Tanka
flameflower
spreads across the grass
lighting it with beauty . . .
for the third time
I revel in his letter
throat sore
and too weary to
grocery shop
I eat a dinner
of whipped cream
planning a wedding
after all these
orphaned years . . .
do traditions matter
to those who have no past?
while I
was sick, he did
my laundry
now back at work
my too-tight blouse
a box of chocolates
she can't eat
slippers
she'll never wear
what to send to a dying friend
receiving a reprimand
from my boss
this Monday morning—
the mad urge to tell him
he's misspelled "inattentiveness"
when we first met
he spoke in eight
languages
now four years later
he greets me in a new dialect
previously published in MET
© Aurora Antonovic
Aurora Antonovic is a Canadian editor, writer, and visual artist whose work has appeared over four thousand times in publications spanning twelve countries and five continents. She is a recent Pushcart Prize nominee, and haiga editor of Simply Haiku. She is also editor of A Little Archive of Poetry, a publication that seeks to promote the love of verse in all forms. Aurora recently illustrated Marie Lecrivain's chapbook, The Painter, available through Lummox Press -- http://www.lummoxpress.com/newlp.htm
Jack the Ripper's Birth to the 21st Century
The moon unveils evil
Sheltered serenity is breached
Stray souls are now restless
Those eyes I stalked,
Brimmed with icy tears
Then death becomes her
The time shall be static
Aftermath of the grim
Dead end, truly gray
One more flesh desecrated
Chamber of the heart that lives
Farewell to the created
Alas eccentric mortal
Your name echoes in perpetuity
Bound to Craft, Swrd and Cross
© Roselier Levi G. Azarcon
Hunted Looks
From the sourwood bough
With gimlet eye I’d scout the screwthread stair
And the wind-dried purplish-blue hood
Framing the casement of Chez Bechet,
The restaurant immersed in rue Jacob, No. 42.
The mould of plum pudding was appealing,
An airing toned with sensations of home,
I was after all a runty crèche-boy
A transparent guzzler in Paris.
The creatures of habit bobbed
To each other ingoing,
And Madame was downright strutting
At the fussing over silken good humour
When the bourgeois Monsieur Sebastian*
Rose to admit her fine-spun diners.
Principles of elegance, posture, pose,
A woebegone smile.
The burden of years, a rusty October.
Light-minded I dragged on my gabardine
Unscuttling the salt box on Monsieur’s table.
Marie-Beatrice hissed, bid me remorse.
“Be patient with your little boy…
If one day you should find yourself separated from him,”
He said.
His face was liquid haze
As we galloped away into the spattering breeze,
Broken leaves underfoot.
(based on a letter to Oscar Wilde’s son, Vyvyan Holland quoted in his memoir Son Of Oscar Wilde)
*the name Wilde took in exile
Hush Now, Don’t Explain
A ward of deluded lights.
They no longer rig white coats
In the afterparts of High Streets;
I have been swooped
A dreariness of miles.
Heave-ho with the dustheaps,
A vertigo of scatterings, I’m deadly
As run and run suicide frights.
Because I idolize him
It will be a timeslip on pause
Before I differentiate
The punctured underemphasis of sunset
As the mood goes down.
I regress though wisps of corridors,
Stumbling on collywobbles
With glum wringing hands.
Unrequited love’s a bore.
Here is a doorjamb
And here committed to memory
Is a bath and an electric wire.
It Was The Day Before A Big Religious Festival
Many confines.
After Roosevelt’s nonfrictional tongue
Weaselled through the wireless
Mama sent into orbit the melodic line of “La Berlogue”.
Papa in his Al Jolson shtick
Shouting, “hey Jacques
Wait a minute! Wait a minute!
You ain’t heard nothing yet!”
It was the day before a big religious festival.
But the insubstantial things of the room were stop-go:-
A trio of Nazarite Jews
Were fingered
At the last going down of the sun.
Mama bulged out too-few bags
While papa stacked the francs
For the chief petty officer
At the round house on the big ship.
I Don’t Need To Dream Of You
At Whistle And Maul corner,
Wishing Cap Zoo,
GM gorillas
Hesitation Waltz
Out of a couleur de rose cave
Wrenching asphalt
From the concourse.
Pushed to dungeon bars by you?
No.
Pass the wet wipes.
