Gods Tears by Jezabel Castillo

Jezabel Castillo is 17 years old from New York. She has been writing poetry for 5 years and strives to pursue her dream career of becoming a Published Poet

Gods Tears

by Jezabel Castillo

I have recurring
false dreams
where I find myself
to be the daughter
of winter.

Blood made of snow,
glacier shoulders,
polar bones,
just as tough
As hail rocks.

I, numbing the bites
by the frost of winds
piercing teeth.

I must possess
the power
of waves.

I shall interfere
with the velocity
of roaring melancholy.

What have I turned into?
Am I the reason
why gods tears
gives everyone rain?

###

Jezabel Castillo is 17 years old from New York. She has been writing poetry for 5 years and strives to pursue her dream career of becoming a Published Poet with her dedication to writing. She hopes to share her deep, emotional poetry with the world, as well as supporting an audience who can relate to her work.

Winging It by Michael Waterson

Michael Waterson is a retired journalist originally from Pittsburgh PA. His career includes stints as a seasonal firefighter, San Francisco taxi driver and wine educator. He earned an MFA from Mills College.

Winging It

by Michael Waterson

Whooshing past my ear on my sunup walk,
a mockingbird mimics a bird of prey.
As the bogus raptor whirls for a second swoop
at my head, my thoughts fly to augury.
If we matter to the gods, the Stoics said,
they drop us subtle signs to know their will.

I’ve wondered at starling murmurations
that seem cursive hints of a higher hand.
But how can my skeptical eye throw light on
fleeting glyphs penned by irate fluttering?

Perhaps this omen mocks my parroted songs,
featherweight intellect and flighty psyche,
or imparts portent from those dear departed
I soon will join beneath the grassy hill.

I don’t roost long in aerie clairvoyance
before learning grounds my alary alarm:
This is no dispatch from the sky that I
have run afoul of some affected deity,
no prophet from a Plutonian shore.

She’s a brooding, ruffled mother, egged on
by my lumbering, unintended menace,
a judgement even Marcus Aurelius’
unflappable flock might land on.

Though now demystified, my oracle
lifts my spirit with her audacity,
her affirmation of life’s buoyancy,
a pedestrian presentiment I gloss
as auspices this fledgling morning.

Michael Waterson is a retired journalist originally from Pittsburgh PA. His career includes stints as a seasonal firefighter, San Francisco taxi driver and wine educator. He earned an MFA from Mills College. His work has appeared in numerous online and print journals, including California Quarterly, Cathexis Northwest and The Bookends Review. His information may be found at: michaelwatersonpoetry.com.

Cost of forgetting by Sunil Sharma

Sunil Sharma is a college principal, freelance journalist, author and editor. Mumbai-based, he has published 19 books—solo and joint.

Cost of forgetting

by Sunil Sharma

If you methodically dismantle
memories of—
beings
names
places
past
community

with a swift movement

a time comes when you are
dismembered by the selfsame process—
a yawning chasm

then
being becomes a remote blur
on the horizon— pale-bluish-orange-dark

slipping into an amber sea
of fire-breathing monsters
hungry for crumbs of memories
dripping away in their flight
into the forest of dementia

on such nights
burnt-out, scary
living becomes walking dead
and the region gets dissolved

finally—

wiped away quickly
by rushing fogs

or stiff days
shrouded
by storms.

###
Sunil Sharma is a college principal, freelance journalist, author and editor. Mumbai-based, he has published 19 books—solo and joint. His prose and poetry have appeared in many places in the world.

Instructions: On Getting Ready to Die by Gayle Kellner

Instructions: On Getting Ready to Die

by Gayle Kellner

Please take off my watch
I won’t need time beyond the moment any longer

Followed by my earrings
There will be no one’s eye to catch,
No partner to impress

Slip off my shoes
Let me put my bare feet in the grass
One last time

Set my glasses for reading on the piles of books I’ll never get to
But stack my favorites near me
For they are among my closest friends

Wrap me in a sweater
In remembrance of those perfect chilly fall days
And take me outside
Let me feel the morning sun on my face

Unbutton my collar
Loosen my cuffs
That damn bra
I’ll need help with the clasp behind my back

Take off my belt
Lay all of these instruments of restraint aside
I will be restrained no longer

Why did I wait so long?

