Raindrops |
Brandon McQuade is a Canadian poet living in San Antonio, Texas with his wife Jacqlyn, and their son, Nolan. His poems have appeared in BlazeVOX, College Green, Vita Brevis, Rust + Moth, Literary Yard, Elm + Ampersand and Montréal Writes. His debut chapbook, Bleeding Heart, was selected for publication by Kelsay Books, and is scheduled for print in summer 2021. |
Snow
The snow never shovels itself
but it melts
if you are willing to wait
my grandfather never could
his beard of snow
hardening in the cold
the neighbour dog lifts his leg to melt their snow
yellow hole after yellow hole
one steaming piss at a time
the little holes are like dead eyes in the white snow
empty and still and
colourless
my father joked don’t eat yellow snow!
my mother showed me the bugs
I took snow in my hands and watched them crawl
the sky in the palm of my hands
little stars shining like diamonds in the snow
the bugs moving
little black holes
2
It’s hard to tell two five-year-old’s that you are getting a divorce
all my twin sisters have ever known
their parents together
alone
my grandparents always lived under the same roof
in different beds
in different rooms
snow melts slowly in spring
the ground opens and closes like a mouth
green blades of grass
green teeth
opening
the wet green ground
if the snow melted any quicker
if the sky opened up
this whole city would drown
but it melts
if you are willing to wait
my grandfather never could
his beard of snow
hardening in the cold
the neighbour dog lifts his leg to melt their snow
yellow hole after yellow hole
one steaming piss at a time
the little holes are like dead eyes in the white snow
empty and still and
colourless
my father joked don’t eat yellow snow!
my mother showed me the bugs
I took snow in my hands and watched them crawl
the sky in the palm of my hands
little stars shining like diamonds in the snow
the bugs moving
little black holes
2
It’s hard to tell two five-year-old’s that you are getting a divorce
all my twin sisters have ever known
their parents together
alone
my grandparents always lived under the same roof
in different beds
in different rooms
snow melts slowly in spring
the ground opens and closes like a mouth
green blades of grass
green teeth
opening
the wet green ground
if the snow melted any quicker
if the sky opened up
this whole city would drown
Fireflies
It’s really dark and it smells cold so it must be winter
we’re playing hide and seek before dinner
running out of places to hide
my sisters will hide in the same place
over and over
and over
laughing and whispering and peaking with their legs sticking out
my father calls supper!
but they haven’t found me yet
I am hiding in their closet
like a monster in the dark
the only room in the house with the light switched off
2
I am surrounded by their tiny clothes
folded and hanging
like the bodies of children
their legs crossed
their hands holding the hands of other children
one of them has pissed himself again
his ass a chemical stain on the blue carpet
cloudy and grey
and seeping
I listen to knives and forks
scraping their plates and teeth
through the crack in the closet doors I watch their fish coming up for air
their little sea of light
fireflies in the dark
3
Remember how we would let them crawl across our fingers
their bodies like the bodies of angels
before their death
suffocation in a mason jar
hell of a way to go
my nightlight danced in the corner
a halo fading
like a trail of smoke from the candlewick
of a suffocated flame
I watched the fireflies flicker
ticking like little heartbeats
electricity
a pulse
I would wake to find them dead
in a semi-circle
the pads of my fingers swollen
glowing
bright and
burning
we’re playing hide and seek before dinner
running out of places to hide
my sisters will hide in the same place
over and over
and over
laughing and whispering and peaking with their legs sticking out
my father calls supper!
but they haven’t found me yet
I am hiding in their closet
like a monster in the dark
the only room in the house with the light switched off
2
I am surrounded by their tiny clothes
folded and hanging
like the bodies of children
their legs crossed
their hands holding the hands of other children
one of them has pissed himself again
his ass a chemical stain on the blue carpet
cloudy and grey
and seeping
I listen to knives and forks
scraping their plates and teeth
through the crack in the closet doors I watch their fish coming up for air
their little sea of light
fireflies in the dark
3
Remember how we would let them crawl across our fingers
their bodies like the bodies of angels
before their death
suffocation in a mason jar
hell of a way to go
my nightlight danced in the corner
a halo fading
like a trail of smoke from the candlewick
of a suffocated flame
I watched the fireflies flicker
ticking like little heartbeats
electricity
a pulse
I would wake to find them dead
in a semi-circle
the pads of my fingers swollen
glowing
bright and
burning
Whale Watching
Rattlesnakes are to Texas
as Humpbacks are to New Brunswick
off the coast of Grand Manan Island
the captain
his mate
his deckhands
all hands on deck
wreak
of sea sickness
like a hangover
the seeping scent
of beer from the night before
on basement carpet
a queasy feeling
like an optical illusion
my brothers body moving
in unison
with the white waves
the cusps crashing out of the blue
knocking against each other and the boat
like giant fists on cold wooden doors
when I saw one side of the whale’s face
break the surface of the water
I could no longer tell if it was me moving first
the boat
the water
or the whale
moving us all
the only other time I felt this way
when I shot my little brother
blood breaking skin
under the plastic bullet
like spume
blowing water
a whale breathing
misty-warm
as Humpbacks are to New Brunswick
off the coast of Grand Manan Island
the captain
his mate
his deckhands
all hands on deck
wreak
of sea sickness
like a hangover
the seeping scent
of beer from the night before
on basement carpet
a queasy feeling
like an optical illusion
my brothers body moving
in unison
with the white waves
the cusps crashing out of the blue
knocking against each other and the boat
like giant fists on cold wooden doors
when I saw one side of the whale’s face
break the surface of the water
I could no longer tell if it was me moving first
the boat
the water
or the whale
moving us all
the only other time I felt this way
when I shot my little brother
blood breaking skin
under the plastic bullet
like spume
blowing water
a whale breathing
misty-warm
Cocaine
I never did cocaine with my friends because I was afraid to snort anything
afraid that I would enjoy it
crave it even
like sex at sixteen
a pinch of tobacco
after my morning coffee
anything that touches the nose and lips
enters the mouth
is intimate
leaves an impression
still
my friends are never
not doing it
even the simplest of gatherings
backyard barbecues
any event at all
where there might be alcohol
they stay up all night
mixing drinks
and biting their tongues
forgetting everything
but song lyrics
the cost of an eight
2
Everyone is still alive
everyone wakes up in the morning and drives to work
or school
or both
none of my friends are panhandling outside the grocery store
like our parents and teachers told us
nothing but a nervous tick
cocaine drip
twitching
and clenching
of nose and jaw
the gentle throb
from head to toe
finger to palm
some of the fathers will even join them
smoking cigarettes inside the house
blaming the boys
for the bottles of beer filled with cigarette butts
the cocaine trail lining the bathroom sink
over the toilet
above the fireplace
afraid that I would enjoy it
crave it even
like sex at sixteen
a pinch of tobacco
after my morning coffee
anything that touches the nose and lips
enters the mouth
is intimate
leaves an impression
still
my friends are never
not doing it
even the simplest of gatherings
backyard barbecues
any event at all
where there might be alcohol
they stay up all night
mixing drinks
and biting their tongues
forgetting everything
but song lyrics
the cost of an eight
2
Everyone is still alive
everyone wakes up in the morning and drives to work
or school
or both
none of my friends are panhandling outside the grocery store
like our parents and teachers told us
nothing but a nervous tick
cocaine drip
twitching
and clenching
of nose and jaw
the gentle throb
from head to toe
finger to palm
some of the fathers will even join them
smoking cigarettes inside the house
blaming the boys
for the bottles of beer filled with cigarette butts
the cocaine trail lining the bathroom sink
over the toilet
above the fireplace
Falling Asleep
1
Have you ever laid in bed at night
and felt nothing
not tired or awake
not even alive
just there
your head floating
above your bed
your body hovering
like a chandelier
over the floor
when I fall asleep it feels like sinking in a boat filled with sand
2
I remember falling asleep the way I remember things when I’ve had too much to drink
my eyelids flutter like flat rocks
skipping across the surface of a lake
my body is a paper boat
taking in water until it sinks
the paper plane I built in elementary school flew the furthest
it crashed against the tile like glass
falling asleep is kind of like dying
when you think about it
billions of candles burning at varied lengths
all burning out in time
in a little room somewhere
surrounded by loved ones
the way my grandmother did
whispering closely
to those who mean the most
our final sounds are not even words
in the moments before the breathing stops
before the silence
breath comes out of us
in measured whispers
muffled silence
our final breath fizzles out
in short gasps
cigarette butts
suffocated in sand
Have you ever laid in bed at night
and felt nothing
not tired or awake
not even alive
just there
your head floating
above your bed
your body hovering
like a chandelier
over the floor
when I fall asleep it feels like sinking in a boat filled with sand
2
I remember falling asleep the way I remember things when I’ve had too much to drink
my eyelids flutter like flat rocks
skipping across the surface of a lake
my body is a paper boat
taking in water until it sinks
the paper plane I built in elementary school flew the furthest
it crashed against the tile like glass
falling asleep is kind of like dying
when you think about it
billions of candles burning at varied lengths
all burning out in time
in a little room somewhere
surrounded by loved ones
the way my grandmother did
whispering closely
to those who mean the most
our final sounds are not even words
in the moments before the breathing stops
before the silence
breath comes out of us
in measured whispers
muffled silence
our final breath fizzles out
in short gasps
cigarette butts
suffocated in sand
Author Reneé Drummond-Brown is a renowned author residing in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She holds a Master of Arts degree in creative writing with a concentration in poetry from Chatham University. She also holds a Bachelor of Science degree in Christian Ministry Leadership with a minor in biblical theology studies, graduating summa cum laude from Geneva College of Western Pennsylvania. In addition, she received an Associate of Arts degree in Christian Ministry at The Center for Urban Biblical Ministry (CUBM), where she served as class president and graduated in the top 5% of her class. She is still in pursuit of excellence towards her mark for higher education. While at CUBM, her writing career blossomed into Reneé’s Poems with Wings are Words in Flight, a phrase that eloquently coins her work. The dominant themes of her writings are spiritually based. She has been led to write about blacks’ history, The Civil Rights Movement, slavery, family, and the African American woman who at times is taken for granted. Drummond-Brown’s poems with wings metaphorically points to this scripture “And he sent forth a raven, which went forth to and fro, until the waters were dried up from off the earth” Genesis 8:7 (KJV). Drummond-Brown has published several poems, one of which was written for the Original Freedom Singer of The Civil Rights Movement, the legendary Ms. Rutha Mae Harris. The poem was published by Judith Hampton-Thompson, of The Metro Gazette Publishing Company, Inc., Albany Georgia. Drummond-Brown is the author of several poetry books to date, and her work can be seen across the globe in various anthologies, programs and magazines. Her poetry and essays have placed in several contests. She has received accolades each year since she started writing in 2013. Because her work is viewed on a global scale this solidifies her as a force to be reckoned with-in the literary world of poetry. Drummond-Brown is inspired by none other than Dr. Maya Angelou, and because of her, Drummond-Brown posits “Still I write, I write, and I’ll write!” |
She Used To Be A Queen You Know
Danesha Maria Dixon rose January 22nd , 1986.
