hammocking |
Ioana Cosma is an English lecturer at the Department of Translation Studies from the University of Pitesti. She holds a PhD in Comparative Literature from the University of Toronto on the figure of the angel in Modernist literature. She conducted postdoctoral research at the University of Bucharest on the concept of forgetting in Modern literature and philosophy. Her first volume of poetry is forthcoming with the Institutul European Publishing House in Romania Email: c_ioana05@yahoo.com |
Bande à part
Chased one another
In Pompidou until
The image surfaced
The vision lines
Coalesced and unworldly
Color penetrated the iris
The heart crumbled
The mind was overwhelmed.
The tears in our eyes
Spoke of all the images
We had not yet seen
And may never come to see
Of all that’s lost
In the fleeting glimpse.
In Pompidou until
The image surfaced
The vision lines
Coalesced and unworldly
Color penetrated the iris
The heart crumbled
The mind was overwhelmed.
The tears in our eyes
Spoke of all the images
We had not yet seen
And may never come to see
Of all that’s lost
In the fleeting glimpse.
Fear and Trembling in Ghent
Saw the blood dripping
From the sacrificial lamb
On Van Eick’s altar painting.
Saw the chalices prepared
Everyone waiting nervously
For redemption.
Fear and trembling in Ghent,
The never-ending sacrifice
The civil thirst for blood
the headphones bursting
with soothing music.
Saw the blood dripping
From the sacrificial lamb
On Van Eick’s altar painting.
Saw the chalices prepared
Everyone waiting nervously
For redemption.
Fear and trembling in Ghent,
The never-ending sacrifice
The civil thirst for blood
the headphones bursting
with soothing music.
Fearful Symmetry
The form took
Its contour
From the
Builder’s dream
Of sea-washed shells.
And emerged
Into existence
Blameless and bleached
With no heavy load to carry
But the graven image.
Its contour
From the
Builder’s dream
Of sea-washed shells.
And emerged
Into existence
Blameless and bleached
With no heavy load to carry
But the graven image.
The Cypresses
Thing-image-script
You said
And the vital object
The static film
L’Estaque en rêve
Became apparent
Like a premonition
Of the world disappearing.
You said
And the vital object
The static film
L’Estaque en rêve
Became apparent
Like a premonition
Of the world disappearing.
Upon leaving Toronto
Boarded the plane
In a hurry like thieves
Watched out the window
In the unresponsive night
The fear of looking back
Even now.
Maybe Euridice will
Come back from the dead.
Boarded the plane
In a hurry like thieves
Watched out the window
In the unresponsive night
The fear of looking back
Even now.
Maybe Euridice will
Come back from the dead.
E. Izabelle Cassandra Alexander was born and raised in a little village in Hungary. After immigrating to the US, she first lived in New York. There she graduated with honors from Monroe College with a Bachelor's in Information Systems before moving to Chicago, where she earned her MBA in Business from Webster University. Izabelle wanted to write her first novel at age eight and wrote her first poem in fourth grade. Seven years ago, she refocused to pursue her life-long dream of writing and began taking writing classes at Oakton Community College and online. Since then, she's a member of numerous writing and poetry groups, attending workshops and conferences, continuously updating her writing and editing skills. Izabelle writes short stories, creative nonfiction essays, flash fiction, plays, and poetry. She's currently working on a few novels and a series of children's books along with illustrations. Several of her fiction, creative nonfiction essays, and poetry have been published by Oakton Community College in 2016, 2018, and 2019 issues of their annual print literary journal, Spark, as well as by The International Library of Poetry in four of their print anthologies between 2004 and 2008. By The Scarlet Leaf Review on their website in 2018, and by the Illinois State Poetry Society (ISPS) on their website and in the ISPS print anthology, Distilled Lives, Volume 4, 2018. Also, in Yearning to Breathe, a print anthology by Moonstone Art Center in 2019, by and online journal, WOW! Women on Writing and by The Book Smuggler's Dan in 2019, and forthcoming in Tint Journal, March 2020. Her nonfiction essays "Disciplined Discipline" (2017) and "My First Camel Ride" (2019), and her flash fictions "Invisible Love" (2018), "Drowning Under Pressure" (2019), "Yellow Carnations" (2019) each received an Honorable Mention and “Fragments of Bones” (2019) won Runner Up status in contests by WOW! Women on Writing while they chose many of her flash pieces as finalists. You can read an interview with Izabelle by WOW here, published in January 2020: https://muffin.wow-womenonwriting.com/2020/01/interview-with-e-izabelle-cassandra.html In The New York City Midnight Challenge Flash Fiction Contest, she won the first round within her tier with her flash fiction titled "What Eyes Can't See" in 2018. Some of her poems, fiction, creative nonfiction essays, and plays had been selected by Oakton Community College as a finalist to represent them in the annual Skyway Competitions over the last six years. You can find Izabelle at izabelle2012.wixsite.com/Izabelle and on Patreon at www.patreon.com/IzabelleAlexander Facebook Page at fb.me/E.IzabelleAlexander Instagram: erikaalexander7277 Twitter.com/IzabelleAlexan3 |
Hidden Voices
SWEET words had lured me away
Entangled by
the poison of the tongue,
from my truths, I strayed
Promises to recreate
Heaven on earth
to prosper, love, and to belong were
nothing but
DECEIT
An illusion of walking straight
blossomed into a deep abyss, and
the perception of calmness
like chamomile tea,
radiance of what could’ve been,
decayed,
leaving me
WITHOUT PURPOSE
Could you start again
once left abandoned?
Stuck in one place,
will your life have more value
than the tears and a
BROKEN SOUL?
Just TAKE
one day at a time,
one moment after each.
You still have your LIFE to live,
even if
it seems too late.
If you’re still breathing
and your voice is hidden deep inside
just SHOUT
into the world around.
