PPP Ezine: Poetrypoeticspleasure Ezine. Volume 1; Issue 6; November 2017

Poet of the Month: Linda Imbler
Rollercoasters to Nowhere Always Threatening to Derail by Ryan Quinn Flanagan
God by Sanghapriya Gautam
Somewhere by Lynn Long
Rejection Slip by Steve Carter
Peregrinations by Sanjeev Sethi
Fathers by Grant Guy
Gray? by Joan Leotta
About the Poets
Memories: A griot born out of the wind of the village drumbeat by Mbizo Chirasha

Poet of the Month: Linda Imbler

What’s not to Believe?


In time

Man will find his wings

In time

Woman will exorcise the moon from her womb

In time

The child will smooth the rough edges of the psyche

In the nick of time

A hero will shift the world

Back onto its feet again

Before it


Shatters its bones.

The Heart Shoppe

I walk and examine all the shelves of the Heart Shoppe, and peer into all containers and crates.

I hear owners discussing needs of young men, sadly weakened by the poverty of loneliness after love fails.

The proprietors know what to stock, what dear things to show upon these shelves; staunch friends, truth in speech, peace, children’s laughter.

I’ve seen ladies bankrupt in chasms of sorrow, anguished women whose bodies betrayed them while birthing.

I’ve viewed hopeful eyes, scanning within, of those whose choice went wrong, sighting that second chance, only to be found cash poor.

Cures are sought here for envy, suicide, racism, all at a cost few here can pay.

I’ve seen souls wage horrific war, seen commanders decide which side shall lose the least, they now search for atonement here.

I postpone my own heart’s desires, use my full purse to make true the dreams of those betrayed: the ill, the brokenhearted, and old ones; all those, shopping for cures for grief or adversity.

I fill carts, buy them hope, their redemption, my peace.


Speak to us
At vibrantly hued close of day,
Tremoloed soft notes filter through clear air
Ending with a fade.

Speak to us
By means of the young,
Where a thrum of vibrating hearts are the warmest,
And compassion for those smaller and weaker
Is so freely expressed.

Speak to us
As we hear waves lapping the shore,
The crush of rock created by time,
Crescendoes echoing the heights
To which man’s soul can soar.

Speak to us by using photographic portraits,
Faces laden with all manner of emotion,
A totality of feelings captured,
Everything reflected in the shutterbug’s lens
No visage invisible or unattainable.

Speak through us,
Goodness, greatness
Lightening of hearts
Yours, theirs.
Let us be reminded
That soft notes still beckon,
Warmth towards others still stirs the heart,
Our time is so limited,
Every face holds a story of a life lived
Whether short or long.
Our history heard in the strum
Of the cosmic musician’s performance.
The omniscient hum is there
For us to discover.

Lightning on earth, seen from space,
Transmitting messages as Morse code,
To express to them out there
What we are doing, what seeds we’ve sown.

Satellite machines and brave man in sleek airtight suits
Have seen these flashing missives leave Earth,
Flow into ether and be processed by other eyes
We’ve yet to meet as they gauge our worth.


What is being told and being imaged is unclear,
What we think, what we do, how we feel,
Are these postings representing us as we would wish
Or perhaps we could be more genteel?

Heaven’s Last Wish

Celestial space, within its infinite realm,
the prayers so distinct, constant, not weakened nor turned aside,
the wish for clean links, for reconnection.
This satisfied, long sought gift one day will come,
heartache diminished, then once and for all wounds healed.
You went to your grave, your song not yet done;
Grim future partings, no longer hold us bound.
We, no longer hostage, the universe has listened.
We can tell each other words learned, from the sky song
or we’ll sing to each other our own lyrics.
Love once deferred, once stayed, by death’s divide,
replaced, renewed, reflected.
We meet as once agreed, a promise made while living,
having wished true, and for time lost, be forgiving.

Roller coasters to Nowhere Always Threatening to Derail by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

No one starts at the same place.
There is hope in that lone arena.
The nature and nurture of it.
Variations in a silk bag of marbles.

The twin foibles of chance and upset.
Rollercoasters to nowhere always threatening to derail.
To leave the tracks and set out on their own.
Shady landlords lying in wait.

Life will go on because the impulse is always there.
The push and pull of stubborn turnstiles.
Do not mistake this for idiot optimism.
This is merely an acknowledgment of continuance.

But there must be more than that.
An escape plan hidden away.
The human heart demands it.
God by Sanghapriya Gautam

What burns deep burns deeper in burning eyes.

Their skin veils the sky like night, the darkly plume

When set on fire all dreary past Illumes,

The empty sky lits in kerosene blue,

And Gold spreads across its enlightening view,

And where the Death spreads it’s arms in comfort,

Jolts he the weary sinews. The dead who simpered


Watch with their hollow sockets drenched in fire,

Their mocking failure blesses he, for him

Exist nothing, he creates out of his burning ire;

Ripples run across the earthly skin, the sleepy dim

Spirits look heavenwards where stands he

Like words as silent as they could ever be;


Spirit that breaths him with unworldly words,

Grabs ahold in its secret tranquility,

What flees the mind in heartless plains curds

At sight of his conviction and virility.

He fathers the seed of fire and buries deep,

She mothers the future in a hopeful keep.

What burns deep burns deeper in burning eyes.


Somewhere by Lynn Long

Somewhere …
Already we’ve begun
for I feel your caress
in the warm summer

Somewhere …
I hear you whisper
upon a winter wind
I taste your lips
in dreams with no

Somewhere …
Exists a place
beyond time
Where two hearts
beat steady
Two souls entwine

Somewhere …
I miss you …

Rejection Slip by Steve Carter

don’t waste time
rewriting or even
writing just
get it done even if it’s not right
noone cares noone’s going to
read it anyway
and certainly not
think about it never
read it twice impossible
it just isn’t done

what really matters is
you see having your name
on the cover or at least
in the table of contents
and your witty denials
of any knowledge or technique under
notes on contributors
in the back


no one after all
wants your poem
Peregrinations by Sanjeev Sethi

For years it has
been raining.
I’ve moved often.
Each site
I made mine
it seemed,
I had serried
the rain with me.

