Showing posts from April, 2018

A Glimpse Of Your Soul by Lynn Long

I thought I saw your soulgazing into mineAnd, for just the  briefest moment I was somewhere else in time A place I'd forgotten where memories  still remain A place of long ago where once, I spoke your name Soaring high, above the sky My heart skips a beat In the feelings I so denied, now suddenly, let free
I thought I saw your soul gazing into mine It was just a glimpse, a memory lost in time
Lynn Long is an aspiring writer/novelist.

Skyward by Joan McNerney

SkywardAnother hot day atthe playground filledwith shrieks from kidstumbling down slides.Shouting boys hop on andoff the whirling carouselas girls sing songs todouble dutch jump rope.Waiting for my chanceon the swing.  Finallyone is free as I clutchthe metallic link chains.I pump myself uppushing pass trees,feeling cool breezesbrush over me.All the noise is far belowas I rush towardsblue skies.  My feet arewalking on clouds now.
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

Moon Over Sad Cuba by Grant Guy

Moon over sad Cuba
What have your blue moon eyes seen
Upon this land of revolution
Where nothing has changed for over fifty yearsWhat have your blue moon eyes seem
Over hot Cuba
Hot sex along the Malecon
The mist off the Strait of Florida
Tasting the kisses of loveWhat have your blue moon eyes seen
Over sultry Cuba
Where dancing leads to love leads to sex
Leads to life
Where soft breezes touch the soft breasts of loveWhat have your blue moon eyes seen
Over sunny Cuba
Yes hot love hot sex
And cold- blooded murder
Arm and arm in the sweaty breath of death
And the living loveWhat have your blue moon eyes seen
Grant Guy is a Canadian poet, writer and playwright. He has over one hundred poems and short stories published in internationally. He has Five books published: Open Fragments, On the Bright Side of Down, Blues For a Mustang, The Life and Lies of Calamity Jane and Bus Stop Bus Stop His plays include an adaptation of Paradise Lost and the Grand Inquisitor. He was the 2004 recipient of the MAC’s 200…

Askew by Neil Ellman

Askew(after the painting by Kenneth Noland)In the perfectroundness of our spacedegree by degreein equal measureinequities abound     imperfections so slightno device can  calculate and rectify.  The earth’s orbitalmost circularthe planets’ellipticaland in lifeno reincarnationfrom birth to deathand birth againno karmic echoesof our sins.

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

What use is poetry by Gauri Dixit

What use is poetry?

Last few dusks Have stolen the beauty On this stale evening The colors are a pale shadow of themselves The music Has forgotten its own voice The instruments whimper Melancholy clouds hope The air is heavy Sitting on my chest Breathing is an effort The oxygen is making me work With it And without it They have all given up Finding a sanctuary within their various addictions Abusing everyone and everything including their souls The onlookers only call a foul I am still here Sitting on my rocking chair Reading aloud poems Waiting For the new dusk to bring back the colours
©. Gauri Dixit

A software professional from Pune (India), Gauri started writing poems couple of years ago. She writes in number f Facebook poetry groups. Her poems have been featured in multiple Indian and international anthologies. She has also contributed to a number of e-zines including Learning & Creativity, Glomag and Mind Creative (published from Sydney, Australia). She loves to read, write and travel

A MAP, A HISTORIOGRAPHY By Michael H. Brownstein

The map of who we might be  binds itself to the paradox of the dead duck and lamb decompressed near the back fence. How did they come to be this way? A swamp of flesh, a tide pool of artery and heartbeat, rind of cacti, rind of lemon, rind of orange the green taste of river gourd thick with mucus and algae inner workings of bile  the meat of the core all of the wisdom from the merchant of the moon This is the map of foreplay the cartography of what comes after.

spring breeze by Theresa A. Cancro

spring breeze...
walking the curve
of the labyrinth

Bio: Theresa A. Cancro writes poetry, short fiction and nonfiction. Dozens of her poems and short fiction pieces have been published online and in print internationally. She strives to find sparks of wonder in the ordinary.

Michael Ceraolo 500 Cleveland Haiku Book Review

For details and ordering instructionsCLICK HERE

It is such a pleasure to read work by a writer who understands and has a firm grasp on traditional poetic styles.  Basho, Bison and Kyoshi would be proud.This book delves into the everyday and ordinary life on the streets and suburban areas of Cleveland written with a classic yet modern view of the sights and sounds within the city. It is a testament to the poetic artistry Michael Ceraolo is able to express within this particular genre.A few examples:
Winter scene ---my exhaled breathfreezes on my eyelashes
April ---bird shopping for foodon my lawn
Signs proclaiming that land is available---they'll kill the trees for you
Economics depression ---even the dollar storegoes out of business
An uptempo tune ---the trees dance erraticallyto the storm"s music
The haiku in this book tell stories with insight into city life and reflect wit, inspiration and compassion.  Each haiku delivering a message and/or statement.Reading 500 Cleveland Haiku …

Night Ninja by Mary Bone

Night Ninja

I was a night time ninjaIn my dreams.I woke up in a sweat,With nightmarish screams.Ninja warriors came at meFrom every direction-Punching and kickingMy midsection.I hit the ninjas withA karate chop.Now all they doIs flip and flop.
My poems have appeared in Oklahoma Today Magazine, Literary Yard, Poetry Pacific, Whispers in the Wind Blogspot,  Spillwords, Duane’s Poetree Blogspot and numerous other journals and newspapers. Mary has been wring since the age of twelve and has had two books of poetry published.

On Dying In A Mass Shooting  by Joanne Olivieri

On Dying In A Mass Shooting 
Bloody Chaos
The door swings openrapid fire storm ensuesmy body hurls to the groundchaotic screamsdeadly thunder popspermeate bitter air pocketsand I lie still.
My friends, classmatesscattered around mebreathing dust, residuea warm sea of bloodmingles with otherssaturating wooden floorsand I lie still.
I am slipping awaysoaked in deathblood tears escape my eyesand I cannot seefear embodies my beingI cannot moveand I lie still.
Mom and Dad, I love youmy friends by my side, I love youdon't let me die in vainresist the hate, the feardo it for me, do it for usthe chaos stopsand I lie still.
All I ask is why, please tell me whywhy, why?And I lie stillforever.

Hearts That Die Young by Stefanie Bennett

Stefanie Bennett, ex-blues singer and musician has published several books of poetry, a novel and a libretto and worked with Arts Action For Peace. Poems have appeared in Shot Glass Journal, Poetry Pacific, Poetic Diversity, The Fib Review and others. Stefanie’s most recent titles – ‘Black Spring’ – Ginninderra Press; ‘The Vanishing’ – Walleah Press and ‘Blanks From The Other World’ [due May-June] are available from Amazon. Of mixed ancestry [Italian/Irish/ Paugussett-Shawnee] she was born in Queensland, Australia. HEARTS THAT DIE YOUNG for Vittoria Anna-Maria    [Stefanie Bennett] I clutched the vision Of the magnolia, Fine as pollen... The coloured halo Of your hair. Some hearts die young Without wilt or piety. These are the ones Mater dulcissima I offer you now. And this you’d known all along. You took me walking As a child, and through Child eyes you pointed To the Imera’s silken flowing... Ever young – “forever there” You said – and as I fingered Blood oranges By the seller’s cart And asked the whereabouts