My Disconnected Head
My disconnected head floats up
Away from where I stand
I watch as it drifts in the breeze
As it weightlessly ascends
Billowing slightly left, then right
As if waving to me
Farewell
Turning freely
As it floats toward the bright blue up above
No limits
It casts a small shadow over me now as it whirls around
Where is it off to?
I truly wonder
How can it be so light and free?
How can it just drift away so carelessly?
So weightless
No worries or burdens to chain it down
No sadness or frowns that grip and pull
The heaviness of anger and regret
No longer have their hold on me
My disconnected head floats up
No strings, no gravity
No more fear as its anchor
I could learn a lot from my disconnected head
If only I could unload this weight from my heart
So I could float up and join it
And reconnect my head
Questions of the Heart
Making up my mind can be difficult
I like to be sure before I wager
I waffle, stammer and brood
Over such decisions as how to respond to a comment five days ago
I sit and simmer over what to say in a birthday card
Or even in a phone call
What to say?
What to do?
Where to eat tonight?
I cannot decide
Indecisive my mind has become
But when it comes to questions of the heart
My thoughts never waver
Decisions made not only with my mind
But with my entire being
Questions
Do not stay unanswered long
Those choices are made with the swiftest of blows
With quiet clarity
All is seen and exposed
Laid as a path before me
Love is not a choice
It is dream into reality
It is existence
Life giving breath that you have no choice but to breathe
Breathe in and blossom
Savoring each delicious droplet of a new and sweet world
Questions of the heart made clear
Answered with my body, mind and spirit
Biography: Sarah E. White is a native of Kentucky living now in Florida with her family. She began writing years ago and had her first works published in 1994. She is influenced by the works of Anne Sexton, Zora Neale Hurston, Nikki Giovanni, and Ogden Nash. Her previous work can be found in The Devil’s Advocate, The Camel Saloon, Books on Blog: Don’t Get it Twisted, The Fringe Magazine, The Rainbow Rose, and Dead Snakes.
Sunday, 25 December 2011
Michael Lee Johnson - One Poem
I Work My Mind Like Planet Earth
I work my mind
inward into a corner of knots.
Depressed beneath brain bone
I work my words, they overwork me.
Fear is the spirit alone, away from God.
Hospital warriors shake pink pills, rattle bottles of empty dreams.
I walk my ward down the daily highway;
I work the roadmap of spirit,
weed out false religions.
Only one God for so many
Twelve Step programs.
I wrap myself around support groups,
look for dependency within their problems.
I publish my poems, life works,
concerns on floor five.
I edit my redemption, escape from the laundry room;
run around in circles like planet earth,
looking for my therapist
to seal my comfort.
Biography: Michael Lee Johnson is a poet, freelance writer and small business owner of custom imprinted promotional products and apparel: www.promoman.us, from Itasca, Illinois. He is heavily influenced by: Carl Sandburg, Robert Frost, William Carlos Williams, Irving Layton, Leonard Cohen, and Allen Ginsberg. He has been published in over 25 countries.
I work my mind
inward into a corner of knots.
Depressed beneath brain bone
I work my words, they overwork me.
Fear is the spirit alone, away from God.
Hospital warriors shake pink pills, rattle bottles of empty dreams.
I walk my ward down the daily highway;
I work the roadmap of spirit,
weed out false religions.
Only one God for so many
Twelve Step programs.
I wrap myself around support groups,
look for dependency within their problems.
I publish my poems, life works,
concerns on floor five.
I edit my redemption, escape from the laundry room;
run around in circles like planet earth,
looking for my therapist
to seal my comfort.
Biography: Michael Lee Johnson is a poet, freelance writer and small business owner of custom imprinted promotional products and apparel: www.promoman.us, from Itasca, Illinois. He is heavily influenced by: Carl Sandburg, Robert Frost, William Carlos Williams, Irving Layton, Leonard Cohen, and Allen Ginsberg. He has been published in over 25 countries.
J Todd Underhill - One Poem
Looking Toward Spring
With each passing day we’re closer to spring,
And much warmer days for us to enjoy.
Lessening the cold grip of winter’s sting,
Old Man Jack Frost can certainly annoy.
New buds bursting forth on all of the trees,
Each day continually growing warm.
Jasmine and Lilac blow upon the breeze,
Rain instead of snow falling from each storm.
And the world once more becomes born anew,
Emerging with pride from winter’s cocoon.
With each blooming flower gracing our view,
I think to myself that it’s none too soon.
