PPP Ezine: Poetrypoeticspleasure Ezine Volume 3; Issue 10 Special Issue November-December 2019


Jennifer Bradpiece

Tabassum Tahmina Shagufta Hussein

Glory Sasikala

Joan McNerney

Kelli J Gavin

Joanne Olivieri

Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Wayne Russell

Eliza Segiet

Brian Rihlmann

Lynn Long

Ahmad Al-Khatat




Jennifer Bradpiece



The Task at Hand


Exhume the roses only

if they have meaning left to you.

I’ve hardly use for them myself.

Take the leg of the chair

to the vanity mirror.

Gather only the brutal shards.

If these split your toughest skin,

I’ll need what bleeds

collected in a cut crystal bowl

to re-examine the facets through.

If the small hairs on your

left arm lift, take the nail scissors

to them, let them fall into the bowl.

This is vital.

Rearrange every painting, the drapes,

the way the light pierces each window.

I will hate whatever you choose to change.

This is of little consequence.

Hide my favorite tweezers in the planter

or between the dusty stacks of journals

by the bed—don’t tell me!

Find my make up drawer of tricks.

There will be body bags of excess glitter.

Leave them curbside on trash day.

Any tears go in that bowl.

Amusement too.

Box each flat iron word or phrase

and store in the attic until

their re-animation dates.

As to editing these poems,

when I insist, “Poetry is

the sharpest knife

seeking the deepest cut,”

refute this.





The Strangeness of Poetry


The deranged tingling of

broken air.

The weather that sneaks into

the veins.

The deferential tone

of a tongue-pressed night.

The diagnostic range

of a calculus equation illuminated

in a mercury filled

glass eye.

The speed at which

time cycles,

how the laundry

gets dizzy,

and the frying pan holds

what won’t be

washed away.

The TV is jealous.

The refrain is not

repeated once.

No foundation.

A hologram from

an 8-track.

A twelve-story window,

no glass.




Jennifer Bradpiece was born and raised in the multifaceted muse, Los Angeles, where she still resides. She tries to remain active in the Los Angeles writing and art scene. Jennifer has interned at Beyond Baroque and often collaborates with multi-media artists on projects. Her poetry has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and published in various anthologies, journals, and online zines, including Redactions, The Common Ground Review, and The Bacopa Literary Review . She has poetry forthcoming in Breath & Shadows among others. Jennifer’s manuscript, Lullabies for End Times will be available in early 2020 by Moon Tide Press.




Tabassum Tahmina Shagufta Hussein


The show must go on


Nayeemul, a boy of 15 years, 

his eyes are full of full of dreams. 


Listens to music. 

Excited about Kishor Alo concert, 

Mom, I need to hurry. 

Nayeemul says good bye to Mom. 

It was a hot afternoon. 

I need a ice cream, 

Nayeemul thought. 

No, he was electrocuted. 

It was 3pm afternoon. 

Volunteers come in hurry. 

Nobody notices. 

All other are singing and dancing, 

Enjoying the concert. 

Sneaky volunteers ask

The doctors, What’s now? 

One doctor says, he is Dead. 

Another says, take him to a hospital now. 

A junior volunteer says, let him take us 

To the opposite hospital. 

No, the senior volunteer shouted. 

We must take him to our sponsor hospital. 

The organizer says, Stop being stupid. 

Who is Nayeemul? 

Be aware Volunteers, 

Do not utter a word 

Of the incident. 

The show must continue. 

The organizers, pray

Oh, let not our sponsors be angry 

We don’t want to loose them. 

The boy is Dead. 

Doctors declared at the hospital 

The sponsor hospital. 

The organizers whispered. 

Among themselves. 

We won’t tell anyone. 

He is Dead. 

The concert must continue. 

Who is Nayeemul.? 

He is nobody. 

He is son of nobody. 

Let us conceal the dead news. 

When the concert is over. 

We will inform. 

Nobody will care about his death. 

Our sponsors give us money and status. 

