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DONAL MAHONEY - POEMS

7/15/2017

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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 - POEMS

7/15/2017

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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’.
 
 

 
 
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SREYASH SARKAR - POEMS

7/15/2017

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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.
 
 
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CHRISTINE FERGUSON - POEMS

7/15/2017

1 Comment

 
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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.

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ANN CHRISTINE TABAKA - POEMS

7/15/2017

1 Comment

 
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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
 
 
1 Comment

RUTH Z. DEMING - AT BELLA SALON AND SPA OCEAN CITY, N J

7/15/2017

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Picture
​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
OCEAN CITY, N J



Such accolades for my feet
I could hardly believe it!
A tap dancer like Ann Miller?
A modern dancer like Twyla Tharp?
Or just someone who enjoys her
"Blackened Tilapia" platter
at Spatafors, Ocean City,
New Jersey

The Nail Salon and Spa
was richly detailed
a majestic place for
all patrons
Happiness, I read with
surprise, is what you
want on vacations.

I plunged my unsandaled
feet into the hot water
then black-haired Lexi
began the operation

So much to do.
Scrubbed the soles
the ankles and heels
with purple cleansing
powder. Pain turns
to pleasure.

Orgasmic!

Softly towel dry
and then apply.
Pink nail polish.

How steady are her hands.
A regular van Gogh.
Pink as lovely as
strawberry rhubarb pie.

Proudly I leave the
salon. Might my best
guy propose to me
to keep those toes
all to himself?

Have you seen her?
The girl with
the sexy pink toes?
Have you seen her?
The girl with
poetry in her toes?

Yes, says a deep voice,
and she's mine all mine.
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RENEE B. DRUMMOND - POEMS

7/15/2017

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Picture
​Renee B. Drummond is a renown poetria and artist from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She is the author of: The Power of the Pen, SOLD TO THE HIGHEST BIDDER, Renee’s Poems with Wings are Words in Flight-I’ll Write Our Wrongs, and Renee’s Poems with Wings are Words in Flight. Her work is viewed on a global scale and solidifies her as a force to be reckoned with in the literary world of poetry. Renee’ is inspired by non-other than Dr. Maya Angelou, because of her, Renee’ posits “Still I write, I write, and I’ll write!”

https://www.dropbox.com/s/b7djwy5mwby1p1e/DRUMMOND%20COMPLETE.mp4?dl=0
​



Dear John,


 
Dear John,
I hope
this poem
finds you
in the best of health.
I love you
BUT…
I found
someone else.
 
He’s actually
your best friend
and
my babies’
dad.
I promise you though,
he
did-not
destroy
what you and I
once had.
 
I just grew tired
of you
being away
so
very long.
One thing led
to another;
felt so right
an’ yet
so wrong.
We tried to tell you
before
you left
for war.
But then
like the Temptations
we both thought
another
mind war;
hmm~~~
what is it good for?
 
So,
as stated before,
I love you,
BUT…
I found someone else~~~
that I
just
absolutely
adore.
 
 
Dear Jody,

​
Oh,
no one
must’ve
told you,
an’ you still
don’t know?
I married
your
best friend
LONG; LONG
LOOOOONG
before
I left home.
 
She gets
‘YOUR’
allotments,
medical coverage,
social security
and
my pension too.
We’re on an island
(military base)
‘laughin’
our butts off;
bout
how
WE BOTH
PLAYED YOU!
 
Hey Jody,
How’s them projects;
I left you in?
All them mixed babies?
The welfare checks
and my drug dealing
best friend?
 
Sorry sister girl,
you got played in the end.
See you,
when we come home
with
our
son,
daughter,
dog
and
Mercedes Benz.
Love John,
Your ex-lover and best friend.
 
 
Dedicated to: Oorah~~~Semper Fidelis~~~You ‘gotta’ pay to play ‘wit’ a few good men!!!


