Tuesday, September 18, 2018

Bonham, Texas by Linda Imbler



Bonham, Texas

Springs’s leaves fall limp and wet
and hug the gentle bough
from showers that quench the land.
Flowers of pansy and hyacinth
blossom beside the long porch,
and upon the meadow’s splendor,
we stand awed against waves of bluebonnets.

Within the shimmer of summer,
the farm is an active place.
During a long walk uphill, 
we wend paths active with animal life and birds
and quickly flowing streams,
or stroll across green pastures
in need of mowing
as grasses tickle our ankles.
We avoid ‘The Bottoms,’
where the tusked wild boar live,
because no entreaty will appease them.
If by chance they should pass by,
we wear our armor on our hips.

In the drier days,
while leaves sleep and dream
of their reincarnation as new buds,
Autumn deeply inhales summer’s breath
and exhales that breath as its own. 

In winter, the night is so dark
that even prayers are invisible.
There is no light, except from the fire pits
and a small front porch bulb.
In the dusk of day,
the walks seem twice as long,
for now the streams are thick with ice
and the paths lack tracks.
Everything, but us,
sleeps with the leaves,
And although the way seems lengthened, 
it gives us time to dream our own dreams.


Friday, September 14, 2018

Freedom and Cobwebs by Gauri Dixit

Freedom and Cobwebs


Freedom is where


The blackholes


Have lights



In the empty spaces


Streets are poised


To take fights



Freedom is that corner 


Of the mind which has cobwebs


In spite of being in plain sight 



And they don't clean it up


Or rinse it


With all their might

Thursday, September 13, 2018

Casual Sex by Paula Hackett

From  her Book Roulette


For more information including bio and discography, visit her website Paula Hackett Website



Wednesday, September 12, 2018

Summer's Stand-In by Linda Imbler


Caul
on sky;
the changeling
enters our world
and dims what once shone.
Summer switched to Autumn.
The once bright days seem darker
and the wind becomes heavy blown.
This replacement steeps all in shadow.
Fall, as summer’s stand-in, brings dusky air.



Tuesday, September 11, 2018

Raissa by James D. Casey IV


Raissa

Wear your dreams

To and fro

My dear

Nurse your youth

Keep lightning

In your veins

Even with a thousand

Pains in your heart

My little black rose

With no sweeter kiss

More honeyed than yours

Your love I will remember

Far after we become

Bumps in the night

Still

Hand in hand

Within the ether


James D. Casey IV has authored four books of poetry. All are available on Amazon under the titles Metaphorically Esoteric, Dark Days Inside the Light While Drunk on Wine, Tin Foil Hats & Hadacol Coins, and Owls in Hot Rods with Pink Elephants and Dead Bats. His work is also published in print and online by small press venues and literary magazines around the globe including Triadæ Magazine, Constellate Literary Journal, Stanzaic Stylings, Indiana Voice Journal, Beatnik Cowboy, Dope Fiend Daily, Rye Whiskey Review, Under The Bleachers, Dissident Voice, Scarlet Leaf Review, Zombie Logic Review, Whispers, Duane's PoeTree, Tuck Magazine, Poetry Breakfast, Outlaw Poetry,  Poetry Life & Times, and several others. Mr. Casey is a southern poet with roots in Louisiana and Mississippi, currently residing in Illinois with his muse, their goofy dog, and two black cats. James spends his days writing, but also enjoys practicing magick, cooking Cajun cuisine, and spending time with family. You can find links to his books and other projects here: https://cajunpoetjames.wordpress.com/


Monday, September 10, 2018

Fall Equinox by Joan McNerney

Fall Equinox

 

Morning light reveals

silhouettes of branches

against a dove grey sky.

 

Hurry, pick gardens of bright

vegetables. Time to cook

big pots of soup, yeasty breads.

 

Wearing red, orange,

yellow leaves, trees

sashaying in the wind.

 

Countless shades of leaves,

shapes of leaves,

sounds of leaves.

 

Children come from school

jumping in piles of foliage

shouting with delight.

 

Flying carpets of sugar maple

leaves unfurl along our road

as frost draws closer.

 

Amazing how many stars

fit inside my windowpane

alongside a harvest moon.


