Archive for November 2013

Top of The Hill - AP Beckstead

A cool Summer breeze,
the sun at my back,
wind blowing softly,
cast lazily between leaves,
surrounding my mind,
with the soft touch of peace.

A wish in my heart,
a prayer on my breath,
remembering the times,
from then till my death.

My mind often clouded,
doubt and white lies,
my soul is transparent,
filled with warm sighs.

These trails of wind,
tell my story to me,
from the simplicity of childhood,
until my body succumbs to disease.

Don't worry about the length,
care not for the width,
find strength in the journey,
each second a gift

- - -

AP Beckstead is an English Major and hopefully wants to obtain a PH.D. is Creative Writing.

Shoes and Jeans and Bedroom Floors

The air-con overhead
drowns out, not enough,
the couple on a date
next to me. His jeans have gathered fluff,
dried in a dryer, crinkled and in-a-rush.
Her shoes are clean though under the table
he doesn’t, and will not, notice,
the closest he’ll come to seeing them is
maybe on a bedroom floor in a month
or maybe two, maybe more if this coffee
date goes askew,
but for time being they gaze, stare
at one another whilst talking:
his plan is to set up an online outreach program,
take the money and run,
hers, to stay in education, an MA
in Creation Research, read and wait,
sit for Judgement Day.

Achieved In Leeds

Whatever is coming out from the chimneys
is catching the light in the distance,
it trails across the auburn tree tops that are
shedding autumn and getting ready for
the already-here winter,
then flails and falls down.

The train carries on
as does the couple next to me,
they're on about
what they've done and achieved in Leeds
throughout the day;
they paid for a first class carriage
but ended up in carriage C next to me.

What Everest Didn't Buy: She Doesn't Know My Name

We let the light behind the bunting
provide the decoration we needed.
The fireworks bled, they're still bleeding,
and we're treading water because the wind
congealed into something cold,
hats nor scarves can curb this temperature's hold;
I'll let you lead us home, under the influence,
under the direction of that wine you had.
Forever, if a measurement of course,
would be an ample amount of time
to walk behind you, dark horse.
Cotton scarf whip,
rouged lips again and
it's ten to ten,
we could go home.


No Work Tomorrow

Warmth is a jumper,
a knitted, sewn and cross stitched bunker
in which we exist and sweat in, let out sighs of
I am okay or  I'm always this upset,
and behind those patterns we see the world
through a window the size of a pea, an out-of-focus
key hole where we can watch and wait
and be warm in the thought that
we've no work tomorrow.

Warmth is a blanket on a bed,
a mass produced widespread piece of material
in which we can dive under and have serial sleeps
that carry on into the evening;
and the light coming in through the wide window
hits the Hiroshima shadow-damp on the side wall
making it dance with the commuting-home-traffic.

Square Peg

Market square died down this afternoon,
the day of trading over and over all too soon;
and the now the trolleys have been left out,
lights left on waiting for those customers to come again.
They'll hurry into their jumpers the traders and customers of tomorrow,
weather'll kick up and run up the coast in a rainy fuss.
Temporary clad walls that are there all year round
are dressed up from the ground every day, tied at the ear
of the frames that hang over corridor of cobbles,
scuffed with the muck from Armani plimsolls
and the heels of this week's Alexander McQueens.

When the rain comes trading will cease and
they'll flick out their notepads to calculate this month's lease.  


Bending the truth,
you return back to your home,
separated by a―
monologue of lie.

When do we become human,
collecting the firewood, to burn
the wax houses, lifting the sky
to fall from heights?

It was a rare glimpse―
of the running limbs,
in unison, when the rains arrived
in the long-armed dahlias.

This is cryptic nonsense when
you start seeing the flesh,
in grass, where moon has come down
to water the Lucifer.

- - -

Satish Verma is ferociously original. You feel resentment, outrage and violence, cannot pin it down but wonderfully spin your brain. Satish has the greatest sensibility which sweetly exploits the delicacies of human conflicts.

How You Hide Your Hair

You hide your hair in the
space above your tucked-away thoughts;
waterfall wor
of consciousness
out of red dam lips
and through airy pipes
to my manhole ears,
stepped on and discarded by feet and prams
for century's years. 

It Belongs To Hilton Hotel, Hotel

The Cam passes through
behind a chain hotel belonging to the Hilton
with its lights always on, a 24 hour midnight sun,
that lasts all day until a power cut comes along
and covers bedroom maids, halfway through a job,
in complete silence. 

And home I go, slight lightening in the distance and
the road remains long, bending only once
and carrying on straight thereafter
mounting another road heading south until it meets no more ground,
except a bridge over a mouth of a river leading
to somewhere safer than here ever was.

My coat's corners misses your hand
and no expanse of green, mountainous land
could ever be sold or swapped for it.

Hite Poetry Day

Recently, the grandson of poet William Ullrich Hite, Thomas Hite, contacted me regarding his grandfather's poetry collection, Coffee Shop Poems. He was kind enough to send me over a copy of the collection from sunny California. Below is one of William's poems and, below that, one of Thomas's. 

Gift - William Ullrich Hite

Twisting the wind
to a rainbowed braid
I gave it to my love,
who twisted it into her flowing hair,
and, (as is the way
with a maid)
went laughing
into the sun...

