Tendai R. Mwanaka- Three Poems

DEARTH’S LAUGHTER

    Sometimes as I sit besides her grave.
I feel a faint weird sound in the waves.
As the wind rustles grass and leaves.
It is an eerie laughter full of the years.
Where such a sound might be coming from?
What is it that she wants to tell me?
Are the thoughts that rustle in my mind?

    Sometimes I visualize seeing her,
Coming from that lone cloud to the south.
With her ever-lasting smiling face.
The face I crave for - once more.
The face I wish to cradle in my hands.
But it vanishes when I try to hold it.

    I am left clutching thin air-
And echoing sounds, sounding like.
Hand-clapping in the middle of the hills.
Yet it’s like hollow laughter of something,
Deranged, askew and soulless.
The laughter is doomy and horrifying.

    When I am deeper in sleep,
In sweet continuation of a dream.
Living with her, ...by her lips.
Telling her of my sweet sublime love.
And she, to be there, always promising!
Then I have her in my arms,
Enclosed as if it is to be for ages.

   When I look again I see myself,
Chasing after her, up the terrain.
Why would she want to leave me?
And when I am near clutching her,
She vanishes, just like the bubbles.
Leaving a sound akin to the-
Susurrus breaking up of the bubbles.

    Behind that sound there is-
Triumphal laughter of the winner,
Who has won against mankind?
Against the basis of our creation.
Like the triumph of Sun over darkness.
Yet the sound asks not for celebration.
But for cry, hurt and life lived in misery.

     By the termite’s mound, besides the road.
We stood enclosed into each other’s warmth.
Tracing the flow of your pretty face.
Wondering whose Poet’s fingers perfect,
Tapered, moulded and shaped this wonder.
Telling of our life and youth’s stories,
Which are from the lips of the Sage’s lore.

    Yet there you are, so far away.
In a land I know nothing of.
Except for that deep sigh that issue.
As if it’s a sigh of relief from the earth.
Relief over what, I am still wondering?
Whether you would ever come around.

    Re-calling, of yesteryear’s memories.
During clear moon-nights of March.
Wonderful nights, cause of moods, jovial.
Remembering the two, laughing joyousness.
Counting and naming Stars as if they were ours,
As if they cared a farthing for us,
As they maintained their sparkling countenance.

    Now as I look at the moon brooding.
A curve hewn-off, turning darker, decaying.
The western horizon red like smouldering eyes,
Of a fiery beast with claw-like long teeth.
Then I see myself being gored by those teeth.
Wrecked into small flipping pieces.
Amid thundering and howling cries.

Death’s gluttonous howling upon my flesh.
And over this gore, my mind wrecking cries.
Grappling through my emotions and feelings.
Wrecking them until what’s left is nothing.
Only it’s continuing horrifying laughter,
Death’s triumphal laughter over me.




COULD HAVE BEEN

could have been
the sighs of an angel?
was it all about
this weird world?

could have been
the wind's murmur?
what does it whispers
so softly?

could have been
the cuckoo bird?
what was its cooing
was all about?

could have been
the lark's shivers?
soaring so far
o, so far away!

could have been
God's own voice?
what does it says?
just do it, do it!




BLAMING IT ON THE ROAD

I have seen many a men
have taken a wide accessible lane
also a narrow ragged potholed path
to lead them to frontiers yonder.
Its them who have chosen this path
but when they are astray and lost
they start blaming it on the road.

BIO NOTE

VOICES FROM EXILE, a collection of poetry on Zimbabwe’s political situation and exile in South Africa was published by Lapwing publications, Northern Ireland in 2010. KEYS IN THE RIVER: Notes from a Modern Chimurenga, a novel of interlinked stories that deals with life inmodern day Zimbabwe’s soul was published by Savant books and publications, USA 2012. A book of creative non-fiction pieces, ZIMBABWE: THE BLAME GAME, was published by Langaa RPCIG (Cameroon 2013) I  was nominated for the Pushcart twice, 2008, 2010, commended for the Dalro prize 2008, work has been translated into French and Spanish. I was nominated and attended The Caine African writing workshop, 2012. From January- April 2014, I was a Mentor for 3 budding writers in CACE Africa Writivism. Published over  250 pieces of short stories, essays, memoirs, poems and photographic/visual art in over 150 magazines, journals, and anthologies in the following countries,  the USA , UK , Canada , South Africa, Zimbabwe, India , Mexico, Kenya, Cameroon, Italy , Ghana, Uganda, France , Zambia, Nigeria, Spain , Romania, Cyprus, Australia and New Zealand. 

