PPP Ezine Poetrypoeticspleasure Ezine Volume 3; Issue 7; August 2019



Poet of the Month: Grant Guy

Life-scale by Jayanta Bhaumik

I feel like a morning star by Milton P. Ehrlich

Rode into the mountains by Daniel de Culla

Poems by Michael Koran

Alone With the Memories by Wayne Russell

All the Axes are Stupid by Fethi Sassi

Tug of War by Yuan Changming

Sing emptiness for me by Brian Rihlmann

PTSD by Carl Scharwath




Poet of the Month: Grant Guy







He wasn’t just a drunk.




He wasn’t always THE TOWN DRUNK.


One time he was just a drunk – a five & dime drunk.




What made him THE TOWN DRUNK.


He was the drunk who convinced Townes Van Zandt


To give up horse for alcohol.


     “Townes, give up junk.


      Booze won’t kill you


      Like that shit you’re putting in your arm.”


Townes Van Zandt said,


     ‘You cheap old drunk.


      What do you know?’


Townes Van Zandt did give up smack for the bottle


And dropped dead.






Had no regrets.




a new orleans poem



the blues musician


sat outside of the jax brewing company


he had a drum rollie in his hand


he was talking himself into a funk


for 8 years we had a black president


in return we got a white supremacist in the white house


we take two steps forward


& get shit thrown in our faces


i am glad i live new Orleans


& not in the united states










And You Need to Ask



She could beat me at strip poker

Without losing a fingernail

She could put the fear of

The Lord in God

She could turn Lucifer

Into a blithering alcoholic angel

She was the Eve of Eden

The Lilith of Heaven



But she pulled up stakes

And moved to Colorado

And was never seen again

Except for the boys at

Red Dog Pool Hall




And you need to ask why I love her





Grant Guy is a Canadian puppeteer, writer and illustrator. Currently he is the artistic director of the object theatre The Circus of Objects. His poems, stories and illustrations have appeared in over 100 journals and reviews in North America, Europe and Africa. He has five books published, including OPEN FRAGMENTS, and his most recent publication, a children’s illustrated book THERE WAS A FARMER’S WIFE. He was the 2004 recipient of the Manitoba Arts Council’s Award of Distinction and the 2017 recipient of the Winnipeg Arts Council’s Making A Difference Award.



Life-scale by Jayanta Bhaumik


Is it only a grain of sand?

Have you ever seen its beautiful shell?

Its history is as weird as a life scaled on life

Infinitesimal, silicon-point, only an existence freak

its birth can speak of an indecipherable dot

carried once through an uneventful trace, nonchalant

a nexus with a hundred scenes, with a lazy dale

sunlit steeps, and farmland, beyond a cityscape,

and anonymous village roads, jagged, below a coral reef

maybe miles after miles with your body or by a car

you lastly find it in the corner of your eye

pick it out then

keeping it away from every web, throw it, that

one grain of sand, nibbled, removed off your qualm


that one is you, waiting to be lost in the course

across the wall, beyond the mess of each flow

across the quicksand or the mystery of the massive

all the truths, untold, mistakes mingled into lies

the raindrops then, the bluest of rimes

across all fire


it is you, as obvious as your life scaled on life





Jayanta Bhaumik is currently based in Kolkata, India. Basically from the field of Metaphysics and Astrology (a Research Member of American Federation of Astrologers Inc.), he finds Poetry as his world of Quest. He finds a period in Singapore and other south-east Asian countries every year for his professional assignments. His works can be found in the recent issues of Poetry Super Highway, Zombie Logic Review, Merak Magazine, The Pangolin Review, Pif Magazine, Better Than Starbucks. He is on Facebook and Twitter @BhaumikJayanta.    



I feel like a morning star by Milton P. Ehrlich



When I’m overwhelmed at sunrise

by the planetary pulsations of Venus

embracing me with the light of love,

I’m ready to leap out of bed

and run though the nearest field

of wildflowers like Elvira Madigan.

Eureka! I exclaim, as I run around naked

like Archimedes discovering the purity of gold.

I find enough orchids, marigolds and sunflowers

to make a bouquet that will surprise my sleeping wife.





Milton P. Ehrlich Ph.D. is an 87- year-old psychologist and a veteran of the Korean War. He has published many poems in periodicals such as the London Grip, Arc Poetry Magazine, Descant Literary Magazine, Wisconsin Review, Red Wheelbarrow, Christian Science Monitor, and the New York Times.



Rode into the mountains by Daniel de Culla



In the middle of Spain

Yin Yang in a Journey in Spring

The sun with ist tide home going

Over ground with seed and hands.

This is a place where we must stop:

Ears to earth under frosty

Rotating nebulae, seeing

Old women, Young girls

Babies crying and a few men.

All is unintelligible inside the ground

That yearn for eyes a heart in the center

Aflame with smoke and desire.

Clouds, clouds, clouds

Hazes of the eternal

And ephemeral beyond

Over imposible but almost feasible

Zigzag up never abandoned cliffs

Where the rivers  began

Roading toward blank areas of stark madness

Suddenly realizing its freedom.      