Valises aren’t meant
to shoulder
mobility of showers.
Though mine
is a unique holdall:
swaddled in scone
it compels me
to carry my case.
Fathers by Grant Guy

he a taxi drive applied all his talents to the job
he knew every brothel bootlegger and bookie joint in town
he knew every street every avenue back alley
like his name and the back of his hand

but he could never remember his son’s birthday
nor had he met any of his son’s friend

the son put distance between himself and his father

the day his grade 8 teacher told him
don’t aspire beyond what your parents
that is the place where God meant you to be

that was the day the son lost faith
in all fathers real or imagined

Gray? by Joan Leotta

My hair proclaims to all, it’s

evidence my years are mounting up.

Many think gray

means my cerebral stuff

has leaked out,

swathing once shiny slim

chestnut strands

with diminishing gray matter.

Perhaps. However,

to keep them guessing,

I consult with a local wise woman,

who engages in a monthly ritual

to camoflague gray in its former

brunette majesty
Fatigued by Renee’ Drummond-Brown

All our lives us colored gals been attacked, raped, an hacked. Been called
ev’rythang, BUT… the child of God:
Negro, black, napped, ugly, bald and fat. And you know this;
this is fact! So.
What do you thank’ we care bout’ lil’ ol’ you
doin’ us in too? Never forget this…
When we are weak,
we are mightier than you!

“Therefore I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in necessities, in persecutions, in distresses for Christ’s sake: for when I am weak, then am I strong”
(2 Corinthians 12:10 KJV.)
About the Poets

Linda Imbler is a poet, music afficionado and lover of art.

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.

Sanghpriya Gautam is an Indian poet. He is a busy student in daylight but when the sun sets, the poet rises, and then his imagination paints a world with words on pages.

Lynn Long loves, reads and writes poems.

Steve Carter is a jazz guitarist and writer. He has been playing music and writing for more than a half a century. You can read about his music available at frogstoryrecords.com, and his writing at maatpublishing.net/steve/writers_journal.php.

Sanjeev Sethi is the author of three well-received books of poetry. His most recent collection is This Summer and That Summer (Bloomsbury, 2015). His poems are in venues around the world: Mad Swirl, Empty Mirror, Olentangy Review, Grey Sparrow Journal, Peacock Journal, Modern Poets Magazine, Faith Hope & Fiction, New Mystics, Yellow Mama, London Grip, 3:AM Magazine, Communicators League, and elsewhere. He lives in Mumbai, India.

T Grant Guy is a Winnipeg, Canada, poet, writer and playwright. Former artistic director of Adhere + Deny. His writings have been published in Canada, the United States and England. He has three books published; Open Fragments, On the Bright Side of Down and Bus Stop Bus Stop. He was the 2004 recipient of the Manitoba Arts Council’s 2004 Award of Distinction and the 2017 recipient of the Winnipeg Arts Council’s Making A Difference Award.

Joan Leotta is an author and story performer. Her work includes: Giulia Goes to War, Letters from Korea, A Bowl of Rice, Secrets of the Heart. historical fiction in Legacy of Honor Series; Simply a Smile–collection of Short Stories; WHOOSH! Picture book from THEAQ. You can download a mini-chapbook of her poems at
Find out more about her work at http://www.joanleotta.wordpress.com and Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Joan-Leotta-Author-and-Story-Performer/188479350973

Renee’ B. Drummond is a poet and artist from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She is the author of: The Power of the Pen, SOLD TO THE HIGHEST BIDDER, Renee’s Poems with Wings are Words in Flight-I’ll Write Our Wrongs, and Renee’s Poems with Wings are Words in Flight. Renee’ is inspired by Dr. Maya Angelou, because of her, Renee’ posits “Still I write, I write, and I’ll write!”


Memories: A griot born out of the wind of the village drumbeat by Mbizo Chirasha

The name Zvagona is popular like wind. I loved my school and I still love it. The name of the school is derived from local red hills of home known of their usual stunning dresses of mist during mornings and during evenings. The mountain is beautiful with a blue tinge of color in the afternoon a grey tinge at night. Birds sing beautiful songs and at dawn, the striking rays of the sun become part of the village rhythm, while tamed dogs bark vivaciously to the shadows of the night and the dramas of the day. The sound of beating drums from red hills resonate with the howling laughter of lone hyenas as their lone laughter echo through the mountain caves .In Zvagona , sunrise to beautiful sound of jingles ,drumbeat ,voices ,laughter and song .
It’s a Monday, early in the morning. We are singing the national anthem under a big baobab tree. A baby parrot above us is chirruping in response to our teenage but tenor voices. Our school head is the one leading the anthem in baritone, while we all follow suit in proud voices cherishing our five year old country, Zimbabwe born in 1980. We are arranged in straight rows according to our classes and ages. The country is still young, free and virgin. She strutted with zeal and confidence of a new dawn, Zimbabwe in 1980, the virgin youthful, virgin of Africa.
I grew up in this land, the land of red hills dressed in gowns of mist like disciples in a prayer session at dawn, the red hills were also pruned to nakedness as the sunrays beat over the rim of hills and arouse cicadas and birds deep in sleeping valleys to sing their morning hymns . The night song, morning songs and the throb of drumbeats became the word, the word became the Voice- the voice that become the griot, the poet that sang verses , verses that itched under my crude , sun smitten peasant skin. Yes I a the griot born out of the wind of the drum beat.
I began to love books, pastures and rain was my favorite. Rain is still my heroine. When rain visits us stolen life is raised again, forests strut in new floral garments, the earth is donned in a long stunning green jacket, frogs sing incessantly with their baritone echoing through the ever giggling streams. I loved and I still love rain.
The griot in me persisted as hours became days, days become weeks and weeks become month and month become years. I failed to calm the itch, this sting under my skin, that itch became a village voice, a voice of reason, a voice of the people .I learnt rhymes from yap yelping baboons, laughing hyenas and claps of thunder, all these sounds resonated with village drumbeats to form a rhythm, a rhythm that became a fever like a seizure, when I resurrected from the fever, the fever became words. I became a word slinger, a festival of words and a beat that resonated with songs of the village(panda!, pangu! , panda panda! pangu pangu! ,pangu!, pa pa!), sounds of the forests, the roar of violent rivers and the pounding drums. All these repented me into poetry, I became a village GRIOT, a revered orator inspired by the sound of the wind of the drumbeat. Hamutyineyi Chimombe of Zimbabwe( a Karanga lyricist/WRITER) and Wole Soyinka of Nigeria( a global poet/THESPIAN) initiated me and I became a spirit of verse . I cooked metaphors in the pots of my mind, I roasted imagery in the pans of my inspiration, I boiled assonance for in my dreams and snores. . I caressed pages with passion. I read everything that met the eye with profound zeal.
I fulfilled the dreams of my father, a culturist and traditional dancer, a self-styled orator; he told me that my great grandfather RATSAUKA was a talented poet and singer. At home we were taught to cuddle books than young clueless virgins .We learnt life the hard way. During rainy seasons, we planted our fields under the veil of early morning dawn until later in the when afternoons began to roast our threadbare skin. We got our food from the fields, we were taught to work hard to feed ourselves, and we carried that legacy until later years of our lives. The beat of days and the mass of nights (moon, shadows, sun, stars, stories and songs) shaped the imagery of my poetry. I liked trips to the pastures to heard cattle, eating wild fruits and chasing after wild insects. The earth would beautifully dress in new lemon green apparel. Our cows would feast on the rich greenness, their fat rich udders oozed with fresh milk; the dripping drops of milk quenched our dry throats in hot afternoons. The passion of stories grew in me like baobab. I baked life experiences into poems, stories, essays or opinions. The sun and drums push years and the village became history .I left the red hills of home , the fields , the village , mist , the dew and my people . I went to concrete jungle .The urban jungle introduced me to political history, slogan and more books. The urban media popularized my poetry, I became popular. I became both an artificial griot and a natural poet. I sing of Africa, I sing for my country and my people. The village griot born out of the sound of the wind of the village drum beat (panda, panda pangu, pangu panda pa!)

