PPP Ezine: Poetrypoeticspleasure Ezine, Volume 5; Issue 5; May 2021

Steam Rises by Charles Leggett

Elegy by Pawel Markiewick

These Tears by Wayne Russell

Waffles by David Flynn

Ocean Restoration by Kelli J Gavin

Silent Moonlight by Michael Lee Johnson

And the Wind Came by Edilson A Ferreira

The House on the Knoll by James G. Piatt

The Reset Button by Glory Sasikala

He Called Himself Giraffe by Ndaba Sibanda

Lullaby for an American Ex-pat by Jennifer Bradpiece

Steam Rises by Charles Leggett

                                         a coffee mug

Steam rises as ceramic peregrines

Face each other like two continents.

Black background seeps between the long, beaked jaws,

Orange to pineapply yellow to dim lime.

Their heads, a dusky blue housing an iris

Of deep mauve. Each shows a wing, outstretched

And nearly meeting (gesture, not attempt),

Pineapple lapsing into Braeburn red,

The lime for outline. In turquoise green

Signed, “1993 J. Sweetwater.”

The longer that I look, the less the steam. 

Charles Leggett is a professional actor based in Seattle, WA, USA. His poetry has been published in the US, the UK, Ireland, Australia, New Zealand and Canada. Recent/forthcoming publications include Sublevel, As Above So Below, Automatic Pilot, Volney Road Review, Ocotillo Review, and Heirlock Magazine.

Elegy by Pawel Markiewick


Lunar  time feeling – coll, blackish dreams stealing – light of the moonlets.

Caressing dreamery – lies even, blink-sea, weird fell down.

The poignant dire  decease became drab comet – sphere have picked warmness.

Several she-wolves made terrestrial grave-stones killed the fay?

Endlessly nostalgic being – the grief–pang. Hades was followed.

Heavenly moony lure become noir. Dream-Ethics flies off!

However Your worm bawls after all. Death-men blubbing so withal.

Just the grim Reapers, cold-blooded praise  wind-breeze of gone time.

The tearful- invincible  Goblinlets  stars-thieves coming right galore.

Sensing the moonylike demise cool-blue song  will be free.

Paweł Markiewicz was born 1983 in Siemiatycze in Poland. He is poet who lives in Bielsk Podlaski and writes tender poems, haiku as well as long poems. Paweł has published his poetries in many magazines. He writes in English and German. 

These Tears by Wayne Russell

Rain will never cease to be,

it’s raining in my heart, snow

buries thoughts of us.

Pain is unbearable, broken

by her, broken by the world.

You can never hide, nor

salvage the mournful sea.

These tears fell, salty from a

visage shroud, a cocoon of

of wounded weeping.

These tears fell for you,

beneath solemn moon,

in your memory, farewell.

Wayne Russell is or has been many things during his time 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 2018, the kind editors at Ariel Chart have nominated Wayne for his first Pushcart Prize for the poem Stranger in a Strange Town. Earlier in 2020, Wayne was nominated for his first Best of the Net. Where Angels Fear is his debut paperback published by Guerrilla Genesis Press.

Waffles by David Flynn

Make magic.
Twist your hand and point to the plate.
There wait waffles,
Cold.  Tough .  Dried.
Now pour maple syrup
from a spout,
tapped from a tree
a thousand miles away.
Fill the squares with brownness,
sugar and sap.
Add cherries from the frig.
Cold.  Without the twig.  Red.
Sit in the chair.
Stare at the magic,
a square of squares filled with commerce and crunch.
Brown.  Brown.  Red.
This sorcery will keep you alive,
and even more
will fill you with feeling,
taste, pleasure and patience.
A reason to live:  

David Flynn was born in the textile mill company town of Bemis, TN.  His jobs have included newspaper reporter, magazine editor and university teacher.  He has five degrees and is both a Fulbright Senior Scholar and a Fulbright Senior Specialist with a recent grant in Indonesia.  His literary publications total more than two hundred.  He currently lives in Nashville, TN, where he is director of the Musicians Reunion, an annual blues festival now in its 36th year.  He also teaches at Belmont University in the English and Asian Studies programs. 