Let them HEAR
YOU
Entangled by
the poison of the tongue,
from my truths, I strayed
Promises to recreate
Heaven on earth
to prosper, love, and to belong were
nothing but
DECEIT
An illusion of walking straight
blossomed into a deep abyss, and
the perception of calmness
like chamomile tea,
radiance of what could’ve been,
decayed,
leaving me
WITHOUT PURPOSE
Could you start again
once left abandoned?
Stuck in one place,
will your life have more value
than the tears and a
BROKEN SOUL?
Just TAKE
one day at a time,
one moment after each.
You still have your LIFE to live,
even if
it seems too late.
If you’re still breathing
and your voice is hidden deep inside
just SHOUT
into the world around.
Let them HEAR
YOU
My Childhood/Nightmare
It was hard
to be strong and not hate you,
since you robbed us from peace and happiness
Oftentimes in my heart, there was emptiness,
and I blamed you
Straight into your eyes, I said the forbidden words,
“Dad, you should not have brought us into this world,”
if you take away the one thing
people crave when only responsibility life brings
A perfect childhood could soothe the hurts that bind,
I used to think, and begged, sometimes demanded
But you were lost and couldn’t be found,
still, I remember your struggle before it all ended
I was afraid for you and hoped that you stay
on this side of truth and prevail
The fire burned, and the darkness yearned as I,
to be free
Now I say good-bye,
sorrow fills my heart with sadness
Your life completed, yet derailed,
since your death with every year passing,
I remember less of the times when you failed
Now I know how joy can fill one’s days and whole being
and I no longer need to live in the past,
my painful childhood transformed me
to be a blessing,
safely in the Lord’s hand, I can rest
and be my best
to be strong and not hate you,
since you robbed us from peace and happiness
Oftentimes in my heart, there was emptiness,
and I blamed you
Straight into your eyes, I said the forbidden words,
“Dad, you should not have brought us into this world,”
if you take away the one thing
people crave when only responsibility life brings
A perfect childhood could soothe the hurts that bind,
I used to think, and begged, sometimes demanded
But you were lost and couldn’t be found,
still, I remember your struggle before it all ended
I was afraid for you and hoped that you stay
on this side of truth and prevail
The fire burned, and the darkness yearned as I,
to be free
Now I say good-bye,
sorrow fills my heart with sadness
Your life completed, yet derailed,
since your death with every year passing,
I remember less of the times when you failed
Now I know how joy can fill one’s days and whole being
and I no longer need to live in the past,
my painful childhood transformed me
to be a blessing,
safely in the Lord’s hand, I can rest
and be my best
Hurt By Him
(In Memory of My Beloved Grandmother, Margit)
You have stood by us
and defended us with gentle grace,
but in your defense, you
could not stop the hand that struck your face
You gave up so much and suffered greatly for us,
your children, and for my sister and me
You lived in faith
You tried to protect all from the hurt of the abusive touch,
but then your son, a grown man, became a violent wraith
The ice was hard; his eyes swelled in a drunken haze
as he smashed
your head against it, again and again
Your voice trembled with pain
as you gently whispered, “I forgive,
cause God forgave”
and defended us with gentle grace,
but in your defense, you
could not stop the hand that struck your face
You gave up so much and suffered greatly for us,
your children, and for my sister and me
You lived in faith
You tried to protect all from the hurt of the abusive touch,
but then your son, a grown man, became a violent wraith
The ice was hard; his eyes swelled in a drunken haze
as he smashed
your head against it, again and again
Your voice trembled with pain
as you gently whispered, “I forgive,
cause God forgave”
Not My Son
Pain slowed her steps
as she walked in procession on heavy, weary legs
Her mind’s eyes looked back to a time,
when he played, careless, as an only child
Piercing grief in her chest,
feeling the squeeze of regret,
for allowing him to become
the stepson loved by no one
Could she have changed his fate?
By giving him more attention and more of her love?
Or would he have done the same?
Drinking and finding excuses for giving up--
In the bottle, he’d drowned his sorrow,
numbed his pain of yesterday and tomorrow
He’s lost his dreams, then, through sickness, his life
With it, two envied daughters and a faithful wife
Hunting her memories of times not seeing the obvious fatality,
glimpses of tears that flowed out of his brutality
Keeping quiet, suppressing the lamenting voice of his family,
Refusing to acknowledge the pain that planted itself inside their hearts as reality
Would he have stopped out of shame?
Would he have changed his ways for blame?
No answers left, the time has run out, there’s no one to save--
Just a sigh, “No mother should stand by, looking into his son’s grave.”
-My grandmother, Jolan, at my father’s funeral
as she walked in procession on heavy, weary legs
Her mind’s eyes looked back to a time,
when he played, careless, as an only child
Piercing grief in her chest,
feeling the squeeze of regret,
for allowing him to become
the stepson loved by no one
Could she have changed his fate?
By giving him more attention and more of her love?
Or would he have done the same?
Drinking and finding excuses for giving up--
In the bottle, he’d drowned his sorrow,
numbed his pain of yesterday and tomorrow
He’s lost his dreams, then, through sickness, his life
With it, two envied daughters and a faithful wife
Hunting her memories of times not seeing the obvious fatality,
glimpses of tears that flowed out of his brutality
Keeping quiet, suppressing the lamenting voice of his family,
Refusing to acknowledge the pain that planted itself inside their hearts as reality
Would he have stopped out of shame?
Would he have changed his ways for blame?
No answers left, the time has run out, there’s no one to save--
Just a sigh, “No mother should stand by, looking into his son’s grave.”