Let us wait till 7pm.

Beware boys, not a word. 

We must not tell anyone. 

Not even his parents. 

If you say a word, 

You will kicked out. 

The volunteers thought, 

Who is Nayeemul. 

We need to stay in Kishor Alo. 

Forget Nayeemul. 

We need sponsorship, 

We need sponsors. 

The organisers come, 

Patted the volunteers. 

You have done brilliant job. 

You didn’t share this death news. 

The concert is continuing. 

Sponsors won’t be disappointed. 

We will take you to the 

Sponsors big corporate house.

 You might work there one day. 

We will tell them, 

You helped to the show 

To continue. 

Nayeemul is nothing. 

Our sponsors that all matters. 

The whole country knows us 

And our sponsors. 

Let the boys enjoy concert. 

Dance and sing. 

What’s in a death of Nayeemul, 

A commoner ‘s son. 

Our loyalty is to our sponsors. 

With a sense of relief, 

The organisers left the room. 

While Nayeemul ‘s lifeless body 

Lay in a room with no one around. 

The organisers are relieved 

For their sponsors sake 


Nayeemul lifeless body lied in 

Cold, lifeless in a dark room

Two hours. 

While the show goes on. 




Tabassum Tahmina Shagufta Hussein is an aesthete from Dhaka, Bangladesh & MA holder in British&American Literature.Now a Free-lance writer . She writes weekly column featuring humanitarian to diverse issues. Her poems appeared in literary magazines.  She loves travelling and participates in recitals.Her hobby is making DIY  jewellery for near and dear ones.  She seeks beauty from the blade of grass to twinkling stars. Aestheticism and humanism  are the essence of her existence. She can be reached at tts.hussein@gmail.com




Glory Sasikala


I must go


The seconds hand ticks

Each heartbeat.


Each heartbeat

A hope.


Each hope

A prayer.



Each prayer

A promise.


Each promise

A raindrop.


Each raindrop

A prism.


Each prism

The colors of my dreams.


Each dream

My smile.


Each smile

A knowledge.



Let me in


Let me into the realm of your thoughts

Beyond the spoken

And the felt

Till I merge into the magnitude of your silence.


Let me into the coolness of your touch

A thousand births and deaths

Being baptized again and again

Till my name is lost in yours.


Let me into your songs of triumph

And your dirges of sorrow

Looking at the world from a cliff

Till I laugh and cry only with you.


Let me into the beat of your heart

Your breath, your warmth

Your proof of a life lived

Till my river of thoughts flow into your ocean.

Let me in on that spark in your being

That exists in no-man’s land

That ignites a spark in mine

Let me into your soul…




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.



Joan McNerney


SeaScape I


Hearing waves from a distance and

feeling sea breezes brush our faces,

it seemed a century before we

came to the ocean.


So blue and bright to our eyes

its rhythm broke chains of

unremarkable days.


Over cool sand we ran and you picked

three perfect shells which fit

inside each other.  Swimming away in

that moving expanse below kiss

of fine spray and splashes.


With clouds cumulus we drifted while

gulls circled the island.  Together we

discovered beds of morning glories

climbing soft dunes.










SeaScape II



Let’s dive in ocean hiss swish

riding with bluewhales, bluewaves.

Brush of foam and windy ripples

sunbeams chasing quicksilver fish.



Floating through our shining world

fragrant clouds, feathery clouds.

We weave one arm after another

wearing bracelets of salt pearl.







SeaScape  III


My mind is an ocean

where swimmers, surfers,

sun worshippers cavort.


Long salty hair

held between

their teeth.


wild flowered gowns

…streams of silk

waves of taffeta

splashy lace.


They sail through

my watery face

combing my eyes

whispering in my ears.


Alone, under a pointillist sky.

Gulls flying around me.

Black waters touched by

moon of vague prophecy.





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.



                                              Kelli J Gavin




On Time


Thank you for being you

For arriving in my life

Not a moment too soon

But right on time

For loving me right

For encouraging me always

For inspiring me each day

Thank you for paying attention

For being dependable

For always being right on time





Forgive Me



What did you say?