 
A B.A.D. Poem
 
 
No part of this poem may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without written permission from the author. All Rights Reserved. Copyrighted material@ April 25, 2017.
 
​

                              Can I Have ‘Sum’?


                                                                     
 
Root Beer and Moon pies hide.
Is obvious chocolate on the outside.
Swing low, sweet ‘shugga’ ‘iz’ within
Mommy ‘SNEAKS’ rattling paper at night.
But I hear her; I’m listening!
Can I have ‘sum’; ‘outta’ sight?
Can’t have ‘NOTHIN’ to ‘MY’ ‘SELF’!!!
Mommy waited all day for night.
Here I come; disappointing, her bite.
 
Dedicated: Root Beer and Moon Pies go together minus the ‘kidz’!!!
A B.A.D. Poem
No part of this poem may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without written permission from the author. All Rights Reserved. Copyrighted material@ May 25, 2017.
 



                              ‘Talkin’ Head(s)

                                                                                
 
Her head screws on an’ off.
You’re out of her head man.
Once strung out; its your loss.
She’s so vain; he’s so lost???
 
Dedicated:  THIS POEM AIN’T ‘BOUT’ YOU!!!
 
A B.A.D. Poem
 

No part of this poem may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without written permission from the author. All Rights Reserved. Copyrighted material@ May 25, 2017.
 
 
 
                        An Elephant in the Room
                                                                          
 
A pink elephant in the room.
Is obviously present, nonetheless metaphorically doomed.
An issue none wants to discuss.
A challenge beyond what appears true.
 
Dedicated: To be or not to be is the question an elephant in the room would ask of thee?
 
A B.A.D. Poem
 

                                     Have It Your Way 

 
Two all beef prose
Special words
Literature
Consonance
Poetry
Onomatopoeia
On a 
Stanza seed bun.
 
Dedicated To: You Deserve a Break Today
A B.A.D. Poem
(Authored: “A B.A.D. Poem”, “The Power of the Pen”, “SOLD: TO THE HIGHEST BIDDER”, “Renee’s Poems with Wings are Words in Flight-I’ll Write Our Wrongs” and e-Book: “Renee’s Poems with Wings are Words in Flight”).
No part of this poem may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without written permission from the author. All Rights Reserved@April 7, 2017.

 

                                            INK Vows

 
I, Author Renee’ Drummond-Brown
pen you,
to be
my lawfully wedded poem,
to have and to hold,
from this day forward,
for blues,
for rhythm & rhyme,
for literature,
for narrative,
in writers block and in personification,
until
INK
do us part.
 
Dedicated to: I do!!!
 
A B.A.D. Poem
 
No part of this poem may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without written permission from the author. All Rights Reserved. Copyrighted material@ April 13, 2017.
 

                                             Fences

 
Dogs sit and wait time.
Time waits for me, nor for dogs.
Dogs love no mans pride.
Pride goes in front of a fall.
Dogs love unconditional.
 
Dedicated to: “BUGSY”, Dee-Dee and Tone.
 
No part of this poem may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without written permission from the author. All Rights Reserved. Copyrighted material@ March 15, 2017.

 
 
                                    Spoken Word


 
A book is just a book.
A pen is just a pen.
A paper is just a paper.
A poem is just a poem.
A hand is just a hand.
Ink an’ prose ‘KNOW’ spoken word.
 
 
Dedicated to: A poetic thought is just a poetic thought; until ink becomes her.
 
No part of this poem may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without written permission from the author. All Rights Reserved. Copyrighted material@ March 24, 2017.
 

 
 
                                 Comedy and Calamity

 
What; can wash away her tears?
Mac, Cover-girl, L’Oreal, Maybelline, an’ creams.
What; can wash away her tears?
Love, hate, comedy and calamity’s feelings.
What; can wash away her tears?
Memories fading over times passing years.
What; can wash away her tears?
A smiled frown turned upside down.
What; can wash away her tears?
Saks Fifth Avenue; ‘CHARGE’ it girls!!!
 
