PPP Ezine Poetrypoeticspleasure Ezine Volume 2; Issue 8; September 2018

Poet of the Month: Moinak Dutta

Dad by Jimmy Sharma

Finding My Way Through This Life by Wayne Russell

Will Be Quiet by Ahmad Al-khatat

He Falls More and Smiles Less by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Flowers in Stone by Neil Ellman

my sister: the sea by linda m. crate

Full Moon by Steve Klepetar

Homage to John Logan by Stefanie Bennett

Odd Species by Grant Guy

Slate by Scott Thomas Outlar

 

ppp8

 

Poet of the Month: Moinak Dutta

 

Places and vignettes, (travel poetry )

 

 

At Attari

————

Should’ve brought that lavender scented prickly heat powder

Was the first thing Labanya thought

Coming out of the car

Which had brought her to the hotel gate of Singh International,

 

Garment market was nearby

That was a relief,

But this Amitava,

When will he learn proper how to arrange for a tour itinerary

Keeping in mind the health and mind?

 

Has anyone ever made a journey from soothing relaxing luxurious clime to the horrid, sultry, sweating one?

 

Attari

 

It reminded her of bollywood

The hunks  in olive uniforms

Singing letters coming from home,

 

 

Border,

 

How romantic the flick was!

How much filled with chivalry!

 

The car again started

After Labanya added a patch on her face,

Powder flakes were running down her cheek

Like disobedient crowd of truant school boys,

 

The stadium ,

 

It looked like a grand occasion

Flags got hoisted,

Women danced,

Children clapped,

 

Patriotism

Came like several rounds of applause

Thundering shouts,

 

Gates on both sides

Started to close,

 

The show was over.

 

 

 

That fruit juice seller at Kufri

———————————————-

 

A meandering road lied upfront

Like a virgin spreading her charms,

The warmth of the day brought smell of

Cherries, apples and a lot of candy floss;

 

Hiking a few kilometres when thought to rest

The vendor selling juice appeared

I must have been thirsty

For took only few minutes

To empty the steel tumbler,

‘ want another?’

The vendor asked, business like his tone,

‘ yes, one more please’

I had been the most agreeable thing,

Docile, modest, too gentlemanly,

 

He smiled,

An all knowing smile,

‘ Kufri leaves no one thirsty’

He said.

I agreed not to disagree.

 

 

3.

Letter from Solan

————————————-

How many times have I thought to write

 

A letter to you,

 

A really long one filled with all the flavours and smell

 

That came one after another to me

 

As I went touring from one place to another,

 

Time,

 

it seemed speeding  like trains

 

Hurrying , having its own rhythm;

 

I peered out of the windows of flowing time,

 

like a wonder struck one,

 

Trees went past,

 

So also hills and valleys,

 

And rivers too,

 

I found them all singing for me

 

And for you too;

 

At that little station of Solan

 

When we stopped for awhile,

 

Got down with what desire know not I,

 

But those sights,

 

They wrapped me with curious blessed feel,

 

At one point thought

 

I should leave all my bags and baggage there on the loco

 

And just stay back,

 

Right there,

 

But you,

 

Your face came like call of home.

 

 

 

4.

At that little station where the train stopped for awhile

—————————————————————————

It had been that kind of a day

When you would remain the most blessed one

You would get  a seat by the window of a toy train

And watch how it chugged along the narrow gauge

Making whistle now and then which went away

Waning from a shrill pitch to a song

Quite soothing,

Or was it that those children with bright and happy faces

 Akin to newly woken flowers, who  giggled and laughed aloud

Which made everything so enchanting?