Spring is the season I look to, I find;
To keep my heart from becoming snow blind.
Biography: J Todd Underhill has been writing in the Denver Colorado area for over twenty years. He has embraced poetics and spoken word art as his chosen art medium. He owned the title “Poet” in 2008 though his writing began far before that. J Todd has performed at many locations around the Denver Area including legendary haunts of Kerouac and Ginsberg like: Muddy’s, Mercury Café, Paris on the Platte, and Charlie Brown’s. He has also worked as a radio host, wrestling announcer, racing announcer.
With each passing day we’re closer to spring,
And much warmer days for us to enjoy.
Lessening the cold grip of winter’s sting,
Old Man Jack Frost can certainly annoy.
New buds bursting forth on all of the trees,
Each day continually growing warm.
Jasmine and Lilac blow upon the breeze,
Rain instead of snow falling from each storm.
And the world once more becomes born anew,
Emerging with pride from winter’s cocoon.
With each blooming flower gracing our view,
I think to myself that it’s none too soon.
Spring is the season I look to, I find;
To keep my heart from becoming snow blind.
Biography: J Todd Underhill has been writing in the Denver Colorado area for over twenty years. He has embraced poetics and spoken word art as his chosen art medium. He owned the title “Poet” in 2008 though his writing began far before that. J Todd has performed at many locations around the Denver Area including legendary haunts of Kerouac and Ginsberg like: Muddy’s, Mercury Café, Paris on the Platte, and Charlie Brown’s. He has also worked as a radio host, wrestling announcer, racing announcer.
Jason E. Hodges - One Poem
The Journal
Bound by leather
Worn by age
My journal truly understands me
Its tattered pages creak when I turn them
Too many rides of backpack adventures
Of day to day travel
For it’s the tool that allows me to drift
Drift farther, and farther, from reality
For reality is much too mundane
Much too hypocritical
And I think, are my thoughts what others call hearing voices
Do their thoughts sound so foreign
So beyond what they think is obtainable
That they believe it’s not their own thinking at all
So programmed by the world all around them
That any differing must be a sickness
It’s way too easy to become labeled with an illness
If you speak what others are afraid to say
Yet praised if your writing becomes viable
But Journal, you’re safe
I won’t let them read you
I’ll keep you locked away
Far from their sight
Until you are needed to awaken the minds of the sleeping
Sleepwalking their way right through life
Oh Journal, maybe it’s time to display you
Set you free from my holding
Or maybe I’ll keep you hidden a little while longer
Far from their reach, far from their sight
BIOGRAPHY: Jason’s most recent work can be found at The Fringe Magazine, The Camel Saloon, Indigo Rising Magazine, Raven Images, The Dirt Worker’s Journal, Daily Love, The Rainbow Rose, Dead Snakes, Books On Blog, The Second Hump, Poetic Medicine, Catapult To Mars, CrossTIME Science Fiction Anthologies Volumes 8, 9, and 10, as well as an article based on an interview he did with Harry Crews that appeared in Our Town Gainesville Edition, Spring 2011.
Bound by leather
Worn by age
My journal truly understands me
Its tattered pages creak when I turn them
Too many rides of backpack adventures
Of day to day travel
For it’s the tool that allows me to drift
Drift farther, and farther, from reality
For reality is much too mundane
Much too hypocritical
And I think, are my thoughts what others call hearing voices
Do their thoughts sound so foreign
So beyond what they think is obtainable
That they believe it’s not their own thinking at all
So programmed by the world all around them
That any differing must be a sickness
It’s way too easy to become labeled with an illness
If you speak what others are afraid to say
Yet praised if your writing becomes viable
But Journal, you’re safe
I won’t let them read you
I’ll keep you locked away
Far from their sight
Until you are needed to awaken the minds of the sleeping
Sleepwalking their way right through life
Oh Journal, maybe it’s time to display you
Set you free from my holding
Or maybe I’ll keep you hidden a little while longer
Far from their reach, far from their sight
BIOGRAPHY: Jason’s most recent work can be found at The Fringe Magazine, The Camel Saloon, Indigo Rising Magazine, Raven Images, The Dirt Worker’s Journal, Daily Love, The Rainbow Rose, Dead Snakes, Books On Blog, The Second Hump, Poetic Medicine, Catapult To Mars, CrossTIME Science Fiction Anthologies Volumes 8, 9, and 10, as well as an article based on an interview he did with Harry Crews that appeared in Our Town Gainesville Edition, Spring 2011.
Jeffrey Park - Three Poems
INTIMATE PHANTOMS
Under his pinky ring
the faded image
of a ring.
