Jonathan Douglas Dowdle was born in Nashua, NH and has traveled throughout the US, he currently resides in South Carolina. Previous works have appeared or are appearing in: Hobo Camp Review, 322 Review, The Opiate, The Write Place At The Write Time, Blue Hour Review, Whimperbang, After The Pause, Midnight Lane Boutique, Visitant, Adelaide, Blue Moon, Bitchin' Kitsch, Pif, Mojave Heart, North Of Oxford, Vox Poetica, Blue Mountain Review, Furious Gazelle, HCE Review, And The Big Windows Review. Symphony From The Splinter At The Bone (#6-10)6
I search for a word to become a sun; For a word to become a sun that lights The path to tomorrow; chasing away Blankets of darkness, peeling back Layers of dust; It is necessary, for life's time is short; Why weary the heart in wasting it Upon hearts who believe in the eternity of Whatever their plight? Sooner give me Your face and laughter, We may call them a church and a bell, A house of a thousand prayers; It is necessary for laughter to endure; For tomorrow to remain a winged thing That will follow this moment; That will ask the heart to take flight with it, To move beyond the illusion of comfort, Into comfort's true touch and embrace. I search for a word to become a sun; A burning prayer, or a star, A single word that will light my path Into tomorrow, and a deeper awakening; Where my heart may also once more be A bell and a church Singing out one thousand prayers That offer, like your laughter, Comfort's true touch, and embrace. 7 Time grows fiercer, and we grow fiercer, With the heat of a world burning Back on our tongues; We wait to eat through down to the marrow; To release the words at our bones; To free the body for a moment for the Soul's expression; Time grows fiercer, and memory seems Only a weight, a chain of bones Singing out while the wind blows Through their entanglements; Time grow fiercer, we grow fiercer, With the heat a world burning; Burning down to ashes, So we have something To rise from. 8 I cross boundaries, to shape a word against My spine; to shape your hand back into being A simple hand; absent of thought; Like a leaf that drifts across the skin To leave the nerve singing; I want to feel the passage of your motion; To rise deep from the well; To call out like a star Burning back into being. I cross boundaries, because Otherwise I would only be a brute Shaping you out to meet The past, the fallen days, I would Be seeking to replace old seasons With the fire burning in your eyes; I would be stumbling toward my death; Rather than burning away my life. If my touch returns you to feeling Deep and safe at your core; if You can build a house from it; a place To rest your heart and prayer; If my touch awakens you To bring the world back into your eyes, To build a future with what I have spoken, With what you have heard Then yes, I cross boundaries; If only to leave a momentary life for this thought That you rise and grow deeper Into your own rising spring; That you grow beyond survival Into the breath of your own life; Even in my absence; that by singing a single Spark back into the fire; You sing the song of burning at your bones Just to shine on. 9 At last, at times; there seems There is no more change; all thoughts Turn wooden as puppets Left to dance on wires; Understand, please; In the absence of transmission between You and I, there is no you, Nor an I; We have become too often as Only metaphors of memory; Sooner I would wake up Something new in myself, and see A new feeling burning Each day, brighter In your eyes; But you love the feel and weight, The desire of the wooden world Beneath your feet; You chase change without changing; You chase a reason only To remain the same, creating what you Cannot gather any longer; The same faces as wounds, There are no words between us, I live and die as a metaphor of Something dead upon your breath; A fetid word or phrase, Wooden, wooden world, I leave you for the fire, Brighten the center of the darkness; Call it another invitation For the sun. 10 At times, I wish no more Than to be grow into a tree, Sculpt out into a shape that feeds At the roots, nourished by the best That falls from your skies. Place inside your chest; The beating heart I have already seen Pump furiously, with light, Awakening eyes, like stars To testify against The night. What I cup within my palms For you to taste; is not something I have etched out as creation, But seeds I have gathered From your own words; and kneeling, Prostrate, long To return to you. At times, seeing your beauty; feeding From the falling drops of rain; I grow deeper at the root, and stretch Toward the sky, hoping I can grow large enough To return, to return Your beauty to your beauty.
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Not a Strangerserendipity charted a course a friendly intervention two hearts unaware support, love, and acceptance from the moment their lives crossed paths richness, depth, and sincerity love gifted willingly freely offering peace voices echoing approval disbursing praise for the other from a distance far away the past, their connection shared struggles in different lives the same brokenness a bond of deep familiarity and understanding like tough, worn leather the two hearts grew their strength multiplied long ago hurts mended lost futures saved the present feeling meaningful Wounds and BarriersI took a knife to the heart. Love and ease disappeared. Joy, where did you go? Days, months, and years of intertwining, chaotic emotions. The fabric of my essence becoming scars. My emptiness, aching and loneliness turned to numb. A full-on stop to love. Layers of unrecognizable, uncaring fibers in my being. Too thick to penetrate. Too harsh to approach. Too done to heal. I don’t even cry anymore. WeatheredAs we spring into life,
the ambition, hope, and growth is fresh and new. Another start, a new participant brings excitement. Early on we frolic like the sun in the summer. Dancing enthusiastically. Embracing the freedom, seeking the possibilities, bravado in the ups and downs. Then life breaks us down. We fall and falter. Harder to rise to meet the day. So much given. Much taken away. Questioning - What's the use? Hearts get colder. Winter in our veins. Free and fruitful minds decline. Our youth gives way to old age. The strength lost over time. White and withered, our sentence. We came so far only to be beaten down by nature. The seasons, a symbol of rebirth, now a curse as we age.
