“A true poet does not bother to be poetical. Nor does a nursery gardener scent his roses.” -Jean 

  ___________________________________________________________________________________                                                                                         

Ben Nardolilli

Ben Nardolilli currently lives in Arlington, Virginia. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, Caper Literary Journal, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, fwriction, Grey Sparrow Journal, Pear Noir, and Yes Poetry.

 

Before the Occurrence of Deep Sleep

 Up from a nap, as usual I feel

Half dead, as if there was something

Unfinished that I left behind

On the couch or bed, something

More than the impression and heat.

 

The dreams are never enough,

And the minutes running to hours

With the lids down never suffice,

This is sleep but no rest,

No source for power to wake refreshed.

 

Awake from a nap and surrounded

By the early evening darkness,

The shadows starting to expand

Over the floor and no light to stop them,

I wonder if it’s best to go back.

 

And with my mind feeling crumpled

Up against my dry and bleached skull,

I wonder if there is the possibility of return,

The dreams are over and the night triumphant,

This is the passage to the hidden kingdom?

 

Until the sensation of what has escaped

Wet over the brim of my lips,

Still warm, no stream or drip gone cold,

Comes to me and I realize I am not dead,

But alive instead, and just exhausted.

 

 Bebop

 A little light jazz plays overhead,

I think about how to alter

My writ to fit the tune, a gift

So that it might become a soundtrack,

A setting and not just a song,

But I decide to maintain

My loyalty to all the old rhythms,

No need to saddle and chain

These notes with a new meaning

And ruin the older players’

Intention to thoroughly improvise.

_________________________________________________________________________________

 

Boboye Mary Mozimo

Boboye Mary Mozimo is a Nigerian International student, with a passion for creative writing. Although Currently residing in Miami, Florida, she spent most of her life in New Jersey where she graduated from Plainfield high school, and Camden county College.

Aging

 

Forever Young,
 I don’t wanna be.
 But thoughts of getting old
 Put a fright in me.
 Someday,
 I too shall be frail.
 My swag —
 Staggering with my cane,
 While I waddle, and my cats walk.
 A model’s face,
 Though wrinkled,
 I bet I still would have.
 With my skinny legs,
 Though brittle,
 I bet I still could sway.
 Pray I’d be here tomorrow,
 But scared of what I’d see.
 Aging is not a horror,
 But it puts a fright in me.

-Boboye Mary Mozimo

____________________________________________________________________________________

 

                                                                                                      Dr. Ram Sharma

Dr. Ram Sharma[B-1974] is an accomplished poet and writer both in English and Hindi in the field of literature. He has added many feathers to his cap.As a student he has been exceptionally brilliant student from class first to M.Phil He did his doctorate on ` Post-Modernist Trends in Indian Novels in English: A Study of Anita Desai ,Arun Joshi, Amitav Ghosh and Vikram Seth..He is a renowned poet, critic, reviewer and translator.His poetry is indeed of very high order which is read throughout the world.He has several research papers , articles, poems and reviews published in esteemed journals , magazines and newspapers of India and abroad .His poems are showing presence in foreign e-journals like Poems-hunter.com,Voices-net.com,Coffe-connection.com,Autumn Leaves,The Houston Literary Review,Asian-American poetry.com, PoetrySketch Book etc.He has to his credit two poetry volumes Muse[2002] and Serene Moments[2008] At present he is working as a senior lecturer in English in J.V.P.G. College, Baraut, Baghpat, U.P., India

 

SUNSET

The sun of the country,

has set,

the black fearful night is descending,

new dawn has hidden ,

in the dark forest,

every person is wounded,

every orchard is burning,

with violence,

the gardener is destroying,

the buds,

there is display of naked swords,

everyone has become mute

 

LIFE-SAGA

Life`s magic,

the more you dip, the more it becomes deep,

you are protector and its selector,

why there is no ray of hope ?

the past which passed,

take the teachings from it,

sorrows and happiness go together,

life is a bed of thorns,

but don`t change your humanity,

don`t loose heart,

work is worship

 

GANGA  MAIYYA

O! the daughter of great Himalaya,

i salute you Ganga Maiyya,

you the provider of life to everyone,

you the symbol of belief of everyone,

you are flowing through stones and hills,

your glory is immortal,

throughout the ages,

 

__________________________________________________________________________________

Eftichia Kapardeli

 

