Blanca Alicia Garza is a Poet from Las Vegas, Nevada. She is a nature and animal lover, and enjoys spending time writing. Her poems are published in the Poetry Anthologies, "Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze", and "Dandelions in a Vase of Roses". Blanca's work can be found in The Poet Community, Whispers, The Winamop Journal, Indiana Voice Journal, Tuck Magazine, Raven's Cage Ezine, Scarlet Leaf Review as well as Birdsong Anthology 2016, Vol 1. Blanca was recently nominated for The Best of the Net 2017. Whispering StarsAs the Moon rises and illuminates the evening sky it awakens desires of love from so very far away. A soulful shooting star ignites the night while my heart beats on, I silently cry. I saw the stellar sight tonight and I made a wish I wished for the day that I will see your beautiful face hold your hand and feel your tender kiss. Perhaps the distance may separate our bodies but our love rises together as two souls in love. (Initially published on Stanzaic Stylings) Bittersweet Lonely and sitting by my window on a cold Winter's night, a cup of coffee in my hand, a pen ready to spill my soul in the other. Thoughts come and go like waves while bittersweet tears wetting my notebook, craving your presence saddens my heart. Pieces of paper scattered on the floor, the Moon shyly peeks trying to comfort me, I yelled to her in hopes that you can hear the echo of my voice, so many times I tried to reach out for your hand to dry my tears, to feel your tender touch, I tried to ease my pain with a smile, because I knew that you were on the other side feeling the same. Find Me If one day you look for me
and you can't find me anymore, look into the poems that I wrote to you, you'll find me there. Close your eyes and feel me, as I left a piece of my soul in every letter, in every word. Look for me in a Dandelion In a rainy day In a pristine white rose In a cloudy sky In our beautiful full moon In a thunderstorm In our favorite song In a crimson red dress Find me in your dreams Feel me in your coldest night I will look for you In a lonely night In the core of my soul In a golden star In our favorite song In the sound of the rain In every tear I shed, one by one until there is no more, no more you, no more I, no more us. I will go quietly without interrupting your silence If one day you remember me and you can not find me do not look for me anymore this time I left to never return. Perhaps our love will fade like the words in my old book of poems or perhaps it will rise from the ashes with flaming wings of a Phoenix into eternity. I will always treasure our loving memories in the shattered petals of a pristine white rose.
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Chrissie is much travelled and has lived and worked in several countries. She gained her degrees in Psychology at USC and worked with recovering addicts in the LA area for four years. She now lives on the South Coast of England where she writes. Chrissie has been published by Ariel Chart, Bournemouth Borough Council, Plum Tree Books, Mad Swirl, Anti Heroin Chic, Dead Snakes, and other publishers of poetry. Her articles appear in Novel Masters, Democracy Now and other newspapers. For David I drank your adoration, it made me glow
in truth, I was used to being the golden girl you liked my dresses more than my sister's I was chosen for your team, football or hide go seek we'd meet at school in the woods and kiss just like at home in the shrubbery or the den always together, you saved me for yourself and I wanted for no one, no other friend, though I had them You loved my long, long, thick hair hanging heavy my contrasting dark eyelashes enthralled you you sheltered me from the rain and warmed me Your family moved away while I was ill in hospital, how could they do that? I look for you still 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 one 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, Misty Mountain Review, Mad Swirl (contains ongoing Saloni Kaul poetry page), The Penwood Review, The Voices Project, Scarlet Leaf Review, Taj Mahal Review, Verbal Art, Ink Sweat And Tears, Military Experience And The Arts (As You Were: The Military Review), OVI Magazine, Blueline, Indiana Voice Journal, Five 2 One Journal, The City Poetry,The Lake, House Of Horror Glitter & Words, The Whimperbang Journal and The Paragon Journal. Upcoming publication acceptances