Richard Schnap- A Poem

FOR THE REST OF US

Someday they will build monuments
For those who begged on corners
And dedicate a holiday
To the ones who failed at love
And award gold-plated prizes
In honor of broken dreamers
And hold a moment of silence
For the souls who died alone

And when that day arises
When the unsung are remembered
Who straggled at the bitter end
Of life’s mad marathon
I hope that from the gardens
Of the heaven they were promised
They will hear the world applauding
Just because they were alive

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal- 3 Poems

A GOOD BRICK

 

It took me quite a while

to throw the brick.

Lost in contemplation

and feelings of

peace and harmony, I

went the other

way and just threw it with

bad intention.

It took me quite a while

to think about

the consequences. Lots of

beer and rum and

coke took care of my mind

and feelings of

regret.  I threw the brick

like if it was

a grenade through your front

window when you

were probably not home.

I did not call

first.  You told me not to,

ever again,

and so I respected

your wishes.  It

took me quite a while to

realize I

wasted a good brick on

you, not just a

good heart that’s now broken

like your window.

 

 

 

BEARDED LADY

 

You grow a beard

to go with your blue eyes

and gold tooth.

 

You wear your dress

long to the floor and smile

forever.

 

In the circus

you’re the star of the show.

Deservedly,

 

so, you have a

group of followers and

suitors, who

 

wish to lie with

you and have children and

live free of

 

prejudices.  You

let your beard grow long and

it only

 

makes you look

more beautiful to those

who see you

 

for who you are.

In the sun your gold tooth

reflects and

 

blinds those who cast

stones in your direction.

Your blue eyes

 

shine on like some

crazy diamond and you

smile with love.

 

 

 

YOUR HAND IN MINE

 

Noon-tide comes along.

Put your hand in mine.

Let love take hold.  Be

my captive and I’ll be yours.

All I need is you.

Don’t keep me away.

 

Midnight’s desolate

hour brings silence, but

my soul stays up for

your love. Come on over.

Put your hand in mine.

Arif Ahmad- A Poem

A place called “Nowhere”

Our minds clueless and hearts of stone

With eyes wide shut

We shoot at each other in the dark

Hoping to come close and bridge the gap

For every two steps forward

We take three back

Stuck in this fool’s paradise

And still hopeful to arrive

At the lofty peaks of love

Which cannot sustain life

Where there is no air

It is right there

Here

This City of Peace

A place called “Nowhere”

Linda M. Crate- Three Poems

judas 

 

if you could open me up

scratch beneath the surface

i bet you wouldn't

understand a word of me;

i am canary yellow,

and all that is happy and calm

peaceful and serene

every moon dancing lilac or

lily promenading on the clouds

of sunsets;

you are every ounce of desire

every night scripted without moon or star

a deep depression of mahogany

pomegranates etched deep

within the recesses of your soul—

you are betrayal,

and i would say peter for even

he could repent;

but you killed me so i'll call you

judas—

you took away part of my innocence,

a part of me i can never hope

of winning back;

my mistake was i loved you more than God

i wanted you to love me just as much

so i compromised my convictions and values simply

to fill the void of your unending lust—

i have always been one that's rather passionate,

always loving where people cannot love me;

but i thought our love was a forever

love one that would never die,

and you just kept stringing me along so you 

could ascertain all the white pearls

of my soul—

who are you that you should have every piece

of my heaven?

i'm so glad that you cut me free because

you would have led me into ruin;

i've repented of my sin,

and God has forgiven me i wonder if you realize

you've done wrong, too?

or do you still believe (wrongly) that

you are the white knight

upon his fiery stead purging the world of evil?

perhaps, when you look in the mirror

that's all the further you need to

go, but i am not to judge

you have to find that answer yourself.

