Celebrate the NowLike pelicans sitting on dock polls we feel the rhythm of mindfully calming waves. The sun hugs the horizon, shooting gold beams across the water, highlighting two dolphins playing near the end of the pier. They nuzzle and gently jump alongside each other. Only a few feet from our feet, seagull chicks scurry past, plucking morsels from the sand. A crane lands amidst cottontails swaying in the dunes behind us, joining the celebration. There is no going back. Nature enchants all her guests with a precious and fleeting gift. Any foam filled ocean will tell you, here and now is all we ever experience. Steps to a Humane AgeBy allowing the specter of history to follow natural paths to newly discovered places inspired by wild dances in outdoor civic centers, we could create nations without boundaries. By hoarding guns, however, we fail to affirm life giving wombs so kids increasingly wonder what’s the point? No wonder we hear about suicide tweeting dis-eases when lawn care means more than saving parks. Aware we are not the only ones, a simple welcome sign shines along neighborhood trails winding directly to the river of memory freely washing each of us with a brand new lifestyle. Just by listening to spring forests filled with songs and sounds of life yet to be named or cornered by ownership, we can raise hope by following slowly moving clouds on peaceful afternoons with our backs resting mindfully on Earth. April Life breeds tree leaves blue heaven magic meadow brook blood moon touch wind world balance inner home cosmos. ImagineMasses of people jammed together in an unsafe space.
Do you know anyone there? If you think human nature is at fault, what does that say about you? Do innocent people, prior to being slayed, have rights more pressing than those buying guns? Violence begets violence; those who live by the sword die by the sword. Listen to your sages and saviors, not racist spewing demagogues who devalue women, talk about “shit hole” countries, put personal gain over nature, education, the poor and other torn and huddled masses. Mass shootings arise from a bigoted, insane worldview. Imagine your child lying in her blood at a bar, mall, concert, cinema, market, studio, mosque, synagogue, church, or school. Imagine love in place of hate. We are all created equal.
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A Land of Plenty |
Sunil Sharma is Mumbai-based senior academic, critic, literary editor and author with 21 published books: Seven collections of poetry; three of short fiction; one novel; a critical study of the novel, and, eight joint anthologies on prose, poetry and criticism, and, one joint poetry collection. He is a recipient of the UK-based Destiny Poets’ inaugural Poet of the Year award---2012. His poems were published in the prestigious UN project: Happiness: The Delight-Tree: An Anthology of Contemporary International Poetry, in the year 2015. Sunil edits the English section of the monthly bilingual journal Setu published from Pittsburgh, USA: http://www.setumag.com/p/setu-home.html For more details, please visit the blog: http://www.drsunilsharma.blogspot.in/ |
A painter in the house of a fishmonger
Once upon a time
in a tiny space
soared a spirit; mixing the dull
with sublime and undaunted by the closing walls
of a one-room structure that mimicked
a patriarchal home, or almost a replica of old power games
played out in unequal homes.
And a gruff owner who sold fish and came to
lodge a female, a secret artist, thus changing forever the place-history
and personal micro-narratives involved, in an otherwise, forgettable drama
of small lives.
There, in that shack, another might have felt
confined and slowly wilted by poverty and neglect
but not Maud Lewis
who re-discovered her
talent for colours and lines
and painted all the rough surfaces
available to her fingers, bent with arthritis.
Through cards, flowers, animals, birds and meadows
she could
transcend a limited world of bias and poor opportunities denied to women
Maud gradually found some comfort
in a cold household, turning it into a living museum where fluttered the butterflies and cats and snow rushed in, on the once-drab walls, inner-outer, her imagination and memory producing stunning works that beckoned.
… a call from the White House changed the sordid situation
and made the everyday figure into a cult.
The natural scenes---vibrant and cheerful
are now folk art's unique heritage!
The woman, once abandoned and ridiculed
became a world-famous painter
that caught everyday realities, in strokes and lines
full of exuberance, life and vitality.
Few stories with depressing beginning
could have such a fairy-tale ending!
from the vantage July evening of 2018, a home battered by winds and rains of Mumbai, a continuum gets formed between varied times and geographies,
a moment of renewal of past in the present
contexts different merg seamlessly
artworks ferry the distant viewer
back and forth
across a strange life-journey.
Muse-like Maud talks posthumously to an
Indian artist to
convert the ordinary into extra-ordinary
via words or paintings!
in a tiny space
soared a spirit; mixing the dull
with sublime and undaunted by the closing walls
of a one-room structure that mimicked
a patriarchal home, or almost a replica of old power games
played out in unequal homes.
And a gruff owner who sold fish and came to
lodge a female, a secret artist, thus changing forever the place-history
and personal micro-narratives involved, in an otherwise, forgettable drama
of small lives.
There, in that shack, another might have felt
confined and slowly wilted by poverty and neglect
but not Maud Lewis
who re-discovered her
talent for colours and lines
and painted all the rough surfaces
available to her fingers, bent with arthritis.
Through cards, flowers, animals, birds and meadows
she could
transcend a limited world of bias and poor opportunities denied to women
Maud gradually found some comfort
in a cold household, turning it into a living museum where fluttered the butterflies and cats and snow rushed in, on the once-drab walls, inner-outer, her imagination and memory producing stunning works that beckoned.
… a call from the White House changed the sordid situation
and made the everyday figure into a cult.
The natural scenes---vibrant and cheerful
are now folk art's unique heritage!
The woman, once abandoned and ridiculed
became a world-famous painter
that caught everyday realities, in strokes and lines
full of exuberance, life and vitality.
Few stories with depressing beginning
could have such a fairy-tale ending!
from the vantage July evening of 2018, a home battered by winds and rains of Mumbai, a continuum gets formed between varied times and geographies,
a moment of renewal of past in the present
contexts different merg seamlessly
artworks ferry the distant viewer
back and forth
across a strange life-journey.
Muse-like Maud talks posthumously to an
Indian artist to
convert the ordinary into extra-ordinary
via words or paintings!
The autumn of a soul
Still benumbed by the loss!
Things happened so fast.
