Haiku For Sun
A lifetime sunset;
red-apple in sunken sea;
sunniest, nude beach.
All For Naught
Lost in the darkness,
the colors of life vanish.
They achieve nothing.
Brushing Sounds
Played picked fingerstyle.
Dyed words for Stroop effect in
unpolarized light.
Convergence
At the sea's wave touch,
words of love need convergence~
ride at a slow trot.
Ekphrastic Haiku
Wild, windy thistles,
wet, weeping words, twilight world,
fall, and falling hues.
An Echo
Blows his own trumpet,
squeals with a sense of smugness~
his ego’s echo.
Distortion
Distortion of light
and color changes in stars~
Sun's magnetic storm.
Fall
Rain adorns the cold.
The red peeks through the foliage.
Wet breezes chafe the cuts.
Biography
The Oddville Press, Sybaritic Press, Prolific Press, Silver Birch Press, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Dashboard Horus, Al-Khemia Poetica: A Women's Arts and Writing Journal, Southern Arizona Press, Journal of the Akita International Haiku Network, The Queer Gaze, PentaCat Press, Coin-Operated Press, Mayari Literature, Ardus Publications, and others published the poems of Marieta Maglas in anthologies like Near Kin: A Collection of Words and Art Inspired by Octavia Estelle Butler, The Oddville Press Summer 2018, Nancy Drew Anthology: Writing and Art Featuring Everybody's Favorite Female Sleuth, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Three Line Poetry, Tanka Journal, and The Aquillrelle Wall of Poetry. The editor of The Aquillrelle Wall of Poetry, Yossi Faybish edited her poetry book, Cubic Words. She is a co-author for A Divine Madness: An Anthology of Modern Love Poetry, Enchanted- Love Poems and Abstract Art, The Auroras and Blossoms PoArtMo Anthology: 2020 Edition, and Women of One World.
Theresa stood frowning thoughtfully at the framed photo of her and Mike at their wedding reception. The pair of them, cutting the huge cake, resembled the miniatures atop the cake itself. Mike, tall and buff in his black tux and Theresa in her lacy dress, all very traditional. Just the way that Mike’s mom insisted it be. Dawn, Theresa’s sister, had laughed at the virginity and innocence that the ivory gown implied. Theresa and Mike had, after all, lived together for a year prior to their nuptials. Theresa’s mind drifted back to those earlier times, as it often did. She could almost feel the expensive champagne tickling her nose.
A sudden pounding at the front door jarred Theresa from her reverie; it had to be her sister. She was the only one who demanded entrance with such vigor. Probably a holdover from their childhood; Dawn, at 33, was two years older than her sister. Theresa pulled open the door.
“Hi Sis,” gushed Dawn, the way that she did, charging into the living room.
“What’s got you so excited?” asked Theresa. She immediately regretted the question when she saw the expression of insane determination on her sister’s face. This could mean only one thing, Theresa knew.
“I’ve got the perfect guy for you, Te,” Dawn said without preamble. “He’s an actuary, Works at the same firm I do. Makes good money, has one little girl, four-years-old, I think…”
But Theresa was already shaking her head no. “I told you, I’m not ready to date yet,” she said.
“Baby, you and Mike split up more than two years ago,” said Dawn insistently. “You’ve got to get out there and meet people. Date, go out, fool around. He’s a grad of CU, like me, but he was three years ahead of me.”
“Easy for you to say,” replied Theresa, though she knew her sister had a point. Although Mike was out of her life for good, forever, the emotional turmoil lingered, like a bad cold.
“His name’s Doug,” Dawn continued. “He’s free Saturday.” But Theresa was again shaking her head no. “C’mon, Sis, he’s cute,” added Dawn.
“But, that’s the afternoon of your party,” said Theresa.
“So, Doug will pick you up at, say, one, and bring you by. And if there’s zero chemistry between the two of you, then you can kick him to the curb and sleep over and Robert will take you home on Sunday,” she said, referencing her own husband. “Come over, unwind, get loaded.”
“What does he know about me…and Mike?” inquired Theresa cautiously.
Detecting a breach in the dam, Dawn pounced. “Only that you were once married, it ended in divorce, and you’re on the scent.”
“Dawn!”
“Kidding.” Dawn smiled her pixieish smile.
“Does….Doug….even know what I look like?” asked the younger sister. This was a fatuous question, as Theresa had always been the prettiest girl in her class.
“Yes, I showed him a photo and Doug knows you’re profoundly homely,” replied Dawn with a straight face. “He’s interested anyway.” Dawn smiled her gamine smile again. “Should I tell Doug okay and give him your number?”
