Angela McCabe lives in Ballinamore, Co. Leitrim, where she works as a Neuropsychologist. She won the Listowel Poetry Collection award 2016. Her poetry is published nationally and internationally
Her first book of poetry ‘Honeymoon in Coalisland’ was published by Alba Publishing, London 2014. She has published her second poetry book ‘Battenburgs and Lemon Drizzlers’ with Alba and is currently working on her third poetry book.
A Victorian bedsit in London,
the three of us undress
as the gas geyser dribbles
hot water into an oversized bath
big enough for us all to wash in.
We rearrange the armchairs,
the two single beds
with pink candlewick spreads,
the TV, the record player,
put five shillings into the electric metre
and take the Bakelite phone
off the hook.
Underwear and light garments
flutter on the clothes horse
by the wall heater.
Our bodies sink into bubble bath
washing away the impulses
of Saturday night,
laugh about the Bierkeller,
dancing on tables,
wandering off with boys
too late for the last tube home,
stranded in St. James Park.
We take turns, wrap each other
in warm towels,
brush hair, tease the tattles
of past hurts
from blonde, black and red locks.
For now we are safe,
my nurse’s uniform ironed,
my turn to sleep on the floor.
Three Girls: Summer 1966
After a day swimming in the Lough,
and singing to Radio Caroline,
we walked home sunburned.
Danced at the Carnival.
Late night snack; sandwiches,
licked salad cream from fingers.
Fell into a double bed,
thighs between thighs.
Kisses on shoulders, neck and breasts,
lips on honeyed lips.
Drunk on a sea of frenzied disquiet,
we shushed each other, then laughed.
Moaned our last soft moans,
bodies limp with pleasure.
Eve lit a Benson and Hedges,
blew circles of smoke in the air.
All lay back, everyone having a drag.
watching blue floaters in the moonlight.
Dark clouds block the light,
bar one entire field on fire
from a single ray of sun.
A minx waits till the trees turn,
then steals through dewy grass
taking a red hen’s companion.
She swells her burnt umber breast,
about to give up eggs and feathers,
attempts to fly on broken wings.
But there is a knowing,
day cannot be night,
and rivers flow one way.
Father - man of the house,
you rise before dawn,
feed animals and birds.
At night polish your shoes
by the fireside.
You built a stable
home for us.
Now in the kitchen you listen
to the news from Athlone,
your tweed jacket outdated
The teapot is ‘draws’ on the range.
You ask, do you want
long tea or short tea?
as you pour
in an up and down motion.
The stirring spoon wakes me.
In a muddled moment
I reach for the cup.
But touch instead
my window filled with stars.
Battenburgs and Lemon Drizzlers
Ladakhi women in tall hats,
long plaits and turquoise capes,
grind all day the nuts
into pure almond oil,
sing Hoi Cho Cho Lay Song.
Now yellow cream caresses my face,
transports me to a time
when we chopped almonds,
made marzipan for Christmas cakes,
Battenburgs and Lemon Drizzlers.
Irish women baking in floral aprons
and A line skirts.
Drop by drop of measured time,
my friend’s skin
welcomes the healing liquid.
down the deep curve of her spine.
Me singing the song
of the Turquoise women.
My hands dance along her buttocks.
Knead, roll, pummel,
arms, legs, feet glisten.
Her long plaits tied up.
Me wearing a Ladakhi amulet
and a Claddagh necklace.
Wafula P’Khisa is a poet, writer and teacher from Kenya. He studied English, Literature & Education at Moi University. His work has been published in the Aubade Magazine (issue 1), Emanations (issue 2), The Best 'New' African Poets 2015, Antarctica Journal, NYSAI Press, The
Legendary (issue 48), AfricanWriter.com and other online literary journals.
We signed our death sentence
The chickens will not come home to roost
They escaped from cages in Europe, and fled into the wild
They are wandering all over town, singing redemption songs
And dancing on graves of those they pecked and clawed.
But you need not to strip naked and bathe in sand
or curse your children for no reason
When your dreams fail to hatch
When your cries of agony aren’t answered
We signed our death sentence
and this, my people, is the price.
You refused to heed the wisdom of ancestors
even in the gaze of a stranger’s counsel
Stuffed your ears with wax and opened mouths to swallow every poison thrown your way
When the devil came, on a motorcade, singing hosannas
In a tongue too sweet to ignore
You tore others’ throats over their sacraments
And left them gather your souls into ballot boxes!
