Judith Skillman’s recent book is Kafka’s Shadow, Deerbrook Editions. Her work has appeared in Cimarron Review, Shenandoah, Zyzzyva, FIELD, and elsewhere. Awards include an Eric Mathieu King Fund grant from the Academy of American Poets. She is a faculty member at the Richard Hugo House in Seattle, Washington. Visit www.judithskillman.com

​I imagine it must be quirky,
male and stupid. Blinded by sweat,
making the same charge towards
the same fuchsia flag
kept at a distance
by the matador.
Picadors fire Lilliputian arrows
at leather skin draped in folds
as if to stitch
a garment over rage.
Flies bother eyes that ooze goo,
tail swatting as it groans,
a heavyweight held aloft by jelly legs.
Never quite feral enough to win.
Fond of the steaks thrown by keepers
who fatten this animal of festivals
and orgies—catharsis  
for young men who carry
the torero on their shoulders
through town as what’s ordained
lies slain on sawdust, seeping.

​Settled in to her mind
and undid an ability.
Maybe for math, as things
have slowed. Reading
pages. Seeing into the children.
It must be some kind of finite capacity
for cartwheels
in the brain as in the body.
Now the storm relents
she hears a memory.
To be this staid, this plain.
To have no more razzmatazz
than the road behind
this lot, where a single car
threads its lights
through still standing winter firs.
 

The subject comes again,
where I am to travel
by tunnel
across the water.
 
I turn to leave
through many houses
carrying my useless cell,
my bags.
 
An old terror follows,
many women, French accents.
The day comes late,
full of beauty.
 
Blue jays rest
between green leaves,
songs come in waves.
Each turn
 
and twist lingers--
the paper money
in my purse,
folded bills
 
I handed to the one
who seemed in charge.
My skirt wet,
my linen jacket
 
not quite covering
enough of the danger,
the liaison. When
I return

​to the station
the train has left
for Prague, not Seattle.
There will be no way
 
to go home
except by exposed streets
and what if I am young?
The men will offer
 
and force themselves.
Night comes to this day
like every other
with its cast, its crucible.
 
 

​The Asplundh monkey climbs firs,
waits for the all clear before
 
four-foot lengths hit earth. Thuds
shake my own be it ever so humble.
 
Those neighbors I hope never to meet
will have their new alleyway. Cut the forest
 
in half, allow Mercedes access
to a three-car garage where, if it were
 
mine, the first do-it-yourself LHC
with temps colder than deep space
 
would send killer particles
around magnetic tunnels to collide.
 
The socks I wear: fourteen pairs
of tubes all the same white flinching
 
bright. Who has time for laundry?
My ex-wife thought dinners
 
communal deals—almost Biblical,
her standards exponentially high.
 
No sirree. I like uncooked top ramen,
a zip-lock bag full of nuts and raisins
 
and popcorn in the microwave, kernels
getting so excited they crackle and riff.
 

​You called ring-tailed doves are merely average.
It’s true the feathers gloss liquid in sun.
The appearance of a necklace adds
a bit of luxury as first one, then two,
then thirteen come to eat the seed you throw
out on our moss driveway. One evening
through your telescope, you photographed said dove
at the top of the farthest fir tree
on the acre. Look, you said. I believed
the circle of lens, the inside story.
I believed because I was gullible,
hungry for those whose rank and file it is
to perform the will of their leader.
 
 

 B. Abbott the Boston-based writer, whose poems have been featured in the Boston Globe, Your One Phone Call and many other online publications, has found his stronghold in the world of social media under the moniker of @HighPoetsSociety. His writing is most recognized for its mesmerizing rhyme scheme and clever wordplay. His debut publication High Poets Society is an Amazon best seller and can be found at Barnes and Noble nationwide.

​There's plenty of fish
in the sea.
But only one I wish
to be caught by me.
 

​

​We are zero.
Not one.
Not two.
Because nothing
in this world
can divide
me and you.

​The greatest rematch,
the most amount of fights,
with no clear winner;
Day vs. Night.
 

​
 

I just want a big empty hole, where I can yell so loud with no echo.
I'll fill it up (andemptymysoul)
with all the thoughts I don't want the world to know. 


