Archive for January 2013

When Karma Comes Around - Trinity Law


I gave all I had to those who were needy,
But it was never enough they were all so greedy.
They never gave back, they just wanted to take,
They were all so wrong, so empty and fake.

They broke my heart, I felt so bad,
They tried to convince me it was me that was mad.
I lost all my energy and my self esteem,
They’d sucked it all out and shattered my dream.

They poisoned the love and turned it to hate,
There’s no way back now, It’s past too late.
I buried deep down the things that they said,
But now all their words spin around in my head.

Karma will come back around one day,
And all of those people will have to pay.
I wouldn’t like to be in their shoes,
When the Karmic Law gives out it’s dues.

- - -

Trinity Law has just self-published a Novel on Kindle, entitled "The Queen of Karmic Crescent". Trinity is a mother of three and is a strong believer in the law of attraction and think her thoughts accordingly!

7 Cambridge College Boys

7 Cambridge college boys
around a table for two, 
taking the whole casual-coffee 
thing to new heights; 
a mighty gathering of elbow patches and tweed, 
with absolutely no pipes- 
some come from a non-smoking family.


And that last sentence: not a lie nor a word of figment, but an overheard gobbet of pure ‘I’m-not-old-enough-to-wear-this-graph-paper-shirt’ innocence. 

Vitamin Whiskey - Molly Jordan


I was four
When I drew
Square boxes
With jutting
Flowers and
Criss cross
Windows;
A stick-
Figured family
With apple-blushed
Smiles
And armies of
Vitamins
To make teeth white
And hair long
And children happy.

That family was not my family,
But when you are four
You can’t draw
The word
Fuck
And how sick it makes you feel
When it takes up all the kitchen air
And makes the food taste sour.

You don’t have a crayon
The right brunette-honey shade
To fill in
All the tipsy bottles
Named Jack,
And how they
Color
Daddy’s breath. 

- - -

Poem by Molly Jordan

The Last Snow Poem About The Last Bit of Snow


on the way back
met every man and his dog,
but leaden skies persisted
and the hills, up above,
got lost in the fog.

with a halo of snow,
just tipping the brim,
gray-clouds-tumble
and fall at the knee,
the limping limb, of
the deer stood in front
of me.

eyes of forests-yet-to-be-
discovered stayed in focus
not getting lost, nor twitching
for the frost nor
the freezing droplets that
cease to progress down
fur and neck.

The City Is On Fire! - Matthew A. Toll


With a fireplace I could make
it all happen, the smallest
spark that will finally warm
the entire city out freezing on
the avenue corners.
The crackle of burning wood
will carry like the chirping
of bluebirds nested in
the last remaining shrub,
safe somehow from the fire, from
the heat spreading throughout
the cityscape. Among the bright
orange flames, looking closely,
you can see the minute patch
of green shining through, and
we’ll all stand together in the warmth,
watching the beautiful fire
fueling our souls.

- - -

Matthew was born and raised outside of Boston, Massachusetts, where he lived until moving to Burlington, Vermont to study creative writing at Champlain College. Currently, he's living and working in Los Angeles, CA after having moved here in June 2012. Always on the run.

She Thought It The Rain


This is a club scene poem, so
imagine classics from the nineties
and fearless girls drinking from beer tins-
this is that night you want to omit
and not remember,
this is every night you’ve had to dance
and not wanted to.

He dropped his drink
for the red-bra-girl;
she thought it the rain,
but instead it were a wasted
drink down the cigarette drain.

Girls in Jack Daniels
who don’t like whiskey
nor dances,
nor the sting of alcohol
upon their tongue.