One being becoming a memory
a garlanded and framed photograph!
Within an hour
living became dead
a full life stopped!
The voids opened up
deep within
painless
mind---in shock!
After the 13-day mourning
pain returned
memories became a Mother
that cared and cried with your
every fall
and smiled at your
uneven victory march!
Things happened so fast.
One being becoming a memory
a garlanded and framed photograph!
Within an hour
living became dead
a full life stopped!
The voids opened up
deep within
painless
mind---in shock!
After the 13-day mourning
pain returned
memories became a Mother
that cared and cried with your
every fall
and smiled at your
uneven victory march!
A walk among the shadows
...and i will take care and
walk softly inside the lurking
shadows
on a country trail
lit occasionally by
a wandering moon
shy as a maiden
revealing an
earthy face but once
that too---fleetingly
…and hugged by gentle trees
and lulled by
a murmuring river
watched by the spirits of the
nightly forest as our guardians
in that un-mapped region
i will walk softly, un-afraid,
holding the hand of my brother
in those landscapes grim.
walk softly inside the lurking
shadows
on a country trail
lit occasionally by
a wandering moon
shy as a maiden
revealing an
earthy face but once
that too---fleetingly
…and hugged by gentle trees
and lulled by
a murmuring river
watched by the spirits of the
nightly forest as our guardians
in that un-mapped region
i will walk softly, un-afraid,
holding the hand of my brother
in those landscapes grim.
Connections
The room is as it is
except the departed
her absence lingers on
much
like the fragrance of roses
in an empty basket!
except the departed
her absence lingers on
much
like the fragrance of roses
in an empty basket!
Dualism
in death
we discover own mortality
the face, leathery
and pale
turned into a mask inscrutable
body, stiff
amid mourners
some genuine
others, official.
With breath gone forever.
Mystery, unsolved.
Leading to meditations
on godhood and the beyond
The pain
the loss
shrink the criers.
Finally,
life takes over---
what a brutal dualism!
we discover own mortality
the face, leathery
and pale
turned into a mask inscrutable
body, stiff
amid mourners
some genuine
others, official.
With breath gone forever.
Mystery, unsolved.
Leading to meditations
on godhood and the beyond
The pain
the loss
shrink the criers.
Finally,
life takes over---
what a brutal dualism!
Elizabeth Potts Weinstein is a small business attorney and writer, living in California. She is developing poetry projects exploring life transition, support structures, and choice. Find her at https://www.instagram.com/elizabethpw/ |
The Whispers.
Everyday. Everynight. Every.
Wouldn’t They be better without the bother of you?
She flees from Them, climbing. To the oaks.
To the blue, the hawk. The wind, sings.
Unload here, in the mud. Create a little life.
Here, there is enough space to exist.
The hermit on the hill retires in communion.
Yes, Someday. But for now she descends,
back to the collective alone.
--
Wouldn’t They be better without the bother of you?
She flees from Them, climbing. To the oaks.
To the blue, the hawk. The wind, sings.
Unload here, in the mud. Create a little life.
Here, there is enough space to exist.
The hermit on the hill retires in communion.
Yes, Someday. But for now she descends,
back to the collective alone.
--
Still. Waiting.
Walking him to the door, everyday. Kissing
goodbye, laying out the pressed shirt, listening
for the engine in the driveway, cooking
spiced minestrone with the white beans.
Still. Waiting.
Unwashed dishes. Unmowed lawn.
Unbinned trashed. Unemptied litter.
Unstroked hair. Unnoticed heart.
Still. Waiting.
Somewhere misplaced.
Who places visit?
What delight?
Where movies like?
When positions opine?
How foods devour?
The hospital nights on the fold-out chair.
Still. Waiting.
--
goodbye, laying out the pressed shirt, listening
for the engine in the driveway, cooking
spiced minestrone with the white beans.
Still. Waiting.
Unwashed dishes. Unmowed lawn.
Unbinned trashed. Unemptied litter.
Unstroked hair. Unnoticed heart.
Still. Waiting.
Somewhere misplaced.
Who places visit?
What delight?
Where movies like?
When positions opine?
How foods devour?
The hospital nights on the fold-out chair.
Still. Waiting.
--
The Rain Cannot Reach Through Two Thousand Years
Climbing static,
they descend to the roots of the earth.
My iPhone upgrade failure,
my missing the call for the bell;
they are all irrelevancies under their eye.
The relentless calm infects me;
I forget about time.
Oh my child, can't you breathe eternal?
Can't you fall into the blood of the forest?
Can't you hear the stars?
Here, the darkness cannot speak to me.
Here, I am companioned in my alone.
--
they descend to the roots of the earth.
My iPhone upgrade failure,
my missing the call for the bell;
they are all irrelevancies under their eye.
The relentless calm infects me;
I forget about time.
Oh my child, can't you breathe eternal?
Can't you fall into the blood of the forest?
Can't you hear the stars?
Here, the darkness cannot speak to me.
Here, I am companioned in my alone.
--
The Collectors
The collectors scarred her neighbor, footprints bruising where
they captured their sandwiches.
Before, she was jealous of his abundance.
Yes, she had the crawlers, the frozen fire,
the slow-pushers, the millennia-diggers.
But the quick-live-ers gathered. Plotted. Marked.
Their acknowledgement gave him Importance.
Then she watched as they left detritus on her companion,
cutting his broadsides, until finally, his voice beat empty.
She was thankful for her abandon.
Until one spring day when a petite-whistler
wandered on her back,
and fell asleep under the warm.
they captured their sandwiches.
Before, she was jealous of his abundance.
Yes, she had the crawlers, the frozen fire,
the slow-pushers, the millennia-diggers.
But the quick-live-ers gathered. Plotted. Marked.
Their acknowledgement gave him Importance.
Then she watched as they left detritus on her companion,
cutting his broadsides, until finally, his voice beat empty.
She was thankful for her abandon.
Until one spring day when a petite-whistler
wandered on her back,
and fell asleep under the warm.