 

 

farewell

i love you more
than when you were
mine;
oh, baby,
you will always be the moon and stars
in the night of my sky—
just kidding
don't delude yourself into thinking
you're anything more
than a distant
memory,
etched on my subconscious
now i can have fun
as cyndi lauper says all girls want;
it's true, we do!
you were never much
fun;
always insisting on being a home
body when i wanted to
go, go, go!
brooding when i was a bouncy bundle
of hyperactive fluff,
and i wish i could have seen you through my
mother's eyes from the start
she said she never thought you were good
enough for me,
and she was right;
i guess mother really does know best—
you were just a mess,
and that's the way you left my heart;
but i picked up my
pieces and moved on because
i decided i'd be happy and i wasn't going to be
that dismal lightening bolt of sadness
of you crashing through
a sunny sky,
i was going to be the one dancing in
the sunshine—
i fare thee well, pomegranate man,
drown in the dismal bitterness of your purple stain.



staggering confusion

the birds sing
not because they have a song,
but to say what's on their
mind and so i write
this poem to tell you how
confused and tormented you left
me behind in this suitcase
of memories;
i wanted so much to make you smile
to be the juliet to your romeo,
but i should have known
the second i compared us to ill fated
star crossed lovers we
were doomed—
tragedy is nothing new to me
i've faced it time and time again but you
ripped me in such a way that i thought
the stars would never be put
back to their right light
again,
flashed you a glimpse into the nakedness
of my soul and every time i bared
a truth you hid further inside
your shell of introspection and wouldn't let me
dig you out;
sometimes i'm still confused—
i don't know how something so beautiful
turned out so twisted and sordid
was i sarah falling in love with the goblin king?
are you jareth, the owl, spinning
your globes for another sarah to catch?
oh, i don't know
there are too many possibilities
you seem a rare fog
that overtook and eclipsed me as the sun does the
moon;
but fret not, my once lover,
i'm all right now—
although i'm certain you don't remember
or care about me now,
i'm just a piece of your ancient history;
you convinced you were the white knight when you
were really the black dragon—
not all dragons are bad,
but you certainly are not good;
and i hope one day
when she slays you, you think about my confusion
let you stain you in all it's vibrant hues.

Donal Mahoney- Three Poems

Little Cartons, Little Sacks

 

The mug of tea

I drank at dawn,

the tea that drove

 

me to the train

needs a refill.

At my desk,

 

I don’t do much

but wait for lunch

when every day

 

I eat so much

the waitress gawks.

She doesn’t

 

realize the years

till supper

when I’ll dine

 

alone again,

bolt everything

that I bring home

 

in little cartons,

little sacks.

She’s not there

 

when the couch

becomes my slab 

till ten  

when bed

becomes

my mausoleum.

Love Is Another Thing

 

Sitting at the table

spinning the creamer

running her fingers through sugar

the kids spilled at supper, Sue

 

suddenly says, “Don,

love is another thing.”

Since love is another thing

I have to go rent a room,

 

leave behind eight years,

five kids, the echoes of me

raging at noon on the phone,

raging at night, the mist

 

of whose fallout ate her skin,

ate her bones, left her a kitten

crying high in an oak

let me free, let me free

 

Joint Custody

 

You were gone 

when I got home

at midnight

from a double shift.

Now you’re back, 

two years later.

I had no idea 

where you went  

so I packed up

and got a room.

Long ago, 

I begged you

not to leave 

but that was then.

You can keep

the house, the car. 

I'll come by

some starry night

when the moon is bright

and you're asleep.

I promise not to 

wake the dogs.

When you get up

you'll find 

I used my key

to take the kids. 

 

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Douglas Polk- Three Poems

Climate Change

children taken to sell and abuse,

doctrines discussed,

battles rage,

while the climate changes,

both rhetorically,

and in reality,

uncertainty rules the world,

and conflicts escalate,

in this post-cold war world of climate change.