AGNIESZKAThe leaves fall, washed-out, thin, and lie like papers on an earth forever Agnieszka’s, a soft dark envelope for her less than a year; the centre of a green yet to be turned. A family plot. No going back. We live where the sharpest memories lie, in the jostling of passion and pain, until one wins out, sets, and sets us in a pattern never dreamt of. And the wonder at a flight of bees, red swallow-throat, a shimmering on the roofs of island houses, arrow into the stab of loss on seeing a child’s name on a cross. All grief is cornered here, let the sun struggle; this is its time, let it struggle, as we do to recall an unclosed face, a wakening, in London and beyond, our weathered dead. THREE VIEWS OF A SQUARE‘The place or the medium of realization is neither mind nor matter, but that intermediate realm of subtle reality which can adequately be expressed only by the symbol.’ – Jung, Collected Works I Two figures by coincidence have broken from the swarm, the single mind, they stand apart, still, like boats on a sea becalmed. One goes, the other leans on the railings, looking into the park, his eyes fixed on nothing in particular. How narrow the footpath is, its edge worked loose like worn piano keys, the square is an old neighbour left too long alone, house-fronts sagging at the same rate, gravel-grass left just too long for weeding. Niobe at the bottom of the steps gazes ahead, gives no sign of seeing the empty plinth, white shards a halo of confetti among granite chips. The tide on both sides comes and goes, same sound, same end. II From rooms with windows almost ceiling-high, heat sacrificed to light, tree tops in summer break against a car-park ugliness, the death of artisan rows felled one by one. We could be happy here. A woman moves, two shopping bags in hand, bowed as if by that conditional, the weight of a time when nothing was too new, a restlessness that eddies in the end to dim backwaters. Children of the square, dispersed worldwide, peer through toughened glass of office windows. Rich with vanished pride, some city corner their eyes light upon, straining to focus, feeling an old sense of nest-warmth, numbers, the fluid ease of hope, the gathering, breath on birthday candles. III And from the roof the needlepoint of spires, little more than landmarks. One, icing-white, looks down on remnants of a village, old ribbonned streets, dead pastoral contours giving onto the pincered driveways of estates. Today, a sky dark as when the church was a tip of light on canvas, a bristle of purity among the slate and olive, the fancied grove, the bled-out spring. A snap, a skylight shuts, the armour of the now drawn tight. If names were colours, the square would be the mid-point of a crazy quilt, each corner knotted to the long pretence that nothing changes, children flown return untouched, radiant, to enormous rooms that recognise them, walls that guard their dreams. REQUIEMIn this age of sentimental atheists, where septuagenarian rock stars crank up unearthly decibels, there must be a heaven for old guitars – not collector’s items; the discards whose strings grow rusty, pegs arthritic, those unloved whose warped necks were a beginner’s purgatory. At last no more than the sum of their elements, they wait for the room to fall, the floor to crumble, the drum of rain to pool around their silence. Pity the music they never got a chance to make; boys who have long since run to fat can still dream, conjuring illusions along the air, troubling their thinning hair, but here nothing, a scratching of mice, perhaps. Someone has missed them, then forgotten. Don’t step across; lift them, blow away the dust with a mute tenderness. TWANNThe sun will be coming up now on the rows of vines and later cars will roll up and the immemorial custom of the lake will be re-enacted. How long since the first sacrifice, the boat breaking the water’s calm, the creaking of its oars the only sound? No silence on the shore now. The only troubles are private, put aside; children, sandaled even in October, play a careful distance from spread cloths and charcoal. But the warmth is making ready to leave, as the swallows have lately done; if a window catches gold it will be for the shortest time. Yet Twann stands pure in a memory of twenty years or more, held in some dim recess: now for an hour it gleams like a cross in a procession. ALTITUDESHere, in this small space,
is as high as you can go, far enough for breathlessness and that powdery blue leaching from sky onto land. Everything is at the edge of sight and here it is - the astonishment at being where nothing belongs, not even the hardiest goat worries the grass in cracks sheltered by an overhang. A moment for the head to clear, the lungs to fill. Nothing more shouts transience than a place where nothing changes, where, away from it all, there is nowhere to hide. This morning contours were ridges on a fingerprint, green giving way to yellow, to brown. Now the eye sweeps across counties slipping into each other, like age or that thin cold no sun shifts. White floats like smoke round the edge of a wood, limed fields are a remnant of frost, and it takes a little longer each time to shake off tiredness and thirst as if the mountain was filling out like the young as you drift away from them, each summit reached now with no more than a sense of having won in spite of weakness, which is still enough, as it was once, that first climb, exhausted, giddy, adrenaline pumping its joy through the body.