Why did you entrust them with our granaries
and slaughtering the only beast we’d hunted in the wild
Yet their hands smelt of fresh human blood
And their stomachs swelled with unaccounted big chunks of the last season’s harvest?
Was it because they are sons of this accursed soil
and a kinsman is never condemned, even after sinning against his people?
Then why don’t they chorus and dance to songs of these ridges
Instead of being chauffeured about in tinted guzzlers to hawk slogans
Or fly over our caving roofs, to Dubai or Paris probably
Whilst we besiege filthy streets like vultures, trampled by the giant foot of hunger
Oh, my people: we signed our death sentence
and this is the price!
This place is not for us
I wade through troubled waters
to convey you across
whilst ashore the world watches in awe:
expecting us to safely end into the belly of a waiting crocodile
or be swallowed by angry waves
Everyone refused me use their boat
because I went against the grain to elect you; and mine was grabbed by the law
They fear untold misery could befell them
for lending a hand to helpless earthlings.
The sun no longer smiles at us
It rises late, wanders beneath misty clouds, and retires early
before its golden embers could warm our tender skins
The moon fled
When this dark age of grand theft, excessive eating, whoring and terror
came and sat on us (to stay).
We can't even engage our respiratory organs
To negotiate for valuable atmospheric components
For fear of inhaling poison
and inviting cancer and her colleagues
to rush us to the grave.
The sweet taste of rain dissolved into soluble nothingness
upon invasion by tears of gods
for their beloved suffering below
The soil refuses to bear more yams
For ages it hasn't seen rain
Thus its yellowing surface growth
Shatters dreams of ever having a Christmas of roses
We got to flee from this place
to save my neck from the noose of a politician's hangman
Whom I called thief
for stealing our children's playground;
flushing the Eurobond cash into his bottomless belly;
conning my neighbour
and condemning his famished family to litter the streets
This place is not for us
We got to flee and seek tranquility from the other side
or lie low and mix with these spoiled earthlings
and get infected with their rotten ways
that will condemn our children
to a turbulent life of injustice, falsehood and slavery.
Coming of a storm
This cloud has been hovering over us for a while
Blocking the sun from gazing at our secrets
We saw it and tucked under shed;
Afraid of the heavy downpour.
The fishermen rowed their boats ashore
To secure their loved ones from the impending storm
They couldn’t wait for nets to swallow more fish
Only to find everything in ashes on return.
… and claps of thunder threaten others to wet their pants
Njoroge fastened a monster padlock onto his shop and fled
When some juvenile brats of unknown breed, with discord brewing in their blood
Hovered around it like flies over shit
And my brother fastened a rope around his neck
Upon discovering that our fortune had been swallowed
before it could fall into deserving hands.
We have bend our backs long enough
To gather nothings that fall off the king’s table
And clear the ground for his entourage to thrust into our virgin soils
To harvest slaves and sycophants, and preach his gospel to poor masses
Whilst collecting their offerings in ballot boxes.
… and man can’t live on bended knees forever
The age of languishing in the world’s extreme corners for earth’s children is over
We are breaking this engagement;
Since scars are all we can show for our sacrifices
We must end this marriage;
To stop being treated as third-rate partners.
Song of My People
Some people think we're dumb,
Because we spend lives sleeping, forever sleeping,
Our flock they invade, suck milk;
And invite hunger
Our men they conscript,
Lure them with nothings:
To glorify, and their songs sing--
Under our roof!
Because we spend lives sleeping, forever sleeping:
To many a merchant we're traded--
Gunpowder for coalition canons;
Mercenaries to fight alien wars,
Used and dumped-- like tissue paper,
Whilst with us our men plead,
To harden hearts like termite in the soil!
Teachings of alien gods,
From sacred shrines drew us;
Wherein children of mulembe:
Gathered for libations--
Then emptied pots of busaa,
And brought down hills of ugali and chicken...
What befell our land, my people,
Has ruined us!
We've outlived Elijah's prophecy--
Leadership in the house of Mwambu,
Shall from lake Nam Lolwe come,
So ashore, we gaze, forever gaze,
The gourd to speak again?
Our brain we soak in ignorance,
Leave our roof falling,
To seek refuge in neighbours' bungalow-- forever!
