Morgan Driscoll is teaching himself about poetry while living in Connecticut. He recently discovered that the word for this is “Dilettante” and is pleased because it sounds french. He has been published occasionally and obscurely, although there seems to be a good cross section of his work available to read for anyone who googles his name along with the key word “poetry”. RECOVERING HOMOPHOBEThe fear just really never went away of someone different but the same, whose passions are equivalent but aimed at something opposite to preferences my own body will allow. I work at understanding every day: my family, friends, and strangers, my father, passed away these three years now. I think I understood him decently but still, I hide my eyes from photos of his naked boyfriends. Dad’s computer was a minefield and I wish he had a better way to label files but I wish he hadn’t died in discreet steps as well. I wish I understood the human heart, libido, soul, and our naughty bits which can get us into so much trouble. At twelve a man’s hand cupped my face as I, an unaccompanied minor flew to visit somewhere I’d been sent. He told me he was helping with my cabin pressure headache but I knew what inappropriate meant. At sixteen I was in my bed asleep, a man was visiting from overseas- some candidate for PHD, someone that my father once had met. My room contained the only bed for guests. I told my Dad and Mom and later on, that man had left. Standing in the concourse of Grand Central once when I was seventeen a gentleman approached, so interested in me naive and parent free, his curiosity was evident in how he followed when I tried to leave. At twenty-one I kissed a pretty girl who had no interest in my kiss, and turned away as I continued to insist and hold her close to me and told her she, mis-understood her own desires. When I started my own business I brushed the arms of female hires as I spoke to them. I told myself it had to do with my communication skills and not some psychosexual power thrill. But maybe I know better now. I hate the men who used me in and for my youth. Their addled bodies changing them into alarming brutes, reinforcing bias towards a group attacked with bigotry, and I learning to find pleasure in dislike of something unlike me; ignorant of my own truths.I wonder if my sins have caused damage lasting over years, irrational and complex fears or hatred aimed at innocence, past anytime it might have made any kind of sense. And here’s a man who’s speaking of his husband, and it makes me feel uneasy placing words in places that they didn’t used to be, instead of maybe wondering if someone else can try to have a try to crack the code of trying to be happy. ACCORDING TO HIS NEEDSI like to think I weep a bit inside my solitude. Sequestered, surveying, —how I mourn-- generic suffering from privy rooms. I’m good for a hundred or two considering when you happen to catch me. It’s better to not distract me from my poetry though. I’ve done my bit, what more to do? Five children fed and taught to legal age, just think how they’ll contribute to the commonweal. How tired I feel feeling tired all the time, not knowing what else for me to do. I vote make calls, brush fingers on occasional homeless hands. I march somewhere for imprisoned men. The justice that I want to want for them-- I want it now and shout it out in crowds or at least inside the silence of my solitude. I feel such guilt that I’ve done so well, I will gladly give up money, time, and talents trying hard to even out the field. But, how much is enough to make a difference or at least enough to help me think of something more than these problems that I’m not responsible for. Who doesn’t lift their family, friends and colleagues first? Don’t I deserve a little time reserved for my own growth? I didn’t ask for comfort, it was thrust on me and since it’s such a humankind priority, it might just be a sin to try ignoring it. So I think I’m given privilege to say in this ironic, or un-ironic way, that Its hard out here for tall white men living in Connecticut; my eyes are blue to boot. I’m told that pain is pain… you can’t compare, and that costs a lot to get to hear when the premium, is factored in. TURNING THE SPIGOTA group of men removing oil from the ground, drilling in West Texas basins, dry and ancient. As serious as shale they speak in oiled voices of the managing of resources, market forces, varied courses of response to public oversight. Sober and severe, earnest, urgent, sincere and grave the charts are placed in ballrooms of investors with modest gestures and resonance of provincial tones. There are no unknowns and little area of concern. So let the money flow amid soft carpets, sharp wainscot, and quiet coffee urns. VICE ADVICEThis outrage feels so good I should thank those guys for rolling coal, poisoning shared air so bold to troll the libs and so well done - well done! you’ve got my heart-rate up and up til now I’ve had an un-engaging day. They say that someone’s referenced race to make a case for something in the paper so I think I’ll savor every error in their thinking, thinking indignation’s just the thing to bring a sense of substance while I wait for tea to boil. Boiling my blood is therapy to me I see to it injustice just is, just a click away. The news feed feeding me a steady stream of steaming vitriol is all I need to knead my belly in a knot it’s not the only way I hone my virtue virtually immersing in the awful things the awful do; but do you know a better way to placate all the hate I seem to need to need: an addiction that I’d rather not admit to? CONNECTICUT WAR MEMORIAL My village has a monument,
where every soldier from the town who died in war across the sea, or across the Mason Dixon line, or maybe in the next town up, in the Revolution, gets to have their name engraved in granite. They start northwest fighting French and Indians. Name follows name across the continents and down and down, along six polished slabs stopping only halfway down the last, unbalanced, in Afghanistan. The town has always liked to have a plan.
