PPP Ezine; Volume 2, Issue 3, March 2018

Titanic by Author Renee’ Drummond-Brown


Tired is as tired does. She floats on

carless streams; who knows no love. She floats on river-banks

giving her all to the poor. She floats on oceanic “blues”

of a dark history’s past

“SEEshores” + “SEEshells” – white beaches = black quicksand. She’s

not built to last. Duracell, ALKALINE and Energizer

keeps her going and going and going. CHARGE-she’s gone!



Can’t you “sea?” The saltwater pressures her blood

greater than the strength of them waterfalling hearts. She boils!

She boils!! She boils!!! And can’t hide!

But why?

Ain’t no pearls clamed inside. Can’t you “sea?”

Her lake’s shallow and parliament knee deep. They can’t

swim like she

and never did they learn. Can’t you “sea?”

Her army, her navy, her coastguard are the few, were the proud,

but in no way can withstand alone without THE marine!



Walking by faith

gets momma utterly exhausted for which she terminates

the struggle for them quote-un-quote


Forevermore, can she no longer float on

sureSEEs and/or SEEshores; whichever!




when them momma’s give up; WATCH IT NOW


and i mean everyone; FOR “SHORE!”

“Their” life jackets will forever work




Sending out an’ SOS

can’t help the raging of an angry battered sea.

Nothin’ like a shipwreck

that gets tossed




Dedicated to: The heart of the ocean!


A B.A.D. RocDeeRay poem





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!”


No, I will not buy you an aardvark by Ryan Quinn Flanagan


No, I will not buy you an aardvark.

You are not Noah, and there are monetary constraints.

Just like they use at the asylum, but without all that tussle.

I haven’t screamed in decades.

I should get paid for that if it makes me half-professional.

Conformity is simple as waiting on steeping tea.

Removing the bag, we all have our rituals.

Or standing in an elevator watching the bright red numbers of gravity prove themselves indoors.

In a controlled environment. Large oak desks and uniforms to give the impression of permanence.

And grazing upon the avenues, I stumble upon a new pair of eyes; 3 pairs for $5 the sign reads, as though anyone requires three pairs of eyes.

I left abundance with the bill seven rentals ago.

In a room with vaulted ceilings so shut-ins could enjoy the sky.

Have you seen the 8 tonne Henry Moore sculpture outside the AGO?

Large Two Forms they plan on moving to a park.  It always made me think of fat sex if I am honest.


No, I will not buy you a tree sloth either.

There are speed limits to follow, and you must make your own way now.

To Nirvana or Tallahassee.

Who can tell one from the other?





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, Piker Press, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.

Love is our master by Allison Grayhurst


The tone resonated the red heat

of a sea of lava burning away the dead cells,

activating a living substance. We held

hands, walking in the deserted late-December streets.

Ours is nobody’s but ours – broken train tracks carried,

dropped, put back together. The lapping wind of the spirit

like a bell in the far distance, calling us here, there

and always home.


Your pockets are full of roots, ones

you chopped from the ground, left there with no tree

or shrub to source its life out to. But those roots still thirst,

so you place them in a high jar in our bedroom, tend to them,

give them the attention of your brilliant mind, hurting

for their inadequacies. I love you deep in the hole and in

the twilight of an open summoning space or when locked

in desire, the two of us, giants without chains – the illusion of

isolation shed, heroes to each other’s loneliness, and the rising

of our blood that has no ancestry, no pastlives or this life before.


We are the keepers of this conversation. You are the place where

all my ships land, in the infinity of your eyes, a strong arrow spark

of awe-striking connection, where underground tunnels are excavated.

We are a perfect rub and flow, and we flow, fingers

over the tender inner thigh, mouths

braving more than kisses. We built a bridge and we crossed it,

holding hands, watching each other’s back. We take off our shoes,

a field is before us.


All animals are gorgeous, each with a full and necessary soul.

Animals peer out from behind the curtain of high trees

lining the field, waiting for us to run. We run

and twirl and lay down in laughter, like we once did long ago.

We are good just as we are. We are one at the knees and at the core.

Hell and the moaning of withheld mercy is far behind us,

we have been devoured and we dissolve –

our shells and our centers, seasoned, spring-woven,

what is ours, what is God’s, combined, surrendered.



Allison Grayhurst is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. Four times nominated for “Best of the Net”, 2015/2017, she has over 1125 poems published in over 450 international journals and anthologies. She has 21 published books of poetry, six collections and six chapbooks. She lives in Toronto with her family. She is a vegan. She also sculpts, working with clay; http://www.allisongrayhurst.com


Exploring silence by Reena Prasad


The sound stills itself at times

waiting for cleverer ones to have their say

In that brief interlude, I search

for a reverberation of my thoughts

in this orb of acoustic mazes

Drop a silent sigh here

It rebounds back the next moment

its echoes lingering, feeling, exploring the twilight zones

hanging like bats in unseen crooks

to come flying back

and swat me into stillness


In the dissonance of lively voices

talking themselves hoarse to keep out milder ones,

the rustles, the sighs, the whispers, the hums

make me marvel at their innate softness

but my silence

kept out of the picture for too long

envies these mellow beauties

and longs to make itself heard too

It thunders, it yells, it roars, it wails

There is no respite ever.




Reena Prasad is a poet from India, currently living in Sharjah (United Arab Emirates). Her poems have been published in several anthologies. She is the Destiny Poets UK’s, Poet of the year for 2014 and co-editor of The Significant Anthology & Silhouette I & 2. She is the winner of the Reuel international prize for Poetry, 2018.

A  Lonely Tree and A Longing, Sharp as Knife by Asha Viswas


A  Lonely Tree


Autumn leaves

A calligraphy in ochre

On a blanket of sighs :

A sea of sibilance .


The wind whipped tree

Holding a single leaf

The next gust signs it off ,

Like the trace of a dream.


The shadow of the tree

Rests in the backyard-

Loneliness- bleak and nameless,

Fear howls in the silent house.



A Longing, Sharp as Knife


I walk through the rooms

Nothing is lost, not even the sounds.

I rummage through the many cupboards

Where dream and memory live together.


As I open the door, another dream sprouts

An old, gentle but sad face

That still waits for a fistful of light

Through the darkened road .


The dream stops at the edge of a thought-

A paradigm for a few question marks.