###

Gayle Kellner is a writer, an artist, a poet, and an educator. Her essays and poems have appeared in Utne Magazine, Orion Magazine,  The Loop, The Beachcomber, and  The Nature of an Island. She is currently a regular guest on Voice of Vashon’s community radio program The Brown Briefly hosted by retired reporter and editor of Time Magazine Brian Brown. Gayle also works as a professional artist. Her paintings have been shown on Vashon Island at the Blue Heron Center for the Arts and the Barnworks.  Her work in stone has been shown at the International Museum of the Horse in Lexington Kentucky.

Gayle currently lives on Vashon Island where she is pursuing her continued interests in writing and art. She spends her days now rising with the sun; to write, read poetry and history, tend her chickens and her garden, paint in her boathouse studio, and walk the shores and woodlands that surround her island home.

On Cooking Krakens by Julie Irigaray

Julie Irigaray’s work has appeared in various international publications such as Southword, Banshee (Ireland), Shearsman, Mslexia, Tears in the Fence, Envoi (UK) and The Ofi Press (Mexico), among others.

On Cooking Krakens

by Julie Irigaray

The stalls of Italian markets
display four different
types of octopus and five
sizes of squids
with glassy eyes –
piteous nautilus
from Hokusai’s erotica.

I learned with practice how to
extract their entrails
without piercing the ink sac,
how to cut the cuttlefish’s
mantle to get the pen,
proud gladius raised against me.

I am not the fisherman’s wife
disarmed kraken,
there’s no need to resist
with your sharp beak
and your toy tentacles.

I discovered the squeeze
when one squishes the skin,
its plasticity once peeled –
What a strange appeal!
An opal ghost floats in the basin.

###

Julie Irigaray’s work has appeared in various international publications such as Southword, Banshee (Ireland), Shearsman, Mslexia, Tears in the Fence, Envoi (UK) and The Ofi Press (Mexico), among others. She recently won third prize in the 2017 Winchester Writers’ Festival Poetry Competition and was shortlisted for The Yeovil Poetry Prize 2017 and The London Magazine Poetry Prize 2016 (UK). After living in the south-west of France, Ireland, England and Italy, she is back to Paris.

He Sits by Sy Roth

He Sits

by Sy Roth

 

He sits in his garage,
Dressed in black jogging pants,
Black nylon jacket striped in white along the sleeves matches.
The pants bottoms pulled up to his calves show
White support hose
Makes his ankles look like sausages.

He sits side saddle on his plastic chair
Ragged-thin flowery cushion draped at his back
Peonies stretched paper thin,
Pores over the latest installment of Newsday.
Neighbors’ petty queries, wonder.

Ubiquitous red-hazy cigarette aglow between his yellowed fingertips,
He exhales gray clouds of smoke.
Like a Sphinx, he guards his space
An aging monument tinctured in carbon monoxide.

Lonely warrior of a steamer trunk of memories
Piled helter-skelter into the corner of his loneliness.
Conducts the business of waiting and sitting
As the copse of cigarettes mound.

He resides at his table
Hunched in his plastic chair
Crossing and uncrossing his sausaged legs
Newspaper words, a shimmering oasis
Dance on the pages before him.

Lackadaisically he turns his head to the street
A plume of smoke escapes his lips,
In a passing nod to humanity.
He sits.

###

Retired after forty-two years as teacher/school administrator, he now resides in Mount Sinai, far from Moses and the tablets. This has led him to find words for solace. He spends his time writing and playing his guitar. He has published in Visceral Uterus, Amulet, BlogNostics, Every Day Poets, Barefoot Review, Haggard and Halloo, Misfits Miscellany, Larks Fiction Magazine, Danse Macabre, Bitchin’ Kitch, Bong is Bard, Humber Pie, Poetry Super Highway, Penwood Review, Masque Publications, Foliate Oak, Miller’s Pond Poetry, The Artistic Muse, Word Riot, Samizdat Literary Journal, Right Hand Pointing, The Screech Owl, Epiphany, Red Poppy Review, Big River, Poehemians, Nostrovia Poetry’s Milk and Honey, Siren, Palimpsest, Dead Snakes, Euphemism, Humanimalz Literary Journal, Ascent Aspirations, Fowl Feathered Review, Vayavya and Kerouac’s Dog.