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Out of Reach I saw a gorgeous sunset That reminded me of you – Too beautiful to forget And out of reach, too. You are the ethereal golden moon, Forever amber and always in June, A lovely voice on the radio singing a lovesick tune, Romantic as a rainbow, and gone just as soon. As fresh as a garden in early spring, Yet vanishing like a comet at night, Your memory lasts like a golden ring, Or hot coals still glowing bright. You’re the most vibrant bloom that does not fade – Or an ever lively, pretty parade – Then suddenly absent for another year, Like a fleeting glimpse of a fabulous deer. As if sitting on the porch in summertime And savoring the tranquil twilight, Time with you is truly sublime, Yet all too soon takes flight. You recall a roller coaster ride – Intense, thrilling, and thoroughly fine – But then it’s over so fast – oh for more time -- As if you were swept far out with the receding tide. How I long for an endless merry-go-round, One we could ride together, forever bound, No longer absent, a love apart, But at last united, body and heart. The Beach ParadeAt dawn an old lady walks her dog along the beach, Smiling and savoring the breeze, she has found her niche; Later young lovers stroll the shore hand in hand While lasses seek a tan lounging in the sand. Soon families arrive and children jump the waves As boys dare each other to explore nearby caves; Surfers excitedly take their boards way out to sea Watched by grandparents in lawn chairs content just to be. After lunch the clientele changes With a whole new set spanning ages; Many will play and others think; Some just try not to turn too pink. In the evening comes yet another cast: Loners walking alone, trying to forget the past, Students roasting marshmallows, laughing loudly, Couples bathed by moonlight, kissing soundlessly. So much intrigue, frivolity, and thought, A thousand different dramas are each day wrought; But the shore remains tranquil and somehow beyond reach, Still welcoming all, beckoning us to the beach. I’ll Listen to Bach As the world I knew continues to disappear,
Replaced by new norms that largely elicit fear, I refuse to merely graze with the flock; Instead I decline and listen to Bach. As old standards plunge and few are held to account, Traditions get expunged and needless troubles mount, Rather than parrot the dominant talk, I cling to the past and listen to Bach. As morals slide like water over a fall And, if you complain, then you’ve got too much gall, I no longer care if I’m the one they mock Since I stick to principles and listen to Bach. As more folks eagerly search for a slight, Hoping to find an excuse for a fight, I avoid them to climb on my rock, Mind my affairs and listen to Bach. And while religious conviction so rapidly declines And believers cowed by seculars sit on their behinds, I will not compromise or veer from my walk, For I embrace my faith and listen to Bach. The Economist |
Arianna Sebo (she/her) is a poet and writer living in Southern Alberta with her husband, pug, and five cats. Her poetry can be found in Kissing Dynamite, The Coachella Review, Capsule Stories, and 45 Poems of Protest: The Pandemic. Follow her at AriannaSebo.com and @AriannaSebo on Twitter and Instagram. |
EVIL LAUGHTER
Enjoying others’ anguish and
uneasiness
is that so wrong
it brings me joy to see them squirm
because they find me imposing
the mere mention of my name
ringing bells of alarm
in the primitive centres
of their brains
awesome
to have such power
purely maniacal
laughter erupts
from my belly
I get a kind of sick pleasure
from watching their wormy
squirmy bodies tense up when I
tease them with my presence and
transdimensional
evil laughter
uneasiness
is that so wrong
it brings me joy to see them squirm
because they find me imposing
the mere mention of my name
ringing bells of alarm
in the primitive centres
of their brains
awesome
to have such power
purely maniacal
laughter erupts
from my belly
I get a kind of sick pleasure
from watching their wormy
squirmy bodies tense up when I
tease them with my presence and
transdimensional
evil laughter
AFTER WORK AT THE NEWSPAPER
Bedraggled mop of hair
clinking tin bangles
porous valleys of skin
lips like a railroad
tugging smoke from a cigarette
not delicately
but like she needs the nicotine
to breathe
she sports Birkenstocks
and you can see two wiry hairs
poking up from the knuckle on her right big toe
a hairy hallux
her black crepe skirt is covered in a layer of dust
most likely from the gravel road
she rode her Schwinn on that morning
though she rides her bike everywhere
she still has a potbelly
from the numberless vodka cokes
she drinks after work
at the newspaper
clinking tin bangles
porous valleys of skin
lips like a railroad
tugging smoke from a cigarette
not delicately
but like she needs the nicotine
to breathe
she sports Birkenstocks
and you can see two wiry hairs
poking up from the knuckle on her right big toe
a hairy hallux
her black crepe skirt is covered in a layer of dust
most likely from the gravel road
she rode her Schwinn on that morning
though she rides her bike everywhere
she still has a potbelly
from the numberless vodka cokes
she drinks after work
at the newspaper
CAPITAL DISAPPOINTMENT
Scissor Wizards
hair whizzers extraordinaire
buzzers and bleachers
braiders and curlers
lady with headphones
greets me at the door
she barely acknowledges
I’m wearing no clothes
she must be listening to
a soap opera
on those phones
I watch her eyebrows
flicker
and
twitch
like a newly born caterpillar
I am disappointed there are
no customers today
I take to the streets
in the hope
that someone will
notice my
nakedness
hair whizzers extraordinaire
buzzers and bleachers
braiders and curlers
lady with headphones
greets me at the door
she barely acknowledges
I’m wearing no clothes
she must be listening to
a soap opera
on those phones
I watch her eyebrows
flicker
and
twitch
like a newly born caterpillar
I am disappointed there are
no customers today
I take to the streets
in the hope
that someone will
notice my
nakedness
AVERAGE
The photographer frames himself
in the shot
He is adept at creating self-portraits
slicking what little hair he has
back from his forehead
wishing his ear lobes weren’t so long
and his chin so stubby
He can create beautiful prints
having studied with the masters
He photographs the famous and rich
making them look more beautiful or
distinguished than the rest of us
He is an image technician
someone everyone in the spotlight needs
when you’re rich or beautiful
powerful or famous
nothing is worse than looking
normal
haggard
and average
in the shot
He is adept at creating self-portraits
slicking what little hair he has
back from his forehead
wishing his ear lobes weren’t so long
and his chin so stubby
He can create beautiful prints
having studied with the masters
He photographs the famous and rich
making them look more beautiful or
distinguished than the rest of us
He is an image technician
someone everyone in the spotlight needs
when you’re rich or beautiful
powerful or famous
nothing is worse than looking
normal
haggard
and average
Jamie Fiore Higgins has a thirst to experience life fully and a never-give-up attitude. After graduation from Bryn Mawr with a Mathematics degree, Jamie began an 18 year career at Goldman Sachs, rising through the ranks to become a Managing Director. After having her fourth child (and plenty of #metoo moments) she is now in the trenches of potty training, school pickups and the PTA and writing about her experiences as a mother and woman on Wall Street.