Dedicated to: Honey, the jokes on you.
 
No part of this poem may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without written permission from the author. All Rights Reserved. Copyrighted material@ March 24, 2017.

 
  

‘Somethin’ ‘Dun’ Gone Wrong Song

 
She’s
been ‘cryin’
all night
long.
‘Sumbody’
done
‘dun’
her
right;
wrong.
 
 
 
Be it
Right.
Be it
wrong.
 
 
 
She’s
been ‘cryin’
all night
long.
‘Sumbody’
done
‘dun’
her
right;
wrong.
 

 
He
told her
he
loved her
an’
said
this time
“its real”.
Ray and Stevie
wonder
‘bout’
ancient
sad songs
sung.
Yall’ ‘knowz’
the real
deal
‘fo’ real
and
‘anywho’,
who holds
the key
of life?
I SEE’s.
 

 
 
Her memory loss
reveal
deception
lies
an’
‘ev’n’ believes;
he’s
been ‘cryin’
all night
long.
‘Sumbody’
done
‘dun’
him
wrong;
right?

Dedicated to: Another sad ‘POETIC’ song

 
A B.A.D. Poem
 
No part of this poem may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without written permission from the author. All Rights Reserved. Copyrighted material@ May 1, 2017.
 
 
JAZZ Don’t Mean A ‘Thang’ if Rhythm and Blues Ain’t Got that ‘Swang’

