Saturday, June 30, 2012

Two Poems by Diane Webster


The underground parking lot
screams in echoes
from top to bottom
in screeching curves
round and round
in a spiraling vortex
of constant wind
swirling down the drain
below the street to seep
like earthworms crawling
to the surface drowning
with seashell roar
rushing against current.


Every morning she graces
her front porch steps
with voluminous flows and folds
of summer nightgown
as she orgasmically smokes
her first cigarette of the day;
as night’s chill escapes
the concrete slab beneath
her bed-warm buttocks
and would purr like a November cat
curled up on a fireplace lap
so silent and still except
for the hand-to-lip ritual
exhaled like her dreams
in a haze of almost remembrance.

For 30 years Diane Webster has worked in a newspaper office. She enjoy drives in the mountains and looking for poetry ideas in everyday life. Her work has appeared in "The Common Ground Review," "The Hurricane Review" "Philadelphia Poets" and other literary magazines.


Friday, June 29, 2012

A Poem by Shellie Richards

I walk on up ahead of you
On the way to Gautreau’s
Across the street the butterscotch Greek revival is ablaze
with hot pink and white azaleas
The glossy lime of fresh boxwood hedges
caress my fingers and I hear
your footsteps behind me
And somewhere in the sound of the grinding gravel
the promise of your touch on my bare shoulders
You take my hand like a young lovebird
the faint smell of your perspiration hangs in the air between us…
and I am humming our national anthem and
looking at you in your navy blazer
- the gravitas with which you wore it –
Like you’re the next State Senator –
And for just a second my mind wanders and thoughts of the maybe years and what if times…
And thinking there are few things in this life as sexy as a boxwood hedge
except maybe you
On the way to Gautreau’s.
Shellie Richards’ work has previously appeared in Bartleby Snopes (winner, story of the month), the Belmont Literary Journal, The Chaffey Review and Vanderbilt University’s Tabula Rasa. She lives in Nashville with her husband and three children. She works at Vanderbilt University where she edits scientific papers for publication and is currently finishing an M.A. in English (writing) while working on her first novel.

Thursday, June 28, 2012

Three Poems by Felino A. Soriano

Of bass
excursion of this cursive
                                    spin of silk from hands or / of
                                    purposeful delusion
reinvented as
used in the fantasy of
presented as such a
            formulated canvases
                                    stretched to condemn outward
                                                                                            in the
                                                                     harmony of
                                 this immanent
                      reactive spatial (renaming the)
                                  wraps circa corporeal mentalities
                                  engaging thus meshing temporal participations
involving methods of
within deciphering these
symptoms of elongated
veracity            voluminous
                  sensitive                responsive
unbalance of notified cultural
as relegated sustenance, hollowed
in the naming of various
                                   approbated in the abbreviated freedom of
others’ definitional
Felino A. Soriano has authored 51 collections of poetry, including Of oscillating fathoms these nonverbal chants (Argotist Ebooks, 2012), Analyzed Depictions (white sky books, 2012) and Intentions of Aligned Demarcations (Desperanto, 2011). He publishes the online endeavors Counterexample Poetics and Differentia Press. His work finds foundation in philosophical studies and connection to various idioms of jazz music. He lives in California with his wife and family and is a case manager and advocate for adults with developmental and physical disabilities. For further information, please visit