Forgive me.

I am not sure what you are asking me.

Could you please repeat?

Could you please tell me again?

What are you trying to say?

I want to respond to you.

Yet I don’t know where to begin.

I will wait.

I will be patient.

Forgive me.

I don’t know where to start.






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, The Writers Newsletter,  Writer’s Unite!, Academy of the Heart and Mind, The Rye Whiskey Review, Spillwords, Mercurial Stories, 121 Words, Hickory Stump, Rabid Oak, HerStry, Ariel Chart, The Basil O’Flaherty, PPP Ezine, Southwest Media, Otherwise Engaged, Pleather Skin, Paper.Li, The New Ink Review, and among others. Find Kelli on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram @KelliJGavin

Blog found at kellijgavin.blogspot.com



Joanne Olivieri



If I were


If I were a leaf

clinging to your branches

I would embrace your twigs

caress your trunk

and bury myself in your roots

never to let go.


If I were soft petals

displaying my finery

around your heart

I would kiss your stems

with scented dew drops.






Inner Beauty



with age remains

a solitary inner peace


A mask

revealed in vain

yet, to be set free


As wine

grows sweeter with age

preserved as a rarity



with peace sustains

a spiritual beauty




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     



Ryan Quinn Flanagan 


The Curtains Pulled Over like a Failed State


You will not see me for a full trimester,

my water has broken so that I am left with

a leaky faucet for a kitchen, that slow plodding way

treachery soaks through everything, the curtains

pulled over like a failed state, summary executions

in the bedroom, a simple black blindfold over the eyes

like the power gone out, bodies limp against the wall

when all the rest has left; rumours of a coup, that’s

what I hear anyways, the nails get together and imagine

themselves hammers so that the hammer comes down

to remind them, this is wild speculation of course,

the government mouthpiece is tonguing the roof

of its own mouth and pronouncing strange brutal loves,

my bedsheets are a lake of disguises, the outside world

just someone else’s fun house; the graves so fresh

you’d think they came from a farmer’s market

and the intelligence services devoid of all intelligence

so that the baton becomes the shower water

and the whipping boy forgets to scream.







Poem for a Woman who Dances When There is No Music


The surprise is in the way you never stop

letting yourself come to things.


Sitting cross-legged on the bed.

Clapping along.

Ignoring noise complaints like chatterboxes

from the cosmos.


And later leaning over the lip of the tub.

Scrawling this poem for a woman who dances

when there is no music.


Both my feet asleep

and much of the known world too.


Half a pack of chewing gum seated

on the back of a sweating summer toilet.


The way the hard light levels glorious accusations.

And many cords to nowhere, where does anything go?


This room has been with me

since hoteliers started handing

out extra towels.


The smell of alcoholics on my breath

like confusing a service elevator             

for a streetwalker brought indoors.





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.



Wayne Russell


Enigmatic Dream


The pain only subsides

in this dream-like state,

comatose eyes glazed

over, spider weaving

dreams of complacency.


The world is numb, irrelevant

to starvation, greed, suffering,

shallow superficial thorns

in my side plucked and set



Touched alongside the

benevolent passing of time.


Rhythm spheres clutch at straws,

as the continuum shrugs off another

paradigm shift, society wields the

collapse of all relevant thought.


I am the raven of an afterlife

catalyst of the hereafter.





Alone Against the World


Out on his own,

ravaged like a

weathered ship

that washed ashore

a millennium ago.


Awoken one morning

by lone seagulls cry,

the world seems so

very cold now, not

knowing love.


It’s frightening growing

old, out on your own

listening to seagulls cry,

and shy away from looming

thunderstorm, that lashes out

for all the broken hearted

down below.







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.



Eliza Segiet




Where is life?

Where the love is?

Or maybe


the hate is?

I know –

breath is the life.

Trees also breathe,

though they cannot love.

And people…?