Saturday
the dusk
of dew;
63.
~~~
Naw cuz,
‘twaz’
1961
~~~
or
‘wuzn’t’ it
62?
~~~
‘Anywho’
>>> 
skipped us
‘sum’
SERIOUS
school.
<<< 
Mabey
it twas’
afternoon?
  
In the
black
Southern
comfort sun.
Or
‘wuzn’t’ it
Southern comfort
us ‘wuz’
‘drankin’ on?
???
 
 WHO KNEW?
we’d
beg
borrow
an’
stole
us
some fun?
  
Down
at the
Juke joint;
‘smokin’
on
tobacco,
‘eaten’
‘dem’
pork ‘rhymes’.
Naaa!
‘Dats’
a lie!
We ‘wuz’
‘chewin’
on
‘sum’
fried CAT.
Fish
‘dat’
‘IZ’???
Chitterlings
an’ OH’ kale,
mustard greens
naw
dayze’ steamed,
ham hock
neck-bones
‘wit’ them
negro beans
an’  
simply red
rice.
Spinach AIN’t there!
Now
‘dats’
mighty fine of you
and
‘sum’
cornbread
sounds
‘kinda’ nice.
~~~
Might add…
~~~
Christianly
too.
 
 Grease ‘poppin’
foot ‘stompin’
shaking off
calories
and
them there blues.


‘Groovin’
to sounds of
herbie hancock
muddy waters
little walter
miles davis
louis armstrong
dizz gillespie
duke ellington
john coltrane
an
lest we forget
charlie parker
too.
ROLL CALL:
They don’t get A capitol?
‘Naw’
daze ain’t
hardly
‘IMPO’TANT’
just ‘acktin’
‘sum’
black fools!!!
But
‘dayz’ ‘due’
~~~
THIS TIME
~~~
get a pass;
~~~
unlike,
~~~
Me
an’ You!!!

Aw,
now ‘dat’ there’s
‘sum’
Cannon
‘kinda’
“Good News”
“be for real”
JAZZ, Rhythm, and Blues!
Oh my!!!
Naw,
dorothy and toto
‘wuzan’t’
hardly
there too.
There’s no place like home though
or
‘skippin’ us
‘sum’ school;
cross
the railroad tracks,
back
in
the neck of the woods
AKA
OZ
and/or
DA’
Juke Joint.
UNDERSTOOD?
 
harold melvin,

&
the blue notes
‘WUZ’ THEY THERE TOO?
Alright; alright
If you don’t know me
by now
You ‘betta’ ask ‘sumbody’
bout my poetry~~~
RENEE’S POEMS WITH WINGS ARE ‘FOREVA’
WORDS IN FLIGHT!!!
 
‘IZ’ ONE
JAZZY BABE,
and yezzz’
JAZZ
don’t mean A ‘thang’
if
Rhythm and Blues
ain’t got
that ‘swang’!!!


 Dedicated to: You ‘betta’ ask ‘sumbody’ ‘bout’ my poetry~~~
No part of this poem may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without written permission from the author. All Rights Reserved. Copyrighted material@ April 9, 2017.

Citation


I’ll write a poem for you;
You write a poem for me.
Back to back; quotations extract ‘summadat’
‘BUTT’ remember to cite thee; PLEASE.
Illustrations’ mention references; citation is key.
I’ll write a poem for you;
You write a poem for me.
Son of citation will allow thee,
to be or not to be;
“A BAD Poem” if you please.
 
 
Dedicated to:
Drummond-Brown, R. (2017). A B.A.D. Poem. Bloomington, IN: AuthorHouse.
A B.A.D. Poem
 


PROMISCUOUS
 
At only
13
PROMISCUOUS
as
can be.
She knows
no ‘betta’;
Momma an grams
different partners
shaped
her
wanton reality.
 
Casual
‘loose’
sex
so
frequently;
to
“HER WORLDWIEW”
‘IT’
‘IZ’
‘AZ’
normal
as
can be!
 
Like the army,
she too
serves
her country
(WELL)
to be
all
that she
can be,
indiscriminately
Oorah!
Oorah!!
 
 
 
But…
PROMISCUITY
comes
at a
price;
Moral judgments
from God
‘WILL ULTIMATELY’
Suffice.
 
 
ROLL CALL
YALL,
The big payback:
Chancroid
Chlamydia
Crabs (public lice)
Genital herpes
Genital warts
Gonorrhea
Hepatitus B
HIV/AIDS
HumanPapillomavirus (HPV)
Molluscum Contagiosum
Pelvic Inflammatory Disease (PID)
Scabies
Syphilis
Trichomoniasis (Trinch-parastic infection)
AN’
LEST WE FORGET
Yeast Infections;
plus
the ones
we haven’t
even
named
yet!!!


 
Dedicated to: If the shoe fits; OWN IT (in every size)!!!
 
 No part of this poem may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without written permission from the author. All Rights Reserved. Copyrighted material@ April 3, 2017.
 
                                                                                              
 
 
 


                                    When Doves Cry

A Poet’s Haven-Allan Boles 6 word challenge/contest

                                                                           
 
Satan came to Him and said
“If, You are Son of Man;
Turn all these stones to bread”
The Father replied back an’ said;
“Man shall not live by bread”
alone…is what the Trinity said.
 
Dedicated: The Trinity.
 
A B.A.D. Poem
 
 No part of this poem may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without written permission from the author. All Rights Reserved. Copyrighted material@ May 26, 2017.

​

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LOLA HORNOF - POEMS

7/15/2017

0 Comments

 
Picture
Lola enjoys writing about things close to her heart.  She loves to reads especially crime and psychological thrillers. Lola also loves to garden and the sound of rain on the rooftops.  She enjoys spending time with her fiance and going on long walks in the woods.

​


                                       Lonely Famous


Her laughter,
