Three Poems by Leilanie Stewart

Landmass

 

 

There is a lone                                 stack

standing out at sea,                         a sad

promontory that’s                             jutting

beyond the riptides.                         I often

watch it and wonder                         why

there’s only one,                              because,

surely if it was formed                     by erosion

there’d be more along                     the coast

This is a desolate beach                 to walk along

and when I go there by                   myself, I try to

imagine that under the       surface of the water

the cliff and the stack are touching, holding

onto one another through the swells, and

though the peaks and troughs will do their

damage, what is under the surface will

never be erased, and never be separated

 

 

 

Snowball Effect

 

I’d like to introduce you to

Miss Lauren Tide

She came all the way

From Greenland

And is planning to stay

for a while,

an epoch perhaps.

 

She’ll be bringing along with her

Miss Tundra, Miss Glacier

and Mister Permafrost

 

She was forced to emigrate

from her home, up North,

by convection currents-

hot air brought on by CO2

 

She’ll cool the seas before her,

Push the Gulf Stream further south

 

It’s a waiting game now

for the snowball to come

She’ll wipe out the arrogance

of humankind, with one swipe

from her terminal moraine

 

 

Clam Diggers

 

It’s funny

how when I was little

I used to wear clam diggers

to pick cockles

Some people called them

pedal pushers,

but I never wore them

on a bike

 

It’s sad now

that the beach in which

I wore pedal pushers

to pick cockles

has been closed to the public,

for commercial use,

by proper diggers,

not clam diggers,

for cockle digging

 

 

 

Leilanie Stewart is one half of a writing couple - the other half is Joseph Robert. By day she runs creative writing groups for teenagers and by night she writes and promotes her work at spoken word events in London. Her poetry has appeared in magazines and anthologies in the UK and US. More about Leilanie's writing can be found at www.leilaniestewart.wordpress.com

Two Poems by Michael Lee Johnson

Even as Evening

 

Even as evening

approaches night-

dandelions shake

dust loose from their yellow-

a robin pulls

the last red worm

from the moist,

but callous

ground,

shadows fade, flake,

into fresh fall night-

small creatures

with trumpet

sounds dominant

the adjacent

woods.

A virtuoso!

 

 

 

I am Looking for Something

 

I am looking for something-

desperate within the shattering

of green glass, Coca Cola bottles made

entirely from grass, bark, corn husks.

Between rain, grey clouds, a spot of sunshine

cast on a shadow's fear-

green grass sprouts, not grey bark

nor branches dead.

Truly, I am telling you,

I am looking for something-

not the specking of rain

on my windshield,

nor the wipers that

habitually sling the drops

away, left, then right.

I am looking for something.

Exploring deist compared too theist

I was confused, an academic note

on the side plate of my day.

I believe in a God, but perhaps my God

is just an auto mechanic.

I think God is wrapped in a 4-leaf clover

sinless, searching Illinois farm lands for something.

Not in commercials, billboards, sales pitches, on the highways,

nor in text messages, double negatives hidden,

or the static of cell phone drama.

I find my Savior in the bluebird,

grasslands, scattered trees, slightly out of range.

Bring me a fluffed pillow, Wal-Mart special,

a dream of wine, vodka mixed orange

in a season lacking reason,

the bluebird flies.

Everything dreams and flashes away-

I tell you something, I am looking

for something.

Savior bluebird.

 

 

 

 

MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era:  now known as the Itasca, IL poet.  Today he is a poet, freelance writer, photographer who experiments with poetography (blending poetry with photography), and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois, who has been published in more than 750 small press magazines in 26 countries, he edits 7 poetry sites.  Michael is the author of The Lost American:  From Exile to Freedom (136 pages book), several chapbooks of poetry, including From Which Place the Morning Rises and Challenge of Night and Day, and Chicago Poems.  He also has over 69 poetry videos on YouTube.