“Eftichia Kapardeli was born in Athens, Greece and lives in Patras. She has written poetry, stories,topics, Xai-kou, essays, and novels. She is a soprano in the chorus and gratuated from The Deparment of Journalism A.K.E.M (Athenian center vocational education). Eftichia has participated in many educational seminars. She know H/Y 7 programs ,English and Italian, classic Kithara ,and has studied right voice . She served as the guide in the body of Hellenic girl scouts and is also a volunteer firewoman. Eftichia has participated in many programs including being a Like listener student in which she followed the 2004 Department of Filology at University of Patras. She has been rewarded in panhellenics competitions that include poetry,topics, stories, Novels,fable,xai you . She take sdiscernement in her book *secret march*(novel) From D.E.E.L and *sikeliana 2006* (salamina) UNESCO Her work publication in magazines in Literaries The first poetics collections is *confindings of secrets* and *light* She is have one paper in university of cyprus {the creek civilication} She is member in world poets society{w.p.s}the official website is http://world-poets.blogspot.com/, member P.E.L in greecehttp://www.panelog.grmember internasional writers associations president Teresinka pereira Adress and member Pegasus Literary Society http://agronshelewps.webs.com/MEZONOS 229 TK 26222 TELEphone 2610-338248 6973930402 INTERNET : htt://durabond.ca/gdouridas/poetryArkadia.html e-mail: kapardeli@gmail.com   kapardeli@mailbox.gr ”

http://www.durabond.ca/gdouridas/kapardeli.html

http://logotexnika-epikaira.blogspot.com/2010/05/blog-post_17.html

INNOCENCE

 

The opponents have receded

The poisons human mind

They ruined ths reality

They left back destruction

***

 In the ruins i found

The chased innocence

Above in piles from stones

Just as fat drops of rain

Invade from everywhere

In the old house that

Sometimes was familian

In the ruins refugein

Alive a new child

 A rosy promise

Chastity and youth

Was rescued.

ONE SWEET WHITE LIGHT

 ..A sweet

white Light

Smile Aurora

a flame

the torch of life.

A sweet white

light

the heavy winter

leafing through

the Heart …… …

To keep warm

A sweet

white Light

Cover the tender

Your Body

with kisses and tears.

A sweet

white Light

Angel Tears

in the eyes of children …

when hands

the cast to tired

hands of parents

A sweet

white

Light

in New
worlds
tirelessly
the hope of looking for

ΕΛΠΙΔΑΣ ΞΗΜΕΡΩΜΑ

Θα  έρθει η Ανατολή
και λεύτερη η Ελπίδα
θ΄ ανοίξει
σαν το πουλί τα
φτερούγια της
σε τόπους μακρινούς να
πάει μυστικά να ζήσει
Στεριά θα βρει
κάτω απ΄ τα άστρα
κάτω απ΄ τον ήλιο
εσένα ψάχνει
Στο βλέμμα σου
ξεχώρισα
λεύτερη την ελπίδα
κάνε υπομονή
Θα  έρθει η Ανατολή

HOPE
  EAST

It comes East
and free Hope
i open
like the bird
wings
at sites distant to
Secrets to go live
Land will find
underneath the stars
under the sun
you looking
In your eyes
singled
free hope
patience
It comes East

______________________________________________________________

Tatjana Debeljački

Tatjana Debeljački, was born on 23.04.1967 in Užice. Tatjana writes poetry, short stories, stories and haiku. She currently is a member of  Association of Writers of Serbia -UKS since 2004 and Haiku Society of Serbia – HDS Serbia, HUSCG – Montenegro and HDPR, Croatia. A member of Writers’ Association Poeta, Belgrade since 2008, HKD Croatia since 2009 and a member of Poetry Society  “Antun Ivanošić” Osijek since 2011. Deputy of the main editor (cooperation with magazines & interviews).  http://diogen.weebly.com/redakcijaeditorial-board.html Editor of the magazine “Poeta”, published by Writers’ Association “Poeta” http://www.poetabg.com/  Union of Yugoslav Writers in Homeland and Immigration – Belgrade, Literary Club Yesenin – Belgrade.Up to now, she has published four collections of poetry: “A HOUSE MADE OF GLASS “, published by ART – Užice in 1996; collection of poems “YOURS“, published by Narodna knjiga Belgrade in 2003; collection of haiku poetry “VOLCANO”, published by Lotos from Valjevo in 2004. A CD book “A HOUSE MADE OF GLASS” published by ART in 2005, bilingual SR-EN with music, AH-EH-IH-OH-UH, published by Poeta, Belgrade in 2008.Her poetry and haiku have been translated into several languages. Email/Websites/Blogshttp://debeljacki.mojblog.rs/