​

If you break my heart
you'll fall through the cracks
and once you're out,
there's no coming back. 
 

​

Samantha Seto is a Writing Seminars graduate (B.A.) with a History of Art secondary degree of Johns Hopkins University. She is a third prize poet of the Whispering Prairie Press who has been published in various journals or anthologies including Ceremony, Soul Fountain, and Black Magnolias Journal. Samantha also has work published in the Yale Journal for Humanities in Medicine, Brown University's Cornerstone Magazine, Yale Logos, and The Harvard Ichthus. Her twin sister is named Sarah. She lives in Washington, D.C. and went to college in Maryland. 

​The wild flowers are tall and reach my waist.
A map is pointing north in two – diverge.
The ink just smears like blood; I will release
crumpled paper into the blue river.
Like God put trees on earth, a tear may drip.
A veil of lavender covers my face,
it trails over the ground in bright sunlight.
The berries ooze into my hands like sweet
honey, the pond has round water lilies.
My hands submerge in crystalline water.
I trace the moon, it’s bigger than my palm.
A waning, holy light of fading hues
like Michelangelo is painting frescoes.
The willow sheds its leaves in branch water,
the birds are chirping, bells that ring in ears.
My eyes are glassy, a rose inside a vase.
The cacti wither away in heaps of soil.
I gaze at twinkling stars in darkened sky,
my skirt is gently carried by the wind.
I remember the awe of last sunrise.
 

​New Year’s Eve arrives in 2016, 
it fades away like the thick peppermint scent.
A basket of tiny cranberries and warm bread
on the wooden table in a dimly lit room.
A snow angel pressed into white powder,
golden sparklers wave in the dark sky,
we take Polaroids and hear the music. 
My friends are dancing, raising glasses of
champagne; we wait until the big ball drops,
they chant 3, 2, 1, in Times Square on TV.
At midnight, I sit on the stairs of beige carpet.
His Neptune pale blue eyes like pristine water,
he presses his ruby lips to mine and hugs me.
I pat the wrinkles in my dress and walk
to a velvet chair. I read a note – I love you –
in cursive handwriting sealed in a gift.
We stare at crumpled mail on the floor.
The gold angel shines like a star at the top.
I fix my eyes on the Christmas balls hanging
from tree branches and notice the plain, carved
wooden trinkets of the Nativity,
Mary and Joseph cradling the baby
Jesus on the mantle. I dream of God.
 
The very minute I wake, I walk to the train
station and hop on the first arriving on the tracks.
I end up on gray pavement in the town-square,
en route to the rose-window of a Gothic cathedral.
The old wooden floors are creaky, it’s empty,
but I tiptoe to the white altar and pray
for my dear resolution to come true.
I watch a monk in red cloth light a candle
to honor and respect God’s holy throne.
The smoke disappears. At the grand church, I wish
to mindlessly carve doves into brown wood.
I sit alone in a pew near the front and open
the Holy Bible’s thin, creased pages to read
the fine, black print in the Book of Genesis.
The paint is peeling off the wall but it’s
covered by a gold-framed portrait of
the Lamentation of Christ. Treasures of
a church like long rosary beads and a cross
are lining the thick, brown wood to praise the Lord.
The Pope who lives near the Vatican would approve
of this vast house of God with his whole heart.
(Yet, the President prefers the White House
to govern the entire country. A leading voice
in politics for the democracy;
which proves there is a separation of
church and state.) I stare into the pitch dark,
until suddenly a stern, elderly man
touches my bare shoulder. I gasp. His face looms
over me. I glance at his stiff cane
and hunch. The old man gently says “hello.”
His soul will rise to Heaven very soon.
The guards point to the door, and then I freeze.
Candles release smoke diffusing into thin air.
I leave through the door into the coldest winter.
The moon and stars glow bright in the obdurate sky,
brisk snow falls down and brushes against my cheek.
I see this year’s resolution is gone.
 
 
 

​ 
I was born, Mom says, and held in her gentle arms
with tears in almond eyes on the blanket in May
my parents recite prayers to God every day.
The wool sheep trinkets were my holy charms.
 
I know she saw me take a breath of air
and heard my voice whisper a prayer at night.
My life is filled with bright, everlasting light,
the gifts of a loving heart like my brunette hair.
 