Glasses conceal
a pair of inky spectacles.
Ghostly garments
shimmer beneath shirt,
trousers,
knee-high socks
set of garments complete
with phantom buttons
and zippers and
elastic.
They call him a
multi-layered individual.
There’s so much more
to him than
meets the eye.
IN PRAISE OF HER
Eyes ready to pop from her head, she still
does not give in, pride of station
like that of a Japanese courtesan or child
pharaoh or tightly corseted lady of the
Victorian era. Small discomforts will be
taken in stride with a quick furtive tuck,
unobserved. But the tension! No archer
ever pulled his bowstring so tight, so
many pounds of potential kinetic energy,
such a quiver. She fears neither the sudden
gust of wind nor the necessity of a sharply
turned head nor the rough hands
of a impassioned lover. Her mien speaks
to the outer world of defiant self-reliance:
The word disheveled is not in my lexicon.
Admire my poise and my long, curved
neck. Gaze in wonder at my arching brows,
tremble before the stroke of my lashes.
WHISPERS
Monks – always interesting specimens
highly sought after when one has a yen
for a special challenge.
Come away, little monk,
from the chant and the green tea,
spiraling questions turning
ever inward
look outward instead
downward, infrared-ward
dark places, deeper and more mysterious
than any fuzzy navel of yours
or mine
endless echoes – chant
chant
chant
chant
Curl up with me, little brother,
slow your breathing – slow, slower
stopped –
curl up with me,
contract your consciousness
with me tonight.
Biography: Jeffrey Park is a native of Baltimore, Maryland and a graduate of the Johns Hopkins University (BA) and Towson University (MAT). He currently lives with his wife and two dogs in Munich, Germany where he works at a private secondary school, as well as teaching business English to adults. His poems have appeared in Subliminal Interiors, Mobius, Punk Soul Poet, The Corner Club Press, Yes Poetry and elsewhere.
Under his pinky ring
the faded image
of a ring.
Glasses conceal
a pair of inky spectacles.
Ghostly garments
shimmer beneath shirt,
trousers,
knee-high socks
set of garments complete
with phantom buttons
and zippers and
elastic.
They call him a
multi-layered individual.
There’s so much more
to him than
meets the eye.
IN PRAISE OF HER
Eyes ready to pop from her head, she still
does not give in, pride of station
like that of a Japanese courtesan or child
pharaoh or tightly corseted lady of the
Victorian era. Small discomforts will be
taken in stride with a quick furtive tuck,
unobserved. But the tension! No archer
ever pulled his bowstring so tight, so
many pounds of potential kinetic energy,
such a quiver. She fears neither the sudden
gust of wind nor the necessity of a sharply
turned head nor the rough hands
of a impassioned lover. Her mien speaks
to the outer world of defiant self-reliance:
The word disheveled is not in my lexicon.
Admire my poise and my long, curved
neck. Gaze in wonder at my arching brows,
tremble before the stroke of my lashes.
WHISPERS
Monks – always interesting specimens
highly sought after when one has a yen
for a special challenge.
Come away, little monk,
from the chant and the green tea,
spiraling questions turning
ever inward
look outward instead
downward, infrared-ward
dark places, deeper and more mysterious
than any fuzzy navel of yours
or mine
endless echoes – chant
chant
chant
chant
Curl up with me, little brother,
slow your breathing – slow, slower
stopped –
curl up with me,
contract your consciousness
with me tonight.
Biography: Jeffrey Park is a native of Baltimore, Maryland and a graduate of the Johns Hopkins University (BA) and Towson University (MAT). He currently lives with his wife and two dogs in Munich, Germany where he works at a private secondary school, as well as teaching business English to adults. His poems have appeared in Subliminal Interiors, Mobius, Punk Soul Poet, The Corner Club Press, Yes Poetry and elsewhere.
Wednesday, 21 December 2011
Derek Keck - One Poem
I Write Hell
I don’t write many pretty things. I write dead things,
Things that smell. Rotten things! Shit things! Hanging
Flesh things from Hiroshima! Things that look like
Holocausts, emaciated Stars of David, my take on human
Religion, my take on human lungs and human tongues.
I write ugly things from hell. I write about heroin and
Mothers putting babies in microwaves.
Real things flowers can’t touch.
Don’t write about these things.
They’ll put your mind in hell.
They’ll make you piss on God.
I was pretty; some people tell me I’m still pretty.
Some people tell me to “Have a nice day!”
Give me a smile, them 10 percent.