May be,

I looked at my partner of everything,

My lover for fifteen years,

My mate for twenty,

My friend for thirty,

 

She looked like a queen of hearts,

Radiating splendour,

Her lips had caught the hues of roses,

Beside her sat her soulmate

Her childhood bud

In whom I found my sister’s image-

Daring, tomboyish and rebellious;

Beside them, sat a local couple,

Returning from Delhi,

– A Delhite woman and her man from the hills;

 

The train moved like a happy go lucky kind of a kid,

Whistling and singing,

Then that kid stopped,

As if he had thought to take rest for a few minutes-

To drink water, to have a plate of paneer tikka masala;

My better half  and  sister  got down,

Asking me to join them,

 I got down ,

My wife and my sister went to the only shop on the station

Selling pakoras and coffee,

I stood on the platform,

The kid like toy train waited beside me,

 

The station looked like the sweetest place on earth-

Surrounded by hills overlooking it like guardians,

And those trees-

they were like angels dressed for the spring festival

– flowers all over their bodies,

Flowers on their arms,

Their ears,

Their heads;

I thought I should never try to write poems

For they never express a day like that

Or a station like that where the kid like train stopped,

Or trees like those which were no less than fairies.

 

 

 

 

Moinak Dutta’s poems and stories are published in national and international anthologies and magazines and also dailies including World Peace Poetry Anthology ‘ ( United Nations),  ‘Setu’ ‘ The Indian Periodical’ ‘ Pangolin Review’ ‘ Tuck Magazine’ ‘ Duane’s Poetree’, ‘ Tell me your story’ etc.

His first full length fiction Online@Offline was published in 2014,  by Lifi Publications. His second fiction In search of la radice was published in 2017 by Xpress Publications.

 

 

Dad by Jimmy Sharma

 

 

You taught me all wrong, Dad

 

You told me that my smiles brought you joy

 

But my smiles made me look a flirt, an enchantress.

 

 

 

This is what they tell me with their eyes full of lust

 

You told me to be straight forward and transparent as water

 

But my outlook is questioned every now and then.

 

 

 

You taught me to be humble

 

But they think I am timid

 

You taught me values

 

But my politeness is misunderstood

 

Dad, could everyone become as simple as you were?

 

Or I’d become mad one day

 

Correcting and explaining.

 

 

 

Jimmy Sharma teaches English Literature and Communicative English at Kurukshetra University, Kurukshetra, Haryana (India). She read for a Ph D on the writings of Amitav Ghosh from Panjab University, Chandigarh. She is the author of four books: Communicative English, Communicative English-I, Nayantara Sahgal: A Critical Study and a book of poems Echoes Within. Her work has appeared in various national and international journals. She can be contacted at echoeswithin82@gmail.com.

 

 

 

Finding My Way Through This Life by Wayne Russell

 

 

Finding my way through this life

and into the next has been catastrophic.

 

 

Along this gnarled path, strewn with

broken hearts, and twisted psyche’s,

I have bare witness, to madness and love.

 

 

Sifting through grains of translucent sand,

watching loved ones fade away, gnarled

in the coldest grip of deaths stalemate,

checkmate.

 

 

Waves of lost opportunity washed over the

drowning man, perplexed by evil hiss, Lucifer

shuffle and stamp me out.

 

 

Reborn and rise! The Phoenix! Soaring spirits,

higher towards golden medallion sun!

 

Do not fade like Icarus onto that tear stained

midday sun, do not perish like a dream that

never came to fruition.

 

Find your way through this life…..

 

 

 

Wayne Russell is a creative writer that was born and raised in Tampa, Florida. Wayne is the founder and former editor and chief of Degenerate Literature. Sadly, due to unforeseen circumstances and time restraints, DL closed in late 2017. Wayne’s poetry, short stories, and photography have been widely published both online and in print.

Will Be Quiet by Ahmad Al-khatat

 

 

I’m seeking a land, and not a homeland

Without the aid of Google maps, instead

 

I will discover a new land with a loyal pet as

I gave up from my friends a long time ago

 

I want to work like a bee, and fly with

the birds by the beautiful blue skies

 

I create a family of different plants

with seeds of my own, and rain from God

 

being a writer is being a father of grieves, and

writing about what the city lights hid from me

 

the rain drops wash the rooves of leaders

and damage the shelters of few believers

 

with my eyes I see, while nothing stops me from 

crying when I hear my adopted brother’s dying

 

I jump into the dead sea to cure my wounds

as I will have new cuts with no pain as long as

 