Wednesday, June 27, 2012

A Poem by P.A. Levy

A Very Suburban Scene of Arcadia Avenue in Spring.
Looking out from a second storey window
onto clouds of pink blossom, a perspective distorted
when caught in such colour.
  (As if hand tinted for a dream.)
In the breeze these trees look like whispers of bouquets
pretending to be the song
of summers past and gone, but the melody
soon fades; it’s the realisation that this
can’t be set paperweight surreal in acetate.
The houses in neat rows, gables in lines of blank expressions
wear a sad countenance of resignation, so very unnatural,
but so are lies,
like the ones believed by the paving slabs
that life was eternal until they saw the cracks.
The dark line that zigzags through us all, and the gap
gets driven further apart by self seeding weeds
to nod their yellow heads and laugh at where the time goes.
  Time goes grey…
fades far away, like turning the volume down on life.
This unearthly silence is not town or country,
no traffic roar, no birdsong, just the gentle hum
of daisy cutters flexing their blades like savage weapons.
And some remember once, scenes of angels on the dancefloor,
  then again,
that could have been a myth created when they pulled the bandstand
down and the music stopped.
  Treading air.
  Standing still,
like two washed out milkbottles
watching grey time from the doorstep.
Patiently they sit in the shade under forsythia’s dying flame
saying nothing to each other.
Born East London but now residing amongst the hedge mumblers of rural Suffolk, P.A.Levy has been published in many magazines, from ‘A cappella Zoo’ to ‘Zygote In My Coffee’ and stations in-between. He is also a founding member of the Clueless Collective and can be found loitering on page corners and wearing hoodies at

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Three Poems by Kevin Ridgeway

Staring at Dogs

The cloth mural sits over
my desk, having dwelled
in this room for decades

dogs playing pool,
smoking cigars,
drinking beer
and staring out
at me vacantly

as a child,
I thought dogs
could smoke
and drink beer
and play billiards

as an adult,
in times of boredom,
I am one hundred
percent convinced
these dogs have
seen more secrets told
and more
nightmarish scenes
of debauchery
in this lonely room
than I ever will
in my lifetime

so I light a cigarette,
swig a beer
and stare at them
until they all blend
together into one
six-headed super beast
of vice and sin
and I glance at my
hand, which is beginning
to resemble a worn paw

Dollar Store Blues

around the corner from my house
sits a massive discount palace
flooded by people at all hours of the day

one day, while perusing the dented cans
of lima beans and the tattered boxes of oatmeal,
a man approached me with a jug of wine
in one hand and a large knife in the other

“This is the only place where you can
get drunk and get a nice sharp knife,”
he whispered to me
fumes of alcohol escaping his
overgrown mustachioed mouth

I wondered to myself if he was
going to kill someone in a
snockered rage and I try to
comfort myself with the thought
that a person could get drunk
and kill someone
for only two dollars,
which, when you think about it,
is a real bargain in these
tight financial times


Claustrophobia kicks in once
the sleepy feet
of this worn
post-vacation traveler drag
the stomping,
chaotic drunken
hesitation of
a bloated
Frankenstein monster
out the gate and
spilling into the
great throat of the
airport terminal where
newspapers flutter,
stained butterflies
of ink and bad news
abbreviated lives
are rolled in luggage
of all shapes and sizes

people of all colors and
blemishes mill about,
awaiting their exit from
this temporary depot into
the mighty skies above
the continent and the oceans
to scattered destinations
across the country and the world

hung over from over consumption,
covered in red mosquito
bite dots in thong sandals that
breathe itchy death against
the toxins of every fuming
soul and their swarm of germs,
I retreat to the nearest shop
and overdose on vitamin C
praying that I make my
connection on time,
bound for the California
shore and far away from
this southern Atlantic
nightmare of iron birds,
peppered accents and drunken
mid-morning mimosa arguments
travelers on their way to
the paradise of vacation
while my paradise has wilted
into weeds bound for
the reality of home

I sit upright in my chair,
the plane jostles violently
into the air and curves over
the rippling waves of the
ocean and the tentacles growing
in my brain swim as I clamor
for the paper bag folded in
the compartment between
my shivering knees

Kevin Ridgeway is a writer from Southern California, where he resides in a shady bungalow with his girlfriend and their one-eyed cat. Recent work has appeared in Emerge Literary Journal, Underground Voices and Gutter Eloquence Magazine. His chapbook of poetry, Burn through Today, is now available from Flutter Press.