Twas The Last Night of The Earth - Alan Maguire


Twas the last night of the earth
When I begged upon a star
not wished, hoped or imagined
but I begged like a pauper
crawling on my hands and knees,
whimpering like a dog

I begged for time itself to rewind
I begged for mercy
I begged for peace
and I begged for God or whomever
to give this race one more chance
one last shot to redeem itself

Twas the last night of the earth
when I beheld the blinding light
and as I held my darling tight
I kissed her
then I wished her
"Happy New Years Baby "

- - -

Alan Maguire is an Irish poet living in Cork City. He started writing poetry a few years ago as a result of reading Charles Bukowski, his favorite writer. Alan enjoys writing poetry more than stories, because it's easier and just as powerful .

Photos Only For Us - Amara Pendergraft

I want to be the one
That fills up your
Polaroids
Those polaroids
You keep hidden
In your drawer
That show me
Sitting on the bed
Bare backed
In the sunlight
From the open window
With my head turned
Looking at you

© Amara Pendergraft 2013


- - -

Amara Pendergraft is 18 years young. She's an artist & a traveler, lives in Chicago & has a loyal Siberian husky named Chaplin as a best friend. Poetry is a big part of Amara, and to know her, all you have to do is read her poems.

Another New York Poem


Manhattan by line,
by subway track purr,
by foot in a midwinter
fresh, gale force air.

The dying battery in
Times Square's wristwatch,
halts hands in mid air,
each hailing the second taxi
that comes to them
every next minute;
definitely in the next ten.

Buried benches in thigh high
snow look lost, with
only their branching tops
on display for the tourist's show,
tramping through
this January snow.

Double-back, back
past the Chipotle store,
where diners stand and eat,
stand and greet,
stand with napkins to appear neat,
stand near the radiator to warm their feet,
stand-in-the-corner-and-text-your-wife-saying-you'll-be-home-late-because-this-meaty-wrap-is-pleasurable-to-eat.

He was with another woman, kissing her cheek.

Manhattan is a horizon of horizontal lines,
drawn by pencil lead, led up a page
to create this fascinating portrait
that a point-and-click-camera
cannot comprehend,
let alone negotiate.

We can go unnoticed there, like
most others in this gale force air,
but billboard boys-
the ones that braid virgin building hair,
window panes
and balcony balustrade-
are the famous ones
of Broadway, with nothing more
than their commercial stare.

Pass Go, Collect Nothing


Egg cell boy was
nurtured in a
test tube home.

What he was rested
on shelf after shelf,
a museum to himself.

Hawk eye dreams
stayed stale in a thick rimmed
case of glass and class,

though he never
saw what was in
front of him:

a blind love that
would not materialise
into anything but,
time wasted under sheet and cover,
and some lies to warm that
comic book heart of yours.



MY love you tried to find between HER thighs - Angelica Villarruel


MY love
you tried
to find
between
HER thighs...
did you not realize
the damage
that'd be done
the moment
you went to find
MY love
between
HER thighs...
i wish you had known
that
you wouldn't
you couldn't
and
never will
find
MY love
between
HER thighs...
those lies you tried
to hide
wont bring back
the time shared
the half-truths you said
have floated to the surface
like bubbles in the sky
as much as you did try
to find
MY love
between
HER thighs
that luck was lost
'cause this love
can't be found
within those thighs
and
now there's no time left
for you to say
"Baby I've realized"...

- - -

Angelica Villarruel was born and raised in Los Angeles, Ca. Writing became an escape for her at a young age, and helped her get through many difficult times in my life. Angelica graduated from the University of California at Riverside with a Bachelor's in Sociology. This past September Angelica Villarruel published her first book of poems, Journey through the Heart.

Pam Marshmallow - G David Schwartz

I never dated a marshmallow

I rarely ever withed to do
That, but pat, I so surly do
Wish to pat you
Pat, Pam
Its just a name, damn
You are angry
I dont understand
You called me
Out from under the bridge damn.

- - -


G. David Schwartz is the former president of  Seedhouse, the online interfaith committee. Schwartz is the author of A Jewish Appraisal of Dialogue (1994) and Midrash and Working Out Of The Book (2004). Currently a volunteer at The Cincinnati J, Schwartz continues to write. His newest book, Shards And Verse (2011) is now in stores or
can be order on line.