William Doreski has published three critical studies and several collections of poetry. His poetry, essays, and reviews have appeared in many print and online journals. He has taught writing and literature at Emerson, Goddard, Boston University, and Keene State College. His most recent book is A Black River, A Dark Fall. |
A Sinkhole at the Landfill
Hosing out the garbage pail,
I step into a sinkhole
thigh-deep, toothed and grinning.
Recycling center employees
rush over to rescue me
from my baroque situation but
you laugh so roughly you shake
roosting vultures from their perch.
The whole area feels queasy.
The tin-roofed sheds are quaking
as the ground slowly liquefies.
A half-dozen parked vehicles
slough hub-deep in sandy mush.
Dogs nose about, low and slinking,
fearful but too curious to run.
Surrounded by stark realists
in official government shirts,
I hoist myself with some help
onto slightly more solid ground.
The manager admits that rain
has inspired a bit of mud but
hardly deep enough to swallow
trucks, people, or structures.
But you suggest we escape
before the facility sags
into churning murk and muddle.
You point to the vultures circling
with all of their hungers aroused.
The blackest of punctuation,
they peer down at us with pin-eyes
sharp enough to see the future.
With a shrug of paid indifference,
the realists return to work. We creep
into our car and start the engine,
and the sodden landscape sighs,
the sinkhole patched by choking it
with a shovelful of gravel
as gray as a human brain.
I step into a sinkhole
thigh-deep, toothed and grinning.
Recycling center employees
rush over to rescue me
from my baroque situation but
you laugh so roughly you shake
roosting vultures from their perch.
The whole area feels queasy.
The tin-roofed sheds are quaking
as the ground slowly liquefies.
A half-dozen parked vehicles
slough hub-deep in sandy mush.
Dogs nose about, low and slinking,
fearful but too curious to run.
Surrounded by stark realists
in official government shirts,
I hoist myself with some help
onto slightly more solid ground.
The manager admits that rain
has inspired a bit of mud but
hardly deep enough to swallow
trucks, people, or structures.
But you suggest we escape
before the facility sags
into churning murk and muddle.
You point to the vultures circling
with all of their hungers aroused.
The blackest of punctuation,
they peer down at us with pin-eyes
sharp enough to see the future.
With a shrug of paid indifference,
the realists return to work. We creep
into our car and start the engine,
and the sodden landscape sighs,
the sinkhole patched by choking it
with a shovelful of gravel
as gray as a human brain.
Kakegawa
We’ve crossed so many arched bridges
braced by spindly pilings. They all
seem too dramatic to span
those lazy tidal rivers
no sailboats try to navigate.
Windy today. Everyone walking
west leans into the draft. Those
with the weather at their backs
slog along unconcerned, one fellow
even holding a fan, ready
to concoct his own private breeze
should the natural one desist.
There’s Mount Akiba sporting
its famous shrine. But you’re eyeing
the kite some wag has lofted,
a disc of paper with a long tail.
And look, there’s another, chasing
itself, loose and lost in the sky.
braced by spindly pilings. They all
seem too dramatic to span
those lazy tidal rivers
no sailboats try to navigate.
Windy today. Everyone walking
west leans into the draft. Those
with the weather at their backs
slog along unconcerned, one fellow
even holding a fan, ready
to concoct his own private breeze
should the natural one desist.
There’s Mount Akiba sporting
its famous shrine. But you’re eyeing
the kite some wag has lofted,
a disc of paper with a long tail.
And look, there’s another, chasing
itself, loose and lost in the sky.
The Last Wood Thrush
The last wood thrush reproaches me. What have I done? The recent ice age seems a monument to good sense. The water shortage in India troubles me. Facts morph into farts. Politicians stomp the graveyards flatter than I would have thought possible. While you clean the litter boxes, I deploy my astral self to tour the world. Everything is wanting. Syria coughs up gouts of toxic smoke. Saudi Arabia denies that women exist. Russia fusses over the devalued ruble. China smirks in its cushion of ancient poetry. Japan absorbs repeated tsunamis without blinking. Rio strangles a thousand gangsters and shovels their bodies into the harbor. I note these local effects without letting them affect me. The dazzle of laminated distances furthers my lack of career. I regret the deaths of friends, but the space they occupied has resold for a premium price. Everyone is better off now. Even the proletariat plies the museums of France and Italy. Unimpressed, the wood thrush reminds me that song is everything, the silence only a place without a name.
Fukuroi
A roadside teahouse to refresh you. Only a flimsy straw hut, it nonetheless tempts with steamy aromas and a tree for shade as you sit and savor the moment. The gray bird perched on the sign sings a familiar mating song, one to which you’ve often responded. That huge copper teapot intrigues you. In our own era, two hundred years later, this will be a valuable antique. To the woman heating the tea it embodies her economic personhood. A pair of black kimonos dulls the scene, but the lone porter in plaid poking at something with chopsticks looks thoughtful rather than glum. You’re perhaps halfway to Kyoto, so enjoy your tea and congratulate yourself on coming so far on foot.
From the Universal Crime Log
A shopping cart flopped in shallows.
Sunlight quickens the water
in shades of brass and sky. Someone
piloted this contraption to crash
in the saddest posture, then ran
to cuddle with his fellow drunks
and boast about his pointless crime.
I could rescue the cart but doubt
it belongs to any nearby store.
I could demand the police look into
“conduct after an accident,”
but they’d probably arrest me
for being the first on the scene.
The river shudders along slowly
feeling its way to the sea where
criminal acts loom much larger
and involve seagulls and barely
decent swimwear, plastic trash
and untreated sewage, long black
oil tankers likely to run aground
and spill their viscous cargo.
I thrust a hand in the current
and feel it tug so slightly
its weakness almost makes me cry.
The shopping cart hasn’t lain here
for more than a week. Maybe
I could rescue and claim it,
load my favorite possessions,
wander around town all day
among the other godless people
and sleep under overhangs
while thunderstorms crash and stars
fall into the river, burning holes
about as big as a finger.
No, I couldn’t sustain that pose.
Better leave drowned objects lie--
the river’s secret imperative
not for me to textualize
or anyone else to deny.