A Lifeline of Love
I’m outdated cream wallpaper
Dirty and dingy
Covered with smudges and fingerprints and stains
I wish I were artsy
I wish I were deep
But I’m a simpleton
My head is crammed with deep formed thoughts
Rocket ships ready to burst into the sky
I need to let them out, let them breath, let them sing
But I can’t when I shackled to the sink in front of a pile of dirty dishes
I need help
Just a boost of understanding and acceptance
A lifeline of love
To hold me tight and squeeze
To push out the ugly thoughts and push in tenderness
To suck out the wickedness and breathe in peace
Just let me simmer in it
Have my skin sop it in like a dish sponge
And make it a part of me
Dirty and dingy
Covered with smudges and fingerprints and stains
I wish I were artsy
I wish I were deep
But I’m a simpleton
My head is crammed with deep formed thoughts
Rocket ships ready to burst into the sky
I need to let them out, let them breath, let them sing
But I can’t when I shackled to the sink in front of a pile of dirty dishes
I need help
Just a boost of understanding and acceptance
A lifeline of love
To hold me tight and squeeze
To push out the ugly thoughts and push in tenderness
To suck out the wickedness and breathe in peace
Just let me simmer in it
Have my skin sop it in like a dish sponge
And make it a part of me
Blood and Popcorn
I shouldn’t pay attention to the Windex and Lysol tears that fall out from my eyes. They collect in a coffee cup filled with cow dung that smells like my grandma’s home rain.
My hands are Brillo pads, my hair is a mop head, and my feet are Dustbusters as
I swim through the red sand streets looking.
Dark time untethers me from the quakes that shake my chest.
I must shine and shimmer but instead I’m drenched with brittle and bitter causation.
I must get away from myself, from my mind that tells me and shows me that I’m nothing.
I want to shut that voice down in my head, chuck it out and stomp it to bits.
I want to crack and crush the crude worms that crawl in my brain and mate and multiply
So that they come out of my nose sparkling with glitter. My head explodes leaving an empty hole. Rubber ducks and floss picks and bouncy balls fall onto the ocean floor.
I pray I was meant to be a mother, even though I needed a biologist to get it done.
That chamber was tight and twisted and plugged up and splintered with rocks and dust.
So dark and dank I’d cringe and purge myself out of there, too.
But I couldn’t be told no.
I told the universe they were wrong, and I pushed my way into the motherhood club.
Maybe the universe was right and I’m not motherhood material. Shame on me for thwarting the master plan, for I’ve screwed up.
My body burns as they throw blood and popcorn at me, their laughs and smoke shake my ship.
It’s a crude way to go, I took a cheap shot with my life and I came up short. No pill that I can choke down can stop my flight to the sun as I cough and choke on my fizzled-out life. Bitterness wraps around my neck like a noose, enticing and convincing me to a crackling bitter death. That’s the end isn’t it. My life is half over.
I’ve lived long but made a wretched stank of a mess, drenched and smeared with black ignorance. With bitter hatred, shattering and splintering kind spirits lurching toward the light. And I’ll be trapped in a plastic bag of fertilizer as I’m shaken over the garden with nothing to do But melt and pray that a flower springs forth.
I have decades more to live but scared to bits if I don’t. What if my last days were spent picking up broken legos off the floor,
On blistered knuckles covered with dust and vomit and piss, twisted
As I slither and shake my diminished life with a lint brush.
My hands are Brillo pads, my hair is a mop head, and my feet are Dustbusters as
I swim through the red sand streets looking.
Dark time untethers me from the quakes that shake my chest.
I must shine and shimmer but instead I’m drenched with brittle and bitter causation.
I must get away from myself, from my mind that tells me and shows me that I’m nothing.
I want to shut that voice down in my head, chuck it out and stomp it to bits.
I want to crack and crush the crude worms that crawl in my brain and mate and multiply
So that they come out of my nose sparkling with glitter. My head explodes leaving an empty hole. Rubber ducks and floss picks and bouncy balls fall onto the ocean floor.
