 Donal Mahoney, a native of Chicago, lives in St. Louis, Missouri. He has worked as an editor for The Chicago Sun-Times, Loyola University Press and Washington University in St. Louis. His fiction and poetry have appeared in various publications, including The Wisconsin Review, The Kansas Quarterly, The South Carolina Review, The Christian Science Monitor, Commonweal, Guwahatian Magazine (India), The Galway Review (Ireland), Public Republic (Bulgaria), The Osprey Review (Wales), The Istanbul Literary Review (Turkey) and other magazines. Some of his work can be found at http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html#sthash.OSYzpgmQ.dpbs A Limp Others Can’t See The old man crossing the street has a bad limp we try to ignore. No one wants to look at a limp like that. We like to think no one else can see the limp we have the limp we earned by ignoring little people who get in our way who strike us as the litter of life we want swept away. Epitome of Grace They are a certain way certain ladies are today no matter where they are summer, fall winter, spring even waiting for a bus in rain to clean hotel rooms an hour away epitome of grace Alice’s House Redbud and dogwood have blossomed above the tulips and jonquils where Alice's house used to be. A possum and raccoon nose around where the garage was before the tornado. An armadillo has joined them. Someone has hung a red feeder from the old clothesline. No hummingbirds yet. Spring has brought new life over there. A Family Thing Someone broke in the house the weekend the elderly couple was out of town, a family thing. The TV, the couch and computer were gone. Someone took everything. Even the silverware, tables and chairs. The couple had everything insured except for the new photos of their daughter. They were in the computer emailed by their son last week. Kate was all smiles in the photos and the couple wanted to have them printed and framed and hung on the living room wall above the fireplace. The weekend of the robbery the elderly couple was out of town at her funeral, a family thing. Nitwits Like You She was old already when you had her in 8th grade and she said you should sit in the first seat third row right in front of her for the rest of the year. That was half of your sentence for getting caught rolling marbles down the aisle and disturbing the class. She gave you a choice about the rest of your sentence. You could diagram 30 sentences a night for the rest of the year. Or she could call your father and tell him what happened. Diagramming sounded very good to you. Ten years later you finished a master’s in English and wanted to thank this nun who had turned a gutter ball into a strike but she was no longer at the school. Another nun told you she was in a rest home out of state and you couldn’t call her or visit. You could write but you shouldn't expect an answer. She was not doing well. Turning gutter balls into strikes for more than 30 years with nitwits like you had taken its toll.
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 Rajnish Mishra is a poet, writer, translator and blogger born and brought up in Varanasi, India. He is the editor of PPP Ezine, a poetry ezine. He has three blogs: one on his city < https:/rajnishmishravns.wordpress.com>, the other on poetry, poetics and aesthetic pleasure < https:/poetrypoeticspleasure.wordpress.com>, and another of PPP Ezine < https:/poetrypoeticspleasureezine.wordpress.com>. The Angry Driver He presses pedals, rushes fast, Drives impatiently, Angrily past plastic, glass and metal. Cuts through slow, slimy snails, driver’s bane, switches lanes, swerves, then goes slow and blocks their lane For revenge. He drives with geometric precision, with a drive to drive, eyes of tiger, half-a-smile. Lingering fingers or eyes on screen, not his way, his style is simple, not a moment extra spent on road. Rage erupts when he outdrives, with a war to wage every moment. How could he, she, or they, delay him for a second? Mon semblable, mon frère? You know him. Don’t you? Apologia pro vita mea I don’t remember exactly what happened that evening. She wanted her minute, hour or year of fame, she told me loudly. .I tried to reason, with a woman, and failed. She kept pestering; my resistance broke. I may have slapped her, not more than once; lightly, tangentially, I don’t remember clearly now, but I sure know how to restrain myself. I stayed awake, beside her, seven inches away, separated by a wall, listening to her eerie sobs through that long night. I apologized the next morning, even made her an omelette and coffee. She said nothing. Her words were drained with her tears maybe. She did not respond, I left for work, looking at her for the last time, although I didn’t know it then, . In the evening, I returned with two tickets of Life is Beautiful, and a resolve to be more patient with her, always, no matter what. I just can’t fathom even today, why she left forever! Cocoon My thoughts run. They run to hide in your protective lap, to