Realizing that I am encroaching

On somebody else’s dream, I shut the door.


Slowly the house turns into an allegory of words

Without a future, without a past

syllables, and not a trace of you.

I wish the ghosts could sleep forever in peace.


Asha Viswas is a much awarded Indian poet whose poems have been published, praised and liked all over the world.


Rhapsodies of the East by Pitambar Naik



I enameled those whom I love

With the green pride

And those of the up-shoots of the green coppice.


Dreams which needed to be freed

I let them fly as birds in the deep blue sky

I let them sing the song of liberty.


Along the bank of my fickle mind

I let blossom a lot many divine lotuses

To carve the eternal pride

The words which appealed me

I let them be enlivened with the life of my life

To hear the rhapsodies

Of the new stanzas of the east.



Translated from Purbaraga by Debendra Kumar Bauri



Mora antahina bhalapaiba mananku

pingheideli patrapari kanluthiba

gachhara sabuja spardhaku


Mukti loduthiba swapnamanku

Chadheikari udeideli

Nila akashare

Purnaswadhinatara geeta gaibaku


Mora chapalakhialara kule kule

Mun phuteideli

Aneka brahma kamala

Nashwara pkhudare

Rachibaku shashwata garimaku


Mote jeevana maguthiba shabdamanku

Mun pranaru prana deli

Sunibaku nuaeka panktire

Kabitara purbaraga




 Pitambar Naik is an Indian poet. Odisha is the state where he was born and grew up amidst paddy fields hearing heartrending folk songs and playing kabbadi. He toils hard and sweats in an advertising studio as a creative writer for a living and writes poetry and short fiction to live his passion. His works have appeared in Literary Orphans, Occulum, Moonchild Magazine, Bhashabandhan Review, HEArt Online,

Coldnoon Travel Poetics, Spark Magazine, and The New Indian Express and PPP Ezine among others. He can be reached at pitambarnaikwriter@gmail.com



Poem #5 by Grant Guy


He flipped hamburgers

He flipped her heart

She worked the counter

At the A&W in Transcona


That was enough of a common ground

To base their 35 year marriage on


Their three children

And their eight grandchildren

All worked at the A&W in Transcona


For three generations they were the Burger Family


They called their marriage a success





Grant Guy is a Winnipeg, Canada, poet, writer and playwright. His poems and short stories have been published in Canada and Internationally. He has three books published: Open Fragments (Lives of Dogs), On the Bright Side of Down and Bus Stop Bus Stop (Red Dashboard). His plays include an adaptation of Paradise Lost and the Grand Inquisitor. 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.   



Chickens Hatching by Scott Thomas Outlar


Even when there remains

nothing left to say,

our silence can prove to be

the weapon of gold

that helps to save

lost souls in the end.


There is no war

righteous enough

to convince me

to flick my tongue

in anger

or pick up a sword

in disgust

this time.


All of my dragons

lay out slain

behind me

on the path;

their bones buried

beneath the ash.


We breathe this sacrament

of sacred fire

into our lungs

together as One;


and now only

parasitic mosquitos


to be slaughtered

until we have recovered

all of the blood

from generations

they’ve tried

their damnedest

to taint.



Scott Thomas Outlar hosts the site 17Numa.wordpress.com where links to his published poetry, fiction, essays, interviews, reviews, live events, and books can be found. His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Scott was a recipient of the 2017 Setu Magazine Award for Excellence in the field of literature. His words have been translated into Albanian, Afrikaans, Persian, French, and Italian.

Regrets Nothing by Kelli J Gavin


The moments I have lived

The times I have treasured

The words left unspoken

The conversations I have entered


I Regret Nothing






Each instance serving a purpose


I Regret Nothing


The heartache that breaks me

The joy that rebuilds me

The children that fulfil me

The husband that completes me


I Regret Nothing


The days I have conquered

The illness that consumed me

The lessons learned over

the excessive passage of time

The light bulb moments now gone dim


I Regret Nothing


A life well lived

Not a moment wasted

Each day grasped

and fully experienced

The nights that restore and quench

and motivate




I Regret Nothing


Kelli J Gavin lives in Carver, MN with Josh, her husband and two crazy kids.  She is a Professional Organizer, owns two small companies, and is a Writer.  She is a blogger, writes for newspapers and for online sites as a guest columnist.  Her focus is special needs parenting, non-fiction stories from her own life and poetry that often can’t be contained.



Remolded by Heath Brougher


The reflex

of the reverberation

reflected and refracted

down the rectangular roads

ravaging a reality recently revived

and repaired and repaved

counterbalanced concrete

in real time.

Reassured no one was relinquished from the realm

of reamed recognition.

Everyone regarded

the ravage of the repulsive ravines

now reigning and running randomly

throughout the rent ruins we pretended not to see.



Heath Brougher is the co-poetry editor of Into the Void Magazine, winner of the 2017 Saboteur Award for Best Magazine. He is a multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net Award Nominee and his work has been translated into journals and anthologies in Albania and Kosovo. He was the judge of Into the Void’s 2016 Poetry Competition and edited the anthology Luminous Echoes, the proceeds of which were all donated to an organization which helps prevent suicide/self-harm. He published three chapbooks in 2016, two full-length collections About Consciousness (Alien Buddha Press 2017), To Burn in Torturous Algorithms (Weasel Press 2018), and has 3 collections forthcoming in 2018. His work has appeared in Taj Mahal Review, Chiron Review, MiPOesias, Blue Mountain Review, Main Street Rag, eFiction India, Loch Raven Review, Boston Poetry Magazine, Setu Bilingual, BlazeVOX, and elsewhere.


Poetrypoeticspleasure Ezine Volume 2; Issue 2; February 2018


The poems for this issue started pouring in after an emergency help mail I sent to my friends: poets, editors and poetry lovers. I had a few poems with me but their number filled me with doubts regarding the future of this little ezine. I took my chance and sent an invitation to my friends all over the world (the last four words are not there to brag, they highlight the focus of this ezine: bringing poets from various continents together). They came to my rescue and sent me wonderful nuggets of gold, some of which can be seen in this issue. I have stored many more for the issues to come. not surprisingly then, I dedicate this issue to the poets published in it:

To you, my friends. 