I pray I was meant to be a mother, even though I needed a biologist to get it done.
That chamber was tight and twisted and plugged up and splintered with rocks and dust.
So dark and dank I’d cringe and purge myself out of there, too.
But I couldn’t be told no.
I told the universe they were wrong, and I pushed my way into the motherhood club.
Maybe the universe was right and I’m not motherhood material. Shame on me for thwarting the master plan, for I’ve screwed up.
My body burns as they throw blood and popcorn at me, their laughs and smoke shake my ship.
It’s a crude way to go, I took a cheap shot with my life and I came up short. No pill that I can choke down can stop my flight to the sun as I cough and choke on my fizzled-out life. Bitterness wraps around my neck like a noose, enticing and convincing me to a crackling bitter death. That’s the end isn’t it. My life is half over.
I’ve lived long but made a wretched stank of a mess, drenched and smeared with black ignorance. With bitter hatred, shattering and splintering kind spirits lurching toward the light. And I’ll be trapped in a plastic bag of fertilizer as I’m shaken over the garden with nothing to do But melt and pray that a flower springs forth.
I have decades more to live but scared to bits if I don’t. What if my last days were spent picking up broken legos off the floor,
On blistered knuckles covered with dust and vomit and piss, twisted
As I slither and shake my diminished life with a lint brush.
Explode to Dust
I’m crumbling and my stones are dried up.
I want a club to fly me to the garbage can.
I’m feeling more alert now as the kids play.
I remind myself that four is okay.
I can catch my breath, kick up my feet and
scratch my writing itch. I’m on a cloud, like a dog
with snakes coming out of its mouth.
I carve the pulp and discover a chest of balloons.
I take a full breath, a deep breath, a breath of crisp
late spring air into my lungs. Down it goes.
I’m writing. I’m doing. I’m as good as what I do.
If I stop swimming I’ll die, so they say.
Find the passion. Find the meaning. Find the energy.
I’m a cube made of glass. Stop the flood
of birds before the snails come. That’s the way.
Writing takes me along as the days pass.
I need to keep finding time now that summer is coming.
Warm days, fragrant with forever.
In a blink of an eye it will be over. Good times
pass quickly. I want to stop time. Seize the moment.
Love the moment. Be in the moment. Be happy here.
Be happy now. Be happy. I’m always waiting
for things to get better. I’m unsuccessful.
Now seems so bad. I need to lose the heaviness.
Put it down, eat some air, shrink on a cloud.
I’m a pebble, rain down on the bed, and then explode to dust.
I want a club to fly me to the garbage can.
I’m feeling more alert now as the kids play.
I remind myself that four is okay.
I can catch my breath, kick up my feet and
scratch my writing itch. I’m on a cloud, like a dog
with snakes coming out of its mouth.
I carve the pulp and discover a chest of balloons.
I take a full breath, a deep breath, a breath of crisp
late spring air into my lungs. Down it goes.
I’m writing. I’m doing. I’m as good as what I do.
If I stop swimming I’ll die, so they say.
Find the passion. Find the meaning. Find the energy.
I’m a cube made of glass. Stop the flood
of birds before the snails come. That’s the way.
Writing takes me along as the days pass.
I need to keep finding time now that summer is coming.
Warm days, fragrant with forever.
In a blink of an eye it will be over. Good times
pass quickly. I want to stop time. Seize the moment.
Love the moment. Be in the moment. Be happy here.
Be happy now. Be happy. I’m always waiting
for things to get better. I’m unsuccessful.
Now seems so bad. I need to lose the heaviness.
Put it down, eat some air, shrink on a cloud.
I’m a pebble, rain down on the bed, and then explode to dust.
Ayafa Tekena resides in Nigeria, he is a poet and an undergraduate of Law in Ajayi Crowther University, he has a penchant for writing and was published in the 2020 24hr marathon poetry. His hobbies includes Reading, watching movies and writing.
THE EPITOME OF LOVE
Have you ever set eyes
on the one and your heart
skip a beat
Have you ever fallen
In a trance
and it seems you just found
A gold mine
And then you ask yourself
What is love
Can it be defined
Is it just an emotion or more
Your heartbeat increases
As if you just
Ran a marathon
All you want is her
The question
What is wrong with me
Why am I loosing it
What's so special about her
It can't still be figured
It's just she you want
And nothing more
What's the plan
To woo such beauty
How, is the question
Your head has become a time machine
Seeing the possible outcomes
For every move you take
and seeing if you stand
A chance
After all is said and done
Reality dawned on you
And honestly
You don't stand a chance
Not even by a hair's breath
But either ways only
One option awaits
And that's to
Pursue
If the battle is lost
Then the soul
shall recover
But if not then the chase
Was worth it and I shall
derive pleasure being
With the queen who
Stole my heart
With a glance.
on the one and your heart
skip a beat
Have you ever fallen
In a trance
and it seems you just found
A gold mine
And then you ask yourself
What is love
Can it be defined
Is it just an emotion or more
Your heartbeat increases
As if you just
Ran a marathon
All you want is her
The question
What is wrong with me
Why am I loosing it
What's so special about her
It can't still be figured
It's just she you want
And nothing more
What's the plan
To woo such beauty
How, is the question
Your head has become a time machine
Seeing the possible outcomes
For every move you take
and seeing if you stand
A chance
After all is said and done
Reality dawned on you
And honestly
You don't stand a chance
Not even by a hair's breath
But either ways only
One option awaits
And that's to
Pursue
If the battle is lost
Then the soul
shall recover
But if not then the chase
Was worth it and I shall
derive pleasure being
With the queen who
Stole my heart
With a glance.