Made everyone’s heart soar,
She hid behind a mask around them,
Never knowing the real her,
Fake friends,
Loneliness,
Pressure,
But she put on a great illusion of herself,
No one knew she went home every night and cried,
Sorrow washing over her,
No one knew the real her,
Hating herself,
Hated the world too,
The anguish of being famous.


                            Appalachian Autumn


Yellows, orange,
Taking your breath away,
The brisk cool air refreshes the soul,
Tranquility,
Clearing the mind,
Ferns scatter across the ground,
The vibrant colors were all that were seen,
Magical canopies of color,
Overhead leaves fill the forest with nature’s rainbow,
Under foot they crunch,
Mesmerized by the beauty,
Autumn in the Appalachian Mountains.
 


                                 Fall in Vermont


Bright bold colors surround you like a luminescent rainbow,
The bright warm colors of fall,
The wind blows and the colors dance on their trees,
Some slowly drift down to the ground,
As the crisp cool breeze blows you wonder should it be more perfect,
Breathing in that fresh exhilarating air,
Feeling alive and somewhat reborn,
Canopies of colors lie overhead,
Engulfing the joy and magnificence of fall.



                                          In The Night


Full moon shown down over the forest,
Night creatures scurried around shuffling along,
The trees blew,
Rustling of the tres and their canopy of leaves,
Cool crisp air flowing,
Suddenly an owl calls out,
Sounds of the night in the woods,
Sounds of nature,
Night time in the canopy of the forest,
Crackle of the leaves under your feet,
Stars providing a shimmering glow in the night sky,
Peaceful,
Tranquility,.



                                        Summertime



The warm air blows through the trees,
The sun shines down on all the greenery,
The wild Turkeys and Deer walk through the yard,
The birds sing high in the trees the songs of summer,
Blueberries blossom into fruit,
The gardens overflow,
The clear blue sky brightens the summer day,
As the warm breeze blows absorb the warmth and freshness,
Oh summertime
 


                                     Moon Glowing


The moon was full,
Shining a bright light over the night sky,
The stars were brighter than ever before,
A breeze washed over the field, The moon stood high in all its glory,
The night creatures chirped,
The moon shined the most natural light of the night.



                                          Twilight


The fog rolls in,
The sun slowly drifts away,
The gray sets in,
Dragon’s Breath covers the forest,
Shadows appear,
The owl sits above the breath of the dragon,Calling to antone who may hear,
Slowly the full moon rises,
The fog glistens in the moonlight,
One after the other bright stars sparkle in the sky,
The fog covered the ground and shined under the lights of nature,
Oh, the glorious twilight.
 

0 Comments

NGOZI OLIVIA OSUOHA - BREXIT O BREXIT

7/15/2017

0 Comments

 
Picture
​Ngozi Olivia Osuoha is a young Nigerian poet/ writer and a graduate of Estate Management. She has some experience in banking and broadcasting. She has published some works abroad in some foreign magazines in Ghana, Liberia, India and Canada, among others. She enjoys writing.


                                     BREXIT O BREXIT


​
Though life is bit by bit
Falling into an enemy's pit
Is a total misfit
Because a bandit
Can cook a titbit
For the blood we knit
Not to flow but quit,
Then that, which we did inherit
Would be an exhibit
In order to limit
Where we inhabit
For our permit
To lose its merit,
So that when they hit
From wherever they sit
They can yell BREXIT O BREXIT
0 Comments

PAYAL PHUKAN - CELEBRATE

7/15/2017

0 Comments

 
Picture
Born and brought up in Guwahati, Payal Phukan is an engineer who escapes from the world of data and numbers by playing with words. She is an emerging poet with a few publications online. She perceives poetry as a way to connect with the thoughts and emotions which shy away from her otherwise. Besides poetry, she loves painting and playing chess.



                                Celebrate


I peep at the lights from behind
the curtains and hear
the thunder of my own claps
succumb to a natural death. On beaches,
I watch the tide erode my sand castle
with a roaring laugh. But I look down at my feet,
wet and muddy, I lift them up and giggle.
On Sundays, I say ‘hello’ to my abandoned poems
and wrap my fears in polythene, tuck them in a burrow
with stale meat and mossed breadsticks.
And at midnight, I close my door
and dance on my toes
to the whirling sound of the wind.
​
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