She entered a world
of possibilities adding by far sure bliss.
Everything she touched turned 24kt gold.
She is definitely, so very loved, and, so very missed.
She used to be a Pre-teen Queen you know
in her own right.
The Tiara.
The walk.
The wave.
The talk.
Her swag.
She.
Had it all.
She.
Answered God’s call.
Gone way too soon.
And YES…I repeat,
definitely missed by us all.
The middle child, of 4 was Danesha’s claim to fame.
She required minimal. If not, a little more.
Momma Kim said, she had an infectious smile and never spoke many words…
But always found meaningful gestures, and kind things to say was her lure.
Her actions modeled her personal gains.
(Take notes. Take notes.)
Her sheer love for family
was her stamped signature trait
that certified her as monarch’s royalty.
Dad, Mom, siblings and family
were ever so proud when Mary Ellen Pollinitz
crowned Danesha her Tiara crown.
She was a Pre-teen Queen you know…
The Tiara.
The walk.
The wave.
The talk.
Her swag.
She.
Had it all.
She.
Answered God’s call.
The queen consort modeled sovereignty
as she ruled lovingly using
1 Corinthians 13:13:
“And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.”
The empress Danesha ruled lovingly.
She was a Pre-teen Queen you know
The Tiara.
The walk.
The wave.
The talk.
Her swag.
She.
Had it all.
She.
Answered God’s call.
Purple was her enchanted colour.
And yeeees, the colour of the day.
Danesha had a swag of grandeur.
Extravagance.
Magnificence.
Dignity.
Brilliance and radiance.
And Yessss, even “Your Majesty” come what may…
Or shall we say,
“Your Highness” best suits Danesha’s royal name?
Her vibrant heart was of transparent glass.
Somehow, she foresaw
His first shall be last and His last shall be first
So, she dares answer His Divine Call.
Indestructible. Resilient. Shatterproof.
Sporting purple wings and all.
Our bad. Danesha, you’re now unbreakable acrylic
and were never glass by far.
Devoted to family, and Clark Atlanta College
is where her time was spent most;
gathering knowledge, reflections, and memories
to store and share with The Father, His Son and The Holy Ghost.
Purple owns her royalty,
and while, nobility knew Danesha by name…
Lights, camera, and action…depicts her rare breed.
Therefore, Danesha’s patiently waiting in heaven
to show Candy, David and Davon her architectural Engineer Designs
turning her mere Tiera into a permanent glorified crown.
Your Royal Highness lives on
in our imperial family, friends, and especially,
in both Dad and Mom.
Danesha, you’re so loved and missed. But, by far…Surely
you’re a Pre-teen Queen you know.
Your timeless tiara.
Your willingness walk.
Your warm wave.
Your treasured talk.
Your savvy swag.
And with God
now by your side, you do have it all.
And in our hearts and mind; you’re not gone at all.
She used to be A Queen you know…
Dedicated To:
David Sr., Kim, Candy, David Jr., and Davon for the Memory of “our” sweet Pre-teen Queen who the Sun-set on January 7, 2006.
A RocDeeRay Production
She entered a world
of possibilities adding by far sure bliss.
Everything she touched turned 24kt gold.
She is definitely, so very loved, and, so very missed.
She used to be a Pre-teen Queen you know
in her own right.
The Tiara.
The walk.
The wave.
The talk.
Her swag.
She.
Had it all.
She.
Answered God’s call.
Gone way too soon.
And YES…I repeat,
definitely missed by us all.
The middle child, of 4 was Danesha’s claim to fame.
She required minimal. If not, a little more.
Momma Kim said, she had an infectious smile and never spoke many words…
But always found meaningful gestures, and kind things to say was her lure.
Her actions modeled her personal gains.
(Take notes. Take notes.)
Her sheer love for family
was her stamped signature trait
that certified her as monarch’s royalty.
Dad, Mom, siblings and family
were ever so proud when Mary Ellen Pollinitz
crowned Danesha her Tiara crown.
She was a Pre-teen Queen you know…
The Tiara.
The walk.
The wave.
The talk.
Her swag.
She.
Had it all.
She.
Answered God’s call.
The queen consort modeled sovereignty
as she ruled lovingly using
1 Corinthians 13:13:
“And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.”
The empress Danesha ruled lovingly.
She was a Pre-teen Queen you know
The Tiara.
The walk.
The wave.
The talk.
Her swag.
She.
Had it all.
She.
Answered God’s call.
Purple was her enchanted colour.
And yeeees, the colour of the day.
Danesha had a swag of grandeur.
Extravagance.
Magnificence.
Dignity.
Brilliance and radiance.
And Yessss, even “Your Majesty” come what may…
Or shall we say,
“Your Highness” best suits Danesha’s royal name?
Her vibrant heart was of transparent glass.
Somehow, she foresaw
His first shall be last and His last shall be first
So, she dares answer His Divine Call.
Indestructible. Resilient. Shatterproof.
Sporting purple wings and all.
Our bad. Danesha, you’re now unbreakable acrylic
and were never glass by far.
Devoted to family, and Clark Atlanta College
is where her time was spent most;
gathering knowledge, reflections, and memories
to store and share with The Father, His Son and The Holy Ghost.
Purple owns her royalty,
and while, nobility knew Danesha by name…
Lights, camera, and action…depicts her rare breed.
Therefore, Danesha’s patiently waiting in heaven
to show Candy, David and Davon her architectural Engineer Designs
turning her mere Tiera into a permanent glorified crown.
Your Royal Highness lives on
in our imperial family, friends, and especially,
in both Dad and Mom.
Danesha, you’re so loved and missed. But, by far…Surely
you’re a Pre-teen Queen you know.
Your timeless tiara.
Your willingness walk.
Your warm wave.
Your treasured talk.
Your savvy swag.
And with God
now by your side, you do have it all.
And in our hearts and mind; you’re not gone at all.
She used to be A Queen you know…
Dedicated To:
David Sr., Kim, Candy, David Jr., and Davon for the Memory of “our” sweet Pre-teen Queen who the Sun-set on January 7, 2006.
A RocDeeRay Production
Dethroned
Hell to the king!
Hell to the king!
Hell to the king!
You thought you played your Queen, you better
think again, she ranked you king;
took care of you, and all your outside kids.
She worked for your status,
while you took advantage.
You can’t divert a curse.
You can’t buy a verse.
You’re simply a jackass.
Now, which is worse?
A donkey with no hope, or a jackass without a home.
You’re a jack of all trades,
incompetent, and mean.
Master of none.
Hail to your Queen!
Hail to your Queen!
Hail to your Queen!
How does it feel?
Being dethroned?
Dedicated to: “GET OUT!”
A B.A.D. Poem
Hell to the king!
Hell to the king!
You thought you played your Queen, you better
think again, she ranked you king;
took care of you, and all your outside kids.
She worked for your status,
while you took advantage.
You can’t divert a curse.
You can’t buy a verse.
You’re simply a jackass.
Now, which is worse?
A donkey with no hope, or a jackass without a home.
You’re a jack of all trades,
incompetent, and mean.
Master of none.
Hail to your Queen!
Hail to your Queen!
Hail to your Queen!
How does it feel?
Being dethroned?
Dedicated to: “GET OUT!”
A B.A.D. Poem
NO COMPRENDO
Hey you elites, with them fancy degrees sittin’ high
on political seats. Looking down low. Only one problem, us commoners
don’t ev’n know what in the hell language you speak. Why lie?