Streak of Silence


She embellished with love.

She dressed her feelings in music.

She thought she would hear.


She embellished with love,

but the streak of silence does not allow

to talk about them.

Too far to exist

too close

to forget.






Eliza Segiet graduated with a Master’s Degree in Philosophy, completed postgraduate studies in Cultural Knowledge, Philosophy, Arts and Literature at Jagiellonian University. Author’s poem Questions won the title of the International Publication of the Year (2017) in Spillwords Press. Author’s poem Sea of Mists won the title of the International Publication of the Year (2018) in Spillwords Press. Author’s works can be found in anthologies and literary magazines worldwide.



Brian Rihlmann 



The Storyteller


Old man at the bar

with a protruding nose

and leathery face

brags about building this city.


He drove trucks, bulldozers,

wielded hammers, saws,

and to hear him tell it,

he did it all by himself,

as a young man.


A few of us sit

on our barstools

half listening, as he

drones on, not looking at us,

just staring at the wall.


The bartender grabs a towel,

goes and wipes down

the other end of the bar,

he’s heard this story

a hundred times.


The old man stops talking,

picks up his shot

with trembling fingers,

drains it, takes a swig of beer,

then stands and shuffles to the can.


We look at one another, grin,

shake our heads.

I feel sorry for him, I think,

but then who am I

to feel sorry for him.





Never mine


I renewed my license last week,

and checked yes to donate my organs.

Then I thought about the person

who might get my heart…


It might whisper secrets

to its new owner, about

the times it had galloped in

a strange woman’s bed,

or limped along after a breakup,

or fluttered on a blind date,

or stumbled and fell,

when I saw an old girlfriend

with someone new.


And what of the times

it had stomped in rage,

tiptoed in contentment,

palpitated with fear,

or thrummed with hope?


Maybe it should be burned

with the rest of my flesh, rise

to become ash, vapor, and cloud,

falling again as white snow

on lonely mountains

I used to climb, and it pumping

faster with each breath

as I reached the summit, gasping.


But no, take it, it’s yours.

It beats raw and red in me,

but with a will of its own.

A stranger, never mine

from the beginning…

never mine.



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.

Lynn Long



As I wander in dream


As I wander in dream

Searching for you

Often I’m lost

Between real and truth

For there lies a space

in which my heart


A place of longing-

deep inside

And, I wonder as

I wander- who will

be found-

The soul ever seeking

or the heart ever






Moonlight Musings


Lying in the shadows

of a world lost in dream

I gaze at the moon and

his light amid the trees

And I wonder- as flecks

of silver and gold

flit to and fro…

What it would be

like- to get lost in

his soul…





Oceans of lessons


Oceans of lessons

Mountains to climb

Oh, my dear heart

Now is the time…

For once-

I knew my path

Seen so clearly

I needed no map

A foolish quest

I endeavored

Believing myself

Oh so clever

Alas, life-

Showed roads


Took my hand,

led blindly

in dream


I follow a path

seen less clear

As I listen to

the beat

of my heart

so dear…




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:


Antarctica Journal

Duane’s PoeTree

In Between Hangovers and many more




Ahmad Al-Khatat


In the Cemetery



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







Inside of My Dream


Inside of my dream

there’s a bird flying

from one nest to an-

-other, without wings

Inside of my dream

there’s a man holding

a sign that says, I

have serious cancer

Inside of my dream

there’s one refugee

with tears of grief

because he lost hope

Inside of my dream

there’s a young lady

smoking, and waiting

for the train to suicide

Inside of my dream

there’s a black cat

staring at me, and

waiting to the end of my dream





Ahmad Al-Khatat was born in Baghdad, Iraq. His work has appeared in print and online journals globally and has poems translated into several languages. He has been nominated for Best of the Net 2018. He is the author of The Bleeding Heart Poet, Love On The War’s Frontline, Gas Chamber, Wounds from Iraq, and Roofs of Dreams all of which are available from Amazon. He lives in Montreal, Canada.