Sunflower Nonsense |
Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, Forge, Poetry, Osiris, The New Yorker and elsewhere. His most recent collection is The Gibson Poems published by Cholla Needles Arts & Literary Library, 2019. For more information including free e-books and his essay “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities” please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com. To view one of his interviews please follow this link https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MSK774rtfx8 |
*
At the end this sand coming by
covers you with soft flowers
that long ago dried as footsteps
still treading inside some shallow grave
smothered as afterward and dust
–you loved her the way the Earth
keeps warm and between two suns
place to place what’s left
you walk without looking down
though your arms are closing
have grown together a single fingertip
touching these shells and pebbles.
At the end this sand coming by
covers you with soft flowers
that long ago dried as footsteps
still treading inside some shallow grave
smothered as afterward and dust
–you loved her the way the Earth
keeps warm and between two suns
place to place what’s left
you walk without looking down
though your arms are closing
have grown together a single fingertip
touching these shells and pebbles.
*
These stones still breathing
chill your mouth too, sealed
in whatever is started –you kneel
at each construction site :this grave
centered so the light inside
helps you find the frostline
and in time the building
no longer moves though you inhale
side to side the way mourners
root each wall arm in arm
and no more air –what’s left
you breathe out as small broken bits
that even in winter come by
to talk, bring you lips
a number, a street, a place.
*
This cup feeds itself
clinging to your lips
as if each star once unearthed
already has an aroma
though it’s a small claim
and you have to fill it twice
with dirt, pour so the arch
circles back barefoot, smells
from stones no longer too heavy
let go or fingers, jaws, winds
that keep nothing for later
not this wooden table
not the wooden chair
not a word and overhead
another morning all its own.
This cup feeds itself
clinging to your lips
as if each star once unearthed
already has an aroma
though it’s a small claim
and you have to fill it twice
with dirt, pour so the arch
circles back barefoot, smells
from stones no longer too heavy
let go or fingers, jaws, winds
that keep nothing for later
not this wooden table
not the wooden chair
not a word and overhead
another morning all its own.
*
Afraid and the wall
follows behind though you
point, know all about
descent and hammer blows
as the distant cry from home
–you sift between
as if this ready-mix
no longer cares about stone
broken open against one finger
retracing some caress
lost and the others
with no end to it.
Afraid and the wall
follows behind though you
point, know all about
descent and hammer blows
as the distant cry from home
–you sift between
as if this ready-mix
no longer cares about stone
broken open against one finger
retracing some caress
lost and the others
with no end to it.
*
Easy, this lake
sheds its bark
and each ripple
makes room :birdcalls
and the sky
almost raining
wider and wider
–a great tree
fallen on its roots
and each splash
leafs out dead
rids itself
and those same footsteps
passing you naked
taken away
as shadows and ice
weighted down
holding you back
–simple! you toss
and this tiny stone
is further and further
the deep breath
no longer choking
water and birdsong.
Easy, this lake
sheds its bark
and each ripple
makes room :birdcalls
and the sky
almost raining
wider and wider
–a great tree
fallen on its roots
and each splash
leafs out dead
rids itself
and those same footsteps
passing you naked
taken away
as shadows and ice
weighted down
holding you back
–simple! you toss
and this tiny stone
is further and further
the deep breath
no longer choking
water and birdsong.
Ellie Lizalek is a college graduate from Rocky Mountain College with a Bachelor's of Science in Equestrian Studies. She has a passion for writing and art, striving to create relatable and honest work.
Shadow People
She does not raise her eyes
from the ground before her:
the belief that she is not good enough.
The dirt in front of her lies--
enticing with an explanation
for the agony tearing her apart.
Her eyes drift up occasionally,
daring to risk the vulnerability
of being found out
(caught up in the moment when
she is not trapped in her own mind)--
but quickly return to the consuming
fallacies the Enemy murmurs to her heart.
The lies are what make sense
in the chaos of hormones, emotions, and relationships--
they cling to her thoughts
to infect her very identity.
His voice is hollow,
a husk of who I know.
It echoes back, bouncing around my mind—empty:
the belief that he is nothing.
The alluring voices filling his mind lie--
offering promises and expectations
they cannot fulfill.
He catches glimpses of worth
in the affirmations of loved ones--
hope swells deep within his soul
(that he chokes out to prevent
the suffocation of unmet expectations).
The lies are what are comfortable
in the chaos of the American Dream--
they smother his heart
to pollute his very identity.
These people without hope--
The Shadow People--
wordlessly cry,
beg,
plead,
entreat
for answers to “why?”
They seek peace that ever-eludes--
always out of reach.
Let me be Your hands and feet,
loving them as You do
(ascribing value and safety).
Let me be the voice I longed for
as the same lies enveloped and ravaged
my delicate view of myself.
Help me (a daughter of Light)
be the person to them
that I needed.
from the ground before her:
the belief that she is not good enough.
The dirt in front of her lies--
enticing with an explanation
for the agony tearing her apart.
Her eyes drift up occasionally,
daring to risk the vulnerability
of being found out
(caught up in the moment when
she is not trapped in her own mind)--
but quickly return to the consuming
fallacies the Enemy murmurs to her heart.
The lies are what make sense
in the chaos of hormones, emotions, and relationships--
they cling to her thoughts
to infect her very identity.
His voice is hollow,
a husk of who I know.
It echoes back, bouncing around my mind—empty:
the belief that he is nothing.
The alluring voices filling his mind lie--
offering promises and expectations
they cannot fulfill.