I wish the world was more like “Have a nice day!”
Plath seemed to think so from time to time. I seem
To think so from time to time.
I wish everyone would say: “How do you do?
Have a nice day!” Sometimes I feel like the God
Of Judges, saying: “Dumb asses!” At least in a poem,
I can write: “Have a nice day!”
I could leave out the Ak-47, the mortar, the hydrogen bomb.
Even when I am God, I can’t get over my own world.
I write hell. I kiss Hell and I penetrate.
I hand out free-will like AA coffee.
As a waiter, a man told me to “go fucking die”.
I politely smiled and said “Thank you. Have a nice day!”
I meant it.
Biography: Derek Keck is an Ohio poet and a student of English Literature at Kent State University. His writing, though crude and at times chaotic draws heavily upon the postmodern and confessional poetry movements of the 1950s and 60s. His poetry is inspired by the works of William Blake, William Carlos Williams, Allen Ginsberg, Sylvia Plath, Kurt Vonnegut, Charles Bukowski and W.B Yeats.
Sunday, 18 December 2011
Nazra Emamdee - One Poem
Sacred Bath
Inhale… Calculated breathing …Exhale
Inhale… Before it calls for suffocation, let me call for what I want …Exhale
Inhale… No, I do not know how to swim but yet …Exhale
I wish to float onto the salty you
Water, water…
While you massage in your own soothing ways the back part of me
Kiss my ears and make me deaf to the loud taunts of the world
Inha-le… I want more than your foreplay …Exha-le
Inha-le… Come to me like the thick rain …Exha-le
Inha-le… Hit me hard to my senses with pressure …Exha-le
Spare yet my breathing organs but cleanse all other cells
Water, water…
I wish to turn over, to look away from that blinding world
Give me that one huge air bubble for my breathing and let me float yet
Inha-a-le… My purification seeks for a deeper therapy …Exha-a-ale
Inha-a-le… I wish to walk down there …Exha-a-ale
Inha-a-le… Let me in, take me down to your chest ...Exha-a-le
Take me in your embrace and soothe me more
Take all the dirt away and wash me off all the filthy touches to whiteness
Water, water…
It is time to shrink the air bubble
Hold me tight, all for yourself for I do not wish to resist
Hold down my hands, hold down my legs
Take me more, kiss my soul
Inha_... Tame my mouth …Exha_
Inha_... Blend with my blood …Exha_
Inha_... Purify my mind, purify my heart …Exha_
Clean it all, take the thoughts, take the pain
Take that ultimate dirt called life off me
Purge me clean and send me back …____
Inhale… Before it calls for suffocation, let me call for what I want …Exhale
Inhale… No, I do not know how to swim but yet …Exhale
I wish to float onto the salty you
Water, water…
While you massage in your own soothing ways the back part of me
Kiss my ears and make me deaf to the loud taunts of the world
Inha-le… I want more than your foreplay …Exha-le
Inha-le… Come to me like the thick rain …Exha-le
Inha-le… Hit me hard to my senses with pressure …Exha-le
Spare yet my breathing organs but cleanse all other cells
Water, water…
I wish to turn over, to look away from that blinding world
Give me that one huge air bubble for my breathing and let me float yet
Inha-a-le… My purification seeks for a deeper therapy …Exha-a-ale
Inha-a-le… I wish to walk down there …Exha-a-ale
Inha-a-le… Let me in, take me down to your chest ...Exha-a-le
Take me in your embrace and soothe me more
Take all the dirt away and wash me off all the filthy touches to whiteness
Water, water…
It is time to shrink the air bubble
Hold me tight, all for yourself for I do not wish to resist
Hold down my hands, hold down my legs
Take me more, kiss my soul
Inha_... Tame my mouth …Exha_
Inha_... Blend with my blood …Exha_
Inha_... Purify my mind, purify my heart …Exha_
Clean it all, take the thoughts, take the pain
Take that ultimate dirt called life off me
Purge me clean and send me back …____
Phill Maguire - Two Poems
Autumnal Words
Solstice approaches
compacting colorful days
between dark ends
Bulky blackbirds bank
beneath a liquid blue sky
as sun-reflected rectangles
blossom from hillside houses
and painted letters tumble
from deciduous paragraphs
while leathered leaves
scrabble across sunlit streets
and wind chimes sing
long tubular tongues
their colors combining
in mixed moments
Three a.m.
