Wednesday, August 26, 2015

Scott Thomas Outlar- A Poem


Midnight Halo
 
details, details –
to a fine point…

to implosion
pulling back
unto itself…

to entropy
exhausting
its last inhalation…

to a lapsing moment
as time expires
for evolution…

Angels with the voice
of midnight
bleed halo-shimmer songs
from out the shadows
of their dark tithe
spilling love
not riches
into the light

Demons with the curse
of doubt
filling their fallen minds
cry until they weep
wail and gnash their teeth
as golden light
becomes
their tomb


Bio:
Scott Thomas Outlar swims adrift in the cosmic flow of the Tao River, singing songs to the heavens while waiting for inspiration to echo back from the muses. His goings-on can be followed at 17numa.wordpress.com.


Tuesday, August 25, 2015

Maciej Walkowiak- Three Poems



Resistance

Feeble minds lead and blind
war of vice and virtue, no end in sight,
walking a path against the current,
wind brings us down
rise again, or change your way
conformity in rest,
resistance is feudal they say,
industrial scale of thoughts,
how long can one fight?
or should we join the ranks of fright.



Humanity Gone Awry

There is beauty in this world
it lies between solidarity of men
pursuit of.....a better,
grasp above own a noble deed,
the love of other.
Yet you stand on shoulders of misery
to make yourself tall,
no bottom to your greed
on the edge of madness
you dance and pirouette,
while most toil for crumbs.



Cannibals & Co

Crooks in suits on the loose
steal at will from the youth
Law for sale if you please
all with say on your knees!
Kleptocratic business plan
take it all if you can.


Jennifer Lagier- A Photo



                                                                "Berries & Mist"



Robert Lavett Smith- Three Poems



THE STRICKEN AND THE STILL

         i.m.: R. S. Thomas, 1913-2000

The poet photographed deplorably—
A stern old codger, country clergyman,
Stubbornly Welsh and fiercely Anglican—
In every portrait he scowls bitterly.
Oh, how he raged against modernity!
Refrigerators were decried in sermons;
Machines he saw as little more than vermin,
Distractions from our spirituality.
But the harsh music of the balding hills
Flowed freely, unencumbered, in his lines:
He caught the cadence of the health, the ills,
Of those who tilled the earth or delved the mines.
He moved among the stricken and the still,
Attuned to more celestial designs.



FOR SIR JOHN BETJEMAN, 1906-1984

John Betjeman was the Poet Laureate
Of Britain in the nineteen seventies—
Tweedy, avuncular, known for his ease
With journalists, his flawless etiquette.
Perhaps at some point you’ll have heard his name,
But have no real feeling for his verse;
Widespread acclaim can often be a curse;
His genius was submerged beneath his fame.
I came across a gathering of songs,
Settings for words that he penned years ago:
So many haunting lines I didn’t know;
Each witticism right where it belongs.
His oeuvre resonates as few things can—
Enough to make me wish I’d met the man.



PASSING A STOREFRONT CHURCH

A storefront mission in the Tenderloin,
Whose battered sign proclaims “Cristo Viene,”
Exacts no tears. (Indeed, I have not any;
My soul cannot be purchased with that coin.)
Here, twilight’s perched uneasily between
This holiness of dubious repute
And gaggles of bedraggled prostitutes,
The oldest of them barely seventeen.
Then there’s a bundled figure in the doorway
So indistinct it’s neither man nor woman—
Although we recognize it must be human—
Once pliant flesh deformed by long decay.
The shuttle turns a corner, and the night
Engulfs for good this dreary scrap of light.


Raised in New Jersey, Robert Lavett Smith has lived since 1987 in San Francisco, where for the past sixteen years he has worked as a Special Education Paraprofessional. He has studied with Charles Simic and the late Galway Kinnell. He is the author of several chapbooks and three full-length poetry collections, the most recent of which is The Widower Considers Candles (Full Court Press, 2014). He has recently been working on an new collection of sonnets—his second foray into the form—which is entitled Sturgeon Moon, and which will hopefully be published by Full Court Press at the end of the year. 