At mass, I open the Bible in my lap,
a gold, beaded rosary sits in my palms.
The crowd closes their eyes, but I read the Psalms
and pray to God in my mind with a silent zap.
 
A glass window floods the brightest light in the hall.
I sing a hymn to praise the Lord at the pew,
and I watch the choir fade to a gray hue
the angel’s halo shines as if she were a doll.
 
In a dark church near the beaten railroad track.
the wood beneath my feet, creaky and old
and ruby blood spills from my fragile skin. I told
them, I will die as my eyes roll to black.
 
I weep into my half-knit, woven sweater,
a snowflake purple, and my nose is red.
My mother puts tea to my lips. “My God, are you dead?
Have a sip,” so I take the cup and write a letter.
 
The Lord hears my “Amen” after my prayer, but I love
listening to the minister recite the scripture,
Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden and picture
the Holy Spirit rising like a white dove.
 
A cross and saints on the mosaic ceiling,
the crucifix on the table and page creases.
The stairs crumble into a million pieces
the church, a few centuries old with wallpaper peeling
 
with cracks in the broken wall and a caved-in dome
I bow my head while the mass falls to their knees
to God’s mighty throne and I hold the keys
to the gates, knowing that I will make it my home.
 
The bells are ringing, a candle flickers in the room,
the crowd is yelling as the walls crash and pound.
They begin running out over the quivering ground
yet darkened hallways are like long tunnels of doom.
 
A day will come when God will save His people,
my soul will rise in the air, but I see my body
at the hearse with my strange family dressing too gaudy
to bury me in dirt at my grave under the steeple.
 
The church is collapsing in ashes, I flee
and exit through the door to the trees and houses,
children are hurt and cry in their mother’s blouses,
I watch it burn, whispering a plea.
 
My spirit emerges as I walk to the quad
in light. A silver lining to uplift and leaven
a life that belongs in the greatest kingdom of Heaven,
I’m reborn, an angel on pearly clouds with God.
 
 

A once in a lifetime plane ticket – to fly
to Palo Alto “the city of haloes” and down
at white clouds of the sky – in the stiff, blue chair,
then race along a row of houses and care
to visit a friend at a café in the town;
tour-de-force – the couple – my husband and I.
 
On a steady bus: the engine churns to bother 
the luggage – a thick Steve Jobs novel – falls
on the wide vinyl floor, and the bus seems to freeze.
We walk to the French café – “a creampuff, please,”
the waitress stares (I order a café by the walls)
at God, the – “Holy Spirit, Son, and Father…”
 
“We’re your second family,” politely. The kindest power –
genuine, respected – drinking her tea;
I peel an orange in my calloused hands on the CalTrain
moving (away) on the wooden tracks. Mon Copain,
El Camino Real. The New age, my plea
will pray for the world. The heart of a wilting flower
 
falls down the aisle, moving on. Shine
in the hall of mirrors, friends, the day in L.A.,
amazing entire postulate, tough to send
dreams. I never predicted reaching the end,
end for all I know. He yells, “hey,”
and runs to the gate, walking a fine line.
 
 
 

This day, a press release from The Wall Street Journal,
“a Chicago, gray typewriter sits at the desk,”
The paperback at Barnes & Noble – the published
best-seller with awards and a film offer –
to find a home with curtains on windows, and
tread on. A kitten stares at tiny pills.
If a twist in the narrative and circumstance (“writing,”
on the jacket has printed, “a best book of the year”)
makes you put your little black journal down
– but this is a soul, is blood, is me! – to keep
my intellect’s true rights. The love affairs,
promise and herbs, revise, know by heart.
In mid-chapter, the conflict rises with
an intense death; the brave hero will live,
And what about the lines that character
will deliver? A powerful, divine
Maker of all things allows them to fade away
or tolerates it, massive chaos in the world.
And would you plan to explore the characters,
(In the novel in the palm of your right hand)
to give them life in the story as if they’re real? –
since they alone will never compare with yours.
You’d prefer to imagine the dramatic plot will appear,
If only a great Dane1 would be a fearless, strong wolf
to close the timeless novel at the “author page,”
yet a climax rises before a dénouement
and leads the concerned writer, author of virtue
to reach the clichéd effect, “bread of life”2 –
as God created life – but, Christ is. Life…
Anyway, the last thought that runs in your mind
before you gaze at a stack of books on the table,
is a very worthy, good life that has started
another day, genuine, tough to perfect.
 