Links:  http://poetryman.mysite.com/.  http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/promomanusa

https://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos

http://bookstore.iuniverse.com/Products/SKU-000058168/The-Lost-American.aspx

http://www.amazon.com/The-Lost-American-Exile-Freedom/dp/0595460917

Two Poems by Smita Sriwastav

Echoes of a Dawning Morn...

filigree dawn
is a latticework of sunbeams~

fragmented to be
scattered into reflections
in the glance of
peppering drops of dew.

clouds are a crotchet
of burnished oranges
swirling pinks
and breathy purples;

while a moon is
a remnant silver sliver
that lingers as a sigh
of nostalgia in today's face.

pole star
rubs sleep-worn lids to slip
beneath blankets to escape
mischievous rays,
its lethargic form cuddled
into marmalade pajamas.

sunflowers awaken
from drooping stalks to simper
while with erased haziness
of mist from cheeks of glass panes,
morning matures on
rejuvenating aroma of hot coffee...



Harlequin Whispers of Night Sky...

moonlight is
a soothing, serene drizzle;
starlight sparkle of
sepulchered memories,
constellations crotchet
a refulgent veil.

stars wink
ancient anecdotes in
ambiguous stardust scribbles
within blackberry silence.

psychedelic sighs
echo in abeyant moments,
as photon whispers
knock on indifferent eardrums~
too entranced by moon's serenades
to interpret them.

Smita Sriwastav is an M.B.B.S. doctor with a passion for poetry and literature.  She has always expressed her innermost thoughts and sentiments through the medium of poetry. A feeling of inner tranquility and bliss captures her soul whenever she pens her verse. Nature has been the most inspiring force in molding the shape of her writings. She has published two books and has published poems in journals like the Rusty Nail ( Rule of Survival)and Contemporary Literary Review India (
spring lingers),four and twenty, Paradise Review, Literary Juice, Blast Furnace and many more and one of her poems “Unsaid Goodbyes” was published in an anthology called ‘Inspired by Tagore’ published by Sampad and British Council. She has written poetry all her life and aims to do so forever.

A Poem by Jenny Qi

The Magnificent Capacity of Two Fireflies

When stars flicker out, you want
to believe in reincarnation.

Maybe in another life, you’ll be
a firefly, and I’ll be a moth

following, drawn ceaselessly

into your light.  Or perhaps

I will chase you like daylight,
follow from the in-between.

Or I’ll become a firefly with you

so in untainted darkness, you’ll find me

still believing the wisdom

of white flames and gas.

Jenny Qi is a PhD student in biomedical sciences in San Francisco, which is a fancy way of saying she’s putting off adulthood by pretending to cure cancer.  In her spare time, she draws science cartoons and writes for Synapse. Her essays have been featured in Huffington Post and The Atlantic,  and she has published poems in various journals, including the vanderbilt review, Tabula Rasa, and The Quotable. 

A Poem by Jack T. Marlowe

low down at high tide

 

 

angelfish,
your tran-

sendence

plays

hard to get

when life

overflows:

 

an angry

sea of bills

and bad

news, the

tears of

dull razor

blades

castaway

poems  

and dirty

dishes

 

and now
the toilet

overflows

and my

thoughts

stink of

the ocean

tireless

and

heaving

 

the angelfish

stoic, as

i languish

alone in the

drowning

hours

 

angelfish 

angelfish

sing for me

 

as the 

undertow

of every-

thing

 

drags

me

 

d

 o

  w

   n 

 

 

 

 

Jack T. Marlowe is a gentleman rogue from Dallas, TX.  A writer of poetry and fiction and a veteran of the open mic, his work has appeared in Handful of Dust, Rusty Truck, Bone Orchard Poetry, Napalm and Novocain, Zombie Logic, Tendril and many other zines (both online and in print). Jack is also the mad editor of Gutter Eloquence Magazine (http://www.guttereloquence.com).  

 

A Poem by Neil Ellman

Fish

after the statue by Constantin Brancusi, 1930

In the far-fetchedness of my life
as if a fish
I swim in violet-colored seas
and green the canyons
with my breath.
  Nothing has substance here
nor birds have wings
the rivers flow from mouth to source
and I return to the place
where I was spawned
  someday to crawl from river to land
upon on my knees through time
and mud-dark shores
to that place of prophecy
where a fish becomes a man
and man remains a fish
and I must swim upstream until I die.

Nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, Neil Ellman writes from New Jersey.  More than 850 of his poems, many of which are ekphrastic and written in response to works of modern and contemporary art, appear in print and online journals, anthologies and chapbooks throughout the world.

A Poem by Dawnell Harrison

Star-Flanked

The star-flanked sky
shoulders a cloudless night.
Violet waves of fog pour
in like sheets of rain
igniting the streets
with a colorful tenderness.