include those of The Imaginate Zine, Mantis, The Penwood Review, Scarlet Leaf Review and The Paragon Press Journal. BY TEASPOONS ? BY LADLE ?When sounds of trouble then all of a sudden soar Like pigs disgruntled squabbling in a poke , We all know better than to be so fooled at core, You do know better than those flames to stoke. And when heads with arms all apparently relinquished Towards you love’s onslaught, class true or fake, On the alert be, even as cooks most accomplished Keep firm watch on their biscuits as they bake. Those that at auctions intervene to slyly swift transform Results in their own interest, using a deal of clout Only to egg the buyer on, yourself inform; As in love feigning’s evident, be on the strict watch out. Heap on your dollops by teaspoons or ladle, Whatsoever you do, steer clear of meddle. TRANSFORM CINEMATICALLY ! Weighed down under a host of problems unresolved, A sad glow overcomes the much oppressed heart ; Contained wrapped permanant solutions solved Float on the upswing, ones sought after as much as prized art. Even in circumstance that doubt unveils Where jagged jitters old is that constant dabber, You must see that your confident true self prevails And have the heart to stay calm and sober. As with previous downturns I come to grips And bridge the widest gaps that hover phased near at play As I am close to reconcile, the balance dips, That starry golden galaxy recedes into bright day. All scents of order calm for whiffs of struggling strife, It's matter of cinematic bringing still life to life. POINT COUNTERPOINT : Gorgons of This WorldThree winged monsters, females serpent haired, on end Each ominous wing flap stark calling your attention, Most rhythmic, purposeful, with ‘look at me’ command; Ah, single glance would mean lifelong detention. Eyes locked in strong embrace that would kindle no passion bright Straight glances meeting that trigger neither love nor lust, Instant sending trick’ry, he’d be stone at first sight, Marbled in time, forever cold, not even crushed to dust. Strategic thought to his rescue, a brain wave skilled And lo ! he holds the captive in his shield array. Mirrored in there, their eyes meet and Medusa wills Him to turn and become her, those three Gorgons’, prey, But eye to eye, he classily aims and at once her kills. Armed with Perseus-like strategy, beware of first sight. Medusa’s gone, immortals two remain out there to bite. ESSAYING EXPRESSION DAILYHow would you like to think out one beautiful day That in its many minuscule divisions Plays out a myriad fable themes in grand array, Colourful in display as they take on revisions . A morning headstart top instinctive bright and early High in contemplation, slow in tempo and exultation, Soon whips up the momentum slowly but surely, Yields, all feat and exploit, excellent consultation. By afternoon things perk up, get speedily mobilised Till you are all agog with high anticipation . A splendid lunch easygoing , menu designed stylised Relieves tension existing as with granted emancipation. And so, we keep going from one to its own twin, A day so like the other yet startling with every win. ALL IN GOOD USELazy for long to hints obtuse, Steeped in slush slippery lubricities , Idling away long days equally lax lethargic, Clear of strict edgy disciplinary precision , That selfindulgent languorous dreaminess , Lacking both energy enthusiasm to combat The overwhelmingly oppressive stillness Engulfing the world, clouds the horizons. Then sudden like those unveiling of statues, With eagle-eyed firmness, called for rigidity, All that well-stored produce, Still camphor-laden, unaired all, lack-lucidity, Is put at once to use. ALL IN GOOD TIMEA garland of dry leaves When flowers are out of season Confers what little else then can. A subsidy of fabulously fancy roses When those heaped accolades are in Mingles with the murmurs of sea in the saltpan. The muttered thanks perfunctory, at the unneeded, of man. The usual blunder of giving too much, too late peeves. A timed convergence of high thought Upon the concourse of specific measured space Whittled like a rainbow out of the blue , Configurations of plain comprehension sought Point beamed stark inexorably Spot ineradicably on the grasping hand And all is ascertainable, attainable, that’s true. OLD TIME PATTERNS PETALLINEThose petal peels from memory , On them is lingering on the dew ; The texture silken