Monday, June 25, 2012

A Poem by Gale Acuff

One day I'll go see God, Miss Hooker says.
She should know--she's my Sunday School teacher.
She means when I'm dead, a long time from now
I hope. I'm only 10, she's 25,
so she'll get there sooner, by fifteen years
unless something bad happens to either
of us and we don't die of natural
old age, some accident that kills her or
me, or maybe even both of us. Sure,
God is good and His mercy endureth
forever and all that but I don't want
to die at all, not even if it means
I'd live forever, my soul that is--I
like my body, too, but Miss Hooker says
that there's no room for it in Heaven and
besides I'll get an all-new one but it
won't be like my body here, it will be
no thicker than a soul, I guess. I'll be
like a ghost, kind of invisible and
without blond hair and green eyes and freckles.
Well, actually they're hazel, my eyes
I mean. I don't mind living forever
as long as it's on earth, the only place
I've ever known, for as long as I can
remember. Who knows where I was before
--maybe Heaven again. If so, I've lost
my memory, or maybe I wasn't
anything before I was born. I asked
Father and Mother again at supper
last night and Mother said, That's a good one,
and Father said, Not that one now--eat your
beans, which means that he doesn't know, either.
I don't really know how babies get here
but somehow my folks are responsible
for me but they're not talking. Miss Hooker
probably knows but I doubt she'll tell me
anything that isn't in the Bible
and I'll bet that's not. In Sunday School this
morning we sang "Onward, Christian Soldiers,"
a number about soldiers without guns
and who won't kill so they don't stand much chance
in battle, poor guys, unless God helps them
and Jesus and the Holy Ghost pitch in.
Then we said the Lord's Prayer and went home.
I could've been killed crossing the highway
to our house. Miss Hooker could've gotten
smashed to smithereens by a Red Ball van
as she was driving her Volare home.
Down here I hope that didn't happen but
if it did then up there, in Heaven, she's
happy, I hope. And to complicate things
unless I cut down on my sinning then
I'll go to Hell, she says, and be living
forever but eternally condemned
and tortured endlessly by Satan, which
sounds mighty rough but not much different
from school, just more fiery flames maybe.
So Heaven's probably the place to be
at least until after I graduate
and won't get picked on or flunk quizzes or
throw up my lunch during recess or girls
won't laugh when I tell them they're beautiful
or I lose my milk-and-cookie money
or fall asleep during history class
and get licked in exchange for one short dream
or get caught thumbing through Deadman in class.
I'd like to live forever but not long.
Grandpa's 92. Sometimes he funks out
--I can't remember shit, he moans. I wish
I was dead. So I tell him, Believe me,
it's not what folks make it out to be, like
I'm dead myself and here to tell him. Then
he remembers who I am, and tells me.
 Gale Acuff has had poetry published in Ascent, Ohio Journal, Descant, Adirondack Review, Ottawa Arts Review, Worcester Review, Maryland Poetry Review, Florida Review, South Carolina Review, Arkansas Review, Carolina Quarterly, Poem, South Dakota Review, Santa Barbara Review, Sequential Art Narrative in Education, and many other journals. He has authored three books of poetry: Buffalo Nickel (BrickHouse Press, 2004), The Weight of the World (BrickHouse, 2006), and The Story of My Lives (BrickHouse, 2008).
Gale has taught university English in the US, China, and the Palestinian West Bank.

Sunday, June 24, 2012

Two Poems by Ashley Fisher


We didn't meet the day after he
found you, his new muse, who
would be painted for the price
of a cup of tea. You were sure
that this flaneur was your way out,

he even provided a constant supply
of tobacco (though he viewed the
need with disdain). But by May
your novelty had worn off,
his exhibition had been a success

and his artistic mission was
complete. And I would happily
shared a stale roll-up with
you as we sat in the rain
on a town centre bench.


Sailing from Greenland
you came with your husband,
part documentary,
part penny-gaffe curio.
You were paraded with native
costume and paraphernalia
the north of England.
Onlookers would pay
a shilling each to witness
the exotic travellers from
the Cumberland Straits.

Before you left,
they cast your heads
in plaster as a memento
for the people of Hull,
and gave gifts for your return.
But you never reached Nyatlick,
being burned up by fever,
leaving only
your bust in a museum's
glass casing, immune
to any virus or
inconvenient sense of self.