 

 

 

A Day in the Life

eyes open and the day begins,

along with the pain,

defying description,

or explanation,

why and where the pain exists,

unsolvable mysteries,

the reality only,

the pain alive,

an unconquerable foe,

and constant companion,

a moment taken to close the eyes,

and summon the strength and courage to face the day,

overwhelming to say the least,

comb the hair,

and brush the teeth,

dishes to wash,

floors to sweep,

a mental battle plan formed,

where to expend the energy,

and the needed reserves,

war is hell,

and this one seems unending.

 Terror Time

terror legitimized by drones in the sky,

an accepted practice for the ruling elite,

in bureaucracies protected,

at tax payer expense,

their lives are not to be interrupted by a terrorist event,

so they resort to their own type of terror,

with drones in the sky,

so neat and tidy,

except to the people condemned to die,

terror begets terror in the spineless,

and the cowardly,

death a common event,

to the average man,

and the poor and the brave,

always and forever a part of their lives,

and now even more so,

with each passing day,

as drones fill the skies.

Frank C. Praeger- Three Poems

Somewhere Near End

Shall I begin?
Shoulder strap high,
no third person neophyte -
I am.

Feet braced against a wall,
back bent,
toes untouchable -
my own spell, quick steps and a little swagger;
silence filling in wherever I have been.
Indeterminately numbered things,
arm chair, lamp, dust ball,....

Have I sorted out nice from not so nice,
separated last from first, ignored black and blue bruises,
blood spots, or told a story?
A raven outside, mouse in the cupboard,
wolf spider on the ceiling - enough -
unable to dissemble,
innocent of sin.
A stranger's grimace says 'do not make trouble.'
Neglect - a surreptitious kind of end.

Have I begun
labelling each thing,
seen thingamajigs attenuate?
But see how they disengage.
See, someone cheats
and ends up in a dirty clothes hamper.

How will I be introduced,
holding hands with another? 

Snow crowds my movement, slicks of ice, protracted fall,
a broken wrist,....
Catcalls as I go on reciting.

Exit?

Is that it?
Without bouquet?
Without commendation?

Decibels 
and decibels of ridicule;
left with what else to call it but a fitful little tune.

Tangential

Obscure imaginary flagellants;
a residue?
Hidden,
dissected,
a diffidence imbued.
To have been forfeited, or, if not, 
fortune's divestment.
Gravel underfoot,
unidentified birds overhead,
tangential to my own strangeness.

Last remains potent,
as I conjure up figments,
trace ignoble lineaments
of yesteryears' disasters.
A frog croaks
and crows respond.  
Still, I am not set free,
not settled,
not unambiquous.
Rain water collects -
And what else -
something other, but not less.

Unsweetened Alterations

Two nights, three days,
sunrises, sunsets, other surmises,
water for shade,
snakes swarming in the undergrowth
shocked into submission,
named postulates signifying,
more or less, turpentine or green.
A tacky need, one resolute shake of the head,
denial stayed, you posture over breakfast,
on passing the milk, on neighbors.
You are beggar, thief, a whimsical other
to a last reprieve.
You and I, unsweetened alterations, ticked off,
address the latest thingamijig,
assured, bold, but not uncompromising.
Opaque as a stranger's look,   
no storied finish, nothing far out,
mussel shells abandoned, no trawling
on the outer shelf but an evening
promenading on the edges of a pond,
listening among last season's tattered cattails,
in the silence of our own anticipation, to frogs,
almost, 
to our own breathing.

 

Hal Sirowitz- Three Poems

One Minus One

 

Just because you

love me, she said,

doesn't mean I love you.

One minus one equals

zero - a new number.

And that's what you

mean to me - a zero.

But don't take it

personally. Take it

in a  numerological

fashion. Becoming

my zero is underrated.

  

 

 

Starting with a Landscape

 

The sky turned a darker

blue but the color of her cheeks

didn't change - flushed. Why

did love have to be so difficult?

We had so much in common.

We were both creative types,

though I didn't think much

of her output. She put her

artistic abilities into making cakes.

All I wanted was to eat her art work.

She couldn't say the same about my art.

 

 

 

The Dog Magnet

 

Most of the dogs

in the neighborhood

loved my father. I

didn't know why.

Whenever he came

to visit the neighbors

their dogs would bark

and jump for glee. Then,

you'd hear an echo of dogs

on the next block chiming in.