Poet of the Month: Michael Griffith

Spirit in the Album by Ken Allan Dronsfield

Reasons by Edianna Reyes Ovalle

Spring Equinox by Joan McNerney

Two Parts by Darrell Herbert

orders and wounds by linda m. crate

Desiderata by Sergio A. Ortiz

Ma`s Maize Meal by Ndaba Sibanda

Everyday by Eliza Segiet

The Ticking of Winter’s Clock by Linda Imbler

Layers of Winter by Mysti S. Milwee

The Hole by Ann Christine Tabaka

Memos by Daginne Aignend

Serenade: A Moment by Glory Sasikala




Poet of the Month: Michael Griffith


Her Savior


She savored a savior as she tried to repent.

Spent time on her knees, spent time in retreat.

Entreatments for forgiveness, entreatments for relief.

Belief sometimes came hard, belief and faith would flee.

Bleed upon the cross, breed sorrow and sin.

In rapture, in stigmata, in tongues not her own,

she savored her savior, but she could never atone.



Glass Woman’s House


The glass woman,

seen whole only in reflections of others,


there in her glass house of shrinking windows

and growing shoulds,

a stone’s throw away from being revealed.


Shines in her sorrows,

shimmers in her fears,

shakes in her solitude.


Throw that stone, boy,

hurl the brick,

but aim away from the glass woman.


Hit her sorrows and fears,

strike the solitude and break those panes of should;

take up a mallet and ruin her house of oughts and wishes.   


Let her shimmer in the light shining from strength she never knew she had.

Then help her build a new house that’s not so fragile.



Twilight Cowboy


His sad, hoarse opera remains

long after he leaves the stage.

He doesn’t even know

what to cry about anymore,


but still he cries.


The plains his home,

his rope and rifle his two best friends,

history and change his two worst enemies.

He’s running out of places to be,


but still he rides.


The things he could fight

are now long gone;

the things he could love are dying off, too.

The things he could keep no longer exist,


but still he tries.






Michael Griffith began writing poetry to help his mind and spirit heal as his body recovered from a life-changing injury. Recent work appears online and in print in such outlets as The Blue Nib, Nostalgia Digest, The Wild Word and Poetry24. He resides and teaches near Princeton, NJ.

Spirit in the Album by Ken Allan Dronsfield



Like spider silk woven into human form.

grasping at air as it moves and beckons.

glides around the metal of an old light pole.

Head turning and seeming to look at me.

I ask, if you ever came back to us again,

how annoyed would you be at the traffic?

Would you enjoy computers or cellphones,

or perhaps find them an abomination?

Smiles shining like noon if you returned;

our eyes would twinkle like a winter star

excitement would make the heart flutter;

but you’re only a crispy voice of whispers

indifferent to feeling, or even to breathing

whether lost kindred fallen in a great war

ghost of the battlement, forever on guard

or kept alive by the memories and pictures

there in the album, on grandmother’s shelf.






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.










Reasons by Edianna Reyes Ovalle


So many reasons to love me

So many reasons to hate me

So many reasons to hate them

So many reasons to love him

I have so many reasons, I collect them

Every season, every year, every decade

I collect, collect them

I regret, no regrets, I haven’t forgotten

In my head, they take up space

Right there in that space with every situation I face

In my memory, these reasons are kept inactive

In my solitude, these reasons are enlightening

They make me feel satanic

My reasons, my reasons

This is not a thought all of a sudden

My reasons are my logic

My reasons have been kept inactive

For my reasons aren’t always pleasant in action.







Edianna Reyes Ovalle evokes vital emotions, knowledge, morals, truths, and values, through writing. She loves being outspoken because it has helped her to freely express her opinions of the world and its people. Her work has been featured in the likes of HangTime Magazine, PPP Ezine, NOTLA Digital, Anti-Heroin Chic, and Trópica Laced Magazine.

Spring Equinox by Joan McNerney


This is when we search for

color to transform cold grey.

Rainfall begins its magic

high lighting sky blue.


We see stacks of luminous clouds

as plants pop out emerald buds

and forsythia busts open with

sparkling yellow stalks.


Trees dressed up in chic green

boogie through noon breezes.


Aromatic lilac bushes cluster

in soft bunches. Just today a

breath of warmth brought alive

pink crepe myrtle branches.





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.


Two Parts by Darrell Herbert

Coming to terms with insignificance

Trying times, more or less, dying times


In terms of our relationship, this shit is so one-sided

Drunk off of love, hate ignited

You’re not satisfied, I’m not excited

Should I leave or should I go?

Or, should I try to connect with your soul?

Why am I so unable?

A psychotic who’s mentally unstable

But, they hate my decreasing health

Or, maybe I just need help

Turn me on, turn me out

Turning the gun on myself.




Darrell Herbert is a recipient of the 5 American Visions and 5 American Voices Award, as well as a national silver medal in the 2014 Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, presented by the Alliance for Young Artists & Writers. He is a gold key recipient of poetry, presented by Casita Maria Center for the Arts & Education. He has been featured on the 2016 November issue of Not Only Street Magazine. He is also a recipient of the 2016 Scythe Prize, and the 2017 Scythe Prize. He was one of the winners in the second North Street Book Prize competition. He is a recipient of NY Literary Magazine’s 5 Star Writer Award. He was named a winner in the Fall 2017 Writing and Art Contest. His fiction and non-fiction has appeared in the Utica College Ampersand. His poetry has been featured in the likes of “The Best Teen Writing of 2014,” by Hannah Jones, HangTime Magazine, UC English Corner, The Lemonade Stand Magazine and many more magazines all over the world.

orders and wounds by linda m. crate


you still haunt me

in nightmares


kindness now

doesn’t erase or diminish


the unkindness

i received as a child


needed a father to love me

gave me a bully that cursed my name


belittled and wounded me

just because you could


insisted father knew best,

but i don’t think you did;


cried once when my mother

wouldn’t let you punish me


only taught me my value was in my



neglected to give me anything

other than orders and wounds


my only shelters and comforts

were books and nature


the soft needled pines embraced me

in comfort i never found in your arms.





Linda M. Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. Her poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. She has five published chapbooks A Mermaid Crashing Into Dawn (Fowlpox Press – June 2013), Less Than A Man (The Camel Saloon – January 2014), If Tomorrow Never Comes (Scars Publications, August 2016), My Wings Were Made to Fly (Flutter Press, September 2017), and splintered with terror (Scars Publications, January 2018).

