ahmad Al-Khatat

 

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.  

 

 

Prayers in the kitchen by Gary Lawrence Ingram

 

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.

 

 

 

Are We? by Glory Sasikala

 

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

did you?

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

we’re forever?

 

 

 

 

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.  

This Moment by Eliza Segiet

 

Translated by Artur Komoter

 

 

Ready for happiness,

we greedily go towards it.

And when it opens like a

dawn-awakened nenuphar,

it is not because

it will always be so,

but in order to enjoy

this moment.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cigarette Burns in the Sleeveless Shirt of the Universe by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

 

 

 

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

 

rainbow

 

than toes on the clubbed foot

 

of Eternity…

 

 

 

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

 

and meaning.

 

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

 

 

you trust

 

will get there

 

someday.

 

I stand in a room

 

like a hat rack

 

stands in a room.

 

I love like gift cards

 

love,

 

all sentiment

 

and distance

 

and general penmanship.

 

My dress

 

and overall existence

 

is low key.

 

I am a ghost

 

where there are no ghosts;

 

in the tilted can opener wisdom

 

of Transparency.

 

 

 

There is a picture on my bedroom wall

 

of me

 

many years younger

 

not smiling.

 

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

 

or upset

 

I don’t explode like some horny John

 

all over the blotchy face

 

of Reason.

 

I get quiet and frustrated instead

 

and internalise

 

everything.

 

And then I drink more

 

(much more)

 

than I’ve drank to this point

 

tonight.

 

 

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.

 

 

No Turning Back by Ann Christine Tabaka

 

 

Parting rivers.

Parting ways.

The truth laid bare

at my feet

 

Deep dark secrets hide

within converging storms.

A cadence of emotions

marching by.

 

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.

 

Parting ways,

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.

 

 

So Long by Kelli J Gavin

 

 

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.

So long.

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

Duplicity by Guy Farmer

 

Nothing can

Stop their agenda,

Broken people

Trying to feel

More secure in

A world made

Dangerous by them.

 

Self-fulfilling prophecy.

 

Duplicity,

Incompetence,

Cowardice.

 

 

 

Guy Farmer writes evocative, minimalist, modern poetry about the human condition. Visit him online at https://www.unconventionalbeing.com/.

 

 

The White Stone and Dreams by James G. Piatt

 

 

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.

 

 

 

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