Finally relenting, Theresa smiled and said, “Okay.”
. . . . .
“Oh, she’s beautiful,” said Theresa, fawning over a photo of Jewel, Doug’s daughter.
“Thanks,” he said, with a smile as big as the Rockies, which were just outside the window, in the distance. “She started school just two weeks ago,” he added.
“You mean pre-school?” asked Theresa. “Dawn said she was only four.”
“She just turned five,” said Doug proudly. “Smartest one in her class, too,” he boasted.
“I’ll bet.” Theresa grinned at his enthusiasm. “Where’s her mother?” she asked, then immediately regretted it. Asking questions only invited queries from the other party, and she was not ready to confide in strangers.
“I’m sorry for asking, Doug,” Theresa said contritely.
Doug instantly relaxed. “That’s alright, it’s a situation that Jewel and I confront every day. It’s only natural you’d ask.”
Theresa smiled her thanks at his understanding. “Do you want another beer?” she asked.
“No, thanks. I don’t usually drink more than one when I drive.”
Theresa thought this a judicious philosophy, quite at variance from the policy of her ex-. “Do you want to head on over to Dawn and Robert’s, then? she asked.
Dawn’s Labor Day bash was in full swing. As the first informal get together of the fall, it was the last of the seasonal BBQs in which the neighborhood regularly indulged. Theresa and Mike had been reliable frequenters of the parties, but this was just the second such gathering that Theresa had attended since the divorce. And she wouldn’t be here tonight, unless Dawn had insisted. But, she felt comfortable with Doug — so far.
. . . . .
“Hey Mike,” called out Joey, one of his myriad jock friends, all musclebound steroid freaks, to Theresa’s mind. “Go out for a long one.” Having stripped to the waist to reveal his striking, almost sculpted physique, Mike ran thirty yards across the yard and snatched the football effortlessly from the air. Returning the ball to the passer, Mike paused to take up a Big Boy can of beer and drain it in one draught.
Theresa frowned thoughtfully. She knew that Mike would insist on driving them home and, although they were only a mile distant from their residence, he had been consuming an untoward quantity of alcohol. She also knew better than to bring the subject up. ‘Roid rage wasn’t pretty, as the welts on her torso revealed. Mike was always careful to strike her where it didn’t show, she thought dully. And he always apologized profusely afterwards and guaranteed it would never happen again. Time would come, Theresa thought, when his mood swings and proclivity for violence would kill her — or somebody else.
“Men,” scoffed Cindy, Joey’s wife, sitting at a redwood picnic table next to Theresa. “Just a bunch of kids. We’ve been out of high school for nearly ten years and they still carry on so.” She tipped her bottle of beer and sipped. By her slurred words, Theresa could tell that Cindy was drunk.
“I suppose there’s no harm in it,” said Theresa a little defensively. Mike had been a standout athlete in school and was set for a full-ride scholarship to university when his knee blew out. He had never quite gotten over the disappointment at missing his big chance. Following high school, he had taken a job with his father, operating a backhoe. Profitable work, she thought, but he never seemed to be satisfied with his life. A couple of years ago, Mike had taken up weight-training with Cindy’s husband and several other men, all former athletes.
“No harm in it?” cried Cindy. “That gym candy iis tearing Joey to pieces. The other day, he was pumping iron when our youngest walked into our gym and Joey lost it. He hurled the barbell — 200 pounds — at Sheila. Didn’t come anywhere near hitting her, of course, and he was just trying to scare her, to show his displeasure,” she said slowly, lingering thoughtfully on the final word. “But shit, Te. What if he hadn’t been in control? He could kill someone! Does Mike ever behave like that?” she wanted to know.
“No,” replied Theresa, shaking her head. “Never.”
. . . . .
Theresa and Doug drifted through the large backyard which was Dawn’s venue of choice for giving parties in the warm months.
“Want a drink?” asked Doug.
“I thought you didn’t drink when you drove,” Theresa reminded him.
“That doesn’t mean that you can’t enjoy yourself, cut loose a little. Besides, you know these people, I only know Robert and Dawn — and you, now,” he said with a warm smile. “Beer?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “I’m good.”
The air was redolent with the savory aromas of sizzling burgers and brats and roasting BBQ. Theresa licked her lips. She was starved. She would just have to wait, as Robert always made a big production of announcing the readiness of the food. Theresa had to hand it to her brother-in-law: he could be a bit of a wiener at times, but he was one hell of a cook.
“Who’s the dude?” asked Joey — Mike’s old friend from before the divorce — in a hoarse voice.