He catches glimpses of worth
in the affirmations of loved ones--
hope swells deep within his soul
(that he chokes out to prevent
the suffocation of unmet expectations).
The lies are what are comfortable
in the chaos of the American Dream--
they smother his heart
to pollute his very identity.
These people without hope--
The Shadow People--
wordlessly cry,
beg,
plead,
entreat
for answers to “why?”
They seek peace that ever-eludes--
always out of reach.
Let me be Your hands and feet,
loving them as You do
(ascribing value and safety).
Let me be the voice I longed for
as the same lies enveloped and ravaged
my delicate view of myself.
Help me (a daughter of Light)
be the person to them
that I needed.
Blooming
Dearest, I run from what I do not know,
desperately trying to escape the terror
of being out of control.
I launch myself into distraction
after distraction
after distraction
only to end back where I started--
the Unknown.
So as a little girl hiding in the body
of a strong young woman,
I cringe within--
cowering away from what the world
disregarded as frivolous:
being in love.
I was cautious—no--
I was terrified of another let down,
so I denied it,
attempting to eliminate it
before it could blossom into something
I could no longer contain.
But flowers have a way
of pushing through the most adverse circumstances--
they cannot be nipped only through covering
over the barely growing sprout.
So this love grew until I could
no longer deny its presence in my heart--
what I thought was a malicious weed
turned out to be a beautiful gift.
And Love, it is not the time for action--
the flower is still only a bud
in need of tending,
nurturing,
pruning,
waiting.
In my eagerness I will not reveal
it before its time--
I will wait,
pruning,
nurturing,
tending
it until the moment when it opens.
Not when it is at its peak, mind you--
but when the first petals begin to peel
away from the rest of the bud
I will present it to you.
Because if I give you the flower
before it fully matures,
I also give us the opportunity
to meet halfway and bloom together.
So Love, though you do not know
that this is happening,
I ask that you be patient and trust me.
I am not perfect and I no longer try
to control all of the feelings
tormenting my Spock-like mindset--
so please,
bear with me as I learn from this too.
And if you wait
(as I am waiting for you)
I cannot promise to fulfill all of your dreams,
but I can promise I will do my best for you.
I may forget an anniversary,
exactly how you like your eggs done,
how I need to be quiet in the morning
so I don’t wake you after working late hours,
or to make the bed before leaving for work--
but I will greet you every day with a kiss,
I will spend time with you on your projects
(not because I necessarily enjoy the task
but because I enjoy you),
I will hold you close when the tears come,
and I will try to love you
with a self-sacrificing Love.
desperately trying to escape the terror
of being out of control.
I launch myself into distraction
after distraction
after distraction
only to end back where I started--
the Unknown.
So as a little girl hiding in the body
of a strong young woman,
I cringe within--
cowering away from what the world
disregarded as frivolous:
being in love.
I was cautious—no--
I was terrified of another let down,
so I denied it,
attempting to eliminate it
before it could blossom into something
I could no longer contain.
But flowers have a way
of pushing through the most adverse circumstances--
they cannot be nipped only through covering
over the barely growing sprout.
So this love grew until I could
no longer deny its presence in my heart--
what I thought was a malicious weed
turned out to be a beautiful gift.
And Love, it is not the time for action--
the flower is still only a bud
in need of tending,
nurturing,
pruning,
waiting.
In my eagerness I will not reveal
it before its time--
I will wait,
pruning,
nurturing,
tending
it until the moment when it opens.
Not when it is at its peak, mind you--
but when the first petals begin to peel
away from the rest of the bud
I will present it to you.
Because if I give you the flower
before it fully matures,
I also give us the opportunity
to meet halfway and bloom together.
So Love, though you do not know
that this is happening,
I ask that you be patient and trust me.
I am not perfect and I no longer try
to control all of the feelings
tormenting my Spock-like mindset--
so please,
bear with me as I learn from this too.
And if you wait
(as I am waiting for you)
I cannot promise to fulfill all of your dreams,
but I can promise I will do my best for you.
I may forget an anniversary,
exactly how you like your eggs done,
how I need to be quiet in the morning
so I don’t wake you after working late hours,
or to make the bed before leaving for work--
but I will greet you every day with a kiss,
I will spend time with you on your projects
(not because I necessarily enjoy the task
but because I enjoy you),
I will hold you close when the tears come,
and I will try to love you
with a self-sacrificing Love.
Truth
It’s been two years since the condemning
thoughts plagued my daily life.
Medication and mentors later,
You hauled me out of myself to see--
Yet I return to those self-destructive thoughts
annihilating the desire to continue
carrying on in the monotony of my days.
The excitement of my routine
fades into repetitive nothing--
an epiphany instantly destroys my will
(to care for myself)--
I am repeating the same Pattern
that maimed two:
me
and
you.
My grasping for male affirmation
(stemming from an emotionally absent father)
drives me through the ground
into a hell that I make for myself.
And when a friend and sister in Christ
addresses the concern of me repeating the Pattern
she and others witnessed in the past,
I am blindsided--no--
I am agonizingly aware of my shortcomings.
And if I am to ignore her
gracious,
humble,
kind,
wise
counsel, I risk compounding the vandalism
of our hearts--
Instinctively I withdraw into myself,
desperate to escape the self-condemnation
lurking on the fringes of my mind already.