ONE MORE SHOT ELSE I DIE
I have felt pain
The type able to drown you
Put you in depression while
suicide bangs the door of your sanity.
You need help from yourself
You need to be saved
Who will help
A sick man
They call me a burden
Die if that's what you want
The world won't pause
Because of you
There's no peace, all hope lost
My heart
Shattered into many pieces
Is what it is
I look for solitude
And my only help
Is in the glass
A shot
They call it spirit
Get me drowsy
I feel numb
Get the pain away
Call it fake
But all I want to feel
is nothing
Sobriety about to kick in
Get me a glass lest I die
Tears cascading down
The beautiful eyelids
I am broken
Giving myself false hope
Call it self deceit
Something to suit your taste
But if you haven't been
At your lowest
Don't judge
Get me a note and a pen
Let's end things
I am tired of fighting
It's hard
Don't stop me
Dopamine is the pleasure
In my mind
Just took a flight
And I really can't hear you
The bottle call it vodka
My friend, my happiness
Don't take her from me
You've taken enough
What else do you want
You broke a fragile soul
And you're here trying
To claim repairer
Fuck off
It can't be repaired
Your decision has been made
All I want is to be left alone
To drown in my misery
How less of a man I feel
She a whore has done it again
After just healing
You're bad for me
Poison, is what you are
Flee
Can't be a simp again
Never will I trust
This is the end
Just give me a shot
Else a soul might be drown
And a life lost in the abyss.
The type able to drown you
Put you in depression while
suicide bangs the door of your sanity.
You need help from yourself
You need to be saved
Who will help
A sick man
They call me a burden
Die if that's what you want
The world won't pause
Because of you
There's no peace, all hope lost
My heart
Shattered into many pieces
Is what it is
I look for solitude
And my only help
Is in the glass
A shot
They call it spirit
Get me drowsy
I feel numb
Get the pain away
Call it fake
But all I want to feel
is nothing
Sobriety about to kick in
Get me a glass lest I die
Tears cascading down
The beautiful eyelids
I am broken
Giving myself false hope
Call it self deceit
Something to suit your taste
But if you haven't been
At your lowest
Don't judge
Get me a note and a pen
Let's end things
I am tired of fighting
It's hard
Don't stop me
Dopamine is the pleasure
In my mind
Just took a flight
And I really can't hear you
The bottle call it vodka
My friend, my happiness
Don't take her from me
You've taken enough
What else do you want
You broke a fragile soul
And you're here trying
To claim repairer
Fuck off
It can't be repaired
Your decision has been made
All I want is to be left alone
To drown in my misery
How less of a man I feel
She a whore has done it again
After just healing
You're bad for me
Poison, is what you are
Flee
Can't be a simp again
Never will I trust
This is the end
Just give me a shot
Else a soul might be drown
And a life lost in the abyss.
OURS
The joy, mimics and laughter
Are all heard
at the dinning table.
As we gather to take our breakfast.
Do you hear the beautiful voices
of the little children.
That brings so much joy
and smiles to their cute faces.
Do you hear the quarrelling of the little ones, the warnings of their parents
as they tend to be naughty and innocently kneel knowing the wrong they have committed.
Apologizing with such tender hearts.
Do you see the unbreakable love
that each of them share.
The tender love of father and mother as they take turns to sing lullabies
and read stories
To drift them off to sleep.
The beauty of the sun radiates in the room and they are woken by
the sound of the alarm clock
as they run down the stairs,
To get a tight hug and
a bite of whatever is producing that sweet aroma.
Be patient young lady,
No eating directly from the pot.
'Else you want rain to fall
on your wedding day
And drive everyone away .
Don't scare my beautiful princess,
All is a myth.
But princesses have to brush and be neat.
The food isn't running away.
And school still awaits you.
The responsibilities build up
and sometimes it might be choking
but love surpasses all
and we make time to show each other.
How dear they are to us.
The unbroken chain of a family.
The love, the pain,the joy, the rift.
All isn't a bed of roses.
But we end of gaining momentum.
Through love and support.
And surviving in the worst situations.
Are all heard
at the dinning table.
As we gather to take our breakfast.
Do you hear the beautiful voices
of the little children.
That brings so much joy
and smiles to their cute faces.
Do you hear the quarrelling of the little ones, the warnings of their parents
as they tend to be naughty and innocently kneel knowing the wrong they have committed.
Apologizing with such tender hearts.
Do you see the unbreakable love
that each of them share.
The tender love of father and mother as they take turns to sing lullabies
and read stories
To drift them off to sleep.
The beauty of the sun radiates in the room and they are woken by
the sound of the alarm clock
as they run down the stairs,
To get a tight hug and
a bite of whatever is producing that sweet aroma.
Be patient young lady,
No eating directly from the pot.
'Else you want rain to fall
on your wedding day
And drive everyone away .
Don't scare my beautiful princess,
All is a myth.
But princesses have to brush and be neat.
The food isn't running away.
And school still awaits you.