Three am. again
open window breathes June night
warm honeysuckle
Biography: Phillip Maguire is an Emergency Medicine physician and self-proclaimed Zen Baptist. He is the father of four (G,G,B,B) living in south central Pennsylvania. His hobbies include bicycling, gardening, cooking and creative writing. His short stories and poems have been published in print and online. His collection of short stories and poems, "Thunder Under Water", and poetry, "Reversed", are available at Amazon.com and Barnes & Noble.com. Once while writing in Alsace-Lorraine he wrote a multisyllabic word so large it tipped the continent.
Solstice approaches
compacting colorful days
between dark ends
Bulky blackbirds bank
beneath a liquid blue sky
as sun-reflected rectangles
blossom from hillside houses
and painted letters tumble
from deciduous paragraphs
while leathered leaves
scrabble across sunlit streets
and wind chimes sing
long tubular tongues
their colors combining
in mixed moments
Three a.m.
Three am. again
open window breathes June night
warm honeysuckle
Biography: Phillip Maguire is an Emergency Medicine physician and self-proclaimed Zen Baptist. He is the father of four (G,G,B,B) living in south central Pennsylvania. His hobbies include bicycling, gardening, cooking and creative writing. His short stories and poems have been published in print and online. His collection of short stories and poems, "Thunder Under Water", and poetry, "Reversed", are available at Amazon.com and Barnes & Noble.com. Once while writing in Alsace-Lorraine he wrote a multisyllabic word so large it tipped the continent.
Saturday, 17 December 2011
Joan McNerney - Two Poems
Computer Game
I just click the awesome icon.
My mouse scurries in a manic race
to discover words or match jewels.
Tiles glow… a beaming box of eye candy
to pick and nibble as my score grows.
All the petty slogs and limps of
this withered day are beaten back.
I love my snazzy game name and avatar.
My world sits inside this small square.
I am winning.
Eleventh Hour
Wrapped in darkness we can
no longer fool ourselves.
Our smiling masks float away.
We snake here, there
from one side to another.
How many times do we rip off
blankets only to claw more on?
Listening to zzzzzz of traffic,
mumble of freight trains, fog horns.
Listening to wheezing,
feeling muscles throb.
How can we find comfort?
Say same word over and over
again again falling falling to sleep.
I will stop measuring what was lost.
I will become brave.
Let slumber come covering me.
Let my mouth droop, fingers tingle.
Wishing something cool… soft… sweet.
Now I will curl like a fetus
gathering warmth into myself
hoping to awake new born.
Biography: Joan McNerney's poetry has been included in numerous literary magazines such as Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Blueline, 63 channels, Spectrum, and three Bright Spring Press Anthologies. She has been nominated twice for Best of the Net. Four of her books have been published by fine small literary presses.
I just click the awesome icon.
My mouse scurries in a manic race
to discover words or match jewels.
Tiles glow… a beaming box of eye candy
to pick and nibble as my score grows.
All the petty slogs and limps of
this withered day are beaten back.
I love my snazzy game name and avatar.
My world sits inside this small square.
I am winning.
Eleventh Hour
Wrapped in darkness we can
no longer fool ourselves.
Our smiling masks float away.
We snake here, there
from one side to another.
How many times do we rip off
blankets only to claw more on?
Listening to zzzzzz of traffic,
mumble of freight trains, fog horns.
Listening to wheezing,
feeling muscles throb.
How can we find comfort?
Say same word over and over
again again falling falling to sleep.
I will stop measuring what was lost.
I will become brave.
Let slumber come covering me.
Let my mouth droop, fingers tingle.
Wishing something cool… soft… sweet.
Now I will curl like a fetus
gathering warmth into myself
hoping to awake new born.
Biography: Joan McNerney's poetry has been included in numerous literary magazines such as Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Blueline, 63 channels, Spectrum, and three Bright Spring Press Anthologies. She has been nominated twice for Best of the Net. Four of her books have been published by fine small literary presses.
Jason E. Hodges - One Poem
John Lennon
On December 8th 1980 the children of the arts wept
For the genius of words dripping with truth no longer would sing
No longer play his melodies of peace
No longer hold his wife
His son
His guitar
My nine-year-old heart suddenly felt empty, cold, and dark
When the blank look of the news caster told the last moments of Lennon
The poet from Liverpool now lay blood-soaked and lifeless for no reason at all
Tears filled my eyes as I tried to understand why this had happened
And I wondered, who was The Catcher In The Rye?
At that point in my young life I had never seen a man cry
My world was filled with adults, who for survival shut off tears of emotion
Ashamed of my teardrops of sadness
I walked, then ran far into the meadow behind my home to cry
And I wondered, who was The Catcher In The Rye?
