Pijush Kanti Deb- A Poem

Treasures of Moments

                          
A long procession of vital moments-
recognized as the vehicles
carrying the treasures of seven kings,
sets out a never ending journey
on rough and tough path of stony time.
A golden opportunity it seems
for the hungry crowd-
standing and waiting eagerly
to welcome, explore and good bye the procession
in their respective capabilities and styles.

The mighty- mentally or manually,
plunge into the depth of the procession
raising their sharp weapons.
Look, within the fraction of a moment,
selective killing and snatching
bloom winning smiles
with no groaning at all.

The feeble- physically or psychologically,
get lost in searching of weapons
and find them amid a sombrous confusion and hesitation
far away  from any decision and dividend
where they deserve their thumbs to suck only.

Tim Gardiner- Three Haiku

Sombre green ivy

slowly strangles its victim

no quarter given

 

Released from confines

of the most oppressive skin

the grasshopper chirped

Vivid red skin shows

before the chameleon

changes to pitch black

 

Brief bio:

Tim Gardiner has haiku published in Country-Side, Haiku Journal, Poetry Nook, Three Line Poetry and 50 Haikus. His first collection of full-length poetry 'Wilderness' is due to be published by Brambleby Books in 2014. He is also an ecologist who has published numerous scientific papers and several books on natural history.

Jason Constantine Ford- Three Poems

A Glimpse that Troubled Me

That split second in which I saw

A hand firmly holding what it tore

Inside a bag filled with several leaks.

The way that hand swiftly separated

Itself from virtues only now abated,

Gave it the strength of one who speaks.

Whenever things look to be vague or dull,

The hand reaches out to begin its cull

Of fauna who appear not able to adapt.

When that time comes with malcontent,

The hand is encompassing in full extent

Over those eyes it desires to be wrapped.

Jason Ford, “A Glimpse that Troubled Me” in Poetry Monthly www.poetrymontly.com Issue 149, September 2008. p20.

(Note: In 2009, I started using Jason Constantine Ford because I discovered that there is a Jason Ford who is self published on Lulu. I do this to avoid confusion. )

Dark Clouds Hanging Over Us

Coldness spreads through the air as the sun abstains

Itself from giving light within a cloud sky.

Darkness slowly spreads itself across the plains

As scents of evil are approaching nigh.

There is a rumour that souls of criminals who died

Upon the gibbets are passing through this town.

Although no trace of evidence is supplied,

Morale among the people is slowly going down.

Since last night, a criminal’s fingerprints were found

Upon a skull years after the day he passed away.

Rumours of people seeing him in the town abound

Among those who fear themselves as likely prey.

Without a warning, peels of thunder are heard

Among people unwilling to walk into the street.

Around the deserted streets, not a single word

Is uttered among lips which already feel defeat.

The Book of the Dead

 

Within a realm already ruled by Death,

A Book remains upon a plaque of stone.

The names no longer fit to feel the breath

Of life are ones which winds of fate disown

As being born without the right to be alive

Within presence of blades which must arrive.

This Book commands the Reaper to extract

The blood of creatures ready to be cracked.

Vapours rise from stench beneath the brittle ground

Releasing swarm of wasps which hover in the air.

Each wasp reveres the book with feelings most profound

As opposition to the souls who turn to prayer.

The wasps await the Reaper’s next command

As host of vapours in the heat of night expand.

Jason Ford, “Three New Poems: The Book of the Dead, Dark Clouds Hanging Over Us and Standing in the Shadows”, posted on December 5 in the archive of  DM du Jour, http://dmdujour.wordpress.com/2013/12/05/jason-ford-three-new-poems/ , December, 2013.

(Note: I specifically put myself down as Jason Constantine Ford but the DM du Jour chose to have me listed as Jason Ford. Several magazines have listed as Jason Ford or Jason C. Ford. I do not like this but that's the way it goes.)

Shaquana Adams- Two Poems

Fear

Poem after poem,

Page after page,

Which will run out first

...blood or ink?

Death

That horrible feeling...

Hold, hold.

Don't speak it

...Just yet.

Shaquana Adams is an internationally published poet with a fondness for the color purple. Her poems can be found in Napalm and Novocain, Dead Snakes, Inkapture, Snow Island Review, Bicycle Review, Verse Land, and The World of Myth. She is quiet on the outside but goofy on the inside and writes because the best thing about writing is that she can say what she needs to say. It is an awesome experience.

Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/user/QuanaWana

Website: http://quanawana.weebly.com/

Willie Smith- A Poem

ODE TO THE SOUTH AFRICAN CLOCKWORK AUTOMATIC SHOTGUN

Shorter than a riding crop, no bulkier

than a plumber’s helper. Releases

a 2.6 second burst of twelve shells

into any crowd approaching too close for comfort.

Also compatible with solid shot.

Magazine may be loaded and key-wound

in less than twenty-five seconds.

At which point the crowd is ready

for another 2.6 second burst

of a couple thousand pellets

hurled faster than sound

in a pattern guaranteed

to spatter the most guts on the wall,

for your money.

Weighs under ten pounds.

May be held in one hand,

as there is virtually no recoil.

Clockwork programmed to bypass duds.

Impossible to jam. This gun is music

to the clenched teeth of Civilizations’s ears.

Intended for use against outrageous attacks.

You may want one for around the home.

WARNING: International Law strictly prohibits use of this weapon

                     on pheasant. 



First appeared in "Thunder Sandwich."