Harvard, Yale, and PrinceTON (combined)
deciding the hoods fate (what a sick joke); they wouldn’t ev’n know
a home invasion, from a drive by, from Eden’s brilliant snakes’ dirt.
A snake, IZ a snake, IZ a snake. And education
iZ fake when operating out of ones’
tree of knowledge; evil vs. good lane.
Who do ya’llz think you’re ‘kiddin?
After-all,
dems’ street lawyers understand you better than you think.
The problem iZ, you don’t know the designer hood
from raunchy-wretched-ratchet street games.
Dedicated to: What is the square root of the designed PROJECT(S) brAin boyze?
A RocDeeRay Production
on political seats. Looking down low. Only one problem, us commoners
don’t ev’n know what in the hell language you speak. Why lie?
Harvard, Yale, and PrinceTON (combined)
deciding the hoods fate (what a sick joke); they wouldn’t ev’n know
a home invasion, from a drive by, from Eden’s brilliant snakes’ dirt.
A snake, IZ a snake, IZ a snake. And education
iZ fake when operating out of ones’
tree of knowledge; evil vs. good lane.
Who do ya’llz think you’re ‘kiddin?
After-all,
dems’ street lawyers understand you better than you think.
The problem iZ, you don’t know the designer hood
from raunchy-wretched-ratchet street games.
Dedicated to: What is the square root of the designed PROJECT(S) brAin boyze?
A RocDeeRay Production
Kernels
We’ze a tree.
Planted by ‘da water.
Ain’t gone be moved.
A colored-gal;
‘dat’s who we be.
Dedicated to: ‘Feets don’t fail us now.
A RocDeeRay Production
Planted by ‘da water.
Ain’t gone be moved.
A colored-gal;
‘dat’s who we be.
Dedicated to: ‘Feets don’t fail us now.
A RocDeeRay Production
UP THE ANTE
I’ve heard of wars, an’ rumors of wars.
I’ve heard these things must come to pass.
I’ve heard I should not be troubled. Or
better-yet, our end is still not, yet, to come. Alas
7 trumpets will sound aloud, and roar of thunder all the more…
Blow that horn trumpet-man.
This AIN’T gossip. No sir. PERIOD. No mam.
Roll call y’all:
those fish who swam all year long round and about.
Some will wish the plastic of the sea were the only
troubles’ to worry about.
for surplus tuna; for our children who’ll be in dire need of feed.
Heaven help our ships Lord.
Please! Please!! Oh please!!!
The second trumpets sounds.
and yeZ, we’ll know EXACTLY what it feels like
for those kids who been beggin’ for Bread an’ thirst.
Rivers and springs will no longer know us by name.
That rancorous taste will take us out for the count, and
float in her riverbed our heartless, callous, stony remains.
“I/we had a dream.”
The third trumpet sounds.
in the night. WOE. WOE. WOE. Catastrophe breeds contempt.
It’s us Lord. It’s me. Lord please state your case?
five, six, seven (not eight)…all us chillins’ won’t make it in heaven.
Are you sure of this? I’m sure, that He’s sure of it?
The fourth trumpet sounds.
Sum’ gone run. Yezzz.
And not get weary when them 3 seraphim’s come. Yezzz.
Sum’ gone walk. Yezzz.
Sum gone faint when that keyless star nev’r hits rock bottom.
Poof. Smoke. And John’s locust are unleashed.
Flyin’-men with lion teeth, protected by the breastplate of an iron fist.
Yeah, they’ll mount up with wings commanded by a king
not doing a single solitary dog-on thAng; iZ their only strength.
The fifth trumpet sounds.
but them plagues will kill a third of all mankind…jus’ like ‘ole-times
(and the Word says). Dead, iz dead, iz dead. Ask Pharaoh’s and his haughty kind?
The six trumpet sounds.
“And the seventh angel sounded; and there were great voices in heaven, saying,
The kingdoms of this world are become the kingdoms of our Lord, and
of his Christ; and
he shall reign for ever and ever” Revelation 11:15 (KJV). And
all deemed worthy see the Kingdom come. And
them others see seven wraths of God. And
the seventh trumpet sounds. And
then the-end. Amen.
Dedicated to: Blow one’s own trumpet.
A RocDeeRay Production
I’ve heard these things must come to pass.
I’ve heard I should not be troubled. Or
better-yet, our end is still not, yet, to come. Alas
7 trumpets will sound aloud, and roar of thunder all the more…
Blow that horn trumpet-man.
This AIN’T gossip. No sir. PERIOD. No mam.
Roll call y’all:
- Sound off: Blood, fire and hail will taint God’s green earth.
- Sound-off: Trumpet sounds alarm the great mountain tops, valley-lows,
those fish who swam all year long round and about.
Some will wish the plastic of the sea were the only
troubles’ to worry about.
for surplus tuna; for our children who’ll be in dire need of feed.
Heaven help our ships Lord.
Please! Please!! Oh please!!!
The second trumpets sounds.
- Sound-off: Wormwood descends to the earth;
and yeZ, we’ll know EXACTLY what it feels like
for those kids who been beggin’ for Bread an’ thirst.
Rivers and springs will no longer know us by name.
That rancorous taste will take us out for the count, and
float in her riverbed our heartless, callous, stony remains.
“I/we had a dream.”
The third trumpet sounds.
- Sound-off: Sum’ of the light stolen from the sun, moon and
in the night. WOE. WOE. WOE. Catastrophe breeds contempt.
It’s us Lord. It’s me. Lord please state your case?
five, six, seven (not eight)…all us chillins’ won’t make it in heaven.
Are you sure of this? I’m sure, that He’s sure of it?
The fourth trumpet sounds.
- Sound-off: WOE. It’s me, the first of three.
Sum’ gone run. Yezzz.
And not get weary when them 3 seraphim’s come. Yezzz.
Sum’ gone walk. Yezzz.
Sum gone faint when that keyless star nev’r hits rock bottom.
Poof. Smoke. And John’s locust are unleashed.
Flyin’-men with lion teeth, protected by the breastplate of an iron fist.
Yeah, they’ll mount up with wings commanded by a king
not doing a single solitary dog-on thAng; iZ their only strength.
The fifth trumpet sounds.
- Sound-off: WOE. WOE. Eden’s great river “Euphrates,” returns. Brimstone, fire, and smoke, ooze plagues (like in the dayZe of MoZez) from horses, cept, 200 million mounted troops ride on dem’ lion-head stallions
but them plagues will kill a third of all mankind…jus’ like ‘ole-times
(and the Word says). Dead, iz dead, iz dead. Ask Pharaoh’s and his haughty kind?
The six trumpet sounds.
- Sound-off: WOE. WOE. WOE. Last but not least;
“And the seventh angel sounded; and there were great voices in heaven, saying,
The kingdoms of this world are become the kingdoms of our Lord, and
of his Christ; and
he shall reign for ever and ever” Revelation 11:15 (KJV). And
all deemed worthy see the Kingdom come. And
them others see seven wraths of God. And
the seventh trumpet sounds. And
then the-end. Amen.
Dedicated to: Blow one’s own trumpet.
A RocDeeRay Production
WE ALREADY MADE AMERICA GREAT!
When you see us ‘walkin;
we’re ‘runnin.
When you see us ‘sittin;
we’re ‘standin.
When you see us quiet;
we’re screamin.
When you see us mute;
we’re ‘talkin.
When you see us shiftless;
we’re ‘workin.
When you see us ‘fussin;
WE’RE PRAYING!
When you see us ‘sleepin;
We’re inside Dr. Martin Luther King Jr’s., dream.
Dedicated to: 1600’s + forty winks + forty acres + a mule= the mountaintop. ‘Sumone ‘gotta dream???
A RocDeeRay Production
we’re ‘runnin.
When you see us ‘sittin;
we’re ‘standin.
When you see us quiet;
we’re screamin.
When you see us mute;
we’re ‘talkin.
When you see us shiftless;
we’re ‘workin.
When you see us ‘fussin;
WE’RE PRAYING!
When you see us ‘sleepin;
We’re inside Dr. Martin Luther King Jr’s., dream.
Dedicated to: 1600’s + forty winks + forty acres + a mule= the mountaintop. ‘Sumone ‘gotta dream???
A RocDeeRay Production
A Fatigued March of Faith
To those that hate you;
march on Christian soldiers.
To those that hurt you;
march on Christian soldiers.
To those that break you;
march on Christian soldiers.
To those that kill you;
you’ve no protest left.
Dedicated to: Miss your heavy shoes B.A.D.
A RocDeeRay Production
march on Christian soldiers.
To those that hurt you;
march on Christian soldiers.
To those that break you;
march on Christian soldiers.
To those that kill you;
you’ve no protest left.
Dedicated to: Miss your heavy shoes B.A.D.
A RocDeeRay Production
Edible Fruit
Had her cake, and ate it to. Some
call-her Mrs. Jones, with a
thang gone-on. Say it ain’t so?
It-ain’t right though.
She’s sho-nuff wrong. As two
left-feets’. But. The other-lover
sweeps-her off them streets,
while the pimp needs a dolla-dolla
bill yall. ‘Holla! Afterall, he-do ‘gotta-eat.
Along comes a-son to sit-down beside-her.
She-just-got-bit.
By an itsy-bitsy-spider.
Dedicated to: Creature of habit.