 


1 Heaney, Seamus. Beowulf. Old English Poem, 1815.

2 Eucharist, blood and body of Christ. Holy Communion / Lord’s Supper.

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" now available at Amazon.com. 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

She is clothed with an inner strength
and laughs without fear of the future.
eye shine, ignites sparks in my heart.
she judges none, and walks with grace.
Her dreams are in a technicolor palette
and lights her way through the darkness.
She adores dancing in the pouring rain
Blowing dandelions in summer breezes 
Talks to the moon about her eternal love 
She smiles as squirrels dance in trees,
loves spending time watching kids play.
Her dream was to be a great writer, but 
falling in love with a poet was her destiny.
 
(Initially published on The Song Is)

When I'm forever gone,
bury me between the lyrics 
of your most beautiful poem 
so I'll never be forgotten. 
 
When I'm forever gone,
seek my essence among 
the petals of the white rose,
or with the smell of freshly 
brewed morning coffee.
 
When I'm forever gone,
Seek my voice in a sweet 
songbirds sonnet, or with
sounds of calm raindrops 
upon an old tin roof.
 
When I'm forever gone,
scatter my ashes in winds
like seeds of a Dandelion.
For once I'm forever gone, 
miss me at every sunset and
feel my touch at every dawn.
 
(Initially published on Stanzaic Stylings)

I have many faces to choose from,
so many looks that could fool you;
I can wear a smile when I feel sad,
or a laugh when I want to cry.
I have many faces that can deceive,
some to please those I don’t even know.
I may be silent when I’m screaming inside,
I tire of having to face such unfounded criticism,
but today I choose to wear my own;
my armor on to fend off painful words hurled
as I stand before you so very tall and proud;
I’ll confront this unjust and unkind world.
 
(Initially published on The Poet Community)
 

She felt like a trapped bird 
in a golden cage, fed only 
sorrow and precious stones; 
orchids and roses were there 
to say sorry until the next time. 
But all she wanted was a little love. 
The gleam in her eyes fade each day
the smile disappeared from her face. 
Although hopeless, betrayed and with 
a broken wing, she found the strength 
to run from a prison of poisonous love. 
And now, she is soaring once again... 
embraced tightly by her other half... 
an Angel with a broken wing as well.
Together, they fly into a smiling moon,
and dance to a sonnet of forever love.
 
(Initially published on Whispers)

​There have been nights 
when even my own demons 
have cried with me
and loneliness itself 
has given me a hug
 
Nights when the sound
of the world shuts down 
my tears fell silently and 
the silence screams loud
 
When the timid moon
peeked, trying to dry
my tears with its light 
and the sky ended up 
crying with me as well

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.

​​

​You make Earth feel like Heaven
Your love
Comes first,
Just as I Heaven love comes first,
Unconditional love,
No expectations,
Heavenly love,
We’ve made Heaven on Earth,
I never feel alone,
Your voice carry me on,
You keep me safe and content,
Baby do you know that you have made Heaven?
 
 

Childhood,
Closer than sisters,
Through life’s ups and downs,
Bad and good,
Understanding each others thoughts and views,
Then came the awful news,
One was dying,
The other stayed by her bedside,
Offering what little comfort she could,
Praying for her friend,
There when she took her last breath,
A lifetime of love and friendship,
Gone but never forgotten.
​

Violence swept through the streets,
People poured out of buildings,
Rioting in the streets,
Blocking traffic,
Over turning cars,
Chaos everywhere,
Trying to fight the government,
Not a peaceful protest one of violent destruction,
Fires,
Destruction,
People have no self- control,
Only seeing their own views,
Many hurt,
All because they did not get their way,
When will it stop finally.
​

Tickle your insides,
Heart racing,
Head spinning,
Cannot catch your breath,
Thoughts racing,
Praying to calm down,
It only gets worse,
Hands shaking,
Thoughts out of control,
Overwhelmed with worry,
Self-doubt,
Afraid it will never end,
When anxiety takes control.