Desiderata by Sergio A. Ortiz



There are days

you walk around dazed
and you’re not very friendly.
Minutes, even hours,

find you lost and I know

my presence confounds you.
That’s when you start talking

in whispers. It’s your way

of asserting the strands

of silver on your head,
your Lord of the Flies dance

around my campfire.

Don’t let it blind you. Virtues

abound in everyday heroes.







Sergio A. Ortiz is a two-time Pushcart nominee, a six-time Best of the Web nominee, and 2016/17 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. His chapbook, An Animal Resembling Desire, will be published by Finishing Line Press.  He is currently working on his first full-length collection of poems, Elephant Graveyard.



Ma`s Maize Meal by Ndaba Sibanda



She brought in


with her  a silver pot


into which she discharged


water before assigning the vessel


to sit silently  on the warming  plate




When the silver pot was steaming


the water inside it was screaming


emotive gurgles  that got her


toting guarded quantities   


of mealie-meal and stirring




She left the porridge to simmer


and thicken for some time–


the aroma emanating


from the bubbling


was mouth-watering.



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.   



Every day by Eliza Segiet


Translated by Artur Komoter




you leave everyday life far behind,

so you can wait out the bad times here,

comes alive in you

the memory:

of the cloudy sky

and beautiful moments of forgetfulness.


Although memories and plans

cross with each other –

you know

that nothing will be like

it was yesterday.


Always repeat:

it was good that I was here.


Tomorrow, it may surprise you.





Eliza Segiet is Jagiellonian University graduate with a Master’s Degree in Philosophy. She completed postgraduate studies in Cultural Knowledge, Philosophy, Penal Fiscal and Economic Law, and Creative Writing at Jagiellonian University, as well as Film and Television Production in Łódź. She has published three poetry collections and two monodramas.

The Ticking of Winter’s Clock by Linda Imbler



My mother died in winter.

My mother far away.


Spring was to rise in only a few weeks.


It was the fourth of March.

Brown grass and leafless trees

were in endless array outside.


I could hear

the ticking of the clock


as I waited

for the phone to ring.


I have my father,

I told myself.


My father died in winter.

My father far away.


It was the seventh of March

and again, the green was still to come.


And again,

I could hear

the ticking of the clock


as I waited

for the phone to ring.


Then, I was alone.



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

Layers of Winter by Mysti S. Milwee


The bitter cold leaves me bundled

up in layers; two pairs of thick

wool socks that make me itch –

cuddle duds that cling trapping

in the heat to stay warm;

Ski pants that snap but all I want

is a long winter’s nap and roasting

marshmallows by an open fire;

Smoke signals cling to the air and

drift within my every breath that

I expel from my lungs and with

every breath I take a breath of

dry air shadows the moisture –

and every tear that leaks from the

corner of my eye will freeze an

emotion of freedom longing

for springtime.








Mysti S Milwee is an award winning artist, digital artist photographer, and published poet from Southside, Alabama. Her poetry has been published in the PPP E-Zine (India)-Poetics Interview-October- Volume 1: Issue 5-2017; The Alabama Baptist-”Beyond The Veil”-March 30,2017; The Mountain Press- “Gatlinburg Strong”-December 11,2016. Her poetry has been used in academic studies and ministries across the US and abroad. Her art was published in the GloMag (India) in an ekphrastic collaboration with Scott Thomas Outlar.

The Hole by Ann Christine Tabaka


A hole

there is a hole

there is a hole

            in everyone


it cannot be filled

with wealth

with things

with busyness


those who say      –      NO

deny themselves

deny the truth             there is no truth


the hole only   g r o w s





until we find

what we have lost





love fills the hole





Ann Christine Tabaka is a nominee for the 2017 Pushcart Prize in Poetry.

She placed Third in Vita Brevis Best Poem Contest January 2018.  She was selected as Poet of the Month for January 2018 and interviewed by Kingdoms in the Wild. She lives in Delaware, USA.  She loves gardening and cooking.  Chris lives with her husband and two cats. Her most recent credits are Page & Spine, West Texas Literary Review, Oddball Magazine, The Paragon Journal, The Literary Hatchet, The Stray Branch, Trigger Fish Critical Review, Foliate Oak Review, Bindweed Magazine, The Metaworker, Raven, RavensPerch, Anapest Journal, Mused, Apricity Magazine, The Write Launch, The Stray Branch, Scryptic Magazine, Ann Arbor Review, The McKinley Review.









God-coloured sea,

I was having you,

and not having you.



Margarita Serafimova was shortlisted for the Montreal International Poetry Prize 2017. She has two collections in the Bulgarian: “Animals and Other Gods” (2016), “Demons and World” (2017). Her work is forthcomingin Creative Process, Antinarrative, Aji Magazine, Lunaris, New Poetry, Subterranean Blue, Pangolin, and appears in Agenda Poetry, London Grip New Poetry, Trafika Europe, European Literature Network, The Journal, A-Minor, Waxwing, Nixes Mate Review, StepAway, Ink, Sweat and Tears, HeadStuff, Minor Literatures, The Writing Disorder, The Birds We Piled Loosely, Noble/ Gas Quarterly, miller’s pond, Obra/ Artifact, TAYO, Shot Glass Journal, Poetic Diversity, Pure Slush, Harbinger Asylum, Punch, Tuck, Futures Trading, Ginosko, Peacock Journal, Anti-Heroin Chic, and many other places.







Memos by Daginne Aignend


I have too many thoughts in my head

No wonder that some of them slip away

It happens oft that I was about to do

or about to say something, and

suddenly another thought enters my mind.

Don’t even recall what I wanted

in the first place

These days, I have to put notes everywhere

to remember what is really important

I think, my thoughts are an ongoing

stream overflowing my brain basin

Need some more structure in my head,

starting tomorrow

I better hang a memo on the fridge,

so I won’t forget




Daginne Aignend is a pseudonym for the Dutch writer, poetess, photographic artist Inge Wesdijk. She likes hardrock music, fantasy books, is a vegetarian who loves her animals. She’s the Poetry Editor of Whispers and has been published in many poetry journals, magazines and anthologies, in the ‘Tears’ Anthology of the The New York Literary Magazine’ to name one. She has a fun project website www.daginne.com




Serenade: A Moment by Glory Sasikala



He wove dreams with and around me


I will take you to the river

and make you a raft

You can lie there and float

with the current.