Dawnell Harrison has been published in over 100 magazines and journals including The Endicott Review, The Journal, Fowl Feathered Review, Jellyfish Whispers, The Bitchin' Kitsch, Vox Poetica, The Tower Journal, Queen's Quarterly, and many others.  Also, she has had 4 books of poetry published through reputable publishers titled Voyager, The maverick posse, The love death, and The fire behind my eyes.  Furthermore, she possess a BA from The University of Washington.

Two Poems by Theresa A. Cancro

Leaves 

between blue sky, blade grass
spaces, I sense a shift up and down
my anchored essence, the fall

of autumn night draws me,
prunes easy strides in sandals
even as it streams red, gold,

amber, they drizzle on the sides 
of grifting breezes, excoriate notions,
left over pyres of love in the backseat.





Autumn Wandering

loneliness in autumn
is flecked with copper rust;
dropped from above,
it's reached middle age on cobblestone paths
and balding dew-grass
seen from the side of hoarfrost.

late morning birds languish
on fence posts, black body flocks
precipitate, clot the lawn;
no meditation strums among
curse tongues, jab beaks --
only thoughts of abandoned love.

the brittle wind wings apace,
strifes my brow, whistles gravel songs
while it seeks deep spaces
among broken clay pots,
wants to hesitate at sequined pools,
but arches its back toward the sun.

Theresa A. Cancro (Wilmington, Delaware, USA) writes poetry and fiction.  Some of her poetry has been published on online sites, including Three Line Poetry, Dead Snakes and A Handful of Stones. Her haiku has been accepted for publication in the December 2013 issue of A Hundred Gourds.

Three Poems by William G. Daview, Jr.

Blink

 

Some leaves fall

so dreamily,

they beg for witness

as if, look,

a diversion,

something magical

if only for a moment,

the time it takes

to land on the ground

and be damned

with the others.

 

 

 

After October

 

The trees are naked infantrymen

stripped of dignity

horded in a gulag,

no medical care

for the squirrels nests

that have metastasized 

into tumors.

 

 

 

Landfall 

 

The leaves spiral
like so many Noah's Arks,

unseaworthy brown tartans

sinking themselves into

a vast, green sea.

 

 

 

William G. Davies Jr. recently had his poem published in The Cortland Review and poems accepted by The Wilderness House Review and Blue Lyra Review.  He shares life with his wife, Theresa, and as much poetry as he can read especially John Updike and Donald Hall. 

A Poem by Rick Hartwell

Pond Laughing

 

Sun-blaze reflects in the pond its own heaven,

gold surrounded with light tints of blue,

sunburst is caught in rippled cross-eddies,

spiraled from three separate cores, a

seeming cacophony of lines intersecting.

 

Dappling and dimpling the glaze of the pond,

water bugs form the detritus of nature,

rocking and riding the waves of the wind,

surface skaters are randomly sown adrift,

seeming a testament to some quiet design.

 

Deep and foreboding, a natural frame,

surrounding trees brood over the pond,

failing to vanquish the light that’s within,

centered life is caught in reflected sun.

 

Mirrored questions posed to dark cortex,

seemingly paradoxical, perhaps a secret koan:

What is the sound of one pond laughing?

 

            Shhh!

 

Is it possible to stare in its mirror to see,

            yet not see,

life’s perfect reflection simultaneously?

 

 

 

Rick Hartwell is a retired middle school (remember the hormonally-challenged?) English teacher living in Moreno Valley, California. He believes in the succinct, that the small becomes large; and, like the Transcendentalists and William Blake, that the instant contains eternity. Given his “druthers,” if he’s not writing, Rick would rather be still tailing plywood in a mill in Oregon. He can be reached at rdhartwell@gmail.com.

A Poem by Diane Webster

Rosebush Wings

Beneath rosebush
red, yellow petals
litter ground
like butterfly wings
in kaleidoscope
jumble
awaiting wind
to reincarnate
stained-glass
confetti whirlwind.



Diane Webster's goal is to capture a moment of nature with words so others can see what she has seen. Her work has appeared in "Muddy River Poetry Review," "The Rusty Nail," "River Poets Journal" and other literary magazines.