And allow our hosts shield their wicked selves,
With our blesseth name:
Against the world's wrath--
More sinned against!
Aren't our balls big enough to fill palms,
Thus give us courage to speak our mind?
Those who think we're dumb,
Because we spend lives sleeping, forever sleeping,
Should confirm their sanity.
The rain has beaten us--
Washing our eyes clear;
The rain has beaten us--
Away carrying our fortune...
Soon our house shall re-organize,
Summon back its prodigals,
To Elijah, Wachie, Walumoli and Mwambu...
Slaughter sheep to appease,
Thus settle our internal feuds--
Buying back brotherhood...
We shall stand strong,
Like a boy facing the knife,
Confront Goliaths herein,
and claim our share!
We are also children of this soil;
We are also children of Our Father!
Song of a youth
You see these fellows
leave the comfort of their limousines, choppers and Benzes
to tread in mud, into uninhabited dungeons of the countryside
or slip into flea-infested filthy slums like Kibera:
Distributing mosquito nets, hawking slogans, funding retarded projects
or settling medical bills
And you think they are true humanitarians
Wait until this game of hunting votes is over
and the winner goes home with their prize
You’ll never see them again
if you can’t afford a newspaper or own a TV
But you’ll hear them roving in Dubai, Paris, London and Israel …
Whilst you wait them to come and see the sickness of Mandera, Turkana or Budalang’i.
They are always on the run, like criminals
Running from honouring their pledges
Seeking to quieten their roaring appetites
But they have reaped more than enough;
Why can’t they vacate the arena
for the new blood
now that their aching bones
make them spoil the dance
and bar light from reaching young shoots below.
They came wearing youthful masks
chanted in our slang
and ferried old geezers to office
to drum for them
as they dance to the song
that bears sorrow since independence
They ferried old geezers to office
and left us to eat dust
and be regular guests of the prison
In pursuit of something to sustain us
But, isn’t this serikali ya vijana?
of electing ancestors
to govern our generation
will bear problems!
What do they know
about what eats us?
How much do they know
about the changing world
if they imprison themselves in palaces forever?
Are we not men enough
to stand on our feet and chase our dreams
than be reduced to mere mercenaries
for doing dirty assignments
Of what value are the degrees we’ve earned
if we can’t reason in times of crises
and salvage the land we call ours
from its eminent ruin?
You see us swear and curse them
Because they ruined our peace and lied
You see us in tatters, with jutting bones
Because they stole ours and denied us opportunities
When corruption, tribalism, impunity end on this land
We too shall eat and grow…
Ken Allan Dronsfield is a published poet and author originally from New Hampshire, now residing in Oklahoma. He loves thunderstorms, walking in the woods at night, and spending time with his cat Willa. He is the co-editor of the poetry anthology titled, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze available at Amazon.com. His published work can be found in reviews, journals, magazines and anthologies throughout the web and in print venues including: The Burningword Journal, Scarlet Leaf Review, Indiana Voice Journal, The Literary Hatchet Magazine, Belle Reve Journal, Peeking Cat Magazine, The Australia Times, Bewildering Stories, Aquill Relle, Members Anthology, Book 6, Literature Today, Volume 5, Poetic Melodies and Imperfect Paths Anthologies by Creative Talents Unleashed, Birdsong Anthology Vol 1, Voices of Humanity, Vol 2 Anthology, and others. Ken's poetry has been nominated for Best of the Net for 2016.
Au Revoir to Summer
patiently, dishes wait in the sink
for hot water and soap to arrive
the cat sits nervously in wonder
when his dinner will fill the bowl
summer sun has left for Florida
chain saws echo through the valley
pumpkin looks pitiful on the porch
wish I was better with the knife.
standing in the back yard alone
watch the leaves gliding down
like paper airplanes here and there
others helicopter spin to the ground.
a sense of sadness now is born.
Au revoir Summer, Bonjour Fall.
and you are still working away
I have only written a bit today
dishes waiting in the kitchen
for my lazy ass to wash and dry
dinner will dirty them once more
as colder days are now on the way.