I will be drinking whiskey, and creating an unhealthy

cloud from the smoke of my addiction to cigarettes

 

being happy doesn’t mean I’m sleeping without

counting the stars, instead it’s another way to

 

forget that I am actually being hanged to death

since the day, I decided to own a colour of the rainbow

 

I will be quite with the mirror, and hold 

The candle dropping more wax in my throat

 

 

Ahmad Al-Khatat was born in Baghdad on May 8th. From Iraq, he came to Canada at the age of 10, the same age when he wrote my very first poem back in the year 2000. He also Ahmad has been published in several press publications and anthologies all over the world. And he currently studies Political Sciences, at the Concordia University in Montreal. He recently have published his two chapbooks “The Bleeding Heart Poet” and “Love On The War’s Frontline” with Alien Buddha Press. It is available for sale on Amazon. Most of his new and old poems are also available on his official page Bleeding Heart Poet Copyright on Facebook.

He Falls More and Smiles Less by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

 

 

This is a geological survey.

 

This is rum-runners attempting a half marathon.

 

This is all that can be said holding back.

 

I do not believe anything that smells like pepperoni.

 

                    

 

The butcher has a knife and therefore my attention.

 

I would rather be guilty of something than innocent.

 

The way you hold your tea cup is a geological survey.

 

The old wise man is a lie.

 

 

 

He falls more and smiles less.

 

Break a hip and you are goners.

 

This is candy wrappers in flooded culverts.

 

This is free shipping.

 

 

 

Take it up with the city planners.

 

You are a town because they didn’t think big enough.

 

I am a worm in the wriggling hopscotch mouth of good graces.

 

This is witness testimony.

 

 

 

This is sensory deprivation tanks on the battlefield.

 

Smog is environmental hazing.

 

Pepperoni does not believe in the butcher.

 

Walk away and you are goners.

 

 

 

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.


Flowers in Stone by Neil Ellman

 

(after the painting by Paul Klee)

 

 

Flowers will grow

 

wherever they will

 

in gardens and glens

 

graveyards and streets

 

wherever their seeds

 

dropped by the wind

 

determine to live

 

as if they could share

 

their souls

 

with they who inhabit

 

the earth

 

and welcome them

 

to the hardness

 

of eternal stone.

 

 

Neil Ellman is a poet from New Jersey.  He has published more than 1,500 poems, 1,200 of which are ekphrastic and written in response to works of modern art, in print and online journals, anthologies and chapbooks throughout the world.  He has been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize and twice for Best of the Net.

my sister: the sea by linda m. crate

 

singing in the ocean, i forgot my place was on land; they’ve always called me mermaid—the sea is my sister, and i am a daughter of the moon and sun; shimmering and glimmering tongues of truth and relief wash away my pain—here, i can be wild as fierce as i know myself to be, because the ocean understands; she does not judge me as people do just erodes away all the things i need to forget—the ocean is a place of hope and dreaming, a place that takes me out of the empty and broken promises people have given me that still cut into my flesh and heart like barbed wire;  here my heart is still and knows peace—the ocean knows i won’t beg on my knees, she knows that i will always fiercely fight for all my light and my dreams—she washes away the nightmares and the monsters so i can be freed of the darkness that foolishly believes it has any dominion over me.

 

 

 

 

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).

Full Moon by Steve Klepetar

 

 

They say the moon is full tonight,

 

but I can’t see it.

 

The air is filled with rain,

 

which falls out of darkness

 

past the streetlights shining

 

in puddles below.

 

When my mother was dying,

 

she forgot about the moon,

 

how it sometimes resembled an eye.

 

When she was younger,

 

she would point to the moon

 

on cloudless nights,

 

or on nights when clouds

 

drifted over the moon’s face,

 

leaving smoky shadows in the sky.

 

Steve Klepetar lives and writes in the Berkshires, in western Massachusetts. His work has received several nominations for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize, including three in 2017. Recent collections include “A Landscape in Hell,” “How Fascism Comes to America,” and “Why Glass Shatters.”

 

 

Homage to John Logan by Stefanie Bennett

 

 

The dark has a door

All of its own

Through which

Shines

The begotten

Love-light

Of sorrow.