A Poem by Paul Tristram

The Black Cat Looked Skyward

 
The Black Cat looked skyward
in a thoughtful fashion,
let his gaze drop back
to the silver full moon
surfing gently off
the midnight rickety roof slates
and shadowing the turrets of chimneys
that spread out before him
in greying acres
over Old Smokey London Town.
Scratched twice, theatrically,
leapt off sharply, that way
towards the River and Embankment
in the fragile hope
of catching another glimpse
of her, again.

Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.
 

Two Poems by Kim Peter Kovac

Swelter Skelter

 

like mother nature's oven
the sweltering humidity
roasts the mind into stupor

 

Equinox

 

at the cusp of sunrise
on the autumn equinox -
welcome, harvest moon!

 

 

 

Kim Peter Kovac lives in Alexandria, VA, and works nationally/internationally in theater for young audiences with an emphasis on new play development and networking.  His work is forthcoming or can be found in HowlRound, The Vine Leaves Literary Journal, Crack the Spine, Eunoia Review, Crunchable, Glint Literary Journal, The Metric, Mad March Hare, the Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, Modern Day Fairytales, Haiku Journal, High Coupe, Three Line Poems, and Write Local Play Global.  www.kimpeterkovac.tumblr.com

A Poem by Michael Lee Johnson

California Summer
 

Coastal warm breeze

off  Santa Monica, California

the sun turns salt

shaker upside down

and it rains white smog, humid mist.

No thunder, no lightening,

nothing else to do

except sashay

forward into liquid

and swim

into eternal days

like this.

 

 

Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois, who has been published in more than 750 small press magazines in twenty-five countries, he edits seven poetry sites.  Poetry books:  The Lost American: From Exile to Freedom (136 page book), several chapbooks, including From Which Place the Morning Rises and Challenge of Night and Day, and Chicago Poems.  He has over 65 poetry videos on YouTube.  Links to author website, book sales, and YouTube poetry videos:

Authors website http://poetryman.mysite.com/ 

http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/promomanusa   

http://bookstore.iuniverse.com/Products/SKU-000058168/The-Lost-American.aspx

http://www.amazon.com/The-Lost-American-Exile-Freedom/dp/0595460917

https://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos

Three Poems by Byron Beynon

CAPE TRIBULATION

We witnessed the rare and tropical rainforest
  as it nears the waterline,
    the movement of an endangered creature
that stirs from hiding to drink.
  Creeks inhabited by crocodiles,
    the cable ferry
        slips cautiously over the face of the Daintree.
The poison peach tree
    startled into focus
      by the ghosts of fires.
Sands that gather driftwood,
  the discovered cape
    sirened by the unseen
      dangers of the reef.
The ruined wind, with the leaves
  creates a distant sound.


BLACKBIRD

Alert to the world he knows,
a voyager of shrubs and intimate trees
the unwavering rhythm of his map
he returns to contemplate
the pure and serene.
Without hopes and fears
he edges towards that otherness
where shadows stir,
familiar with the art of sunsets
his eyes observe life's gallery,
one of nature's philosophers
impatient for the light to break.


MAES Y CAPEL

They cut down the trees
at Maes Y Capel,
built roads, houses, put
pipes and cables
where roots once ran.
The birds no longer
return to their vacant heights,
evicted without appeal.
In the wooded night
when the air's breathing
softens the atmosphere
trapping sighs,
shadows lengthen
reaching up
at the sky
where they fly
without impediment
telling you that someday
they will be coming home.

Byron Beynon lives in Swansea, Wales. His work has appeared in several publications including Jellyfish Whispers, London Magazine, Poetry Ireland Review, Chicago Poetry Review and Poetry Wales.  A Pushcart Prize nominee.  His latest collection "The Echoing Coastline (Agenda Editions) has been submitted for the T.S. Eliot Prize.

Two Poems by Rick Hartwell

Like Human Adolescents

 

Two hummingbirds, dramatic iridescence,

playing at sexual tag in the backyard, yet

way too late for the pull of spring incubation.

 

They may each have lost a mate to predation’s

insecurity; I’ve never noticed hummingbird

infidelity, then again perhaps they are just horny.

 

Sneaky

 

Shadows creep up on you surreptitiously and as

dawn rises to noon they trip and fall to their knees

performing silent obeisance at meridian, thinning out

towards an eastern infinity as day fades to dusk and then

into splendid sunsets: purples, reds; retinal sensuousness

dispelled by knowledge of particulate matter and vapor.