Mbizo Chirasha (Widely Published Poet, Writer- in -Residence, Publisher and Social Justice Activist- http://www.wikipedia.com/mbizochirasha)



You can Download the pdf here:

PPP v1i6



PPP Ezine Vol 1, Issue 5, October 2017



Poet of the Month: Ken Allan Dronsfield

Déjà vu by Linda Imbler

Ethiopia by Mbizo Chirasha

I Believe in Trees by Joan McNerney

Never Say a Poet is Ugly! by Wafula p’Khisa

Come On Board The Sierra Leonean Plane by Ndaba Sibanda

Letter #51 by Sergio A. Ortiz

Little Nuances by Glory Sasikala

Sweet Hush by Deborah Anne Shepard

My curses on you by Asha Viswas

About the Poets

Interview: Mysti Milwee







Now I know how poetry ezines die.

Every month is the last it seems, and then,

It’s not. The end is postponed.

So, here we are, with the fifth issue.

Who has seen tomorrow?



Poet of the Month: Ken Allan Dronsfield


Mourning of Fading Bones


Cold windswept beaches

feelings of an icy sentiment

forgive my hapless misdeeds

hide behind my raised brow.

Starlight of reflecting twinkles

diamond chips in cool sands;

set of waves roll shore bound

ocean spray refreshes the soul.

The white clouds billowing fully

while town people now waltzing

carols of colored lights erupting

a flagrant truth on lost holiday’s.

The lonely seek pious isolation

free of separated generations.

I pray for today’s young children

as my dusty old bones fade away.




The Ebb and Flow


From atop the great stone pine trees

dragonflies fantasize of summertime;

of warmer mornings, balmy winds,

dodging flycatchers and bullfrogs.

The grass still green beside the pond

wolves howl and worship a full moon

barn owls love a nightly stellar show

young geese enjoy a fresh new sunrise.

Beating hearts strong by creek or marsh

deep rivers and great bays ebb and flow

large animals enjoy the salty-sweet grass

beautiful wildflowers grace rolling hills.

As the sun now rises in the eastern sky,

from within that great awakening forest

a lone cicada sings his mating sonnet

within the ebb and flow is life’s circle.






A Stellar Ballet (Villanelle Poetry Format)


Time’s not sleeping but forever creeping

Breathe to live while the blood is steeping,

in shadow dreams lies incessant weeping.

Heart beats as a clock, a tick and the talk

love burns with a flame in an all night stalk

Time’s not sleeping but forever creeping.

a moon rising high in this fleeting twilight.

in a teary haze, whilst affixing my sight

in shadow dreams lies incessant weeping.

Love kind and true, now absent and ablaze,

the full moon exhales within a lunar phase

Time’s not sleeping but forever creeping.

unto a midnight waltz, as feelings decay

stars twinkle and whisper in a stellar ballet

in shadow dreams lies incessant weeping.

How starved your wicked ego has been,

to devour my heart with a treacherous grin.

Time’s not sleeping but forever creeping

in shadow dreams lies incessant weeping.




Solstice of Pretense


Journey over time

end of a rainbow, end of a branch

plying of rhyme.


Clouds float by

adrift in a breeze, adrift through life

coursing onward.


Rainbow sleeps

edge of the day, edge of the night

now twilight time.


Full Moon rises

reddish pallor, reddish haze

a kiss to the solstice.


Summer has gone

cool is the sun, warm is the heart

upon blooming smiles.


Colors of My Mind


Contempt in a shaded gray

virtuous omnipotent pinks

rally through the green ivy

vines of a feted conscience.

Vanilla violet paths follow

the blood red rivers while

blue black chambers ignite

white flying herds of nerds.

Chartreuse nerves on fire,

graciously curtsy as a queen

tangerine smiles all the while

kicking a fantasized yellow ball.

I’m a bright silver starlight orb

bouncing through the galaxy

purple frock mocked by Odin;

righteous blame and blue again.

Chagrin on a mountain of shame,

the Colors of my Mind proclaim,

flickering candle on golden sand,

violet silence upon wings of gold.



Déjà vu by Linda Imbler



The sensation of returning,

To a place you’ve never been,

Runs cold in your veins.

What clues still lie in wait,

You help remind you,

Of when you had been here,

And what you had done whilst?