Mansion of Midnight Wails
a captive glance down the darkened hall
light rays disclosing the stale airborne dust
frisky orbs frolic whilst dancing to the divine
decrepit rose petals lie scattered all about.
a curtsy to the shadow as it moves in respite
laughter erupts from the second floor landing
majestic claw tub sits waiting for the master
as chandeliers swing to whispers in the wind.
wrought iron fences surround the old home
the barn roof collapsed in a storm last March
lilacs and azaleas have long since died but
oaks and pine have remained tall and strong.
distant screams are heard on all hallow's eve
and a cackling of witches as they fly in the sky
changelings fly in the form of a black raven
as children run past grasping bags of candy.
eerie tales of the mansion of midnight wails
as the ghosts dance by the old grand stairs
the mailbox hangs open near the broken gate
the old house breathes and sighs in repose.
Within lofty daily trials
life always in check
gaze at self-made walls
inhale an amnesia haze.
Chastising red milestones
beaten within submissions
artful weaving of whispers
wake from a deeper sleep.
Questioned emotion on ice
travel within a dark compass
where in Hades am I spirited
queries shuffle on downward.
dissected voices in a breeze
breathless inhales unshaken
blowing kisses to a blue nebula
poison barbs on a comet's tail.
Blown away with red leaves,
tincture of orange and yellows
fog clearing in rising sunshine
shaking off that amnesia haze.
R Soos is a teacher, poet and musician, and has been published in over 200 print magazines, and has 20 books of poetry, including Somersaults With Life (2016), Parting/Departing (2015), Bringing In The Sheets (2012). His books may be purchased at on-line bookstores. His poetry appears online in Peacock Journal, Tuck, Leaves of Ink, Micropoetry, Random Poem Tree, Cuento, In Between Hangovers, and others. His video poems may be viewed on youtube. His latest chapbook, Cell Notebook, will be published in December, 2016. He blogs at http://rsoos.com
in constant service to public suffering
he decides on a quiet force of self will
to judge the inner chaos of his own past
in a carefree and advantageous manner
pouring a silken salve on his fragile ego
his intention toward a noble reputation
predated his actual fear of a lonely death
he learned to praise God with a thankful heart
and walk through town using virtuous manners
toward everyone he greeted, with conviction
in service toward an attractive future legacy
no one who lived with him would recognize
stories of bread and wine are
locked intimately in her heart
friendship listens to her bitter lament
about dreaming in the hot hell fires
her body ordained with colored inks
displaying a child's dance of sorrow
each request for death rejected
by her father despite his own faults
and pretense to total omnipotence
while hiding the dungeons of his mind
from all his neighbors and co-workers
comprehension of eternal condemnation
evident in his external manner toward them
as her father he could have absolved her
of the perverse demons controlling his thoughts
covered with perspiration
he wavers on the precipice
looking out from this altitude
at what feels like eternity
firmly establishing natural laws
which people could obey
without fault or guilt
a familiar conscience
witness them being whipped
for hours with braided rope
as entertainment for honest
governors of the eternal night
esteem the wealth of character
in these men laughing as fools
while souls are voluntarily risked
to save a child and loving wife
distance yourself from joy
crawl from the on-looking crowd
still exhausted from the defensive struggle
with regret and self anger unable to control
the imprisoned desires which expect suffering
she has overcome torture rushing to weaken
mercy which could rescue her self-doubts
from the forest of masterful dedicated lies
I live my own life
I like to believe in this
crazy as it seems
Rainysarmistha was an hotelier by profession, now working as a content or blog writer. Her passion about writing made her potess.Her poems are published in some international and national books and in some literary magazines like Duane’s blog spot, raven cage ezine, literate online, newmedia, atunispoetry.com and in various literature magazines. She loves to sit beside the sea and love the song of rain.
Doppelganger she is called by an illusionist.
It was a tale of a stormy night.
She paused and started telling her story.
It was starting to rain
The night falls for its silent prey
A knock at the door startled her instantly,
She opened the door with unknown fear.
A fragment of wind crushed her cheek.
She fells asleep and the dream chased her.
The sound of rain made her waken,
And she found a new her had been created.
She found herself in a dormant state.
The other side of her intense desire has created a replica
And the intensity was so strong that it appears to be real--
But it is not real!
A doppelganger dwells in every human.
Dark and light, real and false.
Oh, it’s just an illusion.
The secret is to live beyond the horizon of dreams.
Experience the new you without any fear
JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. He has two poetry projects available at Origami Poetry.
Vast and Mighty
check out scrawny
with his yawning life like
a leaf rattling
he’s fallen off the tree
hasn’t taken a bath in weeks
who knows who watches him
when he’s not in school?
check out how he thinks
he’s vast and mighty
puffing up his small chest
waving his bare body in the night
air like a frail flag
I’d snap him like a twig
but he’ll grow to be a branch.