Remembrance Day - Bola Opaleke


For those who never came home,
Our yellow field would grow green peas
For your sake.
The sky that captured grizzling souls
Where hot blood preserve battle bullets,
Our flowery nights returned

Winter cold. Your fading smiles glimmer
Twas no agony of defeat
No! Twas no cry of victory;
Hearts glued to the ticking sound
Ours were the soothing words-
Dying scent from old clothes to veil our loss.

Of father now unhappily the son,
Our wives must flirtlessly find new husbands, and
Mothers grappling at space
Her malady is not beyond remedy
We know the grandmothers would sadly rejoice
As your shrinking smile slink away.

This tough moment would help, our tears
Glide fearfully towards disbelief
Oh! The horror of war wrapped around our faith
Your blood-shot eyes herald a new dawn
But only of memories and dead emotions
For those who never came home.

- - -

Bola Opaleke was born in Nigeria in 1973. Bola was educated through secondary school and later attended Obafemi Awolowo University in Western Nigeria where he graduated with honors. He relocated to Canada in 2011 as a Permanent Resident.

Excuse Me, One Last Vow - Daniella Robin Bondar


Hello there and go there,
and turn and twist and slip
find what you left and solemnly regret.
As I do, I do so swear.
By my power, I’ve showered away  
any investment.

I should see to it
that your affairs have ruined much.  
Incredibly sorry for your downfalls, and
I am also incredibly smug.
A proverbial race has been indubitably won,
I, the victorious one.

Dear, oh dear,
from life now, to the hills of death
this I so impart ,
Please oh please, Let us be apart.

- - - 

Daniella Robin Bondar is a native New Yorker who recently graduated from college. It is time for her to enter the big scary world and it has her in a daze. Daniella is a humor essayist by nature but sometimes a poem or two slips out of her. When not writing, Daniella spends time pondering life, philosophy, and what hell there will be when there is no more paper left on this earth.

My Dear Beloved, Barnsley


Northern light eyes
born in a northern town-
south of the river, dense
in flood creeping higher,
hourly by the night.
Another thousand horses charge down
canyon stream, to much applause
and to many a scream.

In My Dreams - Wedyan AlMadani


In my dreams, I find you near.
I find you close to me.
Closer,
than you've ever been.

In my dreams, you never leave.
You stay here with me.
Stay,
till the sun shines bright.

In my dreams, we own the night.
We shine in this darkness.
Shine,
for me you're my light.

In my dreams,
There's no one but you & me.


- - -

Wedyan AlMadani  

My Rochester (Mine. All Mine.) - Adreyo Sen


Some nights, I am Jane Eyre
But with Shirley’s face and flashing eyes
Beautiful, I lie ready to submit
Gift-wrapped in the warm of silk
To Rochester.


My Rochester!

Only he keeps changing
He was Beauty’s Beast. I stole him
From the mewling thing
And then Jackman who used to be
Wolverine
His claws left me sick
With anticipation.


Now
Rochester is green and large and mean
And I close my eyes and sigh
And imagine crying with delight
As he tears me through
With the passionate, sweet brutality
Of his hulk.


- - -

Adreyo Sen, based in Kolkata, hopes to become a full-time writer.  He did his undergraduate work in English and his postgraduate work in English, Sociology and the building of castles out of thin air.  He
has been published in Kritya, Danse Macabre and Wordsmiths Online.

The End of Everything or, The Start of Nothing - Edward O’Dwyer


The woman in the café
tells me it’s the end of everything,
although not in those exact words,
as she pours my coffee
and April sunshine filters cloudily
into the room,
lighting up the quiet beauty
of her (I’m guessing) Polish face.
As I turn to choose a table
I hear her add,
as a kind of afterthought,
maybe not even to me,
rather a word of resignation
in her own ear,
that, as well, it the start of nothing,
although again not in those exact words,
but I know exactly what she means,
and I can tell she really means it.