SLIKE                                             PHOTOS

NE VOLI                                                             DO NOT LOVE

NE SPALJUJ                                                       DO NOT BURN

NE DOZIVLJAVAJ                                             DO NOT LIVE THROUGH

NE VOLI IH                                                       DO NOT LOVE THEM

NE SPALJUJ IH                                                 DO NOT BURN THEM

NE DOZIVLJAVAJ IH                                      DO NOT LIVE THROUGH THEM

VOLI IH                                                              LOVE THEM

SPALJUJ IH                                                        BURN THEM

DOZIVLJAVAJ IH                                             LIVE THROUGH THEM

VOLI, SPALJUJ,DOZIVLJAVAJ                    LOVE, BURN, LIVE THROUGH

DOZIVLJAVAJ, SPALJUJ, VOLI                   LIVE THROUGH, BURN, LOVE

SPALJUJ, DOZIVLJAVAJ                              BURN, LIVE THROUGH

VOLI, NE VOLI IH, VOLI IH.                          VILI, DO NOT LOVE THEM, LOVE THEM.

I VOLI I SPALJUJ I DOVLJAVAJ                  AND LOVE AND BURN AND LIVE THROUGH THEM

DOZIVLJAVAJ VOLI SPALJUJ IH-NE?        LIVE THROUGH LOVE BURN THEM – NO?

HIM

THE GREEN LETTER

 Yes, the wound made by words hurts the same as the physical wound,

Friends have convenient words for you

and they are ready to listen to you

their hearts are always open for you, but where are they when they’re needed most?

HER

THE RED LETTER

I am your friend and be delighted by that fact,

I forgive you for

Making ahole in the fence (heart), bitter residue

Of anger is all of that

Experience with the man in the world without God, forgive me, I see you as

A man, I see you naked in front of me in the sunlight,

I’ll stay faithful to the end, follow my shadow in the

Night.

 Witness with nice name

Give me your hard hands

James Toma

James Toma is a poet residing in Silver Spring, Maryland.  He sometimes goes by his pen name, “Jamztoma.”  James loves reading, writing, and listening to Top 10 music.  He was born and raised in Pago Pago, American Samoa.

 

25

 

Darkness is my light

Rain is my sunshine

My enemy is my friend

Curse is my blessing

The cold is my warmth

Pain is my pleasure

The master is my slave

Life is my deathbed

Honesty is my deceiver

My bruises are my kisses

The joker is a killjoy

Ballads are my ditties

Losing is my gaining

My innocence is my filth

Religion is my science

My home is my prison

Beasts are still friends

Junk is still treasure

Saints are still sinners

The world’s fools are God’s sages

Ice burns like fire

The ocean is like Heaven

A criminal is a martyr

Great sex is no sex

25 feels like the elderly

THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT

 Sign a card
mail your heart
to the one you love…
Kiss the snow
if you can
as it falls from above…
These simple things you do
Simple things, simple moves
These memories you knew
fondest ones you would not lose
All in the holiday spirit
Deck the tree
feeling happy
singing carols all day…
Give a gift
give a dream
give yourself away…
These simple things you do
Simple things, simple moves
these memories you knew
fondest ones you would not lose
All in the Christmas spirit
But who’s the guy behind all this?
But who’s the guy behind all this?
Angel came
Girl obeyed
And He was made…
That one night
the King arrived
not on a bed but on hay…
This simple King, this simple King
That’s his story, He’s our glory
He’s our King, He’s our everything
That’s his honor, He’s our Savior
And He’s the reason why:
We sign these cards
and mail our hearts
to the ones we love
Kiss the snow
if we can
as it falls from above
Deck a pine tree
while feeling happy
and carol all day
Give these gifts
give these dreams
and give ourselves away
All in the Christmas spirit
All in His spirit

YOUR SCIENCE

 Into the nights

Into the days

I find it exhaustive

And not the same

This love of ours

It’s just not working

Just not growing

It’s all a waste

 Your science

Your gravity

Your oxygen

Your chemistry

I have no use for them you see?

 You’re a pathogen

A malady

A no-use presence

A death disease

I must rid myself of you please!