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

I owe my soul to the Company Store by Michael Ceraolo

"I owe my soul to the Company Store"

Good old-fashioned American ingenuity
was able to re-create feudalism
in the guise of the company town,
best exemplified in the coal communities:

the worker (peasant) harvested the crop (coal)
not seasonally but year-round,
under conditions set by the owner (lord)
that often endangered the worker's life,
entirely for the benefit of the lord,
for which the peasant was paid a pittance,
often in scrip redeemable only at the company store,
which used its monopoly to inflate prices
in order to extract even more wealth
from the worker-peasants

And if the peasant sought to unionize
to ameliorate at least some of the above,
the most-degraded warrior-class imaginable,
the private army of the lord,
used whatever means were necessary 
to prevent that from happening

Bio:  "Michael Ceraolo is a retired firefighter/paramedic and active poet who has had one full-length book (Euclid Creek, from Deep Cleveland Press) and a few chapbooks published (among the chapbooks is Cleveland Haiku, from Green Panda Press). He has a second full-length book, Euclid Creek Book Two, forthcoming from unbound content press, and is continually working on new and existing poetry projects.

Monday, September 3, 2018

Song of September by Ken Allen Dronsfield


Ken Allan Dronsfield is a disabled veteran, prize winning poet and fabulist from New Hampshire, now residing on the plains of Oklahoma. He is widely published in magazines, journals, reviews and anthologies throughout the US and abroad. He has three poetry collections, "The Cellaring", 80 poems of light horror, paranormal, weird and wonderful work. His second book, "A Taint of Pity", contains 52 Life Poems Written with a Cracked Inflection. Ken's third poetry collection, "Zephyr's Whisper", 64 Poems and Parables of a Seasonal Pretense, and includes his poem, "With Charcoal Black, Version III", selected as the First Prize Winner in Realistic Poetry International's recent Nature Poem Contest. Ken won First Prize for his Haiku on Southern Collective Experience. He's been nominated three times for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net for 2016-2018. Ken loves writing, hiking, thunderstorms, and spending time with his cats Willa and Yumpy. 
  


Song of September



During the foggy nights of late September.

As the bugs have faded away, the colorful

leaves have once again come out to play.

Laughing and gliding down to the ground,

some spin like helicopters, round and round.

The cat sits watching the tendrils of haze,

reserved in his thoughts of warmer days

A field mouse now works to build a nest
takes time at night for a well deserved rest.

The night birds are silent, preparing for flight.

Off to temperate climates and light breezes.

I see geese flying south in their huge flocks.

And wonder if it's time to turn back the clock.

My pumpkin smiles to the Song of September.

The Home by Michael Brownstein

THE HOME

This is the sky that falls over us


the small injuries of daylight slip away,


our breath settling into karma and pause.


 


Inside the kitchen, the fresh smells of pandesal,


steaming black tea with a taste of cinnamon,


a platter of kamote, prawns, and sea cucumber.


 


Everywhere the shouts of hello, mabuting kaibigan,


mabuhay and soft gabi, magandang gabi,


soft night, good evening, welcome home.


 


In the morning the air almost turquoise,


cloud cover a myriad of streams entering a river,


sunlight in the distance, sunlight behind walls.


 


Day begins with irritations and inflections,


a quietude and a symphony of cymbals,


a cacophony of doors, voices, the clatter of plates.


 


Longganisa, milkfish belly, and hot tsokolate


thin enough to inhale, and then the sun yellows,


a car arrives, another day with people we never knew

Sunday, September 2, 2018

Only A Dream by Lynn Long

Only a Dream

You, my sweet reverie
were, but a fleeting dream
To pass the time,
To ease my sorrow,
To free my mind
In the beginning
I imagined your
face, your voice, 
your knowing touch
Always, I smiled
at the thought of you
Soon, my soul 
renewed in love
No longer wished
on stars above
For dream and reality 
seemed never to part
As feelings of joy 
embraced the heart
Alas, your truth
came to be
A beautiful awakening
I must see 
And, yet, still, I sleep 
knowing true
I cannot escape-
the wonder of you
So, in reverie 
I will abide, until 
the day you're by
my side

Lynn Long- https://zolanymph1.blogspot.com/

Poet, writer, aspiring novelist, daydreamer and believer in the impossible

Contributing artist @hitRECord.org and Scriggler.com

Published in the following Ezines, Publications and Online Journals:

