Fireworks. Sonnet.Poem.Candice James

 
 
 

Bold fireworks splashed against a blackened sky
Flared up to burn night down to raw red dawn.
We travelled light with broken compass nigh,
With nothing left of value we could pawn.
We trusted in the knowledge of the wind,
And drifted on the wet silk of her lip,
Until our vows of love became unpinned.
Untangled heartbeats.  Unjoined at the hip.
An ancient masterpiece now out of fashion,
We spun beneath the axis of the moon.
Two star crossed lovers in a web of passion,
We witnessed midnight crashing into noon.
Erased, we’re the collision of two comets;
New ink stains blurred on antiquated sonnets.
 
 
IMAG0706
 
Candice James was born in New Westminster, BC and is a poet, artist, musician, and 
singer/songwriter. 
She is currently serving her second  three year term as Poet Laureate of the City of 
New Westminster.
 
CANDICE IS ALSO
President of Royal City Literary Arts Society
Advisory Board Member Muse International (India)
Advisory Board Member of the Federation of BC Writers
Past President of the Federation of BC Writers
 
Author of 7 poetry books:
”A Split In The Water”; 
“Inner Heart – a journey”; 
“Bridges and Clouds”; 
“Midnight Embers – a Book of Sonnets”
“Shorelines” – a book of villanelles 
“Ekphrasticism – Painted Words”
“Purple Haze” 
 
Awards Received
Writers International Network “Distinguished Poet 2013”
Pentasi B – Phillippines  “Woman of Prestige 2013”
Honorary Professor International Academy of Arts (Greece)
 
Keynote speaker/panelist at
“Word On The Street” Vancouver, BC
“Black Dot Roots Cultural Collective” Vancouver, BC
“Write On The Beach” White Rock, BC
“Writers’ Etc” Los Angeles, CA
 
Phoenix  Book Image
 

 
This Sonnet Fireworks appears in the The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes: 
Anthology of sonnets of the early third millennium 
= Le Phénix renaissant de ses cendres : Anthologie de sonnets au début 
du troisième millénaire. 
Vallance, Richard, Ed-in-Chief. Victoria, British Columbia: Friesen Press, ©
  
Some 300 sonnets and ghazals in English, French, Spanish, German and Farsi published at 
Friesen Press, and now available.   
   
Friesen Press will do all the marketing and distribution. 
   
To be available in major bookstores & through all major online order channels 
such as Amazon.com, Alibris.com, Smithsbook's, Ebay and Barnes & Noble: 
For more information on the anthology, please visit our site. 
The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes = Le Phénix renaissant de ses cendres 

http://vallance22.hpage.com/ 

 
[email protected]
[email protected]
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Sometimes I Can’t be Arsed with Poetry.Sonnet.Poem.David Seddon

Sometimes I can’t be arsed with poetry
and syllables that crash when they should dance
like marionettes pulled by industry
or inspiration due to muse or chance.
And what’s the point of words however good?
Does anyone read them and fall in love
or curse them, gut them, spill or drink their blood?
Save poets and critics, who gives a shove?
I tell you, some days I would rather think
myself a man moved more by luck than verse
or plumb pipes together than words that stink:
at least dignity’s there in fuller purse.
And what’s a sonnet but weight round your neck?
An afternoon’s work or a lifetime’s check?

David Seddon

David Seddon has been writing poetry and sonnets for over 30 years. 
He is from Liverpool in the North West of England and is a member
of various poetry groups in that area. Among other venues, his poetry
has appeared in various anthologies, and in Ink Sweat and Tears, 
Obsessed with Pipework, Other Poetry, Poetry in the Waiting Room, 
Poetry Scotland, Sonnetto Poesia  and Under the Radar. He has  a BA in 
Philosophy and an  MA and Diploma in Counselling. He works as a person
-centred and existential counsellor in private practice.

Sometimes I Can’t be Arsed with Poetry' appears in The Phoenix Rising 
from the Ashes: Anthology of sonnets of the early third millennium= 
Le Phénix renaissant de ses cendres : Anthologie de sonnets au début 
du troisième millénaire. -now in galley production stage at Friesen Press
scheduled for release June 2013. ISBN: Hardcover: 978-1-4602-1700-9 
Paperback: 978-1-4602-1701-6 eBook: 978-1-4602-1702-3. 

 

We urge readers of these sonnets in Poetry Life & Times pre-published 
from The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes = Le Phénix renaissant de ses cendes. 
Victoria, B.C., Canada, Friesen Press, © June 2013  300 sonnets in English, 
French, German, Chinese & Farsi, http://vallance22.hpage.com/, to visit the
site. Readers may also contact Richard  Vallance, Editor-in-Chief, at:
[email protected] for further information. 