-My grandmother, Jolan, at my father’s funeral
Living Above Your Fears
Living above your fears
yet below timeless expectations
Living above your means,
yet feel broken beyond repair
Mornings and nights without the light
seem hopeless in rivers of lies
as day by day you struggle,
looking for meaning,
searching for truth,
carrying within you burdens and fruit,
passion for life
mixed in deep regrets to uproot
The light overcomes darkness,
in your life, bringing new seeds,
sowing songs of love
in your heart, and a new field of dreams
Living above your fears
yet below timeless expectations
Living above your means,
yet feel broken beyond repair
Mornings and nights without the light
seem hopeless in rivers of lies
as day by day you struggle,
looking for meaning,
searching for truth,
carrying within you burdens and fruit,
passion for life
mixed in deep regrets to uproot
The light overcomes darkness,
in your life, bringing new seeds,
sowing songs of love
in your heart, and a new field of dreams
Cassandra Crossing immigrated to the US from Europe and now resides in the Chicagoland area. Poetry and writing have been her life-long dream. She writes from personal experience about love, despair, loss, and hope. Her work includes short stories, creative non-fiction essays, flash fiction, plays, and poetry. She’s also working on a few novels and novellas. You can find some of Cassandra’s work on her website: ccrossing888.wixsite.com/cassandra and on Patreon: www.patreon.com/CassandraCrossing. Her poetry has been published by the Illinois State Poetry Society (ISPS) on their website, and her creative nonfiction essay “Why Are You Here?” won Runner Up status in a contest by WOW! Women on writing and was published online in 2019. An interview with Cassandra by WOW was published on January 5th, 2020, in their blog, The Muffin: https://muffin.wow-womenonwriting.com Another nonfiction essay "Sorrow" (2019) and her flash fictions “Allure” (2017), "The Scent of White Chrysanthemums" (2019), "The Cabin" (2019) were chosen as finalists at contests by WOW! Women on Writing. Cassandra’s creative nonfiction essay “Things That Matter,” her fiction “Parenting Advice,” and plays “The Chair” and "Three Tickets for the Show" had been selected by Oakton Community College to represent them in the annual Skyway Competitions in recent years. |
Life Worth Living
Myriad reasons to go on,
yet hopeless in tears
to die for
Ready to leave,
nothing to take,
just the broken heart of
her twenty turbulent years
Her pain unnoticed,
her body abused and exploited,
her mind dulled,
and her dreams barred
She’s much too young,
but there’s no way out, and
nothing to gain in each new day
Shame and guilt too heavy to bear
The last goodbye placed neatly on the table,
the bottle nearly empty,
her hands shake
One more pill to swallow
One more night of sorrow,
then there will be peace
Cold sweat and nightmares pulling her down deep,
she’s frightened by the darkness,
feeling the claws of death near
With her fleeting breath, she whispers, “This is not peace,”
asking God to forgive her,
she fights to get on her feet
Walking in the garden
she trembles, pale, and weak
Resonating light surrounds her among flowers and trees,
and purple crocus blooms at her feet
The beauty of nature cradles her as she frailly breathes,
her soul filling with a newborn ray of hope clothed in the spring breeze
She prays to God for her life to keep
She vows to always remember,
no pain is too great
If God grants her wish,
even in immense grief,
she’ll forever declare:
Life worth living
yet hopeless in tears
to die for
Ready to leave,
nothing to take,
just the broken heart of
her twenty turbulent years
Her pain unnoticed,
her body abused and exploited,
her mind dulled,
and her dreams barred
She’s much too young,
but there’s no way out, and
nothing to gain in each new day
Shame and guilt too heavy to bear
The last goodbye placed neatly on the table,
the bottle nearly empty,
her hands shake
One more pill to swallow
One more night of sorrow,
then there will be peace
Cold sweat and nightmares pulling her down deep,
she’s frightened by the darkness,
feeling the claws of death near
With her fleeting breath, she whispers, “This is not peace,”
asking God to forgive her,
she fights to get on her feet
Walking in the garden
she trembles, pale, and weak
Resonating light surrounds her among flowers and trees,
and purple crocus blooms at her feet
The beauty of nature cradles her as she frailly breathes,
her soul filling with a newborn ray of hope clothed in the spring breeze
She prays to God for her life to keep
She vows to always remember,
no pain is too great
If God grants her wish,
even in immense grief,
she’ll forever declare:
Life worth living
A Sonnet to My First Daughter
(Shakespearean sonnet)
You would’ve turned twenty-eight now,
If only I was strong and brave.
Would’ve kept you if I knew how,
My great regret until the grave.
If I had a place to flee to,
A safe haven, a quiet inn,
Break free of evil that men do,
I wish I found the strength within.
A reminder of sinful act,
You were conceived in shame of rape,
I did not focus on that fact,
But from him there was no escape.
You would be my first born daughter,
Instead you were led to slaughter.
If only I was strong and brave.
Would’ve kept you if I knew how,
My great regret until the grave.
If I had a place to flee to,
A safe haven, a quiet inn,
Break free of evil that men do,
I wish I found the strength within.
A reminder of sinful act,
You were conceived in shame of rape,
I did not focus on that fact,
But from him there was no escape.
You would be my first born daughter,
Instead you were led to slaughter.
Broken
Flesh wounds of forgotten promises
And the looks in their eyes as they condemn
“Three children from three fathers,”
All they think of
In their minds, she’s forever banned
Vows have been broken,
They deemed it as her fault from the start
She yearns for acceptance,
But no one cares,
They don’t get that she conceals a broken heart
Alone and abandoned, in a new land,
They can’t see beyond the accent
To them, she’s a foreigner,
But to the Lord,
She’s on a mission, by Him she’s been sent
Her past is for someone’s future,
Her life has a great meaning, which she understands
Many will be encouraged
And lifted up
By the example for which she lovingly stands
The children are gifts and blessed,
The joy she feels—to take away, no one can
She knows what matters,
And God sees
In her, forgiveness blossoms for all three men
So what really matters, and should you listen?
The questions for you still stand
Help mend a broken heart?
Or give up
And watch her fight without you till the end?