I don’t know
or care to understand how
the finger roves the place
it should not go
I don’t know
or care to understand how
the best and most special relationship
can sour like cottage cheese in the sun
Do you listen to your mind
tick away like I do, and realize when
a bad idea is really bad idea?
Some will say I’m being judgmental.
I’m looking at the world around me
thinking about the mistakes people make,
I mean illegal ones here,
and just wonder how a species
can turn against its own desire to survive.
Found Poem from Nabokov
I was thinking the other
day of writing a found poem
from Nabokov when I realized
the book I had was in Russian.
I wish my tongue
were more prehensile when it
comes to other languages, picking
them up like a parrot’s.
Another thwarted idea, but I’m
learning to deal with thwarting.
I’d dance in her shadow
and save her a step,
but she doesn’t want saving
How many people really do?
Beauty can be quite deceptive
about what lies underneath,
so I’ve observed
It is a rare act to find reason,
competence, kindness, and beauty
all in the same place
For my part, I’ve found it at least
once and that’s made a difference.
A man ambles
into the store. He could
be a raven in disguise.
Probably not though.
A woman follows him.
Perhaps she is stalking
like a panther. But no.
She just wants vegetables,
like we all do.
A child toddles by and has
brighter eyes than others
I’ve seen. Is this the promised
one that will save us?
Oh, wait. She just spat up.
Michael Marrotti is an author from Pittsburgh, using words instead of violence to mitigate the suffering of life in a callous world of redundancy. His primary goal is to help other people. He considers poetry to be a form of philanthropy. When he's not writing, he's volunteering at the Light Of Life homeless shelter on a weekly basis. If you appreciate the man's work, please check out his book, F.D.A. Approved Poetry, available at Amazon.
'Neo-Liberalism, No Way'
You won't find me
leaning to the left
inflicted with guilt
on my free time
ashamed of the
color of my skin
I'm not the man
any race or gender
It's all about
Points will be made
some sharp as a knife
I'm not here to draw blood
my time is to be spent
like a charitable event
Pride is not a sin
when used to benefit
the lives of the
motivated by compulsion
society is all talk
I'm through with
Andrew Hubbard was born and raised in a coastal Maine fishing village. He earned degrees in English and Creative Writing from Dartmouth College and Columbia University, respectively.
For most of his career he has worked as Director of Training for major financial institutions, creating and delivering Sales, Management, and Technical training for user groups of up to 4,000.
He has had four prose books published, and his fifth book, a collection of poetry, was published in 2014 by Interactive Press.
He is a casual student of cooking and wine, a former martial arts instructor and competitive weight lifter, a collector of edged weapons, and a licensed handgun instructor. He lives in rural Indiana with his family, two Siberian Huskies, and a demon cat.
The Soup Kitchen
(East Fourth Street, Indianapolis, Indiana)
They changed the name since I was here last
Now it’s the Men’s Christian Mission.
The line is long.
We don’t look at each other much,
We don’t talk much,
Is it shame or indifference?
Some of both probably
I don’t really know,
I don’t really care.
A few snowflakes swirl around us,
They melt on the cracked concrete.
It’s cold, later on they’ll stick.
This week I scored
Army boots that fit
And a wool scarf six feet long.
I’m in pretty good shape.
One guy mumbles how he was scouted by the Yankees
Nobody listens to him.
One guy has a pint of blackberry brandy
We focus on him like sharks in bloody water.
He sees, chugs the bottle,
And throws it in the street.
Inside there’s still a line
But it’s warm: snow
And sleet and snot
And god knows what
Drip off us onto the dirty tile floor.
The cost is not extreme:
Some woman reading the Bible,
And she’s not hard on the eyes.
St. Mark: something about
How the bad ones are taught
In parables so they can’t understand
And get saved when they shouldn’t.
Way over my head.
The soup. It has real meat
And carrots. I’d forgotten
There was such a thing
As carrots in this world.
God bless carrots.
Comeuppance in Flushing (Queens, New York)
Hot, drizzly August morning
Behind schedule leaving the apartment
For the groceries, the cleaning, the diapers.