Ashley Fisher is a UK based poet and performer. He runs the Fresh Ink
Open Mic nights in Hull and co-edits the poetry magazine Turbulence.
His poetry has been published in magazines and journals on three
continents. His first chapbook, “Dead Crabs”, was published by Fire
Hazard in 2011. His website can be found at

Saturday, June 23, 2012

Three Poems by Stephen Jarrell Williams

Every Night I Dream

Walking down streets
empty of traffic and intruders
I seek a glance of your silhouette
in a window
in the distance
when we were young
and could run away
from everything
before the mist turned to rain
and the neon lights broke
into a long drone of thunder.


I tried to climb inside her.
Too near the sky she was.
So I settled...
listening to her holy song
sweeping through the tree leaves,
grass fields, and flower of my soul.

Help Us Through This

Hear our cries
in the middle of the night
and dust of day.
Help us through this

Stephen Jarrell Williams loves to stay up all night and write with lightning bolts until they fizzle down behind the dark horizon. His poetry has recently appeared in a handful of stones, The Camel Saloon, The Rainbow Rose, protestpoems, Black-Listed Magazine, BoySlut, Orion headless, The Carnage Conservatory, and Aphelion.

He is the editor of Dead Snakes at

Friday, June 22, 2012

Two Poems by Paul David Adkins

My brother buried it in our yard,
then forgot the spot.
If you find it? — The five bucks inside is yours.
With metal detector and trowel,
I unearthed ten coins,
four cans, one cap.
Dirt piles marred lawn.
Mom snatched me up,
shoved me inside.
I knew it was there --
that safe now cradling dust
and a doily knit from green lace.
Abarelix, bismuth,
leperudin, doxepin –
Such beautiful names
they might be flowers,
releasing seed in streams
they bloom beside.
Glimiperide, esmolol,
riluzole, tygecycline.
They could be hardwood trees,
scientific names for winds
or galaxies.
The things we ponder, fear
as human – clouds
transformed to heads
and hands,
caw of crow
mimicking my mother –
Bob Bob Bob –
branch tapping window
with a black
curled nail.
Paul David Adkins grew up in South Florida and lives in New York.

Thursday, June 21, 2012

Two Poems by Valentina Cano

A Regret
Now I know what
you meant to say
that day with the clouds
in your mouth.
I know you were choking
on gray thoughts,
fearing there’d be no way
of ever saying them.
I wish I’d torn open a vein,
red and hot like boiling cinnamon,
and let you see that my insides
were just as dark,
just as pulsing as yours.
Shared Night
The man screamed,
a jackal of fears
ripping the night in two.
She woke,
leaping into consciousness
so quickly she bounced
off it and landed
in the dark half of her mind.
Experimenting with inky pools.
The two of them shook
like bells that night,
ringing the morning closer.
Valentina Cano is a student of classical singing who spends whatever free time either writing or reading. Her works have appeared in Exercise Bowler, Blinking Cursor, Theory Train, Cartier Street Press, Berg Gasse 19, Precious Metals, A Handful of Dust, The Scarlet Sound, The Adroit Journal, Perceptions Literary Magazine, Welcome to Wherever, The Corner Club Press, Death Rattle, Danse Macabre, Subliminal Interiors, Generations Literary Journal, Super Poetry Highway, Stream Press, Stone Telling, Popshot, Golden Sparrow Literary Review, Rem Magazine, Structo, The 22 Magazine, The Black Fox Literary Magazine, Niteblade, Tuck Magazine, Ontologica, Congruent Spaces Magazine, Pipe Dream, Decades Review, Anatomy, Lowestof Chronicle, Muddy River Poetry Review, Lady Ink Magazine, White Masquerade Anthology and Perhaps I'm Wrong About the World. You can find her here:

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

Two Poems by Yevgeniy Levitskiy

Re-Evaluating Existence

I lost the skeletons in my closet and
dusted off the cobwebs in my mind.
With this wonderful pre-existing idea,
I’ve evaluated the stems of cut-throat
flowers and dived into the obese sea.
No longer dividing existence by days
and numbers of a Mayan calendar,
keeping integrity at any cost.
Believing in truth is suffice to say,
that her arrival will repair bridges and
brain cells.
For it is all determined by the unspoken
word in my household,
which they pray to appear before me,
in some shape, form or size.

