the eiger sanka
thinking tonight
I am not this brain
in the darling garden
eating cowboy bread
in this underlined winter
I am the burrowing owl
scrabble tile: alpha
a noise now nothing
---
plum (understood)
combo
shampoo your skull
I use the same salt as the funneling crow
I am that old gold senator from the moon
combo
--
the promise of a new marvel team-up
the absolute reality
we were
went worm
para
keet
the moss inside
I went through the wrong door
--
crabapple could-be
& yes
I know
bio/graf
J. D. Nelson (b. 1971) experiments with words in his subterranean laboratory. His poems have appeared in many small press publications, worldwide, since 2002. He is the author of ten chapbooks and e-books of poetry, including *Cinderella City* (The Red Ceilings Press, 2012). Nelson’s first full-length collection is *in ghostly onehead* (Post-Asemic Press, 2022). Visit MadVerse.com for more information and links to his published work. His haiku blog is at JDNelson.net. Nelson lives in Colorado, USA.
Can you feel it? The gentle sounds travel to the far-off temples, Echoes of the ringing bells summon, Living souls dance in ecstasy, The waves strike their heads against the banks, And the empty rooms emit light. The river flows with torrents. Ah! My Love, You are engrossed in the fairy tales, Tales of the moon and tales of the stars.
You are truly ignorant of nature, So, it conspires against you. Oh! My Love, You are blessed with innocence. Don’t change the colors of your canvas, You are heedless to relaxing cloudiness. Listen! Cloudiness mourns. On the lonely benches of your orchard, And you read poetry of Keats and Coleridge, You will never discern the real beauty, See, the guardians of intellect entangle you. How can one encage you in the valley of dream? Oh, my dear Moon! There comes an afternoon. You will wander about in the city of stillness, But you will never find the path of love, Nor the traces of my footprints. Under the scorching sun, Your emotions will be frozen. And you will lose yourself in the woods…
Romance
Radiant moonlight in the woods, Oozes the blazes out of the dark. Spellbound rustling of leaves, In the winter eves Blooms the dwellings of romantic souls, And somewhere Nights sleep in the lonely arms, Caressing the broken hearts of lovers And enfolding the melting emotions.
Hollow Man
Voices of the hollow door, And the hollow phone echoes, He throws an urgent matter into the basket. Here comes a poor man, And begs for at least to heed his request. The room flashes, Odor of a bouquet wafts around the room. The fireplace warms up the environment Outside stands a poor man empty-handed He came just to hear the refusal. “Hahaha! I already told you Sethi Sahb, This is a wrong place”, He hangs up the phone mockingly, The time passes quickly….. Every moment falls into emptiness. At lunchtime food is served with colors. “Oh! The gathering awaits, Let’s go, The guests have arrived.” The night peeps through the window. The table is full of the undone tasks, The poor man stands behind the door, But still in a hope….
Breathing in Love
While I glimpsed at you in the tranquil eve, I saw my real self, unveiling from your eyes. Can’t you see? There left only dry leaves in the garden of love… But your choice was the season of autumn. My eyes fled from the crowded dreams, The cruel world tempted me with its feasts. You bequeathed my heart unknown pleasures. The clock moved around with its ticking, The phone rang, evening merged in the castle of night, Innocent sounds of nature revealed riddles of life. How exquisitely we breathed in the careless moments, Travelling in the land of acquainted souls, Joyful was the moonlight, And love twinkled in a mirror of the restaurant.
Poetry is Melancholy
Poetry dwells in my heart. It shows me the sights of stunning valleys And the fairylands, Sometimes, it turns the light away. It leaves me alone, in the dark city, To roam about the whole night. It is melancholy of the winter eves, Sparkles in the eyes of living poets. Which no one can behold. It is not me who writes poems, But my melancholy.
Oh! Dear Poesy! Are you acquainted with my lover too? I ramble, stroll and roam. You know the secrets of my heart, You tell the untold stories, You sing the unsung songs, How clever you are! My poor Poesy!
November Eve
The beautiful evenings of November are lively, For the first time in my life, I feel, I will not be able to touch The melting warmth in the cold weather. Maybe, I would have been unaware of your presence. The deep secret of this silence Would not have been revealed to me, Nor was there any fear of scattering words, When you were not here, life stopped Now that you have arrived Life seems moving, But it walks backwards, Reiterating on the same steps. You are in the city, However, humidity doesn’t increase, Silent winds hum something, They ask for your real existence, That I had in the first meeting… But now it is gone with the sunset. Bottom of Form
Depression
Something enters in the dark Turns the room into bloody sight. Here is the pistol that twirls in his hand, And a knife lays in front on the table, Oh, how much burden life has sustained.
