Thursday, October 27, 2016

Dreams by Lynn White

Dreams


One day soon they'll try to dig up your dreams.
You'll be dead by then,
unable to protect them
any more.

They'll let you rest in peace, but not your dreams.
They'll want them for sure,
they'll want them.
They'll want them to try and find you,
to try and discover who you were.

They'll dig them up, scrabbling amongst the dirt,
seeing what they can find.
Digging up the dirt
to see what they can find 
in there.

They'll discard this piece here, another piece there.
Dross from the dried up remnants,
They'll hang on to the moist bits.
The juicy bits are worth further analysis.

You may be in there.
In your dreams.

Someone else will scrabble to catch 
the dry pieces,
those fragments of dreams thrown away.
The little pieces blown away in the air.
Little snippets,
dreamlets.

But there are flakes of gold hidden there.
I hope they don't find them.


First published in Anti-Heroin Chic, February
2016


Bio:
Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. Her poem 'A Rose For Gaza' was shortlisted for the Theatre Cloud 'War Poetry for Today' competition 2014. This and many other poems, have been published in recent anthologies including - Stacey Savage’s ‘We Are Poetry, an Anthology of Love poems’; Community Arts Ink’s ‘Reclaiming Our Voices’; Vagabond Press’s, ‘The Border Crossed Us’; ‘Degenerates - Voices For Peace’, ‘Civilised Beasts’ and ‘Vagabonds: Anthology of the Mad Ones’ from Weasel Press; ‘Alice In Wonderland’ by Silver Birch Press, and many rather excellent  on line and print journals.

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Lynn-White-Poetry/1603675983213077?fref=ts

lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com

TWO WOMEN IN A CAFÉ TALKING by Michael H. Brownstein

TWO WOMEN IN A CAFÉ TALKING
Two women
in a cafe
talking honestly.
"...like an attempt 
to murder," one said.
The sun lifted its mane
behind the clouds.
"More like an attempt
at suicide,"
replied the second,
and when she laughed,
her front tooth wiggled.
A soft drizzle rainbowed
down the window.
"...an attempt at love,"
answered the first
and a blue river
opened a path
within the clouds.
"Yes, that's it.
An attempt at love."

This Is How You Compose A Love Poem by Michael H. Bownstein

THIS IS HOW YOU COMPOSE A LOVE POEM

The sparrow hawk in the tree is not who I am,
lemon seed, flicker brush, the decay of skunk grass.
 
I follow to where the path goes through the belly of bark
into the skinny trail of hammer thronged ants,
 
wheel bird beetles and a flourish of sapsucker bees.
Here the way is blocked, here the way continues,
 
This is how you compose a love poem from the sighting 
of a bird on a tree near the cone heads and boulders,
 
the end of a plain and a playing field, a thin waterway, 
the land of flesh eating darters and mud bottom bass.

Untitled by Gabriella Garofalo

Sorry to bug you again, you know I’m a PITA,
Got some leftovers of light for us, God?
It’s Whitsun today  -
OK, it doesn’t show, but I can’t blame you
Can I, only I sorry need blue blankets,
It’s May’s fault, he’s running amok
To breed cold lights, coughs,
Wild skies, our only option
On the outskirts of a light we die for,
On the fringes of a light where we snuggle up
Nonchalant to heartburn and trinkets  -
Know what, God, sometimes our souls
Are sort of lawns suburban matrons
In slippers and bikinis trample  -
See how the smashed cows stumble  -
Or maybe it’s warriors in chukka boots
Who trample, leave pitch black prints,
Oh, and toddlers running riot on trikes,
Toys anywhere, alien contraptions all over
To bite and bruise, nope, I kid you not  -
Green? Maybe a lovely veneer,
But lilac and periwinkle went AWOL
Or lost in action  -
Ancient stones are hissing
They spotted them hidden in ladies’ hair,
Or so they sigh in a disturbance of colours,
McDonald's balloons shriek louder than toddlers,
Don’t they?
Now please don’t waste time,
Don’t look around in a lost gaze,
All sold out, no dancing, no cosy spots for spinsters,
Luckily men shake their heads, say nope,
Walk faithful dogs and you, girl, easy,
Easy, girl, easy, don’t run so brisk,
Don’t burn the midnight oil,
They’re carrying bright paper lanterns,
Your children, yes, they’ll smite black
And the two ladies, one tickled pink,
She’s moving to a seaside resort,
Sand, bikinis, discos galore,
The other a grumpy workaholic
Who keeps bitching people take her for granted  -
What? Yes, the lover of sea, sand and fun all clad in black,
The dreary grind in white  -
Their names? Sorry, dunno, maybe
Life and demise, who cares,
Just make no light of the words they told you  -
Please don’t, pretty pretty please -
Don’t, and I mean never.