Such a common, human experience,


A slippage of the mind?

Or in the fabric of the cosmos?

Too prevalent to be coincidence,

But its purpose still left unfolded.

A call back or forward?

If so, to where?

We do not know,

For now.

Ethiopia by Mbizo Chirasha

see talking slums

silenced tongues

freedom silenced

hope killed

a bling of ghettos

collapsed humanity

Mothers weeping,

under the compression of religion

trees dripping tears

Ethiopia your festering open wounds

you are my anger!

children burn in smoldering canisters of hunger

time opened new wounds of memories of old scars

chained on rocks of ignorance

you need a compass of decency

my poetry is a catalyst fermenting your injustices

into beverages of justice

you are my sadness!

your heartbeat bleached in political fermentation

rhythm galvanized in furnaces of cultural myth

laughter imbibed by the rude stomach of the gun

culture crushing under the weight





I Believe in Trees by Joan McNerney


Those silent citadels

standing against long

nights of wind and cold.


Broken willow bramble

scratches a pale sky after

yesterday’s ice storm.


Each spring small buds

blossom as bugs and

butterflies orbit boughs.


Green new leaf fits

your hand so perfectly.

The future lies in your palm.


Birds reciting litany in woods.

Each rainfall the forest

grows taller, more verdant.


Summer afternoons…trees

sashay in sunshine showing

off their emerald gowns.


Winds sway maple branches.

Leaves drop like butterflies

falling to the warm earth.


Red yellow brown carpets

of crunchy foliage spread

over roads welcoming us.




Never Say a Poet is Ugly! by Wafula p’Khisa


A poet is an imperial prophet, anointed by the gods

to interpret their divine tongue to the ordinary mortal

secluded; he’s confined on mountain tops, in caves, and quiet rivers

communing with his ancestors for peace, fertility, love & good harvest

of the land.


But nobody listens to his cry, echoed from one town to another

they ignore him as a common minstrel, and listen only to

the delicious concoction of lies; vomited by tribal demigods, thieves & pastorpreneurs

and shout obscenities at his devotion to truth and philosophy

which flush through his veins like the fluid of life.


With the nation burning inside, he wanders; hiding behind the palm–

afraid of the saintly eyes questioning the strange marks on his body

With the nation bleeding inside, he wanders: weeping silently

as the cry of minors tears into bits his eardrums

How then, would he surrender to the barber’s blade

or soak his face in a beautician’s creams?

A society’s image is the glory of a poet, than self

a call so divine that he defies death to honour!




Come On Board The Sierra Leonean Plane by Ndaba Sibanda

Where is the outcry or the urgent assistance from Africa?

Are the Sierra Leoneans not dealing with a massive mudslide?

Where is the outpouring support from the international community?


Torrential rains gave birth to flooding and a colossal mudslide,

A patter of heavy rain reigned a trail and a terror of devastation,

People lost everything: lives and limbs and property and possessions.


Where is the outcry or the urgent assistance from Africa?

Are the Sierra Leoneans not dealing with a massive mudslide?

Where is the outpouring support from the international community?


Remember Sierra Leone has had her fair share of challenges,

Recall she grappled with a stubborn civil war, then the Ebola crisis,

Now vulnerability is taking a toll on homeless mothers and children.


Where is the tangible solidarity and the spirit of unity from Africa?

Are the Sierra Leoneans not dealing with a massive mudslide?

Where is the oneness of humanity from the global community?


People had the nightmare of wading through muddy waters,

They were submerged, buried under mud with their houses;

The survivors sought to dig up with their bare hands.


Where is the tangible solidarity and the spirit of unity from Africa?

Are the Sierra Leoneans not dealing with a massive mudslide?

Where is the oneness of humanity from the global community?


Sierra Leonean survivors and rescue workers and others

Who have risen to the call of duty are overwhelmed,

It`s time for the world to show greater solidarity.




Letter #51 by Sergio A. Ortiz


Today there’s a self-drawn sketch

of rice on my forehead, a tiny sorrow.

This mourning is the unhappy reward

of what we never talk about.


Today I tire of birds,

I cut off my wings. A tiger

devoured my legs,

an old disgruntled tiger.


He drank my blood,

disappeared like smoke

resembling the roar

of an insomniac ocean.


Today I walked into the surf

with my pockets full of rocks.



Little Nuances by Glory Sasikala



with little nuances you own me!

with a wave of your hand –

‘let’s go!’

with your eyes –

‘there’s place besides me’

i laugh, you revel

i win –

you swell with pride

i cough, you turn

i give up –

you advance


little nuances

that confuse me

how can this be

that no one else can see

the storm you rake up

with a glance


Sweet Hush by Deborah Anne Shepard


Sweet hush as sweet butterflies

Wings flowing gently in the wind

Silhouetted  jasmine rays

Laid in pearl rows, towards Gods sky


Sweet hush as dragonflies

Lighted candle peering gently through

Soft illuminated moonlight

Bouquets of memories



Sweet hush as Ashton shores

Sands with shells along the surf side

Deep aquamarine colors  cliff seas

Silent creatures roam the beachside



My curses on you by Asha Viswas


It is fine. I agree that you were terribly homesick

But why? Why do you pick a vulnerable woman

on a lonely road or a four year old daughter of

your neighbor? and why do you kill her after the dirty act?

And as if killing is not enough, you fill her inside

With pieces of stone, steel rods and empty bottles. Why?

As compared to you Tereus of Thrace was a gentleman

He left Philomela alive to take her revenge.

Perseus who decapitated Medusa

[a male reaction to a fear of female power , the Gorgon

With her direct gaze was a threat to male ego ]

Was not as monstrous as you.

even the animals are  innocent angels beside you.

Were you really born of a woman ?

Did you really suck your mother’s milk?

If you  kill a woman to make her passive

If you Kill a five or fifty year old woman

Do not disrespect the womb from whence you came.