 

To name it – you

Claim it.

That

Argus Eye

… The high road

So faithfully

Trampled.

 

 

Stefanie Bennett has published several volumes of poetry, a novel and a libretto and is of mixed ancestry – Italian/Irish/Paugussett-Shawnee; she was born in Queensland, Australia. Her recent poetry collection ‘The Vanishing’ is published by Walleah Press – available from Walleah and Amazon. “Blanks From The Other World” will be launched later this year.

 

 

 

Odd Species by Grant Guy

 

 

We are an odd species

Who pass on our darkest recesses onto others

We blames our homegrown sins onto the child

The housewife the construction worker the whore

The cop and the outlaw

We believe that is what God expects of us

Why else would it have given us

The accusing pointing finger

 

 

 

 

 

Grant Guy is a Canadian poet, writer and playwright. He has over one hundred poems and short stories published in internationally. He has three books published: Open Fragments, On the Bright Side of Down and Bus Stop Bus Stop His plays include an adaptation of Paradise Lost and the Grand Inquisitor. He was the 2004 recipient of the MAC’s 2004 Award of Distinction and the 2017 recipient of the WAC Making A Difference Award. 

 

 

 

Slate by Scott Thomas Outlar

 

Wipe me clean

 

without Clorox or bleach

 

just simple honesty

 

 

 

Sanitation is next to salvation

 

in some circles

 

 

 

Sacred vowels

 

squeak

 

ooh and ah

 

before sighing

 

 

 

Little spaces in the corner

 

dusted off

 

brought to surface

 

made to shine

 

 

 

Lord, help me find

 

the right words

 

to tithe

 

 

 

All I have

 

left to offer

 

are my dreams

 

 

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.

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PPP Ezine: Poetrypoeticspleasure Ezine Volume 2; Issue 5; June 2018

Poetrypoeticspleasure Ezine

Volume 2; Issue 5; June 2018


Poet of the Month: Lynn Long
Poems by Margarita Serafimova
Commitment by Allison Grayhurst
Freedom by Antony King
Exchanges by Darrell Herbert
Trying too Hard by Steve Klepetar
I am… by Meekha Singh
Veil of the Moon by Ahmad Al-khatat
More In Common Than Not by Kelli Gavin
To the Cobbler Who Took My Shoes by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

 

Poet of the Month: Lynn Long

 

Her canvas

 

His words

Together

come to

life in the

silence

heard…

Painted

in loves

true rarity

Alive with

vibrant

clarity

Her canvas

His words

resound

in the

silence

heard…

 

In a dream

In a dream

I see my destiny

A love so real

I wake anew,

but daylight is

my harsh reality

and I struggle

to get through

The morning after

is my only clue..

 

In a parallel universe

In a parallel universe

where day is night,

exists a world of

my own device

Where reality is

never sure, for

the road ahead

is often blurred

And, perception

once perceived,

is now deception

masked in dream

Both worlds must

collide, yet, only

one shall survive

Which one will

I choose, knowing

either way, I

lose…

 

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

Poems by Margarita Serafimova

God-coloured sea,

I was having you,

and not having you.

*

Bodies of birds are shining in your sky,

and winter forests are overflowing.

Air, air and truth.

*

A brown little fish

in the sun.

Your eye in my desire.

*

One is the true place, said the food.

The moment, said the lights and the sounds.

One only, confirmed my great I.

*

The Sea of Dimitris

There it is,

beautifully dark like eternity,

and ever lighter like a coming day.

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). Some of her work: https://www.facebook.com/MargaritaISerafimova/?ref=aymt_homepage_panel.

Commitment by Allison Grayhurst

Take the end of the root and

squeeze. Air is not wind or

a wave. Gazing into the darkest of eyes,

needs forgotten in the tale

of becoming something more than shape,

someone more than someone who rocks

in despair or madness.

I held you with my

mind and in my arms, held you broken and stoic

as all dangerous dreams. I was afraid to tell you

but I told you anyway and the song grew into a sunset.