It’s love we’ll take to heaven, so
Be assured of her love beyond the grave
You can be the one
To keep a promise,
Just love her back and as always,
for yours and her sake
be brave
Rag-Doll
In the past
like a rag-doll
I was torn inside
On my lips, a kiss of frostbite
Soft and malleable,
smothered and subdued
by intense obscure clouds
Wanting the loneliness to end
I needed to hold on and
keep my broken parts together
until I found my strength in letting go,
asking God to embrace me
Then I learned
that through letting the pieces
fall
I could find my soul
and walk the path of light
like a rag-doll
I was torn inside
On my lips, a kiss of frostbite
Soft and malleable,
smothered and subdued
by intense obscure clouds
Wanting the loneliness to end
I needed to hold on and
keep my broken parts together
until I found my strength in letting go,
asking God to embrace me
Then I learned
that through letting the pieces
fall
I could find my soul
and walk the path of light
SMOKE TREE
First they were timidly bringing logs in shopping bags,
and then, little by little, they started coming to the park
carrying transparent bags with kindling.
One man who was buying from them
was taking smoke tree over the border
and sold it there five times as expensive.
The married couple knew nothing about borders.
Their customers were elderly people
who were pushing wheeled shopping bags in front of them.
They were saying that trees had been following them.
Medicinal trees grow there were the old people fall ill.
But smoke tree didn’t grow in the town.
Did it mean the smoke tree was of no use
for the old people in town?
The married couple had no answer to this question.
“We’re just selling smoke tree,” they said.
The snow is sleeping in the park. December morning
is turning out its pockets. And old people are sleeping
in their smelly rooms, while those
luckier ones are no longer there. With iron fingers
the woman is taking off snow from heaped smoke trees, like
a wrinkled bedsheet. Street lamps are blinking. Memories
grow on leaves that are still holding on to the branches.
The man is looking at the leaves. It appears that the leaves
are trying to say something to him, but the man doesn’t understand.
and then, little by little, they started coming to the park
carrying transparent bags with kindling.
One man who was buying from them
was taking smoke tree over the border
and sold it there five times as expensive.
The married couple knew nothing about borders.
Their customers were elderly people
who were pushing wheeled shopping bags in front of them.
They were saying that trees had been following them.
Medicinal trees grow there were the old people fall ill.
But smoke tree didn’t grow in the town.
Did it mean the smoke tree was of no use
for the old people in town?
The married couple had no answer to this question.
“We’re just selling smoke tree,” they said.
The snow is sleeping in the park. December morning
is turning out its pockets. And old people are sleeping
in their smelly rooms, while those
luckier ones are no longer there. With iron fingers
the woman is taking off snow from heaped smoke trees, like
a wrinkled bedsheet. Street lamps are blinking. Memories
grow on leaves that are still holding on to the branches.
The man is looking at the leaves. It appears that the leaves
are trying to say something to him, but the man doesn’t understand.
I WISH TO HAVE A HOME
I've seen magnolia flowers blooming gently
At the corner of an abandoned street
And Aborigines making love
To fallen petals
In an unconscious state
And nobody recognises them
Shells, iron ore rocks and firs
Are coming out from my mouth
Roads are bursting through of my mouth
Roads full of sunsets
And these are now their roads
By which they count
Sunsets
Or spread wind, so the magnolia flowers
Disperse
Into dark lines on the ground
Only the song is everywhere
Every petal every scream
I've seen magnolia flowers blooming gently
At the corner of an abandoned street
And Aborigines making love
To fallen petals
In an unconscious state
And nobody recognises them
Shells, iron ore rocks and firs
Are coming out from my mouth
Roads are bursting through of my mouth
Roads full of sunsets
And these are now their roads
By which they count
Sunsets
Or spread wind, so the magnolia flowers
Disperse
Into dark lines on the ground
Only the song is everywhere
Every petal every scream
Ronnie Coleman
-after Ronnie Coleman
People tell me all the time
they want to compete, want to pop
their pecs on the Mr. Olympia stage,
but none of these clowns
want to lift that heavy-ass weight—
weights that make your triceps
tremble, like chihuahuas
shaking at the sight of their own shadows.
Most of you are scared
of looking like a fool
in the gym, yelping for help
when the weight on the bench
proves too heavy
for your skinny-ass, toothpick arms.
But guess what,
when I first hit the gym,
I could barely curl a 25-pound dumbbell,
slinkied to the ground
when I tried to deadlift
double my body weight.
But I got big because I never felt scared
of lifting a weight above my head
that could crush my skull,
like a grape between my massive molars.
Sure, buddy, I may never walk again--
my knees more splintered
than the wood in Gold’s Gym,
my spaghetti tendons a mess
of knots and tears.
But I’ll never regret lifting all that weight,
never regret feeling my joints
sandpaper against one another
as I lifted weight after weight
with my giant, pulsing muscles--
muscles so big and black that if you stood
in front of me, I could flex
and blot out the sun.
they want to compete, want to pop
their pecs on the Mr. Olympia stage,
but none of these clowns
want to lift that heavy-ass weight—
weights that make your triceps
tremble, like chihuahuas
shaking at the sight of their own shadows.
Most of you are scared
of looking like a fool
in the gym, yelping for help
when the weight on the bench
proves too heavy
for your skinny-ass, toothpick arms.
But guess what,
when I first hit the gym,
I could barely curl a 25-pound dumbbell,
slinkied to the ground
when I tried to deadlift
double my body weight.
But I got big because I never felt scared
of lifting a weight above my head
that could crush my skull,
like a grape between my massive molars.
Sure, buddy, I may never walk again--
my knees more splintered
than the wood in Gold’s Gym,
my spaghetti tendons a mess
of knots and tears.
But I’ll never regret lifting all that weight,
never regret feeling my joints
sandpaper against one another
as I lifted weight after weight
with my giant, pulsing muscles--
muscles so big and black that if you stood
in front of me, I could flex
and blot out the sun.
The Austrian Oak
-after 1969 Schwarzenegger
When I step on stage, I feel like a God--
light bulbs flashing, women with their mouths open
like big blonde goldfish, thinking, Arnold,
please notice me! How did I get so strong,
so determined? I focused on my weak points:
hit my delts if my shoulders were looking
more like turtle shells than football pads;
hit squats for two hours if I needed my quads
to blow up like rocket ships.
I never let anything get in the way of me and the iron:
even as a teen I would sneak into the gym
after it closed, curling weight after weight
until my blood stained the grooves of the grip.