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call-her Mrs. Jones, with a
thang gone-on. Say it ain’t so?
It-ain’t right though.
She’s sho-nuff wrong. As two
left-feets’. But. The other-lover
sweeps-her off them streets,
while the pimp needs a dolla-dolla
bill yall. ‘Holla! Afterall, he-do ‘gotta-eat.
Along comes a-son to sit-down beside-her.
She-just-got-bit.
By an itsy-bitsy-spider.
Dedicated to: Creature of habit.
A RocDeeRay Production
Soul Brother
Fellow black man.
We’ve no protest left.
Slavery
has dealt you dark.
So gloomy.
So somber.
So foggy.
So clouded.
So drab.
So ambiguous.
So deprived.
So dull.
So vague.
So nebulous.
So deep.
So tenebrous.
So shady.
So dim.
So murky.
So anonymous to your helpmate;
the best of you is stripped.
A fatigued march of faith;
your women have no protest left.
Dedicated to: Widowed.
A RocDeeRay Production
We’ve no protest left.
Slavery
has dealt you dark.
So gloomy.
So somber.
So foggy.
So clouded.
So drab.
So ambiguous.
So deprived.
So dull.
So vague.
So nebulous.
So deep.
So tenebrous.
So shady.
So dim.
So murky.
So anonymous to your helpmate;
the best of you is stripped.
A fatigued march of faith;
your women have no protest left.
Dedicated to: Widowed.
A RocDeeRay Production
I Said A Little Prayer for You
I Reneé Drummond-Brown pray on these things:
Father God,
I ask that Your peace surpasses all understanding and “just” be still in the midst of such trying times.
I ask for prayer for our Government and all Governments’ alike across the globe being right and/or being wrong.
I ask that our government step back, and view the situation from a birds eye view seeing the bigger picture through the eyes of an innocent child (Father-God, please protect “all” of “Your” children across the globe during these trying times).
I ask that the men and women of the armed forces pray and walk through the front lines with God before them, beside them, behind them, and all around about them. I also ask You God; please sustain all men and women on those front lines.
I ask that humanity (red, yellow, black, brown, and white) across the globe stand on one accord to pray these words, "God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference" (Serenity Prayer).
I ask that our greed and religious disagreements be put aside, and we learn valuable lessons from past mistakes as it relates to casualties of war, slavery of the Afro-American people and the aftermath we as a people still suffer today, as well as the unfair treatment of women, children, and humanity as a whole.
Lastly, Father God, show mankind “again,” through the words of songwriter Edwin Starr,
“War, what it is good for?
ABSOLUTELY NOTHING!”
Amen.
Dedicated to: “All” mankind. I LOVE YOU.
A RocDeeRay Production
Father God,
I ask that Your peace surpasses all understanding and “just” be still in the midst of such trying times.
I ask for prayer for our Government and all Governments’ alike across the globe being right and/or being wrong.
I ask that our government step back, and view the situation from a birds eye view seeing the bigger picture through the eyes of an innocent child (Father-God, please protect “all” of “Your” children across the globe during these trying times).
I ask that the men and women of the armed forces pray and walk through the front lines with God before them, beside them, behind them, and all around about them. I also ask You God; please sustain all men and women on those front lines.
I ask that humanity (red, yellow, black, brown, and white) across the globe stand on one accord to pray these words, "God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference" (Serenity Prayer).
I ask that our greed and religious disagreements be put aside, and we learn valuable lessons from past mistakes as it relates to casualties of war, slavery of the Afro-American people and the aftermath we as a people still suffer today, as well as the unfair treatment of women, children, and humanity as a whole.
Lastly, Father God, show mankind “again,” through the words of songwriter Edwin Starr,
“War, what it is good for?
ABSOLUTELY NOTHING!”
Amen.
Dedicated to: “All” mankind. I LOVE YOU.
A RocDeeRay Production
We Shall Overcome. WHEN?
Oh freedom. When you gone come for us?
Been through ruin.
Been through storms.
Been through life.
Been through misery, slavery,
unnecessary envy, jalousies, hurt, and strife.
Been through pain.
Been through rains.
Been through Noah’s hails; 40 days. 40 nights.
Been through shame.
Been through hate.
Been through war.
Been through family, foe, and friends-envy plus “sum” more.
Been through spiritual death.
Been through all manner of attacks;
ev’n through an’ unfair
‘crooked’ deck-stacked.
Oh freedom,
Will you ev’r rescue us,
an’ get Satan off our roadmap backs?
Dedicated to: Us ‘gotta King of spade. What you holding?
A RocDeeRay Production
Been through ruin.
Been through storms.
Been through life.
Been through misery, slavery,
unnecessary envy, jalousies, hurt, and strife.
Been through pain.
Been through rains.
Been through Noah’s hails; 40 days. 40 nights.
Been through shame.
Been through hate.
Been through war.
Been through family, foe, and friends-envy plus “sum” more.
Been through spiritual death.
Been through all manner of attacks;
ev’n through an’ unfair
‘crooked’ deck-stacked.
Oh freedom,
Will you ev’r rescue us,
an’ get Satan off our roadmap backs?
Dedicated to: Us ‘gotta King of spade. What you holding?
A RocDeeRay Production
Biblical Portraits
The Creator of our photograph,
i.e., The Photographer owns
our copyrights, and paints
the picture-perfect paintings
of images He personally wove.
He splats His BLUES!
Copying Calvary’s red blood shed,
cause our repetitive curse photocopies, and indisputably
weighs-in on The Good Infallible News.
He splats His BLACK!
Reflecting as the Knight to remind us
of a Thief coming back
for one of a kind.
He splats His BROWN!
Likened unto fine brass, burned
inna fiery furnace; cooking up coppered
toned feet as His voice commands the rush
of cooling waters. Yeah.
Coal became His colour.
He splats His WHITE!
Paralleling our natural afro-ed woolly,
confused, crocheted, knitted, woven, woolen, vague,
unfocused numbered hairs; mirroring,
none other than, His nappy DNA.
He splats His GREEN!
Representing wealth
echoing His pure heart,
outlining worth, Eden’s cherubim’s,
and Genesis’ perfect Mother-Earth.
Africa! Afrika!! Oh Africa?
God shed His grain on thee.
He splats His PURPLE!
Vis-à-vis the Afro-centric culture
as decent, distinguished, gentlemanly, magnanimous,
honorable, noble, principled, suave
and up-right royal men.
Yeah.
Take a closer look at the flaws
in our picture-perfect images
before discarding them as fake(s).
Dedicated to: Picture perfect paintings.
A RocDeeRay Production
i.e., The Photographer owns
our copyrights, and paints
the picture-perfect paintings
of images He personally wove.
He splats His BLUES!
Copying Calvary’s red blood shed,
cause our repetitive curse photocopies, and indisputably
weighs-in on The Good Infallible News.
He splats His BLACK!
Reflecting as the Knight to remind us
of a Thief coming back
for one of a kind.
He splats His BROWN!
Likened unto fine brass, burned
inna fiery furnace; cooking up coppered
toned feet as His voice commands the rush
of cooling waters. Yeah.
Coal became His colour.
He splats His WHITE!
Paralleling our natural afro-ed woolly,
confused, crocheted, knitted, woven, woolen, vague,
unfocused numbered hairs; mirroring,
none other than, His nappy DNA.
He splats His GREEN!
Representing wealth
echoing His pure heart,
outlining worth, Eden’s cherubim’s,
and Genesis’ perfect Mother-Earth.
Africa! Afrika!! Oh Africa?
God shed His grain on thee.
He splats His PURPLE!
Vis-à-vis the Afro-centric culture
as decent, distinguished, gentlemanly, magnanimous,
honorable, noble, principled, suave
and up-right royal men.
Yeah.
Take a closer look at the flaws
in our picture-perfect images
before discarding them as fake(s).
Dedicated to: Picture perfect paintings.
A RocDeeRay Production
Pullin’ Dead Weight
God didn’t appoint you MoZez to carry their
dead weight into the Promised Land, and
He didn’t shackle your
feet to pull their lazy cans and hands, and
He didn’t design your mind
to cogitate their dreams while they walk blind and
serve them on a gold plate with a silver spoon and
loan ‘em money and buy ‘em property too;
co-sign their cars notes, and buy ‘em land and
handicap ‘em just cause you can. Pullin’
dead weight will cost you your dreams and
then you expire. And those same “6” dead-weighted liars
won’t even be pallbearers to carry you home-based. Lest you die.
Dedicated to:
“God didn’t appoint you Moses to carry their dead weight into the Promised Land”
(Reneé Drummond-Brown).
A RocDeeRay Production
dead weight into the Promised Land, and
He didn’t shackle your
feet to pull their lazy cans and hands, and
He didn’t design your mind
to cogitate their dreams while they walk blind and
serve them on a gold plate with a silver spoon and
loan ‘em money and buy ‘em property too;
co-sign their cars notes, and buy ‘em land and
handicap ‘em just cause you can. Pullin’
dead weight will cost you your dreams and
then you expire. And those same “6” dead-weighted liars
won’t even be pallbearers to carry you home-based. Lest you die.
Dedicated to:
“God didn’t appoint you Moses to carry their dead weight into the Promised Land”
(Reneé Drummond-Brown).
