The End of Everything. Poem. Neil Ellman

 

(after the painting by Roberto Matta

Echaurren)

Matta-the-end-of-everything-1942

 

 

And when it ended

there was a terrible groan

like the voice of a tree

falling from the weight

of too many seasons of death

and the pain of rebirth.

 

The ground could not hold.

Rocks heaved a last appeal.

Space filled

with an anarchy of white

shifting to red.

 

And then a silence

deafening, more profound,

its inevitability told

at the instant of its birth

when the word was everything

green, young and ours

we lived in that moment

not knowing it would end

with none of us to hear.

 
 
Neil Ellman
 
 

Biography:  Nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, Neil Ellman writes from New Jersey.  More than 1000 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.  His first full-length collection is Parallels: Selected Ekphrastic Poetry, 2009-2012 (Omphaloskeptic Press).

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The Silent Thief.Poem.Sullivan the Poet.Video/Audio.Candice James

 

The Silent Thief..’

 

 

It crept in soft ‘pon velvet feet,

a yesterday to steal;

A birdsong day all summer scents,

fair seasoned and genteel.

So small a day it scarce was missed,

one rain drop lost the brook;

Two dozen hours from all a life,

so easily mistook.

And in its stead did leave discard,

a fogged and dull lit gloom;

All hid behind familiar doors,

a strange and empty room.

 

I missed that one day not so much,

nor yet the next it stole;

A dirty day all damps and blows,

that scarce but left a hole.

Or bare the next, if truth be told,

or was it one before?

When sly it took a friend’s kind face,

from out an unlocked drawer.

And with it neatly enveloped,

all fastened with a bow;

A sheaf of happy memories,

once held and treasured so…

 

Til ‘fore I knew each other day,

or least I felt it so;

Fell silent ‘hind a rust hinged door,

through which I could not go.

No care to how I threw my locks,

or latched each window tight;

Another precious jewel was stole,

with each new morning light.

As if I held all of my life,

within these helpless hands;

Which day on day, try as I might,

slipped through like time’s cruel sands.

 

And so; I roam these labyrinths,

each crueller than the last;

In search some brightly open door,

to window on my past.

Dark corridors within my mind,

all tortured twist and bend;

And wooden troops dressed arms apart,

these doors, on guard, extend.

On, on, to twist each hard seized knob,

test each reluctant key;

To beg a bright familiar room,

that still remembers me.

 

With arms outspread to take me in,

all fold in its embrace;

Oh! Let me hold between my hands,

one full remembered face.

To know the hearth that embers there,

and bathe within its glow;

Beg gaze upon my grandchild’s face,

and breathe “I love you so..”

Or would that every kindly soul,

that smiled with love on me;

Might not, all gaoled, ‘hind dead-locked doors,

forever strangers be…

 

When in that demon’s maze I found,

all in his khaki suit;

My dearest love made young again,

my daring young recruit.

Rose young from under Flanders’ field,

and home the dreadful war;

Come steadfast ‘cross these work worn years,

to free my mind’s locked door.

So know you when I sightless stare,

my senses, thoughtless, flown;

Though lost your vale of tears my love,

that I am not alone…

 

 
“Verse – Perverse & Obverse..”

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2 Poets Laureate — New Westminster Poet Laureate Candice James and Canadian Parliamentary Poet Laureate Fred Wah at Royal City Literary Arts Society Setp 22, 2013 membership drive
Candice James
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Poet Laureate, New Westminster, BC

President, Royal City Literary Arts

Honorary Professor International Arts Acadamy, Greece

Board Advisor, Interantional Muse, India

Board Advisor, Federation of British Columbia Writers

Candice James is Poet Laureate of New Westminster, B.C. and President of Royal City Literary Arts Society. She is a poet, musician, songwriter and author of six poetry books A Split In The Water (Fiddlehead 1979);Inner Heart―A Journey; (2010), Bridges and Clouds (2011); Midnight Embers–A Book of Sonnets (2012); Shorelines-A Book of Villanelles (2013); and Ekphrasticism (2014).   Websites: http://saddlestone.shawwebspace.ca   and  www.candicjames.com

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CREME BRULEE. Poem. Paul Strohm.

 

 

I’m going to Paris!

Can you believe it?

Paris, France of all places.

It’s where the French people live.

Mister Tom says I’m to become a chef.

That’s the French word for cook.

Think on it,

I am going to be a fancy cook.

Mister Tom says I make a good cup of coffee,

Now I am going to make cafe!

Mister Tom says I’m to get money for my work.

I have read his garden book.

Yes I can read! When?

Since I was a child.

Mister Tom thinks his people should be educated up.

And now I’m to Paris,

Going to Paris with Mister Tom.

I’m going to be a Chef.

I’m going to Paris, France.

***

Paul in Army Dress-1

Paul Strohm is a free lance journalist  working in the Houston, Texas area.  His poems have been published in a number of print and online literary journals. He is married to a HS English teacher who hates contemporary poetry,which makes for a happy meeting of the two  minds.  Paul has only one full frontal photograph of himself on his IMAC.  He loves this photograph because it symbolizes the constraints of the culture he lives in.  The hat was one size fits all.  So everyman had to use it for his official military ID photograph. However, the wife says Paul has a big head.