I kept crying and thinking, maybe they’ve made a mistake
Maybe it was somebody else
It just couldn’t be
Then the tears fell even faster
Chilling the side of my face in the cold winter breeze
For this lie I was telling myself was almost as bitter as the truth
The truth that was broadcast all over the world
The man that dared to imagine would imagine no more
Who had the heart of a dreamer
The man who filled my young ears with the first sounds of music
From needles blown off then carefully placed on slow spinning records
As my tears kept flowing I whispered goodbye to the heavens
And I wondered, who was The Catcher In The Rye?
Biography: Jason E. Hodges most recent work can be found at The Fringe Magazine, The Camel Saloon, Indigo Rising Magazine, Raven Images, The Dirt Worker’s Journal, Daily Love, The Rainbow Rose, Dead Snakes, Books On Blog, The Second Hump, Poetic Medicine, Catapult To Mars, CrossTIME Science Fiction Anthologies Volumes 8, 9, and 10, as well as an article based on an interview he did with Harry Crews that appeared in Our Town Gainesville Edition, Spring 2011.
On December 8th 1980 the children of the arts wept
For the genius of words dripping with truth no longer would sing
No longer play his melodies of peace
No longer hold his wife
His son
His guitar
My nine-year-old heart suddenly felt empty, cold, and dark
When the blank look of the news caster told the last moments of Lennon
The poet from Liverpool now lay blood-soaked and lifeless for no reason at all
Tears filled my eyes as I tried to understand why this had happened
And I wondered, who was The Catcher In The Rye?
At that point in my young life I had never seen a man cry
My world was filled with adults, who for survival shut off tears of emotion
Ashamed of my teardrops of sadness
I walked, then ran far into the meadow behind my home to cry
And I wondered, who was The Catcher In The Rye?
I kept crying and thinking, maybe they’ve made a mistake
Maybe it was somebody else
It just couldn’t be
Then the tears fell even faster
Chilling the side of my face in the cold winter breeze
For this lie I was telling myself was almost as bitter as the truth
The truth that was broadcast all over the world
The man that dared to imagine would imagine no more
Who had the heart of a dreamer
The man who filled my young ears with the first sounds of music
From needles blown off then carefully placed on slow spinning records
As my tears kept flowing I whispered goodbye to the heavens
And I wondered, who was The Catcher In The Rye?
Biography: Jason E. Hodges most recent work can be found at The Fringe Magazine, The Camel Saloon, Indigo Rising Magazine, Raven Images, The Dirt Worker’s Journal, Daily Love, The Rainbow Rose, Dead Snakes, Books On Blog, The Second Hump, Poetic Medicine, Catapult To Mars, CrossTIME Science Fiction Anthologies Volumes 8, 9, and 10, as well as an article based on an interview he did with Harry Crews that appeared in Our Town Gainesville Edition, Spring 2011.
Sarah Hamadeh - One Poem
Love Bond
That love bond that connects us to each other should be cut.
I've tried to change everything but your heart seems to be like hard rust.
I've gone through endless despair, don't you think it's enough?
Life without your love seems to be so tough.
You're so powerful, yet, so weak.
You made me fall in love ever so deep.
But now, I'm no longer that vulnerable little girl.
I'm letting go like a necklace of falling pearls.
But before I leave, I will thank you
For making me believe that our love story was true.
You still have a few confessions to make.
Where were you when I was baking your birthday cake?
Was there another Juliet
or was I only just a fake one?
Now it's time for me to let go...
Time for me to let go...
Biography: Sarah Hamadeh is a sixteen-year-old girl who loves to write poems. She is from Lebanon. She is quite talented and wishes to be a novelist in the future.
That love bond that connects us to each other should be cut.
I've tried to change everything but your heart seems to be like hard rust.
I've gone through endless despair, don't you think it's enough?
Life without your love seems to be so tough.
You're so powerful, yet, so weak.
You made me fall in love ever so deep.
But now, I'm no longer that vulnerable little girl.
I'm letting go like a necklace of falling pearls.
But before I leave, I will thank you
For making me believe that our love story was true.
You still have a few confessions to make.
Where were you when I was baking your birthday cake?
Was there another Juliet
or was I only just a fake one?
Now it's time for me to let go...
Time for me to let go...
Biography: Sarah Hamadeh is a sixteen-year-old girl who loves to write poems. She is from Lebanon. She is quite talented and wishes to be a novelist in the future.