He was a dog magnet. He

didn't have the same effect

on my mother. She might

have barked at him a few times,

but always in an instructive mode,

never out of sheer delight. One day

a dog was so delighted to see him,

that it forgot its years of training

and urinated on the floor. My

father would take responsibility

for the dog's actions and wipe up

the puddle. In a million years I

couldn't imagine mother putting herself

in that position, dependent on his kindness.

Paul Tristram- Three Poems

Sun Shower

I see people running from raindrops
shrieking into shop doorways.
Holding folded newspapers
above their heads to protect
their gelled and perfumed hair.
Trying to keep their expensive clothing
safe from a few precious drops of rain
on a beautiful, warm and glorious day?
Amazed and disheartened once again
at the stupidity of my race
I turn and walk away with a slightly
sun shower sprinkled frown upon my face.

© Paul Tristram 2014

Turnip Lobotomy

There was a crash against the outside door,
it opened and he sloped in 3 steps, unsteadily
then collapsed onto the kitchen floor
in a drunken heap.
She gave an alarmed cry
and raced around the kitchen table,
pulled him up expertly
and almost threw him into a nearby chair.
Shouting
“I’ve told you I’ve put cushions down
in the shed for you.
I don’t want the kids to see you
as drunk as this, why don’t you ever listen?”
She walked back to her giant stew pot
muttering under her breath
and continued chopping onions and leeks.
He opened up one eye and slurred
“Tis my house!”
“It’s a council house, you idiot!” she replied
sharply, giving him a warning
with daggers for eyes.
He lifted up his right foot slightly
and then slammed it back down
which was the usual signal
that he was about to spew forth
a tirade of abusive swearing.
Her face took on a murderous hue,
she grabbed for the football sized swede
off the table in front of her
and raised it above her head screaming
“I’ve told thee about cussin’
in front of the little ‘uns,
until I’m blue in the face, damn it all!”
It hit him with a massive smack
on the bridge of the nose and forehead,
breaking the former
and knocking him out cold, instantly.
As she went to clean up the blood
she shooed us out into the back garden
where we played conkers
and left them to their un-marital bliss.

© Paul Tristram 2014

Objection Over Rules

 

KEEP OFF THE GRASS
GET OFF MY LAND
PRIVATE PROPERTY KEEP OUT
TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED.

You see these signs everywhere!
I’m not talking about damaging
property, fences, gates or trees
or upsetting farm animals or wildlife
and the countryside in general.
I am actually Pro-Nature,
the more we have of it the better
in my book.
But you can be arrested for simply walking,
for taking a left turn through a field
over to a thicket of trees.
Try telling whoever catches you
that you were trying to get a closer look
at the pair of Jays (Quite a beautiful sight!)
that you just saw flying in there.
You will be called a liar
or deemed insane upon the spot.
When I was around 14 years old
I ran full sprint down an almost vertical
hillside in The Vale Of Neath
jumping rocks and dodging trees.
With 2 pockets of my Crombie coat
stuffed with magic mushrooms
(They are perfectly legal in this form,
it is not until you juice or dry them
that they become otherwise!)
and I jumped off the bank at the bottom
and landed in the middle of the lane.
There was a man standing there
and he exclaimed something religious,
he then proceeded to tell me
that if I had landed on him at that speed
and from a 15ft drop, I’d have killed him.
I just smiled and told him
that it was a good job that I hadn’t then.
He then informed me that he owned
the bus depot over to the left of him
and the entire hillside behind it.
I told him that the hillside was merely
the gateway to the 30 miles of canyons
and mountain ranges above and behind it.
He said he knew nothing of all this
because he had never in fact been up there
but he owned the hillside insight, all of it!
I asked him what he did with his hillside
because it looked like any other
old hillside with trees in Wales?
He let me know that it was none of my business
but that he did nothing with it
because he didn’t have to do anything with it,
he owned it and that was enough!
Also, if he ever caught me upon it again
he would call the police
and have me arrested.
I smiled and assured him
that he would never catch me
upon his hillside again
and being a man of my word
he never has
although he came very close, twice!

© Paul Tristram 2013



Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.