You see, no one can stop the Austrian Oak
from being crowned Mr. Olympia. Not Mentzer
and his girly words, whose mustache looks
more like two poodles pushing their noses together
than a strongman stache. Not, Lou and his dumb
rotini-shaped hair swaying back and forth
when he steps on stage. Not even my father
who would burst into my room at odd hours
in the night, and beat the shit out of me,
thinking I was gay because I hung pictures
of the body-builders I admired on the wall--
their bronzed bodies posing on the beach
like towering sandcastles, their white smiles
flashing through the dark foam.
light bulbs flashing, women with their mouths open
like big blonde goldfish, thinking, Arnold,
please notice me! How did I get so strong,
so determined? I focused on my weak points:
hit my delts if my shoulders were looking
more like turtle shells than football pads;
hit squats for two hours if I needed my quads
to blow up like rocket ships.
I never let anything get in the way of me and the iron:
even as a teen I would sneak into the gym
after it closed, curling weight after weight
until my blood stained the grooves of the grip.
You see, no one can stop the Austrian Oak
from being crowned Mr. Olympia. Not Mentzer
and his girly words, whose mustache looks
more like two poodles pushing their noses together
than a strongman stache. Not, Lou and his dumb
rotini-shaped hair swaying back and forth
when he steps on stage. Not even my father
who would burst into my room at odd hours
in the night, and beat the shit out of me,
thinking I was gay because I hung pictures
of the body-builders I admired on the wall--
their bronzed bodies posing on the beach
like towering sandcastles, their white smiles
flashing through the dark foam.
Spray-Tan
It takes a little getting used to:
the spray-on tans, the dayglo goo
slathered on the night before.
But let me set the record straight:
of course, the spray-on tan looks fake,
we bronze ourselves all over
to accentuate the Grand Canyon of our abs,
the grainy texture of our backs,
not because we want to look
like we’ve spent too much time
roasting like a walnut in the oven.
It takes a painter’s eye
to get the color just right--
not just any chump can get
the tone and hue we need.
It’s more circus peanut than the Kraft
macaroni and cheese
your mom served you
when your family was broke.
It’s like just-plucked saffron
mixed with a hint of Sunny Delight.
Some would say it’s trophy-colored,
that as we prepare to hit
our most muscular pose
we become the thing we want the most.
But I would say the color
is more a molten-orange--
that if I paint myself to perfection,
my planet-sized muscles
will blaze like stars
on that night-black Mr. Olympia stage.
the spray-on tans, the dayglo goo
slathered on the night before.
But let me set the record straight:
of course, the spray-on tan looks fake,
we bronze ourselves all over
to accentuate the Grand Canyon of our abs,
the grainy texture of our backs,
not because we want to look
like we’ve spent too much time
roasting like a walnut in the oven.
It takes a painter’s eye
to get the color just right--
not just any chump can get
the tone and hue we need.
It’s more circus peanut than the Kraft
macaroni and cheese
your mom served you
when your family was broke.
It’s like just-plucked saffron
mixed with a hint of Sunny Delight.
Some would say it’s trophy-colored,
that as we prepare to hit
our most muscular pose
we become the thing we want the most.
But I would say the color
is more a molten-orange--
that if I paint myself to perfection,
my planet-sized muscles
will blaze like stars
on that night-black Mr. Olympia stage.
Saloni Kaul, author and poet, was first published at the age of ten and has stayed in print since on four continents. As critic and columnist Saloni has enjoyed forty two years of being published. Saloni Kaul's first volume, a fifty poem collection was published in the USA in 2009. Subsequent volumes include Universal One and Essentials All. Saloni Kaul is also an accomplished broadcaster, writer-producer-presenter with innumerable documentaries and features to her credit. Most recent Saloni Kaul poetic production has been published in The Horrorzine, Mad Swirl (contains ongoing Saloni Kaul poetry page), The Penwood Review, Scarlet Leaf Review, OVI Magazine,House Of Horror Glitter & Words, The Whimperbang Journal, Mantis, The Paragon Press Journal, The Imaginate , Amulet Poetry Magazine and Mystical Muse Poetry Magazine. Upcoming publication acceptances include those of Scarlet Leaf Review, OVI, Amulet Poetry Magazine, Mystical Muse Magazine, The Charleston Anvil and the Whimperbang Journal. |
TASMANIA IN YOUR STRIDE
Those rivers way above all charted sound till viscidly they ran
Their tough course plying thundering beneath;
What's high, what's low, what's up, what's down we scan,
In your stride little you grasp this whole heath.
Lakes hollow with eye could perhaps see traces lurk,
Cirque glaciers so long gone that did their imprints weave,
Like sculptor in time dexterously at work
That on hillsides his old carved monuments would leave.
Tall pendam palms waxed, incongruously sitting
Preside round these edges of Lake Tahune
And sway to winds which come that way loud singing
Through narrowed splits, gorges, abysses, their own tune.
With style you took it all in your wee stride,
As waters roaring grand went on their ride.
Their tough course plying thundering beneath;
What's high, what's low, what's up, what's down we scan,
In your stride little you grasp this whole heath.
Lakes hollow with eye could perhaps see traces lurk,
Cirque glaciers so long gone that did their imprints weave,
Like sculptor in time dexterously at work
That on hillsides his old carved monuments would leave.
Tall pendam palms waxed, incongruously sitting
Preside round these edges of Lake Tahune
And sway to winds which come that way loud singing
Through narrowed splits, gorges, abysses, their own tune.
With style you took it all in your wee stride,
As waters roaring grand went on their ride.
SCULPTING SOUTHERN PEAKS
We that gripped hard at what felt like land’s end
Wondered at you who only saw what wonderland vast meant
In icy sheets all stretching to south pole’s iceland
Where iceshelves float on elevated continent.
White stretches far beyond, so white the flocks they host,
O’er white lands tripping eerily they prance ;
Lands where even the chance of your spotting a ghost
Actually stands just about a ghost of a chance.