Thursday, 15 December 2011
Tyler Bigney - Two Poems
Faith
When I’m on my knees
I want to see what I’m praying for.
With my eyes closed,
I can’t see anything
but I am lying on a couch
dreaming dreams
of AM radios, country roads,
reunited love with a girl
from a far away place
where we held hands,
kissed with mouths open
in hotel rooms,
on park benches
in the dark
when no one was looking.
Everything decays,
the moon, the ocean,
the flowers I bought you,
the vegetables I picked
from your mother’s garden,
and someday me, and you,
and everyone we ever knew.
But tonight, I am drifting
paper airplanes out an open window
encrypted with secret messages
only you’ll understand,
and the drawing of a rose,
painted the color as your eyes,
defying logic, gravity,
all in the name of hope.
Rewind
I want to go back
to 1997. The afternoon
of Saturday August 16th,
when you showed up
on my front doorstep -
a pack of matches
in your pocket
and a knapsack
cutting into your sunburnt shoulders.
And this time, instead of
running home scared,
I would stay to watch
things melt, and burn
some things of my own,
watching them float up
and evaporate soundlessly
into a blue summer sky.
Biography: Tyler Bigney was born, and raised in Nova Scotia, Canada. His writing has appeared in Pearl, Poetry New Zealand, Iodine, The Meadow, and the Ottawa Arts Review, among others.
When I’m on my knees
I want to see what I’m praying for.
With my eyes closed,
I can’t see anything
but I am lying on a couch
dreaming dreams
of AM radios, country roads,
reunited love with a girl
from a far away place
where we held hands,
kissed with mouths open
in hotel rooms,
on park benches
in the dark
when no one was looking.
Everything decays,
the moon, the ocean,
the flowers I bought you,
the vegetables I picked
from your mother’s garden,
and someday me, and you,
and everyone we ever knew.
But tonight, I am drifting
paper airplanes out an open window
encrypted with secret messages
only you’ll understand,
and the drawing of a rose,
painted the color as your eyes,
defying logic, gravity,
all in the name of hope.
Rewind
I want to go back
to 1997. The afternoon
of Saturday August 16th,
when you showed up
on my front doorstep -
a pack of matches
in your pocket
and a knapsack
cutting into your sunburnt shoulders.
And this time, instead of
running home scared,
I would stay to watch
things melt, and burn
some things of my own,
watching them float up
and evaporate soundlessly
into a blue summer sky.
Biography: Tyler Bigney was born, and raised in Nova Scotia, Canada. His writing has appeared in Pearl, Poetry New Zealand, Iodine, The Meadow, and the Ottawa Arts Review, among others.
Tegally Mushiirah - One Poem
Irresistible Sweetie
Made of fresh cow milk
Sprinkled with lemon juice
With a smooth mixture of flour
Few grams of sugar
Flavoured with powdered cardamom
Richly dipped in a pool of rose flavour
Irresistible in shape
Appealing in its flavour,
Tempting in its shape
You make millions taste one
To double and triple...
You bring a smile on each face
While increasing the worries of many
Rich in sweet diabetes,
You are tempting and exquisite
As tasty as Maple Syrup
As sweet as honey
One will eat you in a gulp
Another one will appreciate you slowly
Another one will squeeze you if you are completely drenched
Some will simply swallow you for your shape
Crammed full with a sense of wonderful taste
Mouth-watering to those who cannot help but watch you,
Millions eat you every day
Consumed under strict supervision
Many succumb to you
This special spongy, yummy goodie is baptized as
Rasgulla
Biography: Tegally Mushiirah is a young university student completing her English degree. Writing is her passion while helping is her motto. She likes to dream a lot as well!
Made of fresh cow milk
Sprinkled with lemon juice
With a smooth mixture of flour
Few grams of sugar
Flavoured with powdered cardamom
Richly dipped in a pool of rose flavour
Irresistible in shape
Appealing in its flavour,
Tempting in its shape
You make millions taste one
To double and triple...
You bring a smile on each face
While increasing the worries of many
Rich in sweet diabetes,
You are tempting and exquisite
As tasty as Maple Syrup
As sweet as honey
One will eat you in a gulp
Another one will appreciate you slowly
Another one will squeeze you if you are completely drenched
Some will simply swallow you for your shape
Crammed full with a sense of wonderful taste
Mouth-watering to those who cannot help but watch you,
Millions eat you every day
Consumed under strict supervision
Many succumb to you
This special spongy, yummy goodie is baptized as
Rasgulla
Biography: Tegally Mushiirah is a young university student completing her English degree. Writing is her passion while helping is her motto. She likes to dream a lot as well!