lie there, to sleep, carelessly. For death can’t reach there, you’ve told me with your reassuring eyes. Your eyes are brown, the shade, I never had courage to stay and stare. They’re bewitching, unnerving, beautiful. I hardened the cyst but the soft core of truth, of weakness; remained. You’ve told me that the fear of loss – of life, of love; is true. You’ve told me to rest while you weave round me a cocoon. Alive not Immortal Alive not immortal am I, not me. I live, I know, in the end to die. I’ve heard and read gods weep and bleed, like us they live, they love and die. I bleed and weep and live and die. Yet I’m no god. Not good enough, am I? I’m tired, not dead, not I, not yet, of feeling like one, not being a god. Myself should I push into myths ever new, and get reborn. Let my mind, the Father, beget its son – The god that’s me. My City and Yours Ghats, narrow lanes, sand, temples, river: images that flash, in all presentations consistently, close to “always”; combinations of all or some of them present ever in images of my city, the city of light, of life, eternal. No I’ll not name it. My city, is your city, and theirs. My city is stuck with what it’s given. My city as shown, as true, as real, yes it is all, and not. The spirit, the life, the transience, the sorrows, the joys, the filth of flowers, and all that’s seen or not, at all hours, For the world to see, is my city simplified, palatable, presentable, made easy. Multifaceted? Never. Simply, ‘city for dummies’.  Sreyash Sarkar is a poet, a qualified painter, a practicing Hindustani Classical musician and an aspiring researcher in Microelectronics and Nanotechnology.Educated in Kolkata, Bangalore and Paris, he has been a student correspondent at The Statesman, Kolkata from his school, South Point. In 2012, in an international poetry competition organized in memory of Yeats, his poem was shortlisted among 40 other poets from all over the world. Having been nominated and won a plethora of literary and art prizes, his interview was published in the “The Arty Legume”, where he was asked to speak on cubism, existentialism in art and intrusion in a painting. He has been extensively featured in “Five Poetry Magazine”, “Muses”, “El Portal”, “Tagore for us”, “The Country Cake-Stall”, “The Orange Orchard” etc. Besides, being a freelance writer and an associate editor for several magazines, he is the editor-in-chief of Kalomer Kalomishak, a bilingual magazine, which he founded in 2013. He currently divides his time between Kolkata and Paris, where he is currently pursuing his ‘diplômé d’ingénieur’. The Merchant The serpent was writhing in the ventilator for a long time Concealing every breath waiting to sprout, Imprisoning them in the interiors of my heart: In the midst of crumbly mango leaves, assembled before the chest, The amazing pace of its spiral motion, Comes back to me Like my long-run music. Under asphyxiating conditions, I realize, " Probably, it's not so easy..." Looking towards the twilight sky of my seventeenth autumn, I assiduously advertise for the lovelorn of the afternoon, " I have expatriated my heart Wanting to be rubescent, At least for sometime. My merchandising has ended; At a very low price, I've weighed my wishes and whims And sold them in the markets of malady. Whirligig " O , what a goodly falsehood hath ; a goodly apple rotten at the heart!......." -Shakespeare It's better to have some time to desist Because it'll start all over again In the midst of vendible decorated bazaars, The variegated cooing. But you'll never stop Trampling over chattels And after crushing them, Walk through rudderless winds. And while walking, you too will forget Like everybody else, The facetious effulgence of champa flowers The first blooms of jasmine The plenum of bnoichi fruits The habits of autumn leaves. And perhaps the oscillations in the heart of the ocean, Where only risings exist, That too will be encased by magical chants You will whirr, turn only, like all who circumvolve In this inauspicious time of whirling maelstrom- After the end of an unwanted winter, Just like the first working fan, overhead How life is spinning, and spinning around.. A Nonexistence " I walked a mile with Sorrow And ne'er a word said she; But, oh, the things i learned from her When Sorrow walked with me....." - Robert B. Hamilton I have been dragging along a certain nonexistence Cloaking away these lacerations, the bleeding; In the pace of a deluge, the forlorn, angry, Emotions come tearing down, As rocks of jeopardy ignite sparks. Resting my head against placid walls of neglect, The nerves of my forehead swell up. Having touched the concrete of asperity, I have consumed fire: My mind wanders aimlessly on the dark shores of despair, Where deaf to all appeals, the moon never rises. Whilst the new-moon night descends to concuss the crest of every existence, The bran and rice relinquish their fragrances. The Time of Golden Leaves There was a time when autumn leaves bearing the animation of yellow, Leaving