A RocDeeRay Production
Ahmad Al-Khatat was born in Baghdad, Iraq. His work has appeared in print and online journals globally and has poems translated into several languages. He has been nominated for Best of the Net 2018. He is the author of The Bleeding Heart Poet, Love On The War’s Frontline, Gas Chamber, Wounds from Iraq, and Roofs of Dreams. He lives in Montreal, Canada.
Close the Book
It’s the time to close
the book of negativity
Stop flipping over the
pages of wasted years
and stand in front of
-waves of confidence
It’s the time to close
the book of remorse
Start creating a place
for satisfaction above
-some dark thoughts
of attempting suicides
It’s the time to close
the book of long isolation
I want to feel like I am loved
to my country, back to my life
Smile again without wearing an
emotional smile that lasts forever
the book of negativity
Stop flipping over the
pages of wasted years
and stand in front of
-waves of confidence
It’s the time to close
the book of remorse
Start creating a place
for satisfaction above
-some dark thoughts
of attempting suicides
It’s the time to close
the book of long isolation
I want to feel like I am loved
to my country, back to my life
Smile again without wearing an
emotional smile that lasts forever
Be Stronger
Stronger than before
I’m here under rainfall
Getting stronger than
before, because of you
Stronger than feelings
I’m wiser, and faster than
the curious heart breaker
We’re stronger than love
You once made me happy
I melted my heart into steel
Just to always remember you
Harder, better than memories
Your friendship made me
-stronger than the old times
When I hear your voice alone
I become stronger than death
No more castles and empires
Together we are stronger than
greater, higher than old figures
You make the heart grow healthier
But the wind of your sweet scent
-were stronger than a drunk soul
Between us there is no intimacy
we strongly keep on shining respect
I’m here under rainfall
Getting stronger than
before, because of you
Stronger than feelings
I’m wiser, and faster than
the curious heart breaker
We’re stronger than love
You once made me happy
I melted my heart into steel
Just to always remember you
Harder, better than memories
Your friendship made me
-stronger than the old times
When I hear your voice alone
I become stronger than death
No more castles and empires
Together we are stronger than
greater, higher than old figures
You make the heart grow healthier
But the wind of your sweet scent
-were stronger than a drunk soul
Between us there is no intimacy
we strongly keep on shining respect
I Am Human
I am human
from all races
I am looking
for respect,
condition
-attitude
and good
behaviours
I am human
dancing with
no silky touch
but on my own
for no reason
sometimes, I
am trying to
live like a human
My name is
human being
My age is the
numbers of
days of the
dead fighter
My soul is
already taken
Another human
I once met her;
she is the reason
why the night is
sad, no matter
what I do aside
from writing a
poem or a song
Can someone
walk me home
I am blind to
trust strangers
I am a silent
human listening
to dreamers talking
to machine believers
from all races
I am looking
for respect,
condition
-attitude
and good
behaviours
I am human
dancing with
no silky touch
but on my own
for no reason
sometimes, I
am trying to
live like a human
My name is
human being
My age is the
numbers of
days of the
dead fighter
My soul is
already taken
Another human
I once met her;
she is the reason
why the night is
sad, no matter
what I do aside
from writing a
poem or a song
Can someone
walk me home
I am blind to
trust strangers
I am a silent
human listening
to dreamers talking
to machine believers
BOBBY Z is a avid writer and Blogger, also has video’s, audio’s a podcast and has Authored the Book Tales Of The Junkyard Dog. A rather abrupt and unusual Collection of Poems providing insightful and comical commentary on life, the Convergence of the past and the present, and the trails and tribulations of Relationships---BLOG https://talesofthejunkyarddog.wordpress.com |
walking thru ashes
we walk thru ashes..of days gone by.
Unable to find a true identity..always questioning why.
Does anyone know us..or will we forever be doomed.
Were we ever welcomed by anyone..or were we always marooned.
Searching for remnants..of who and what we am.
Were we left on the door steps..are we a forgotten man.
Roaming thru unclaimed luggage..hoping to find.
Some traces of the past..or ARE we lost in time.
Too often we search..for visions of the past.
Only to learn..that they never can last.
So why must it be..that the past we can’t see.
So how do we know..if we are really who we are suppose to be.
Unable to find a true identity..always questioning why.
Does anyone know us..or will we forever be doomed.
Were we ever welcomed by anyone..or were we always marooned.
Searching for remnants..of who and what we am.
Were we left on the door steps..are we a forgotten man.
Roaming thru unclaimed luggage..hoping to find.
Some traces of the past..or ARE we lost in time.
Too often we search..for visions of the past.
Only to learn..that they never can last.
So why must it be..that the past we can’t see.
So how do we know..if we are really who we are suppose to be.
SEA OF BOOZE
LOST FOREVER..IN A SEA OF BOOZE.
THE MORE YOU DRINK..THE MORE YOU LOSE..
TOO MANY TIMES..OF NEVER KNOWING WHY.
YOU’VE HURT SO MANY..YET YOU NEVER CRY.
THE BLACKOUTS AND HANGOVERS..ALWAYS CAUSED YOU PAIN.
YOU JUST PISSED IT ALL..WITH YOUR MONEY DOWN THE DRAIN.
YES YOU WENT TO WORK EVERY DAY..AND PAID THE BILLS.
JUST COULDN’T KEEP YOURSELF..OUT OF THE GIN MILLS.
NEVER CARED..,IF IT WAS TO BE YOUR RUIN.
BOTTLE ON THE TABLE,GLASS IN YOUR GHAND..AND BOOZING YOU WERE DOING.
FROM ALL WALKS OF LIFE..INCLUDING THOSE BORN WITH A SILVER SPOON.
MADE NO DIFFERENCE WHO YOU WERE..WHILE BOOZING AT THE CORNER SALOON.
AFTER MANY YEARS OF FEELING NO PAIN..AND SUFFERING FROM THE DRY HEAVES.
YOU SWORE TO EVERYONE THAT IT WAS TIME TO QUIT, BUT AS ALWAYS NO ONE BELIEVES.
YOU,LL FOREVER REMAIN IS THAT SEA OF BOOZE..UNLESS YOU CHANGE YOU’RE WAYS.
ONE DAY AT A TIME..EASY DOES IT..AND FOLLOW THE WAYS OF AA.
THE MORE YOU DRINK..THE MORE YOU LOSE..
TOO MANY TIMES..OF NEVER KNOWING WHY.
YOU’VE HURT SO MANY..YET YOU NEVER CRY.
THE BLACKOUTS AND HANGOVERS..ALWAYS CAUSED YOU PAIN.
YOU JUST PISSED IT ALL..WITH YOUR MONEY DOWN THE DRAIN.
YES YOU WENT TO WORK EVERY DAY..AND PAID THE BILLS.
JUST COULDN’T KEEP YOURSELF..OUT OF THE GIN MILLS.
NEVER CARED..,IF IT WAS TO BE YOUR RUIN.
BOTTLE ON THE TABLE,GLASS IN YOUR GHAND..AND BOOZING YOU WERE DOING.
FROM ALL WALKS OF LIFE..INCLUDING THOSE BORN WITH A SILVER SPOON.
MADE NO DIFFERENCE WHO YOU WERE..WHILE BOOZING AT THE CORNER SALOON.
AFTER MANY YEARS OF FEELING NO PAIN..AND SUFFERING FROM THE DRY HEAVES.
YOU SWORE TO EVERYONE THAT IT WAS TIME TO QUIT, BUT AS ALWAYS NO ONE BELIEVES.
YOU,LL FOREVER REMAIN IS THAT SEA OF BOOZE..UNLESS YOU CHANGE YOU’RE WAYS.
ONE DAY AT A TIME..EASY DOES IT..AND FOLLOW THE WAYS OF AA.
CONFUSED
TO MANY TIMES.
WHEN YOU GAZE INTO YOUR THOUGHTS.
YOU COME BACK CONFUSED.
AND YOUR MIND IS DISTRAUGHT.
TOTALLY WITHDRAWN.
FROM LIFES GENTLE GRACES.
UNABLE TO SPEAK.
AND FORGETTING THEIR FACES.
OVERWHLEMED BY YOUR DESIRES.
YOUR ALSO FULL OF FRUSTRATIONS.
YOUR TRYING TO LEAVE.
YET YOU HAVE NO DESTINATIONS.
WADING THRU PUDDLES.
OF SAD BROKEN FACES.
FOLLOWING FOOTPRINTS.
WITHOUT ANY TRACES.
THE VISIONS OF EMPTYNESS.
CONsUMES ALL YOUR BREATH.
YOU CONTEMPLATE HAPPINESS.
TRY TO DELAY DEATH.
WHEN YOU GAZE INTO YOUR THOUGHTS.
YOU COME BACK CONFUSED.
AND YOUR MIND IS DISTRAUGHT.
TOTALLY WITHDRAWN.
FROM LIFES GENTLE GRACES.
UNABLE TO SPEAK.
AND FORGETTING THEIR FACES.
OVERWHLEMED BY YOUR DESIRES.
YOUR ALSO FULL OF FRUSTRATIONS.
YOUR TRYING TO LEAVE.
YET YOU HAVE NO DESTINATIONS.
WADING THRU PUDDLES.
OF SAD BROKEN FACES.
FOLLOWING FOOTPRINTS.
WITHOUT ANY TRACES.
THE VISIONS OF EMPTYNESS.