“I’m Doug Carpenter; who’re you?” came back Doug aggressively, sticking his hand out for the other man to shake.
Taken back by Doug’s sharp tone, Joey gripped Doug’s hand and shook. “I’m Joey. Pleased to meet you,” he murmured, almost to himself. Then he drifted away, looking back several times at the man that Mike’s woman had taken up with.
There were several other of Theresa and Mike’s old friends at the BBQ, and they all gave Doug the proprietary once over. Theresa sighed and took it in her stride.
. . . . .
The phone call from Mike had frightened Theresa. She used her key to gain entrance to Mike’s flat. He had insisted that she have it, in case she ever needed anything. In the ten months since the divorce, she had never used it — till now. As she let herself in, she heard a loud thumping against the walls of the adjacent room — Mike’s bedroom. She hurried forward.
There she found her ex-husband, pounding with his huge fists against the walls of the bedroom. Plaster and lath rained down onto the carpeted floor. So preoccupied was he with destroying his home, that Mike took no notice of Theresa. Lifting her arms helplessly, she rushed forward and placed her hands on his massive shoulders.
“Mike, honey, stop it. Stop it, baby, what are you doing?”
Finally noting the presence of another, Mike halted. His hands were scuffed and bloody. “Te?” he said uncertainly. He was breathing heavily.
“Right here, baby,” she said, cossetting him. Suddenly he began to weep. Theresa was aghast. In their nearly ten years together, she had never seen her husband cry. “What can I do for you, baby?” she implored. He continued to sob. “What happened tonight?” she asked.
“I picked this chick up at Rando’s,” he said, referencing a bar frequented by those in the construction trades. Theresa stiffened a little. Hearing her ex- talk about picking up another woman was still jarring to her, even though they had not shared a bed in nearly a year. But she quickly put her own distress aside to help the man that she still cared about.
“What happened?” she asked woodenly.
“We held an arm wrestling contest, to see who would break this bitch, and I won,” he said with a discordant aura of pride. He looked at Theresa expectantly.
“I knew you would,” she said automatically, the way she knew he expected her to.
“So we grab a couple ‘a six packs and come over here,” he went on, “and I…I tried to fuck her, but I couldn’t!” He blubbered anew. Theresa saw with alarm the heavy acne scars over his bare shoulders.
Rampant acne and sexual impotence were symptoms of steroid use that were very familiar to Theresa, although Mike had had little problem, when he cut back some. She observed his gigantic muscles and knew that he had probably been blending again, or taking steroids with other, equally perilous drugs. She stared at him and realized, not for the first time, that Mike’s use had gotten out of control. It was his ‘roid rage and the fear she lived with which had spelled the end to their marriage and now it was taking him off a very steep cliff. She had to talk him down.
“It was probably all her fault,” Theresa told him. He gazed at her with glassy eyes. What had he been ingesting? she wondered wildly.
“Yeah?” he asked hopefully.
“She just didn’t have it, is all, baby,” she said, compounding one lie with another. God, she thought, he could hurt himself. Suddenly Mike was too quiet. She peered at him.
“Let’s do it, Te,” he said drunkenly, pulling down his shorts to reveal his flaccid manhood. She could smell the stale beer on his breath. The cannabis rankled her nose.
Theresa winced. This wasn’t what she’d bargained on. “Let’s clean up this room first, Mike,” she coaxed, reaching to move a chunk of plaster from the mattress.
‘No!” he roared, pushing her back on the mattress and pinning her arms.
“Mike,” she yelped, “I….”
“Take it like a woman, or I’ll take it like a man!” he shouted, quoting a line from one of his favorite porn flicks. Swiftly disrobing her, he lunged forward.
Theresa just lay there, bowing to the inevitable, when Mike pulled himself off her and said hoarsely, “I can’t do it again! Oh, God, Oh…” and like a bolt he ran from the room. Desperately, Theresa pulled up her jeans and ran to the bedroom door, only to recoil at the deafening sound of a gunshot.
. . . . .
Throughout the long afternoon and past the dazzling sunset, Theresa and her date talked of myriad things, but Doug never once made an inquiry into the whereabouts of Theresa’s missing husband or how their marriage ended. She had given him the perfect opportunity with her query as to where Jewel’s mother was. Perhaps he was just being more circumspect that Theresa. At length, she had to ask him.
“Doug,” she slurred, a little tipsy from all the beer, “can I ask you an extremely personal question.”
“Yes,” he replied immediately, as if expecting the query. As if the whole day had been a preamble to her question.
“How did your wife die?”
“Paula died of an accidental overdose,” he told her. She felt the icy chill of contrition plummet the length of her spine.
“Oh, forgive me, I…”
“Like I said, Theresa, it’s only natural you’d wonder.”
“I…my..Mike…”
“I know,” he said. “Dawn and Robert explained how you were still very sensitive about his passing.”
“They did?” she asked, wondering if she had been set up.
“I told them that I’d be super careful at how we discussed our ex-spouses. You see, it’s rather unfair because they told me all about you and you know very little about me. You might say that I possessed inside information that you didn’t.” Then unexpectedly, he said, “I’d like to see you again, if that’s okay.”
Theresa was utterly silent for a long moment, and then looked up into his face. “Yes, yes, I think I’d like that.” After a moment, feeling more relaxed now, she added mockingly, “So Dawn and Robert told you all about me, did they?”
“There’s one thing they did leave out,” he admitted.
She looked up. “And what’s that?” she asked winsomely.
“They neglected to tell me,” he replied with a straight face, “how profoundly homely you are.”
THE DANCE: NANCY
I said I wouldn’t dance with you:
Your hair’s too blonde, your eyes too blue.
A loaded gun and fully cocked,
dynamite cap set to go off.
I swore I wouldn’t dance with you.
She’s too proud of humility.
Her giant modesty towers from her knees.
She’s so proud of humility, the giant Modesty towers from her knees.
Even us healthy ones she treats like disease.
I said I wouldn’t dance with you.
Your arms, I knew, would hold like glue.
No neon ever hijacked us,
I refused to be target practice.
I knew I’d never dance with you.
Oversharp in her ignorance, she’s
indisputably a genius between the knees.
Oversharp in her ignorance, undeniably she’s a genius between her knees.
The peacock preens, pretending that no one sees.
I said I wouldn’t dance with you:
The night’s too young, too bright’s the view.
But that bandit moon lit the fuse,
and insurgent night made the news,
though I’d sad I’d never dance with you,
dancing in the moon
light with Nancy and kissing her good
Night
comes quickly this time of year
and icily as well: the wind
bites nicely and to the quick--
oh these thoughts! are dancing nicely
through the wind kissing the memory
somehow – I can hear the
memory embers
hisssing in the wind (is sharp
this time of year) like java in the night
comes dark and sharp and bitter.
Spring it was or was it fall? (no matter)
(no matter at all the season) the reason
I recall at all is Nancy her name
whispers in the moon light, or
is it the night
wind that’s light
ir was it the fall --
-- no matter --
it was time and she was mine and we were
hours until the dawn (comes quickly, this time)
and I must go on
I wanted to go on, to bound
fast as the hound Wind
and as free too but I was bound too fast to the ground
and ground too far down and
ground far too fine too but I danced on
with Nancy till I was out of time
and out of mind (but I must go on for now)
I dance with my mind I dance
with the wind and the night and the ice and
but where is the Nancy?
I dance with memory and death and death and memory
and now the dancing’s through, for
every spring one makes, a fall’s not far behind--
and life and mind and bight and wind
go quickly this year of time and mightily as well
and all matter
(but no matter)
though I promised never to dance with you.
NYUN
"When birds
lose their plumes
in the sand,
they can't
glue balloons
to their hands.
They can't fly
so they die."
The years are like so many sweet girls.
They cuddle against the navel in the middle of the night.
They change O they challenge the body
with pain with delight.
But though the waist is gone, its shadow yet remains.
Is this what we needed?
To lie in fields that we seeded
with the sperm of you/and/me?
My skin is a wrinkledup grocery sack,
all the goodies unpacked and eaten long ago.
My erection turned into slush yesterday,
my eyeballs into snow.
But though the face is gone, the halo yet remains.
All the stones unheeded... The skies... The fields....
Back have kneaded into worms, my butterflies.
And the years. And the years: just like the sweet young girls!
Hanging in memory like leather kites,
gaudy garish stabbing neon lights
to mark the passing of fond remembered rites.
But though the voice is gone, its echo yet remains.
Is this what we needed?
To die in fields which receded with the germs of yesterday?
(A toast: Time is a precious necklace bequested upon your birth. As time's beneficiary, you must realize its worth. Though age encircles your throat with its usual yearly pearl, the worth rests in the wearer and not within the jewel.)
The Duane you loved is gone:
There's a Stranger in his skin.
The old duane was younger,
and the new one's bones are thin.
Former laughs reform as coughs.
The change cloud-to-clod begins.
"When birds lose their plumes in the sand,
they can't glue balloons to their hands.
They can't fly so they die."
[nyun is a Korean homonym that means years or floozies]
THE OBSCURITY OF HEAVEN
The bomb is in the temple, the eraser on the page.
Our timid mirrors reflect but they never take a step.
A cancer’s in the nipple, spectators usurp the stage.
We mourn heaven: “It’s obscured, so we cannot know its worth.’
And we moan that circumstance proves to be our best defense.
Clouds are integral as stars in its measurement from Earth.
Our judgment misjudges us and aborts our renaissance.
We can reject starvation without accepting poison.
The body discharges pus while mitigating relapse.
Hunkering down in our forts is desperate strategy.
To drive the enemy back we must go upon attack.
Garret verse, a poet’s corpse that has no utility.
EVANGELIST
The arch science of religion
taught me to carry lips of mercury.
Now I have a hoard.
I wore a heartfelt tongue of stone
while a student of the science of love
and I learned to starve.
THIS INDIFFERENT ETERNITY
There is not enough dark
though the night is unmooned.
The stars are toomanyed,
skyfull prickly pennies
instead of ebonstones.
And thus my mood is mocked.
Cosmos ignores despair
and unechoes my cries.
Depression is the stone
that I must bear alone,
its whole weight in my thighs.
Reflections are unmirrored.
Psalm 16:1-2 (NIV)-Keep me safe, my God, for in you I take refuge. I say to the LORD, “You are my Lord; apart from you I have no good thing.” I say.
It was 1978, when I was dying of a cocaine overdose. It was not my intention to die that night in this manner. It was the night before the birth of Jesus Christ. I have had many encounters with death in my neighborhood. During my childhood, death touched others but not me. My encounter was to come years later. This Christmas Eve, it was a personal encounter. It had been so many dying in difficult situations. It would not serve my purpose to recall those experiences now. What I do remember is that Christmas Eve when I was twenty-one. I lived above the red-light district a few blocks for Dupont Circle where men were in search of prostitutes. I was not looking for a prostitute. Instead, I was trying to get away from the inner-city life. It was not by a gunshot wound or stabbing by a knife that brought me horror this night.
Now death was touching me, reaching for me. The snowflakes danced outside my window. It reminded me of my younger years. Snowflakes would land on my tongue. It was my last memory of childhood before it all went bad. Now, for a split second, there was peace and light that would turn into darkness. I crawled from my bed to the floor in search of air. I crawled back into the bed in search of air. My chest was as if it was an explosion inside of me. The room began to fade into black, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. Fear moved into my mind and body. The fear of dying into a blackhole.
I had a friend in my childhood for many years. We walked the inner-city streets together. Walking in alleys to avoid the violence and the people associated with it. My introduction to Jesus was by my foster mother Dee. She sang hymns while listening to the AM radio station playing gospel music. Her flower dresses didn't hide her wounds from diabetes. Her arthritic fingers brought her pain. She had been washing clothes for many winters. The old, rusted ringer washing machine, on the porch floor covered with snow. I would listen to hear while she spoke about Jesus. Day and night Jesus was what she knew about. Fallen asleep still hymning to Jesus. All this talk about God and Jesus left me wondering who Jesús was? In addition, who was God, and what did he know? In my mind, I questioned what He knew? Maybe he knew that I was afraid living in that neighborhood? Maybe he knew I wanted to be with him? Noise and gunfire and endless screams. Where was this Jesus Dee talked about so much?
Amidst all this chaos and turmoil there were moments of peace and quiet within me. My aunt Lucille took me to Holy Redeemer Catholic church for morning mass each day. I was eleven and found a different relationship with Jesus. Sitting in the pew in an empty church. The light of the votive candles in red, blue, and yellow colorful glasses. The altar candle flame flicked. There was tranquility now. It was so peaceful sitting there before having to go back into the war zone. However, this sense of peace stayed with me. Until, Christmas night at twenty-one. The war returned for me. I hadn't escaped. I felt the terror of all those years coming to life. A confused mind and a heart racing. Where was Jesus who had walked with me?
I wanted Jesus, I needed Jesus, I pleaded with Jesus. Oh, that eternal suffering like in childhood. It was frightening without my friend. Dying without my friend. However, leaving the church after praying it was different. There was a sense of serenity which evaporated slowly. It slowly creeped into my existence in this moment of crawling on the floor. My existence began to slip away. It had all returned and I had not escaped. I wanted to escape the streets and not die in childhood. However, I was dying in a rooming house alone. My body would be found and taken to the morgue. I had watched children taken that final ride in that black car as the crowd watched. All those sleepless nights back then. Those black cars with the certain closed. I wanted this Jesus Dee spoke about. I wanted God to know I wasn't ready to die back then and not now.
"Please, God Save me" was my prayer. Finally, