Bright colours in a pool of crystal clarity
reflecting all the spectrum of our days
slip down into a quagmire of nonentity
with nothing left to sully or erase.
This cold disease that strips a man of human soul,
is worst of all the ravages of time;
behold those eyes, devoid of everything you stole,
yet blissfully unknowing of your crime.
This bright man, worn away to barest minimum,
this one-time writer and great raconteur,
this poet – will not travel to Byzantium;
his world is fading to a senseless blur.
Sara Louise Russell, aka PinkyAndrexa, is a UK poet and poetry ezine editor, specialising particularly in sonnets, lyric-style poetry and occasionally writing in more modern styles. She founded Poetry Life & Times and edited it from 1998 to 2006, when she handed it over to Robin Ouzman Hislop and Amparo Arrospide; Robin now runs it as Editor from Poetry Life & Times. She is currently founder and Editor of the daily paper.li journal Poetry Lifetimes, Poetry Lifetimes ; which is a sister publication to Poetry Life & Times. Her poems and sonnets have been published in many paper and online publications including Sonnetto Poesia, Mindful of Poetry and Autumn Leaves a monthly Poetry ezine from the late Sondra Ball. Her sonnets also currently appear in the recently published anthology of sonnets Phoenix Rising from the Ashes. She is also one of the first poets ever to be published on multimedia CD ROMs, published by Kedco Studios Inc.; the first one being “Pinky’s Little Book of Shadows”, which was featured by the UK’s national newspaper The Daily Mirror, in October 1999. (Picture link for Mirror article)Angel Fire
after the rat race
chasing clouds and field mouses
on the Butte Montmartre
the Leica clicks
the right scene at the right time
no doubt in his mind
caress and murmur
the cat is asking for more
like the rest of us
Jacques Prévert by Izis
Originally published in Dagda Publishing.
Virginie Colline lives and writes in Paris. Her poems have appeared in The Scrambler, Prune Juice, The Mainichi, Frostwriting, Prick of the Spindle, Mouse Tales Press, StepAway Magazine, BRICKrhetoric, Seltzer, Overpass Books, Poethead, Silver Birch Press, The Bangalore Review, Creative Thresholds, Storyacious and Yes, Poetry, among others
I turned my back, defeated,
In solace my broken pieces returned
to a “puzzled” whole, locking itself
inside the safe of my chest (its code
lost in translation between sciences
of language and mathematics)
— like a thought, understood
but impossible to articulate
(maybe for a good reason).
You crack the combination;
a virus changes DNA,
slithering up spiral ladders
where clarity confronts obscurity.
Should I self-diagnose cancer?
Or is your etching into my identity
the continuum, the upgrade?
Your wit has taken over me.
So far I’m the best game you’ve played
but I’m getting brave, I took you out;
it’s my turn to swing (pitch it fast)
— lips to lips, make this moment last,
fire’s ablaze, blasting frozen past.
I melt like my soul’s the most
persistent of time,
my mind’s liquefied over the wishing
that someday your heart will be mine —
knees on concrete to propose,
could anyone really want me
And how did you feather hope
My Imagination takes flight
with that very phoenix.
like a fast-ticking clock,
zooms through space,
then it brakes, halts,
stopped at the wall:
I’m studying your face,
mesmerized by those eyes
as we stand in line
for a haunted house
— yet the true fear is you
reeling me into your arms
and I smile, as bubbly
as wielded glass lava.
(But I like how you shape
without changing me.)
Tyler Drescher (commonly known as “Ty”) is an aspiring entrepreneur, full-time co-manager of a local pizzeria and part-time student at Daytona State College, residing in the eastern suburbs of Orlando. Despite busyness, Ty finds time to write, his style a mix of “slice of life” and metaphor with a surreal touch. Although he writes mostly poetry, at heart he hopes to compose a novel for publication someday, exploring themes such as action-adventure, science-fiction and dystopian future. Along with writing, he enjoys playing and watching soccer and going to the gym after work. Born February 27th in 1992, he is 22 years young, still learning the ropes of adulthood, identity a work in progress. Ty hopes to be a great leader of his own business (likely in the food industry) and, at the same time, hopes to inspire others through his writing.