(Gentleness is no match for the downward spiral
that my thoughts fling themselves into
at the first sign that my Fear is validated.)
It has been two years since I last cut
the agonies tormenting my mind
into the flesh of my arm and side--
tracing thin lines of red on my skin,
desiring the release in frantic addiction.
My miniscule scars hardly beg for the attention
of others, when so many have made themselves
canvases of their afflictions--
do not invalidate me
(I beg you)
for what you cannot see,
for scars are not skin deep.
And just because my thoughts do not deviate
to indulge the belief, “the world is better without me,”
that does not mean an Awareness
does not materialize--
pointing my mind to my knife and my arm.
But don’t worry,
the fight between Control and Truth has already been won.
I simply stand (in the middle
of Control and Truth),
fighting to stay afloat during this battle.
I ride the swells and waves of emotions--
craving the numbness I once despised;
however, You draw me in to Yourself--
In You I deserve healthy love.
Two years later I look to You,
meekly asking for my heart to believe
what my head already knows as True.
thoughts plagued my daily life.
Medication and mentors later,
You hauled me out of myself to see--
Yet I return to those self-destructive thoughts
annihilating the desire to continue
carrying on in the monotony of my days.
The excitement of my routine
fades into repetitive nothing--
an epiphany instantly destroys my will
(to care for myself)--
I am repeating the same Pattern
that maimed two:
me
and
you.
My grasping for male affirmation
(stemming from an emotionally absent father)
drives me through the ground
into a hell that I make for myself.
And when a friend and sister in Christ
addresses the concern of me repeating the Pattern
she and others witnessed in the past,
I am blindsided--no--
I am agonizingly aware of my shortcomings.
And if I am to ignore her
gracious,
humble,
kind,
wise
counsel, I risk compounding the vandalism
of our hearts--
Instinctively I withdraw into myself,
desperate to escape the self-condemnation
lurking on the fringes of my mind already.
(Gentleness is no match for the downward spiral
that my thoughts fling themselves into
at the first sign that my Fear is validated.)
It has been two years since I last cut
the agonies tormenting my mind
into the flesh of my arm and side--
tracing thin lines of red on my skin,
desiring the release in frantic addiction.
My miniscule scars hardly beg for the attention
of others, when so many have made themselves
canvases of their afflictions--
do not invalidate me
(I beg you)
for what you cannot see,
for scars are not skin deep.
And just because my thoughts do not deviate
to indulge the belief, “the world is better without me,”
that does not mean an Awareness
does not materialize--
pointing my mind to my knife and my arm.
But don’t worry,
the fight between Control and Truth has already been won.
I simply stand (in the middle
of Control and Truth),
fighting to stay afloat during this battle.
I ride the swells and waves of emotions--
craving the numbness I once despised;
however, You draw me in to Yourself--
In You I deserve healthy love.
Two years later I look to You,
meekly asking for my heart to believe
what my head already knows as True.
Betrayal
I don’t remember who I am
when my closest friends tell me they would leave me
(because blood is thicker than water)
and I find all my accusing fingers
falling short of their target and pointed back--
I am the only one to blame.
Ignorance is no excuse for hurting others.
I turn up my music so I can’t hear my thoughts
as they run rampant--Destroying
(my will to persevere).
The lies stampede through my mind,
trampling the hope of Truth
as I struggle to understand how to fix
what I have Destroyed.
Having vices and patterns pointed out
is only as helpful as the subsequent advice
of how to change.
You have made me a Restorer--
yet I leave a path of Destroyed hearts
wandering through my past
(in crossroads with the pasts of others)
as the ignorant child cowering within
fumbles with the relationships of adulthood.
Vices are not immaturity.
My feet carry me miles as my voice internally
screams,
wails,
shouts,
begs
for relief from the agonies
carving incisions into my heart.
I cannot draw myself out of this struggle
of
Destroying Destroyed
and being
alone.
And as my feet grow tired and my body
stops the compulsive walking
(off my problems),
I find You alongside me--
it will be okay.
when my closest friends tell me they would leave me
(because blood is thicker than water)
and I find all my accusing fingers
falling short of their target and pointed back--
I am the only one to blame.
Ignorance is no excuse for hurting others.
I turn up my music so I can’t hear my thoughts
as they run rampant--Destroying
(my will to persevere).
The lies stampede through my mind,
trampling the hope of Truth
as I struggle to understand how to fix
what I have Destroyed.
Having vices and patterns pointed out
is only as helpful as the subsequent advice
of how to change.
You have made me a Restorer--
yet I leave a path of Destroyed hearts
wandering through my past
(in crossroads with the pasts of others)
as the ignorant child cowering within
fumbles with the relationships of adulthood.
Vices are not immaturity.
My feet carry me miles as my voice internally
screams,
wails,
shouts,
begs
for relief from the agonies
carving incisions into my heart.
I cannot draw myself out of this struggle
of
Destroying Destroyed
and being
alone.
And as my feet grow tired and my body
stops the compulsive walking
(off my problems),
I find You alongside me--
it will be okay.
Guilty
I did this to us, Dearest--
this rift spanning our hearts.
I was the one who decided
to play a part Abba did not script.