I’ll lift you up by a rope to our own tree house

We will watch the blue moon together

and hear the owl hoot.

I will send you love letters on lotus leaves

down the river.

I will weave you flower garlands made of buttercups.

There are open spaces in the forest

where the bamboo bloomed and died

We will go to the stream where the wild animals drink.

I will show you how the cheetah’s eyes

shine in the dark jungle

I will show you how to make baskets

out of palm leaves

And I will make love to you

among the flowers in the hillside

where the birds sing.




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.

PPP Ezine: Poetrypoeticspleasure Ezine Volume 2; Issue 1; January 2018

Poet of the Month: Ndaba Sibanda

The Swing by Renee’ Drummond-Brown

In My Memories by Nandini Srivastava

Refugees by James G. Piatt

The Fractal Maze by Sudip Adhikari

Sonnet VI : Sonnets by Aminul Islam

You Must Have Heard Me by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Five AM by Jake Cosmos Aller

Dry Tears by Daginne Aignend

I am in a Print by Hiroshige by John Grey

About the Poets


Poet of the Month: Ndaba Sibanda



I hear A Nearness   


I listen

I listen to the silence of her storms

I listen to its close remoteness


I listen

I listen to the loudness of her whispers

I listen to its near aloofness


I listen

I hear a heart heaving for some healing

However I hear without a hearing aid


I listen

I hear a song sung in silences and storms

However its remoteness is near and dear







New Phenomena 



Official for what? The only happiness I seem to get from your ministry

Is an outburst of laughter. Some people watching us are unhappy!


They say either that ministry should be called psychiatry

Or a nullity.  I know you are saying less stress to our uncles,


Our dear sisters, our cousins.  Who says poverty

Or indeed stupidity runs deep in our lineage?


Happy we are in Africa! In our state…

Happiness has finally been invented!


Who said we cannot be the first?

Our taxpayers cannot be sad!!



On Bumping Into Her 


She told me about it. The story of guests

who rent cars or a bunch of bunk beds.


I didn’t know what a backpacker hotel

was. She told me she was a backpacker.


No wonder she had her little supplies,

her personal belongings. Her things.


At one time I know she stuttered:

I didn’t catch some words she uttered.


Did she belong to who? I didn’t get it?

Did she talk of her things or her thighs?



Then there was a lesson on travelling,

travelling on budgeted accommodation.


On a backpack being smaller

than a rucksack, on getting  a pack.


I said ok: sackpack ,backsack,

or knapsack or whatever. Bye!





That is Where My Umbilical Cord Is


Today you stand tall in defiance of all the challenges

Right in the southern ­western part of the country


Just like in the year 1893 when a Union Flag was raised

As the huts of King Lobengula’s capital were up in flames


Did Dr Leander Starr Jameson not congratulate himself

For scoring a British South Africa Company`s victory?


In the first place why did King Lobengula say: “I’m he who is”

“Persecuted and rejected” if his ascension had been bloodless?

These days some young folk affectionately call you Skies

I prefer to call you Ntuthuziyathunqa or Ntuthu in short


A nickname which speaks volumes

About you being an industrial hub


Or so you used to be a habitation

Where industrial smoke abounded


Bulawayo my majestic city

Bulawayo what a stunning city


Bulawayo rich in cultural history

Were you not the commercial capital?


A great gateway to Southern Africa?

Were you not our transport nucleus?


For you provided rail links between

Botswana and South Africa and Zambia


They can do or say whatever they want

But Bulawayo you are my umbilical cord


You are my pride and in my heart forever

Bulawayo City of Kings and Queens


Located within the vicinity of the Matobo Hills

And the Victoria Falls and the Hwange National Park


The Swing by Renee’ Drummond-Brown


His mansion has

oak stairs. A southern

flare. The ghost of my past also

resides here.


The sounds of torture echoes like

plantation shutters swinging em’

to N’ fro.

As I polish his silverware. The floors

crack. The walls

speak; who lives here? Certainly

not me!


THAT dirt driveway houses

my DNA. The open door is locked. I enter

from the back to cook

his menus plus

add me some fat-back. My minds

on that auction block. Those slave ships. Moses

parting THAT Red Sea for me. Gotta’ get back

to work; cause, I don’t wanna’ swing. No!

Not on this day.  No! Not me. All

my clean windows see


infamous SHOW tree. Reminding us


that swings plea. To make sure

you hang-em’ on high for

Massa’s sake and the picture-perfect imagery. I’m jus’

a passer by; til’ my turn to swing. Until then,

I’ll jus’ keep on telling; while keeping it clean.



Dedicated to: Self Preservation is the law of the land


A B.A.D. poem



In My Memories by Nandini Srivastava


Shall I tuck you or let you fly in the wind?

Fly like an insane kite

Shall I stop you or let you swim in the river?

Swim like a naughty shellfish

Shall I find you or let you be in my memories?

To be like an unforgettable dream in my life.



Refugees by James G. Piatt



Shattered bits of terror like rusted razor edged tears, pierce hope in the minds of war weary souls, knives of fear splinter hope, leaving only an aching grayness: Weary women with covered heads, tired old men with shaggy beards, sobbing children hungry and afraid, all trudging through rocks and burning sand hoping to escape from chaos and death to a safe refuge in a foreign land. The cold seeps through tents and bones, but they still pray during special hours each day, hoping for an answer in the icy winds of the dark night, while obscure politicians form committees to decide, which poor souls will be sent back to their war torn nations to die. Where is mercy?


The Fractal Maze by Sudip Adhikari



The splattered fuzz converges

like a chiaroscuro, to tell the stories

of becoming and noise.

I am lost in a fractal maze,

but I don’t regret.


We think we are too small

to be the infinity, too frail to dwell

in the folds of a dreamscape.

we think we are the limited hues

of color, caught within the

perimeter of a white canvass.


I keep zooming into myself

and all I can find is me.

I am everywhere. I am the only one

I am the God, whom no religion teaches.