​

Home,
No money,
She had to bravely start over,
But how,
Live her dreams,
Be happy,
His leaving was the best thing that could have happened,
Excitement filled her as she started her new adventure,
Starting over wouldn’t be so bad,
Now her dreams could be fulfilled.

​

Ground covered in a shiny white,
Snowflakes glistening as they fall,
Icicles hanging from the trees,
Lighting them up,
The cloud unleash beauty,
Scenery is magical,
Frozen waterfalls and lakes,
Beauty of the winter.

​

​When you fall in love you, nothing can change the way you feel
Your heart pumps like mad but you feel nothing but love
You feel full up and you don't even realize you haven't eaten
You can't sleep for thinking about them
You can't concentrate for thinking about them
And when you're with them?
You can hardly breathe for being close to them.
And knowing how good you could be
When they make you happy
You want to cry
When they make you sad
You want them to be there when you cry.

​She fell into his arms,
Tears of joy flowing freely on both their parts,
They passionately hugged and kissed,
He was back from his war torn Hell,
Happiness embraced their hearts,
Coming home finally after two years,
Oh how they had missed each other,
Now he was home for good,
Their lives were now complete, Back together,
Returning home.
 

Love never dies,
It grows over time,
Love is patient and kind,
Makes your heart explode with joy,
Love expands over time,
Nothing can kill this love,
Two people grow as their love does,
Always knowing how powerful their love is,
Filling their hearts more and more everyday,
Love the greatest feeling,
Love never dies.

​

While we honor all our mothers
with words of love and praise.
While we tell about their goodness
and their kind and loving ways.
We should also think of Grandma,
she's a mother too, you see....
For she mothered my dear mother
as my mother mothers me,
She love unconditionally, Is always there for me,
Offering advice and wisdom.

​

I know you have a girlfriend,
But I think we can be happy,
So take the I know I hardly know you,
But I think that I may love you.
You can see the way I look at you
And know.
time to find out
If it's so.
 
I know we don't have much time,
But I think it's just enough;
If you'd like to take a chance on me,
Let's go!

​

Michael Griffith began writing poetry to help his mind and spirit become healthy as his body recovered from a life-changing injury. His works have recently appeared both online and in print in The Good Men Project, the Starving Poets Tour anthology book, Stanzic Stylings, Degenerate Literature, NY Literary Magazine, and Wild Words. He teaches and resides near Princeton, NJ.          

​The bone exposed
 
broken
 
too close to the surface
 
Wound too deep
 
Fragments of white move in muscle
carried by blood.
 
They will be removed
 
then discarded
 
Once part of me
 
now lost
 
Metal on bone
Knots in flesh
hold me together
define what I am now
 
Patient
valid
in the care of others
some who don't care
 
Mending takes time
Time melting slowly
 
Nurses doctors aides
Forms and faxes
Pills injections IVs and tubes
Words I will never remember
names I could never spell
 
Define me
this defective me
 
In a bed not my own
 
Deficient
in
 
Patient
in
 
Valid
in
 
the care of others
and my own
 
The poem "Bone" first appeared in Dual Coast Magazine

The glass woman,
seen whole only in reflections of others,

there in her glass house of shrinking windows
and growing shoulds,
a stone's throw away from being revealed.

Shines in her sorrows,
shimmers in her fears,
shakes in her solitude.

Throw that stone, boy,
hurl the brick,
but aim away from the glass woman.


Hit her sorrows and fears,
strike the solitude and break                                                                                                                
hose panes of should;
take up a mallet and ruin her house of oughts and wishes.       

Let her shine and shimmer in the light                                                                                                 
found reflecting from strength she never knew she had.
Then help her build a new house not so fragile.
 
 

​Oh, you’ve still got it:
a face to launch a thousand dream ships,
a look in your eyes to turn me to cinder.
 
Your playful smile or that sexy I-can-catch-any-damn-canary-I-want-to-
                                          (and I want you)
                                                    smile…
 
Sublime in ways I can’t even name,
and maybe only half-realize,
your voice, more than any words spoken,
slithers into me
and strokes me like Eden’s uninvited tempter.
 