Normal Conversations

Normal conversations are those
that involve interpretations of
minds and souls,
when thoughts are
simple matter
that don’t involve
parental obligations, favors
or permission.
It’s similar to head hunters
in Africa or palm reading gypsies,
the believable tales of
miracles, and yet nothings
never been recorded,
except for bibles and
other archaic books.
Religion has no place
in modern society,
for how can people
believe in the same
thing the Mayans
and Egyptians
prayed to?
Sun and rain gods
partying with
foreign deities.
But then I remember,
Reclining my head on
the plexiglas window,
and for once,
thinking I was in…

Yevgeniy Levitskiy has received a B.A. in English-Education from Brooklyn College, and is currently pursuing a M.A. His writing has been published numerous times in The Junction. His forthcoming publications include The Books They Gave Me (Free Press/Simon & Schuster), Maggot Bible, and Eunoia Review. He is currently at work on his second novel.

Tuesday, June 19, 2012

Two Poems by Dr. Ernest Williamson III

Cleanin' House

better daze
summer in autumn
corrosive headwinds
landing in dreams,
held in arms of chipped trees;
spruces were timetables of minced mustard seeds
bleeding from the orifice in hulk and blasting prodding lent.
better daze
comin' my way.
winter in spring
damaging racial spatial slurs;
marked with smut and planked scratches on parched
wood and stony rock;
swindlers and liars
leadin' me into the wasted new world,
but the blues is chewing my sores
so better days are comin'.
but not now
so I lean with glossy wine
waitin' on the street corner
dividing the prayers I've thrown
over and under the bridge
in better daze;
in better mocks of folk songs,
and corporate wrongs.
so long
to goodbyes
since I still have till sunrise
to shut up

Peeling Gray Apples

acid from my eyes
melts the snow.
hemlock and bonfires erupt
in mid air.
spoken word,
poetry has lifted callow bricks
brick red
dead roads
leading to what we reap.
inside I've wrestled with terrorists
inebriated coughing
deep bursting ash
from broken ties.
why must we bomb the earth again!
in the same places
places common
with grinding
pulse feeds no man.
in these days,
poets fill up Abbey Road
to find no
red wine,
just drips of water
making rhythm
with one too many
the trees have titled downwardly
moaning for fruit,
for logic
for law
for order
for God.

Dr. Ernest Williamson III has published poetry and visual art in over 380 national and international online and print journals. Some of Dr. Williamson's visual art and/or poetry has been published in journals representing over 30 colleges and universities around the world.His poetry has been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology three times.Dr. Williamson teaches at Nyack College in Manhattan, New York and at Essex County College. Visit Dr. Williamson's website:

Monday, June 18, 2012

Three Poems by Mike Berger

Fire Storm

Blackened rubble lay where my home
had been. Fire had destroyed everything.
There were no words of comfort me.

Orders to evacuate had come none to
soon; the flames glowed in the night sky.
Black smoke hung heavy; it stuck in my
throat. Wincing as the heavy shroud stung
my eyes.

The forest was ablaze; swirling orange
flames filled the black sky. Popping and
snapping of burning scrub echoed in my

I joined the snaggle toothed caravan heading
across the flats. We took shelter in a school
cafeteria. The served up lunch but I couldn’t

Three days later I went back. There are no
words to describe the agony ricocheting in my
gut. All that I owned and treasured are gone
in a wisp of smoke. I wiped the tears from
my eyes. Too damned hurt to rebuild.

Darkened Earth

Suddenly, the lonesome valley burst
into light as lightning stair stepped
from the sky. A stunted juniper tree
exploded into flame.