satin smooth And oh how warm emanates each hue! How swift straight from antiquity... To me comes clear each cue And when it all eventually evaporates There’s still the residue. BLUEPRINT & THE STARS ALLHe was deft, dramatic and determined. His aim was the perfect drive Moulding physique and stamina, Sheer genius and ability. Blend of body and technique with style. (On the one hand) : Proper club size, measured flight curve and tee angle. Envision trajectory all the way and take into account air resistance. Study the surface structure diligently and go about ball rotation pin-pointedly. (On the other hand): Posture is crucial, power is premeditated, astutely planned. Yet that intuitive great gut haul and drive technique is all his very own. To each his swing, unique as fingerprint blueprint..... And the ball is lofted to where it has to go. This one easily matching the speed of his car, almost 300 km. / hour. And it is all in the game ! COLD IN THEIR ENCLAVEThis time I hark after a distant sound Dusting tall statuettes of gold. I trace the songline to the edge of the mound And sheer liquid gold gets sold. I slowly chase the glinting staves As their echoes recede. I touch the statues one by one, meek slaves, And in silence the acquiescing shadows all concede. SKY HIGH LOVEYou keenly wait to hear what I have yet to say As clouds of streaming white go drifting by. Then, as you look up, quite as clear as day, In my own pointed way, like monthly pay, My thoughts on love are posted on the sky. WAXING WANINGPhysical-spiritual fruition, a magical feat ,
Babe stretches to have feet bathed in currents. Homage paid, waters beat their hasty retreat. Joanne Ben is a corporate writer and English professor. She has experience writing for various sectors including education, government, healthcare, and technology. Joanne loves the beach, cinema, volunteering, and writing. She lives in Florida, USA. SEASONSDesiccating branches, breaking, threat of wind The earth collaging, blustering leaves The sky a concoction, a bind of wind Fall at lightening ¾a cleave of leaves. Promising another Spring. The dimmed watering wet solstice ¾Wintered, a peeve. The vernal beginning intertwined. Swerving into Summer ¾ the fluttering weave, Of an acrid solstice, the seasons entwined. THE PASSINGThe dilapidated chair held the imprint of my father,
Its worn wood carved from cherry, before his time. The markings of a carpenter and his gather, skills of a trade surpassing the pine. Seated was my grandmother: at the corner of her line. A dwelling eroded by smother: A place of contentment to pass time. His gather: saying goodbye a bother. Rising from the renovated pine: His ascent, a pother stronger than the cherry rind. He saw her last her sepulcher, She saw him last the pine. Christopher Barnes’ first collection LOVEBITES is published by Chanticleer. Each year he reads at Poetry Scotland’s Callender Poetry Weekend. He also writes art criticism which has been published in Peel and Combustus magazines. FestivalAngels of tat Blink at our guru an hour. Recklessness in loose tongues Is curtailed. Insight duties no verve Nor sermons. A junk-grimed spoon Feigns lustre by the candle. Cloud-ClimbingLuridly chrome-tint The speedboat-driving octopus Is kiss-blown on the forehead By each tragedian In our guru’s aura. We’ve unbuilt the mind’s shadows, Dizzy from hearkening oversouls – Gunk On the engine of the universe. Tonguing SpittleOur guru ticktacks eyes In the Pete Burns doll. Run-out-of-time sundown. I airscape him Fluttering with gopis. We blubber, mystify, Culting for juju lips To halo the sky. Imaginary RainThe mushroom cloud bomb Engravened with nylon fuzz, Roosts on his aquarium. Our guru’s rigor Gambles by humouring senses. We backlog anxiety For peace. Stilling BacchusOur guru, thresholding from wine bars,
Slurs his doodads inducing cheer. That shoplifted My Little Pony, Raging to be eyeballed, Crash dives off a pizza box. Hopelessness owns my physical body Reshaped by nous. Glenn Ingersoll works for the public library in Berkeley, California where he hosts Clearly Meant, a reading & interview series. He has two chapbooks, City Walks (broken boulder) and Fact (Avantacular). He keeps two blogs, LoveSettlement and Dare I Read. Recent work has appeared in The Opiate, Mannequin Haus, and Dodging the Rain. had enough of want some make |
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