- - -

Edward O’Dwyer (b. 1984 in Limerick) is published widely in journals and anthologies throughout Ireland, the United Kingdom, the United States and Australia, among them, Poetry Ireland Review, Agenda, The Houston Literary Review. He also recently got to represent Ireland at the Poesiefestival, Berlin, 2012 in their European ‘renshi’ project.  His first collection, A Love Poem Mostly For You, is forthcoming from Salmon Press.

The Last of Us - Samantha Seto


So many decades have passed.

We grew apart between love into hate and sad letters.

Phone calls 
impossible for my paper flowers, 

your face vanishes into crowds, 
escape inside our song.


I breathe into your lungs like the soprano in the opera,
my ghost will inhabit your soul.

The ground weighs beneath my feet in white hospital linen,
my headache burns past nightfall.

If our collective CPR stopped, lost charge,
our last breath would synchronize into one.

Despite every passing second alive
for all who breathed us in, a pair of doves.

Each set of lungs, colorful balloons, warm kisses,
they throw us into air and I watch you rise like rain.

- - -

Samantha Seto is a writer. She has been published in various anthologies including CeremonyThe Screech Owl, Nostrovia Poetry, Soul Fountain, and Black Magnolias Journal. 

Hiding In Front of You

a poem for the presumed dead, French Hostage, Denis Allex


An unmapped forest
grew upon chin
and cheek;
3 years in the making,
the no shaving,
helped to grow by
his tears from his crying.

Orange, orange,
orange again jumpsuit,
prisoner in the arms
of those whom shoot-
not to wound, but fire
with the intent to surround
and then to
close in
to cap a bullet for the kill.

Fire flares into the night
so phosphorous full
stops hail down, and on
the floor in front of the believers,
a paragraph shall form, with perfectly
placed punctuation;
detailing and listing
why they plucked this man
from a French farmhouse village,
and let him grow young,
in fear,
in this far, middle eastern haven. 

Fairy Rings - Tedpebble

In Victoria Park there’s a Fairy Ring.

Of course they mow it,
but if I get there first
I stand in it.
Right in the centre
and enjoy feeling rather silly.
But today,
I wished that the trees 
were not in such straight lines,
and that people would think of other things
and stand,
like me,
in fairy rings.

- - -

Tedpebble (pen name) is a poet based in Leicester. He likes wine and being stubbly. You can see more of his work on his blog, here > tedpebble.tumblr.com/

They're Not Going Nowhere


Stage like curtains expose
red sea parting.

Either side of makeup blushed cheeks,
your eyes are set like marbles into concrete.

They’re not going nowhere,
nor are you, as you have half
a coffee to drink not gulp.

Pretty words over ugly conversation
find their way over the coffee shop hum.

Laptop pack up,

leave the napkin,

head for the exit, 

wrap your scarf around your skin.

Christmas Is Over


The fireside retreats
into the wall
as another TV Christmas special repeats,
with its sound echoing in the hall.

Tangerine,
Satsuma,
Clementine-Orange
peel litters the tabletop;
orange runway for the action figures,
plastic arms, moulded hairs.

Nina Simone plays loud,
'Nobody Knows When You're Down And Out',
Christmas is over,
and now there's nowt to do.


 

This Poem Is For My Ex-Girlfriend

What did you do to your hair?


It is not fashion or regarded as a
good sight, for sightseers whom fight
for the best sight to see.

Nor is it complementary to your main meal face,
no condiment would ever accompany you,
let alone a boy in a start of the month, moon-a-new,
relationship-race.

It is not natural, nor be it an attempt to
blend into your surroundings at large,
as a red and blue fringe
will never be camouflage.

So, what did you do to your hair?
  

Subconscious Rant 1 (While in the Shower) - Janeé Deal


Beautifully maniacal.