Born in Italy some decades ago, Gabriella Garofalo fell in love with the English language at six, started writing poems (in Italian) at six and is the author of “Lo sguardo di Orfeo”; “L’inverno di vetro”; “Di altre stelle polari”; “Blue branches."

Tuesday, October 25, 2016

Monday, October 24, 2016

Skeletons In The Closet by Melissa R. Mendelson

Skeletons In The Closet
by, Melissa R. Mendelson

Green light seeped through the closet door
as the door knob slowly turned,
and I tossed and turned in bed.
Darkness turned green
as the door slowly opened,
but the coldness shook me awake
in time to turn on the lights.
The door slammed shut
as I jumped out of bed
and approached the closet door.
My hand hesitated on the knob
before pulling the door open
to reveal nothing.
The dust bunnies greeted me
while my clothes were pushed together,
but there was nothing else in there
except for corners of spider webs.
I closed the door
and headed back to bed,
but something made me pause
as I glanced back at the door.
I pulled my wooden, brown chair over
and leaned it against the door.
I then curled up in bed
and turned off the lights
as green light appeared under the door,
but the door remained shut.
I shuddered beneath the white covers
as the door knob continued to turn
and whispered to myself
that it was nothing
but the skeletons in the closet.


Burning Kisses by Melissa R. Mendelson

Burning Kisses
by, Melissa R. Mendelson

His lips brushed my neck
and caressed the skin
until it found the spot
and bit into me.

His teeth gnawed into the skin
as I stared ahead
into a harvest moon
while he drank my life away.

He lowered me to the ground
as he slid like a shadow
into and through my shivering body,
and his face filled the moon.

His lips brushed my face with red
as I licked my lips
and stared into his eyes
while his lips settled on my ear.

He pulled me into him
as my skin shivered in the moonlight,
and I held him closer
as he bit down into me again.

He was gentle like a lover
while his bite was sweet
like burning kisses upon my flesh
as I moaned for more.

Then, he just held me
as my last breath slipped into the breeze,
and I opened my mouth
to drink his love from him into me.


Sunday, October 16, 2016

A Step Away by Melissa R. Mendelson

A Step Away
by, Melissa R. Mendelson

Behind the curtains of time,
change is but only a step away,
for without change,
the world would be endless,
caught up in the same routine.
Swept up in time,
we march forward
to the tune of change,
but those who no longer hear
the winds of change
are left behind
in a world gone gray.
Only in time
do we find our true selves
and possibly why we were born,
but for us to discover that,
we must keep moving forward.
Otherwise, the world will move ahead of us,
leaving us with nothing but the past,
and then we must wait
to slip back into time
and retrace our footsteps toward the unknown future.\


Saturday, October 15, 2016

Aftermath by Lynn White

Aftermath

How can it be that someone
I don't see, 
only think 
about sometimes,
but never contact,
or try to,
leaves such a gap,
in their final leaving.

My life has not been changed.
All is the same.
So why the difference now
that you're really in the past,
when you were already part of my past
and not of my future.

Nothing has changed for me,
not really,
not in reality.
So why do you occupy my thoughts
in a different way.
Why does my future feel different
now you cannot be part of it,
even though you never would be
and I knew it.

Perhaps because I can no longer
dream you there.
But why not
when you could never be there
and I knew it
the same then, 
as I know now.
Why is it different,
now
even to dream?