I Don’t Understand
Dear Chris
13 may 91
Behaviour problems
Dishonest attempt to ‘save you’
Guilt tripped, face it
Then myself going prepared
Value things helping
I am your lover
Taken into fake friend
Attempt becoming more lies
My answer
Obviously isn’t anyone else
What about cannot
Can’t bring your want
Either is with you
Try your be and not you
Few say any if to me
“I Love The Smell Of Napalm In The Morning”
They wouldn’t mind raindrops
It’s blackening sky
As it intrigues those gases
That causes unease.
The world’s
Gone round again
Orbital spice grinding,
A new awareness,
Light, colour.
A universal burr,
Movement, rustling leaves,
Regretful memos,
Slow pull of power.
Chemicals chewing back in mouths
And the first drop
Blisters the skin.
© Christopher Barnes, UK
REMEMBRANCE
I remember how I got car sick
as a young boy in Mexico.
Everytime I got in
everything inside me came out.
We had no family car.
Everything was simple.
We walked everywhere.
In America eveything seems so far away.
THIS DAY
This day
you return
to the earth.
Your soul
rises to
the heavens.
You live
in our hearts
forever.
This day
you return
to the earth.
UNLOVED
I will go wherever the voice leads me.
Is that good enough for you?
You will have to do your homework,
if you want to know more.
I was a foster child. I was unloved.
Can you get that through your head?
Are you proud of me? I had
an evil foster mother.
I have buried my past under
the cherry tree, if you know
what I mean. I was not born
from someone's sick womb.
SECOND OPINION
I like to do what I do.
I don't think it's wrong,
if I'm not hurting anyone.
People should get a grip.
They should mind their business.
I feel like I'm in chains in here.
I feel happy
and I feel good.
I'm not like all
these idiots.
I am clean and
I am able
to put all my
words together.
All these walls are coming
down on me like
burning dominos from hell.
I want a second opinion.
All I need is whiskey.
I don't like the drugs in here.
I am okay.
I feel like this
witch trial is just
some silly game.
The doctors lie.
I have not done
anything wrong.
I feel like dying.
© Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
daigdig ng palakasan
at nang matapos na ang boksing
knockout ang bulsa
ng nag-akalang makakapakyaw ng boto,
may masidhing pagtatanong kung bakit
noo'y maraming tao ang nalansi ng bola
ng atletang sablay ang mga tirada sa senado.
at nang isigaw na ang cut ng eksena,
"Mr. Lonely " pala ang titulo ng pelikula
ng mga palibahasa'y lalaki lamang sa
mga papel ng mandirigmang ginampanan
dahil ang kanilang pagkabituin
ay malayo ang kinang sa liga nilang
ikinabit sa tatlong sulok ng bandila.
at nang huminto na ang putokan
bagong medalya ang isinabit sa dibdib
niyang nagpadalawa singko ng pag-aaklas
naihabol pa ang kakosang magiting
sapagkat mga kawal anila ang itim na kabayong
magbabantay sa reyna ng kuratong-baleleng.
at nang humupa na ang unos
laglagan ang mga mangga at bayabas,
natirang nangungunyapit sa tangkay
ang prutas ni Janus.
humapay lamang ang kawayan
ayon sa bugso ng hangin
pinatunayang siya ang hari ng mga talahib.
at nang tumigil na ang bilangang
nagluklok sa paaralan bilang pinakamapanganib na lugar
sa buong kapuloan
binibilang muli ng mga sinungaling
ang taas ng lundagan,
ang tulin ng takbohan,
ang lalim ng languyan,
ang dulas ng ligawan
at ang sigawan ng mga miron
sa malungkot at madugong
daigdig ng palakasan.
© Placido Belardo
Filling spaces
As Maksim’s sublime notes fill empty spaces in me
I peer into the remains of the day and watch
crude versions of pain stippling my skin
While my half-baked thesis percolates in my head
I pore the room for your leftover smells- and found
a sun-kissed tinge on the shells
we picked in the beaches of Puerto Galera
I smell the shape of your hands
on your gitara and cajon- I taste the tangy salt
of your leather boots sitting on the steps
and bury my head in the pile of laundry
you carelessly left on the tile floors
Now as the chords strike unwieldy hours,
a madwoman’s wails pervade the room again.
Being irascible
of late I snap and snipe at
proper things and improper things
I pile them in corners for the dust
to kiss them with contemptuous glee
Being irascible of late
I swim oceans of morose evils and
Paint murals of my permutated life
And conversations with mother
in a tortured yellow…
Sunflowers
Sun-kissed
large drooping heads
napping in the afternoon sun
I watch them lazily- a synchronic nodding
of a hundred golden pretty heads
A light breeze rustles
crusty leaves beneath
their knotted oversized feet.