I allowed the sentiment to creep into
our friendship, distorting what should be--
I took the action our impressionable minds pondered.
I led myself to live in the future potential,
leading you on as well.
In my ignorance I have permitted
the festering of the wound
I did not see for the blinders covering my eyes.
And if my own fingers did not scream enough blame to myself,
the words echoing through the phone from one of my closest friends pounded the gavel--guilty.
My days swirl and blend together
in a whirlwind of weeping and numbness--
who am I?
How can I forgive myself when no one will forgive me first?
Who am I to pardon myself from harming others--
yet
who am I to hold against myself
what Abba has already forgiven?
You did this to us, Dearest--
this chasm crossing our hearts.
You did not stop me from playing a part
Abba did not script for me.
You did not hold me accountable to the standards
I told you I had.
You condoned the facets of romance within our friendship--
you welcomed the action we separately considered.
Perhaps you met my emotions halfway,
silently satisfying your secret hopes as well.
In your desire, you greeted my action with passivity favoring our unfitting attraction.
And since it takes two to tango,
the condemning voices stretch a path between and around us--guilty.
this rift spanning our hearts.
I was the one who decided
to play a part Abba did not script.
I allowed the sentiment to creep into
our friendship, distorting what should be--
I took the action our impressionable minds pondered.
I led myself to live in the future potential,
leading you on as well.
In my ignorance I have permitted
the festering of the wound
I did not see for the blinders covering my eyes.
And if my own fingers did not scream enough blame to myself,
the words echoing through the phone from one of my closest friends pounded the gavel--guilty.
My days swirl and blend together
in a whirlwind of weeping and numbness--
who am I?
How can I forgive myself when no one will forgive me first?
Who am I to pardon myself from harming others--
yet
who am I to hold against myself
what Abba has already forgiven?
You did this to us, Dearest--
this chasm crossing our hearts.
You did not stop me from playing a part
Abba did not script for me.
You did not hold me accountable to the standards
I told you I had.
You condoned the facets of romance within our friendship--
you welcomed the action we separately considered.
Perhaps you met my emotions halfway,
silently satisfying your secret hopes as well.
In your desire, you greeted my action with passivity favoring our unfitting attraction.
And since it takes two to tango,
the condemning voices stretch a path between and around us--guilty.
Kabedoopong Piddo Ddibe'st is a widely read Ugandan born Acholi poet and writer, born in Kitgum, Northern Uganda. Not only is he a poet/writer but also a teacher, an artist and a human rights activist. He is the author of ``The Bridge Between `` tragicomic dramatic poetry book, yet to be published. He is a socio-political poet who yearns for love, equality, justice, peace and freedom, and he looks forward to seeing good governances in Africa and the whole world. |
The Black Eagle
Eagle,
The black eagle kicked Heaven's face,
And the earth caught wild fire,
Gliding down tearing up the hissing winds,
With his armoured open palms.
Eagle,
The black eagle cut the air into pieces,
With his muscular strength,
And slapped the Earth's face,
Red waters run down her face.
Eagle,
The black eagle scrolled his bloodshot eyes,
Down spying the walking chicken,
Peeled his sharpened fingernails,
And swooped down at a blind chick.
Eagle,
The black eagle deafened his sharp ears,
As the mother-hen clucked angrily,
Pacing up and down the chimney breast,
Like a woman whose house is engulfed in flames.
Eagle,
The black eagle beat his open palms back,
Sliding through the winds like lightning,
Flapping, clapping, with the chick in his giant palms,
Sharpening the pencil of his concave iron-lips.
Eagle,
The black eagle tore the innocent chick,
Apart, part by part, the chick's shut eyes
Opened wider than the Gates of Hell,
Murmuring, dying in the palms of death.
Eagle,
The black eagle is the bird of the king,
From the roof of the skies, white fire filled,
To the bottom of the earth, black fire filled,
Bird of the king is the king of all birds.
The black eagle kicked Heaven's face,
And the earth caught wild fire,
Gliding down tearing up the hissing winds,
With his armoured open palms.
Eagle,
The black eagle cut the air into pieces,
With his muscular strength,
And slapped the Earth's face,
Red waters run down her face.
Eagle,
The black eagle scrolled his bloodshot eyes,
Down spying the walking chicken,
Peeled his sharpened fingernails,
And swooped down at a blind chick.
Eagle,
The black eagle deafened his sharp ears,
As the mother-hen clucked angrily,
Pacing up and down the chimney breast,
Like a woman whose house is engulfed in flames.
Eagle,
The black eagle beat his open palms back,
Sliding through the winds like lightning,
Flapping, clapping, with the chick in his giant palms,
Sharpening the pencil of his concave iron-lips.
Eagle,
The black eagle tore the innocent chick,
Apart, part by part, the chick's shut eyes
Opened wider than the Gates of Hell,
Murmuring, dying in the palms of death.
Eagle,
The black eagle is the bird of the king,
From the roof of the skies, white fire filled,
To the bottom of the earth, black fire filled,
Bird of the king is the king of all birds.