After all, how long it may stay faithful, Death is the end of everything, He must be remembering his family and friends, Before committing the heinous act, He might have be thinking, “I will meet you the day never come, Nature, flowers, gardens, lawns and towns, All will walk alone in the black gown, My existence is meaningless to the loathsome life, I spent it for the abstract rules, But why I ponder on this trivial matters, I am the responsible native of my nation, I have fulfilled the dreams of my ancestors.”
Oh, my dear you are so restless, You may follow the path of leisure, So to overcome your gruesome gloom Don’t you have any mirror in your room? To see an image of your charm.
A short biography of Aasma Tahir
Aasma Tahir is a poetess from Lahore, Pakistan. She is a poetess of English and Urdu both. She has done Masters in English Literature. She is the member of World Nations Writers’ Union. Her writings have been published in several Anthologies and national and international literary magazines and websites. Recently her poetry book “A Lantern in the Forest” has been published. Her interview alongwith fifteen English poems have been selected in an Anthology “Postmodern Voices” published from India. As an internationally recognized poetess, she recently achieved membership of World Nation Writers’ Union, Kazakhistan and an award “Paragon of Hope” awarded by World Nations Writers’ Union. She was invited in World Peace Summit, Nigeria by World Institute for Peace to present her poetry.
Her English poem “Woman of Art” has been selected in an Anthology of English Poetry ‘Emerging Horizons’ published from India. Moreover, her English poem “Blood Festival” has been selected in an Anthology ‘Jallianwala Bagh Poetic Tributes’ published from India. Her poems “Daemonic Tales”, “Breathing in Love” and “Imitation of Life” have been published in BHARATHVISION.INFO (online magazine, affiliated with ‘Motivational Strips’). Her acrostic poem “Romance” got the first position in Tunision Asian Poetry contest and received winner certificate.
Moreover, her English poems “A New Moon of the Deep Chasm”, “Imitation of Life” and “The Lost File of Love” have been published by Sir Sajid Hussain in his book ‘A Bouquet of Triple Colours’. Furthermore, her several poems have been translated in Bangla language and published in the newspaper ‘The Daily Gour Bangla’.
I’ve never gone too far home past my Lola’s house and my Lolo’s grave.
I’ve never seen that blue, the one of the Philippine Sea, and I’ve never even swam with my cousins (who are competitive swimmers). But I’ve seen my Lolo’s poem, his vows to my Lola, hung on my aunt’s wall, and I’ve faithfully listened to all the old stories. Even though the memories don’t fit, I have an old lunchbox where I keep a pen with my Lolo’s favorite Bible verse,
and a flashlight he once gave me. Maybe I’ll print out a poem of his to place in there as well. And I’m more than just one story, one distant set of islands, one lunchbox holding my remaining grief. Sometimes the memories shrink to a single raindrop as I remember long past days. I swear I try to catch every drop in a glass, so maybe one day I can drink it and see my scattered life come together for a moment.
Lessons (Rebellions)
My mom once told me not to wear cropped shirts, as we passed some girls on a street. I giggled and nodded then, my hand reaching upwards to hers.
Now i feel the chill as i walk my dog, midriff exposed. the wind never warned me that its bite would make my stomach blue too. My hands dance downwards with the leash, looping and loosening the gap between the sidewalk and the rope. They too, turned blue with the cold and with the echoes in my bones, of days on jungle gyms the light dipping beneath my head as I climbed trying to catch the last drops of sun. But now i have goosebumps on my stomach and my hands are curled in shivers
because i didn’t keep my mother’s promise. (It was only hers, after all)
Rollercoasters let it ride, but I can’t be so winding theme park laissez-faire.
Bugs Bunny never went to war. Made his 1940 film debut in the animated short, A Wild Hare.
And it was good times for our resident carrot chomper after that.
The boys in uniform, not so much.
They should have sent a talking rabbit to the war.
That would have scared the shit out of the Germans.
Instead of pandering for laughs at home.
One of Disney’s longest tenured employees.
Probably draws a Fabio-handsome pension though.
All the finest carrots from all the best soil.
The war over just long enough to start a new one all over again.
