Rebecca Cowgill has senryu published in Failed Haiku. She has small poems published in Poems and Poetry, the Poet Community, Dead Snakes and the Camel Saloon. She has reached the consideration stage of the Heron's Nest. first date for the professor of butterflies * storm clouds float on lullabies of poppies * a rowboat silently drifts through a rainbow * wasps in school detention for gentle kisses * new day stars gently fade on soft clouds
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Bevan Boggenpoel was born in Salt Lake, Port Elizabeth, South Africa. He attended Soutpan Primary and matriculated at Westville Secondary School. Boggenpoel completed a Baccalaureate in Education at the Nelson Mandela Metropolitan University. He launched his debut Anthology 1 December 2016. The book was well received by the public and he sold 200 copies locally. He is also an author at a South African website known as Litnet (Literature Network in South Africa). Although his poetry is written in a South African context that covers different issues in daily life, his writings also strives to tell a story or teach a lesson that will inspire and motivate readers globally. He is currently a teacher at Bethelsdorp Road Primary in the northern areas of Port Elizabeth. Death Row I was given a harsh sentence - For all my crime When I'll be executed - Is only a matter of time When I look back - At all the mayhem I've caused I can definitely understand - Why my pleading was ignored I murdered, raped and robbed - So many people fell victims to me When I look at my future - Its only death that I see Look where I've ended up - Because of my ruthless past My reckless behaviour - Has caught up with me at last Follow my example - Soon you'll be on death row too Think twice before you do crime - Or else you'll join the execution crew © 2017 Bevan Boggenpoel Differently Able Many things – That you do They can do – Them too Paintings done – With the hand They too – Understand They paint it – Using the toes When you see it – Nobody knows Do not underestimate – Their capabilities They too can seek – Endless possibilities Differently Able – They can do Many things – Better than you © 2016 Bevan Boggenpoel The homeless We live our lives - Daily on the street When people look our way - They hesitate to greet Heaven is our roof - A cardboard for a bed No blanket to cover - Or pillow for our head We depend on generosity - To help us through the day A warm plate of food - Seldom comes our way Begging is our job - In order to survive If people refuse to give - We barely stay alive We are the homeless - We depend on what you share So next time when you see us - Don’t pretend that we’re not there © 2016 Bevan Boggenpoel Bekah Steimel is a poet aspiring to be a better poet. Her recent work has appeared in Section 8 Magazine, Crab Fat Magazine, and Yellow Chair Review. She lives in St. Louis, MO (USA) and can be found online at bekahsteimel.com and followed on Twitter and Instagram @BekahSteimel. Post Traumatically Stressed Democrat A 2:30 a.m. stroll in between the tail of November and the teeth of December It's so cold the moon is wearing a sweater of clouds It's so cold I'm inhaling life and exhaling ghosts The branches are nearly done with their strip tease and there is a premature ejaculation of Christmas lights on the faces of a few houses Though every unidentified silhouette is vaguely menacing at this hour it is the shadows I cannot see that pose the biggest threat in these dark times It's been thirteen nights since this country ran red as if we had been slaughtered Thirteen nights since my country miscarried hope and equality and birthed the fraternal twins of bigotry and fear The second uncivil war where many of my enemies -the shadows I cannot see hide behind the white sheets of their smiles while the rest spray paint swastikas and harass me at gas stations I am frightened most by those who love me and unleashed my waking nightmare then told me not to grieve It is not my onus to soothe you to smooth your feathers, ruffled by our reaction and dissent I am grieving I am the synonyms of grief but I will never be the final stage of grief I will never accept this I will never bite my tongue and chew on your justifications It's so cold the moon is wearing a sweater of clouds It's so cold I'm inhaling life and exhaling ghosts It's so cold because I am realizing Blood is not thicker than bigotry. (Self-published on Facebook 2016) Pay Keen and Close Attention to the maneuvering of her lips but the motion of her words always pirouetting around the truth her stories her unlimited stories cannot stand still forever shifting similar to her eyes her tall tales crumble like the Twin Towers she is her own plane her own Kamikaze pilot and I cannot rescue a friend so hell bent on watching her life burn to ash We never find what we seek we only unearth surprises and forgotten history discovery and excavation revelation and removal I sought perfection and found security in scars I hunted Death and stumbled upon a reason to breathe James, a retired professor and