Coleman Bomar is a poet who currently resides in Middle Tennessee. He is an Isaac Anderson fellow at Maryville College and a member of the International English Honors Society, Sigma Tau Delta. His works have been featured by and/or are forthcoming in Impressions Literary Magazine, Aphelion Webzine of Science Fiction, 365 Tomorrows, The Heartland Review, Literary Yard, Danse Macabre, Anti-Heroin Chic, Showbear Family Circus Liberal Arts Magazine, Prometheus Dreaming, SOFTBLOW, and Poets’ Choice Zine.
Garden Snake
If Statues make love through marble maple leaves
I can love again in spite of you
No longer loving just to spite you
For ending us like a farmer
Ends garden snakes
With a fearful downward chop
When my severed head kept biting
Despite your guillotine thighs
And lithe light loins
You bore down and said death by shovel Isn’t death at all:
If said shoveler loves you
If said shovel has a bag over the blade
If said shoveler isn’t aiming for the heart
You say to a severed head
I can love again in spite of you
No longer loving just to spite you
For ending us like a farmer
Ends garden snakes
With a fearful downward chop
When my severed head kept biting
Despite your guillotine thighs
And lithe light loins
You bore down and said death by shovel Isn’t death at all:
If said shoveler loves you
If said shovel has a bag over the blade
If said shoveler isn’t aiming for the heart
You say to a severed head
Mommy
A Man and Mary met in Mary’s flower shop.
Then made me next to the marigolds
Under hanging magnolias and misty buds.
Mediating musket matrimony after
Monthly maroon moisture halted its modus.
Her mind was made up, with a murmur of
“Mommy.”
Then made me next to the marigolds
Under hanging magnolias and misty buds.
Mediating musket matrimony after
Monthly maroon moisture halted its modus.
Her mind was made up, with a murmur of
“Mommy.”
Rocks on a Hill
Thy shattered slabs of mossy stone
Jutting from mounds apart and forlorn.
What hands laid level those rocky forms
That tested time and weathered storms.
Were thee small steps to homesteads lost
Or a craggy channel for livestock wash?
The forgotten function of bulwark fragments
Countless toil now neglected absence.
Rocks sleep forever unerring
But Green and cracked are the boulder’s bearing.
Though our work has not expired
To bygone and olden mossy attire.
Will boughs of cement buildings soon fade
Under that invariable greenish shade.
Thy shattered slabs of mossy stone
Jutting from mounds apart and forlorn.
Jutting from mounds apart and forlorn.
What hands laid level those rocky forms
That tested time and weathered storms.
Were thee small steps to homesteads lost
Or a craggy channel for livestock wash?
The forgotten function of bulwark fragments
Countless toil now neglected absence.
Rocks sleep forever unerring
But Green and cracked are the boulder’s bearing.
Though our work has not expired
To bygone and olden mossy attire.
Will boughs of cement buildings soon fade
Under that invariable greenish shade.
Thy shattered slabs of mossy stone
Jutting from mounds apart and forlorn.
Renee Drummond-Brown, is an accomplished poetess with experience in creative writing. She is a graduate of Geneva College of Western Pennsylvania. Renee’ is still in pursuit of excellence towards her mark for higher education. She is working on her sixth book and has numerous works published globally which can be seen in cubm.org/news, KWEE Magazine, Leaves of Ink, Raven Cage Poetry and Prose Ezine, Realistic Poetry International, Scarlet Leaf Publishing House, SickLit Magazine, The Metro Gazette Publishing Company, Inc., Tuck, and Whispers Magazine just to name a few. Civil Rights Activist, Ms. Rutha Mae Harris, Original Freedom Singer of the Civil Rights Movement, was responsible for having Drummond-Brown’s very first poem published in the Metro Gazette Publishing Company, Inc., in Albany, GA. Renee’ also has poetry published in several anthologies and honorable mentions to her credit in various writing outlets. Renee’ won and/or placed in several poetry contests globally and her books are eligible for nomination for a Black Book award in Southampton County Virginia. She was Poet of the Month 2017, Winner in the Our Poetry Archives and prestigious Potpourri Poets/Artists Writing Community in the past year. She has even graced the cover of KWEE Magazine in the month of May, 2016. Her love for creative writing is undoubtedly displayed through her very unique style and her work 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!” |
Rumpelstealsskin~A Fairy Tail Bedtime Story
And so, the King says she-must come ov’r to my pad and I’ll be the judge of all dat gab. After dad sticks his foot in his big big mouth he begins to cry out loud. But…Too late. He decides his daughter’s fate. And so, the Miller’s daughter goes to the Kings pad. In the bedroom is straw floor to firmament anna spinnin wheel. After frisking her up N down the King says,
“You betta put out sum gold by nights end. Or else, you’re dead!”
The King slams the door after treating her like some common whore. He doesn’t even say good-bye. The gal begins to cry, and outta of nowhere this stranger appears. A funny lil man who says,
“I got you and I’ll save your life for a healthy price. So, don’t fret bout all this straw it’ll all turn gold fore morn.”
The spinning wheels begin “Whirr, whirr, whirr” and the straw quickly turns 24 kt. gold-filled. The funnyman steals her skin for payment. The King comes back later that night for his own bedtime snack but the gold quickly distracts his intentions. And so, the King says,
“Did I mention, I need more gold turned?”
The gal says,
“Then can I go home cause a deals’ a deal?”
The greedy King talkin dat yin-yang threw in the room more straw to be spun by morn and locks the door behind.
The gal yells out,
“Funnyman, come out come out whoever you are cause I need more gold spun from straw. I’ll pay you with my hind.”
The funnyman reappears. This time he bought a friend to join in on the dipper ride. The funnymen sigh, and go to work throughout the night. Then both said,
“Here’s 24-kt. gold-filled, good-bye.”
By morn the King falls in love with the gold. Immediately marries her and in 9 months gives her a son of her own that she absolutely adores. 3 moons pass and outta no-where that funnyman reappears to her and says,
“As you promised give me your son and I’ll be gone.”
The Queen replies,
“Never said that; that’s a lie.”
The funnyman went away giving her just 3 short days to figure out his mysterious name before his return to claim the Kings’ (so called) son.
3 days in the woods the queen and her son follow this thug to his hood and listen to him shout dance and rap to his friend,
“Gimmie a beat….
Tonight-tonight my plans I make
Morrow-morrow a boy I take
Queen can’t beat-me at this game
fo Rumpelstealsskin is my-name.
Anyone guessin-dat destroys me
and all my breed just the same.”
Da Queen hurdles outta the bush (touting son in arms) yelling,
“Rumpelstealsskin is yo name!”
The funnyman and the Queens’ son immediately drop-dead
cause DNA don’t hardly lie bout bedtime partners in
Fairy-Tail crimes.
“You betta put out sum gold by nights end. Or else, you’re dead!”
The King slams the door after treating her like some common whore. He doesn’t even say good-bye. The gal begins to cry, and outta of nowhere this stranger appears. A funny lil man who says,
“I got you and I’ll save your life for a healthy price. So, don’t fret bout all this straw it’ll all turn gold fore morn.”
The spinning wheels begin “Whirr, whirr, whirr” and the straw quickly turns 24 kt. gold-filled. The funnyman steals her skin for payment. The King comes back later that night for his own bedtime snack but the gold quickly distracts his intentions. And so, the King says,
“Did I mention, I need more gold turned?”
The gal says,
“Then can I go home cause a deals’ a deal?”
The greedy King talkin dat yin-yang threw in the room more straw to be spun by morn and locks the door behind.
The gal yells out,
“Funnyman, come out come out whoever you are cause I need more gold spun from straw. I’ll pay you with my hind.”
The funnyman reappears. This time he bought a friend to join in on the dipper ride. The funnymen sigh, and go to work throughout the night. Then both said,
“Here’s 24-kt. gold-filled, good-bye.”
By morn the King falls in love with the gold. Immediately marries her and in 9 months gives her a son of her own that she absolutely adores. 3 moons pass and outta no-where that funnyman reappears to her and says,
“As you promised give me your son and I’ll be gone.”
The Queen replies,
“Never said that; that’s a lie.”
The funnyman went away giving her just 3 short days to figure out his mysterious name before his return to claim the Kings’ (so called) son.
3 days in the woods the queen and her son follow this thug to his hood and listen to him shout dance and rap to his friend,
“Gimmie a beat….
Tonight-tonight my plans I make
Morrow-morrow a boy I take
Queen can’t beat-me at this game
fo Rumpelstealsskin is my-name.
Anyone guessin-dat destroys me
and all my breed just the same.”
Da Queen hurdles outta the bush (touting son in arms) yelling,
“Rumpelstealsskin is yo name!”
The funnyman and the Queens’ son immediately drop-dead
cause DNA don’t hardly lie bout bedtime partners in
Fairy-Tail crimes.
BOBBY Z is a avid writer and Blogger, also has video’s, audio’s a podcast and has Authored the Book Tales Of The Junkyard Dog. A rather abrupt and unusual Collection of Poems providing insightful and comical commentary on life, the Convergence of the past and the present, and the trails and tribulations of Relationships---BLOG https://talesofthejunkyarddog.wordpress.com BOBBY Z THE JYD, 78 YEAR OLD VET, CANCER SURVIVOR, RECOVERING ALCOHOLIC (41 YEARS) AND ORIGINAL JERSEY CITY 50’S BAD BOY WHO TELLS IT LIKE IT IS FROM THE BELLY OF THE BEAST. |
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BOBBY Z
CHRISTINA WARD
CHRISTINE LIWAG DIXON
COLEMAN BOMAR
DEBORAH SETIYAWATI & CARL SCHARWATH
DS MAOLALAI
ELLIE LIZALEK
EMILY JUKICH
ESHA MISHRA
ETHAN OWENS
ETHAN VILU
HARJEET SINGH
HONGRI YUAN
ISRAEL FRANCISCO HAROS LOPEZ
JIM BROSNAN
JIMMIE R. PENNINGTON
JOHN GREY
JONATHAN DOUGLAS DOWDLE
KABEDOOPONG PIDDO DDIBE'ST
K SHESHU BABU
LINNIE COLE
LOIS GREENE STONE
MICHAEL A. GRIFFITH
MUNTHASIR SHAM
NGOZI OLIVIA OSUOHA
PAT RAIA
RENEE DRUMMOND - BROWN
SID OATES
SIMON PERCHIK
STEFAN MARKOVSKI
SUSI BOCKS
TED MC CARTHY
UZOMAH UGWU