My laughter
danced after her
- and I was done...

Leg, Sickle, Sin: Thee, Sis - Thomas Hite

In a Sense
I loved her.
but it was
just anesthetic-
It was just my
that went too
far too quickly,
and felt too
- Innocence;
I loved her!

In no sense
I loved her,
But it was
just an
It was just my
a Nation
that went too far
too quickly,
and feel, too-
I Loved her...

In nascence,
I'll abed her...
Bah- 'twas just
A "ness" (the tick).
It was just?

Imagine a shun-
the twin to "far,"

to "quick"
Leanne fell, to...
I sense
I Loved her.

Authenticity Q & A - JD DeHart

            Just a few questions:
Are you the man with the pullout couch
Offering lessons to the young
Everyone has those secret thoughts
Are you the one who acted on them
I know you medicate (we all do)
How often, what way, does it hurt others
Are you the abuse
Is that odor yours or does it belong
            To someone else
Do you judge as you would like to be

            Just a few questions.

- - -

JD DeHart is an English teacher, and completing his Education Specialist degree. JD's work has been published most recently in Wilderness House Literary Review and Starline. He has been writing and publishing for almost two decades now.

Widowed Land - Odessa Gheeneil R. Agbas

Treasured paradise of the old:
A domain claimed,
and then, slaved to death.

This new life growing
beneath dead trees
branched out without roots.

Echoes of your melancholic chant
silenced by the sound of foreign voices
jammed into your mouth.

Now, one dream realized
while yours, killed
upon drops of blood,
staining parchment.

- - -

Odessa Gheeneil R. Agbas has a bachelors degree in Mathematics. She writes mostly poetry. Some of her work has appeared in WalkingBlind Art and Literature magazine and the Emerge Literary Journal.

March, Move & Sweat

their legs are marching,
their boots are marching,
their arms are straight and still;
but are marching too in time to the rhythm,
the gradient of the hill.

their tanks move in,
their medics move in,
their formations froth and swell;
but move in regardless in time to the rhythm,
ready warfare and hell.

their uniforms sweat,
their foreheads sweat,
their arms are warm and glazed;
but onwards they march in time to the rhythm,
bouncing in boots of rage.

Moon's Pearl - Mike Hauser and Maria

I've held on so long to what I thought were treasures in life
Still letting them slip through my hands
As hard as I may and as hard as I might
They were all but like grains of sand.

I held on to them ever so tightly you see
Braided them with links of my love and my care
Yet the strands they raveled and the pearls were loosed
Onto the shore, swept into the air.

Where the wind took them up and blew them away
Beyond the boundaries held fast by my youth
In a cascade of colors brighter than all of the others
They swirled in the rhythm of truth.

For their release unbridled this freedom within
And swayed in the evening's red sun
Then rose to dance in the pale moon light
My pearls and the moon became one.

- - -

A collaborative write by Americans Mike and Maria. Professionally Mike is a landscaper and a free spirit. Maria a nurse and holistic healer. Poetry remains their obsession.

Grassroots - Angelica Villarruel

reaching through the layers
making way for a new escape
touching the sun's rays
engulfing the earth's rains
grassroots, grassroots
life begins
the moment these roots
break through this skin

- - -

Angelica Villarruel L.A. native and Author of Journey through the Heart. Writing has become her escape and muse. She strives to be an inspiration to the students she works with

Parker's Piece

The cordoned off cricket pitch,
behind orange tape long,
is waiting for the grass to grow
for when the summer comes along.
The leaves are shedding their autumn gown,
upon the grass it lays,
and in her winter-time-zipped-up coat
a small girl runs and plays.
The benches around the park border
sit solemn, scuffed and lonely,
if only someone would put them back together again
before they become broken debris
The sky lengthens overhead,
a puzzling sight to see,
it stretches forth over the horizon line
buckling past the old oak trees,
and the people walk in straight lines narrow,
concentrating on the ground,
if only they’d look up not  down,
they’d see the city’s teeth and not it’s frown.

The Next 50

for Barry and Tina.

Life experience is something I haven’t witnessed,
the fitness of waking up and going back to bed
50 years on the trot.

But I look to my father’s hands and see
all twelve-thousand morning mists
he has seen.

A gristmill heart, grained hands
and workshop walking feet are
all hidden from view.

He writes in capitals, written
with precision, and crosses the T’s
as he goes along,

So not to prolong the sentence writing chore,
making more time, conjuring up the minutes
to potter around and mend unbroken objects.
Life experience is something I haven’t witnessed,
the fitness of waking up and going back to bed
50 years on the trot.

But I look at my mother’s hands
and see remedies read about in those magazines,
all to look younger in the staff canteen.

A watermill heart, smooth iron fingers
and contoured, sculpted chiselled
corridor feet are all hidden from view.

She scrawls her sentences; they become the tide
hiding letters and numbers in the swell
of punctuation and dotted I’s,

The T’s cross themselves and she moves on,
another phone call to attend too or
a new BBC this-time-more-accurate historical drama  to view.
Life experience is something I haven’t witnessed,
the fitness of waking up and going back to bed
50 years on the trot.

But if you keep on going, stay out of strong sunlight
so not to rot, those years will pass
as a striking blur leading to coastal Big Sur
roads, where the next 50 miles
bring just as many smiles as the last 50.