The responsibilities build up
and sometimes it might be choking
but love surpasses all
and we make time to show each other.
How dear they are to us.
The unbroken chain of a family.
The love, the pain,the joy, the rift.
All isn't a bed of roses.
But we end of gaining momentum.
Through love and support.
And surviving in the worst situations.
Michael H. Brownstein has been widely published throughout the small and literary presses. His work has appeared in American Letters and Commentary, Xavier Review, Hotel Amerika, Meridian Anthology of Contemporary Poetry, and others. In addition, he has nine poetry chapbooks including A Period of Trees (Snark Press, 2004), What Stone Is (Fractal Edge Press, 2005), Firestorm: A Rendering of Torah (Camel Saloon Press, 2012), and The Possibility of Sky and Hell (White Knuckle Press, 2013), His latest volumes of poetry, A Slipknot Into Somewhere Else: A Poet's Journey To The Borderlands Of Dementia (2018) and How Do We Create Love?, were recently released by Cholla Needles Press (2019). |
WITHIN THE SHADOW OF HAIKU
The dogs are in the haiku section of light
the aisle blocked by a thickness of sunshine
the shelves overburdened with shame
the banners overwrought by forced rhyme
and the expanse of heaters planning a blizzard of sleet
One of the dogs barks in syllables
another howls a refrain
and then a sigh of gratitude
simile onomatopoeia repetition a lack of greed
a simple carol a simple snack of prayer
the aisle blocked by a thickness of sunshine
the shelves overburdened with shame
the banners overwrought by forced rhyme
and the expanse of heaters planning a blizzard of sleet
One of the dogs barks in syllables
another howls a refrain
and then a sigh of gratitude
simile onomatopoeia repetition a lack of greed
a simple carol a simple snack of prayer
SONG FROM THE EVENING STAR
Within the texture of love,
a heavy crust of cloth,
the thick orb of nightfall,
the easy sigh of wind
lullabies itself to sleep.
a heavy crust of cloth,
the thick orb of nightfall,
the easy sigh of wind
lullabies itself to sleep.
FAITH
Do you see the lights in the distance?
The fog erased outline of the station?
Are you comfortable with your name?
Late afternoon, a spit of sun, sand,
A triumph after the last bloodletting.
Where do we want to go from here?
The temple not destroyed, but desecrated,
Blood graffiti, carcasses of pig,
The ark wide open, spilled oil, broken lamps.
We will not wait until tomorrow to clean,
We are comfortable with who we are,
The mirage of light in the distant our legacy.
One days supply lasts eight days,
One prayer resonates in song and psalm,
One mount, one name, a household of praise.
from my unpublished manuscript, The Tattoo Garden of Capella
The fog erased outline of the station?
Are you comfortable with your name?
Late afternoon, a spit of sun, sand,
A triumph after the last bloodletting.
Where do we want to go from here?
The temple not destroyed, but desecrated,
Blood graffiti, carcasses of pig,
The ark wide open, spilled oil, broken lamps.
We will not wait until tomorrow to clean,
We are comfortable with who we are,
The mirage of light in the distant our legacy.
One days supply lasts eight days,
One prayer resonates in song and psalm,
One mount, one name, a household of praise.
from my unpublished manuscript, The Tattoo Garden of Capella
HOW THE FIRST INK CAME TO BE
Pillars of Creation—the nebula of dust and gas towers--
tattoos of star and cloud—claw ripped across an atmosphere--
ink blue and brown, red and gold, skin deep and deeper--
and this is where we get the rock to make our fancy colors,
the Tattoo Artist of the Palisades tells the tourists
in the innermost sanctum of the Tattoo Garden of Cappella.
Do you not see the streaks of birth? The stretch marks of my love?
Look at the detail. Notice how colors blend, how life begins,
how this place too may have one time been a grand nebula.
Then a small glitter of white-blue fire rushes near him.
He reaches out, easily catches it and gently tosses it
toward a gray boulder sagging in the palisade. Watch, he says,
and we do. The white-blue flame turns into a white-blue bird
meshing itself forever into the rock—We’ll call it Star Bird,
he says, and then he turns and walks through a doorway.
What! Don’t be astonished! There is nothing here but light,
cosmic dust and cosmic glow, everything here a star-child.
Into the cave we walk, the passage deep and well lit,
spindles of star dust, a litter of fiery coloring, remnants
of ancient times, new horizons--Pillars of Creation--
a core and an inner core--convection currents--a battery of suns.
tattoos of star and cloud—claw ripped across an atmosphere--
ink blue and brown, red and gold, skin deep and deeper--
and this is where we get the rock to make our fancy colors,
the Tattoo Artist of the Palisades tells the tourists
in the innermost sanctum of the Tattoo Garden of Cappella.
Do you not see the streaks of birth? The stretch marks of my love?
Look at the detail. Notice how colors blend, how life begins,
how this place too may have one time been a grand nebula.
Then a small glitter of white-blue fire rushes near him.
He reaches out, easily catches it and gently tosses it
toward a gray boulder sagging in the palisade. Watch, he says,
and we do. The white-blue flame turns into a white-blue bird
meshing itself forever into the rock—We’ll call it Star Bird,
he says, and then he turns and walks through a doorway.
What! Don’t be astonished! There is nothing here but light,
cosmic dust and cosmic glow, everything here a star-child.