 

RMS Titanic Centennial Sonnets 7 & 8. Poem. Richard Vallance.

7

The Dusk Casts Shadows

The dusk casts shadows on the drowning sun,
Titanic's lights ablaze.  She cleaves the sea,
a mirror to the stars, her maiden run 
serene success by some divine decree.
The falling swell has passed, the past astern.
The last two days will spell “The Promised Land”
each Steerage soul must face with some concern, 
with little else but landing grant in hand.
In First, astern the barren promenade,
the after-mast casts light in frosty arcs
on Ida Straus *, her furs, her pale pomade,
and Isidor, in arm, as she remarks,
before retiring to the plush saloon, The sea’s like glass this Sunday night.  No moon.”
***

***
8Iceberg dead ahead!”
[11:40 p.m. April 14 1912] The sea is calm tonight, 
          The tide is full, the moon lies fair 
                         Upon the straits; …”

          Matthew Arnold, Dover Beach (1867)

The sea’s like glass this Sunday night. No moon
casts light upon the ice-pocked sea, where stars
are cast in bituminous black, in tune
with Ages Past. Titanic flat-out scars
the glassy sea her raking bowsprit cleaves:
her splashing wake’s so cold her passengers 
must flee the promenades the starlight leaves
in livid darkness.... where nothing stirs,
and nothing stays the artificial breeze
that snakes along the hull, and takes its pulse
on brittle rivets, frozen; so they seize
upon the berg Titanic can’t repulse.
   Fleet * alerts the bridge, “Iceberg dead ahead!”Astern!”  Propellers lash.  The iceberg 's fled. 

***

***

RMS Titanic Centennial Sonnets 7 & 8.  are excerpts from Richard Vallance's  
Garland of Sonnets due for later publication, in - The Phoenix Rising from 
the Ashes: Anthology of sonnets of the early third millennium= Le Phénix 
renaissant de ses cendres : Anthologie de sonnets au début du troisième
millénaire -now in the galley production stage at Friesen Press, scheduled 
for  release June 2013. ISBN: Hardcover: 978-1-4602-1700-9 Paperback: 
978-1-4602-1701-6 eBook: 978-1-4602-1702-3.  

We urge readers of these sonnets in Poetry Life & Times pre-published from 
The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes = Le Phénix renaissant de ses cendes. 
Victoria, B.C., Canada, Friesen Press, © June 2013  300 sonnets in English, 
French, German, Chinese & Farsi, http://vallance22.hpage.com/, to visit the
site. Readers may also contact Richard  Vallance, Editor-in-Chief, at:
[email protected] for further information. 
 

 

 

The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes: Anthology of Sonnets. Le Phénix renaissant de ses cendres : Anthologie de sonnets. Poetry. Richard Vallance.

Phoenix  Book Image

The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes: Anthology of sonnets of the early third millennium
= Le Phénix renaissant de ses cendres : Anthologie de sonnets au début du troisième millénaire.
Vallance, Richard, Ed-in-Chief. Victoria, British Columbia: Friesen Press, ©
 
Some 300 sonnets and ghazals in English,
French, Spanish, German and Farsi published at
Friesen Press, and now available.
 
 
Friesen Press will do all the marketing and distribution.
 
To be available
in major bookstores & through all major online order channels
such as Amazon.com, Alibris.com,
Smithsbook's, Ebay and Barnes & Noble:
For more information on the anthology, please visit our site.
The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes = Le Phénix renaissant de ses cendres

Near and Far.The Teratogen Sonnet Series. Poem. Video. Norman Ball

 

“The death camps were not built in the Gobi Desert. And when barbarism challenged, the humanities, the arts, philosophic thought proved not only largely impotent but often collaborative with despotism and massacre,”

–George Steiner, from ‘A New Literacy’, The Kenyon Review, 24:1, Winter 2007, 10-24

 

Teratogen 1: Sex on the Brain

 

“Thy nakedness shall be uncovered,

yea, thy shame shall be seen…”—Isaiah 47:3

 

This mission is a sin. What kind of spaz-

tic draws vigor from pornographic veins

or penis-headed parodies of ass?

 

But you’re no baby, Baby. Holy weans

alive, I could not diaper your fine mess.

You soil all metaphor. I’ll author blame:

My labs, my country tis of thee. My shame

is writ uncovered on your face. No less

you’d scare Sears’ portrait guy.