Bankruptcy and Real Estate by Weldon H. Sandusky

Bankruptcy and Real Estate

by Weldon H. Sandusky

I
Failure has such splendor
Coaxing you to rationalize
Then tossing you a pint of vodka
And chalking up a victory
When your committed to the
State Mental Asylum.

II
Success, similarly, wears such a deceptive
Smile tempting you to light a
Big Cigar. Poof! Bankruptcy. Poof!
Real Estate. Poof. A lawyer. Poof
The twenty-first floor.
Vernon and Parks. Ah, what Sublimity.
I buy expensive ties and plan a
Luxury Caribbean Cruise.

III
Then deluded, mistaken
Fallen, aghast walking
Down a street of stone
To throw with words
Like hard candy ready to spit out
My heart empty and full of sorrow.
They were such successful Friends,
Now nobodies in the funny
Backfire of a car somewhere.

###
I graduated from Texas Tech University in 1968-a B.A. in English. I then got an M.A. in English from the University of Wisconsin and a law degree (J.D. l975) from the same school. Divorce followed as did commitment to , first, the private psychiatric hospital, Timberlawn, in Dallas, and , later, the State Mental Asylum in Terrell , Texas. I petitioned for habeas corpus claiming a conspiracy to unlawfully commit me existed in violation of my constitutional rights
Upon release, I got a job at Exxon/Mobil where I worked twenty years as a cashier-nightman. During August, 2005, I underwent open heart surgery at St. Paul’s Hospital in Dallas and have since been declared totally disabled. I have coronary heart disease.

Fruit Loops are never Enough by KJ Hannah Greenberg

KJ Hannah Greenberg, who only pretends at being indomitable, tramps across literary genres and giggles in her sleep. As well, she eats oatmeal and keeps company with a hibernaculum

KJ Hannah Greenberg Photo by Yiftach Paltrowitz

Fruit Loops are never Enough

by KJ Hannah Greenberg

Fruit loops are never enough to satisfy.
Likewise, malabi leaves social strata wanting.
Blowing kisses binds attention, secures wills.
Where oboes chant, cattails won’t grow.

No ebullient child paints on small smiles.
Asking parents to remove jumbotrons, or
Leave glossies behind at checkout lines,
Makes for lapsed, mawkish moments.

As well, cultural phenoms regularly impress
By changing Facebook status.
East of Eden, Jarls, chieftains, other natives,
Thumb young entrepreneurs’ body parts.

Wendigos, chimeras, also imaginary lions
Roar when listserve-using writers aid,
Offline, data hunting and gathering.
Eidetic memories ought not use algae-frothing.

Meaningful sock fibers, ketchup recipes,
Acrylic paint, maybe seatbelts, equally,
Sequence heartsong with prosaic lyrics,
Bring table sacrifices, senior proms, pumpkins.

One thousand suicidal monkeys, all dogma potion,
Establish rationales for hiding enemies, excavate
Small bits, gawk mercenaries, crows, clairvoyants,
Keep on pouring milk over sugared cereal.

###
KJ Hannah Greenberg, who only pretends at being indomitable, tramps across literary genres and giggles in her sleep. As well, she eats oatmeal and keeps company with a hibernaculum of sometimes rabid imaginary hedgehogs. Hannah’s poetry books include: Citrus-Inspired Ceramics (Aldrich Press, 2013), poetry chapbook; Intelligence’s Vast Bonfires (Lazarus Media, 2012), poetry collection; Supernal Factors (The Camel Saloon Books on Blog, 2012), poetry chapbook; Fluid & Crystallized (Fowlpox Press, 2012), poetry chapbook; and A Bank Robber’s Bad Luck with His Ex-Girlfriend (Unbound CONTENT, 2011), poetry collection.