There where huge tabular icebergs float all in all
Before large blue whale, humpback, sei and minke,
Adelie, Emperor penguins one metre tall,
Waddle bold colonies that seldom blink.
As unafraid as these, you sculpt new peaks with ease,
Be they great iceland wonders with their cryptic tease.
Wondered at you who only saw what wonderland vast meant
In icy sheets all stretching to south pole’s iceland
Where iceshelves float on elevated continent.
White stretches far beyond, so white the flocks they host,
O’er white lands tripping eerily they prance ;
Lands where even the chance of your spotting a ghost
Actually stands just about a ghost of a chance.
There where huge tabular icebergs float all in all
Before large blue whale, humpback, sei and minke,
Adelie, Emperor penguins one metre tall,
Waddle bold colonies that seldom blink.
As unafraid as these, you sculpt new peaks with ease,
Be they great iceland wonders with their cryptic tease.
USAGE LITTLE BY LITTLE
Those were the tales you liked best as book by book
Invented by your mother SALONI KAUL
Rose right before your eyes, your fancy took
In measures both magnificent and tall.
Like icecap of globe’s polar far extremity
Contains ninety percent of world’s liquid in freeze,
One pliable tale holds suspended in perpetuity
Unmelting all that’s round the bend to slow release.
For melting means all unimaginables let loose.
Would raise Sealevel by sixty metres they say!
So I tell and give little by little to use,
Melting in turn that then does freeze away.
Each has its round like batsman at the crease ,
Then rests awhile though on wafts the tale’s breeze.
Invented by your mother SALONI KAUL
Rose right before your eyes, your fancy took
In measures both magnificent and tall.
Like icecap of globe’s polar far extremity
Contains ninety percent of world’s liquid in freeze,
One pliable tale holds suspended in perpetuity
Unmelting all that’s round the bend to slow release.
For melting means all unimaginables let loose.
Would raise Sealevel by sixty metres they say!
So I tell and give little by little to use,
Melting in turn that then does freeze away.
Each has its round like batsman at the crease ,
Then rests awhile though on wafts the tale’s breeze.
AT MCG !
World Cup Cricket took all Melbourne by storm,
You were at MCG to add your mite
To seventy thousand fans that to see teams’ form
Thronged steep stadium aisles by day and by night.
You ran up down aisles all day at high mount --
We had prime seats thanks to dear Government House! --
Cried ‘four’ and ‘six’ and ‘out’ at oddest count,
Elicited great shots, forced some to take last bows.
The English batsmen entertained the little girl gad-about
Seated betwixt Gooch and Lamb in pillion;
At least they loved you till you shouted ‘out’
And top order marched back to the pavilion.
When David Gower beamed at us and with you shook hands,
You didn’t know who was who, stars at the stands.
Your ‘out’ fetched glares when it resulted in a catch,
They all forgave you only when they won the match.
Alec Stewart’s 77 and Neil Fairbrother’s 75 were highlights in England’s 3w. win.
You were at MCG to add your mite
To seventy thousand fans that to see teams’ form
Thronged steep stadium aisles by day and by night.
You ran up down aisles all day at high mount --
We had prime seats thanks to dear Government House! --
Cried ‘four’ and ‘six’ and ‘out’ at oddest count,
Elicited great shots, forced some to take last bows.
The English batsmen entertained the little girl gad-about
Seated betwixt Gooch and Lamb in pillion;
At least they loved you till you shouted ‘out’
And top order marched back to the pavilion.
When David Gower beamed at us and with you shook hands,
You didn’t know who was who, stars at the stands.
Your ‘out’ fetched glares when it resulted in a catch,
They all forgave you only when they won the match.
Alec Stewart’s 77 and Neil Fairbrother’s 75 were highlights in England’s 3w. win.
WORLD CUP FINALS AT MCG !
For semis’ winners in store at finals was a reversal!
With eagle-eye from vantage point on high
We cheered watching two mighty stalwarts tussle
Through staunchest ‘sixes’ squeals, wailed ‘clean bowled’ sighs.
The lights went on, tension at grounds electric,
A lofty six* sailed all the way to tallest roof,
(*one of Imran’s four in the match!)
Strong solid partnerships score boosted brick by brick,
Tight was the field and this battle of wits no spoof.
Valiant innings stoutly booed or soundly cheered,
Excitement mounting could scarcely be quelled;
Your laughs governed direction in which match was steered,
All in the right spirit of sportsmanship upheld.
Though all but two, this much you could well sense
In ups and downs of game, what’s given precedence.
This first ever limited overs One day Cricket World Cup to be held in the southern hemisphere saw a virtual seachange, total overhauling so far as rules went. Day Night Match was introduced, you saw white balls, coloured uniforms/ clothing, rule changes, fielding restrictions alterations confused/bewildered us and South Africa was brought into the limelight for the first time by fluke making it to the semis and Pakitans by fluke to the finals. It was a great World Cup to be a part of and two of the matches we attended ( Yamini at a year and a half) had much that was memorable, the third wicket partnership of 139 (Imran’s last !) , score boosted by Inzamam(42/35) and Akram (33/19) who captured 18 wickets in the championship and wangled the 22 run victory by getting England all out for 227(Pak had batted 249/6), Rameez Raja’s 35 fours and Allan Lamb’s performance. I’ll always relive that excitement and nail-biting close when I re-read these sonnets!
With eagle-eye from vantage point on high
We cheered watching two mighty stalwarts tussle
Through staunchest ‘sixes’ squeals, wailed ‘clean bowled’ sighs.
The lights went on, tension at grounds electric,
A lofty six* sailed all the way to tallest roof,
(*one of Imran’s four in the match!)
Strong solid partnerships score boosted brick by brick,
Tight was the field and this battle of wits no spoof.
Valiant innings stoutly booed or soundly cheered,
Excitement mounting could scarcely be quelled;
Your laughs governed direction in which match was steered,
All in the right spirit of sportsmanship upheld.
Though all but two, this much you could well sense
In ups and downs of game, what’s given precedence.