Into the cave we walk, the passage deep and well lit,
spindles of star dust, a litter of fiery coloring, remnants
of ancient times, new horizons--Pillars of Creation--
a core and an inner core--convection currents--a battery of suns.
Renzo Del Castillo was born in Lima, Peru. He came over to the United States as a child in order to further his education. Mr. Del Castillo graduated from the University of Florida with a B.A. in English specializing in Victorian Literature and an M.A. in Mass Communications specializing in Intercultural Communications. He has spent the last 10 years working in the healthcare industry as an IT professional. Mr. Del Castillo is an aspiring poet, essayist, and author; he has been published in Literary Yard and The Acentos Review with upcoming publications in Uppagus. His Instagram handle is @elrenz.
Ex-Factor
I can feel restrained love pour from you
With every squeeze of my arm and every hug that you steal
Your touch says what you don’t dare
Fearful of the confirmation that exists
In the unspoken realm of past regrets
The torture you must have endured
When the phantom of my words
Spoken at the moment of our parting
Haunted true, echoing in your ears
“I would have loved you, so much”
With every squeeze of my arm and every hug that you steal
Your touch says what you don’t dare
Fearful of the confirmation that exists
In the unspoken realm of past regrets
The torture you must have endured
When the phantom of my words
Spoken at the moment of our parting
Haunted true, echoing in your ears
“I would have loved you, so much”
Halloween
Behind the contours of this mask
Almond eyes brand your outline on my memory
The curves of your body are tattooed on the back of my desire
Drawing painfully acquired
Inked with passion’s blood
On this old hallowed night
Where fantasies materialize through costumed dreams
And spirits seek comfort in the thumping pulse of techno beats
Zorro’s sword has been bested
By the fluttering of an Amazonian Butterfly’s wings
Almond eyes brand your outline on my memory
The curves of your body are tattooed on the back of my desire
Drawing painfully acquired
Inked with passion’s blood
On this old hallowed night
Where fantasies materialize through costumed dreams
And spirits seek comfort in the thumping pulse of techno beats
Zorro’s sword has been bested
By the fluttering of an Amazonian Butterfly’s wings
Don Juan
Quiet wonder seized me
Jarring sound and sense bequeathed me
By the muse of inspiration.
Knocking all reason from my head
Till it lumbered down and bled
At the mere sight of you.
Scarlet waterfall cascading
Down Latin shoulders masquerading
As stone cliffs of jubilation.
Preventing the passage of this drifter
To the Promised Land this Easter
At the mere sight of you.
Mistress of untapped desires
Heroes light their own funeral pyres
With your name as motivation.
Taking the deity’s attention
From this young pilgrim’s elation
At the mere sight of you.
Jarring sound and sense bequeathed me
By the muse of inspiration.
Knocking all reason from my head
Till it lumbered down and bled
At the mere sight of you.
Scarlet waterfall cascading
Down Latin shoulders masquerading
As stone cliffs of jubilation.
Preventing the passage of this drifter
To the Promised Land this Easter
At the mere sight of you.
Mistress of untapped desires
Heroes light their own funeral pyres
With your name as motivation.
Taking the deity’s attention
From this young pilgrim’s elation
At the mere sight of you.
Thanksgivings (Haikus)
Amber Polaroids
framed by snapdragon petals
document the Falls
spent flying, fighting;
atop Baba’s woods crowing
at the smirking sun:
“Qué onda, Güero?!”
as light rays engendered the
freckles on your thighs.
framed by snapdragon petals
document the Falls
spent flying, fighting;
atop Baba’s woods crowing
at the smirking sun:
“Qué onda, Güero?!”
as light rays engendered the
freckles on your thighs.
Toujours, Méliès
Ships drifting aimlessly in space
Have found a moon to light their course
For a new universe inside a cup of tea.
An unexpected paradise bookended
By “bonjour” and “fais de beaux rêves.”
Have found a moon to light their course
For a new universe inside a cup of tea.
An unexpected paradise bookended
By “bonjour” and “fais de beaux rêves.”
Botch Job
Exposing our leaders for what they really are
Comes oh so easy for this inventive little bug.
Unable to show Itself, yet able to shine a light
Onto human nature which the Bard could not
Manage with a million skilled words: Compare
The organic method in which fools, liars, and
Charlatans are revealed in the natural glare of
Covid 19 - to the stagy artifice of Shakespeare.
(Humans have rarely been worthy of the grand
Emotions he awarded them nor capable of the
Exquisite verse he installed on their tongues.)
No, this inaudible bug is not in need of a voice
To reveal human defects in their purest forms.
Moreover, it grants us knowledge by proxy in
The teaching of a new word – Furlough. And
As well as bringing the meaning of this word
To light, the versatile bug also blasts a glaring
Beam onto those with cold heart who go on to
Abuse the ethics and practice of this new word.
Both Education AND Edification from Covid 19 -
Cruel yet gifted bug, finding ways to enlighten.
Upgrading the air for wildlife by
Cutting planes, cars.
Curbing the airs of the Famous by
Keeping them caged.
Purifying the air in the hoods by
Making Rap Its bitch.
Purging the streets of crime,
It is the Only Show In Town,
Owning every single person
In a planet becoming ever
Cleaner and purer with the
Presence of Its invisible self.