Sunlight quickens the water
in shades of brass and sky. Someone
piloted this contraption to crash
in the saddest posture, then ran
to cuddle with his fellow drunks
and boast about his pointless crime.
I could rescue the cart but doubt
it belongs to any nearby store.
I could demand the police look into
“conduct after an accident,”
but they’d probably arrest me
for being the first on the scene.
The river shudders along slowly
feeling its way to the sea where
criminal acts loom much larger
and involve seagulls and barely
decent swimwear, plastic trash
and untreated sewage, long black
oil tankers likely to run aground
and spill their viscous cargo.
I thrust a hand in the current
and feel it tug so slightly
its weakness almost makes me cry.
The shopping cart hasn’t lain here
for more than a week. Maybe
I could rescue and claim it,
load my favorite possessions,
wander around town all day
among the other godless people
and sleep under overhangs
while thunderstorms crash and stars
fall into the river, burning holes
about as big as a finger.
No, I couldn’t sustain that pose.
Better leave drowned objects lie--
the river’s secret imperative
not for me to textualize
or anyone else to deny.
The Language We Can’t Speak
Humanity’s secret is
The things we cannot write.
Words are a bridge
A subtle movement of ideas to connect the lost.
But the transcription of beauty
Stretches only so far T
he language of love
Her slender fingers, her soft eyes
The palpitations of eager hearts
And the hopeful directions of hands.
Hold humanity’s secret close,
For if we dive too deep and expose the fragility
Of what moves us in sacred reality,
Then the meaning of humanity drifts like
A leaf disintegrating into the sea of nothingness
There are emotions and simplicities
We cannot fully encase in words.
If we could, it would oughtfully be,
The devastation and collapse of society.
The things we cannot write.
Words are a bridge
A subtle movement of ideas to connect the lost.
But the transcription of beauty
Stretches only so far T
he language of love
Her slender fingers, her soft eyes
The palpitations of eager hearts
And the hopeful directions of hands.
Hold humanity’s secret close,
For if we dive too deep and expose the fragility
Of what moves us in sacred reality,
Then the meaning of humanity drifts like
A leaf disintegrating into the sea of nothingness
There are emotions and simplicities
We cannot fully encase in words.
If we could, it would oughtfully be,
The devastation and collapse of society.
The House of Mirrors
Oh, the storm abrews.
Swept in such short seconds,
The whispers of wind
Yearn to be called.
Yet in time so slim, it dissipates.
How the isle of windows
Reflects only the present,
When the past is so longed for.
The shadows, they fade
The ink, it bleeds
Over the dark canvas of horizon
Coveted timelessly by centuries.
Repetition by repetition,
The gears slowly shift
Oh how the tables turn
But yet all that differs
Remains precisely the same
In the house of mirrors.
Swept in such short seconds,
The whispers of wind
Yearn to be called.
Yet in time so slim, it dissipates.
How the isle of windows
Reflects only the present,
When the past is so longed for.
The shadows, they fade
The ink, it bleeds
Over the dark canvas of horizon
Coveted timelessly by centuries.
Repetition by repetition,
The gears slowly shift
Oh how the tables turn
But yet all that differs
Remains precisely the same
In the house of mirrors.
Scary Stories
The clock chimes
Shadows in the doorway
Words unravelling to rhymes
The shudders caress our souls,
The frightful plays press, we fold
Then the night comes to end,
Flickering eyes always pretend
Yet the shrill screams,
Echo in our dreams
And the more we listen,
The more we hear
We must be moved,
We dance with fear.
Shadows in the doorway
Words unravelling to rhymes
The shudders caress our souls,
The frightful plays press, we fold
Then the night comes to end,
Flickering eyes always pretend
Yet the shrill screams,
Echo in our dreams
And the more we listen,
The more we hear
We must be moved,
We dance with fear.
Everything Good We Can’t Keep
Summer’s touch of heat
An evening’s soft glow
Night aches and wonders
Of where we could go.
Fresh baked bread
Coffee brewed and sweet
Oh, it is truly
The things we never seek
The short, spurts of laughter
The stories resting untold on our lips.
And when we whisper goodnight
We hold our hugs tight
Closing our eyes as we lay to sleep
We never wonder of
Everything good we can never keep.
An evening’s soft glow
Night aches and wonders
Of where we could go.
Fresh baked bread
Coffee brewed and sweet
Oh, it is truly
The things we never seek
The short, spurts of laughter
The stories resting untold on our lips.
And when we whisper goodnight
We hold our hugs tight
Closing our eyes as we lay to sleep
We never wonder of
Everything good we can never keep.