Eaten by gravity, blurring in potency as it traveled

past the horizon. I saw

you were the willow tree, the pine tree and the birch

that scattered leaves and seeds throughout the large acreage yard.

I was a raccoon, a beetle bug and a tiny bird.

I moved through you, across you,

made my home inside of you. Can you see

how much of what was mine depended on yours?

When the yard caught on fire,

the fire seeped into my joints, extending into my aura

and all your seeds around me of brown and green.

Not a single day when I did not fight to keep your will and commands,

not a day without struggle to keep afloat, keep at bay the urge to

sink or draw the ravenous sharks near and nearer until

they touched – fin against my flesh and then something

sharper.

You love me you say, but it is a love

I cannot understand. I know it is a love, colossal, ruthless

in its perfection but it hurts like withholding, hurts

as I try to adore you and be absolved by a mutual tenderness.

You are final and in this I have no say. I love you, but we are not

dancing. I trust you, but we are not

sharing with ease. I am left aching, in sharp

icicle-tip-pounding-lack, struggling to make sense and find “the law”

if there is no mercy to be seen.

I should be lucky to know you even as I do, as most

walk the Earth without discovering a trace of your existence.

But is there something new for us?

Is there a bouquet around the corner? A line we can cross and keep

on the other side? I give you my wings, my prints

and all of my sacred stones. Take me

into your softness or leave me here

on these barren sharp ridges. Between us,

there are no secrets, even my children

are freely yours.

 

 

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


Freedom by Antony King

Tears for the forgotten

The ones that stay behind

Ones that have abandoned

The peace that love provides.

Those who stand on different lines

And rally for their cause…

Leaving hatred in the hearts of some

Causing some.. to rebuild walls.

But is passion for the weak of heart

The quiet timid souls…

Or do we roar like lions

As poetic warrior foes.

For the heart it knows no boundary

Its choice we can’t deny

The bonds that join two heart alike..

Can never be untied.

Antony King is a writer/Poet from Eastern Kentucky. His formal years were spent in Cleveland Ohio were he was privately educated in The Arts, Music and Literature. Antony is an active member in several poetry societies and his works have been read in the UK. He is currently working on the first of two poetry offerings that will be available soon.

Exchanges by Darrell Herbert

Betrayal comes from those who we least expect

Well, if that’s the case then I encounter neglect

Well, if that’s the case then I decline accept

Please give me what I need

A love that I’ve not received

In exchange for you and me

Exchanges, we’re only humans going through changes

Now we’re just strangers who are the strangest

Laziest, no, the craziest

Rejection comes from those who we want the most

Ignoring phone calls to avoid the toast

We’d do anything for the host

Yet we hate when they go ghost

Please give me what I need

A love that I’ve not received

In exchange for you and me

Please give me what I need

A love that I’ve not received

In exchange for you and me

I want to OD on my DOB

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 and the Best Story 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 etc.

Trying too Hard by Steve Klepetar

Rain all day, and orioles spin

from branch to branch in this

sudden cold. October Mountain

shrugs off the last snow.

Pines stand tall among birches.

We have been trying too hard,

washing windows, scrubbing floors.

Our hands have turned red,

our mops worn to ragged threads.

Outside the rain thickens.

It glistens on the long grass.

Past the pond, mountains

disappear behind a scrim of cloud.

Frogs cry as if their voices

would be lost without this mourning din,

these sharp sobs breaking new spring air.

 

Steve Klepetar lives and writes in the Berkshires, in western Massachusetts. His work has received several nominations for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize, including three in 2017. Recent collections include “A Landscape in Hell,” “How Fascism Comes to America,” and “Why Glass Shatters.”

 

I am… by Meekha Singh

I am the dream that never dreams

I search life’s intricacies inside a dewy petal

A life is a gasp of breath as quick as death

I know and I see and yet I persist

Beneath the muscles of a reflexive living

I seek passion’s evanescent touch

I know fear as I walk into the eye of the storm

I sew my gaping wounds with a needle overused

I breathe a smile onto the air that is free

I am

Wholesome

 

Meekha Singh is an IT professional from Southern India. He has been writing poems for past few years and has been self-published in various poetic communities under the pen name Kali (short for Kaleidoscope).