About the Poets


Ken Allan Dronsfield is a poet who was nominated for The Best of the Net and 2 Pushcart Awards for Poetry in 2016. Originally from New Hampshire, he now resides in Oklahoma with his cats Willa, Turbo and Hemi. His poetry has been published world-wide in various publications throughout North and South America, Europe, Asia, Australia and Africa. His work has appeared in The Burningword Journal, Belle Reve Journal, SETU Magazine, The Literary Hatchet, The Stray Branch, Now/Then Manchester Magazine UK, Bewildering Stories, Scarlet Leaf Review, PPP E-Zine, EMBOSS Magazine, and many more. His book, “The Cellaring”, a collection of haunting, paranormal, weird, wonderful and odd poems, has been released and is available through Amazon.com. He is the co-editor of two poetry anthologies, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze and Dandelion in a Vase of Roses available from Amazon.com.


Linda Imbler is a poet, music afficionado and lover of art.


Mbizo Chirasha is a Zimbabwean poet. He has been published in more than 60 journals, various anthologies, newspapers, blogs and poetry collections. Thus he was among the poets selected by Diké Okoro when Okoro edited the notable anthology We Have Crossed Many Rivers: New Poetry From Africa. His poetry has also been featured in such renowned literary journals as Moto magazine.



Joan McNerney’s poetry has been included in numerous literary magazines such as Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze, Blueline, and Halcyon Days.  Three Bright Hills Press Anthologies, several Poppy Road Review Journals, and numerous Kind of A Hurricane Press Publications have accepted her work.  Her latest title is Having Lunch with the Sky and she has four Best of the Net nominations.


Wafula p’Khisa is a poet, writer and teacher from Kenya. He studied English, Literature & Education at Moi University. His work has been published in The Seattle Star, The Legendary (issue 48), The Beacon, Scarlet Leaf Review, Antarctica Journal, PoemHunter.com, Aubade Magazine (issue 1), NYSAI Press, AfricanWriter.com, Best ‘New’ African Poets 2015 Anthology, VoicesNet.com, The Pendulum, Mgv2 Magazine and the Best ‘New’ African Poets 2016 Anthology.



Ndaba Sibanda has contributed to the following anthologies: Its Time, Poems For Haiti- a South African anthology, Snippets ,Voices For Peace and Black Communion. He edited Free Fall (2017). The recipient of a Starry Night ART School scholarship in 2015, Sibanda is the author of Love O’clock, The Dead Must Be Sobbing and Football of Fools. His work is featured in The New Shoots Anthology, The Van Gogh Anthology edited by Catfish McDaris and Dr. Marc Pietrzykowski, Eternal Snow, A Worldwide Anthology of One Hundred Poetic Intersections with Himalayan Poet Yuyutsu RD Sharma scheduled for publication in Spring/Summer 2017 by Nirala Press and Seeing Beyond the Surface Volume II.


Sergio A. Ortiz is a poet, a two-time Pushcart nominee, a four-time Best of the Web nominee, and 2016 Best of the Net nominee. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Valparaiso Poetry Review, Loch Raven Review, Drunk Monkeys, Algebra Of Owls, Free State Review, and The Paragon Journal.
Glory Sasikala is a poet, editor and lover of poetry. She edits and publishes GloMag: A Monthly Online Poetry and Prose Magazine. https://www.facebook.com/glory.sasikala


Deborah Anne Shepard is a published author and poet.


Asha Viswas is a former Professor of English, Banaras Hindu University, Varanasi ,India. She has also taught at Aligarh and at the University of Calabar, Nigeria. She has published three collections of poems. The first collection Melting Memories was published in 1996 [Delhi]. For this she was awarded Michael Madhusudan Academy Award [Kolkata] in 1997.  Her second collection Mortgaged Moorings [writers workshop, Kolkata] was published in 2001. For this she was given the Editors’ Choice Award by the International Library of Poetry , U.S.A. IN 2003.Her third collection of poems was published in 2011 [Kolkata].


Her poems have featured in the shortlist anthology of all India poetry competition organized by the British council and the poetry Society India, Slug fest [U.S.A.], The Mawaheb International [Canada] ,The Brob Times [ Ireland] , Jalons [France] and various other journals and anthologies in India. Some of her poems have been translated into French. She has read her poems in Western Europe, the U.S.A. and African universities. She had a fan club of her poetry in the U.S.































Interview: Mysti Milwee

PPP E-Zine: Who are your favorite poets, if possible, also tell us what makes them your favorite?

MM: Some of my favorite poets are Emily Dickinson; Maya Angelou; William Wordsworth; and Edgar Allan Poe are a few of my favorites, as each one has had an influence on my life as a poet.

Emily Dickinson helped me search deeper into my soul and spirit. Maya Angelou put me in touch with my feelings to help release my emotions, “to come out of my shell” and to feel beautiful in my own skin, like her poem “Phenomenal Woman”, but to also accept myself and stop silencing my own voice but to find my voice, not to become a “caged bird”. William Wordsworth helped me find the truth of love, even when love was hard to find and my heart just wanted to shine and give love from the voice of my heart instead of a silent cry of emotion. Edgar Allan Poe is my vision, where I constantly read

“A Dream Within A Dream”, it made me see my own visions and dreams more vividly and even put my senses in touch with a grasp of my past, my inner secrets, balancing my writings with an edge of darkness. These poets have influenced me to find my own unique voice.


PPP E-Zine: This one is a direct descendant of Matthew Arnold’s Touchstone Method: “They say that there are lines in a poem that make its heart. You may call them the poetry of poetry.” Do you remember some such lines of yours or from some of your favorite poets that will help us understand your vision of poetry? If yes, please do give us some of those lines.

MM: Yes I do.

For example: Emily Dickinson her poem “Hope” was what first gave me a vision and voice to write.

In her lines:

“Hope” is the thing with feathers –

That perches in the soul –

And sings the tune without the words –

And never stops – at all –


(Through Dickinson’s lines I found hope to not be afraid of my own voice, just being myself and putting heart into my own poetry. Therefore, it is a beating rhythm into the depths of the soul.)

Through Emily Dickinson, I found my heart, my voice that beats with emotion and spirit.

For example: The voice in my poem “Beyond the Veil”, Lines 9 through 12:


9) “Removing the dark draped cloak that hanged

10) with fear that weighed me down where doubts

11) and despair dove deep within my skin that

12) wept for the light of heaven.”