their arboreal existence, used To fly around your lips And out of exhaustion used To nest in your hair. While pausing the boat of my troubadour's existence, I used to watch how, the rays of the sun While living with them, While scattering delirious petals On the stairs of twilight, used To call upon the sky to descend. The innocuous dusk, would then ravish Over your chest. Cooked with adventure, somebody, would send my febrile blood to the banquet of my heart; Down-root, the exudation of nectar Impasted over your body and Time's tongue, anticipating. The coruscation of lambency, in each fleeting moment Would traverse down your breasts, down the tenebrosity of your crepuscular triangle, Into the dense coppice and while going further deep into the subaqueous abyss, would observe, bewildered, How in the paralysed moments of bliss, the path has deepened, How, in the flickering light of the noctiluca The delight of penetration, every overwhelmed kiss has been distracted; How the celerity of every breath, boisterous at the fragrance of chameli, Would return to your lips to say, ' I'm just remigrating...' That pretense of slumber That time of golden leaves, tend to cease, Clutching onto my chest-hair, your song too, evanesces, " The peacock of the night, has spread its train, Where are you, my love? " A Tibetan Epistle (For my tibetan friend, Kalsang. To the miseries of his homeland) After dreams were murdered in plenitude And the vermilion trail appeared in distress And the reverberations of the epic fragrance were heard The ephemeral earth underneath The Emperor's feet, shook And Gods were born. Come, my lord, let's play a game. While in playful stance, when every ray of light From every entailed word becomes drunk, Let the Tibetan rivers enshroud you In braids of emotion Let the mountains become an entire race And dance around you Let the valley become the priest For a while Let the divine tea and porcelain vases Break together as A torrential waterfall Because, like humans Gods too, can escape.. And clutching onto bags of gold, Can declare, "This freedom is uncalled for.." Just like Buddha's escapade From the land of friendship Of 'Mar' and of 'Refined Intelligence' The bird had barged into the weaponry Past the numerous Blood-stained eyes Metamorphosed into sunlight. Onto the morning of your kingdom My midsummer night's dream Is knocking, my lord. Open the door. And breaking the bonds of my dreaminess And while wide awake I shall sing, "Tune is the freedom of words". Come, lets start. I’m 23 and I’m Wearing a White Kurta I’ve heard bleeding of grasses. I’ve heard peeling of onions. Drop by drop. Skin by skin. Emotions, slashed on the cutting board. Please don't splash that. Please don’t. Tomato-blood; I’m 23 and I’m wearing a white kurta. Most days are bland. Most days are good. Most days are days of dogs and kittens. Most days are sure. Most days are true. Most days are pages. Most days are chairs. Most days, I’m 23 and I wear a white kurta. I’ve stepped on stones. Stones have history. History of marks. Marks of water. Water of ‘Me’. ‘Me’s of density Smoked and bewildered. Opening and not opening. And not closing. And not chasing. Keys, hurling familiar sounds. I know, I’m 23 and I’m wearing a white kurta. Somedays it’s the sun. Somedays it’s the rebound. Somedays it’s the hillside ground Somedays it’s the hollow, hollow ground Somedays it’s with a ballad, with a sweet ballad Somedays it’s the sudden flushes of the landscape. Lift me over human cravings, Lift me over these ‘somedays’ Lift me, so that I can see, I’m 23 and I’m wearing a white kurta. The untruth of being The shackled heart The colossal loss The intrepid woe All circumvolve Into nothingness. Nothingness of sarees Sarees of colour Colour of consciousness Consciousness of sea Sea, the febrile sea. When the zero hour closed in Someone whispered, ‘Are you 23 and are you wearing a white kurta?’ I scarcely comprehend the words, ‘I’ve lived’ or ‘You’ve lived’ When I’ve made sense of, ‘I’m the thought of things’ When I’ve made sense of Something less fleshed than time. The time of the melancholic moon. Alone, important and wise. Darker than earth’s dark. The first day after death, When grief stopped being a purse, I realised, I’m 23 and I’m wearing a white kurta.  