Sarah Gamutan - One Poem
T E N
Some notes gave me
memorable stories whether this
room was loved or not. In this
room, I shared memories with some
musicians, lovers. Some of them were
cheaters, weepers, losers and mostly,
they were my counterparts. I hated the
scenery of unfinished tones, how they
didn't reach an octave, the way it gave the
worst sound in my ears - monotonic, copied.
Once, my counterparts considered music as
one boring college class that they blamed
how it defined different kinds of people,
how it caught lives of my fellows which
they hid for a long time. We asked them
to sing, dance, play and strum it the way
they'd like it. These friends, who got great
looks, married rich men, got impregnated -
those who lived their own lives. I liked
the way they meant their own songs, far
better than Mozart or any classical men
who got stuck on my head when they
were pasted on the wooden walls. I
knew I'd be like them too - loved
and cared that I'd sing songs
on my wedding, that my mates
would sing with me too, that
after 10 years, hopefully,
I'd be married too.
Biography: Sarah Gamutan's poems have been published in many online literary journals including Carty's Poetry Journal, Mad Swirl, Literary Kicks, The Beat and Western Australia Poets Inc. She works as a Community Support Associate in Philippines.
Some notes gave me
memorable stories whether this
room was loved or not. In this
room, I shared memories with some
musicians, lovers. Some of them were
cheaters, weepers, losers and mostly,
they were my counterparts. I hated the
scenery of unfinished tones, how they
didn't reach an octave, the way it gave the
worst sound in my ears - monotonic, copied.
Once, my counterparts considered music as
one boring college class that they blamed
how it defined different kinds of people,
how it caught lives of my fellows which
they hid for a long time. We asked them
to sing, dance, play and strum it the way
they'd like it. These friends, who got great
looks, married rich men, got impregnated -
those who lived their own lives. I liked
the way they meant their own songs, far
better than Mozart or any classical men
who got stuck on my head when they
were pasted on the wooden walls. I
knew I'd be like them too - loved
and cared that I'd sing songs
on my wedding, that my mates
would sing with me too, that
after 10 years, hopefully,
I'd be married too.
Biography: Sarah Gamutan's poems have been published in many online literary journals including Carty's Poetry Journal, Mad Swirl, Literary Kicks, The Beat and Western Australia Poets Inc. She works as a Community Support Associate in Philippines.
Monday, 12 December 2011
Nazra Emamdee - One Poem
The Mad Lover
This afternoon I saw him again
The sweaty brown young man
Looked like he won the bargain
With curly and greasy hair
Springing so heavily down his cheeks
He was with his imaginary pair
In a hibiscus patterned shirt
Dirty jeans pulled up to his navel
He was indifferent to the dirt
Not even wearing boots
He was trading for his way
With numb and barbecued foots
On the grilling pavement
Down the street of Bell Village
He was walking and talking excitement
He must have bestowed away his heart
For he was engrossed in his conversation
With a shy smile causing his black lips to part
In simple and broken words
He was mastering and sharing his joy
Head in sublime courtesy bent forward
He was addressing absolutely nothing
Far from his sorrow
Wherefrom I watched him and everything
In too tight high heels
A possessive pain residing my spine
A permanent moody feel
Which even tactics
Cannot maliciously traffic away for peace
Forget magic
Biography: Nazra Emamdee is a young poet from Mauritius island. She likes to write about local and social issues. Two of her poems have been published in two different local newspapers already.
This afternoon I saw him again
The sweaty brown young man
Looked like he won the bargain
With curly and greasy hair
Springing so heavily down his cheeks
He was with his imaginary pair
In a hibiscus patterned shirt
Dirty jeans pulled up to his navel
He was indifferent to the dirt
Not even wearing boots
He was trading for his way
With numb and barbecued foots
On the grilling pavement
Down the street of Bell Village
He was walking and talking excitement
He must have bestowed away his heart
For he was engrossed in his conversation
With a shy smile causing his black lips to part
In simple and broken words
He was mastering and sharing his joy
Head in sublime courtesy bent forward
He was addressing absolutely nothing
Far from his sorrow
Wherefrom I watched him and everything
In too tight high heels
A possessive pain residing my spine
A permanent moody feel
Which even tactics
Cannot maliciously traffic away for peace
Forget magic
Biography: Nazra Emamdee is a young poet from Mauritius island. She likes to write about local and social issues. Two of her poems have been published in two different local newspapers already.
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