(It goes beyond seeking existence, peace of mind, crying out of the darkness and pushing through the pain.) The focus of the poem was unveiling a woman that was lost, that just wanted to be accepted and not rejected because of her insecurities. After revealing herself to the light, the weight lifted off of her and she became the light to others.


PPP E-Zine: There has been a debate raging among the lovers of free verse and formal verse. Where do you stand in this debate? Why?

MM: I suppose I would be quite borderline because in this century I have written both free verse and formal verse poetry even though free verse seems to be more predominate, however formal verse is more structured with rhythm, rhyme and meter which takes more crafting and skill. Where I stand I tend to write almost an equal amount of both free verse and formal verse. Though I typically write more free verse because I am a visual artist who paints and writes ekphrastic poetry (art informing art) most of the time which means that my thoughts are mostly free verse and creative. I find free verse easier to write with being an artist. Rhyme is one of my stronger points in formal verse because I enjoy writing lyrical ballads that project rhythm, beats, and emotion with the lift, rifts and fluid flow, often whimsical.


PPP E-Zine: You have been writing for a long time. If you could tell us something about what inspired you to write poems in the first place, and then what kept you going, it’d be inspiring for the new poets.

MM: I was first inspired to write poetry when I was age 13, when I wrote my 1st poem “Teen Violence”. After the Columbine High School shootings in Colorado, it inspired me to write about it because I was so emotionally attached to it. I wanted to give young people my age a voice to speak out and encourage them to seek peace and not war. This poem was a voice to many. It has received global exposure, publication and awards.

I knew after that I couldn’t stop writing because it was my purpose to become a voice to those unable to speak out. I had to give others hope, love, strength and perseverance in light and darkness. Being able to speak out through poetry is rewarding, especially when it touches lives.


PPP E-Zine: Give our new poets a few tips (3 or more) for composing well.

MM: When composing the first thing I tell poets and emerging poets is:

Find what you are passionate about, what makes your heart sing. Without this there will be no heart or heartbeat in the poem.

Other tips for composing:

  1. Remember while your writing who your audience is that you are speaking to. Find your audience. The vocabulary you use will define your target age group. Remember this when writing. This will help in marketing your work in age groups and genres.
  2. Remember to make your work flow and be unique in your style.
  3. Be persistent in your writing. If it isn’t coming together leave it alone and just let it simmer, regain your thoughts. Meditate on them if you have to, then come back to it.
  4. Write, write, write. Even if your lines are just cluster words or thoughts. There is plenty of room for editing. (The most I have ever edited on one poem was 25 edits.)
  5. Read other poets work. Study it! This is one of the best ways to composing well written poems.


PPP E-Zine: Rejection is a life-long friend or enemy of a poet. Please tell us how you responded/respond to your rejections in the past, and now?

MM: In past rejections I honestly didn’t handle it well, I felt I wasn’t good enough and that I had failed. It frustrated me and I often felt I was never going to be good enough. At that time it was my worst enemy. As time passed, the here and now of being rejected is my friend and my enemy. But as poets we must take each rejection with a grain of salt, because even if we are rejected it will make us stronger in the long run. It shapes us to be more dedicated and persistent to achieve results, therefore publication.

As poets we really benefit from rejections.


PPP E-Zine: A poet has a cultivated mind. Give us some pointers to cultivate the poetic faculties/genius.

MM: Read! Write! Repeat!

Focus on the subject matter/genre that interests you the most. Read books, magazines, journals, ect., or listen to music. Let your thoughts simmer then write what you feel, even if it looks like chicken scratch. There is room for editing.

Write what you love, and showcase your voice. Be unique and not to be compared to. Cultivate your creativity, explore new words, analogies, symbolism, metaphors, etc. Accept new challenges for example: Write a villanelle; prose; free verse; reflective/mirrored poem; etc..

Craft your words through repetition.


PPP E-Zine: You have been published and read widely. Please give some tips on submission that increases the chances for publication.


1) Read the most recent issues of the magazine, e-zine, or journal you are submitting to. Reading the material beforehand and knowing what they look for will increase your chance for submission.

2) Know your audience and age group.

3) Find your niche and your strong points. Edit your weak spots and better craft your poem.

Don’t rush to finish it. Edit…Edit…Edit! Last but not least polish it!

4) Craft your poem well. There is always room for improvement. A well written poem will be successful for publication.

Some presses and magazine publishers sometimes give critiques which are very helpful because we can learn from them by studying our faults and flaws and make ourselves better poets. We may not see the big picture clearly at times but we must respond openly to them. We write for a reason and a purpose. Just be prepared and study your market and who you are submitting to, read the guidelines carefully. Submit to where your niche is, for instance if you write a poem pertaining to cultural heritage and history, don’t submit it to a magazine like the New Yorker that is based on satirical and political game. You will be rejected. Reminder again, know your audience. Purchase the magazine or read the E-Zine carefully. Know what they are looking for before submitting. If you want acceptance know your voice and market it carefully. Learn to market yourself.

Mysti Milwee thinks, composes and writes, not in the exact order mentioned here. She theorizes about poetry to help other poets in their quest.

You can download the pdf here:

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Poetrypoeticspleasure Ezine Volume 1; Issue 4; September 2017



Poet of the Month: Blanca Alicia Garza

Spraying Adverbs by Debashish Haar

After Man by Ann Christine Tabaka

Sonnet 9 by Zulfiqar Parvez

Thinking on Ferlinghetti’s #34  by Janette Schafer

Trauma by Pitambar Naik

The Crystalline Side of Time by Fahredin Shehu

(Not) My Poem by Alicja Kuberska

Re-killing  by Aminool Islam

Catharsis daily by Rus Khomutoff

Waiting Under the Depth of Despair by Kentu Lekpa

An Elephant in the Room by Renee’ Drummond-Brown

About the Poets

The Contemporary Scene of English Poetry in America by Lynn Long


The September 2017 issue can be downloaded from here:

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The Contemporary Scene of English Poetry in America by Lynn Long  

Poetry: A form of expression so pure , so raw and so beautiful , it can only be felt deep within the soul …

For centuries poets have inspired, enriched and awakened our souls, while allowing us a

rare glimpse into theirs. Embracing our very essence with their words we are at once transformed and for just a moment, we find ourselves lost, gloriously lost, in a time without constraint, as we become one with the poet. It is said: “The eyes are windows to the soul.” I believe it is through words the window remains open. For only in words written, read, sung and spoken with a purpose to enlighten, can we begin to appreciate the sheer significance poetry brings to us.