Antarctica Journal

Duane's PoeTree

In Between Hangovers

Stanzaic Stylings

Poetry Poetics Pleasure

Whispersh



Tuesday, August 28, 2018

Twenty Three to Twenty One #2 by Michael Ceraolo


Twenty-Three to Twenty-One, titled such for the 23 letters (totaling 155 pages!) that a woman named Julia Sand wrote to Chester Arthur, the 21st President.  I have excerpted her letters and imagined how Arthur might have responded; as far as is known he never wrote back to her (quotations in the Arthur part of the poems come from his writings).



from Twenty-Three to Twenty-One

            #2

                     "Englewood N.J.
                              Sept 25, 1881

Hon. Chester A. Arthur

And so Garfield is really dead
& you are President
                                For a time
it seemed as if we all were mistaken---
as if he meant to 'disappoint our fears'

Then I felt I owed you
an apology for what I had written
Perhaps I owe you one now,
for writing at all
My only excuse for this letter
is the deep sympathy
I feel for you in your sorrow"
"the feeling that you were chief mourner"

"What we all endured during
the terrible months of anxiety just past,
you too endured---
intensified ten thousand fold
by the reflection that you were the one
human being to benefit by his death"
You could not put what you suffered in words"

"In such affliction,
the soul puts forth new life"
                                          "And 
there is consolation for sorrow like yours---
though it comes slowly
It is impossible for you to have it now,
if you have taken in the full lesson
of this national crisis"

"Wishing you well in all your endeavors,

Yours Respectfully, J.I.Sand

P.S."  "What the nation needs most at present, is rest
We all are worn out with watching---
& when people are very tired
they are apt to be
irritable,
             unreasonable
                                    &
ready to quarrel on small provocation"

"one month of peace would be
a great refreshment to the whole country"

                                               Yours Sincerely,
                                                                         J.I.S.
Sept 28th 1881"


Arthur:

The worst has happened,
                                      and
"the memory of the murdered President,
his protracted sufferings,
                                     his unyielding fortitude,
the example and achievements of his life,
and the pathos of his death
will forever illumine the pages of our history"

"it will be my earnest endeavor to profit,
and to see that the nation shall profit,
by his example and experience"

                                                 Thus,
with sadness and resolve,
"I assume the trust
imposed by the Constitution"


Thursday, August 16, 2018

Falsetto By Desiree Cady


Falsetto

By Desiree Cady


Everybody thinks

That you will be just fine

They never, ever question

You never show a sign


They say that you're a fighter

And that you are so strong

Yet deep inside you know

That they couldn't be more wrong


And then one day it happens

Your soul, it finally breaks

And everybody thinks

It must be some mistake


She's just having a bad day

Everybody does

What they dont understand

Is her pain, it doesn't ever pause


She reaches out to everyone

Hands out such great advice

But what happens when she's on her own

When she's not feeling so nice


She looks around in question

Wonders where the hell they are?

Those friends who said they'd be there

No matter how near or far


So she tells herself she'll be okay

She's going to be just fine

She wipes away her tears and smiles

Faking, she never shows a sign


©2018

Tuesday, August 14, 2018

Listen To The Quiet by Joanne Olivieri


Listen To The Quiet


The hush of falling snow

the breath of stormy seas

bIrds frolicking on the meadow

forest parade of gallant trees.


Honeysuckly sweet on the vine

hummingbirds morning call

with nectar a rose blush wine

from Spring, through Summer and Fall.


A windward breeze blows East

the sun slumbers on the West

natures masterpiece

the day is done, now rest.


The night devoid of sunlight

caress the moon and stars

at dusk fluorescent twilight

guide seafarers from afar.


Listen to the quiet

hear the silent peace

whisper in the moment

our spirit to be set free.





Log Cabin


As I trudge through snow laiden foothills

icy wind whipping my face

biting cold surrounds me

and the sun emerges with haste.


My journey carries me forward

over lifeless branches and leaves

toward the snow capped high sierras

home, to God’s country.


I can see in the distance

the canvas for my creation

my dream springs to life

only in my imagination.


In the future I see a clearing

a cozy and quaint log cabin

nestled among icy fir trees

a small yet real slice of heaven.


Flickering candlelight shines through the window

as I draw near my hearth and home

puffs of smoke circle the chimney

my senses tell me, I am no longer alone.


A now frozen brook

rests silently alongside the dwelling

in Spring, a wading pool of ease

as the snow slowly begins melting.


Though depicting a Christmas tale

this portrait of a Winter scene

merely paints my path to the future

of what, someday will be.