Sparks were a thousand fireflies
doing a gypsy dance. Orange
tongue stabbed the evening skies.
Live sparks drifted--settling into
tinder dry grass erupting
into flame. The crackling was
a million crickets singing a
woeful song.

Fiery grasses torched other
junipers. The darkening sky was
ablaze with orange mixed with
dull gray smoke. A sleeping owl
awoke and took to flight, chased
by wicked flames.

There was a bizarre hissing as
the rain began to fall. The fire was
no match for that torrent; it flickered
and went out, but in its wake stark
goblins, pointed arms piercing the
sky and leaving an ocean of black.
Miles of juniper trees are gone.

Fire Mind

Fire rages without smoke;
flames lap that green water.

Sparks ascend rattling windows;
wiseman voices turn stone.

Drinking wisdom from the cliffs above,
it leaches into iconoclastic soil.

The eye of the oracle is blind; a
defiant rose delights hedonistic eyes.

The hand of a lover trembles as
tulips wither and die.

Time stand still; sands in the
hourglass refuse to fall.

The ancient guru whispers perfidy;
the dark abyss is made of glass.

Mike Berger is an MFA, PhD. He writes poetry and short stories full time
He has been writing poetry for less than four years. His work appear
in seventy-one journals. He has published two books of short stories
and eight poetry chapbooks .He is a member of The Academy of American

Sunday, June 17, 2012

A Poem by Jacqueline Markowski

Charlie Horse
I can see you spilling, like sour milk,
into the room through the crack
beneath the door. You incubate,
blatantly ignorant to what frightens
her at night, who her best friend is, why
she likes the color green so much.
It’s easier this way, I can smell
your selfish essence through
the reasons you utter when shame presses
you to give them. She is yours, you say,
like a possession, a doll. You need her,
you admit; she needs you, a broth you pour
when it’s convenient, never supposing
a stain might set. You don’t even know
she got her first hair cut. If you could see
her, holding tight to a balloon
you gave her nine months ago,
pretending it still floats. She talks
about you… about that time
she rode a horse named Charlie
and you stood in the shade
watching, pale with paranoia, exhausted
by the energy spent not knowing.
You preach at her that you’re her father—
No one else is Daddy… you say
sternly. She thinks she’s done something
wrong; she won’t trust her instincts
next time. Daddy means something different
to her than it does to her friends. It means:
sometimes, not for long, hotel rooms, promises
spent like pennies in a fountain. She
uses plain language to describe a father
who sleeps on the floor by her bed
when she’s frightened,
who bathes her, who reads her stories every
night, even when she doesn’t ask. Simpler words,
so that she doesn’t fail you, so that maybe
you’ll come back sooner. I stand off
to the side, mute like an unwound clock.
Nothing comes naturally, no excuses,
no reasons. Only regret. I kiss her
instincts, hoping maybe in time they’ll grow
back, hoping muscles sore
from the unforgiving saddle heal
quickly. If nothing else, hoping
the burlap of her plain language
doesn’t wear through like most
things do, meaning less than her
original intent. 
Jacqueline Markowski is a writer of poetry and short stories. She lives in Charlotte, NC where she divides her time between writing and being a homeschooling mother. Her poetry has appeared in Chronogram Magazine, Cochlea/The Neovictorian and Permafrost Literary Journal. She was awarded first place in poetry during the 2006 Sandhills Writers Conference. She is currently working on a compilation of short stories but who’s she kidding- she’ll never finish. 

Saturday, June 16, 2012

Two Poems by Colin James


Urgency is still used
as an aphrodisiac at work.
The worthy are transported
through the back lots of depression
known to propagate like goosebumps
at the inference of touch.
No need to flail,
we're all ingenious here.
Dramatic posteriors
dip in and out
of the steward's stem.
We could have a whip-round,
the outermost hand
grabbing what it can,
laboriously passing it back
to the centrifugal figure.
Rectal red, getting whiter.


Baby, no use pretending
you don't have that sour night breath.
Kierkegaard of the neighborhood,
lambaster of the necessary.
Be thankful for
your far-out itinerary.