As a poet, writer and aspiring novelist, I was honored to have been asked by Rajnish Mishra poet and editor of PPP Ezine to write on the topic ‘The Contemporary Scene of English Poetry in America’. Inspired by the great words of William Shakespeare, John Keats, Elizabeth Barrette Browning, Walt Whitman, Robert Frost, Shel Silverstein and the countless amazing poets that have since followed suit; I delve into the research with exuberant enthusiasm and find to my joy and delight, poetry is not only alive and well in the United States of America, but thriving elsewhere throughout the world too.

Of course, this revelation is not surprising. Poetry will always be contemporary, and how

can it not be? Poetry resides in the very core of our being…  With the increased rapid growth of social media, poetry has found a new home in Twitter, Instagram , and Facebook in addition to the multitude of various online publications, ezines, journals and blogs; thus enabling a new generation of poets to emerge. Poets who not only inspire as they share their poetic wisdom with us, but also do so instantaneously worldwide, thanks to the use of modern technology. Poets such as: Rupi Kaur, Tracy K. Smith, Elyane Youssef, Tina Chang, Melissa Mendelson, Richard Blanco, Suli Breaks, Joanne Olivieri, Sarah Kay, Steve Roggenbuck, Christopher Poindexter and the list goes one of incredible wordsmiths.

Mainstream media also has seen a resurgence in poetry, as it is now considered the newest trend of expressing one’s views or opinions, whether it be political, social or simply to entertain. From singers and song lyricists to performance artists, rappers and yes even, athletes; everyone it seems is putting pen to paper or scribing online as they embrace the poetry scene. Basketball star and legend great Kobe Bryant chose to announce his retirement in the form of a poem, – https://www.theplayerstribune.com/dear-basketball and recently performed slam poetry on The Tonight Show starring Jimmy Fallon https://www.nbc.com/the-tonight-show Hollywood too shares the limelight with poetry. As actors James Franco, Amber Tamblym and Joseph Gordon-Levitt founder of Hit RECord https://hitrecord.org/ (a collaborative production company that brings together artists, musicians, filmmakers, writers and yes, poets ) just to name a few , explore their inner poet.

As one delves deeper into the contemporary poetry scene, it is clearly apparent the abundant array of talent out there. From your traditional classrooms/universities and local

coffee houses, to the more non-traditional online platforms; poetry is just about everywhere you look, sometimes even showing up in the most random of places. Whether it be scribbled on a sidewalk, scrawled across the wall of a building, or painted in the sky as a message of love, poetry is hip once again.

Furthermore, written word is not the only form of contemporary poetry making a comeback, spoken word and slam poetry have also become quite popular. Poets and performing artists can now share their words via the internet with just a simple click, courtesy of YouTube and other video sharing websites. Spoken word gives a wholly new perspective to the poem, for it allows the poet to share through voice their personal interpretation of the written piece.

In conclusion, The Contemporary Scene of English Poetry in America, or for that matter, anywhere in this vast amazing world of ours, in one word “Universal.” For poetry truly is a universal language. Poetry speaks its mind long before being asked. Not only does it convey the poet’s deepest thoughts, feelings, and emotions, but shapes them into words of beauty, that illuminate the mind, capture the heart and free our souls, as we journey through the open window…


Rupi Kaur- https://rupikaur.com/

Tracy K. Smith- https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/tracy-k-smith

Tina Chang- https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/tina-chang

Melissa Mendelson- https://www.mbliterary.com/melissa-mendelson

Richard Blanco- https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/richard-blanco

Suli Breaks- http://sulibreaks.com/

Joanne Olivieri- http://joanneolivieri.weebly.com/ http://stanzaicstylings.blogspot.com/

Sarah Kay- http://www.kaysarahsera.com/about

Steve Roggenbuck- https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Steve_Roggenbuck

Christopher Poindexter http://


Elyane Youssef- https://www.elephantjournal.com/author/elyane-youssef

Joseph Gordon-Levitt- @hitRECordJoe

Amber Tamblyn- https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poet/amber-tamblyn

JamesFranco- https://www.graywolfpress.org/author-list/james-franco

Lynn Long is a poet, writer, aspiring novelist, as well as a daydreamer and firm believer in the impossible. She has been published in the following ezines, journals and online publications: Stanzaic Stylings, PPP Ezine, Antarctica Journal, Contributing artist at HitRECord.org and Scriggler.com

About the Poets

Blanca Alicia Garza is a Poet from Las Vegas, Nevada. She is a nature and animal lover, and enjoys spending time writing. Her poems are published in the Poetry Anthologies, “Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze”, and “Dandelions in a Vase of Roses” now available at Amazon.com. Blanca’s work can be found in  The Poet Community, Whispers, The Winamop Journal, Indiana Voice Journal, Tuck Magazine, Raven’s Cage Ezine, Scarlet Leaf Review as well as Birdsong Anthology 2016, Vol 1.


Debashish Haar is a Data Scientist & Machine Learning Expert and a Weekend Poet & Dreamer. He has been an avid fan of poetry and poetics. He was the founder and editor-in-chief of the Alchemy Post (now defunct) magazine, which he co-edited with American Poet Jim Dunlap. He has been published in anthologies and journals since 2003, but has stayed away from writing due to professional commitments. He considers poetry as that cathartic art that helps life sustain, when names and forms fuse, diffuse, and efface.


Ann Christine Tabaka was born and lives in Delaware.  She is a published poet, an artist, a chemist, and a personal trainer.  She loves gardening, the ocean, and her cats.  Her poems have been published in poetry journals, reviews, and anthologies.


Zulfiqar Parvez, the poet is the editor in chief at Neeharika, and Vice Principal, London Grace International School. He did his M.A in English literature from the University of Rajshahi, Bangladesh.