Bruce Levine, a native Manhattanite, has spent his life as a writer of fiction and poetry and as a music and theatre professional. His literary catalogue includes four novels, short stories, humorous sketches, flash fiction, poetry, essays, articles and a screenplay. Nearly one-hundred-fifty of his works are published in over twenty-five on-line journals including Literally Stories, Visitant, Foliate Oak Magazine; over thirty print books including Poetry Quarterly, Mused Literary Review, Dual Coast Magazine, and his shows have been produced in New York and around the country. His seven eBooks are available from Amazon.com. His work is dedicated to the loving memory of his late wife, Lydia Franklin. He lives in New York with his dog, Daisy. Visit him at www.brucelevine.com. |
Creating a Blog
Creating a blog
Not a chore
For the faint-hearted
Consumed by the
Fires of social media
Burned into the
Walls of cyber-space
Only revealed to
IT techies
Or four year olds
Schooled in binary motion
DNA permutated to reveal
The lasting effects
Of the un-indoctrinated
The forlorn members
At least to those
Of the computer age
Fasting on the dearth
Of knowledge
In the prelude of the
New millennium
Opening doors
That once revealed
Another time
A simpler time
With no blogs
To stress the tendons
Of emotions
To the breaking point
While trying to create
Another blog
2/7/19
Not a chore
For the faint-hearted
Consumed by the
Fires of social media
Burned into the
Walls of cyber-space
Only revealed to
IT techies
Or four year olds
Schooled in binary motion
DNA permutated to reveal
The lasting effects
Of the un-indoctrinated
The forlorn members
At least to those
Of the computer age
Fasting on the dearth
Of knowledge
In the prelude of the
New millennium
Opening doors
That once revealed
Another time
A simpler time
With no blogs
To stress the tendons
Of emotions
To the breaking point
While trying to create
Another blog
2/7/19
Fighting the System
Fighting the system
As impossible as humans flying
Flapping arms gets you nowhere
Except tired arms
Sending off resumes
For jobs already taken
Playing with websites
Games without end
Social media required
Smart phones expected
No longer choices
Society no longer cares
Making sane choices
An impossible daydream
Fighting the system
Precluding real life
Anger and frustration
A daily concoction
The system resembles
Hologram strife
No other system
To which we must function
Goodbye to the solace
Of yesterday’s life
6/10/19
As impossible as humans flying
Flapping arms gets you nowhere
Except tired arms
Sending off resumes
For jobs already taken
Playing with websites
Games without end
Social media required
Smart phones expected
No longer choices
Society no longer cares
Making sane choices
An impossible daydream
Fighting the system
Precluding real life
Anger and frustration
A daily concoction
The system resembles
Hologram strife
No other system
To which we must function
Goodbye to the solace
Of yesterday’s life
6/10/19
Foodism
I am a devout foodist
I celebrate every holiday
That involves food
I’ll try anything once
Except grasshoppers, ants
And other creepy-crawlers
Dinner is a sacred point in the day
Not just a repast or fuel for the body
A joyous time to be savoured
And reveled in
To be rekindled on the tongue
Throughout the evening
Foodism is open ended
Open to all of those
Who desire to luxuriate
In the pleasures of the gastronomic
Who feast with their eyes
As well as their taste buds and stomach
Foodism requires no special meeting house
Restaurants, side-walk venders and home
The approbation of the culinary skills
Praise for the chef
All uniting under one umbrella
All celebrating foodism
6/1/19
I celebrate every holiday
That involves food
I’ll try anything once
Except grasshoppers, ants
And other creepy-crawlers
Dinner is a sacred point in the day
Not just a repast or fuel for the body
A joyous time to be savoured
And reveled in
To be rekindled on the tongue
Throughout the evening
Foodism is open ended
Open to all of those
Who desire to luxuriate
In the pleasures of the gastronomic
Who feast with their eyes
As well as their taste buds and stomach
Foodism requires no special meeting house
Restaurants, side-walk venders and home
The approbation of the culinary skills
Praise for the chef
All uniting under one umbrella
All celebrating foodism
6/1/19
Life’s New Blog
Half way to December
Brings mem’ries of the past
Of joyous Christmas mornings
New mem’ries that will last
Forever on the highway
To good times filled with cheer
And happy ever after
Renown throughout the year
Tomorrow brings new sunshine
And golden rays galore
To bring a new beginning
With New Year’s Day restore
The fervor now remembered
With toasts of pure egg nog
The entries of tomorrow
Remain on life’s new blog
2/21/19
Brings mem’ries of the past
Of joyous Christmas mornings
New mem’ries that will last
Forever on the highway
To good times filled with cheer
And happy ever after
Renown throughout the year
Tomorrow brings new sunshine
And golden rays galore
To bring a new beginning
With New Year’s Day restore
The fervor now remembered
With toasts of pure egg nog
The entries of tomorrow
Remain on life’s new blog
2/21/19
Never Argue With A Foodist
Never argue with a foodist
One never wins
The pantry that’s now empty
The larder not refilled
Refrigeration required
After opening yet unfulfilled
Shopping the supermarket
A grand prix of rolling carts
The mounds of provisions
That overflows human hearts
Never-ending virtues
Of foodist inspiration
The lovely contemplation
Of meals that ever last
6/6/19
One never wins
The pantry that’s now empty
The larder not refilled
Refrigeration required
After opening yet unfulfilled
Shopping the supermarket
A grand prix of rolling carts
The mounds of provisions
That overflows human hearts
Never-ending virtues
Of foodist inspiration
The lovely contemplation
Of meals that ever last
6/6/19
A Gourmet’s Delight
Complex layers of flavor
Melding on the tongue
Into a savory effusion
Of gastronomic delight
Courses surrender
As taste buds recapture
Moments of inspiration
And memories of other repasts
Aromatic sensations
Tantalizing visions
Perfection of presentation
Rarefied new tastes
Joyous salutations
To chefs no longer with us
Escoffier and Child
Purveyors of good taste
And to the future entrées
With keen anticipation
Long live the gourmet dinner
The multi-course cuisine
6/7/19
Melding on the tongue
Into a savory effusion
Of gastronomic delight
Courses surrender
As taste buds recapture
Moments of inspiration
And memories of other repasts
Aromatic sensations
Tantalizing visions
Perfection of presentation
Rarefied new tastes
Joyous salutations
To chefs no longer with us
Escoffier and Child
Purveyors of good taste
And to the future entrées
With keen anticipation
Long live the gourmet dinner
The multi-course cuisine
6/7/19
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 BOBBY Z THE JYD, 78 YEAR OLD VET, CANCER SURVIVOR, RECOVERING ALCOHOLIC (41 YEARS) AND ORIGINAL JERSEY CITY 50’S BAD BOY WHO TELLS IT LIKE IT IS FROM THE BELLY OF THE BEAST. |
RELEASE ME
DEEP INSIDE, MY VACANT DOME.
MY MIND TURNS WEAK, AND MY BLOOD RUNS COLD.
DESIRES THAT WERE ONCE ON FIRE.
COLLIDE WITH MY EMOTIONS, AND CONTINUE TO CONSPIRE.
DILUTED EMOTIONS, THAT FAIL TO APPEAR.
LONGING FOR SOMEONE, YET FROZEN WITH FEAR.
CONTEMPTIBLE THOUGHTS,THAT FLOAT THRU THE AIR.
YOU’RE A ROUGE IN DISGUISE, CONFINED TO YOUR CHAIR.
YOU SEARCH FOR JUSTICE, PLEASE RELEASE ME FROM THESE CHAINS.