First published in With Painted Words, July 2015



Bio:
Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. Her poem 'A Rose For Gaza' was shortlisted for the Theatre Cloud 'War Poetry for Today' competition 2014. This and many other poems, have been published in recent anthologies including - Stacey Savage’s ‘We Are Poetry, an Anthology of Love poems’; Community Arts Ink’s ‘Reclaiming Our Voices’; Vagabond Press’s, ‘The Border Crossed Us’; ‘Degenerates - Voices For Peace’, ‘Civilised Beasts’ and ‘Vagabonds: Anthology of the Mad Ones’ from Weasel Press; ‘Alice In Wonderland’ by Silver Birch Press, and many rather excellent  on line and print journals.

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Lynn-White-Poetry/1603675983213077?fref=ts

lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com

The Ghost Tree by Michael H. Brownstein

THE GHOST TREE

The ghost tree reflected in the window
white as blood-free linen
does not move to the beat of the wind.
It forms no shadow,
makes no nest for a family of squirrels,
no flurry of leaves, no glitter of sunlight,
nothing compromised, nothing overridden.
 
We look to the street to find its nature,
see only yellowing blossoms on young trees
a starting of green,
but the ghost tree is nowhere.
This is how it is when it is nothing at all.
 
Later we hear the scraping of feet,
the breathing of air when the wind stops,
the sudden fist of a limb cracking.
 
Somewhere violence happens: a tree limb in a window.

Tuesday, October 11, 2016

Seasons of Love by Joan McNerney

Seasons of Love

Spring Tide

Green I wore green
that night when we
danced how we danced
at the picnic during
    spring
lustrous and green.

Rainfalls flooded the
air where we danced.
You left whispering
sweet words
      kissing
my eyes closed.

Sliding under green green
waters slipping sliding
over night
     hiding
in nebulae
turning we dance
finding your hand
how we dance
this endless night.

Last Summer

Golden sunshine spilling
over cathedrals of trees
forest of summer.

Your eyes are oceans of light
beams of light soft beaming
dancing through rivers of memory.

Forest of rivers
drowning in oceans of eyes.
Your eyes when sunset spreads
over sand dunes warm golden.

Stars gliding past heaven
as night explodes in
cathedrals of light.

We bed down together in
forest of memories
your body so strong golden
last summer with you.


Apple Time

Red yellow brown carpets
of crunchy leaves spread
out to welcome you.

You are coming home to aromas
of cinnamon and me.  I've been
waiting so long
to touch you
   feed you
   juicy apples.

Finally you are here.
Red giant stars
growing
our names
glowing
in neons
for eons.


Winter Solstice

Ice blue mountains,
wind swept skies.
There are always these...

And you standing
silent as the sun
burning through
this day.
You are my sun
my heaven on earth.

You bring bright ribbons
handfuls of crystal
to fasten my hair.

Stay with me this
long evening.  I will
hide in your arms away
from ice blue winds.

We will be warm together.


Joan McNerney’s poetry has been included in numerous literary magazines such as Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze, Blueline, and Halcyon Days.  Three Bright Hills Press Anthologies, several Poppy Road Review Journals, and numerous Kind of A Hurricane Press Publications have accepted her work.  Her latest title is Having Lunch with the Sky and she has four Best of the Net nominations. 