Fading words slip through her twisted grin. One corner turned up, one corner down. No one understands, but me. I am she, and she is me, you see. Interestingly enough, she rarely speaks. Cluttered thoughts forced through dark passageways; a Venetian flow beat down into hiding. A face shaded by ghastly masks of porcelain, different shades for different days.

Covered.

No one speaks. Waving around her feather of thought, it flows and lands delicately—yet brash.

- - -

Janeé Deal is a working writer living in Plano, Texas. She is also a recent college graduate of the University of Memphis with a degree in creative writing. 

The Top View - Vinita Agrawal

From the plane,
clusters of houses look sunken into the earth
as if a vibrant city had turned to ruins,
had lost its edges, its dimensions.
Only the rooftops show.

The city looks spread-eagled down below
its bald, unleavened, flattened head
exposed to the stark analysis,
of an aerial microscope.

The roofs are mostly grey and white
occasionally turquoise,
sometimes pink;
A sweep of asbestos, lime, brick, mortar, cement or stone.

The edges of houses seem to merge
terraces seem to flow into each other
like marshmallows in a frying pan, melting and becoming one.

Which belongs to the Hindu,  which to the Muslim?
which to the Brahmin, which to the Dalit?
Who can tell, when the demarcations are no more...
when dwellings are a blur, when only the cluster is in focus.

If roofs didn't exist,
the walls would tell a different story.

The top view makes what is plural, singular.
If it wasn't for the bird's-eye view,
the rooftops would make us feel taller than we are.

Later, at forty five thousand feet,
all view disappears.
Thick clouds remain.
They look solid, as if one could step out of the plane
and walk on them.


- - -


Vinita Agrawal is a writer and poet based in Mumbai. She has been published in international print and online journals like asiancha, fox chase review, golden sparrow literary review, spark, constellations, brown critique, museindia, kritya, touch-the journal of healing, poetry24 etc and in a few national anthologies as well.

My Drug Is True - Shari Jo LeKane-Yentumi

My drug is Freedom.

Freedom from pain, freedom from fear,
freedom from all of the faults of myself,
freedom from the madness of this world,
freedom from any misgivings of this life.
My drug is Freedom, my drug is True.

My drug is Poetry.
Words on a page in poetic rhyme,
prosaic verse transcends space and time,
universal truths of the human kind
that expose emotion and expand your mind.
My drug is Poetry, my drug is True.

My drug is Love.
Hearts aglow in gentle reprieve,
fiery passion in heated seduction,
loss of loved ones that cause us to grieve,
maternal attachment of born reproduction.
My drug is Love. My drug is True.

How about You?

12/19/2012 

- - -

Shari Jo LeKane-Yentumi lives in St. Louis, Missouri, USA, where she specializes in immigration and not-for-profit matters.  She holds a B.A. in English and Spanish, and a Master of Arts in Spanish from Saint Louis University in Madrid and St. Louis.  While recovering from brain surgery, she teaches creative writing to men in a maximum security jail, and is working on a poetry anthology, Surviving Gracefully, and a novel, Poem to Follow.

CNN Lies To Lovers


And when we devour our fantasies,
love interests of reality will turn to misery:
nothing lovely will exists again,
nor any news worthy items upon CNN.

And we detach ourselves from all conversation,
listen to no new information:
brains will meld into unfathomable canyons
with sulphur red walls, fossils for companions.

But with elbows akin to mine,
(wrinkled and creased sheathes of skin)
our dance will be passionate and fine,
one more smile, another grin.

Sloe Gin Love


Hooked and hung to the chair,
tethered by a strap-
colour akin to your hair-
you sat and stared
at another essay to be handed in
by three pm, next-week-Wednesday.

A-future-whatever is another
lustful thought, failed and
let down by little taught.
Again! Why a wife is so hard to find
in brambled streets or box hedged
squares, rectangular and receipt like?

Give up and give in,
walk drunk drinking sloe gin.
That way love is but blackthorn berries
the controversial, speechless adversaries.