octogenarian, is the author of 3 poetry collections, "The Silent Pond” (2012), “Ancient Rhythms” (2014), and “LIGHT” (2016), and over 880 poems. His poems have been nominated for pushcart and best of web awards, and were published in The 100 Best Poems of 2015 & 2014 Anthologies. He earned his BS and MA from California Polytechnic University and his doctorate from BYU. His books are available on Amazon, and Barnes and Noble. They Meet Again It was in the fuchsia tinted dusk sinking into the vortex of the horizon’s melancholy that he paused in oxidized time to sense reflections of her in a shattered mirror sitting in bones and ashes. Where daytime and nighttime merged into one and only a thin purplish-grey line existed, her image was reflected in the prisms of moisturized memories curling down from clouds tined with long gone forgotten moments. Years passed into eternity, hair turned to ashes and their separate lives floated in rivers, which never met. Bygone visions emerged as hours oxidized into shadows echoed in a nostalgic vision of their past time together. Only a faded red rose flattened by time in a book of poems celebrated the briefness of their time until two tombstones sat side by side with their names carved into them. A Rainy Afternoon The sky, grey as a corpse, shuffles its dark clouds over the hills and into the valleys below. There is coldness and threats of moisture in the air, the wind is starting to howl, small birds huddling in the trees are silent. Huge puffs of dampness are getting darker, ready to shed uncertainties that were abandoned eons ago onto the dry land. Old hands carefully place twigs in the Ben Franklin, a match is lit and flames leap into existence, like a being that has waited centuries to be reborn. The small library starts to warm, like old hearts that still carry the flame of love. The cold starts to escape from old bones, and rekindled memoirs of warm summer days start to emerge. Two elderly people look into the past as they gaze at each other with loving smiles. Pleasant hours crawl by as they succumb to the warmth of the room, and each other’s company. Each person is in his or her own hushed space, one reading the other writing a poem. Outside the wind is starting to exert its blustery voice. Pleasant memories like bright silhouettes of flame echo into the Minds of the two, as the clanging hours of an old grandfather clock illuminates their aging minds as time stands still. Contented sighs carry across the room on rhythms of warmth, and a soft laughter fills the room as the two look at each other. The windows are starting to reflect moisture; a mist covers their glassy faces as the rain slowly starts to arrive like a thief in the night. The Lady In The Corner An elderly lady sits quietly In an old rocking chair in The corner of a room Beside a grandfather Clock reading George Eliot; the heated air Outside is falling away From the window, which Looks out upon an old Crabapple tree filled with Tart redness. The cool Room is hushed. Images Of long gone relatives Peer out from frames Covered with muted hours, Silently wondering how the Elderly Lady stays so Beautiful and serene. As The morning fades into a Balmy afternoon, a copper Teakettle in the kitchen Sings a steamy song and The lady puts down her Book and goes into the Kitchen to brew her Afternoon tea. While gazing out misty windows, She silently renews old Memories, and smiles. A Special Place There is a special place in the Woods, where memories dwell Under fallen leaves, yellow and Orange, waiting to be used During special times. It is a place Where the mountains rise above Verdant glens, and rippling rills Crawl lazily through flowered Meadows along side rocky Outcroppings of ecru shale, a Place where downy birds warble Their singsongs in the early dawn As the sun climbs lethargically Over the tops of pine trees and Down into the pastures, while the Dew melts into the earthly loam. How I long to be there, once Again, before my rusting hours Oxidize, and turn to ashes. Spring Spring arrived with a symphony Of pastel blush, like a flowered sprite Prancing with colorful garlands around Her neck that has come back from Winter’s tomb to rouse nature’s Loveliness throughout the land. It Arrived with the promise of sweet Scents, like a honeyed memory Evolving from a long winter sleep. Spring clothed with the aroma of Damp soil, is alive with Transparent brooks that flow In Flower-laden meadows where The heat from the sun warms the Earth and the coolness of a Placid pond greets weary hikers. With the advent of spring, Sweet fragrances of wildflowers Infuse the atmosphere, and Temperate winds coil around Gnarled oak trees searching for Sky, causing them to undulate to The rhythms of life. Spring, a Mysterious time when temperate Rains dampen the earth with Glimmering moisture in the early Sunrise, and children arouse to the Beauty of life, a time when elderly People can pause for a brief time to Renew their bodies and gather their Breath from winter’s harsh trials. |
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