Be Like the Creek Water
You will get nowhere standing
in the silly Manmade circles
which unfortunately encompass
most people’s lives.
You must live like the creek nearby
your living room with its worn-out recliner—
the same water never running through
the same area in its eternal flowing—
the same water never rippling
the same way it did during its previous ripple.
For the loops you live within
usually come with their own cubicle
and a line drawn in the land
to demarcate what is yours
and what is theirs
as you’ve become a tool
for the Controllers of this feudal era.
It is a lie and it persists
because you let it persist.
You were taught to let it persist.
Be like the creek water, never flowing
the same. For that creek water
is the cousin of The Great Spiral.
The reigning tedium can be quit by tapping into this mindset.
Every night it begins
to rain in my bedroom.
It’s clockwork to the utmost
as that cold stir is born
with the sound of droplets falling
onto my life ring out, not loudly,
but predictably. I don’t know why
it rains in my bedroom at the stroke of midnight.
Maybe it’s an omen since midnight
is technically the beginning of a new day.
Maybe it is a warning
of the awful things yet is to come.
How to Read
I try to read
in between the lines
and skies of lies; I try
to pull Truth from the reflection
of its pages to shine upon my mind;
for, if you do not
read between the lines,
you will likely end up
with a headful of false ties
to the pages that tried
to coax you into a false lullaby.
Heath Brougher is the poetry editor of Into the Void, winner of the 2017 and 2018 Saboteur Award for Best Magazine. He is a multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee as well the winner of The Taj Mahal Review’s 2018 Poet of the Year Award. His work has been translated into several languages other than English. His newest books are To Burn in Torturous Algorithms (Weasel Press, 2018) and The Ethnosphere’s Duality(Cyberwit.Net, 2018).
joined by another
a noisy pair
dark and handsome.
Swinging on the cable
delighting the home-alone
their crested heads
kissed by the rough winds of summer
waiting for the rains
to arrive on the Mumbai skyline.
Sunil Sharma is Mumbai-based senior academic, critic, literary editor and author with 19 published books: Six collections of poetry; two of short fiction; one novel; a critical study of the novel, and, eight joint anthologies on prose, poetry and criticism, and, one joint poetry collection. He is a recipient of the UK-based Destiny Poets’ inaugural Poet of the Year award—2012. His poems were published in the prestigious UN project: Happiness: The Delight-Tree: An Anthology of Contemporary International Poetry, in the year 2015. Sunil edits the English section of the monthly bilingual journal Setu published from Pittsburgh, USA: http://www.setumag.com/p/setu-home.html For more details, please visit the blog: http://www.drsunilsharma.blogspot.in/.
It’s now that time of year which has become hot enough to watch the silhouettes dance above the blistering asphalt rising
As I sit here on the patio that isn’t mine watching the rain that’s badly needed dripping from the roof tops all around me
There is no better sounds than the rain on a tin roof as the rolling thunder bellows far off in the distance
Or the lonely sound of the whippoorwills embracing the forest before it sleeps in the mountains I come from
Time has never changed ,but the places and the faces in a life time has
I often wander into a future I cannot see but God already has and I’ve never been right about any of it
I only do my best and hold all of my desire inside while I wait for the days to unfold like a new page written in the heavens
Catastrophe can happen to anyone but the Lord will rebuild lives lost as long as hope survives
I once seen a man walking a dog at the end of an old rope that the old fella must have found on the side of the road
In one hand he held a sign that said could you help me please I’m hungry but feed my dog if that’s all you have
Each day I passed this man thinking the worst ,today I parked my car under the shade of an old oak tree not too far from him
watching as cars rolled by staring at this man with a sign
Once in a while someone would toss him a dime or two and a few dollars as he always thanked them with a God bless you
I sat there almost the whole day or until he got too hot to continue his plight flying his sign of hope
As the elderly man stood up I noticed he almost fainted and watched with fear as he recovered
About a hundred yards away was a sonic drive in
I continued peeking into someone else’s life kinda like God does ours
The car hop brought out a small bag and a cup of water and some fries which the old gent gobbled down without breathing ,after he was finished he took a silver bowl from an old wadded blanket and unwrapped a hamburger and placed it in the bowl so lovingly for his little dog and gave it the rest of the water he had saved for it
I never seen him go to any store to buy any beer or cigarettes but I did watch him disappear into the woods just down the street
With all of the love inside me I just had to see for myself where he was headed
It was an old makeshift covering with a sheet n some bags over it to protect him and his companion from the rain and some old boxes made the flooring
I couldn’t take what I was seeing so I went and bought imperishable items
and went to the atm machine and took them through the woods on a walk God sent me on
I’ll never forget the surprise or the look on that old mans face when I gave him and his little dog what I called his package from heaven
The last thing the old man said was God bless you ,as I said to him back
He already has
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.
You study poetry
by writing someone else’s
word per word
as though you could
grasp its essence
through the physicality
of the Rs and the Ts.
an apple is never known
until you have eaten
it to its rotten core.
You only see the flesh
of its rind, bright and green
gleaming back at you
not knowing why
or how it tastes
acrid to your tongue,
Shalom Aranas has always been in love with the power words have on heart and mind and writes to weave the same magic over that of others.
A Summer affair
on foreign shores
warm days, hot air balloons rise
to the occasion
exotic nights, your alcohol breath
fuels the flames.
A tequila sunrise at last call
and crickets scatting jazz tunes
a midsummer’s dream
in high definition.