Sonnet VI : Sonnets by Aminul Islam


The sonneteer pens sonnets immaculate

Readers go astounded at his calibre :

Engrossing rhyming scheme,dulcet metre

No prominence find we there inexistent

Critical acclamations formidably flood in

He wins awards national and international

Students around the globe study his sonnets

Many are also doing research on his work

His sonnets have sheerly been a trademark

Since they’re incontrovertibly pure sonnets

Many poets become his followers assiduous

They also earn renown sonneting like him


Thousands of people are still famished

No sonnet could even once them feast!

You Must Have Heard Me by Ryan Quinn Flanagan


skiing the alpine victory

vociferous as a pack of wildebeest

throwing magazines in the air

because the unchecked throne of gravity should

not go unchallenged

my hair parted down the middle

like a true centrist, flakes of dandruff

to announced an unplanned winter

lipstick scrawls over the bathroom mirror

as the throat of my voice belts out

the last dry dregs of Top 40 radio

the hair of my naked legs so numerous

with age that gurus working in teams

could not find me, but you must have heard me

just down the hall, schooling Wagner in spilt pantomime

another horse meat racket busted in the South of Spain

I wonder how many vegetarians are moonlighting

for Interpol, selling bottles of avocado shellac

to foodies with nails under the table

as I sit cross-legged on the floor

cooling down like a bowl of soup,

a spent fire extinguisher in my hands

so that I know the gulag Fascists

have won.




Five AM by Jake Cosmos Aller


In the midst

Of a dismal night

When all about me seem

Somehow affright


When my multitude of friends

Have fled into the ever deepening

Righteous night


Leaving me alone

To face the shitty sun


To race for the phone

And have some fun


Alas I have constipated diarrhea blues

The sky is puke green


My wallet has lost its last green

I have seen a dawning of the blues


I sing to express

My feelings

So somber and depressed


Some day

My world will exist

For now

All that is

Or seemed to be

Is merely a stoned dream

Of burning licorice trees



Dry Tears by Daginne Aignend


They say it will become less

the cramping pain

The suffering, apathy, a lead weight

on the chest, is this a heartache?

Not being able to get through

my daily routine, I sit and stare

I want to scream in grief

but my voice has fallen silent

I want to run and hide

but my body doesn’t respond anymore

Slowly I wither, excruciated by numbness,

as I drown in a pool of dry tears


I am in a Print by Hiroshige by John Grey



I am one of many snowflakes

suspended in mid-air.

This is good for me,

being singular and yet

in the good company of so many

of my kind.

Sure crystals of ice

suggest coldness.

I prefer magic, even beauty.


While some may wish to

blanket the earth,

I am free, forever falling.

Besides, light is always

on the lookout for me.

I can surprise you

with my glitter.


It may seem as if

I’m a lonely prisoner of the winter sky.

But the Inuit have fifty ways

of describing me.

And only one of describing love –



About the Poets


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.


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!”

Nandini Srivastava is 20 and was born and raised in Lakhimpur Kheri in Uttar Pradesh in India. She studies her Pharmacy and Computer Science in her home town and is an avid reader of English Literature. Her works have appeared in Tuck Magazine. Poetry is next to her heart to express the deeper feelings and poignant chronicle of life. Her frolicking mind longs to hang out with North Indian chat and pani poori. She is an emerging poet and short fiction writer and can be contacted at nandinisrivastava1997@gmail.com.

James G. Piatt has published 4 novels, “The Ideal Society,” (2012), “The Monk,” (2013),  “The Nostradamus Conspiracy,” (2015), and Archibald McDougle PI: An Archie McDougle Mystery (2017), 3 collections of poetry, “The Silent Pond,” (2012), “Ancient Rhythms,” (2014), and “Light” (2016), and over 1,000 poems, 35 short stories, and 7 essays. His poems have been nominated for pushcart and best of web awards, and many were published in The Top 100 Poems of 2016, 2015, & 2014 Anthologies, and the 2017 Poet’s Showcase and Yearbook. His fourth collection of poetry will be released this year.


Sudeep Adhikari is a structural engineer/Lecturer  from Kathmandu, Nepal.   His poetry has appeared in more than eighty literary magazines, online/print. His recent publications were with  Beatnik Cowboys, Zombie Logic Review, The Bees Are Dead, Silver Birch Press and Eunoia Review. He digs beat poetry, punk rock, hip-hop, science and good beer.

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.

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, Setu, In Between Hangovers, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.

Jake Cosmos Aller has completed 10 volumes of poetry, three SF novels, and an unpublished collection of short stories.  After retirement he began submitting to various publishers and contests, and has been published in many literary magazines and online poetry sites such as “Poetry Soup”, “All Poetry”, “Moon Café”, “Duane’s Poetree”, “Eskimo Pie Net”, “Creativity Webzine”, “Writer’s Newsletter”, “Down in the Dirt”, and Facebook poetry sites.

Daginne Aignend is a pseudonym for the Dutch poetess and photographic artist Inge Wesdijk. She likes hard rock music and fantasy books. She is a vegetarian and spends a lot of time with her animals. Daginne posted some of her poems on her Facebook page and on her fun project website http://www.daginne.com, she’s also the co-editor of Degenerate Literature, a poetry, flash fiction, and arts E-zine. She has been published in several Poetry Review Magazines, in the bilingual anthology (English/Farsi), ‘Where Are You From?’ and in the Contemporary Poet’s Group anthology ‘Dandelion in a Vase of Roses’.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Front Range Review, Studio One and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Naugatuck River Review, Abyss and Apex and Midwest Quarterly.


Poetrypoeticspleasure Ezine Volume 1; Issue 7; December 2017

Poet of the Month: Wayne Russell
Me, Myself, and Solitaire by Christine Tabaka
Shangrila by Daniel de Culla
His Soul was Operated on in1998 by Grant Guy
Onika by Gary Ingram
Impersonations by Chad M. Horn
A Time of Night by Steve Klepetar
Flight by Dev Dutt
Waiting Time by Marc Carver
About the Poets

Poet of the Month: Wayne Russell

Still Life

I reached out across the miles, flesh, and blood stretching.
I cried out from the mountain tops and moonlit shorelines.
You abandon me, never once looking back, to say farewell.
Still life in my eyes, it comes out in twinkles and brief flashes.
Still, life in the bottom of my neurotic soul, though it never feels
that way.