Tempt me, tease me, take me, but never leave.
Never leave a man starving when just your crumbs
could feed him
forever. 

​Line of blood spills out like syrup
a split instant following the surgeon's scalpel
just under my wife's swollen belly.
 
She lies there in dozen-hour labor stupor
arms stretched out on the operating room's crucifix table.
 
Small inverted Christmas tree angel of a woman,
saintly, delirious, and prayerful.
 
I don't look down at her face –
the blood and what follows hold my eyes wide open.
 
Our daughter is lifted from the wet cavity cut across my wife.
 
No blood on her -
it is all on her mother.
 
Sound swirls around us,
many voices loudly in a hurry to be heard.
Numbers and words thick
with terminology
 
My daughter, in given statistics,
a weight and a rating,
by these loud people.
 
A miracle to me,
a procedure to them.

Affectations not fully your own
may have impressed the high school boys,
but to us college men
you just seemed pretty and petty.
 
Lean, tall, blonde and blondish;
a species of two -
twin cigarettes, long and lingering
 
Sharp glances, sly voices, slick expressions,
all from some favorite movie or TV show.
 
Your effect on us so profound, so profane.
We named you “The Theater Bitches”
in that freshman acing class.
 
Once I impressed you from the stage,
then twice, that second time even
drawing smiles and compliments,
real flashes of surprise.
 
(I want to think you were being genuine then.)
 
Did you ever make it to a city or a coast
not attached to a lake? Arrive
at a view not fully your own?

​

​                       
(Inspired by The Mermaid, a decorative panel by Howard Pyle in the Delaware Art Museum – 1910.)
 
Entranced by the mermaid’s mesmeric song,
he slides from the rock into her naked charms.
Relinquishing resistance, lured, he longs
for her embrace and falls into her arms.
 
His red cap meshes with her shadowed braids
entwined with dripping pearls and crimson beads. 
They sweep her arched, bare back, flutter on waves
frothing near her finned legs in a coarse sea.
 
Aligned with their embrace, intent to observe,
full and golden in the starless night,
the moon peeks over the restless horizon’s curve
and tinges the world an otherworldly white.
 
The ocean rolls and stirs, anticipates
the preternatural passion soon to occur.
From the grip of her potent spell no one escapes;
swooning, he enters the turbulent sea with her.
 
Between the vacated rocks and battered cliff
a mackerel twists and leaps from the ebbing tide,
and someplace far away, so far, as if
to seem unreal, sing mermaids at the seaside. 

    http://www.wikiart.org/en/pieter-bruegel-the-elder/hunters-in-the-snow-1565
 
(Inspired by Pieter Brueghel’s painting Hunters in the Snow – 1565.)                                             
 
What luck!  The years go by with endless fun.
Since 1565 I’ve stayed a boy
skating with friends on a bustling Flemish pond,
not a care in the world, all concerns delayed.
In the meantime, three men gripping poles,     
dark-clothed hunters trailed by a dozen dogs,     
remain on a hill far above the town.
They trudge, necks bent, shoulders hunched, spirits crushed,
toward simple comforts that they’ll fail to reach,
each weary step printed in deep snow.
Hoods conceal their troubled faces.  Bad luck:
one rabbit is all they’ve killed this frigid day.
Hunger and disappointment plague their paths;
needs unsatisfied will mar their years.
One, as if he could outrun his fate,
descends the hill ahead of his two pals,
but he’ll keep his place within the landscape’s frame,
between two barren trees, on a steep bank.
It’s only me who gets to move around.
Unlike the rest in this frozen scene -- I’m free.
I can glide across the ice; do twists and turns.
While raucous crows hang motionless in clouds
or perch on branches that will never sway,
and as peasants tend to a bonfire’s flares
in front of an alehouse with a dangling sign,
I spin -- my scarf waving in sea-green air.
I’m easily lost among such a lively throng:
I zip beneath joined hands of skaters dancing,
coast past a fallen man, who’s lost his hat,                                     
steer between stone arches of a bridge
that a woman crosses with her firewood,                                          
her back eternally burdened with the bundle.                                        
I steal the ball a man hits with a stick,
but drop it by his feet soon afterwards.
(I snatch to amuse, not to be a thief.)
I circle an old woman, who pulls a sled,
then dash into a crowd of cheerful children
before I come to rest, partly hidden by them.
Some folks of course will doubt that I’m for real,                                           
but consider the artist’s placement of the Alps;
those mountains looming large in the background
resemble nothing viewed from Flanders;
nothing like that lies in the Netherlands.
Yet, their jagged, frosty, peaks preside
over the dusky winter scenery.
And if mountains move, then can’t a painted child?
Scrutinize the pond.  Squint.  Yep -- that’s me!