Janette Schafer is a freelance writer, photographer, and opera singer living in Pittsburgh.  She is a 2017 Maenad Fellowship Awardee through Chatham University.  Recent and upcoming publications include Eyedrum Periodically, PublicSource, Chatham University broadsides, The Woman Inc., and Nasty Women and Bad Hombres Anthology.  A collection of her poems entitled “Other Names and Places” was published by LBF Books in 2004.


Pitambar Naik was born and raised in Odisha in India. He is an advertising copywriter to earn a living; and writes poetry, non-fiction and reviews books in English to evade the acrid pain of life. He has been featured in journals such as Brown Critique, Spark Magazine, CLRI, Indian Review, Indian Ruminations, Galaxy-IMRJ, HEArt Online, Occulum, Tuck Magazine, Indian Periodical, Hans India, Phenomenal Magazine, The New Indian Express, Metaphor, Bhashabandhan Review, Dissident Voice and elsewhere. He can be reached at pitambarnaikwriter@gmail.com


Fahredin Shehu was born in 1972 in the village of Rahovec in Kosovo and graduated from Oriental studies at the University in Priština. He is a poet, writer, essayist, editor, an independent researcher of the world spiritual heritage and sacral aesthetics, founder of Fund for Cultural Education and Heritage, and a calligraphy enthusiast. He writes mystical and transcendental poetry, prose, essays, articles, etc. in Albanian and English. The more recent of his works include: a selected poetry Crystalline Echoes (Corpos Editora, Portugal, 2011) and Nalivpero (The Pen, Arhipelag, Serbia, 2013)the collection of essays, columns, and articles on culture, art, and spiritualityMakadam i Smagradtë (Emerald Macadam, 2012), the novel Hojet (Honeycomb, 2013), the epic poem MAELSTRON – The Four Scrolls of an Illyrian Sage (Inner Child Press, USA, 2014), in which he writes about spiritual visions and the author’s creative unrest that oscillates between theurgy and revelation, and the latest Albanian-Italian poetry collection Elisir (Elixir, Pellicano, Italy, 2017). Shehu’s poetry has been translated in over 20 world languages and included into anthologies and literary journals the world over and he is a frequent guest of literary festivals. He is also the director of the renowned international poetry festival Poetry and Wine that takes place in his birth village.

Alicja Maria Kuberska is an awarded Polish poetess, novelist, journalist and editor. In 2011 she published her first volume of poems entitled:  “The Glass Reality”.  Her second volume “ Analysis of Feelings”, was published in 2012. The third collection “ Moments” was published in English in 2014, both in Poland and in the USA. In 2014,she also published the novel – “ Virtual roses” and volume of poems “ On the border of dream”. Next year her volume entitled “ Girl in the Mirror” was published in the UK and “ Love me” , “ (Not )my poem” in the USA. In 2015 she also edited anthology entitled “The Other Side of the Screen”. In 2016 she edited two volumes: “ Taste of  Love” ( USA), “Thief of Dreams” ( Poland) and international anthology entitled “ Love is like Air” (USA). She edits series of anthologies entitled “ Metaphor of Contemporary” ( Poland). Her poems have been published in numerous anthologies and magazines in Poland, Czech Republic, the USA, the UK, Belgium,Albania,Spain, Chile, Israel, Canada, India, Italy, Uzbekistan,  South Korea and Australia. She is a member of the Polish Writers Associations in Warsaw, Poland and IWA Bogdani, Albania. She is also a member of directors’ board of Soflay Literature Foundation.


Aminool Islam is a bilingual poet who weaves poetry in Bengali, his mother tongue, and English. He also weaves English sonnets. He did his M.A in English literature from National University,Bangladesh. He’s currently the sub-editor at a literary magazine named Neeharika.

Rus Khomutoff is a neo surrealist language poet based in Brooklyn,NY. His poetry has been featured in Erbacce,Occulum,Poethead, Fifth day Journal, Full of Crow and Burning House Press. Last year he published an ebook called Immaculate Days.

Kentu Lekpa is a poet from Bhutan whose poems rise from his heart and speak to that of readers.

Renee’ B. Drummond is a renowned poetria and artist from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She is the author of: The Power of the Pen, SOLD TO THE HIGHEST BIDDER, Renee’s Poems with Wings are Words in Flight-I’ll Write Our Wrongs, and Renee’s Poems with Wings are Words in Flight. Her work is viewed on a global scale and solidifies her as a force to be reckoned with in the literary world of poetry. Renee’ is inspired by non-other than Dr. Maya Angelou, because of her, Renee’ posits “Still I write, I write, and I’ll write!”

Waiting Under the Depth of Despair by Kentu Lekpa

I’m staring out into the night,

Trying to hide my tears;

Every drop of my tears echoed;

Beside the wall i inclined;

It’s hard to hide my tears falling;

And the pain i felt right now;

There is no mercy from thou;

Broken all apart and had left me,

The miles are getting longer;

It seems you’re no longer there 

I’m waiting for your call… 

Despite,  i hadn’t hear your voice.

I stand beside your teary eyes

Like how much you wanted me more.

Kiss me through the phone,

I always think of you every time. ..

All the time you’re on my mind

We play together you and I … 

Never knew our heart would  break. 

Sometimes out the window,

I noticed that you’ve been waiting alone

And i wonder why you can’t come up, 

every night in my dreams


I see you i feel you, 

but you weren’t there… 

that is how i know,  i am always alone weeping through window of my broken heart.




(Not) My Poem by Alicja Kuberska

I wrote a few words and secured them permanently.
Reflections and emotions created the stanzas.

I uttered the final sentence,

and my poem moved like a zephyr,

Kissing my lips lightly as he left, gliding away to strangers.

He slipped into eyes, where tears are born.

He whispered tender words to hearts

and they faintly shivered.
He pricked dormant consciences,

made stale by daily routine. 
He consoled a sad lady, Melancholy.
At night he soared skywards

parting heavy curtains of clouds.
The stars glistened over illuminated moonlit paths for lovers
The tender song of a lone  nightingale

echoed around the dark abyss
and sank softly into swooning scents of flowers.

Sometimes my faithless lover returns
– beloved son of the muse, but child of mine no more