Jonathan Beale- A Poem

Yews

I always saw them like the Vatican guard

Around the Iron rails defining

Victorian Georgian and even Elizabethan

Welding mostly and covered in bitumen paint and Ivy

Their label is now

‘The keepers of the dead ‘

Covering them almost materially

Covering them eternally

They are alive in their life

 Only made to be death by association

Casting shadows on shadows already cast

Jonathan Beale’s work has appeared regularly in Decanto,  Penwood Review,  The Screech Owl, Danse Macabre, Danse Macabre du Jour, Poetic Diversity, and also; Voices of Israel in English, MiracleEzine,  Voices of Hellenism Literary Journal, The Journal, Ink Sweat & Tears, Down in the Dirt, The English Chicago Review, Mad Swirl, Poetry Cornwall, Ariadne’s Thread and Bijou Poetry Review. He was commended in Decanto’s and Café writers Poetry Competitions 2012.  And is working on a collection for Hammer and Anvil. He writes about music, art, architecture, history, nature, science, cities, and the human condition.  He currently works in mental health in South West London. He studied philosophy at Birkbeck College London. He lives in Surrey England.

Jennifer Lagier- Three Poems & Photos

Moody Morning

Pride of Madeira hoist blue spires

against silver fog, muted sun, subtle bronze sky.

Hot pink ice plant is just beginning to bloom.

Nasturtium and white callas ramble from trail

down a rocky gully, to the edge of gold sea.

Morning is muggy—warm sand simmers

beneath sullen clouds, throws off sweaty heat.

Spring doesn’t know its own mind—

wavers between brightness and mist,

overcast, moody light.

Spring Surf

All night, the sound of cannon booms,

torn coastline assaulted by turbulent surf.

Morning brings low tide, eroded beaches,

spindrift peeled from tops of mountainous waves.

Foam collects around driftwood; froth mounds

among wet rocks, rendered kelp, torn apart crabs.

Spume sizzles as rolling surge makes landfall,

whooshes ashore, then returns to the bay.

Breakers slam against fissured sea cliffs, propel spray

like a flight of lacey angels in cloudless spring air.

Torch Lilies

Torch lilies glow fiery orange in bright morning sun,

exude copious nectar, attract hummingbirds, bees.

Red hot pokers tenaciously adhere to rocky shore,

a scarlet parenthesis framing monolith stone.

Gulls find no hospitable perch upon their barbed fronds.

Squirrels seek refuge beneath silver succulent forts.

Cactus sentinels lift notched bayonets to sky,

warn away walkers with smoldering blooms.

At dusk, burning scepters border a winding trail,

guide coastal deer, lead adventurers home.

Jennifer Lagier made trivial pursuit her career choice for fifteen years. Now that she is retired, she has learned you can lead a snake to water, but can’t make him drink.

Douglas Polk- Three Poems

A European Nation

Ukraine,

european only in thought,

and geography,

the place the horse was tamed,

a land overrun,

from both the west,

and the east,

Goths,

Mongols,

the Golden Horde,

Putin a student of history,

Ukraine not western,

was never meant to be,

instead shall return and remain with the east,

he argues it is foolish to try to be,

something out of reach,

a european nation.

 

 

 

Sparta and Athens

(history revisited)

descended from Sparta,

Putin knows the sword,

weakness contemptible,

the world exists in black and white,

Obama the Athenian,

dabbles in grays,

hedging and flowing with the changing truth,

Socrates at his worst,

no answers,

but only more questions,

the cultured man's curse,

questions unimportant in Putin's mind,

only the answers,

right or wrong,

the answers easily manipulated,

important to find,

Sparta and Athens,

a reoccurring theme,

through the centuries of time.

 

 

Unreliable

sunshine with snow on the way,

Spring late,

and unreliable,

the same with most things in this day and age,

evolution,

in thought and action,

change the preferred state of being,

freedom,

to be be anything and everything,

most often as not,

unreliable.

Sayyad Sheriff- A Poem

Armageddon’s Epiphany: The Exodus of the Elements.

Blood to blood
Vanquish Earth for wrath
Blistering hot and scorching cold
Enslave Wind for gluttony
Bane genre or boon species
Annihilate Water for sloth

Corpse to corpse
Victimize Fire for lust
Darkest time and brightest space
Mutilate Earth for envy
Apex predator or alpha prey
Abduct Wind for greed

Ashes to ashes
Execute Water for pride
Dusky sun and dawny moon
Retaliate Fire for ignorance
Index patient or fittest survivor
Exorcise the hegemonic Elements for apocalyptic angsts to the cathartic genesis

Sayyad Sheriff is a writer, who is inspired by movies, psychology and culture, in general. He works for a high end branded store in Mauritius and aspires to be different.

Kelly Shackelford- Three Poems

Mama Bear

Rage pointed words maul identity,
peeling away love like a sour
onion sliced open for all
to turn their nose up at.
Worthless trash, my name,

snarled through the clenched teeth

of the proud mama bear.

Packing My Heart

Suitcase
 scuffed
from boyhood
 adventures
 spent chasing
young dreams
of a life yet drawn.
 
Now,
just a boy
shadowboxing
a man’s battle.
I pack
your favorite jeans,
Snoopy PJ’s ,
shards of my soul
scattered
among the toiletries.
 
I mourn.
My boy stolen…
                           … shattered
                                                   … Rehab bound.

(published 2008 in The Old Red Kimono- print issue  no electronic issue for this mag.)

haiku (rockin' rainbow)

electric hues strum
to Mother Earth's band bending
the righteous wavelengths