 

There are shades to shadows too, not just from sun, but

of moon and stars and fog; of dispersed, elusive fractals,

water beads skittering, grey fog phantoms trying to hide

in peripheral vision, trying to capture you unaware.

 

Moon shadows sway like the tides; adding, ebbing,

flowing through night and imagination until fleeing.

Star shadows exist, but can be seen only by night

fairies and fireflies when switched off, both keen

seers of the heavens when Selene hides her face and

stellar sylphs rule the night until her bloom’s restored.

 

 

 

Rick Hartwell is a retired middle school (remember the hormonally-challenged?) English teacher living in Moreno Valley, California. He believes in the succinct, that the small becomes large; and, like the Transcendentalists and William Blake, that the instant contains eternity. Given his “druthers,” if he’s not writing, Rick would rather be still tailing plywood in a mill in Oregon. He can be reached at rdhartwell@gmail.com.

Three Poems by John Roth

A Geisha Reminisces Over an Illicit Love Affair

On leap years,
we used to romp through oriental gardens.
Such slipshod footing, lovers tumble headfirst
from airy gables.

We were blind,
our eyes congealing from the star-smeared visor
that once held a promise for the future, one 
of tortured romance. 

But instead,
our passion soon deteriorated―
An ancient scroll with burnt tea stains, frayed tassels
eaten by silk moths. 

Only now,
do shadows weave between the green bamboo thicket,
where hibiscus flowers loll their citrine studded tongues
like a yawning corpse.

Drowsy gnats.
Shapeless mantles of light suffuse a pond’s dark edge.   
Puffs of white mist float like Chinese lanterns,
a moonlit paper nest

for swallows.
Mirror-scaled koi flick their whiskers at the sky
as water sloshes over a lipped-rim bowl of clay,  
nourishing silt.

Red crowned cranes
stalk the muddy banks in search of a lost mate.
Long necks stretch, trill cries erupt into the night
unanswered.

Wind-cradled
cherry blossoms litter the small pagoda
where our hearts bled into rose tinted vials.
Mingling souls

but keeping bodies apart.




Dehydration

It starts with a dry spell,
a nagging cough,
and soon becomes
a burning hole
in one’s throat.
The desert gargles
sand in its mouth,
picks the blisters off
its scorch-split tongue.
If only it had tears
to spare, some hidden
reserve of water kept
deep within itself.     
Some way to taste
of its own sorrow.    




Quench

The sun hangs low
like a gold medallion
looped through a blue
prize ribbon. 

There is nothing
to be won but red dust
and desert flies, rubbing
their greedy legs together
like dull violin strings.

A stone-painted lizard
sleeps flat on a pillowed
rock bed that’s been drunk
bone-dry by mouthfuls
of burning sand. 

The land cries out,
then comes
a noiseless surge
of black-bottle storm-clouds,
descending from the splintered
planks of sky like anchors flung
overboard. 

Then comes
white lightning, shackled
to earth’s hot ground plate. 

Then comes
the calming hush of rain.

John Roth is a poet from Ohio whose work has mostly recently appeared, or is still forthcoming, in The Orange Room Review, Boston Poetry Magazine, Bone Parade, Aberration Labyrinth, and Dead Snakes, among a few others.  He hopes you have a nice day.  

A Poem by Paul Tristram

Craddlegap The Cormorant

Upon dark
jagged
seaweed crowned
rock.
He stretches
his coal black wings
in sudden symmetry
perfectly
East & West.
Frown
sloping to serious bill
eyes thoughtful
in the estuary’s
misty morning
cold grey imagery.
He takes off
like a grumpy old man
of the sea
dressed in rags
of black velvet.
Away from the Little Egrets
to find his sport
in the freedom
of the choppy
Atlantic sea.

Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.
 

A Poem by Mike Cluff

Octet

Wearing the water down into dew or dissolvement
the rut between Aqua Luz and Pokerville
is now filling up without sound
with shoe polish and lettuce
the battle has released
from the gulley
where slaughter
emanates

Mike Cluff is a writer living in the inland section of Southern California.  He is now finishing two books of poetry:  "The Initial Napoleon" and "Bulleted Meat" -- both of which are scheduled for publication in late 2013/early 2014.  He believes that individuality is the touchstone of his life and pursues that ideal with passion and dedication to help the world improve with each passing instance.  He also hopes to take up abstract painting in the next several months.