If you would like to get in touch with Ty Drescher:
Through the foggy lens
Of an early morning haunting
The ghosts of summer,
And hazy dreams
In the blue shadows
Of a dying star
A pearl scarf of frost glistens
Under a red rising Sun
A lone gull cries to the wind
Leaving its imprint
In the thick atmosphere
Of a muted October sky
My footsteps crunch and crackle
On a scatter of pebbles and leaves
That whisper secrets
Into the outstretched palms
Of this early morning haunting.
I watch the sun rise;
Ash to ember to flame.
I listen to the wind;
Silence to whispers to voices
I’m alone, but not alone
I walk with ghosts
In the blue shadows
Of this early morning haunting
© 2013 Candice James
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.candicejames.com
Between brief interludes and hypnotic sensations,
Your name orbits around all temptations…
Lost between the verbs and all translations,
Your fingertips orchestrate my own salvations…
Like a karmic explosion imbued with incantations,
You came to show me the quantum fascinations…
(Anca Mihaela – 15th February 2014)
Anca Mihaela Bruma – Short Bio
My name is Anca Mihaela Bruma, I am Romanian living in Dubai/UAE. My love for poetry started when I was just 9 years old, when I registered myself to some creative poetry writing group. It was a turning point for me as I started to discover the mysteries of the written word and its impact on the readers. Since that early age, I have always viewed writing poetry as the perfect medium which is able to depict profound unfathomable complexities of someone’s life or life itself, to render into words that which is unsayable, that ineffable, which can be truly deeper than the language itself. Through my writings, as well years of readings, I always looked to seek something beyond that which was apparent to others! I was fascinated to see how different aspects of truth were transfigured by different emotions, how experiences were poetized. I pursued seeing beauty expressed in all forms of art, not just poetry; creating a “thirst” within me to explore more and more for the knowledge of the mystery beneath and beyond it, as a symbol of something greater and higher with its own power to immortalize the expressions over the years.
Ruins After Math*
One thinks of numbers,
of thousands beneath each wane.
each flicker of light
under ground …
broken and torn
in an hourglass …
Editors Note: This poem was contributed by Jim Dunlap(see categories)on behalf of Tess Durkin.
photo courtesy of Jim Dunlap
Tess Durkin is a member of the Iowa Poets Association (2010-2011), and the Second Saturday Poets Society 2010-2014. Poetry Coordinator of Iowa Poets for Dart Buses and Poetry reading at Des Moines , Iowa, Main Library (2012), Coordinator for Poets and Edges of Iowa for the John Heizman Book Store and Beaverdale Books in Beaverdale and Valley Junction, both in Des Moines, IA., coordinator of poetry and plays for National Poetry Month, an annual venue for poets both national and international (now defunct) where poets such as Sharon Olds and many others came to read their poetry. and for poems presented by various businesses in Des Moines.
Tess obviously lives in Des Moines, IA in the United States. Her native language is not English, but she only writes in English.
Bubbling, taunting, time’s dark tide,
each eddy swirled,
in sagging flesh;
In days, in hours, speeds our slide,
our being hurled,
to tomb from crèche.
No sooner fecund than denied;
Disdain time’s breakneck, lethal ride.
Crack boned, withered, stooped and bent,
each moment run,
folds ‘pon its mate;
Life’s blood, creeping, near to spent,
each rising sun,
adds yet its weight.
And thus each second ‘thout relent;
In crushing, marketh man’s descent.
Weak’ning, feebled, sinews strain,
to beg their frame,
once more erect;
Wanting, trying, through the pain,
to brief reclaim,
lost self respect.
How vengeful gods make years our bane;
When potent youth’s spent wraiths remain.
Mirrored, frowning, lines portray,
each furrow ploughed,
Scribing deep each steel edged day,
In veins stood proud and wrinkles lent.
Thus revelling in man’s decay;
Does time our swift’ning span display.
Knowledge, hard won, weights its worth,
‘gainst failing mind,
that scarce recalls;
Wisdom, harboured, from man’s birth,
To nought consigned,
wets where he falls.