Very often
I am
seduced
by the tail-end of my anger
while rust
eats away
acid-drenched roofs of this city
I love and hate
like demons and saints
amused at my teetering skills
on 5-inch dull-gold stilettos
I celebrate my farcical life
of "sassy spice" lipstick and leather boots,
and brilliant repartees over
coffee with people
who have nothing to do
except seduce
me while I
watch the tail-end of my anger
hiss at the corners
of the room.
Flimsy
Everything is
so flimsy now
minute excuses
of what life should be
days ripple like
the worries
on my skin
flimsy me and you
and all the whatnots-
convictions- proclivities-propensities
all have a way of
disintegrating
into a fine
flimsy mess.
© Junelyn Delarosa
Sa Paghabi ng Huling Tula Para Sa’yo
Katumbas ng bawat humihikbing tayutay
Ang mga linyang tila katas ng pangungulila,
Sa bawat saknong na pinagtagpi-tagpi
ng nangingiming butil ng luha,
Tunay ngang mas masakit ang mga luhang
Piniling di magpatihulog sa mga mata.
Sa mga piling panahong ako’y hinahalina
ng aking kaluluwa sa pagpasok sa isang tula ,
Pilit tinitiklop at kinukuyom yaong mga kamay
Sapagkat batid ko, talo ako sa hiwaga ng alaala
Wari’y magkasabay kong nararamdaman
Ang tamis at pait ng gunitang pilit kinakalimutan.
Hindi ikaw ang dulo ng aking mga tula ,
Bagaman isang puno, kung saan nagsimula
Paulit-ulit ko mang ipinta sa aking isipan,
Sa aking kaibuturan, alam ko
Hindi ito ang huling tula para sa’yo.
Hanggang sa muling pag-alala.
© Zig Dulay
Wine
Love becomes sweeter
like wine aged in oak barrels
with each passing day.
Lolo Uweng
Esoteric man
bore faith and miracles on
Christ lying in state.
Insects
Whisper to flowers
secrets of pollination
except toxic deeds.
Convalescence
As you rest and heal,
the road to recovery
brightens up real fast.
Manipulator
The back-seat drivers
burn the candle at both ends;
stabbing other's backs.
Embattled
Down with the Aedes!
Stand robust and resilient;
get back to your feet!
Survivor
Throw not the towel.
Try again and fail again;
fight through thick and thin.
Silent pines
Those with the same vein
churn out poignant tales
of Club John Hay, Mansion
House or Botanical Garden.
With them: crimson blood
that spurts like strawberries.
No one at Teacher's Camp
dared to hear a hoarse purr.
At Session Road, I shudder
for we've things in common--
they will die sooner or later
while then I've lungful of air.
But what prowls in Burnham
as in Mines View and Wright
can't just come out with crap
for clutching an empty purse.
Unstuck
When day breaks, the story begins:
like matter turned to smithereens,
the clinging vine that once had me
is not coming. No tough cookie
to fathom; got nowhere to go
but free rovers incognito.
© Dennis Espada
URL: http://iyolo.blogspot.com
Short Bio: Brought up and educated in Laguna, Philippines, Dennis has written articles for various print and online publications. He has also received honors in campus journalism while in college.
Gadangkal ang Bakas ni Ama sa Lupang Hinirang
Gadangkal ang bakas ng kay amang yapak
Sa Lupang Hinirang na kanyang lupain.
May patak ng ulang gusto n'yang habulin
Kaya nagpapawis ang balat-balagat.
Gadangkal sa bukot ang butil panghasik
Na kanyang inipon noong katag-araw.
Gustong maibabad sa bakas-kalabaw
Upang mamalumpong sa libis ng bukid.
Subalit kaagaw ang buwitre't tabon
Na laging panakaw ang pananalasa.
Biglaang umalsa't aldabis ang taga:
"Ako'y maghahanda! At ito'ng panahong
Dapat makinabang sa lupang minana
Ang milyon kong anak na nangagdurusa."
© Raul Funilas
THE GATEWAY
The wind is seen in the rippling grass,
otherwise it is not seen;
with the washing you are clean
And the love of God through you shall pass.
Each kiss upon these lips of mine
(soft and open, full of passion;
largely given, without ration),
is a joyful taste of love divine.