THE MAGNITUDE OF TORMENT, CONSOLIDATES THE PAIN.
YOU REACH FOR THE LEVER, ALL SYSTEMS ARE GO.
TORMENTED EXPRESSIONS,CONSTANTLY ASKING WHY IS IT SO.
TORTURED MEMORIES, THAT SMOTHER YOUR FACE.
AS YOU SLITHER INTO THE DARKNESS, WITHOUT EVEN A TRACE.
MY MIND TURNS WEAK, AND MY BLOOD RUNS COLD.
DESIRES THAT WERE ONCE ON FIRE.
COLLIDE WITH MY EMOTIONS, AND CONTINUE TO CONSPIRE.
DILUTED EMOTIONS, THAT FAIL TO APPEAR.
LONGING FOR SOMEONE, YET FROZEN WITH FEAR.
CONTEMPTIBLE THOUGHTS,THAT FLOAT THRU THE AIR.
YOU’RE A ROUGE IN DISGUISE, CONFINED TO YOUR CHAIR.
YOU SEARCH FOR JUSTICE, PLEASE RELEASE ME FROM THESE CHAINS.
THE MAGNITUDE OF TORMENT, CONSOLIDATES THE PAIN.
YOU REACH FOR THE LEVER, ALL SYSTEMS ARE GO.
TORMENTED EXPRESSIONS,CONSTANTLY ASKING WHY IS IT SO.
TORTURED MEMORIES, THAT SMOTHER YOUR FACE.
AS YOU SLITHER INTO THE DARKNESS, WITHOUT EVEN A TRACE.
REFLECTIONS 1
SEEKING THE MEANING..OF A SENSELESS REJECTION.
LOOKING INTO A POOL OF WATER..AND SEEING NO REFLECTION.
NO REFLECTION..ADDS TO YOUR CONSTANT FRUSTRATION.
FORCING YOU TO A SANCTUARY..WITH SELF ISOLATION.
SELF ISOLATION..SENTENCES YOU TO DEEP DESPERATION.
CONDEMNS YOU TO A PERIOD..OF EMOTIONAL DEHYRATION.
EMOTIONAL DEHYDRATION..COMBINED WITH THE NEED OF A TOATL SALVATION.
MISCARRIAGES YOUR DESIRES..AND LEAVES YOU IN A STATE OF MENTAL STAGNATION.
MENTAL STAGNATION, NOW COMPLICATES ALL YOUR ATTEMPTS..
AT ACHIEVING AN EMOTIONAL RESURRECTION.
CRYING OUTLOUD..SEARCHING FOR A MENTAL DECONTAMINATION.
A MENTAL DECONTAMONATION..SHOULD LEAD TO A FINAL INDEMNIFICATION.
AWAITING YOUR ABILITY..TO RECEIVE A COMPLETE TRANSFORMATION.
COMPLETE TRANSFORMATION..ELIMINATING ALL DESIRES FOR ANY FURTHER SELF-HUMILIATION.
PREPARING YOU TO ACCEPT..ATOTAL REINCARNATION.
A TOTAL REINCARNATION..TO VALIDATE YOUR SUCCESSFUL REHABILITATION.
LOOKING INTO A POOL OF WATER..FINALLY SEEING A REFLECTION.
LOOKING INTO A POOL OF WATER..AND SEEING NO REFLECTION.
NO REFLECTION..ADDS TO YOUR CONSTANT FRUSTRATION.
FORCING YOU TO A SANCTUARY..WITH SELF ISOLATION.
SELF ISOLATION..SENTENCES YOU TO DEEP DESPERATION.
CONDEMNS YOU TO A PERIOD..OF EMOTIONAL DEHYRATION.
EMOTIONAL DEHYDRATION..COMBINED WITH THE NEED OF A TOATL SALVATION.
MISCARRIAGES YOUR DESIRES..AND LEAVES YOU IN A STATE OF MENTAL STAGNATION.
MENTAL STAGNATION, NOW COMPLICATES ALL YOUR ATTEMPTS..
AT ACHIEVING AN EMOTIONAL RESURRECTION.
CRYING OUTLOUD..SEARCHING FOR A MENTAL DECONTAMINATION.
A MENTAL DECONTAMONATION..SHOULD LEAD TO A FINAL INDEMNIFICATION.
AWAITING YOUR ABILITY..TO RECEIVE A COMPLETE TRANSFORMATION.
COMPLETE TRANSFORMATION..ELIMINATING ALL DESIRES FOR ANY FURTHER SELF-HUMILIATION.
PREPARING YOU TO ACCEPT..ATOTAL REINCARNATION.
A TOTAL REINCARNATION..TO VALIDATE YOUR SUCCESSFUL REHABILITATION.
LOOKING INTO A POOL OF WATER..FINALLY SEEING A REFLECTION.
Driving thru town
Someone cuts you off without a word.
You can vent your anger.
Just Flip them the Bird.
It Prevents human contact.
Yet stinks like a turd.
It’s a universal language.
Flipp’in them the Bird
A way to express yourself.
Without saying a word.
Just look straight ahead.
And Flip them the Bird.
Flipp’in the Bird
Not sure who was the first.
Whoever started it.
It will always remain as a silent curse.
Have you ever been Birded.
How did it make you feel.
Did it make you angry.
By someone Flipp’in you the Bird.
So whenever you feel.
That you have been slurred.
Just sit back and smile.
And Flip them the Bird
Someone cuts you off without a word.
You can vent your anger.
Just Flip them the Bird.
It Prevents human contact.
Yet stinks like a turd.
It’s a universal language.
Flipp’in them the Bird
A way to express yourself.
Without saying a word.
Just look straight ahead.
And Flip them the Bird.
Flipp’in the Bird
Not sure who was the first.
Whoever started it.
It will always remain as a silent curse.
Have you ever been Birded.
How did it make you feel.
Did it make you angry.
By someone Flipp’in you the Bird.
So whenever you feel.
That you have been slurred.
Just sit back and smile.
And Flip them the Bird
HERE COMES THE PAIN
MISGUIDED INTENTIONS.
