Friday, April 29, 2016
opening your heart
by the babbling brook
washing away lustful wishes
I wait silently
for a tsunami of love
to fill my empty heart
peeling an unbroken spiral
of the soft warm wind
you kiss me tenderly
Nancy May’s haiku can be found at Haiku Journal, Three Line Poetry, Poetry Quarterly, Inclement Poetry, Twisted Dreams Magazine, Vox Poetica, Eskimo Pie, Icebox, Dark Pens, Daily Love, Leaves of Ink, The Blue Hour Magazine, Kernels, Mused – The BellaOnline Literary Review, Danse Macabre – An online literary Magazine, High Coupe, A Handful of Stones, Lyrical Passion Poetry E-Zine, UFO Gigolo, 50 Haikus, The Germ, Boston Literary Review, Be Happy Zone, Every Day Poets, Cattails, Ppigpenn, Creatrix Journal, M58, The Camel Saloon, Haikuary and the Plum Tree Tavern. She has reached The Heron’s Nest consideration stage twice and the Chrysanthemum consideration stage once. She is working on her first haiku collection.
Table Cloth Shirt
a table cloth shirt
as he rummages
through our wares
he found an actual
and threw it over
to keep warm
I learned to speak
from the voice
of Cary Grant
and Deborah Kerr
learned my humor
from Gene Wilder
and Meg Ryan
learned to argue
from the broadcast
as I leave
they circle around
where I stood
can carry away
in their beaks
Thursday, April 28, 2016
a post Obama candidate,
enveloped in self,
a cult of personality,
the first requirement for the job.
no rules of integrity,
citizens seem only sheep,
to be led to the slaughter,
communicating on small screens,
roam the airwaves,
searching independent minds,
to beat down,
if not all agree,
thugs deciding the culture,
and the way things shall be.
Man And Machine
Hastening, the sun
on seething ontologies
when will it come, the depredation
the lust, the spitting hatred, the sun
salvages lost hope, in mellow weather
we can smile, recant ideals, ask forgiveness
for sins done in blistering haste.
Some pray, testimony to living gods
whose absolutism one cannot take for granted.
Nearer home there are floods, the elections are over
but the floods assailed the land, as if asking people
to expiate. Have the votes gone wrong? Nature foresees events, happenings,
In the plains of India temperatures are seething.
So are politicians in decrepit mansions, out of fear.
Who will win? Which way will these electronic votes go?
Machine and man. Who will prevail? The Election Commission
will present medals, or has presented medals to the earliest
five voters. See how uncannily they have made voting an art,
even as the jungles are in fever pitch, and the floods play havoc
on loose soil? The heat a cauldron. Schools are closed. Do they all
have air conditioners? Some have, the ones who wait for the votes
trickling down the electronic box, the ballot, nay the bullet box.
Man and Machine.
Ananya S Guha
Person of Faith
The voice whispers to me, all I’m used to is a whisper:
Do you believe?
Believe like the whisper I heard in the woods when I was a child, wind through trees, twitter of insects. I am emic and etic at the same time, a dynamic of tension. I belong here in this Kingdom and yet I don’t.
Believe like the abandoned church in the woods, composed of broken wood, an empty pulpit, a silent congregation, and leaf-strewn pews. It was a place I wanted to reside in.
Believe like the plush smell of the new church down the road, complete with inside baptistery so we don’t have to go down to the creek anymore, pressing my face to the soft floor.
Believe like a circle of lights in the sky over a praying family or the story of a prophet in the Old Testament. Or the truth behind the story, the reality of the dusty ground, the trial and the error, the pain of trying to listen to the sky, ear straining.
I will never stop believing.
JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. His chapbook, The Truth About Snails, is available from Red Dashboard.
Wednesday, April 27, 2016
Come and follow me,
We''ll find our way
Into the sea.
Take me with you on your flight,
I'll go with you
Into the night.
Bring me back from darkest night,
I'll be a shadow
On your flight.
Your tracks are fading in the night,
The ties unloosened
With the light.
Just a ghost of burning fire,
A mere reflection
Burn so gently as you glow,
Is longer than you know.
Dawn is at my window,
Treetops dance in light,
A robin's song seduces me
With haunting sweet delight.
A dove calls
Someone loves you,
A sad and mournful sound.
A world comes into focus,
And enters into light,
And once again
Forgets the darkness of the night.
There is silence in the words we say.
Buried under piles of red clothed
backs and duct-taped mouths.
Streets lined with blurred out figures—
their faces turned away—and lying under
the garbage is the silent generations.
The kids who saw more backs and hateful
slurs than kind eyes and outstretched hands.
There is silence in their downturned mouths,
That we chose to overlook. In the crowds that
gather around the young boy who is too
weak to defend himself. In the not-so-
innocent bystanders, who gape and laugh,
but whose mouths remained nailed shut—
even as his body loses life…
There is silence in the way I bite my lip and turn away.
You have the freedom,
to recognize the silence
encompassed in the early
morning mist as it drags across
the Earth. To change the song
that burdens the ear, buried
in the church bells strange
clamor as they screech and
howl to the wind. But
there is no freedom in bending
the flat world to fit a sphere.