Christine is a twenty three year old English major. She is currently waiting for a spot on the heart transplant registry after experiencing heart failure over 50 times. She was born in Orlando and has since moved to New York and finally was adopted in Michigan. She considers herself both a dog and 90's music enthusiast. Her interests include writing, pulling pranks on her family, watching horror movies, and bleaching her hair white despite her mother's dismay and objections. She loves to listen to 'back in my day' stories. Water in Michigan The rain falls heavy on the forest Weighing down pine needles with dewy silver. The trees will dry and straighten out their branches, Back to before they were assaulted and held by water They don’t remember And have no need to forget. A decade or so after happily ever after Cinderella and the prince were desperate to pay the rent So off to the factory she found herself sent. There was no money, the prince spent it all. The castle for sale went up that fall. The mice sold to the circus as a last resort By the prince who still came up quite short. Her prince, now obese, sat at home on his ass As Cinderella made ballroom slippers from glass. She rolled up her sleeves and tied her hair back Desperately picking up prince fatso’s slack. She ignored the foreman’s rapey look, And her meager salary home she took. No happy ending for her would be, Until charming’s coronary at 33. She inherited it all, and became quite thrifty And lived a long life to a hundred and fifty. The town revived once the feasts did stop, That the prince loved to throw with each new crop. Townspeople rejoiced to have no more king, But a queen; doing her best with everything. So ends the tale of our Cinderella, Who ruled much better without a fella.  Ann Christine Tabaka, is better known by her middle name, Chris. She has been writing poems and rhymes since she was fourteen. She was an artist, a chemist, and a personal trainer. She recently had 4 poems accepted into the upcoming Contemporary Group’s anthology “Dandelion in a Vase of Roses,” 1 poem accepted and posted in “Whispers,” 2 poems accepted by “The Society of Classical Poets,” 2 poems accepted by the “Indiana Voice Journal,” and will have poems in the summer 2017 issue of “Halcyon Days Magazine. ANTICIPATION Dark and defiant The tempest rages Bulldozing over the forsaken shore Scrubbed raw by the angry waves Sand blasted remnants of an old boat Soggy with time Rattle and creak with each gust A lone figure stands guard Huddled against the rocks Rain drenched yellow slicker Pulled tightly about her body The excitement engulfs her As she waits for the storm To tear her open And quench the fire within QUICKSILVER A full moon peeks from behind majestic trees Bare branches are silhouetted by the moon’s silvery glow The moon casts its shadow like some giant hand reaching out for me An eerie mantle of soft radiance gleams all around it Light flows over the land and illuminates all that it touches It is like liquid silver as it stretches out for the horizon Mercurial in its ability to evoke wonder In all those who are awake to see it JOURNEY A journey out of nowhere Into being Awakened to life To a life that I was meant to have To become who I am Stepping off the edge Falling into your arms The safety net of your love Freed from darkness Open to the light Growing wings I fly I soar above existence Into a new realm Of the imagination Seeing things not as they are But as they are meant to be A journey out of nowhere Into brilliance NATURE’S GEMS Diamonds are the stars at night The moon a perfect pearl Opals the fire’s flame so bright The night is all a swirl The meadows are great works of art Silver flows in the little rill Red berries are rubies of the heart Autumn leaves the senses thrill The orchestra of birds that sing Gold is the shinning sun Nature is the one true gem When all is said and done FORGOTTEN She stands on the corner, Cold lonely, lost, forgotten; As her youth slowly slips away. She hides behind the makeup, And clothing of her former years. She evokes a look of pity from all who pass by. Behind her mask, Her features show the beauty of her age. But she refuses to accept this, And so continues to disguise her true worth. Trading it in for a few more years of fantasy. Why does she cling on so desperately, To the worn pages of past times? She has much more to offer now. Many of us are obsessed with holding on, To what we cannot have. And in doing so neglect to see the satisfaction, That each new age holds out to us. She mistakes the glances of sympathy, For admiration. So for the moment she is content. Then once again, all too soon … She stands on the corner, Cold, lonely, lost, forgotten … NATURE’S GEMS Diamonds are the stars at night The moon a perfect pearl Opals the fire’s flame so bright The night is all a swirl The meadows are great works of art Silver flows in the little rill Red berries are rubies of the heart Autumn leaves the senses thrill The orchestra of birds that sing Gold is the shinning sun Nature is the one true gem When all is said and done  Ruth Z. Deming, winner of a Leeway Grant for Women Artists, has had her work published in lit mags including Hektoen International, Creative Nonfiction, Haggard and Halloo, and Literary Yard. A psychotherapist and mental health advocate, she runs New Directions Support Group for people with depression, bipolar disorder, and their loved ones. Viewwww.newdirectionssupport.org. She runs a weekly writers' group in the comfy home of one of our talented writers. She lives in Willow Grove, a suburb of Philadelphia. Her blog is www.ruthzdeming.blogspot.com. AT BELLA SALON AND SPA |
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