CONsUMES ALL YOUR BREATH.
YOU CONTEMPLATE HAPPINESS.
TRY TO DELAY DEATH.
Rikki Santer’s poetry has appeared in numerous publications both nationally and abroad including Ms. Magazine, Poetry East, The Journal of American Poetry, Hotel Amerika, Crab Orchard Review, Grimm, Slipstream and The Main Street Rag. Her work has received many honors including five Pushcart and three Ohioana book award nominations as well as a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Humanities. Her eighth collection, Drop Jaw, inspired by the art of ventriloquism, was published by NightBallet Press in the spring. Please contact her through her website: www.rikkisanter.com |
Figure Makers
Brothers George & Glenn McElroy are considered the
Stradivariuses of ventriloquist figure makers. It’s estimated
that only 30 of their creations from the 1930/40s exist today.
Palimpsest of fingerprints
on a legacy of head sticks
& levers from master
machinist & artist brother--
intricate doings lying
in wait for the flash
& the flaunt.
Candies & cakes pale
next to Jacko the talking monkey,
wild elf atop Russian hurdy gurdy--
he’s another Cadillac of a dummy,
Fabregé of sweet gears.
Magical apparatus these
strange gifts, temporal &
timeless, every McElroy
offspring: Cecil, Ollie,
Dudley & Troll, man-sized
animatronic named Umpire.
Poetry in hacksaw & sander,
monkey business in eyes
crossing, ears wiggling,
tongues sticking out.
In the museum Jacko poses--
wunderkind spirit,
parody in an organ grinder’s suit,
perhaps pining
for a full moon’s treetop.
All Figure Makers step back,
leave us to the clockwork
of our days, vulnerable
machines in silence.
Stradivariuses of ventriloquist figure makers. It’s estimated
that only 30 of their creations from the 1930/40s exist today.
Palimpsest of fingerprints
on a legacy of head sticks
& levers from master
machinist & artist brother--
intricate doings lying
in wait for the flash
& the flaunt.
Candies & cakes pale
next to Jacko the talking monkey,
wild elf atop Russian hurdy gurdy--
he’s another Cadillac of a dummy,
Fabregé of sweet gears.
Magical apparatus these
strange gifts, temporal &
timeless, every McElroy
offspring: Cecil, Ollie,
Dudley & Troll, man-sized
animatronic named Umpire.
Poetry in hacksaw & sander,
monkey business in eyes
crossing, ears wiggling,
tongues sticking out.
In the museum Jacko poses--
wunderkind spirit,
parody in an organ grinder’s suit,
perhaps pining
for a full moon’s treetop.
All Figure Makers step back,
leave us to the clockwork
of our days, vulnerable
machines in silence.
Señor Surreal
[Señor Wences] was the one who… stopped using
a dummy, which is the gutsiest thing you can do
in a ventriloquist act. That’s like Metallica coming
out and doing something a cappella.
—Penn Jillette of Penn & Teller
By s’awright s’awright I mean Monday
morning after Ed Sullivan Sunday nights,
when our geography class was a ping-pong
salsa of s’awrights until Mr.Kaminsky
scowled with detention threats.
By s’awright s’awright I mean Spanish
clouds of tilde that didn’t need a joke to
float. Etcetera his territorial tract with
a wacky swivel chair of voices.
We cottoned to his weird decoys--
feisty falsetto, box of severed head,
mundane scraps of conversation with
a lipsticked hand.
By s’awright s’awright I mean a matador
with a meringue cape dispatching cigarette
smoke rings & spinning plates teetering
atop flamingo legs, ees bery nice.
a dummy, which is the gutsiest thing you can do
in a ventriloquist act. That’s like Metallica coming
out and doing something a cappella.
—Penn Jillette of Penn & Teller
By s’awright s’awright I mean Monday
morning after Ed Sullivan Sunday nights,
when our geography class was a ping-pong
salsa of s’awrights until Mr.Kaminsky
scowled with detention threats.
By s’awright s’awright I mean Spanish
clouds of tilde that didn’t need a joke to
float. Etcetera his territorial tract with
a wacky swivel chair of voices.
We cottoned to his weird decoys--
feisty falsetto, box of severed head,
mundane scraps of conversation with
a lipsticked hand.
By s’awright s’awright I mean a matador
with a meringue cape dispatching cigarette
smoke rings & spinning plates teetering
atop flamingo legs, ees bery nice.
Philip Piarrot hails from Nashville, TN. Deeper roots can be unearthed in Louisiana but signs of his particular brood can be found as far west as Texas.
His work has been previously published in AHF Magazine and Better Than Starbucks.
His work has been previously published in AHF Magazine and Better Than Starbucks.
The Gnat
I bask unsurceasing, my unvexed float
And {little-to-do} drifts idly by me
In a repurposed inflatable boat
He wobbles there; worldly, careless, and free
I have thought to ask him how he’s feeling,
I look into his eyes and come undone
As he soaks in the sun like he’s stealing
And a lesser man would have much less fun
We roll with the tiny scarpering waves
Into the sea, leaving the land behind
Our little oars are strong and sturdy staves
Our motor is to conjure peace of mind
He slides off his trusty boat with a splat
Gendarmed self-awareness of a gnat
And {little-to-do} drifts idly by me
In a repurposed inflatable boat
He wobbles there; worldly, careless, and free
I have thought to ask him how he’s feeling,
I look into his eyes and come undone
As he soaks in the sun like he’s stealing
And a lesser man would have much less fun
We roll with the tiny scarpering waves
Into the sea, leaving the land behind
Our little oars are strong and sturdy staves
Our motor is to conjure peace of mind
He slides off his trusty boat with a splat
Gendarmed self-awareness of a gnat
Distillation
To create a brand-new version of woe
One must start from beneath the foundation,
Digging out the roots with a sharpened hoe,
Until one comes upon the very inundation
Souls from ages past; a congregation
On their knees in abject prayer and stone
In an unmoving, dark sea of ancients...
Pluck the nearest and bring it to your home.
You must convince him to speak of the years
The thousands spent on his knees beyond speech
Convince him freedom for his brethren nears
If he would talk, all would be within reach
Five minutes recorded is just enough
To make a man shatter all that he loves
One must start from beneath the foundation,
Digging out the roots with a sharpened hoe,
Until one comes upon the very inundation
Souls from ages past; a congregation
On their knees in abject prayer and stone
In an unmoving, dark sea of ancients...
Pluck the nearest and bring it to your home.
You must convince him to speak of the years
The thousands spent on his knees beyond speech
Convince him freedom for his brethren nears
If he would talk, all would be within reach
Five minutes recorded is just enough
To make a man shatter all that he loves
Kicks
It was a glamorous proposition
He ran his tongue over his lips and teeth
Smiled. Nodded. He accepted the mission
He was predisposed. And he was quite lithe.
How much would you pay a man to run through
The jungle in tennis shoes and a pack
Does the distance factor into it? Two
Miles, say…Room and board, and then two miles back?
He knew Netta would be there, the money
Was for her, to woo her to be his wife
He then thought of her way, always sunny
With her, he could live a contented life
He shouldered the pack, laced the proffered kicks
Smiled for the cameras. Fame in the mix.
He ran his tongue over his lips and teeth
Smiled. Nodded. He accepted the mission
He was predisposed. And he was quite lithe.
How much would you pay a man to run through
The jungle in tennis shoes and a pack
Does the distance factor into it? Two
Miles, say…Room and board, and then two miles back?
He knew Netta would be there, the money
Was for her, to woo her to be his wife
He then thought of her way, always sunny
With her, he could live a contented life
He shouldered the pack, laced the proffered kicks
Smiled for the cameras. Fame in the mix.
Ann Weil is a retired teacher and professor from Ann Arbor, Michigan. Her work can be read or is forthcoming in The Ekphrastic Review, Poetry Quarterly, American Writer’s Review, The Voices Project, and other publications. To learn more, visit www.annweilpoetry.com.
She
She dreams of greatness
But is the embodiment of mediocrity.
Aspires to fame and high esteem
Yet habitually falls short of the mark.
Wonders if she will ever be content
With the smallness of her life,
With her inconsequential contribution.
Envies the sandhill crane who lives
Unfettered by existential inquiry.
Admires the Black-eyed Susans
For their total disregard of anything
Other than exuberant sun-worship.
Searches for grace and acceptance
Of who, what, and how she is.
Finds a sunbeam. Sits.
But is the embodiment of mediocrity.
Aspires to fame and high esteem
Yet habitually falls short of the mark.
Wonders if she will ever be content
With the smallness of her life,
With her inconsequential contribution.
Envies the sandhill crane who lives
Unfettered by existential inquiry.
Admires the Black-eyed Susans
For their total disregard of anything
Other than exuberant sun-worship.
Searches for grace and acceptance
Of who, what, and how she is.
Finds a sunbeam. Sits.
Things Left Untended
Lawn gone to seed
Latchkey children
Nose hair.
Ancestral graves
Stray cats
Loose ends.
Fading friendships
Overdue bills
Dust bunnies.
Broken spirits
Socks with holes
Earth.
Latchkey children
Nose hair.
Ancestral graves
Stray cats
Loose ends.
Fading friendships
Overdue bills
Dust bunnies.
Broken spirits
Socks with holes
Earth.
Fallen Face
Old Friend.