 

And yet I’m drawn

to parse the prick that promenades your head.

They told us, Horus, Set, the Golden Dawn:

 

a Third Eye—neither naked, neither dead

of shameless form would, near the end, arrive

commending those whose fear brought it alive.

 

Teratogen 2: Cabbage Patch Moll

 

“Hence world picture, when understood

essentially, does not mean a picture of the

world but the world conceived and grasped

as picture.” –Martin Heidegger

 

You vandalize distress at no small cost

through nylon skein and cabbage patch

disguise. This manhunt though is long since lost.

All have been found. First paparazzi snatched

 

unguarded moments. Then we watched gray puffs

televise precision. Your face

is pixelated aftermath that stuffs

everything in the close-up. Common place

 

covers all bases. Where’s the intimate

to hide? The convict is a partial judge

on all subjects of visual merit. Split

my screen and your forehead suggests a smudge-

print. We share the mounting headcount’s ripe bruise.

For I no longer feel eyewitness news.

 

Teratogen 3: Thumbelina, Dance

 

“…advanced forms of biological warfare that can ‘target’ specific genotypes may transform biological warfare from the realm of terror to a politically useful tool.” –from Project for a New American Century (PNAC) Manifesto, 2000

 

We vet foot bills. Are pissed-on borders worth

a mongrel birth? doG gone us Pentagon.

Hotdog Girl rolls so we might rule the earth?

 

Our barking men of outrage are all gone.

Lassie’s come home to her unleashing hour.

Stream? I cannot stream out into the streets.

Fluoride neutered all my upright power.

I’ll litter no more dog-days in these sheets.

 

Poor pup, you play dead well. No, we’ll not lift

you up. One burp and you could well explode

across complicit shoulders. To the swift

life opens up. As for an honest road

with cars to chase, let’s first define your legs.

Right now you are a thumb. How motion begs.

 

Teratogen 4: Waterboy

 

“No, you people are drinkin’ the wrong water.”

–from The Water Boy, the movie (1998)

 

 Suffer this baby floating on the earth

amphibious. Grace alone can mend

fluidic pustules. Please make haste. No berth

so wide of God, nor time-belabored End-

 

time should deflate ascent. Prospects look grim

for god-speed. Though we tire of boils and sore

feet.

 

Oh procrastinating seraphim,

whitewash no more. These mutants wash ashore.

Our amniotic seas now euthanize.

 

Please hear, oh Lord, water-boy’s gurgled cries.

His isotopic lungs cannot advance

beyond collapse. How does he stand a chance

of reaching Heaven, waterlogged on Earth?

The New Disorder liquefies at birth.

 

Teratogen 5: Burpee Girl

 

“Satan said: ‘I am not the one to prostrate

myself to a human being, whom You created

from sounding clay of altered black smooth

mud.” –Quran 15:30-35

 

Christian soldier, you battle your mortgage

with Abd al-Chuckee puppet-strings away,

sculpted like a Mujaheedin porridge

from amber waves of O, so gamma ray.

 

Our acronym-cadavers cyphered this.

The Pentagon got wind of ill-wind skies.

Re-baseline victory. All vectors miss

these eyesores too contained to leak out cries.

 

Children, don’t play! The cradle robs the grave

before the grave has time to rob your wild

unripened stares. Uranium defiled

His altered mud. God’s breath we, breathless, waive.

 

Dead verse tomatoes horror. Who’ll baptize

the Burpee Girl with ovulating eyes?

 

Teratogen 6: Improvised Existential Denouement (IED)

 

Up close you could be anybody’s child-

care scandal. Hamburger Hill limps beside

your fresh pink meat. While no one looked, life filed

your backstroke down to blisters. They will hide

your books in study hall. Who will arrest

 

this mutant form now terrorizing cells?

Without a clear and sewn-up threat the West

cannot hold the line. Deformity spells

 

doom. No tight-knit group of key advisors

props up your bloated puppet-string regime.

Sit up. Exude malevolence. Your sores

must find themselves else war will lose its steam

 

pressed irony. Don’t make us make Big Macs.

Cater our events. Weather our attacks.

 

Teratogen 7: Baby Skeletor (Brought to You by ‘Masters of the Universe’)

 

“Skeletor’s face accidentally got splashed with acid and he sacrificed his face to

survive.” –from ‘Masters of the Universe’, a Mattel media franchise

 

Before ill-winds impinged on faultless weather,

I had a barrow glazed with rain for you.

I’d wheel you to the bus-stop, but why lever

a father’s guilt atop your unhinged glue?