Ocean Restoration by Kelli J Gavin

The only hit I have ever welcomed was the slap of a wave

First, my ankles and then my thighs

Shocked by the coolness yet I welcome it again and again

When my waist is consumed and I gasp in delight Even when I stumble back a step and lose my footing I want more and relax as I go even deeper

The salt kisses my skin and the sun sparkles on each crest

I laugh freely as my neck is plunged into the darkness

As I begin to float and let each push plummet me closer to shore

I formulate a plan to return to the ocean

And back to the water I go

My body has become tolerant of all that assails

I pray my heart can handle the impact

That my thick skin somehow protects

The broken pieces of my heart that was once whole

Because the joy I feel in the depths

Exhilarates and mends and restores

The only hit I have ever welcomed was the slap of a wave

[Two plus years ago, after returning from an ocean vacation, I spoke with a friend about the restorative qualities of which I believed the ocean possessed. How it could quite possibly be a cure for anything that ails. She paused and then asked me, “Do you think it can mend my broken heart over my marriage that is falling apart?” I didn’t know that my friend was struggling in her marriage and she went on to explain that there had been physical abuse. It broke my heart to hear her speak of everything she has experienced in silence. I wrote this piece in honor of her.

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, Otherwise Engaged, Pleather Skin, Paper.Li, The New Ink Review, and among others.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  


Silent Moonlight by Michael Lee Johnson

Record, she’s a creeping spider.

Hurt love dangles net

from a silent moonlight hanger,

tortures this damaged heart

daggers twist in hints of the rising sun.

Silence snores. Sometimes she’s a bitch.

Sunlight scatters these shadows

across my bare feet in

this spotty rain.

Sometimes we rewind,

sometimes no recourse,

numbness, no feeling at all.

Michael Lee Johnson lived 10 years in Canada during the Vietnam era and is a dual citizen of the United States and Canada.  Today he is a poet, freelance writer, amateur photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, DuPage County, Illinois.  Mr. Johnson published in more than 1072 new publications, his poems have appeared in 39 countries, he edits, publishes 10 poetry sites.  Michael Lee Johnson, has been nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards poetry 2015/1 Best of the Net 2016/2 Best of the Net 2017, 2 Best of the Net 2018.  210 poetry videos are now on YouTube https://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos.  Editor-in-chief poetry anthology, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze:  http://www.amazon.com/dp/1530456762; editor-in-chief poetry anthology, Dandelion in a Vase of Roses available here   https://www.amazon.com/dp/1545352089.  Editor-in-chief Warriors with Wings:  The Best in Contemporary.

And the Wind Came by Edilson A. Ferreira

Showing that it did not come for love,

did not know how to be gentle and affectionate.

It came for lust and voluptuousness, not the breath

of a lover, but the madness of the impassioned.  

It did not learn to be breeze, was born this way,

snorting and showing its claws,

without notice or warning.

Knocking at the doors and all of a sudden

forcing the windows,

like a river which comes out of its bed

and floods the lands around.

It did not waste time making swirls or pranks,

its shot was direct and accurate, without pause or rest,

like a shameless male, clothes off and in open air,

covering, without modesty or prudence,

his chosen female.

It has warned not to scrimp its desire,

not turning into a hurricane.

Published in TreeHouse Arts, January 31 2018.

Edilson A. Ferreira, 77 years, is a Brazilian poet who writes in English rather than in Portuguese. Widely published in international journals in print and online, he began writing at age 67, after retiring as a bank employee. Since then, he counts 163 poems published, in 246 different publications. Nominated for The Pushcart Prize 2017, his first Poetry Collection, Lonely Sailor – One Hundred Poems – was launched in London in November of 2018.  He is always updating his works at www.edilsonmeloferreira.com.

The House on the Knoll by James G. Piatt

The old saltbox house on the knoll 

Sits in anonymity as the sounds of 

Night creatures echo eerily through 

Its empty rooms.  

It is a rainy night in the country; 

Coyotes are yelping in the distance, 

And an owl is hooting its lonely plea 

Into the mist of the rain saddened 


In the emptiness of fading night 

Hours, the old house cricks and 

Moans as the rain batters its siding 

And the wind twists through, leaf 

Filled eaves.

Reciting an old memory, a broken 

Clock peals out the hours to a ghost 

In the kitchen, who cannot sleep 

Because of her memories of living.