Is it really you?
The mind paints pictures
But the glass doesn’t lie.
I’ll be truthful,
It’s a bit shocking to glimpse you
Unexpectedly.
Image and narrative clash jarringly,
If caught unawares.
Choosing to look is a different matter.
One can prepare oneself.
Fallen face, as if melting.
Who left the cake out in the rain, anyway?
Between the lines, under the folds,
Despite splatters of umber dotting the landscape,
I claim this--
Beauty remains.
Not conventional Beauty, mind you.
Rather, the essence of strength, resilience, and grace
That can be regarded as comely in women of a certain age.
I’ll give myself that much.
And I’m fond of the streaks of silver, too,
That frame the fallen face.
I look like my grandmothers.
Acceptance comes and goes.
What does it mean to age gracefully?
Am I doing it right?
Is it really you?
The mind paints pictures
But the glass doesn’t lie.
I’ll be truthful,
It’s a bit shocking to glimpse you
Unexpectedly.
Image and narrative clash jarringly,
If caught unawares.
Choosing to look is a different matter.
One can prepare oneself.
Fallen face, as if melting.
Who left the cake out in the rain, anyway?
Between the lines, under the folds,
Despite splatters of umber dotting the landscape,
I claim this--
Beauty remains.
Not conventional Beauty, mind you.
Rather, the essence of strength, resilience, and grace
That can be regarded as comely in women of a certain age.
I’ll give myself that much.
And I’m fond of the streaks of silver, too,
That frame the fallen face.
I look like my grandmothers.
Acceptance comes and goes.
What does it mean to age gracefully?
Am I doing it right?
Homecoming
The letter is taped to the bannister
Not to be missed.
The salutation is non-existent--
Just “Mom”.
Not good, says the pit in my stomach.
I read.
The pit is sadly correct.
Not good.
A Dear John missive
Blame and accusation thinly veiled.
Jilted parent, not lover.
My son is gone.
Now I carry Anger in one arm
And Hurt in the other.
As soon as I get one calm
The other rails.
No sleep tonight.
Eyes ache from crying.
Chest heavy and tight.
Let go.
Let be.
Do not refire the synapses.
Obsession is fruitless.
Let go.
Let be.
Let time.
Let heal.
Find grace.
Not to be missed.
The salutation is non-existent--
Just “Mom”.
Not good, says the pit in my stomach.
I read.
The pit is sadly correct.
Not good.
A Dear John missive
Blame and accusation thinly veiled.
Jilted parent, not lover.
My son is gone.
Now I carry Anger in one arm
And Hurt in the other.
As soon as I get one calm
The other rails.
No sleep tonight.
Eyes ache from crying.
Chest heavy and tight.
Let go.
Let be.
Do not refire the synapses.
Obsession is fruitless.
Let go.
Let be.
Let time.
Let heal.
Find grace.
I Woke Up Old Again
I woke up old again today.
Achy joints stiff and creaky.
Face in the mirror
A disappointing jumble of
Crags, crevices and jowly bits.
Jesus.
In my mind
I am young still.
Lithe and lean
Smooth and tight.
Nary a pain nor ailment.
I’m not ready for death
But this downward slide is challenging.
I dream as though I am twenty
Yet every morning it’s Goundhog Day
And my grandmother stares back at me.
Achy joints stiff and creaky.
Face in the mirror
A disappointing jumble of
Crags, crevices and jowly bits.
Jesus.
In my mind
I am young still.
Lithe and lean
Smooth and tight.
Nary a pain nor ailment.
I’m not ready for death
But this downward slide is challenging.
I dream as though I am twenty
Yet every morning it’s Goundhog Day
And my grandmother stares back at me.
BIRTHDAY
There is a day I like to call ‘Yearly Self anniversary day’
They say it’s the only day where a mother laughs whilst you cry
Sounds Absurd right?
I don’t know if it was a magical day
Or a frightening one for them
But I am more inclined to believe that it was a little bit of both.
Started out as small as a poppy seed
Yet a heavy burden to the one who was my temporary home
A home where memories I couldn’t keep
But sensations I felt.
A slumber I gradually awoke from as days, weeks and months passed
Unbeknown to me I was like a flower waiting for its time bloom
I was coming to life
A new world I arrived to
Welcomed by a loving embrace
Forever leaving an imprint on that day
One which welcomed my existence.
Year by year a celebration by friends/family or on one’s lonesome is held like an ever imperative and unceasing ritual
It’s the single day of the year bestowed by the name ‘Birthday’
They say it’s the only day where a mother laughs whilst you cry
Sounds Absurd right?
I don’t know if it was a magical day
Or a frightening one for them
But I am more inclined to believe that it was a little bit of both.
Started out as small as a poppy seed
Yet a heavy burden to the one who was my temporary home
A home where memories I couldn’t keep
But sensations I felt.
A slumber I gradually awoke from as days, weeks and months passed
Unbeknown to me I was like a flower waiting for its time bloom
I was coming to life
A new world I arrived to
Welcomed by a loving embrace
Forever leaving an imprint on that day
One which welcomed my existence.
Year by year a celebration by friends/family or on one’s lonesome is held like an ever imperative and unceasing ritual
It’s the single day of the year bestowed by the name ‘Birthday’
THE SEASON WITHOUT A NAME AND A SEASONAL DISEASE THE DOCTOR CANNOT CURE
Dear doctor it’s summer
I have been dutiful
My bag contains my summer weapons u have advised me to carry
Sunscreen, a hat, an umbrella, glasses to keep sun burns, sore eyes at bay
At night I bathe in calamine to chase the itches away
Now rash passes me by without looking my way
Mosquitos have named my house a suicidal site so malaria is yesterday news you need not worry
Dear doctor it’s me again
The trees are mourning today
Drip, Drip, Drip
Red tear, brown tear, orange tear
The say autumn leaves are falling but I see tears
It hurts doctor
Because of my good heart I made a mistake today,
I recklessly made a leaf-angel trying to wipe the tears of the weeping trees
But the pollen wasn’t so welcoming
Now both my eyes and nose are runny
But I am thankful doctor, your futuristic mind is a lifesaver,
Your 3 month prescription of Allegra you gave me during my last visit is sufficient for the whole fall season
Now I can console the weeping trees as much as I want
Dear doctor did you notice?
The birds are migrating south
Doctor did you hear?
The sound of crackling trees as they quiver from the cold winter breeze
Winter is upon us
I will be sure to bring you a wintery souvenir when I pass by for my diagnosis
It hurts to talk
My habitual winter sore throat decided to launch winter again this year
Today the world seems alive doctor
The sun is warmer and the days are longer
The trees are gleeful with new leaves in sprout
My favorite Sakura flowers are in full blossom
So as the clogging in my nose_ sigh!
Dear Doctor It hurts so much today
This season, you never told me about
You have not told me what do to when this part of me hurts
You have inspected all my vital signs and told me I am not sick
But why?
Why does it feel like my chest is clenched?
Why does it feel like my every inhale is like broken ribs perforating my lungs?
My heart, Doctor it hurts so much I can’t bear the pain
Ever since that fateful day my heart has never stopped aching
It’s an endurance I cannot take anymore
The nullness and the void are uninvited viruses that have took shelter in my heart
Please take the pain away like you always did with the other seasonal pains
Dear Doctor
I am sorry for bothering you with something beyond your capabilities
Everyone knows
That there is no cure for a fragmented heart
It comes in a season without a name
A season to be patient and strong enough to await its passing
Dear Doctor it still hurts but you need not worry
I will survive
I have been dutiful
My bag contains my summer weapons u have advised me to carry
Sunscreen, a hat, an umbrella, glasses to keep sun burns, sore eyes at bay
At night I bathe in calamine to chase the itches away
Now rash passes me by without looking my way
Mosquitos have named my house a suicidal site so malaria is yesterday news you need not worry
Dear doctor it’s me again
The trees are mourning today
Drip, Drip, Drip
Red tear, brown tear, orange tear
The say autumn leaves are falling but I see tears
It hurts doctor
Because of my good heart I made a mistake today,
I recklessly made a leaf-angel trying to wipe the tears of the weeping trees
But the pollen wasn’t so welcoming
Now both my eyes and nose are runny
But I am thankful doctor, your futuristic mind is a lifesaver,
Your 3 month prescription of Allegra you gave me during my last visit is sufficient for the whole fall season
Now I can console the weeping trees as much as I want
Dear doctor did you notice?
The birds are migrating south
Doctor did you hear?
The sound of crackling trees as they quiver from the cold winter breeze
Winter is upon us
I will be sure to bring you a wintery souvenir when I pass by for my diagnosis
It hurts to talk
My habitual winter sore throat decided to launch winter again this year
Today the world seems alive doctor
The sun is warmer and the days are longer
The trees are gleeful with new leaves in sprout
My favorite Sakura flowers are in full blossom
So as the clogging in my nose_ sigh!
Dear Doctor It hurts so much today
This season, you never told me about
You have not told me what do to when this part of me hurts
You have inspected all my vital signs and told me I am not sick
But why?
Why does it feel like my chest is clenched?
Why does it feel like my every inhale is like broken ribs perforating my lungs?