(Inspired by a 14th century tomb in Chichester Cathedral -- Sussex, England.)         


 
There’s proof in stone of everlasting love.
One autumn day, a dozen years ago,
in Arundel, an ancient Roman town,
while we held hands by that medieval tomb,
just like those sculpted lovers always do,
you scoffed at me when I said that love outlasts 
our flesh and bones and even all the earth.
You said that art is not reality:
“These effigies conceal a shameful truth.
This countess and this earl lived apart.
Their union -- nothing more than a contract,
a business deal between the titled rich.”
Sunlight seeped through the cathedral windows,
pitching shimmering shadows of ourselves
onto the woman’s robe, the man’s armor,
and dappled the dogs cuddled at their feet.
We had the western corner to ourselves,
as we have now this cemetery’s nook.
We quarreled over assumptions that you made:
“Doesn’t such tenderness as these two show
belie a blemished trend of history?
Their personal history remains unknown.”
Love abides in currents exceeding time.
Think of us.  Here I am, standing at your grave.
Sunshine escapes the web of trees above
your headstone to brighten just one word:  love.
Forever shall I rest -- forever love.
This phrase you chose to be inscribed as death neared
atones for doubts you spoke of long ago                                               
while we stood beside that chiseled monument.
Though dates and other words have begun to fade                                 
as have the names on that Arundel tomb,
love stays bold, unmarred by wind or rain.
and it will endure in hearts, if not in stones.
 
 

on your stoneware urn
dimmed by a celadon glaze
wispy gulls scatter
above a serrated sea,
wail in a tempest of tears

​

​swimmer far from shore,
shark breaches fins thrash arms thrash
lifeguard’s shrill whistle,
blurry veils of gleaming sprays
settling as he grasps her hand
 

​I
 
My beautiful Susan is asleep.
Her slender body is drenched with moonlight
and her lovely skin still glistens
with the perspiration of our passionate desire.
 
Sleep softly, darling, always sleep like this,
your perfect breasts uniquely pearled with stars.
I want to be your every sunrise
but now am content to watch your eyelids fill
 
with dreams.
 
 
 
 
 
II
 
And afterwards the wind blew and the rain
through open windows,
and all the cicadas and castanets
made music for her dreams.
 
But what I remember, what I remember most,
is a single bead of perspiration
shining like a pearl between her breasts.
And afterwards not even.
 
Just the rain.
 
 
III
 
My beautiful Susan is awake.
Her arms, outstretched, are slender as the sun,
the color, also, of the bamboo screen
through which the sunlight illustrates her breasts
and makes the bedroom wall its tapestry.
 
Wake gently, darling, always wake like this,
tattoo’d with morning, parallel and fine.
The legs I kissed last night are bamboo-smooth
and absolutely perfect. Darling, this
is nothing. Just a poem. Love
 
is excellence.
 
 

​The old man
in a faded, oily shirt
grins wide
as a split coconut.
 
His hands are the color
of last week’s papers,
fragile as elastic
stretched thin as possible.
 
Along the waterfront
the wood rots like cardboard.
The old men shuffle
along narrow walkways.
 
 

​The roads in France
run straight
 
and in the fall
 
the river’s metal
is a sheet of zinc
 
curved like a heron’s back.
 
The blue-gray hills
are charcoal-smudged with trees
 
and on their slopes
 
the freshly whitewashed houses
catch the sun
 
like boulders in a stream.
 

In the pink and white golden words
Of the day outside the garden of gods
Is the hometown of thy soul.
Far before the world was born
 
The prehistoric giants in gold
Engraved the epic of times to be born
To tell thee, from outer skies the city of the giant
Will once again come to the coast of time.