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Lord’s Player. Poem. Phillip Larrea

 

(from the title “At Play in the Fields of the Lord”- Peter Mathiessen)

Often times, I am stuck sitting
For hours and hours on end
In between meetings
On which the day’s success depends.

Some odd spot, no amenities.
Maybe a coffee
In a parking lot
Descending to serenity.

This ridiculous pilgrimage
Not between temples dark.
More like an amusement park where
Madcap harlequins pillage plots.

She asks, “How did it go today?”
Oh, fine… bad… okay.”
The best part, I can’t really say,
Was spent in the Lord’s field- at play.

***

Sacpoetry pic green shirt

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Bio: Phillip Larrea was born and raised in Sacramento, CA., lived in N.Y.C. and Northern New Jersey most of his adult life, but has since moved back to Sacramento “where the New York City winters aren’t bleeding me.” (Paul Simon- The Boxer”). He studied poetry with Thom Gunn and Karl Shapiro at the University of California at Davis during the late seventies, and then all but abandoned writing until 2011. Since 2011, Phillip has had poetry published in over sixty journals and anthologies, is the author of Our Patch (Writing Knights Press), We the People (Cold River Press) and hundreds of non-fiction essays about the economic conditions of the average working household.

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Riding Dark Horse Nightmare(3).Poems.Joan McNerney

(i.)

 

to prison library

where sewer

backs up flooding

cages of books

my brains are washed

by a short scientist

 

 detectives trail me

arrested by police

giving up to

handcuffs  ether

 

now on train

calendars peel

off cars

1942   1962   1982

2198   1892   1294

passengers screaming

screaming off track

burning 3rd rail

 

in swamp struggling

to reach green reeds

i   am   a

fixed target

paper duck

*pull trigger*fire pin*thru barrel*into muzzle*

b u l l e t                 s h o t

paper duck

mowed down.

 ***

(ii.)

an executive

 

showed me in

i, shy

as an orphan

 

her charming face

thru sewing room

viewing beige cabinets

bolts of silk

tactical prints

her life in threads

swatches impressive

floral

 

discerning glances

make me hurry

out the rear

but she invited

me only to see

her material things

& feel them

unattainable

 

all handsome houses

have well guarded gardens

lush chrysanthemums

smothering me

dog-faced.

***

(iii.)

“A” train

brassy blue

electric

 

close eyes

watch points

like stars

 

think now

how insignificant

compared to train

speaking for itself

 

stars known

in no language

burn shoot

thru

tiger’s eyes

 

brain in

constant action

reaction

 

to what we do not know

plans of distant stars

galaxies floating as

 

“A” train

silver worm

slides under

big belly

of city

 
 

Joan McNerney’s poetry has been included in numerous literary magazines such as Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Blueline, Spectrum, three Bright Spring Press Anthologies and several Kind of A Hurricane Publications. She has been nominated three times for Best of the Net. Poet and Geek recognized her work as their best poem of 2013. Four of her books have been published by fine small literary presses and she has three e-book titles.

Vivitar

 

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My Cumbria.Poem.Lulu Gee

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Oh!  My heart’s in Cumbria,
That for so long I’ve missed,
The blue grey hills and valleys
Of early Autumn’s kissed.
For not since young I’ve seen it
Beneath a northern sky,
When at dawn in soft grey mist
I watched the clouds race by.

The lakes ‘neath mountain summits
Are deepest peacock green,
With trees aflame in Autumn,
The like you’ve never seen!
For colours rich in texture
Are painting gold the hills
While heathers bathe in purples,
Ahead of winter chills.

All through this golden silence
By silver tarns aflow,
The low-land sheep are grazing
Where tangled breezes blow
And o’er beyond in Keswick,
You’ll see the ospreys there,
Among the blue of shadows
Where sights of them are rare.

Yet should you walk yet higher
To climb the tallest peak,
There’s snow as white as crystal
Where clouds will brush your cheek.
My heart so loves this landscape
That Autumn’s long desired,
The lakes and fells and mountains,
Where poets are inspired.

The bronze and gold this season
Will nestle on the brink,
Of shores beside pearl waters,
Where trout and salmon slink.
Oh! My heart’s in Cumbria,
That for so long I’ve missed
But hope prevails I may return
To keep an Autumn tryst.

Lulu

  Lulu Gee lives on the south east coast of England.
She’s had a varied working career starting at a theatrical shoemakers designing and making shoes for most of the west end shows in London, then as a hotelier and finally in finance for a corporate cryogenic company until she retired, and now is a proud published author of three poetry books.
She now writes full-time with her two dogs Teddy and Dolly never far from her side in her newly acquired cottage in the Kent countryside, known as the garden of England.
Her first book, ‘Dolly’s Wonderful New Life’ is a story in verse of the rescue and re-homing of her beloved border terrier, Dolly Daydream, while the second and third were both written in conjunction with the poet Dan Lake.
Her latest character Miss Twizzy is about to be published and hopefully be in the shops for Christmas 2013
At the moment she is working on a collection of fantasy poetry that will appeal the child in all of us.

 

Her diverse poetry can also be found at http://a.allpoetry.com/Lulu_Gee

 

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