My heart, Doctor it hurts so much I can’t bear the pain
Ever since that fateful day my heart has never stopped aching
It’s an endurance I cannot take anymore
The nullness and the void are uninvited viruses that have took shelter in my heart
Please take the pain away like you always did with the other seasonal pains
Dear Doctor
I am sorry for bothering you with something beyond your capabilities
Everyone knows
That there is no cure for a fragmented heart
It comes in a season without a name
A season to be patient and strong enough to await its passing
Dear Doctor it still hurts but you need not worry
I will survive
LIFE AND DEATH
A heartbeat, a squeal and an inhale
A new life begins
A straight heart line and the last exhale
Curtains closed for another life
An exchange for life with another life
Life and death
Such odd twins
True definition of hot and cold
One gives hope the other takes it away
Often people desire life but why do I hanker death
Why is it people dread death whilst I am impatient for death?
It isn’t because I hate life, no I am content with life
Just that life isn’t content with me
Life killed me more times than death would ever would
They say death is cruel but isn’t life more ruthless
Life lent me a helping hand during times of despair
Fed me with hope for better days
Just to later stab me in the back
A vicious endless circle that I relentlessly seek for a loophole
In death I wouldn’t find an end but rather a beginning of something new
I have always thought that life is just one bitter-sweet dream
And death is like an awakening from a long slumber
Don’t get me wrong
I am not a death enthusiast
Even-though life has not always been sweets and rainbows
It’s undeniable its good outweighs the bad
So much that we became frenemies
But for now I am homesick
I am just thirsty to return to the home I have long promised to return to before I parted with it
A new life begins
A straight heart line and the last exhale
Curtains closed for another life
An exchange for life with another life
Life and death
Such odd twins
True definition of hot and cold
One gives hope the other takes it away
Often people desire life but why do I hanker death
Why is it people dread death whilst I am impatient for death?
It isn’t because I hate life, no I am content with life
Just that life isn’t content with me
Life killed me more times than death would ever would
They say death is cruel but isn’t life more ruthless
Life lent me a helping hand during times of despair
Fed me with hope for better days
Just to later stab me in the back
A vicious endless circle that I relentlessly seek for a loophole
In death I wouldn’t find an end but rather a beginning of something new
I have always thought that life is just one bitter-sweet dream
And death is like an awakening from a long slumber
Don’t get me wrong
I am not a death enthusiast
Even-though life has not always been sweets and rainbows
It’s undeniable its good outweighs the bad
So much that we became frenemies
But for now I am homesick
I am just thirsty to return to the home I have long promised to return to before I parted with it
LUNAR’S ECLIPSE
Walking down the eerie streets of my neighborhood
Ghastly silhouettes seen at every corner
The rhythm of my pace in sync with the faint foot steps
That are behind me to which the owner cannot be seen
But yet my heart so content and unwavering
My blood stained companion is my solace
Soon she will be gleaming once her rebirth is complete
And I will finally sympathize with the lonely hymns of the wolves
Heard in the far distance as I continue on a now conspicuous path
Lit by a newly reborn Lunar
Ghastly silhouettes seen at every corner
The rhythm of my pace in sync with the faint foot steps
That are behind me to which the owner cannot be seen
But yet my heart so content and unwavering
My blood stained companion is my solace
Soon she will be gleaming once her rebirth is complete
And I will finally sympathize with the lonely hymns of the wolves
Heard in the far distance as I continue on a now conspicuous path
Lit by a newly reborn Lunar
THE DRIFTER
From the north to the south
From the east to the west
I am traveler who knows no boundaries
Ask me where I am from and to, I will give no answer
For as long the skyline stretches far as it can
And for as long as the ground allows me to sway with its children
I will forever have no destination because home is wherever I roam
I am an uninvited guest with no face
Only my presence is felt
I am meanie at times
I can throw you off balance if you on edge
I can come bearing unwanted souvenirs that may make you bedridden
Forgive me when I am at rage for I too have to let off steam
It is not easy being a lonely wanderer, drifting from place to place
Don’t deny me just yet
I can be your comfort
Delicately I can caress your cheeks and hair
Soothe your soul in ways you can’t imagine
I can be your song and your dance companion
Awaken the slumbering dancer in you and give you wings as you and I become one
Ask the trees they will let you on the secrets their leaves revealed as they swayed to my breeze
Ask the birds they are my loyal customers to my serene currents
Diving and gliding with zeal, their chirp and my howl synchronize into a hypnotic melody
Good or bad
I hope you take me as I am
Endow me with your geniality
Welcome me as if I am your long lost child
So that even I whom doesn’t belong anywhere can feel some sense of belonging
Even if it is just for a brief moment
Before I once again be on my way
A vagabond I will forever be
From the east to the west
I am traveler who knows no boundaries
Ask me where I am from and to, I will give no answer
For as long the skyline stretches far as it can
And for as long as the ground allows me to sway with its children
I will forever have no destination because home is wherever I roam
I am an uninvited guest with no face
Only my presence is felt
I am meanie at times
I can throw you off balance if you on edge
I can come bearing unwanted souvenirs that may make you bedridden
Forgive me when I am at rage for I too have to let off steam
It is not easy being a lonely wanderer, drifting from place to place
Don’t deny me just yet
I can be your comfort
Delicately I can caress your cheeks and hair
Soothe your soul in ways you can’t imagine
I can be your song and your dance companion
Awaken the slumbering dancer in you and give you wings as you and I become one
Ask the trees they will let you on the secrets their leaves revealed as they swayed to my breeze
Ask the birds they are my loyal customers to my serene currents
Diving and gliding with zeal, their chirp and my howl synchronize into a hypnotic melody
Good or bad
I hope you take me as I am
Endow me with your geniality
Welcome me as if I am your long lost child
So that even I whom doesn’t belong anywhere can feel some sense of belonging
Even if it is just for a brief moment
Before I once again be on my way
A vagabond I will forever be
Born in the village of Majkhuria in Bangladesh, Rehanul, a bilingual poet started writing poems at an early age. Although he has interest in different forms of literature, his first and foremost love is poetry. Falling ‘upon the thorns of life’ as Rehanul takes refuge in the lap of nature, so also he seeks pleasure in poetry. He finds no antagonism between art and science. Rehanul believes beauty is religion and poetry can build a habitable earth by promoting beauty and truth together through the appreciation of beauty. He dreams of a future ruled only by love. |
In the Thought of You
In the thought of you I stumbled on nightmare, appearing through
A secret lining- ruinous; placed within the armpit of an Octopus,
Tight and tough-
There I got buried under the cold breaths of the skeleton
Of burning sand dune,
The writhing little drops coming from the sand were
My final beats of life, counting those beats
I discovered your existence bit by bit-
Your beauty gets enhanced by the amorous blushes of Venus
Your intoxicating smell kindles the desire for a sneaky hug in the dark
Your scarlet lips are sacred dreams of sucking pleasure
Indeed, you are no less than Vesuvius
Sweetheart!
A secret lining- ruinous; placed within the armpit of an Octopus,
Tight and tough-
There I got buried under the cold breaths of the skeleton
Of burning sand dune,
The writhing little drops coming from the sand were
My final beats of life, counting those beats
I discovered your existence bit by bit-
Your beauty gets enhanced by the amorous blushes of Venus
Your intoxicating smell kindles the desire for a sneaky hug in the dark
Your scarlet lips are sacred dreams of sucking pleasure
Indeed, you are no less than Vesuvius
Sweetheart!
A Tale of Monuments
Do you like to be at Latoli?
You will come across footmarks, which, fortunately, are not lost.
History believes in footmarks
Experts are busy finding explanations
Who are the owners of these footmarks?
Are they black or white ?
They discovered lava streams engulfing every inch of Latoli and
A hapless creature escaping the first eruptive fury,
Only to get crushed beneath a stone block
These are the winning steps
Therefore, historians decided to build white monuments over them.
You will come across footmarks, which, fortunately, are not lost.
History believes in footmarks
Experts are busy finding explanations
Who are the owners of these footmarks?
Are they black or white ?
They discovered lava streams engulfing every inch of Latoli and
A hapless creature escaping the first eruptive fury,
Only to get crushed beneath a stone block
These are the winning steps
Therefore, historians decided to build white monuments over them.
Secret of a Hero
What makes you a hero?
Isn’t the reason that
You could shoot at Achilles’ heel
Wage a blitzkrieg by
Driving wedge between two parties
Execute millions in cold blood
Master the art of Schadenfreude
And hold out an olive branch for the sake of
Humanity,
Which I could not!
Isn’t the reason that
You could shoot at Achilles’ heel
Wage a blitzkrieg by
Driving wedge between two parties
Execute millions in cold blood
Master the art of Schadenfreude
And hold out an olive branch for the sake of
Humanity,
Which I could not!
Categories
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AHMAD AL-KHATAT
ALEXIS OGUNMOKUN
ANN WEIL
BOBBY Z
BRANDON MCQUADE
CASEY KILLINGSWORTH
CYNTHIA PITMAN
ED AHERN
JOHN DRUDGE
KATHY ABRAHAMS
KEITH BURKHOLDER
KEN ALLAN DRONSFIELD
NDABA SIBANDA
PHILIP PIARROT
PHYLLIS CASTELLI
REHANUL HOQUE
RENEE DRUMMOND-BROWN
RERCY KREKY ZOLA-ZABA
RIKKI SANTER
SANTOSH KUMAR POKHAREL
SAYAN AICH BHOWMIK