LEAVES YOU STRUGGLING INSIDE
CONSTANTLY GOING THE WRONG WAY.
ALWAYS ON THE WRONG SIDE.
NEVER THINKING ABOUT THE RESULTS.
ALWAYS PLAYING RUSSIAN ROULETTE.
CAUSING HARM TO OTHERS.
NEVER HAVING ANY REGRETS.
YOU HURT SO MANY.
NEVER THINKING OF OTHERS.
ALWAYS STRIKING FIRST.
MAKING SURE THAT THEY SMOOTHER.
SO MUCH ANGER.
SO MUCH PAIN.
TAKING IT OUT ON OTHERS.
YOU RESEMBLE A RUN AWAY TRAIN.
SUCKER PUNCHING.
YOUR WAY THRU LIFE.
ALWAYS FLYING OFF THE HANDLE.
CONSTANTLY CAUSING STRIFE.
RESOLVE ALL YOUR ANGER.
ITS TIME TO REFRAIN.
YOU MUST PAY FOR YOUR DEEDS.
HERE COMES THE PAIN.
LEAVES YOU STRUGGLING INSIDE
CONSTANTLY GOING THE WRONG WAY.
ALWAYS ON THE WRONG SIDE.
NEVER THINKING ABOUT THE RESULTS.
ALWAYS PLAYING RUSSIAN ROULETTE.
CAUSING HARM TO OTHERS.
NEVER HAVING ANY REGRETS.
YOU HURT SO MANY.
NEVER THINKING OF OTHERS.
ALWAYS STRIKING FIRST.
MAKING SURE THAT THEY SMOOTHER.
SO MUCH ANGER.
SO MUCH PAIN.
TAKING IT OUT ON OTHERS.
YOU RESEMBLE A RUN AWAY TRAIN.
SUCKER PUNCHING.
YOUR WAY THRU LIFE.
ALWAYS FLYING OFF THE HANDLE.
CONSTANTLY CAUSING STRIFE.
RESOLVE ALL YOUR ANGER.
ITS TIME TO REFRAIN.
YOU MUST PAY FOR YOUR DEEDS.
HERE COMES THE PAIN.
Dana Burtin is 18 years old and a college student majoring in Recording Arts and Technology. Dana writes and constructs songs for everyone to hear under the moniker, LyricalGenes. He makes positive and motivational music; hopefully, a relatable message for everyone to hear. With that being said, writing is his form of positive expression and his way of giving back to the people. No matter the circumstances, he gains the most satisfaction when he has the opportunity to help anybody through something he loves doing. |
Smile For Me
Where's your place to spend a quiet night
Because these times have grown to show you your emotions just overflow
You see your affecting others now
But you don't quite know
Where to go from here
Wishing you can make yourself just disappear
I know how you feel
Hoping other people know how you feel
Without saying a word
You want the rich to be poor and the poor to be rich!
To feel the hunger when we switch
Hoping maybe then you’ll click
Trust me I understand!
I'm in your shoes so I'm with you
Don't ever think that you're alone when I'm always here with you
It's about how you deal with the pain
Don't let that feeling steer you away
From what you're working toward
If you fail, ok
Nothing's perfect, hey
Today is the day
That you create a different way for yourself and make up for your mistakes Everything happens for a reason, no?
Every once a while you got to hit the brakes, listen!
Can you smile for me?
Can you be proud for me?
I know these times are hard
But go the extra mile for me!
God, can you listen to me?
So you can hear the people SCREAMING!
But they smile at their demons from this word
Can you smile?
Everybody wants happiness
Nobody wants pain
But you can't have a rainbow
Without a little rain
To be or not to be
It's all the same
You got to take the reins of this game
That we call life
And never go a-strange
And even though it's strange
That we don't have the answers all the time
It's necessary to meet a compromise
For future endeavors
Just hang on it won't last forever
Life is hard
This is not the land of Never Ever
Pan, Peter
Watch your demeanor
What goes around comes around
Karma's a repeater
You'll get repaid one day
Even if it's meager
But your soul is in good hands
Play with it like Ether
If you're told to be a leader
Then you're not a leader
You may think you're worth nothing
But somebody needs you
Trying to be unbreakable to the core
That toughness is key!
But listen man
You got to smile more!
Because these times have grown to show you your emotions just overflow
You see your affecting others now
But you don't quite know
Where to go from here
Wishing you can make yourself just disappear
I know how you feel
Hoping other people know how you feel
Without saying a word
You want the rich to be poor and the poor to be rich!
To feel the hunger when we switch
Hoping maybe then you’ll click
Trust me I understand!
I'm in your shoes so I'm with you
Don't ever think that you're alone when I'm always here with you
It's about how you deal with the pain
Don't let that feeling steer you away
From what you're working toward
If you fail, ok
Nothing's perfect, hey
Today is the day
That you create a different way for yourself and make up for your mistakes Everything happens for a reason, no?
Every once a while you got to hit the brakes, listen!
Can you smile for me?
Can you be proud for me?
I know these times are hard
But go the extra mile for me!
God, can you listen to me?
So you can hear the people SCREAMING!
But they smile at their demons from this word
Can you smile?
Everybody wants happiness
Nobody wants pain
But you can't have a rainbow
Without a little rain
To be or not to be
It's all the same
You got to take the reins of this game
That we call life
And never go a-strange
And even though it's strange
That we don't have the answers all the time
It's necessary to meet a compromise
For future endeavors
Just hang on it won't last forever
Life is hard
This is not the land of Never Ever
Pan, Peter
Watch your demeanor
What goes around comes around
Karma's a repeater
You'll get repaid one day
Even if it's meager
But your soul is in good hands
Play with it like Ether
If you're told to be a leader
Then you're not a leader
You may think you're worth nothing
But somebody needs you
Trying to be unbreakable to the core
That toughness is key!
But listen man
You got to smile more!
See Through Me
My People, Prelude:
This is for my people.
Who are my people?
My people are those who understand this world.
My people take it upon themselves to ask questions no one else asks.
My People stand tall in the face of adversity.