 

Veil of the Moon by Ahmad Al-khatat

My heart has many doors for you tonight

Many candles I have for our anniversary

But no more wishes are worth asking for,

When everything is falling apart ‘tween us

I miss listening to the music of my homeland

Where I see myself as lucky or even a loser

I’m a happy being dancing by the flowers

Stepping on the leaves that will hide my grave

I just want to go back and fix the damages

I tried to fold my mistakes from the past

While love letters and roses bloom under the rain

But you ignore my tears and miserable smile

My grandma died before Mother’s Day

She’s away and unseen, unheard, and unsure

If she will understand the reason why is her

Veil is now worn by the moon in the early dawn

Nobody wants to remember me anymore

Nobody cares if I will live for today or not

So many pictures taken and familiar faces,

Unfortunately, those faces are no longer the same

I’m sorry for being who I am to you all

Maybe I should let my heart break slowly to

Feel the distance between life and death

The veil of the moon is my grandma’s face waiting on me

Ahmad Al-Khatat was born in Baghdad on May 8th. From Iraq, he came to Canada at the age of 10, the same age when he wrote his very first poem back in the year 2000. He also has been published in several press publications and anthologies all over the world and currently studies Political Sciences, at the Concordia University in Montreal. He has recently published his first chapbook “The Bleeding Heart Poet” with Alien Buddha Press. It is available for sale on Amazon. Most of his new and old poems are also available on his official page Bleeding Heart Poet on Facebook.   

More in Common Than Not by Kelli Gavin

When I admire the rolling hills,

you believe they are only more mountains to climb.

When I am inspired by a new challenge,

you are overwhelmed by the simple aspects of each day.

When your heart becomes heavy and your breathing labored,

take a deep breath, and begin to hold every thought captive.

When I am surrounded by others and thrive on the company,

you often retreat and are invigorated by the solace.

When I am delighted at the idea of travel and exploring,

you find the only outings necessary are for groceries or work.

I wonder if you and I will ever meet in between.

If we will ever have more in common than not.

When I am enthralled by an audience and take the stage,

you explore the back recesses of a coffee shop no one frequents.

When my mind wanders and I brainstorm about the future,

you find ways to dive into bed just so each day will end.

When your heart becomes heavy and your breath labored,

take a deep breath, and begin to hold every thought captive. 

When I find myself enjoying friendships I never thought possible,

you draw your select few closer and avoid anyone new.

When I am filled with uncontainable joy and laugh freely,

you find unrestrained displays of emotion embarrassing.

I wonder if you and I will ever met in between.

If we will ever have more in common than not.

 

Kelli Gavin lives in Carver, Minnesota with Josh, her husband of an obscene amount of years and they have two crazy kids. She is a Writer, Professional Organizer and owns Home & Life Organization and a small Jewelry Company. She enjoys writing, reading, swimming, and spending time with family and friends. She abhors walks on the beach (sand in places no one wishes sand to be), candle lit dinners, (can’t see) and the idea of cooking two nights in a row (no thank you). Find Kelli on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram @KelliJGavin. Blog found at kellijgavin@blogspot.com

 

 

To the Cobbler Who Took My Shoes by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

                             

We had an understanding –

that means something to me

the way you put on wire spectacles

to examine my shoes

 

myself, certain of their fatal disrepair,

the way the flaps had come loose

and hung down over the lip like the

dulap of wild moose

 

and your assurances

hot chocolate to warm cracking bones,

that thick industrial glue smell that hung

over everything like distant jungle

canopy

 

that kind of thickness, your wife having bore

nine children with those hips,

and now this sign:

Closed Until Further Notice!

 

the exclamation point only adding

to my worry

and this very simple question:

when will I get my shoes back, good sir?

I realize I did not pay in full, but a certain

amount of professionalism is expected

 

perhaps my shoes could not be salvaged,

just tell me, I will not embrace such news

as I would a lover, but I will accept it because there

is nothing else to do.

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.