Monday, October 10, 2016

meadows, voices by Gabriella Garofalo

Hey, wassup, waiting for some lousy harvests
After sowing tears?
Afraid not, those merry darlings elves and fairies love,
Haven’t got time for her gifts, no time no room,
Only the odd smile, a sprinkling of sweet sweet words
Then high time for bites when the cheap magenta sky
Makes her dizzy -
Here come rejections, the wild scene, a creepy set
Scattered across mashed limbs and western souls -
Why are the meadows your voice
Loved to haunt so silent?
Didn’t you know? It’s the latest fad, all the rage this silence
Haunting huts, condos, mansions, semis, oh, and who built them,
Unredeemed  hands perhaps? Sorry, can’t remember -
No voices, great, nothing but her eyes
Deeply set on creepy deals, no probs, trust me,
Dancers or smiling parties alfresco don’t give a damn
For  questions or shattering eyes, they’ll play dumb if you hand around
Pats or yellow chrome – deal?
No, I won’t cool down, I saw it all, I saw her gasping the name of God,
I saw craven souls fretting over the sudden rebirth
That  blinds and cuts into the skin when nightmares
Shout  your name in a crystal-cut accent -
And no, I’m not joking.
Beloved, you sent me flowers, the tat opening up and up,
Who the hell fears slashes and secateurs?
Whatever,  you daft sad roses died unaware -
Beloved, have I ever told you flowers plague me,
I can’t trust them, dunno why, please tell me why
Then hurl my soul down clouds and fevers:
See, he’s shivering in the field, shaking silence in the morn wind
And I must bid the scarecrow adieu -
Shut  up you two, my lovely death,
My wilderness so close to my heart
Shut up and listen:
Only if light hits eyes and limbs our mutual friend
Shuts stares or silence –
Need I add more? Stay gutsy, watch your steps,
Hug  stares hug silence, just for once, just for a change
Behave  like angels, please –
After all, isn’t that what angels do when game is over?



Born in Italy some decades ago, Gabriella Garofalo fell in love with the English language at six, started writing poems (in Italian) at six and is the author of “Lo sguardo di Orfeo”; “L’inverno di vetro”; “Di altre stelle polari”; “Blue branches”.

Saturday, October 8, 2016

Woman Encircled by the Flight of a Bird by Neil Ellman

painting by Joan Miró


Woman Encircled by the Flight of a Bird

(painting by Joan Miró)


A little bird with its wings on fire by Neil Ellman
beating faster than a hummingbird’s
circles a woman afraid to move
hears the beating of her heart
and feels the shiver In her loins.   

She knows the secret meaning
of its courting flight       its twists
its swirls        the hovering fancy
of its desire
the urgency in its blood
to touch and be touched itself
for the sake of everlasting life.

A woman encircled by the flight
of a little bird with its wings on fire
is not the least deceived
by its cunning and deceit.


Neil Ellman is a poet from New Jersey.  He has published numerous poems, more than 1,000 of which are ekphrastic and written in response to works of modern art, in print and online journals, anthologies and chapbooks throughout the world.  He has been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize and twice for Best of the Net.

Editors Note: This is an ekphrastic poem and based on a work of modern art. The title of this poem is that of the original image, Woman Encircled by the Flight of a Bird by Joan Miro- Image shown above.

Haze by Melissa R. Mendelson

HAZE
by, Melissa R. Mendelson

Forget is what I am afraid to do,
ignoring the dreams inside my heart
that cry out in my mind
to not disappear,
but disappear they will,
if I allow myself to forget
everything that I ever hoped
to become and do.
My dreams will vanish,
and it won’t be time
that will steal them away.
It will be the cloud inside my mind,
fogging my thoughts,
burying my dreams,
and if I am lucky,
I might remember them.
Otherwise, forget I will
the dreams of my future
that could have brought
true happiness and meaning

Monday, October 3, 2016

I POSSESS NOTHING by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

I POSSESS NOTHING


I possess nothing.
The night knows this.
The moon shines me on.
My dreams know I’m poor.


I try to sleep and
I struggle with it.
My feet wear out the rug.
I dream I have insomnia.


I possess nothing.


The night takes my last dime.
I pay to watch the stars.


In July 2016 Kendra Steiner Editions published my latest chapbook, Make
the Light Mine.  The chapbook could be ordered through Kendra Steiner
Editions, who also publish music as well.
https://kendrasteinereditions.wordpress.com/2016/07/15/new-poetry-chapbook-from-luis-cuauhtemoc-berriozabal-make-the-light-mine-kse-364/
Bio:
Luis works in the mental health field in Los Angeles CA.  His poems in English
and Spanish have appeared in online and print journals.  His latest chapbook,
Make the Light Mine, was published by Kendra Steiner Editions.