Daniel de Culla is a writer, poet, and photographer. He’s member of the Spanish Writers Association, Earthly Writers International Caucus, Poets of the World, (IA) International Authors, Surrealism Art, Friends of The Blake Society, and others. Director of Gallo Tricolor Review, and Robespierre Review. He participated in many Festivals of Poetry, and Theater in Madrid, Burgos, Berlin, Minden, Hannover and Genève .He has exposed in many galleries from Madrid, Burgos, London, and Amsterdam. He is moving between North Hollywood, Madrid and Burgos; e-mail: gallotricolor@yahoo.com








Poems by Michael Koran 


In the Midst of the Garden




when breeze blows out of trees


rain drops on me


                           I’m baptized










always in between


who I’d like to be and am


enjoying the span











the diff’rence between


giving ninety-nine




one-hundred percent




Under Cover




saying how much I


love you


             might be hiding from


how much


             I love you







Sky Cries




what seems like screams


might well be means


to sing


            our dreams








Michael Koran teaches courses in writing, literature, and religion at Massachusetts institutions including the Cambridge Center for Adult Education. He holds an MA from the University of Chicago’s Committee on Social Thought and a BA from Queen’s College.



Alone With the Memories by Wayne Russell


Crumpled bits of paper, victims

of the throes of vindictive time.


Hands that craft the simple

lyric, wither and fade as the

days escape weary mind.


The old man’s alone, with walls

that peel and floors that creak,

speaking to himself, because

there’s no one else.


Voices that echo, voices echo,

through a myriad of doors

refract and lamenting windows,

spilling secrets of fading corridors.


Alone with memories, like fading

photos of black and white and sepia.


The color drain from the present day,

no life left behind these hollowed eyes,

I am the old man, seeping into the past,

where happiness once dwelled.




Wayne Russell is or has been many things in his 49 years on this planet, he has been a creative writer, world traveler, graphic designer, former soldier, and former sailor. Wayne has been widely published in both online and hard copy creative writing magazines. From 2016-17 he also founded and edited Degenerate Literature. In late 2018, the kind editors at Ariel Chart  nominated Wayne for his first Pushcart Prize for the poem Stranger in a Strange Town. “Where Angels Fear” was his debut e-book, but due to unforeseen circumstances, it was pulled from the publishers’ list of titles recently.



All the Axes are Stupid by Fethi Sassi


In front of the mirror…,

An ax is looking at its face admiringly,

He said : …………………

A lot of axes in the garden are competing for

A piece of the willow tree with the beautiful waist.

Or the pomegranate tree for instance,

The stunning tree with its luscious heavy breasts.

That’s why I reckon that all axes are stupid.

How does this all happen

When all the branches flirt with me and

All the roses secretly kiss me

As they get drunk from the grape leaves.



Fethi Sassi is a writer of prose poetry and short poems and haiku and the translator of all his poems to English. He is a member of the Tunisian Writers’ Union and of the Literature Club at the cultural center of Sousse. His first book A Seed of Love was published in 2010. After that he has published many original and translated books of poems.



Tug of War by Yuan Changming  



Closely set                                         At a tug of war

   Was our body                             (& spirit as well?)


    Between yin                              & yang


 Then                                               Between white & black

  & now is                                      Between 0 & 1




Yuan Changming published monographs on translation before leaving China. Currently, Yuan lives in Vancouver, where he edits Poetry Pacific with Allen Qing Yuan. Credits include ten Pushcart nominations, Best of the Best Canadian Poetry (2008-17) and BestNewPoemsOnline, among others.

Sing emptiness for me by Brian Rihlmann


Though we’re just friends

—mostly online—

and have never been more,

I think what put me here

was seeing you, yesterday,

beautiful and dark haired,

but attached, and

traveling the world

with your man—

India, England,

Ireland, next on the list.


You asked how I’d been,

if I had a girlfriend

and why not, as i squirmed,

and mumbled, while staring

at the dirt on your shoes,

stumbling through ad-libbed lines

that explained nothing.


If I could paint,

or sculpt, or sing,

maybe then I could

paint, sculpt, or sing

emptiness…express it

in some way better

than these dark squiggles,

looking this morning

like desiccated earthworms,

sunbaked and dead

on a concrete slab.


Or I could stare at the blank page

and sit in silence, write nothing.

Let the mourning dove cooing outside

under last night’s lingering rain clouds

express it for me.




Brian Rihlmann was born in NJ, and currently lives in Reno, NV. He writes mostly semi autobiographical, confessional free verse. Folk poetry…for folks. He has been published in The Rye Whiskey Review, Cajun Mutt Press, Alien Buddha Zine, Synchronized Chaos, Madness Muse Press and The American Journal Of Poetry.



PTSD by Carl Scharwath



Hot black asphalt

impregnated and marked

with the tires of a

spinning coffin box.


Pieces of cold medal violently envelope around your warm skin. Glass rains down in tiny fragments of snow mixed in the creation of shards stained in blood and sunshine. Falling asleep in a gyration of a vertigo vortex. Morning will awaken you with the chance to hold life again in your fingers.


Florescent sun slants

Upon a new genesis

The inspiration is here

Seized in understanding.




Carl Scharwath has appeared globally with 150+ journals selecting his poetry, short stories, interviews, essays, plays or art photography.Two poetry books ‘Journey To Become Forgotten’ (Kind of a Hurricane Press).and ‘Abandoned’ (ScarsTv) have been published. Carl is the art editor for Minute Magazine, a dedicated runner and 2nd degree black- belt in Taekwondo.