John Swain- A Poem


Prophet’s Rock
 
The sun a horse recumbent
in the dust
red as prairie grass traveling
to a distant hill.
Flies and rattles line
the braided mane.
I broke from the road
to approach
the sky of bone, unknowing
the call of its hollow.
A doorway of rock
emanates the prophet’s song
where two rivers cross
the field of the wounded.
The dead arise to sky half-blind
in the sign of eclipse
as black hooves splinter flint
and then trample the corn.


John Swain lives in Louisville, Kentucky. Least Bittern Books published his second collection, Under the Mountain Born.  


Bradley Williams- A Cartoon




See more cartoons at http://machocomics.com

Pijush Kanti Deb- Three Poems


The Company and Its Right Track
                 
Everything is normal to mirror
yet to the new eyes of today
the company stands on the wrong track
causing traversing of sea-less clouds
in the sky
and on the land
transferring of driver’s seat
from the heaven-returned father
to the hell-returned son
provoking the son and his commercial magic
to set Thames on fire
in the very outset
commanding the following assistants
to run in the same groove
setting all confusions and hesitations
at rest from the secret path
linking Eldorado with the company’s treasury
for soliciting a big push
to welcome the company again to its right track
immersing the obsolete hymns
of ethics and humanity
to turn the walking profit into a galloping horse
and the barren cloud into the fertile one
rich in seas and oceans to bloom
a winning smile on the lips of the rough and tough son.

 
A Peace-loving Family Man
                     
The open screen of a market
projects a scene of a wrangling-
almost ready to set in
but one of the rivals is seen
to show his back to his opponent
before putting two and two together
saying, ‘’ I don’t like fighting’’
and cutting both ways his image
to the disappointed on looking crowd-
interested in enjoying a dual free of cost,
who remark as per the ink in their pens,
‘’ He is gentleman’’ some opine
while other oppose,’’ No, he is a coward’’
but the returning rival mutters,
maybe, to himself or to someone else he likes,
‘’I’m no other than a peace-loving family man’’

 

A Lonely Body
                     
The softness of heart feels pity
on its young but lonely body
witnessing its bed-tumbling
round and round in its deep slumber
saying to himself
‘’ It needs a partner with anti- tumbling device’’
and obtaining too
the comment of a poet living in it
‘’ Wow! What a sweet longing for salty sweating’’
but both start stammering
looking at its trembling pocket
with shrinking wallet
and beating hard their stony fate on the wall
causing the waking up of the body smiling
projecting a happy flash back
of the passionate love of his dream-girl
who comes daily in his dream
to make it enchanted
to its cause of bed-tumbling
and unmindful
to his compelled miseries and loneliness
and alive too without the sweet nectar of reality.
 
 
Pijush Kanti Deb is a new Indian poet with around 252 published or accepted poems and haiku in around 81 nos of national and international magazines and journals [,print and online] like Down in the dirt, Tajmahal Review, Pennine Ink, Hollow Publishing, Creativica Magazine, Muse India, Teeth Dream Magazine,Hermes Poetry Journal, Grey Borders, Dagda Publishing, Blognostic  Black Mirror Magazine, Dissident Voice Journal , Indiana Voice Journal and many more.
 
His best achievement so far is the publication of his first poetry collection,’’Beneath The Shadow Of A White Pigeon’’published by Hollow Publishing is available on AMAZON.
 
 

Jennifer Lagier- A Photo



                                                    "Fishing boat off Point Lobos"



Melanie Browne- Two Poems


I Just Can't Decide

Sometimes
I'm the Good
Witch,
smiling, full
of goodness,
I care
for the
paper dolls,
and make a
home for all
the rabbits,

other days I'm like
the Wicked Witch of
the East,
Dorothy's house
is already
crushing me,
my legs turn
to dust,
till there is
nothing left
but my pointy,
pointy shoes,

then the flowers
wilt,
and all
the little
people
dance & sing



Bungee

We American People,
dangling on
the end of the bunjee
fighting endless wars,
giving money overseas,
while our politicians
hop in and out of
our enemies beds,
a word search we
can't finish,
waiting for
the final
SNAP

Jennifer Lagier- A Photo



                                             "8 am at Carmel River Lagoon Beach"