The Dominatrix Always Wins
There are candles that burn out on you and then there are candles put out on you.
Private first class Hot Wax reporting for duty.
The Dominatrix always wins. Not a single losing season among the madams.
Simple as that.
Pierce the flesh and pocket the monies.
Five-inch cockroach killers and not a single off-white pest killer cube van in sight.
Just clothespins pinching the nipples like a brand new way to do the laundry.
Furry handcuffs without the key.
And this final warning of warnings:
there are no safe words when the censor comes for your mouth or mind or body.
Montezuma’s House of Revenge
It was back in the limestone city. Passing this small strip mall near Bath Road.
This martial arts place on the second floor. Over the ESL joint that never taught you why polish and Polish were the exact same word, but completely different when it came to nails.
And the sweat dripping down my face, a most unforgiving summer.
That green sign with black Kung-Fu movie lettering that read: Montezuma’s House of Revenge – Karate, MMA, Ju-jitsu, ninjas
It was that last option that seemed most intriguing.
Blue Antifreeze Snow Cone
I walk by this frozen driveway with the snow knocked off a parked silver Hyundai Elantra.
Look down to this blue antifreeze snow cone sitting there in a bed of fresh white snow.
Think of all the kiddies building snow forts that may never come home for dinner.
Under the silence of a grey bird-less sky.
Some half-witty bumper sticker hanging on by sticky last holdout corner.
While a joyous German Shepherd two doors down tries to catch shovelled snow in its mouth.
Jumping gleefully into the gaping black ice cosmos.
If this is winter, it is hardly the worst of it.
Even that long biting wind taking the day off.
This mortuary still way I watch my own breath like seeing ghosts.
Lean Years
There were some lean years there, let me tell you! he said.
Let me tell you, good sir, that for the poor every year is a lean year.
The Man from Ryoca
He arrived with none of the necessary papers, but all the intent of a happy holiday maker, this man from Ryoca, though none could place it on a map, and the birds in the sky seemed to fascinate the man, dressed strangely for the season, but completely affable so that no one knew what to do with this tall pale gentleman who helped you dig through his luggage as if leading some prestigious archeological team from the university, so that when the questioning began, it was friendly enough; tucked away behind glass like a fine martini, and when the man folded his hands, it was with all the lost beauty of 1000-year-old origami; if you found yourself charmed, you were happier than you’d been in years and hardly alone. A Completely Made Up Poem
He was tasked with putting the garbage out for the night.
Tossing the black bags over the lip of the dumpster in the side alley, listening for that startled shuffle of raccoons that normally came.
You still open? a sudden voice came from behind.
He turned and squinted. Held his hand over his eyes so he could make out the vague silhouettes of three men.
Beat it! he said.
Pulling out pipes from behind their backs, they edged closer.
That’s the plan! the big one grinned.
Blue Steak
She says that is what they order when they want it raw, so I sit up and give her the swanky blue steak of this poem to chew on, waiting for her many complaints to come running back to the deaf ears of this saucy stainless steel mate’s rates kitchen.
She Whistles When She Snores, I Can’t Even Whistle When I’m Awake
Some people have different talents. Think roaming Galileo eyes as sudden baking soda volcano.
I never had a talent, so I never once entered the talent show.
Sat cross-legged in the nosebleeds poking at my belly button over my shirt.
Wondering if I could tickle my spine if I stuck my finger in far enough.
This, of course, is not a talent. No one claps for the skinny quiet kid that keeps fingering his own bellybutton.
But this one beside me now, she has talents. She whistles when she snores, I can’t even whistle when I’m awake.
I sound like a mouthful of crackers without a mouth full of crackers.
Lay awake, barely moving for the full seven hours.
When we get up, she asks If I slept well.
I tell her I did. Take ten hours to drink a single glass of orange juice.
Blame the heavy black bags under my eyes on miniature clothes shopping women that can never get enough.
3 Types
She is looking through my notes again, notices 3 types of handwriting: normal, stoned and drunk.
All completely different. A handwriting expert would swear these were written by 3 different people! Look, she says.
I look. It is true.
No resemblance at all.
The normal being much of what I remember from my youth.
The stoned is small and tight and focussed in the extreme while the drunk is loose and loopy and hard to make out.
This is NOT healthy! she holds up the piece of paper.
For which one of me? I ask flamboyantly.
That is the drunk me speaking. I wonder if we all speak differently as well.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle though his garbage. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Synchronized Chaos, Literary Yard, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.
