Pat Raia is a veteran journalist who covers crime, politics and animal welfare.
She is also a lifelong poet.
in the eyes
for the sake
a million verbs
me laugh -
I have been
I have stood
on the edge
in the dreams
of their own
of my lifetime
in minute detail
our own lifetimes
Anurag Sharma, a 48-year old graduate, lives in New Delhi, India and works as technical sales person
Live near to my heart
Daily morning in my life
I get ready with new rise
My heart saying to my sole
Now get ready for new fight
View new dream
Start your search
For someone unseen
May be dream goes alive
She will make appear in life
Feel new zeal awake the sole
Touch fresh breathe
Look her dream
This is not love of one side
Love is inspiration of god
God is making you ready
She is a true imagination
Live near to my heart
A dream says I want to grow
A bird says I want to fly
Both are wanted to spread wings
And want to touch highest height
Heart and deep thought
Want to sing a song
While happiness touch inside
Melody spread all-round me
And view of a new sunrise
Everything feels pleasant
Everything feels so nice
Whole world welcome my view
What now I need from my life
When I am hearing voice of real love
My every dream goes accomplished
And my life enjoying sunrise
Be always alive
When growing day
Open his eyes
And greedy sun
Want her view
And look into her house window
With the great hope
To spend whole day with her
While sun rays penetrate her window
Slowly she opens her eyes
To meet with the world
To meet with growing rise
And started to take bath in golden rays
And spread fragrance of her
In flowering flower
In flowing waves
Her magical beauty
Create magical dream
And a massage for every lover
Enjoy every moment of life
And be always alive
KR Pendergrass is a career paramedic, devoted wife, homeschool mom, and part-time member of the justice league. Also the author of the short novel Incompatible With Life, and multiple short stories. Trying to establish a freelance writing career in addition to all that is tough, but if it's easy, it's not worth doing!
Whispers to St. Michael
Scars and miles and years and ghosts have made me who I am
Fierce as an alpha wolf when called, still gentle as a lamb
I've washed too much blood away to be innocent again
But it still tears me up inside to see another's pain
Fear and tears have left their mark on who I have become
I can no longer see the way back where I came from
It's a calling and a love and a burden and a load
To have a name for the crosses on the side of the road
All the time and sleepless nights spent out in the field
Sometimes I have to be a sword when I long to be a shield
Still I will stand true to the battle I've been called
And I'll hold my ground til in the battle I will fall
Michael is a retired, due to Parkinson's, Fire Alarm Inspector. He's been writing poetry since college, where he started a literary magazine and he's since published in various e magazines - still writing - having fun
The abundance of space and beauty and time
The structure of life fades into our minds
You know it's your world when you know this is real
There's nothing to hide and nothing to steal
To ride through the desert - a narrow road thrill
A place void of jetlag silent and still
Viewing a painting - focused on theme
Not seeing the background - lost in a dream
Like glittering glass that goes unseen
'cause it's not quite as pretty as tourmaline
But the glass has it's beauty like the old Mother Road
A dream that comes true not bought and not sold
Like the fantastic fury of silent red rocks
Where the wind says don't sleep
And the sun sets don't quit
Condors and roadrunners are part of this trip
Tenderfoot eyes perceive it as stark
Warriors know their spirits have felt
Each mile in their minds and under their belts
Silently begging to continue the trip
With no destination on Route 66.
Skipping a flat stone on a still water lake
creating tiny circles that soon disappear
the stone silently sinks
and I am silent too and sinking
the tiny circles I have createdd
will disappear with me
A life that touches others
becomes passed on like a game of tag
Savor the moment of being it
breath in life and whatever movements
of this symphony can be played
My tremored hand reaches
to touch you - you're it
is all I want to say.
Instructions in the Wind
A father is never the same
when the children become adults.
I imagine myself in a greenhouse
writing a poem at 3:00 am
assembling the parts
like a swing set.
The instruction sheet lost in the wind.
The flowers obstructed.
Now I hear drums
like the drums at 6:30 am on Patriots Day
before the parade.
Minutemen on horseback
re-enact a revolutionary spirit.
A time from my childhood
that I never shared,
it is falling from me
like a leaf shed from a tree.
Angel Edwards first book of poetry "Tales In The Dreams Garden" was published by Silver Bow Publishing on July 29 2018.