Next Step by Inas Esse

Inas Essa is a freelance writer. Her poetry has been published in every day poems, poemhunter and Scarborough arts (big art book 2013). she studied journalism at the faculty

Next Step

by Inas Esse

To live through a portrait you draw,
Is so exciting;
To point next steps,
And where you will go,
But, did you include your real life,
And what is happening around
Life is not just steps,
It is the smell,
Sense and sound.
Still, you cannot force illusions
To come true,
Or raise you up
On an imaginary top.
And now,
What about your next step?
Does it just belong to your portrait,
Or in real life will attend?

###

Inas Essa is a freelance writer. Her poetry has been published in every day poems, poemhunter and Scarborough arts (big art book 2013). she studied journalism at the faculty of masscommunication, Cairo university. Lives in Alexandria, Egypt

Gravity by Leanne Rebecca

Leanne Rebecca is a young American poet from St. Louis, MO. She received a degree in Creative Writing and Film, Television, and Interactive Media from Brandeis University

Gravity

by Leanne Rebecca

I didn’t tell you
the gravity of the situation
because I didn’t want to admit
I wasn’t grounded anymore.
I knew that as soon as I opened that door,
I’d fly away.

###in

Leanne Rebecca is a young American poet from St. Louis, MO. She received a degree in Creative Writing and Film, Television, and Interactive Media from Brandeis University and currently runs a poetry blog at shesinprison.com. Leanne’s goal as a poet is to attract attention to the medium by proving to the masses that poetry is cool, using social media like Instagram and Pinterest to expose verse to those that might not otherwise seek it out.

Blazing Fire by Amicia Rai

Amicia Rai is a PhD student of English Literature, specializing in Fairy Tales. She is currently exploring the art of writing poetry, fiction, nonfiction and screenplays

Blazing Fire

by Amicia Rai

Blaze up your skin,
your guns, your heart, your lungs,
your stance, your trust, your faith,
your lust
Blaze up your soul, the hole
that formed inside
your once beating, growling mind
that yearned for a change,
but was crushed and deranged
And now inside it rages a fire.
A blazing fire
a firing rage
a past mistake
a life forever changed
an ending that’s nearing
in night disappearing
Leaving loneliness and a broken heart.
What memory is left
of a soul’s grace
will in time be forgotten
and by another replaced
Will be silenced by shrieks
and given to freaks
that do not understand
the Blazing Fire.

###
Amicia Rai is a PhD student of English Literature, specializing in Fairy Tales. She is currently exploring the art of writing poetry, fiction, nonfiction and screenplays. Official website: http://amiciarai.com

From the Cathedral Building by Neil McCarthy

If I could see through your eyes the city
from the roof of the Cathedral Building,
hear the wind through the nearby arms of a crane

From the Cathedral Building

by Neil McCarthy

If I could see through your eyes the city
from the roof of the Cathedral Building,
hear the wind through the nearby arms of a crane
as I run cotton-moss between my fingers,
I, too, would smile and watch the tops of
people’s heads and wonder what they are thinking.

This is a poem you have already written.
These lines shadow you daily down Father Griffin
Road and across Wolfe Tone Bridge. And I am
writing to you now, wondering which symbol, if any,
you could remember me by: as hallowed sunshine,
cloud, or rain like fingerprints on the river

###
Neil McCarthy is an Irish poet from Cork now living in Los Angeles. He is the author of three chapbooks of poetry, with many poems appearing in journals such as The New York Quarterly, The SHOp, Magma, and Popshot to name a few. He is a regular performer and can be found at www.neilmccarthypoetry.com and on twitter @NeilFMcCarthy

All the Saints by Vijay Khurana

See here, where the floor is worn

that?s where they say she knelt before she died
full of grace, but how could she not be

All the Saints

by Vijay Khurana

See here, where the floor is worn

that’s where they say she knelt before she died
full of grace, but how could she not be

It’s a wonderful mosaic

cracked and clustered
equal parts earth, sky and void
they must have brought that pigment
all the way from the east
somebody’s life’s work