Age is a Beast

The sparkle in my eyes may have dimmed with the cruel passing of time.
Yes, the flesh of my body now creaks, knees and hips moan, as I struggle
up the stairs; in Winter the scream loudest.

I have my daemons, we all have them, I like the pint a bit too much, and
for that, the weight seems to stick around, like a lover that won’t leave after
the act is done and the words hover over our heads like apparitions.

To age is the thorny crown of cruelty, thrust down upon our imperfect souls,
flesh and blood weeping, fragmented in uncleansed streets and moaning; howling
at the spontaneous stars, stars that gallop across virgin skies, luminous!

Age is a beast, slow hands of time are the enemy, we all march along this
dusty path of our mission; merely actors that enter and exit right on cue,
when the time is right, we take our bow, thank you and good night.

the loner

the eccentric loner stalks these streets
back at what he knows best
scrubbing the backside of society
in old folks homes and madhouses
in supermarkets
and war machine
makers of death
planes hovering
cloaked in the plague of observing humanity
basking in these isles run by
the vagrant dogs of greed and pestilence
the nights
where we roam and we wish that we were no more
and we just wish that he could push this broom aside
and elope with them
the free
the dead of reckoning
calculating our next


when sweet dreams faze into nightmares
when happiness metamorphizes into melancholic
symphonies of the damned

when the innocence of childhood is replaced by
the status quo of a bloodletting that plunges rusted
daggers into stone hearts

when agape love that we thought that was here
to cradle us into the grave yet abandon us
into marching relics of the sweet nectar jaded vine

golden circles of infinite promise wedding vows cast
aside into the abyss of an evil world transfixed into
the choking cosmos regurgitating the loss now so

abundantly clear leave us then like this onslaught of
reds oranges yellows and browns a kaleidoscope of
death and of dying

innocent tears of wretched globes tribal hemispheres
have ceased to be love a noose around the inhabited
neck of avalanche frozen in the sick moment of black
plague death

narcissist ego left on the epoch of Bedlam

down by the sea

down by the sea
we toppled
entranced with intellect
and souls that confused
the stars
galloping in their
complacent gaze
Charleston beach dreams
unfolding and submissive
jasmine hair
and death coal black eyes
upturned nose
and we kissed and held hands
two skeletons stuck in between
mirrors of early 90’s sway
in the moment
oblivious to life
far removed from shadow claws
of raven infinite slumber
i hold onto our moment
a relic now lost
in the ambiance
of time

Me, Myself, and Solitaire by Christine Tabaka

Playing solitaire on a lazy afternoon
as a patch of sunlight
moves slowly across the floor,
the cat follows it stretched out,
and belly up.

In the monotonous rhythm
of turning over cards in threes,
I catch myself cheating.
I discover the red queen and yell
“off with her head.”
The cat looks up at me and blinks.
She knows that I am mad.

The sunlight begins to fade.
I tire of shuffling cards.
We both become bored
with the mundane.
Cards scatter on the floor with a flourish,
as the cat runs off to hide
under the bed.

I am now left all alone
with me, myself, and I.
Shangrila by Daniel de Culla

-¿Dónde vas, James Hilton
Dónde vas, triste de ti?

-Voy en busca de mis Horizontes Perdidos
En la gran montaña azulada del Karakal

En Baskul, Afganistán.
-Si Tomás Moro ya se ha muerto
En su Utopía, que yo le vi
Escondido en una Shamballa
Más allá de las montañas nevadas
De la cordillera del Himalaya.
Su cadáver le velaba el cónsul británico
Hufg Conway, su asistente Charles Mallinson
La misionera cristiana Roberta Brinklow
Y el comerciante estadounidense
Henry D. Barnard.
También estaba King Kong
Que murió por nuestros pecados
Guardián de Shangrila
Que a las parejas de novios que vienen
Nos les deja entrar entre semana
Y al caballero lozano, que se le enfrenta
Porque quiere meterse para adentro

Le grita:

-Tú, no. Primero, la bella dama.
Y él le responde:
-Pero si usted es mi padre

Y yo soy su hijo, ¡Viejo¡
Como dice Charles Darwin.
Shangrila (English)

-Where are you going, James Hilton?
Where are you going, sad about you?
-I’m looking for my Lost Horizons
On the great bluish mountain of the Karakal

In Baskul, Afghanistan.
-If Tomás Moro is already dead
In his Utopia, I saw him
Hidden in a Shamballa
Beyond the snowy mountains
From the Himalayas range.
His body was guarded by the British consul
Hufg Conway, his assistant Charles Mallinson
Christian missionary Roberta Brinklow
And the American merchant
Henry D. Barnard.
There was also King Kong
Who died for our sins
Guardian of Shangrila

That to the bridal couples that are coming
He don’t let in, only between week
And to the lusty gentleman, who faces him
Because he wants to get inside

He kick up a great fuss:
-You, not. The beautiful lady, first¡

He answering:
-But if you are my father
And I am Your son, Viejo [Old man]¡
As Charles Darwin says.


Translation -Daniel de Culla

His Soul was Operated on in 1998 by Grant Guy
His soul was operated on in 1998
He no longer needed and had it extracted
Since he had not loved since 1971 what good is a soul
He gave up on man and the world in 1972

Things went down hill after that
Until God’s roof caved in on him
That was the final straw
Since he gave up on God in 1963

Sure he could have ended it all
Jumping on the Disraeli Bridge
Stealing his brother’s gun
Falling in front of an oncoming bus like his friend in 1958

None of that was good enough

He was going to be a useless thorn
In the side of the world’s declining humanity

Rose by any other name is a prick
Onika by Gary Ingram

Placid lakes,winds blow her name ,

From the mountain tops , across the plains to the seas ,and far beyond

Troubled times, I think not, the spirit of the mountain is my name I once belonged to the world of man but now I’ve come to all as a friend

Like roaring rivers buried in hidden forests, all the trees that live there know my name

I whispered the name of my fathers into the mountain air

Let swirling winds and memories end, bound by heaven a child did descend

Let all your troubled pain within the life you lead
Rest in but a single tear
Knowing that Onika is near,

Let the breath of heaven swirl and sway all around you

I am here now, and she is with me, a hand so precious, Onika, she says is her name

I’ll guard her from fire ,as angels eyes and mine will be the veil that covers you