 

I’m loath to hold you up for God to see,

nor shower you with blue comforts. Why not flee

my too-short arms, your wails so out of key?

You scream small monster none the least at me.

 

I’ll prop you up at school if you insist.

But stand-up kids are cruel. They will resist

the womb’s last weapon, shrunken in their midst.

The universe won’t stoop. You are the grist

for chemistry swept under bazaar rug,

a Hazmat spill, the morning-after drug.
 
This series first appeared in The New Formalist, then Cinemension. Teratogen sonnets 5 and 7 will appear in ‘The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes: Anthology of sonnets of the early third millennium Friesen Press, Victoria, B.C., Canada, 2013.
 
normgarage2
 
NORMAN BALL (BA Political Science/Econ, Washington & Lee University; MBA, George Washington University) is a well-travelled Scots-American businessman, author and poet whose essays have appeared in Counterpunch, The Western Muslim and elsewhere. His new book “Between River and Rock: How I Resolved Television in Six Easy Payments” is available here. Two essay collections, “How Can We Make Your Power More Comfortable?” and “The Frantic Force” are spoken of here and here. His recent collection of poetry “Serpentrope” is published from White Violet Press. He can be reached at [email protected].
 
 
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Living Her Passion.Poem.Richard Doiron

 

She comes to him at night
in the secret world of dreaming
and she comes, also,
when reverie descends,
like so much summer rain,
to occupy the day itself.
 
She comes, unfettered,
unmasked, a deluge, disarming.
In the earliest of hours,
she is the promise of the sun.
At noon, she describes the night,
replete with wine and roses.
 
She cares not a whit
for the whimsies of deniers,
decriers, the deities of decorum.
She comes not to advance,
to enhance, to embellish
the shores of sanctimony.
 
She comes to uphold
the virtues of love, the verities
of which are more than mirrors
affixed to their walls,
the same reflecting but the rigid rule
of their perfidious page.
 
She comes to alert, to assert,
to avow. Here to deter the dagger and
the dart, fulfilling the heart, engaging
the soul, she courts her cause,
on a bed that’s ablaze, burning, a blaze,
burning, burning, burning!

 

***********
***********

-Richard Doiron, 66, Moncton, New Brunswick, Canada,
work in print since 1964. A graduate in journalism, has read
at national and international literary festivals, his work read
at the United Nations and the World Congress of Poetry &
Cultures. Has published an estimated 1000 poems. Twice
nominated for the Governor-General’s Award (Canada);
recipient of the World Poetry Lifetime Achievement Award 2012.
 
 

This Bone That I Found. Poem.Torre A. DeVito


Walking in the woods I found a hollow bone,
Whose flesh had been the meal of worms.
It was hollow and smooth, bleached by the sun:
And insects had cleaned the marrow.
 
Ah, that in life I am like this bone,
that all my gifts be used up,
offered upon a platter that is licked-clean,
sopped-up, slurped out, and savored.
 
Oh, that in death my body is used up
so completely that there is nothing left
and at the resurrection it is renewed:
smooth and clean and white as this bone;
 
this bone that I found, while walking 
in the wood, this hollow bone,
stripped by worms – hollow, smooth,
and bleached by the sun.

Crime Fiction.Poem.Mitchell Geller

Mitchell Geller

In books by Christie, Sayers and Ngaio Marsh
the mystery writer observes this dictum:
A man or woman, venal cruel and harsh,
shot, stabbed or poisoned, must be the first victim.
With Corpse Number Two, the rules relax;
A kindly person, warm, or even saintly,
dispatched (so the “perp” can cover his tracks)
for sensing whodunit, however faintly.
Henceforth, clues and alibis alike are flimsy —
has someone stolen Madam’s secateurs?
If so, why do Alleyn, Poirot or Wimsey
deduce the fingerprints they bear are hers?
Yet how they charm! Stale plots, dull dialogue,
Manor house murders and footsteps in fog.

The new ones differ — brilliant PD James
created a brooding detective-poet.
Anne Perry’s historical oeuvre proclaims
Victorians were kinky, though loath to show it.
The kudos trenchant Ruth Rendell has garnered
extend to her alias, Barbara Vine,
and sly diabolical Robert Barnard
lampoons England’s bleak, bureaucratic decline.
Where once the motives were classic and clean —
the quartet: love, loathing, lucre and lust —
now sociopathy dominates the scene;
victims dismembered, leather-clad and trussed.
The grey cells are augmented in our day
by Freud and forensics and DNA.