Colin James has poems forthcoming in Nazar Look and Eudice...........

Friday, June 15, 2012

Three Poems by Dr. Vivekanand Jha


Tethering under troubles,
trials and tribulations
widow neither lives nor dies
like a criminal sentenced
to rigorous imprisonment.
She keeps on burning into
two never extinguishing fires:
One within and other outside;
Like weakling man
Walking over a narrow ridge
That separates two deadly ditches.
The first fire caught the day
she lost her love, a stimulus to live
and meaning to life.
The other conflagrated by the spark
of stigmatic taunts of fellows or friends.
As radar keeps surveillance on airborne
So she is ogled by lecherous or vulgar eyes
from social forum to sanctorum.
She put up all persecutions passively
peeping through the orphan pane
like the fishes, snared into net,
remain restless and desperately stare.

Calamitous carnage

The poet of the cosmos
Composes metaphysical poetry:
Heavily loaded with obscurities
And far-fetched conceits;
Though a handful of avid readers
See through the styles, techniques,
Figures-metaphors employed by the Lord
And paraphrase them into their mind.
But remain passive onlookers and dare not
to spread the Poet’s connotation to the sea
of people who only adore poetasters.
Who only compose global warming,
Ecological crises, population explosion,
Rapes, pollution, corruptions,
moral degradations or misconducts.
Which reach in the hands of the readers
in the guise of tempest, hurricane,
flood, drought, quake, bloodshed,
landslide or other calamitous carnage.

The Burning Train

It’s breezy night,
My friend, appealing and gymnast,
Sitting on platform in resplendent ride
anxiously waiting for train to arrive.
Though train in motion was delayed
There arrived a train in passion
Gently in the gesticulation of gay,
Sat beside him for something to say.
First he shared what a co-traveler should
Next he exchanged what a reveler would.
He crept his hands like tortoise
towards touchy limb of my friend
My friend too was running short of leisure
That a traveler should have
When train’s timing is not in favour.
My friend displays his warm generosity
To the immediate and impending priority.

Dr. Vivekanand Jha is a translator, editor and award winning poet from India. He is Diploma in Electronics and Communication Engineering, Certificate in Computer Hardware and Networking, MA and Ph. D in English. He is a contributing poet to Wavelengths –2011 Savant Anthology of Poetry (USA) which has won first place in the 2011 London Book Festival. He has been Poetry Contest Winner-Third Place Winner for the poem “Hands Heave to Harm and Hamper”conducted by Beginners®, a documentary, graphic, nonfiction book series (USA). His poem, “Song of Woes” was featured in the 10 Selected Poems for Performance & 10 Selected Poems for Award in 2nd Korea-Nigeria Poetry Feast on 21st March 2012 organized by the Korean Cultural Centre Nigeria. He is the author of five books of poetry. He has also edited two critical anthologies on Indian English Novels. His works have been published in more than seventy five magazines round the world. Besides his poems have been chosen and published in more than fifteen poetry anthologies. He has more than twenty research and critical articles published in various national and international anthologies and referred journals. He is son of noted professor, poet and award winning translator Dr. Rajanand Jha (Crowned with Sahitya Akademi Award, New Delhi).

Thursday, June 14, 2012

Two Poems by Neil Ellman

Elegy for Charles Bukowski

Much said
so many
   words from an open wound
              biting hard
           teeth on flesh
       till more than words
           consonants torn
            from bone
          and every day
spoke as if the world were
spit inquisitions of the soul
drowned in sacraments
     of wine
and then
the end
on staggering feet
still unrhymed.

All Saints I

(after the painting by Wassily Kandinsky)
Out of nothingness
the shape of air
kissing soundless lips
the saints of exasperation
red yellow blue
no shape
no words
endless prayers
to empty space

Neil Ellman lives and writes in New Jersey. With almost 500 published poems to his credit, his work appears throughout the world, from Australia to Zimbabwe. The latest of his eight chapbooks, Convergence and Conversion, is just out from The Knives Forks and Spoons Press in the United Kingdom.