I do an ungainly skip and hop
To avoid stepping on a giant slug
Oozing like a senscient, three-inch booger
Across the flagstone walkway
Apparently intent on the garden wall
Ten feet ahead of him,
Bricked up and five feet tall.
I think how incomprehensible
My maneuver must have looked
To white-haired Mrs Van De Camp
Who sits all day at her sixth floor window
In her purple bathrobe
Watching her world:
The walkway, the garden wall
And a sliver of street beyond
With one metronomic traffic light.
When I return, drenched,
Laden like a pack camel with grocery bags
And carrying four dry-cleaning hangers
Between my teeth (an indignity
No camel ever suffered)
I find my morning whimsy was correct:
Mr slug has crossed the walkway
Traversed a yard of weeds
And made it halfway up the wall
Leaving an iridescent slime track behind.
No less repulsive than two hours earlier
But more interesting for the question he forces
On my soaked and panting self:
How does a snot-glob
With a brain scarcely worthy of the name
Conceive a plan so bold and reckless
As to journey to the wall
At the end of the universe
And scale it
Just to see
What lies beyond?
And how does a thing
With no visible means of propulsion
Execute his plan with such vigor,
Fortitude and resolution?
When I consider his achievement
And what he’s got to work with
I am awed.
I stand in the rotten-cabbage smelling foyer
Dripping on the unclean tile floor
Drooling around my shirt-hangers
While the elevator clatters and wheezes
Its painful way down to me.
I mutter internally,
“Don’t let me be humbled
By a garden slug.
Leave me some shreds
Maker of Useful Things
In a slower, quieter time
Peat fire smoke rose straight and sweet
From the chimneys of cottages
Where a dozen generations of proud Irish
Had been born and died.
On a fog-cloaked morning you might hear
At the edge of hearing, at the edge of daylight
A tiny tapping from a hedgerow
Where in a strict and secret nook
A leprechaun cross-legged sat
And hummed and tapped and formed
The shoes his fellows like to wear.
No one ever saw him.
He slipped away in the brightness
None know how or where
But he’d leave behind at times
A bit of moleskin
A sliver of silver
And these things touched by hands
Of one whose kind is blessed
Brought blessing in their turn
To any child who found the magic scraps
And gave them heed and comfort.
This was long before the days
Of disbelief and disregard
But the leprechaun still lives
Though he—just like the world--
Has gone on to other things.
He lives now beneath a mossy overhang
Of a slow-flowing stream
And works there, making…
Not shoes but songs
Songs of love and quietude.
He sends them
Floating down the stream
And they look, to people,
Like sun flashes on the water.
Just like his shoes
These songs leave bits and trimmings
Of themselves behind.
And what does a love song fragment look like?
Like a leaf, a snail shell, a chip of quartz
To the hand of the lucky girl or boy
Who finds it, keeps it
With the curios of childhood--
Perhaps at the back of a dark drawer
Where it works in silence
And the child profits
In luck, in love, in things of spirit
And never guesses the source
Could be a thing so small.
And the magic goes on
Rizwan Saleem is a Banker based in Dubai UAE. The thoughts and expressions detailed in his works are of his various escapades suffered through life, and of the profound surprise of having survived long enough to pen them into words. His poems have appeared in anthologies Twenty Seven Signs by Lady Chaos Press and Self Portrait Poetry Collection by Silver Birch Press.
To the fallout
I see in the distance skies
How lightning crashes
Illuminates this pitch black night
I choose to burn all I ever loved
Then burn the ashes
Erase every word of endearment
Blinded by salted water
I give release to all memories
That return to my eyes in flashes
Doubtful if I can find
An anecdote to what you’ve left behind
Drops of that sweet nectar I aroused from you
That flowed from your veins to mine
Like turbulent seas
Now I ail with this poison
A brew concocted just for me
Destitute, faithless, fallen
Yet felled by this weakness that makes me pray for your pity
How your arrogance grows
As every hour goes
You wring my own tears
On these seeds of loneliness you have sown
I plot my revenge
Or some vestige of retribution
My plans flutter to my feet
Like feathers of fallen angels
I see now the looming clouds of storm
Gales that howl and sway
Bring messengers of the coming regime
That shall rule my remaining days
In these searing embers
I swear to hide
All the torment that I suffer inside
But stuck in between the devil and the deep blue sea
How I would spend this world’s weight in gold
Only to know for the hundredth last time
If you still think of me.