This first ever limited overs One day Cricket World Cup to be held in the southern hemisphere saw a virtual seachange, total overhauling so far as rules went. Day Night Match was introduced, you saw white balls, coloured uniforms/ clothing, rule changes, fielding restrictions alterations confused/bewildered us and South Africa was brought into the limelight for the first time by fluke making it to the semis and Pakitans by fluke to the finals. It was a great World Cup to be a part of and two of the matches we attended ( Yamini at a year and a half) had much that was memorable, the third wicket partnership of 139 (Imran’s last !) , score boosted by Inzamam(42/35) and Akram (33/19) who captured 18 wickets in the championship and wangled the 22 run victory by getting England all out for 227(Pak had batted 249/6), Rameez Raja’s 35 fours and Allan Lamb’s performance. I’ll always relive that excitement and nail-biting close when I re-read these sonnets!
EASILY REIGNING
Thick with invisible wild life’s strength forests teeming,
Pulsates immensity’s lush wilderness striate,
Like those who etched their wild’s beauty in the Dreaming
To let rainforests that skimp-thrive, luxuriate.
White possums glide, fruiteating Thornton Peak Melomys dart,
Shrike Thrush songs all lure tall Cassowary,
Antechinus, droll Dasyuroid, like quolls dunnarts,
Midst pure palm stands, you test inhabitants of canopy.
On pea-green sunlit lawns the stately peacocks preen
While we applaud lunching in style at a bush ranch,
And flockloads of rainbow bee-eaters you charmed screen
As they dive, dance, tumble on casuarina branch.
In these lush tropics easily reign woods wee denizens,
To you Gold Bowerbird and Chowchilla make equal sense.Today you and your good friends glued to your Ipods
Would root for thriving musky primitive wee macropods!
Pulsates immensity’s lush wilderness striate,
Like those who etched their wild’s beauty in the Dreaming
To let rainforests that skimp-thrive, luxuriate.
White possums glide, fruiteating Thornton Peak Melomys dart,
Shrike Thrush songs all lure tall Cassowary,
Antechinus, droll Dasyuroid, like quolls dunnarts,
Midst pure palm stands, you test inhabitants of canopy.
On pea-green sunlit lawns the stately peacocks preen
While we applaud lunching in style at a bush ranch,
And flockloads of rainbow bee-eaters you charmed screen
As they dive, dance, tumble on casuarina branch.
In these lush tropics easily reign woods wee denizens,
To you Gold Bowerbird and Chowchilla make equal sense.Today you and your good friends glued to your Ipods
Would root for thriving musky primitive wee macropods!
FAIRY PENGUINS ALL ENCHANT
Men, women, children caged in, toeing strict the line
As setting sun’s emissaries the waters wade;
That typical streaming beacon’s the daily sign
For start of Summerland Beach’s Penguin Parade.
In from high seas, laden with sheer bounty itself
Onto the gold sands these coated creatures tumble,
Falling flat on full stomachs, they upright themselves,
In comic yet stately array launch their waddle.
O’er boardwalks we tail as straight to burrows they hobble
And laugh cry sigh as we peer into their lifestyle!
As they belch out all that they’ve intact gobbled
Day long, to feed their baby penguin chicks in style.
The Northerlies spell calm, the southerlies storm choppy seas;
The Phillip Island penguins all perform, enchant with ease.
As setting sun’s emissaries the waters wade;
That typical streaming beacon’s the daily sign
For start of Summerland Beach’s Penguin Parade.
In from high seas, laden with sheer bounty itself
Onto the gold sands these coated creatures tumble,
Falling flat on full stomachs, they upright themselves,
In comic yet stately array launch their waddle.
O’er boardwalks we tail as straight to burrows they hobble
And laugh cry sigh as we peer into their lifestyle!
As they belch out all that they’ve intact gobbled
Day long, to feed their baby penguin chicks in style.
The Northerlies spell calm, the southerlies storm choppy seas;
The Phillip Island penguins all perform, enchant with ease.
ISLES OF SECLUSION
Poets and sensitive souls shy from excessOf virtually all vulgarity, violence,
Bathos, verbosity, the sentimental recess,
To stoically allow inner reserves dominance.
As at first brush when confronted with danger,
A tortoise recluse prefers by far its own hard shell
To risky encounters with dogs in the manger
That want own meat at the cost of everyone else.
On precipitous cliff turf, nests on ledges hard ,
Squats midst sea thrift, reeds, low earth banks, rock crevices,
The dark-eyed smell-sensitive fulmar its privacy guards
At danger sign ejects foul stench, anti-intruder device.
As Sage from retreat and meditation draws his sustenance,
All from isles of seclusion reap dividends,extract our subsistence.
Bathos, verbosity, the sentimental recess,
To stoically allow inner reserves dominance.
As at first brush when confronted with danger,
A tortoise recluse prefers by far its own hard shell
To risky encounters with dogs in the manger
That want own meat at the cost of everyone else.
On precipitous cliff turf, nests on ledges hard ,
Squats midst sea thrift, reeds, low earth banks, rock crevices,
The dark-eyed smell-sensitive fulmar its privacy guards
At danger sign ejects foul stench, anti-intruder device.
As Sage from retreat and meditation draws his sustenance,
All from isles of seclusion reap dividends,extract our subsistence.
INTUITION'S TEMPO
Going headlong with the intuitive flow,Heeding internal tempo rhythmic set by heart and pulse
Make the run easy each time, as yielding slow
Driftwood, stones, rocks soon dash to wild stream impulse.
Chasing e’er-changing fashion’s latest trend
Might make ‘going with the current’ sound hollow!
But chasing bright elusive rainbows round the bend
Add depth to worlds otherwise most shallow.
What would this poet mother be without
Effusive efflux’s speeding poems on neat,
What would even the sceptic do with doubt
When love sails in to sweep him off his feet?
Trust your inner voice (it can’t be that wrong)
As only with sweet melody develops song.