Perchance, after Its everlasting
Demise, Its greatest bequest
Can be a subtle worldwide
Release from servitude
To the hideous speed
Of life so rooted in
Love of money
As to render
Humanity(!)
A
Botch
Job. (but don’t bank on it)
Exposing our leaders for what they really are
Comes oh so easy for this inventive little bug.
Unable to show Itself, yet able to shine a light
Onto human nature which the Bard could not
Manage with a million skilled words: Compare
The organic method in which fools, liars, and
Charlatans are revealed in the natural glare of
Covid 19 - to the stagy artifice of Shakespeare.
(Humans have rarely been worthy of the grand
Emotions he awarded them nor capable of the
Exquisite verse he installed on their tongues.)
No, this inaudible bug is not in need of a voice
To reveal human defects in their purest forms.
Moreover, it grants us knowledge by proxy in
The teaching of a new word – Furlough. And
As well as bringing the meaning of this word
To light, the versatile bug also blasts a glaring
Beam onto those with cold heart who go on to
Abuse the ethics and practice of this new word.
Both Education AND Edification from Covid 19 -
Cruel yet gifted bug, finding ways to enlighten.
Upgrading the air for wildlife by
Cutting planes, cars.
Curbing the airs of the Famous by
Keeping them caged.
Purifying the air in the hoods by
Making Rap Its bitch.
Purging the streets of crime,
It is the Only Show In Town,
Owning every single person
In a planet becoming ever
Cleaner and purer with the
Presence of Its invisible self.
Perchance, after Its everlasting
Demise, Its greatest bequest
Can be a subtle worldwide
Release from servitude
To the hideous speed
Of life so rooted in
Love of money
As to render
Humanity(!)
A
Botch
Job. (but don’t bank on it)
When Pigs Fly
Six years ago Swine flu visited our farm,
Forcing Virginia Hambone to stand firm
Against the public use of mucky troughs,
Which was causing the trots and coughs.
Pigs were ordered to remain in their sties
And baptize their trotters to avert demise.
Sty-to-sty sales sows solicited salty swill.
A barn was set for the expired and the ill.
Penlife was instinctive and fit like a glove:
Arguments preceding the making of love.
Flu had purged the tracks of all the swine
And the air sweetened from their decline.
Presently wild boar sauntered by, in thrall
To the intoxicating scent of nothing at all.
Unusual not to spot that superior species
Of Hog wash in their finer forms of feces.
Now the suaver swine was to vent spleen:
“ Quarantine is just a breeding scheme.”
They yearned to wander the fields again,
To grunt in unison and filthen the terrain.
The Council said it was still testing drugs,
So pigs pigging out must wear anal plugs.
“ The virus is passed on through the rear -
You will save your bacons if you adhere.”
They squealed as akin to human protestors
And met in sheds to abuse the Councillors -
To no avail! Inside the butt was fit a bung:
They could now only wallow in oral dung.
Eventually this beastly disease flew away
And a boom of piglets scuttled out to play.
Adults oinked back into the ways of afore,
While uncivilized boar were seen no more.
Forcing Virginia Hambone to stand firm
Against the public use of mucky troughs,
Which was causing the trots and coughs.
Pigs were ordered to remain in their sties
And baptize their trotters to avert demise.
Sty-to-sty sales sows solicited salty swill.
A barn was set for the expired and the ill.
Penlife was instinctive and fit like a glove:
Arguments preceding the making of love.
Flu had purged the tracks of all the swine
And the air sweetened from their decline.
Presently wild boar sauntered by, in thrall
To the intoxicating scent of nothing at all.
Unusual not to spot that superior species
Of Hog wash in their finer forms of feces.
Now the suaver swine was to vent spleen:
“ Quarantine is just a breeding scheme.”
They yearned to wander the fields again,
To grunt in unison and filthen the terrain.
The Council said it was still testing drugs,
So pigs pigging out must wear anal plugs.
“ The virus is passed on through the rear -
You will save your bacons if you adhere.”
They squealed as akin to human protestors
And met in sheds to abuse the Councillors -
To no avail! Inside the butt was fit a bung:
They could now only wallow in oral dung.
Eventually this beastly disease flew away
And a boom of piglets scuttled out to play.
Adults oinked back into the ways of afore,
While uncivilized boar were seen no more.
Categories
All
ALAN FORD
ALEXIS GARCIA
ANOUCHEKA GANGABISSOON
ARIANNA SEBO
AYAFA TEKENA
BOBBY Z
C. BARRY BUCKNER
DOUGLAS J. LANZO
DR. DOUGLAS YOUNG
ELEANORE LEE
FREDERICK POLLACK
GTIMOTHY GORDON
JAMIE FIORE HIGGINS
JOHN J. BRUGALETTA
JOHN VALENTINE
JONATHAN WIKE
KEITH BURKHOLDER
LOIS GREENE STONE
MARY KIPPS
MICHAEL H. BROWNSTEIN
MORGAN DRISCOLL
NDABA SIBANDA
RENEE DRUMMOND-BROWN
RENZO DEL CASTILLO
RICHARD T. RAUCH
ROB LOWE
SAMUEL PRESTRIDGE
SAUL HUGGINS
SHAAN SOOD
SHAHEER PULIKKAL
STEVIE VOSS
TED MC CARTHY
THULISILE NGOMANE
VISHNU B. UNNITHAN