James G. Piatt is a Best of Web nominee and three time Pushcart nominee, has had four collections of poetry; “Solace Between the Lines,” “Light,” “Ancient Rhythms,” and “The Silent Pond,” as well as over 1480 poems, five novels and 35 short stories, published worldwide. He is now looking for a publisher for his fifth collection of poems which he has just completed.  He earned his BS and MA from California State Polytechnic University, and his doctorate from BYU

The Reset Button by Glory Sasikala

somewhere in her

there is a reset button

have you seen it?

she was doing well

when she married you

and then, one day, you woke up

and everything went haywire –

she was there sometimes

and sometimes she was not

she came, she went,

she came, she went,

she smiled, but her smile faded into sadness

there were no tears, mind you

and so you thought

she will come back

but one day you woke up

and she wasn’t there

you called, you tried to think what went wrong

you called, and they said, ‘did you do the re-set?’

‘reset! reset! what reset??’

‘the reset button in her heart, in her feelings

start all over again

tell her you love her, tell her till she knows

tell her she’s the only one

woo her with flowers, take her out to dinner

show her you may not be perfect

but you will still try

show her because she matters

show her till she knows

re-set button finely tuned

till the green light glows!’

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.

He Called Himself Giraffe by Ndaba Sibanda

That he was a towering figure was no debate

That he was a ‘giraffe’ was a rarity to celebrate

He called himself a giraffe, though some found it odd

He found it a tall order why they would fuss or be sad

Numerous souls on the streets raised eyebrows

Each time he appeared they gave him stares 

Not that he was a superstar by any measure 

 Out of courtesy, they would say it was a pleasure   

Oddly their gentility made him feel like an idol of sorts!

Behind his back they said he had a habit of saying truths 

Which meant that possibly he was economical with the truth! 

Maybe people didn’t understand his register, he was no youth

I`ll die if I don’t read a book week in week out, he would say

Liar or a bookworm? Did his hyperbole get other people astray? 

In the face of other people`s incompetence, he said: great job!

Was that a lie or a piece irony? When they said liar he didn’t sob. 

One analyst said anyone who called himself a giraffe had an idiolect  

Which could confuse people, and on how to say things he had to select 

Ndaba Sibanda is the author of Notes, Themes, Things And Other Things, The Gushungo Way, Sleeping Rivers, Love O’clock, The Dead Must Be Sobbing, Football of Fools, Cutting-edge Cache, Of the Saliva and the Tongue, When Inspiration Sings In Silence, The Way Forward, Sometimes Seasons Come With Unseasonal Harvests, As If They Minded:The Loudness Of Whispers, This Cannot Be Happening :Speaking Truth To Power, The Dangers  Of Child Marriages:Billions Of Dollars Lost In Earnings And Human Capital, The Ndaba Jamela and Collections and Poetry Pharmacy.  Sibanda’s work has received Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominations. Some of his work has been translated into Serbian.

Lullaby for an American Ex-pat by Jennifer Bradpiece

The city is a woman.

Her eyes are Absinthe.

Her voice is ice.

When she speaks,

smoke pours from her nostrils

and floats up toward the diffusion

of starlight.

Her name could be Ashill

or Siena or Lyon.

But she is not merely quaint,

historic or scenic.

She is Praha. Timeless and ravaged,

dripping with garnets.

Her cobblestone legs open

Here your losses are

crumbling stone steps

you navigate slowly.

you catch your reflection in the water

as you stroll past the Vltava.

You see scaffolding, think “skeleton.”

The word “excavate” seems like flesh

you might penetrate. These words

become more intimate than

“hearth” or “home.”

You love her because you find her less foreign

than your room back home, saturated

by the scent of musty words and turpentine.

She is a canvas,

a blank gessoed stare you recognize

in relief at her skyline.

You toast her with Becherovka, soda water,

and lime, watching jazz cabaret

alone at U Maleho Glena.

The black and white image

on the matchbooks reminds you

of Dietrich.

December brings less devoted tourists

They flirt with her at the Christmas fair

in Old Town Square, sip her hot mulled wine

from paper cups, but you forgive her anything.

A new year marks the anniversary

of when she took you in, a refugee

of loss with a need to lose yourself

in something other.

You sit down at a café near the

Mala Strana. Sketch a man with a thick

beard who sits alone in a corner,

a couple whispering into each others’ ears

a girl with sad eyes who keeps

resting her head on the heel of her hand.

You place the mug back on the saucer,

pick up your book and read afternoon straight

into evening. Years later you will swear

it was a book of poems by Lawrence,

but it may have been Rilke or Gilbert or a story by Kafka.

You tip an undetermined amount of Koruna,

nod at the waiter, slide a packet of sugar

between the pages to hold your place

and walk out into the night.

Behind your back, the city raises

one ironic eyebrow,

winks, and turns away.

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 RedactionsThe 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.