Make the run easy each time, as yielding slow
Driftwood, stones, rocks soon dash to wild stream impulse.
Chasing e’er-changing fashion’s latest trend
Might make ‘going with the current’ sound hollow!
But chasing bright elusive rainbows round the bend
Add depth to worlds otherwise most shallow.
What would this poet mother be without
Effusive efflux’s speeding poems on neat,
What would even the sceptic do with doubt
When love sails in to sweep him off his feet?
Trust your inner voice (it can’t be that wrong)
As only with sweet melody develops song.
DOING & LIKING
It’s always sensible to set aside
Occasionally wisely the time for you yourself
To do exactly as you please and decide
Without following the herd, matters for oneself.
Doing what others like is all very well !
Pleasure is also to be derived from pleasing
The other; like clowns at circus with pride swell
At loud applause old bag of tricks greeting.
But content to truly be you, you must content
Your own inner needs, zest for life and drive ;
As satisfaction in items of beauty lent
Is only doubled when you receive double yours alive.
Make the time for yourself to think things through.
When you do what you like, you like what you do.
Occasionally wisely the time for you yourself
To do exactly as you please and decide
Without following the herd, matters for oneself.
Doing what others like is all very well !
Pleasure is also to be derived from pleasing
The other; like clowns at circus with pride swell
At loud applause old bag of tricks greeting.
But content to truly be you, you must content
Your own inner needs, zest for life and drive ;
As satisfaction in items of beauty lent
Is only doubled when you receive double yours alive.
Make the time for yourself to think things through.
When you do what you like, you like what you do.
SENSES ALL ON
Strain your ears to hear the song of the wind,Your eyes focus to see landscapes pictured in the sky;
Breathe in deep to smell the zest through lemon rind
Touch needle-sharp to sense mysteries where they lie
Soft fingertip touch , mysteries within pry.
Your voice soften so it tells of all these
Like brooks the dreams of mount glaciers at height;
And when fitting raise it to sound loud as you please,
As the roar of the sea echoes all of day at night.
How these accumulations of vision
Of that heard long and sensed even longer
Work on our mind and spirit like story collections
That lead readers through a myriad worlds dispenser !
Alive to all this, each year (as you older grow) of yours gold ore
Conveys like cumulative interest the best of years before.
Breathe in deep to smell the zest through lemon rind
Touch needle-sharp to sense mysteries where they lie
Soft fingertip touch , mysteries within pry.
Your voice soften so it tells of all these
Like brooks the dreams of mount glaciers at height;
And when fitting raise it to sound loud as you please,
As the roar of the sea echoes all of day at night.
How these accumulations of vision
Of that heard long and sensed even longer
Work on our mind and spirit like story collections
That lead readers through a myriad worlds dispenser !
Alive to all this, each year (as you older grow) of yours gold ore
Conveys like cumulative interest the best of years before.
BEAUTY'S YARDSTICK & TEMPLE TRIUMPHS
Stars flit o’er the sky’s midnight blueAs I contend with beauty, beauty long forgot,
Grapple with changing aesthetics untrue
As fickle as fashion tastes yesterday bought.
The essence of beauty’s always valued as valour
Even as yardsticks to judge constant change,
And then there be those that see beauty in squalor,
In ugliness, the rundown, downtrodden range.
But then as stars flit o’er the sky’s midnight blue
And the bright silvery moon’s light’s unfurled ,
I see the changing moon’s many phased golden hue
The promise of that round full moon curled.
Beauty’s like that, I tell you, as round table we dine.
With but one face presented, the whole’s constant, eternal, mine.
Grapple with changing aesthetics untrue
As fickle as fashion tastes yesterday bought.
The essence of beauty’s always valued as valour
Even as yardsticks to judge constant change,
And then there be those that see beauty in squalor,
In ugliness, the rundown, downtrodden range.
But then as stars flit o’er the sky’s midnight blue
And the bright silvery moon’s light’s unfurled ,
I see the changing moon’s many phased golden hue
The promise of that round full moon curled.
Beauty’s like that, I tell you, as round table we dine.
With but one face presented, the whole’s constant, eternal, mine.
IRREPRESSIBLE
Living off impulses might sound riskyBut there’s much to be said in its favour
As irrepressible laughter (pure as malt whisky)
Does wonders for someone’s waning humour.
Impetuous may be the generous giver
Vanward as a pushing front thrusting impellent ;
But think, what if you’re the lucky receiver ?
World transformed, you conjure bliss and relent !
Unpredictability’s charm like plant from seed sown,
The sudden surprise, the unexpected gift
Is all very well, in a class of its own ,
Like a hand in friendship, a healed rift.
Now and then let’s all give impulse a free hand,
Let down our hair and dance to some rollicking band.
As irrepressible laughter (pure as malt whisky)
Does wonders for someone’s waning humour.
Impetuous may be the generous giver
Vanward as a pushing front thrusting impellent ;
But think, what if you’re the lucky receiver ?
World transformed, you conjure bliss and relent !
Unpredictability’s charm like plant from seed sown,
The sudden surprise, the unexpected gift
Is all very well, in a class of its own ,
Like a hand in friendship, a healed rift.
Now and then let’s all give impulse a free hand,
Let down our hair and dance to some rollicking band.
Categories
All
BOBBY Z
CASSANDRA CROSSING
CHRISTY JONES
DEANNE NAPURANO
E. IZABELLE CASSANDRA ALEXANDER
EMILY JENNINGS
HANNAH PRICE
IOANA COSMA
JL
JOHN GREY
JOHN MARVIN
KATHRYN STEWART MCDONALD
K SHESHU BABU
LOIS GREENE STONE
LOUIS GALLO
MICHAEL SUMMERLEIGH
NAIDA MUJKIC
NDABA SIBANDA
PRANAB GHOSH
RANDAL A BURD JR
RUSLAN GARREY
SALONI KAUL
SANDRA LARKIN
SCOTT WATERS
TAMSEN GRACE
TRISTAN YOUNG
WILLIAM MILLER
ZIAEDDIN TORABI