It’s a great pity the tiles are so distressed

every fracture maps a footfall,
that godly imperfection
the impact of mahogany, oak or skull
Her hair is in a shrine. Singular
Pressed between two rosed panes of glass
And there’s a magnifying glass
tied to a piece of brown string
the kind we have at home for tying tomatoes
it rolls fibrous between the thumb and the middle finger
disintegrating like the burning sun
We queue up
to see the dead woman’s hair
I can’t wait to feel that string between my fingers
Once I found a whisker from the cat
and kept it in a box, with a car
and those foreign dice with the pictures on
tools for a sport I could not play
I would watch it bow
full of grace
feel the impression it left on the back of my hand,
my lips, my tongue
until it broke and was gone
(long after the cat was dead and gone)
standing in line, my water bottle
throws a disc of dancing light on the wall
over where the young woman died

Fifty Four by Carla Paolini

Fifty Four

by Carla Paolini

To give my thought a body
I choose a corps de ballet
I’d have it dance
excogitate acrobatic tricks
see it dancing about on the air
I’d create suitable tools to enable it
strengthen its intuitions

an athletic corps endowed with poetic ripples
hither and thither peepin’n the show
enormously increasin’n bubbles of trasparency
to reach the transfigured tumult of the audience

which coreographer has this very power
###
Carla Paolini lives and works as a writer in Cremona. She attended University and graduated in Italian Letters with a research on the Rethoric through Images in Advertising.

For some years she cultivated a keen interest in the studying of clay moulding techniques. Her interest in poetry goes back to her early teens.

She contributes to the organization of reading sessions held in libraries, bookshops and other artistic circles, together with poets, musicians, painters and photographers. She also devotes her time to projects for varied cultural events.

She was present at the poetic Bunker edited by Marco Nereo Rotelli for the Biennale di Venezia held in June 2001. She won recognition as a poet at Premio di Poesia Lorenzo Montano for literary researches advertised by the Anterem Journal – Verona. She published short stories and poems on anthologies and reviews And the poetic compendiums: Impronte digitali (1993); Diverso inverso (1995); UNAxUNA (1998); Ai cancelli del flusso (2001); Amori diversi (2002); Modulati (2004); Prosemi (2009); Internectasie (2011).

 

Drinking Rum on the Shore by Fahredin Shehu

Born in Rahovec, South East of Kosova, in 1972. graduated at Prishtina University, Oriental Studies. M.A. in Literature. PhD in Sacral Esthetics- ongoing.

Actively works on Calligraphy discovering new mediums and techniques for this specific for of plastic art.

Baiting by James Sholes

Drinking Rum on the Shore

by Fahredin Shehu

 

Everything is becoming mysterious:
The feathers of the raven and the gems
From the depths of the earth
Men and Women alike wandering
What is holy and what profane
Repertoire of outrageous sounds

The sea-foam bringing corpse of sometime
Creatures full of life- red corrals and spawn
Of whales with the smell of Ocean’s basement

The elders on the shore sitting
Having small glasses of Rum
Rolling the dice; who shall
Better host the Death; while she
Awaits for the bed where to nap
For a while; undressing her aquamarine
Brocade and heavy accessories from
The metals of the seven mountains
Of the heart
and the odor she releases
Allures even the most agnostics
And disbelievers
She is calm and tranquil
As potent as Queen but she
Dares not to knock
On the door of the orphan
I see she has compassion for me
Or perhaps she isn’t ordered yet
To kiss me in the forehead
Where the blood-spots draw
The constellation of Sagittarian

I invoke the name of Mother
And summon spirits of the distant earths
Since the celebration started, when

The banquet is set up by the grand breasts
Nymphs- Apsaras
If there’s a Paradise somewhere
It descended here so I become
Dead before death that happens
In a blast of a moment and
In trillion’s part of millimeters
Where another dimension is experiencing
A diffusion of a new Big Bang and
Supernovas- cosmic babies are
Milked by Mother I call in
My dwelling- a serene settlement
Of us  all of us
Who never got enough of Love
Who once learned to Love
Never is unaccustomed to Love not
###
Born in Rahovec, South East of Kosova, in 1972. graduated at Prishtina University, Oriental Studies. M.A. in Literature. PhD in Sacral Esthetics- ongoing.

Actively works on Calligraphy discovering new mediums and techniques for this specific for of plastic art.

Certified expert in Andragogy/ Capacity Building, Training delivery, Coaching and Mentoring, Facilitating etc.

In last ten years he operated as Independent Scientific Researcher in the field of World Spiritual Heritage and Sacral Esthetics.

 

 

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