some rain for wilted flowers
some rain for open wounds
some rain for the dearly departed
some rain for seeds just planted
some rain for a child to see
some rain for someone to be
some rain to mix with tears
some rain to wash clean the fears
some rain for love lost
some rain for love's new blossom
some rain for the desert dunes
some rain to beat in tune
some rain for this summer heat
some rain on dry parched lips
some rain for those we miss
some rain for the first kiss
some rain for hope renew
some rain for the ones with few
some rain for prayers unanswered
some rain for promises due
some rain for people to believe
some rain lord if you please
some rain for the hungry to feed
some rain dear god is all we need
Saloni Kaul, author and poet, was first published at the age of ten and has stayed in print since. As critic and columnist Saloni has enjoyed thirty eight years of being published. Saloni Kaul's first volume, a fifty poem collection was published in the USA in 2009. Subsequent volumes include Universal One and Essentials All.
Most recent Saloni Kaul poetic production has been published in Poetry Quarterly, Eye On Life Magazine, Tipton Poetry Journal, Poetry And Paint Anthology, Misty Mountain Review, Inwood Indiana, Mad Swirl, FIVE Poetry, The Penwood Review, The Voices Project, Mantid Magazine and Haiku Universe . Upcoming publication acceptances include Sentinel Quarterly , AJI Magazine, The Voices Project, The Penwood Review and River Poets Journal.
CHISELLING THE HIGHEST TIDES
The Elizabeth Bishop Centenary Sonnet
A quiet character chiselling away in the land of the world’s highest tides. On 8.2.11 we celebrated Elizabeth Bishop’s hundredth birthday! To mark this centenary celebration, a sonnet virtually on location, from one who explored her childhood lands, lands she continually visited in her lifetime.
Like restless housewife moving ceaselessly
The staple furniture of her existence ,
Responding to each nudge from memory carelessly,
For change’s sake change , new positions, less pretence
As she lived and loved was all that was discernible
Between Boston brownstone and elmtopped Great Village.
She’d gleaned that in a freer Minas Basin air and tillage
Lay all what was poetically ascertainable.
Ah ! time and time again the eye reverts
To semblances of balance, orders old.
A sigh of sadness is all that escapes the culverts
When newness waves wash curling village shorelines cold.
From beds of loneliness though sweeping gestures stylised spring
Each time the prize is given to the cultured thing.
Like change that’s imminent.
And I’m happy when you recount
All heading my way each amount ,
All going in my favour add to my account.
Love with that pluck and thrill of the reckless
is a long wild wild leap into the unexplored
tight as a storyline’s trim contoured gist
honed by its own instinct , innate sixth sense,
and tempered by some good sense’s benevolence
To move like a professional aerialist
who is all accuracy prime itself above board
And be sure to land on your feet in love’s neat recess.
Love is incogitably slow floating on your back
on calm expanse of water like up there the aerostat,
like handsome indolently stretching bridge
With most amazing wampumstrung new views
of the sky eloquent above so blue
And knowing for certain like fired cartridge, flying partridge,
That it equilibratedly will always be like that.
You never will sink, never skid, back track.
All else is dotards devotion irrational on the shelf
that may impress with its high ardent fervour
and pressed sincerity the one receiving
but who like your stellated subliminal gods does not reciprocate.
Like wasting pouring your lifelong emotion state
on highly questionable ‘god’ who far from pat reciprocating
lives in a world remote, isn’t observer let alone preserver.
So look for one within your own precincts, one like yourself.
IN THE NAME O’ ALL THAT’S STRIVEN
The air around the rose goes spiralling up
Like a deed that long is proven.
Each whiff touches its corresponding chord
In us, as we the old enliven.
And all that’s heightened musical,
Lessons in classic correspondence ,
Exuberant vapours cloud to saturate the scene
Till overwhelming wisdoms all condense.
AT A HEIGHT , THE HEART !
When you see from the soul at a height all the world in a spin
It is like a fixed point that embraces its view in a clasp
That contains all the essences strong that diverge to the brim
Of the air to perfume in a haze like strained light with its weight the dazed realms.
You may dance, you may swing all you like if you think that you must
For the world down below is upheld by a pivoted clamp
That’s congenial long as it likes what it sees swift unscrolled
In a patterning vivid and flourishing wide like the whirl
That goes briskly as petals of rose ever widening clear
Till it reaches a form of perfection, a dream to behold