​

I live in the very eyes of the stone
I am the light of the light,
The core of the universe.
Out of water and fire I emerge
Yes, churning water, turning fire.
There was a time, in black and white, when
The space of the galaxy was resplendent with colours.
The world is a book of dreams
The city of the future is above the clouds.
The prehistoric giants thence I saw
They are solemn as mountains
Living in the city of gold, transparent in body,
Synchronous with the sun and the moon and the stars.

​

​Original words –
A picture of the heart and the spirit
A breeze blowing through the silent music
That which grows in the palm of your hand
The sun, the moon and the stars singing in form
God’s bosom, the ups and downs of the earth
The river is fragrant sweet nectar of life.
Original words are stars in the night sky
Shining bright and light upon the soul.
Plaiting along the bridge of light
Can arrive at the Temple of the Gods.
 

When the dainty of dawn lights up your body
You shall see the golden country in stone.
The Giant is walking in the sky 
His hand holds aloft a Diamond City.
In the garden outside the sky
The other one robed in transparent gold;
He's smiling at you.
And behind him, is a huge palace.

​

When I walk the City
I shall hold it in my hand.
Blowing a breath to make it transparent.
So I saw it in the future:
The Gem edifice, a flash of the giant.
The stars cling to their bodies
As if from another universe
So I know that the sea will be sweet
And the earth will be noble as gold.

​

Upasana Bharadwaj from Guwahati, India is an aspiring lawyer who loves playing with words as an escape from the concrete jungle. Her thoughts and emotions flows through her pen. She writes blogs, stories, poems with a few publications online. 

​You say, We are shaped for you 
I say, We are shaped of waves, honey and spicy peppers, not to slake your thirst. 
You say, We are Weak 
I say, We bleed 5days everymonth, with a smile 
Now you understand. 
 
We too wished to be set free 
To breathe in peace 
To enjoy the nightlife 
Just as you do, 
But your mind don't let us 
As you say, our clothes are shrinking 
I say, your mind is.
Just the other day,
the half-naked priest in the temple got offended by her sleeveless blouse.
 
You call us to be objects, 
I call us Strong, Smart, Sensual, Caring, Giving, Survival, Tolerant and Powerful.
Laying there naked 
Tired and in tears,
You made her fluent in silence 
... and she stopped believing in fairy tales and happy endings.
I say, Chin up and Straighten your Crown 
We rule the World. 
I say again, We are Goddesses 
have you forgotten it? 
 

​On a canvas of a dark winter's night,
I sat sipping my hot-cold favourite black coffee,
Gazing high up to the mysterious dark silk blanket sprinkled with silver and white
... and my heart awes in amaze. 
 
Deep in the silence, 
Just me and the sparkling diamonds in the sky,
Having a silent conversation 
On all sorts of thoughts that gathers the mind in the quiet still hours
Yes those "2 am thoughts".
 
And just then the lustrous moonbeams
makes its way through the window, 
Opening boxes of stored memories, 
shelves of shared laughter
and giving a spark of hope to those blurred drug of dreams.
Gazing in awe, I drown into my sleep, 
with a wonderful feeling.

​My hot, now turned bitter cup of coffee slipped off my grip, 
to know that a thin pan of glass sits between you and me
pretending to cover up the miles between us in its thin layers.
The distance is out of our control 
As we don't meet with touches and hugs
It's just felt with distances and feelings.
Besides being trapped in this film system physical distance 
You're always here with me,
As you flow endlessly through my pension scribbling a beautiful poetry..
that revels you tightly to me,
Just like a writer and his poetry can never fall apart.

​Brown eyes! They say it's common,
But the moment he holds my gaze for a while, they pulled me in,
Capturing my attention,  drowning I'm it's sheer force
In those swirling chocolate eyes of his.
 
It's like the rock against the shore that destroys the ship,
Or it's just like leathers, which have matched his though attitude.
Sometimes they sings, a sweet melody 
wrapping me around in it's warm brown blanket.
 
Brown eyes! They say it's common, 
But she knows, just one glance into his striking crisp eyes..
She would be lost-doomed for all Eternity.
Realising his fierce dusky brown with flecks of gold danced within the deep swirls of cocoa..
Making them appear to have a mystery hidden inside waiting to be discovered.