the sun is sparkling, the rain rumbling, and we badly need some poetry...

Thursday 21 July 2011

Devlin De La Chapa - One Poem


The Angel has my wings
falling from the sky,
I die.

But as quick as day
turns into night,
I live.

Heaven is beautiful
but Hell,
conquers me.

I am limitless
like clouds,
sheltering birds.

Sunday 17 July 2011

Chris Butler - Two Poems


As a boy,
I stood outside during
counting the

the flash bulb clouds
luminously enlightening
my starry eyes
and the thunderous
punches knocking
me unconscious.

I’m still awaiting the rain.

In the Sky

I wrote a poem
way up high,

with letters of
smoke exhalations

and words formed
from carbon dioxide.

The clouds then
signed my plain name

way up high
in the sky.

Tuesday 12 July 2011

Sonnet Mondal - Three Poems

The Gap Before We Sleep

The gap between our lying down on bed
and waiting for sleep sways like a hanging
bridge made of ropes where memories
lie beneath as river below.
They are too deep and hungry to grasp us
and too critical in their beauty
urging us every second to look down and jump.
Each night and each day before the afternoon nap
I have been crossing this bridge.
The day I will fall will be
the last day with my present.

The Windmill

The windmill rotates and blows in whisper
in summer nights when, even breezes are hated
in days; night posses responsibilities to
return life to road creatures and pour
vigour through window panes opened with
expectations to breathe free.

The windmill, night and sometimes rain
walks together and at times sits idle.
Both instances revolve us with thoughts
to pass the coming day with or
without manmade bits and pieces.

Each night I pray, so that it rotates
and signals the chilly coils to capture us.

The Centreline

Crossing the centre line one comes across
the eve where the frozen mountains
white in ice turn black and the creation around
seem to jump into a clannish dance around the bonfire,
lit up the celestial full moon.
The moon seem to stop us from lying down,
advise us in night’s seminar to sleep during day
and believe in the purity of dark and
working in scenic support of dim light.
The mighty tradition is like revising the laws
of the jungle; the reconstruction of civilizations
but, still a lingering light provokes us
to wonder about the established and think
of breaking some establishment to shift timings.

C.B. Anderson - Two Poems

Being Human

Why bad things happen while some others don't,
        Which we are certain should
        Because we think they're good,
Is not, I venture, any of our business.
What happens happens unexplained.  I won't
        Pretend I never cry
        Or sit for days and try
To understand, dissatisfied with Is-ness.

When It's for Real

Together we approached a silver lake
beneath a cobalt sky, and both were teeming
with placid waterfowl disposed to slake
our need for flesh -- but I was only dreaming.

I thought it would be nice if every soul
who'd passed away could swim a golden ocean
until its sacred waters made them whole
again, but that was just an idle notion.

How wonderful, if those for whom we lust
came crawling on their knees and begged to be
with us; or better yet, we earned their trust
with small talk.  Either way, it's fantasy.

Embarking on a more productive tack,
I courted her with firm deliberation,
adducing reasons she should take me back
and that took all of my imagination.

Samuel Franklin - Two Poems

Rainfall ‘98

Falling in an Atlantean deluge
from a sky as malevolently dark
as the sun-deprived skin
of the ocean’s floor;
Noah’s ancient waters coming full circle,
drowning the world
in slow thunder
and dark majesty,
rending trunks of oaks and elms
as our white faces swam in lightless
space behind rippling windows,
for the call of the sun. 

The Whale’s Song

Pawing through the waves,
I feel the ocean’s call:
mild and meek,
deep with mystique.
I run away back to land.

The ocean sings and whispers,
a mother to her lover.
I put in one paw,
distinctly I saw
the joy I’d found.

I dove in through its glass,
trading fur for flippers.
My voice sounds so calm,
it flows like a song
seeping through the sea.

And through the misty dark
I travel like a bubble.
The creatures I see
move so fantastically.
I am reborn with the tide.
And now the land is gone--
in the past, forgotten.
I am the sea, and the sea is what
I have waited for.

Felino A. Soriano - Three Poems

Recollections 41

Accidental promise, end as
approximated solace this
altered dust of gray gradation.
Motion as splay these
days renege against
proper diagnosis, propelled
diagrams launch physical
momentum an
anchor’s delay of settled

Recollections 42


latitude offsets balance
of the unobserved vulture
animating swell of
drizzling beak, creature
confessing throb of corporeal
mirages the
visual contractual contact
seeking through desire’s
unobstructed muscle
—trust then unbalance of mutual
chasms creating asymmetry of sound
claiming tongue and ideological

Recollections 43
|Cecil Taylor|
—after Azure

careen an
architectural note
sprints upon circumventing circles
key then key askew
rhythmic inventions
analyzing listeners’ origami

Tuesday 5 July 2011

Amit Parmessur - One Poem


You have just passed, young girl
Like a lively and melodic nightingale;
A flower sparkling in your hand,
A new guitar tune on your lips.