 I have to soar

To let go of all strings

The complete disasters that are you

I’m sorry but I need some air

I am about to drown in despair

 Your electricity

Your batteries

Your compass

Your IV

Just don’t work anymore on me

 I’m a subject

I’m a study object

Of your suffocating romance

 Your science

Your gravity

Your oxygen

Your chemistry

 ________________________________________________________

Alexis Roeckner

Alexis Roeckner, 20, was born and raised in the beautiful city of Cave Creek, Arizona and has been writing since she was four years old. By the age of fourteen she had written seven books, two of which were unofficially put into paperback and sold to raise funds for Heifer International (http://heifer.org/). Alexis currently studies sustainability at Arizona State University, and lives in Glendale, Arizona with her cat Gypsy.

 

Starving

We’re all starving, really.

It’s not about fulfillment or detail

anymore

and equality?

Forget about it.

There are no lines

nor escorts to tables

where your order is taken cheerfully

and you watch others eat their fill.

Instead

banquets hidden behind the flurry

of hands are

enclosed in one corner.

In another

lie emaciated bodies

that lift their eyes from the floor

every now and then

as they wait for their servers to

come.

We’re all starving, really,

because those who have food

will grab all they can

without

a backwards glance.

And those who don’t

will eye the feast

from below,

obvious of the knowledge

that they are not the

only ones

who are hungry.

 Burning

Burn this once you have finished reading it.

Offer this scramble of words to the flames

and watch the blaze

weaken

letter after letter

until only lifeless ashes remain.

Ignore the whispers

that surely sear the tendons

nearest to your heart,

and smile if the unyielding smoke in your mind

refuses to dissolve.

Allow these feelings to smolder

and glow

and intensify

and I promise you

that these words

will not

be the only ones facing annihilation.

Feed this to the flames

when your lust-filled eyes

have stopped touching it.

Yearn for the blaze to grow higher

and louder until its roar is sufficient

yet still and calm and steady.

Scream for a brighter flame,

for thicker smoke,

for unbearable heat,

and let no drop of tears or sweat

come near your pitiful shrine.

Grind your fingers to and fro

until the blood runs down your hands

and I promise you

that I will laugh through the barricade

and that the wall of water between us

will make Hell itself seem cold.

Burn these words.

Burn them in the creation you take no credit for

until their letters peal and rupture

through rotting wood.

Leap further into the fire until

your silhouette is lost within the smoke

and I promise you

I promise you now

that the scars will strengthen

a force you have wanted to ignore,

and you will sink further than I did

when you seized my hand

and dragged me through

Matthew Harris

 

“Let me state the obvious that i like to write, ideally a thought provoking diatribe versus some string of words rather trite which verbose verbiage tends to be long winded and vaguely understood quite yet this somewhat circumlocutious loopy nippy nap noopy introduction composed at night in tandem with more’n a chink in the ham bone and armor of this rusty yet trusty ole knight! Born aloft in sin er rather Cincinnati, Ohio ad nineteen hundred and fifty nine where after one year father and late mother moved with an older sister of mine to levittown, audubon (where younger sister completed harris family, then one last heave ho to Collegeville, Pennsylvania where the majority of my growing up years passed with trials and tribulations to boot galore that left psychic pock marks that affect my psycho/social well being. As a rather demure, fawning, joking, lithe pipsqueak, i found solace in low key quiet activities such as playing piano, reading, and using this over active imagination to populate an existence devoid of numerous friends.”

                                   SANTA LETTER TO THE PUNIM – 2011______

DEAR SHANA AUBREY HARRIS from SANTA AND HIS REINDEER

WHO DECIDED TO REIGN IN THE PRANCING CREW FOR TIME TO SPARE

A SHORT NOTE SITTING ON HIS CLAW FOOTED POTTY IN HIS UNDERWEAR

WHICH LOSE ELASTICITY AS ME GIRTH EXPANDS

WITH EACH PASSING YEAR

MY EYES BUBBLED UP WITH BLISSFULNESS AND A STRAY TEAR

WHICH HEARTFELT EMOTION FROM YOUR NOTE I WANTED TO SHARE

THOUGH FAN MAIL FROM COUNTLESS KIDS FAR AND/OR WIDE NOT RARE!

THE BEST GIFT THAT WOULD REALLY TOUCH MY SOUL AND HEART

WOULD BE FOR YOU & EDEN TO MAKE AN EFFORT TO REMAIN PART

OF THE FAMILY BY ACCEPTING EACH OTHER AS THE PLACE TO START!

THOUGH DASHED OFF WITH A COMET LIKE BLITZ,

YOUR NOTE TOUCHED ME TO THE QUICK

RATHER THAN ADDRESS ME AS SANTA CLAUS JUST CALL ME SAINT NICK

OR JOLLY HANDY DANDY RED SUITED FELLOW IF THAT DOES CLICK!