Her second book of poetry "Lust Unfiltered By Love " was acquisitioned by Silver Bow Publishing in October 2018 and will be published in November 2018
More of Our Canada featured Angel's story "Cat Queen " in the November issue
Angel is forming a rock band to continue to record and perform her original music with high hopes of international success
Richard DeVall is the author of Old Letters and New Demons and Pablo’s Apprentice. An excerpt of Old Letters and New Demons was published in the December issue of RumbleFish Press Magazine.
Pregnant Girls Smoking
Orphaned wales floating
A bag filled with freshly sprayed silver paint was glued to your passed out face
And now years later – after the linen tux – and shiny trucks – you rewrote history – without the spray
The kids today – the black lives matter – the anti-Trump chatter - it’s all rubbing you the wrong way
You’re now bathed in the blood
Certain of the path – a shiny new past – those needle point - stitched tales – shredded and tossed and now look at you - you’re cloaked in all those sweat filled hours – a childhood marked and sealed by hard work and no complaining – forget the fact you married well – you did it all, and all you tell, is something vague with little depth in your explaining
Behind you – those millennial kids you had with your second wife roll their eyes – at Thanksgiving they try to be polite and hide all the things that they despise
Pass the gravy – and deep inside will Jesus save me?
You’re nearing the gate – you’re in the queue – closer to the edge – remember your pills and forget those long ago forgotten thrills – that wasn’t you that guy I knew
Who are we really - when we run from our past so fast we’re reeling
It’s the part of us - that was not so smart of us - and yet it was so cool -to not care - because death was not everywhere and so far away it wasn’t there
Now it’s wise to exercise and those who don’t or won’t or can’t turn to fat and you mustn’t shame that
Everyone gets a prize - it’s so clean and nice and sterilized
And the earth we ruined with all our smoke and acid and chemicals is getting pissed
But profits – you believe in the bottom line – count every dime - that third quarter can’t be missed
You won’t see him hug a tree – he’s photographing, with his phone,everything he owns - he’s so vigilant to document all of it – but the picture he sends, to outer space, is of a face, before time had had its way – a face I remember- and one I knew - when we used to play with silver paint in paper bags and sometimes glue
Since retiring from a career in pharmaceutical research and management, Beatrice Abrams, Ph.D., has exercised the more creative side of her brain. An active creative writing group and poetry writing seminar member, she writes poems as a means of exploring the world and is completing a memoir-based novel on a Jewish family’s experience in Vichy France during World War II. Beatrice participates in volunteer efforts in Hunterdon County, New Jersey, [where she resides,] and sits on the executive board of Jewish Family Service of Somerset, Hunterdon, and Warren Counties and the board of the Institute of Holocaust and Genocide Studies, Raritan Valley Community College. Her poetry has appeared in Poetry Potion.
Speck in the Edifice – A Memoire
I was there as history moved across the stage, in the audience squirming in my seat.
Scenes advanced into acts, actors read their lines, and directors waved in ever escalating change.
Sather Gate shuddered and Sproul Hall quailed as smoldering hordes of students gathered in Berkeley to protest the lives they had known. I watched, I listened, I worked.
Maniacal marksmen assassinated hope, crafting a cult of bellicosity. I watched, I listened, I cried.
I heard a quiet voice declare a salacious strike, shoring up our dominos. Sitting at the game table I watched as chips tumbled, bombs fell, monks burned and children cried. Morality battled in streets, on busses, at lunch counters, as humans sacrificed and humanity tried to evolve. I watched, I burned, I balloted.
What was I in this chain of history? I was no clasp, holding the links together but a link itself, holding tightly to myself, entwined with others, lying against a heaving breast - a small piece, not standing apart.
These were times of change, discovery and renewal. Opportunity blossomed for those who could wade through odorous swamps, and I was nearby breathing in the fragrances of the times.
I purified proteins and developed drugs. I peered through opaque windows into the soft and elegant offices of the elite. I etched my way deeply into those restricted spheres, never breaking through the glass. I worked, I fought, I learned, I taught.
Now I sit buffeted by the present, balanced precariously on the pedestal of my past. My being isn’t measured in the world at large, but within the tiny neighborhood of my lifetime. It isn’t found speeding across multilayered interchanges. My being advances modestly on solitary bridges that connect intersecting paths to support and reinforce undulating lives that rush by.
I am a speck in the edifice of existence —my shape coming into focus only in that corner of the life I share with others, building an identity brick by brick, building the world person by person.