You’re perhaps the only one in the world
Whose heart would reach out to mine
Who coming in my deep night
Would brighten it with one word!

But no, - my youth is over
Adieu, sweet ray that shone on me,
Fragrance, young girl, guitar string…
The happiness gone, - it ran away!

You couldn’t say the words...

Monday 4 July 2011

Stacey Marie - One Poem

Am I alone?

I get a funny feeling, it comes from deep inside.
I get all mad and angry, wanting to go and hide.

My doctor calls it depression, my dad says it's just me.
But the thoughts and feelings, no one will ever be able to see.

Some say I'm psycho, some say I'm just weird.
It's like I'm a different person, and the old me just disappeared.

I get really edgy, I want to commit suicide real bad.
Then I get a headache, followed by feeling sad.

I wish I could get help, I wish it would go away.
Maybe if I keep praying real hard, it will some day.

Green Regol - One Poem

The Mischief Song

Pulling a cane from an old person's hands and
Kicking the stool on which some people stand,
Tying a knot in shoe laces of strings -
These are a few of my favorite things.

Spilling a drink on a little girl's dresses,
Blaming some kids for my big giant messes,
Making weird faces at ladies who sing -
These are a few of my favorite things.

Cutting the whiskers off furry white kittens,
Laughing at things that smart people have written,
Pushing a child off a playground swing -
These are a few of my favorite things.

When I get caught,
When the bee stings,
When I'm feeling mad,
I simply remember my favorite things
And then I do feel so glad.

Mariel Paragas - One Poem


Tonight I write the sweetest lines.
Drowning in the sorrow of forever.
Seeming happiness on the surface of the morrow
United beings dance among the stars.

However few the indecisions of life,
We struggle to live on the thought of togetherness
An unkindness, if you will.
The hope that lies on your bed of thorns
Leaves a trail that destroys the path,
For forever and beyond, never exists.
'Tis only in your mem'ries,
'Tis only in your mind.

Wanda Morrow-Clevenger - Two Poems

What to do With The Body

We talked about it
burn or bury
and agreed neither seemed right,
an unpleasant quandary for sure
this decision the stuff of nightmares

he said shoot me into space
like Timothy Leary, only whole
spread eagle
let me shrink to a marshmallow
float forever in the void

I sunk further into the couch pillows
took another swallow of rum and whatever
skirted the entire issue

it's a difficult thing,
making a body vanish.

In the End

I used to think I was the apparition
floating at the edge of canny denial
and tattle-tale uneasy conscious –
rattling my silent chains, breathing a chill reminder
on the nape of necks;
in the end
we see right through each other.

Michael Lee Johnson - Three Poems

Charley Plays a Tune

Crippled, in Chicago,
with arthritis
and Alzheimer's,
in a dark rented room,
Charley plays
melancholic melodies
on a dust-filled
harmonica he
found  abandoned
on a playground of sand
years ago by a handful of children
playing on monkey bars.
He hears bedlam when he buys fish at the local market
and the skeleton bones of the fish show through.
He lies on his back, riddled with pain,
pine cones fill his pillows and mattress;
praying to Jesus and rubbing his rosary beads
Charley blows tunes out his
celestial instrument
notes float through the open window
touch the nose of summer clouds.
Charley overtakes himself with grief
and is ecstatically alone.
Charley plays a solo tune.

Harvest Time

A M├ętis lady, drunk -
hands blanketed as in prayer,
over a large, brown fruit basket
naked of fruit, no vine, no vineyard
inside approaches the Edmonton,
Alberta adoption agency.
There are only spirit gods
inside her empty purse.

Inside the basket, an infant,
restrained from life,
with a fruity winesap apple
wedged like a teaspoon
of autumn sun
inside its mouth.
A shallow pool of tears
mounts in native blue eyes.
Snuffling, the mother offers
a slim smile, turns away.
She slithers voyeuristically
through near slum streets
and alleyways,
looking for drinking buddies
to share a hefty pint
of applejack wine.

Gingerbread Lady

Gingerbread lady,
no sugar or cinnamon spice;
years ago arthritis and senility took their toll.
Crippled mind moves in then out, like an old sexual adventure
blurred in an imagination of fingertip thoughts.
Who remembers the characters?
There was George, her lover, near the bridge at the Chicago River:
she missed his funeral; her friends were there.
She always made feather-light of people dwelling on death,
but black and white she remembers well.
The past is the present; the present is forgotten.
Who remembers Gingerbread Lady?
Sometimes lazy-time tea with a twist of lime,
sometimes drunken-time screwdriver twist with clarity.
She walks in scandals.
Her live-in maid smirked as Gingerbread Lady gummed her food,
false teeth forgotten in a custom-imprinted cup
with water, vinegar, and ginger.
Years ago, arthritis and senility took their toll.
Ginger forgot to rise out of bed;
no sugar, or cinnamon toast.