Until. Your daylights no more, till the joining of two

.I must go now, for the winds call me home

Onika and I, say farewell, we’ll see you on the other side

Hold your chin up n smile with joy, a blessing you made, to play with the other girls and boys

Life’s sometimes a tragic thing, but remember my voice ,as u will know I’m near

It whispers, I’m here


Impersonations by Chad M. Horn

Imitated by poet dead-panners
Manipulated musings compromised
Penetrated prose-like penning matters
Eliminated strict-form formalized
Radiated rigidness improvised
Simulated soliloquy outlined
Overstated and overemphasized
Narrated neurosis of mastermind
Animated mimicking much maligned
Titillated sonnet-shaping aping
Inflated ego? my bylines unsigned
Opinionated critique escaping
Negated need for muse-juice battery
Sophisticated form of flattery

A Time of Night by Steve Klepetar

“I have seen the building drift moonlight through geraniums
late at night when trucks were few”

W. S Merwin

There’s a time of night when bricks and steel
shimmer into pools: absent,
iridescent, insubstantial, cold.
Were you awake then,
or was it your shadow prowling the ledge,
looking down at trash cans and cats?
I felt you move along the walls,
and I shuddered in my bed, as if a northern wind
blew down the avenue.
I thought I wrapped myself in furs,
but that was a dream, where snow piled up
almost to the windows.
Tonight the trucks have gone, their groaning
like a silence in the street.
I thought I saw you in moonlight,
your silver hair burning in the dark.
I thought you reached for me, long fingers
stretching across a universe of years.
You were mirrored by snow, and around your feet
cats spun and fought for scraps of food.
Fur and blood, night noises to wake the neighborhood.
I search, but you are gone, and again the seasons change.
At the window my eyes sting in gray dawn.
Buildings melt, slowly drizzling in the grainy light.
Flight by Dev Dutt

Your migration
to another tree
beyond my fencing
was not unusual,
you saw rainbows
on hanging creepers
with wild passion,
against my dark
shadowed moribund
fruits I bear
no more sweeten
your tongue
since you tasted
fruits beyond my fencing…
Waiting Time by Marc Carver

I wait
then wait some more
sometimes it is hard to wait.
You have to stop yourself,
take a deep breath
know that it is not quite the right time.

You have to look at it from the other side
You can look into the window
and you see something totally different from when you look out
but still
it is the same window.

So still I am here
and the wait goes on
as it may forever.

He never finished anything, they may say about me
he said it was never the right time
but they don’t understand
the waiting
is the most important part.
Wild Was the Wind by John Robbins

Nothing smells like the wind that blows across the dessert at night.

Nothing looms heavier than bad choices and burnt out lives .
She always liked my hands between her thighs as we drove at night.

She laid her head on my shoulder as the wind through the window was are music, And the miles seemed endless.

That feeling can haunt a man’s
Soul when its gone .

She clung to me a pillar within the darkness.
Straddled me as we parked and released her passions with the nights embrace .

I have forgotten much in my time but I have never forgotten her or that moment .

Sunrise was magic but so was all I experienced with you.

I left a rose upon your headstone,
Not all things stay buried with the past.
Wild is the wind that blows across the dessert tonight.

It haunts me as do you .

Somewhere else sweetheart .
I will know you again .


Wild was the wind that drove you from my side .

About the Poets

Wayne Russell is a creative writer and amateur photographer, that was born and raised in Florida, he has traveled the world and has resided in Dunoon, Scotland, and Wellington, New Zealand, currently resides in Columbus, Ohio. Waynes writing and photography dwell upon the more painful events that have shaped his life and shape the world around him. Whether it be issues of social justice, homelessness, governmental corruption, depression, autism, abandonment, alcohol abuse, and isolation; he is musing about it and churning out the poems, songs, and short fiction stories. Waynes has been published in Poets Espresso Review, Nomadic Voices Magazine, Zaira Journal, Danse Macabre, The Bitchin’ Kitschs’ and the Rolling Thunder Press.

Ann Christine Tabaka lives in Delaware, USA. She is a published poet and artist. She loves gardening and cooking. Chris lives with her husband and two cats. Her most recent credits are The Paragon Journal, The Literary Hatchet, The Metaworker, Raven Cage Ezine, RavensPerch, Anapest Journal, Mused, Apricity Magazine, Longshot Island, Indiana Voice Journal, Halcyon Days Magazine, The Society of Classical Poets, and BSU’s Celestial Musings Anthology.

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, 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. 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.

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, Wales, India and England. He has three books published. He was the 2004 recipient of the MAC’s 2004 Award of Distinction and the 2017 recipient of the WAC’s Making A Difference Award.

Gary Lawrence Ingram is an Oklahoma based writer. His paperback book “Shadows of the Past” is available at amazon.com. Gary has recently been published in The Secret Life of Poets Magazine, at youtube.com, and in the anthology Dandelion in a Vase of Roses. His newest book, One Thousand Love Poems is the latest flow of words from this poet for whom writing is a nece

Chad M. Horn has served as emcee for numerous poetry events over the year; including annual Kentucky Writer’s Day programs and readings. He is an honorary Lifetime Member of the Elizabeth Madox Roberts Society.

Steve Klepetar lives in Saint Cloud, Minnesota. His work has received several nominations for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize, including four in 2016. Recent collections include Family Reunion (Big Table), A Landscape in Hell (Flutter Press), and How Fascism Comes to America (Locofo Chaps).

Dev Dutt is a Banker,writing is his passion and poetry his breath. He has many published poems to his credit in anthologies and periodicals in India and abroad. He was nominated in finalist list of Poetry contest conducted by American Poetry Society and won prize for his poem ” Confessions of a dying man” by The Quest, Ranchi.

Marc Carver is a lover of poetry and a practitioner of the mysterious art of poetry writing.

John Patrick Robbins is a barroom poet who’s work has Appeared in In between Hangover’s, Your One Phone Call, The Outlaw Poetry Network, and The Poets Community. His words, like his work are always unfiltered.

The pdf can be downloaded here:

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PPP v1i7




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:

PPP v1i5


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:

PPP v1i4



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!”


An Elephant in the Room by Renee’ Drummond-Brown                                                                                

A pink elephant in the room.

Is obviously present, nonetheless metaphorically doomed.

An issue none wants to discuss.

A challenge beyond what appears true.