Joanne has been writing for 50 years. She is a published poet and photographer. Her works have appeared in numerous in print and online publications such as The Parnassus Literary Journal, Westward Quarterly, The San Diego Arts and Poets Magazine, Nomads Choir, SP Quill, just to name a few. She was awarded a round-trip ticket to Hong Kong in 2007 by Cathay Pacific Airways for her winning entry in their poetry contest. Joanne is the founder and editor of Stanzaic Stylings Literary Ezine.
Joanne enjoys reading, writing, collecting old poetry books, live music concerts, roaming art galleries and museums, leisurely lunches with friends in diners, getting out in nature with her camera and making toys for and playing with her feathered companion, Sammers You can learn all there is to know about her by visiting her website/blog at http://poeticshutterbug.blogspot.com
There is a place deep within-
where love never dies and rainbows never end.
There upon a river flowing to the sea,
my heart drifts along in wistful reverie.
For this place is home, the place where I belong;
floating endlessly, as I hum a little song.
Marveling at the wonder, to do such a thing,
I dream upon the stars, and all the love they bring…
Lynn Long- https://zolanymph1.blogspot.com/
Poet, writer, aspiring novelist, daydreamer and believer in the impossible
Artist @hitRECord.org and Scriggler.com
Published in the following Ezines, Publications and Online Journals:
In Between Hangovers
Poetry Poetics Pleasure
Burned into the ridges of the human brain,
this centre of emotions, memory, and pictures.
Data coming up like on a computer screen,
fragments imprinted in the mind, agglutinated pain,
distressing recollections or a pleasant rhyme;
some come to the surface, spring to mind,
stay monolithic, overshadow, influence the time,
those, mercifully submerged in oblivion, left behind.
Forgetting belongs to dough like yeast.
If we could not forget, we would be slaves of the past.
Some of my mementos are an ice-cold winter night
over dark steel factory outlines, a full moon – bright;
hand in hand with mother on empty streets,
destroyed houses, after a hellish rain of bombs
in war nights, only left as crater chains,
a smell of decay, time-dust washed into the drains.
Living in ruins, streets like dentures with missing teeth,
my parents, and me as an additional package,
unborn, duty unpaid, to be delivered in the coldest month of the year.
Poverty unfelt, did not know anything else for two decades.
An empty tin as birthday present, a wooden stick,
the little drummer, pa rum pum pum pum.
Dead hare on a balcony wall, from which blood dripped,
eyes staring, a questioning glance at the sound of the drum.
Rubble pouring out of a collapsed building
like the guts spilling out of the dead cat on the debris,
lying on top of the broken bricks like a warning;
like a mourning of the dead, buried underneath, reduced to ash:
People who never came back to the light of the day.
Messed-up childhood, disturbed, until the end of my time.
We never forget wounds, exposed to a haunting memory
which never fades away.
Eduard Schmidt-Zorner is an artist and a translator and writer of poetry and short stories. He is writing haibun and poetry in four languages: English, French, Spanish and German and holds workshops on Japanese and Chinese style poetry. He is a member of four writer groups in Ireland. He lives in County Kerry, Ireland, since more than 25 years and is a proud Irish citizen, born in Germany. He was published in 29 anthologies, literary journals and broadsheets in UK, Ireland and USA. Writes also under his pen name: Eadbhard McGowan
As I lay here alone thinking
I feel like I’m totally sinking
I feel worthless
I feel imperfect
I’m craving a woman’s love
I’m craving a woman’s touch
The urgency of filling thee,
Void is killing me
So the world turns without me
And my tears flow undoubtedly
Although it may seem very scary
I must remember this is only temporary
I can’t act on impulse
And jump into a love that may be false
And I see so much Facebook monogamy
And it personally starts to bother me
I can’t have sex on the random
In hopes that a woman will find me handsome
I’m so self conscious & I can’t rely on a woman to make me feel better
In the end the only one I have is me & that’s forever
Eric was born in Omaha, Nebraska. He graduated from Boys Town high school and went on to get a degree in Social Work. He married at 19 but later got divorced and has raised two children alone. His love for music and arts has led him to his writing. Much of his poetry and writings come from experiences and love of life. He often adds humor to enlighten and has been writing for over 20 years.
I am recovering
I am recovering myself
I am recovering myself instead.
I am recovering myself. Instead…enjoyment
I am recovering myself, Instead, enjoyment reigns
I am recovering myself, Instead, enjoyment reigns triumphant
I am recovering myself, Instead, enjoyment reigns triumphant again.
I am recovering myself, Instead, enjoyment reigns triumphant again. Seriously!
I am recovering myself. Instead, enjoyment reigns triumphant again; seriously envisioning.
I am recovering myself. Instead. enjoyment reigns triumphant again; seriously envisioning myself.
I am recovering myself. Instead, enjoyment reigns triumphant again; seriously envisioning myself alive.
Jack M Freedman is a poet of heart and mind and creates his verse in both traditional and free forms.
My farm is now dust
So travel I must
Everything went bust
My new life as a hobo
Riding the rails
Walking dirt trails
Washing up in pails
My new life as a hobo
Working for dinner
I’m getting thinner
Not much of a winner
My new life as a hobo
An Okie by birth
I still have self-worth
Sleeping on the bare earth
My new life as a hobo
Noelle Kukenas began writing around the age of nine and continues to this day. She enjoyed working in several career fields, many which allowed her to contribute as a technical writer in some capacity. Her published works include a short story in Scraps To Scribes and poetry in Sisterhood 4: We Are Women. Recently retired from the nonprofit sector, Noelle enjoys spending her free time traveling with her husband, creating havoc with her grandchildren, and enjoying the California sunshine!