And in the softness of your hand
I feel the tenderness of God;
Who, from a seeker, will spare His rod
And bring him to the promised land.
The wind in seen in the rippling grass
and the love of God through you shall pass.
LIVES
This cat blessed
with nine lives
On the news another soldier
died today
The man next to me at work
a more subtle casualty
How fortunate this cat
no one I know
has even two lives
SNIPER
In mud and muck I lie and drizzle falls,
The third day now, with four more yet to go
Before the chopper comes to pick me up.
Still as stone I am, listening to bird calls,
And waiting for the enemy to show
On the road far below my hillside perch.
A sound! My heart against my ribs a tup,
Strain my ears to hear the mechanical
Sound of lorries grinding gears, climbing slow
And steady the steep hill. The sun is up!
Shining golden rays like a scene in church;
Today someone becomes a grave-digger.
Finally into view the lorries lurch,
I take aim and slowly squeeze the trigger.
Your Lips Kiss Mine
Your lips kiss mine, yet your heart is far away;
Much like this cup of tea which has gone cold,
Your kiss no longer warms; it is not bold
And I am left with only yesterday.
I still recall that filmy negligee
All pooled upon the floor, the story told
Once more and how each other we consoled
With promises we'd keep and not betray.
But now there is no song, there is no dance,
For time has not been gentle with our love;
Lying about us like a cup shattered on the floor,
We see the sharp shards of our failed romance
And the sad and lonely song of the mourning-dove
Plays to our ears a melancholy encore.
(First appeared in Autumn Leaves, November 2005)
A FAITHFUL FRIEND
Out in the meadow the oak stands alone;
So curious to me that solitary tree,
Impervious to all the winds that have ever blown
And every ax-swing which made ships for the sea.
How many years has he stood there thus?
His girth testifies to more than a few;
It’s as though folks are completely oblivious --
Blind to the sight of this magnificent view!
Sometimes I wander out to the old oak,
As much to gain company as to give it,
For I know what it’s like to have no folk
And face loneliness each day and live it.
So I count the old tree a faithful friend
Who will not fail me, or so I pretend.
(First appeared in Poetic Voices, August 2005)
© C. W. Hawes
C W Hawes is a human services worker who divides his time between Minneapolis, Minnesota and rural northeast Iowa. His muses are Whitman, Millay, Basho, Issa, the Imagists, Takuboku, and Rumi. He holds a bachelor’s degree in history and political science and a Masters of Divinity degree. His work has appeared in Carnelian, Lynx, Simply Haiku, Lilliput Review, Amaze, Makata, and The Ghazal Page, among others.
Disappearing in Cameron Highlands
Tea leaves are tapping the windows
Mercy, Mercy, the high-profile academic
fills the TV screen
He smiles bitterly as the trial begins
Outside a tiny pair of feet squeaks
I am here, I have arrived,
will you find me now?
The air is a draught
Dowsed with throaty tea
Picked from the highlands
Newspapers litter the floor
I chased them away
before the sheet-changer came
Clipped bushes
entwine with the scent
of sweetened strawberries
an intoxicating daze
Watch me, watch me now
as I disappear away.
Weather-Stained Days
The languid lichen on window-sill
a crusty breath of resignation
tangled 'midst the lengthy still
of stagnant pressing weather
tender rain, where is your
pliant loving shoulder?
I live not now, but hold on to
a promise of days better
© Rachel Chan Suet Kay
Rachel Chan Suet Kay likes art, drawing comics, travel, photography, writing, and poetry. Visit her site here: http://thusspakethethorn.blogspot.com
I Just Love Your Face
I just love your face
I would take it any place
Any where you what to go
In the sun or in the snow
I just love your looks
Love the way you appear
When you laugh in joy
I am so glad you are near
I just think thought of joy
When you are any place
For I enjoy your appearance
Yes. I just love your face
The Warm Winds Were Freezing
The warm winds were freezing
My chest was caressing
and I was so cold that
I didn’t even know what that word means
The rushing brush sped by slowly
As I looked for a poem
To tell my self why
I was all alone
So I took a page
To place against my heart
But the day was so darn long
That is tore me right apart
© G David Schwartz
Former president of Seedhouse, the online interfaith committee. Schwartz is the author of A Jewish Appraisal of Dialogue. Currently a volunteer at Drake Hospital in Cincinnati, Schwartz continues to write. His new book, Midrash and Working Out Of The Book is now in stores.
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