Joanne Olivieri Website

http://joanneolivieri.weebly.com










,




Monday, August 13, 2018

Spiritual Nourishment by Joanne Olivieri


Prince Of Peace


The dove of peace unfolds his wings.

    angel hair entwines heartstrings.

As spirits chant, a minstrel sings,

    the choral melody of kings.


Due North a star, lights the way

To Prince of Peace, where He lay.


                   A child

                   So Mild


A Savior born on Christmas day.





Peace


On thy lips, fruit of the vine

    shall evoke a taste of shame

Martyred bloodshed cup of wine

    invisible in His name.


Thy wrath befell upon the sight

Of devils chance to winged flight


                   Yet we

                   Shall see


Lion and lamb, lie down with thee.





A Need To Pray


As we awake to the echo of dawn

with a silent reflection of day,

our hearts and souls are renewed

as we thank God by our need to pray.


A need that is fueled by hope

and a faith which is never betrayed,

by God who delivers the saving rope

as we climb the mount of temptation each day.


If we misstep and lose our balance

and begin to go astray

our Lord will provide spiritual guidance,

when we fall to our knees and pray.





His Light


    His light rekindles day to day

    and sparks His image as we pray.


Beyond the jagged etched twilight

a moonlit gloss projects His light.

A piercing glow injects our veins

with Holy serum spread as rain.

He filters through our heart and soul

providing strength to make us whole.


    His spark rekindles as we pray

    and lights his image day to day.





Mary Our Mother


Clothed in sunlight, crowned with stars

show us your mercy from afar.

Infinite wisdom, divine grace

the lamb of God endears your face.


Fruit of your womb, a virgin snow

your tears of love will help us grow.

Mary, dear Mother, queen of May

dwell in our hearts, let us not stray.





Music


Voice of the angels

perfect harmony

uplift my spirit

sweet melody.


Lyrical notes

harped echo

protect my soul

from all woe.


Melodious chant

beloved hymn

soothe my soul

blessed Seraphim.





Angel

for Mom


Are you my angel?


Who guides my soul

who feels my heart

who drinks my thoughts

who soothes my mind


Are you my angel?


Always,


Together in time.





My Gifts For You


The greatest of God’s gifts

I can wish for you

are taken for granted by many

though for me, hold precious and true.


A canary softly chirping

A mandolin strumming in rhyme


A rose gently unfolding

An infant, smiling for the first time.


The sun slowly setting

The moon waking to rise


The sea’s waves calming

The drifting winds chime


Trees melodically swaying

Mountains, to the heavens they climb


These are my gifts for you,

With love, dear friend of mine.





My Lighthouse


When the waves of the sea lie still

and the sea bird's cry is mute

and the sunlight is buried in darkness

with the balance of life in dispute…


I know that grief has encompassed

and begun to drown my soul

emerging in cascades of pain

drowning what once was whole.


I know as I ask my savior

for His help in lighting my way

my God will become my lighthouse

and chart the path to ease my pain.





Rain


An angel softly wept

as showers cleansed the earth,

while we peacefully slept

planted seeds of new birth.


A spiritual cleansing of sorts

shedding a mask grown old,

unburdened without remorse

new beginnings yet to unfold.


A luminous rainbow awakens

lending color to our skies,

a protective stained glass garment

Heaven shields the angels cries.





Spiritual Nourishment


A gift for the soul

as warmth from the sun

caress and beholds

our spirits as one.


Seeds of the future

enriched by our care

experience nature

and love, we will share


Harvests to flourish

the fruits of this earth

spiritually nourished

by God, and His works.





Weapon of Faith


His scepter, a sword in divine attire

Pierces the serpent, with tongues of fire.

He fans the flames of Satan’s desire

As a weapon of faith, for spiritual hire.





The Northern Gate


A child is born into the night

unto the womb of  heaven’s light.

His journey plants a seed of peace

as sacrificial lamb to fleece.

His shoulders bear a cross of blood

as tears of sin unleash the flood.


Thine eyes behold the Northern gate

and see the stars prophetic fate.


Forsaken not, by Father’s hand

His death, doth scar a shallow land.

He rose above, upon third day

sight unseen to light the way.

His death became the gift of life

to free the soul, of endless strife.


Thine eyes behold the Northern gate

and see the stars prophetic fate.



Joanne Olivieri Website Blog

These works have been previously published in various print magazines to include Explorer, Lamp Post, Adoration, Miraculous Medal and many more…..