My people are not divided as one specific race, no!
My people are the individuals who fit into categories that can never be detained by opinions.
Do you see what I see when the homeless become helpless?
Do you see what I see when you travel a few blocks north from our inner cities, and people wearing suits, ties, and own sport cars, have smiles on their faces, feeling secure 24/7?
White, black, Muslim, Chinese, MY PEOPLE, see what I see.
See What I See:
No cognitive purpose, struggling, I see my people slowly degrade in despair
They are hoping for a miracle that does not seem to play fair
Begging for people’s help, those of which do not seem to be there.
I see you and I’ll be back even if I have to come alone
I want to see a glimpse of hope that has been overdue, oh too long!
I see the world and even the world knows it is wrong!
You call for help, but people say, “Leave a message at the tone.”
Knowing they delete these “unimportant” calls
If only they knew, but I do
I see you grieving.
Interlude:
To my people of all races and their families.
Try swapping shoes with people whose lives are far from ease.
It’s time I open up these doors; therefore, you see what I see.
See What I See (Cont.)
For those who think I am writing this preaching what I preach
Not even from these lines or what you see can nearly go as deep
As to how our people suffer, the ones who only believe
And belief is their only mechanism to one day eat
A burger in the trash is sufficient enough for them to eat
The more we know the more we feed those around us with truth instead of hyperboles.
For those who think the world is perfect
And their lives are secure constantly
It’s time you know the truth,
Take my hand and follow me.
Postscript:
To my people of all races and their families.
Try swapping shoes with people whose lives are far from ease.
It’s time I open up these doors; therefore, you see what I see.
This is for my people.
Who are my people?
My people are those who understand this world.
My people take it upon themselves to ask questions no one else asks.
My People stand tall in the face of adversity.
My people are not divided as one specific race, no!
My people are the individuals who fit into categories that can never be detained by opinions.
Do you see what I see when the homeless become helpless?
Do you see what I see when you travel a few blocks north from our inner cities, and people wearing suits, ties, and own sport cars, have smiles on their faces, feeling secure 24/7?
White, black, Muslim, Chinese, MY PEOPLE, see what I see.
See What I See:
No cognitive purpose, struggling, I see my people slowly degrade in despair
They are hoping for a miracle that does not seem to play fair
Begging for people’s help, those of which do not seem to be there.
I see you and I’ll be back even if I have to come alone
I want to see a glimpse of hope that has been overdue, oh too long!
I see the world and even the world knows it is wrong!
You call for help, but people say, “Leave a message at the tone.”
Knowing they delete these “unimportant” calls
If only they knew, but I do
I see you grieving.
Interlude:
To my people of all races and their families.
Try swapping shoes with people whose lives are far from ease.
It’s time I open up these doors; therefore, you see what I see.
See What I See (Cont.)
For those who think I am writing this preaching what I preach
Not even from these lines or what you see can nearly go as deep
As to how our people suffer, the ones who only believe
And belief is their only mechanism to one day eat
A burger in the trash is sufficient enough for them to eat
The more we know the more we feed those around us with truth instead of hyperboles.
For those who think the world is perfect
And their lives are secure constantly
It’s time you know the truth,
Take my hand and follow me.
Postscript:
To my people of all races and their families.
Try swapping shoes with people whose lives are far from ease.
It’s time I open up these doors; therefore, you see what I see.
Keith Burkholder has been published in Creative Juices, Sol Magazine, Trellis Magazine, Foliate Oak Literary Journal, New Delta Review, Poetry Quarterly, Scarlet Leaf Review, and Birmingham Arts Journal. He has a bachelor's degree in statistics with a minor in mathematics from SUNY at Buffalo (UB).
We live on planet Earth, not in heaven
Religion gives us an illusion,
A real form of fiction,
We live on Earth,
People love fantasies,
Which heaven and hell are,
There are no angels or devils,
No ghosts or saints,
Religion is full of false promises and exaggerated claims,
Yet, people still go to church,
Pedophilia still runs rampant,
Again, believe what you want here,
Religion causes too many problems,
No answers as well,
Science is enough for me,
Always will be,
Take care for now,
Believe what you want,
It is a free world,
Atheism works for me,
And again, carpe diem.
A real form of fiction,
We live on Earth,
People love fantasies,
Which heaven and hell are,
There are no angels or devils,
No ghosts or saints,
Religion is full of false promises and exaggerated claims,
Yet, people still go to church,
Pedophilia still runs rampant,
Again, believe what you want here,
Religion causes too many problems,
No answers as well,
Science is enough for me,
Always will be,
Take care for now,
Believe what you want,
It is a free world,
Atheism works for me,
And again, carpe diem.
Marriage is work, a lot of work
I have never married,
Thankfully,
To me, it is a waste of time,
Between the stress,
The financial strains,
Most end in divorce,
Year after year with the same person,
If it goes that long,
Then children, if you choose to have them,
Cohabitation makes sense,
At least the couple is not married,
Believe what you want here,
It is up to you,
There are people who like to be married,
I am not one of them,
Take care for now,
Do what makes you happy,
And may tomorrow bring goodness to you,
Again, carpe diem.
Thankfully,
To me, it is a waste of time,
Between the stress,
The financial strains,
Most end in divorce,
Year after year with the same person,
If it goes that long,
Then children, if you choose to have them,
Cohabitation makes sense,
At least the couple is not married,
Believe what you want here,
It is up to you,
There are people who like to be married,
I am not one of them,
Take care for now,
Do what makes you happy,
And may tomorrow bring goodness to you,
Again, carpe diem.
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AHMAD AL-KHATAT
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BOBBY Z
BRUCE LEVINE
DANA BURTIN
DANIEL DE CULLA
DAVID PUNTER
DIRK DUNBAR
ELIZABETH POTTS WEINSTEIN
EMMANUEL JOSEPH OLUMAKISS
JEAN ANN OWEN
KEITH BURKHOLDER
K SHESHU BABU
KUSHAL PODDAR
LOIS GREENE STONE
MADELINE L LEE-MABE
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SIMON HAVOK
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WILLIAM DORESKI