Tuesday, April 24, 2018

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 years

 

What 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 love

 

What 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 love

 

What have your blue moon eyes seen
Over sunny Cuba
Yes hot love hot sex
And
And cold- blooded murder
Arm and arm in the sweaty breath of death 
And the living love

 

What 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 2004 Award of Distinction and the 2017 recipient of the WAC Making A Difference Award.

Friday, April 20, 2018

Askew by Neil Ellman



Askew

 

(after the painting by Kenneth Noland)

 

                                                     

In the perfect

roundness of our space

degree by degree

in equal measure

inequities abound     

imperfections so slight

no device can  

calculate and rectify.  

 

The earth’s orbit

almost circular

the planets’

elliptical

and in life

no reincarnation

from birth to death

and birth again

no karmic echoes

of 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 

Wednesday, April 18, 2018

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

Sunday, April 15, 2018

A MAP, A HISTORIOGRAPHY By Michael H. Brownstein

A MAP, A HISTORIOGRAPHY

 
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.

Saturday, April 14, 2018

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.

Friday, April 13, 2018

Michael Ceraolo 500 Cleveland Haiku Book Review


For details and ordering instructions

CLICK 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 breath

freezes on my eyelashes


April ---

bird shopping for food

on my lawn


Signs proclaiming 

that land is available---

they'll kill the trees for you


Economics depression ---

even the dollar store

goes out of business


An uptempo tune ---

the trees dance erratically

to 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 takes you on a journey through city life as seen through the eyes of the writer.

Reading this book was refreshing and a lesson into the intricasies of writing haiku.  Haiku is a style that only a few have mastered well and Michael Ceraolo proves through this anthology he is the master.


By: Joanne Oivieri





Sunday, April 8, 2018

Night Ninja by Mary Bone

Night Ninja


I was a night time ninja

In my dreams.

I woke up in a sweat,

With nightmarish screams.

Ninja warriors came at me

From every direction-

Punching and kicking

My midsection.

I hit the ninjas with

A karate chop.

Now all they do

Is 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.

Saturday, April 7, 2018

On Dying In A Mass Shooting  by Joanne Olivieri

On Dying In A Mass Shooting 


Bloody Chaos


The door swings open

rapid fire storm ensues

my body hurls to the ground

chaotic screams

deadly thunder pops

permeate bitter air pockets

and I lie still.


My friends, classmates

scattered around me

breathing dust, residue

a warm sea of blood

mingles with others

saturating wooden floors

and I lie still.


I am slipping away

soaked in death

blood tears escape my eyes

and I cannot see

fear embodies my being

I cannot move

and I lie still.


Mom and Dad, I love you

my friends by my side, I love you

don't let me die in vain

resist the hate, the fear

do it for me, do it for us

the chaos stops

and I lie still.


All I ask is why, 

please tell me why

why, why?

And I lie still

forever.

Wednesday, April 4, 2018

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
 
Of day-stars and hermetic charts
Your smile fell upon
The Madonie peaks. There was
No failed mystery in your language.
 
And now I clutch at visions; I’ve work
To do. Sometimes with
Arrows that pierce
Heart and paper. Sometimes with
Rivers seeping, changing course.
 
But memory, you remind me,
Is landscape enough.
Scars – mended lines of living.
I raise mid-aged eyes
And the street of clouds
 
Rest on a field of white magnolias
“Ever there.” Your final
Word – Mater dulcissima.
It must be so!
Fine as pollen, as haloed hair.