OTHER PEARLS OF WISDOM, I WISH TO OFFER SUCH A LASS AS THEE

OFFER KINDNESS TOWARD OTHERS AS RENOWN BY (WHO ELSE) BUT ME

WHICH COMPASSION CONTRIBUTES GOODNESS EVERYONE WOULD AGREE!

NOW TIS TIME TO WHIP UP THE MOTLEY CREW

AND AWAIT THE TWINKLE AS CHILDREN SKIP TO THEIR LOU

UPON UNEXPECTED SURPRISES

AND LAUGHING NON STOP I NEARLY GO POO

WHICH MATTER THIS BEARDED FELLOW MUST ATTEND

LEST HE BE MISTAKEN FROM AN ANIMAL FROM THE ZOO!

The deadly scourge of  one obsessive/compulsive disorder

 

anorexia nervosa absent bulimia nadir of onset sans schizoid behavior

which agonizingly slow suicide via self starvation

maelstrom within psyche of self as prepubescent lad

(particularly devastating  to immediate family members)

as emaciation pitted existential revulsion from unseen wuthering heights

nearly wrung death knell

annihilating fragile entity christened matthew scott

with preemtory imprimatur yielding covalent bond to life

readily obvious to kith and kin

via zorro like signature per profound perilous depressive psychological state.

now – at about eight + forty years from attaining rank of centenarian

perfect 20/20 hindsight

offers supreme advantage from said current earlier chronological crisis

theorizing  numerous educated guesses

within mind of this middle progeny and sole sol

(of boyce and the late harriet harris)

why he willfully hurtled his flesh at light speed down the abyss toward death.

literal and physical lightness of being

manifested within nooks and crannies

prior to full blown symptoms

to eliminate sustenance

drawing the curtain on brief residence

way before high noon of life.

metamorphosis from boyhood into man

found solace in attempting to keep at bay

natural cycle

which transformation grieved me

to pine for nostalgic childhood’s end (albeit one fraught with romanticism)

vengefully interpreted attempt

to halt dead in the tracks intervention of mother

whose nursing experience helped fend off passive attempt

to promulgate passive silent plan to fruition.

she whipped various nutritious concoctions in the blender

to ensure minimal essentials to this (i readily admit) famished body

in conjunction with applying vital supplements into

one or the other bony gluteus maximus

thru fuel injection

which submissiveness to acquiesce and bare my buttocks

did absolutely nothing to squelch  death wish.

I inexorably overcame this eat disorder to go on a deadly hunger strike

which essentially constitutes a declaration of independent control

despite horrendous craving for food jabbed innards like a pike

bifurcated psychic division to live ousted coeval death wish sans goal

seize yore per reminiscent of blissful childhood over flooded self made dike

engendering propensity to catapult over abysmal emotional hole

and way before the invention of facebook, I mentally clicked like

to fight the mailer daemons that part of me healthy development stole.

imprimatur indelibly etched decades after bout with passive exit from life

crimp on psycho/social skills plus stunted physical growth cuts like a knife

affecting mental health with panic attacks and anxiety although existence

considerably less riddled with debilitating symptoms

(such as vertigo, racing heart, profuse sweating, nausea, irritable bowels)

_________________________________________________________

Walter William Safar

___________________________________________________________

 

Boboye mary Mozimo

Boboye mary Mozimo is a Nigerian International student, with a passion for creative writing. Although Currently residing in Miami, Florida, she spent most of her life in New Jersey where she graduated from Plainfield high school, and Camden county College. The poem,”PTSD ( Post traumatic Stress Disorder )” is inspired by love.

PTSD by B.M Mozimo

As you march to the front line,

With your heart racing at the speed of light,

Take comfort in knowing that

My heartbeat still sings a love song for you.

As you walk tall behind those shields,

Somewhat scared of the unfriendly streets,

Take courage, and know that I’m

Waiting for you to watch me walk down that aisle.

As you lay there in streams of blood,

Don’t drown in your flood of thoughts.

Just picture me in that gift you bought,

Running your bath water, for when you return.

As you lay here in my warm embrace,

So close, yet so far away,

I’ll be patient ‘cos I know someday,

You’ll open up to me, and speak again.

I know your heart is in so much pain.

You see their faces; your friends, the slained.

I know that things may never be the same;

With time, I pray your sorrow fades.

But until then, know that I am here

With my heart wide open, and

However long you took to heal,

By your side, always, I’ll be.