A lake of tears, a cup of mirth;
To silent slake some acrid earth.
Hard life, hard passed, fades to grey,
consigned to dust,
all trials borne;
Each pain endured, cold away,
each love each lust,
cut down like corn.
No mem’ries triumph o’er decay;
None worthed above another’s fey.
Living’s harvest, loving stored,
lays doomed to soil,
to rank decay;
Each ear, each grain, scant reward,
all life’s cruel toil,
passed dark away.
No bellies filled with living’s hoard;
Its sum from nought, to nought restored.
Conq’ring, lacking, coined the same,
no winnings pays,
nor debt foregoes;
Dies cast, random, call the game,
Yet not one day’s,
their falling owes.
Sham spoils the cheated victors claim;
When whispers time the Reaper’s name.
Comes the darkness, comes the why,
we pain to live,
for naught but this;
To bear each blow, breathe each sigh,
our all to give,
for one cold kiss.
In death’s embrace from womb we lie;
Each moment lived to naught but die!
© Sullivan the Poet 2008
A River Run…’is an excerpt from:
In A Mirror Darkly..
Published by Sullivan Publishing
Copyright: © Sullivan the Poet
Printed in the USA by Lulu.com
Sullivan The Poet
Born a British subject of an English mother and Irish catholic father in the late January of ‟53; „Sullivan‟ spent his early years with his family in the Far East. Returning with his parents to England in the late fifties where he was subsequently educated.
Thereafter pursuing what could perhaps be best described as a broadly colourful career; with callings as diverse as gun dealer and consultant, freelance journalist, magazine editor, commercial photographer, publican, fleet limousine operator, lecturer and an unpaid „Special Needs‟ tutor: To name but a few – even a brief spell under the flag enjoying the Queen‟s shilling!
Throughout which the only truly common thread has been his writing, an enduring passion never completely abandoned; Fuelled by his lifelong fascination with not only the beauty of the English language and its literature in general, but the richness and diversity of its poetry in particular. A fascination well illustrated in the almost perverse multiplicity of styles and subject matter contained within this slim volume and others…
Widely published in mediums as eclectic as his work, from poetry anthologies to text books; wall hangings and mixed media fine art works: „Sullivan‟ is seemingly content to share, with anyone and everyone, and in whatever poetic medium takes his fancy; His works, his philosophies, his passions…
Dave ‘Hoppy’ Bennett
Then the dream came back again.
It often comes these days.
Manjushree with a sword in his hand,
rushing toward Chobar.
Men, working in the farm,
complementing each other.
Colourful streets, women wearing bright red saris
dancing, bear a resemblance to the festival of Teej.
Thundering moan of Kali Gandaki
and the concentration of dazzling mountain peaks.
Salubrious aroma of incense sticks
and the burning earthen lamps.
Snow roosters and the barking deer’s
walloping here and there.
Then, all of a sudden…..
Brutal wind meandered
through the serene forests of time.
Then someone, may be a priest,
showed a black shirt, belonging to the God himself.
But not a single drop of rain fell on it.
Someone then shouted,
“Machchendranath is angry, Nepal has lost her fertility.”
I saw Lord Shiva standing in front of me,
blood dripped like tears down his forehead.
I saw dead body of Lord Shiva floating on the
Lake Gosainkund. Saw Nagkunda, Bhairavkund,
Saraswati Kund and Suryakund clad in fabric white,
with shaven heads, mourning the Lord’s death.
Bhuwan Thapaliya works as an economist, and is the author of four poetry collections. Thapaliya’s books include the recently released Safa Tempo: Poems New and Selected (Nirala Publication, New Delhi), and Our Nepal, Our Pride (Cyberwit.net). Poetry by Thapaliya has been included in The New Pleiades Anthology of Poetry and Tonight: An Anthology of World Love Poetry, as well as in literary journals such as Urhalpool, MahMag, Kritya, FOLLY, The Vallance Review, Nuvein Magazine, Foundling Review, Poetry Life and Times, Poets Against the War, Voices in Wartime, Taj Mahal Review, and more.
Our Nepal, Our Pride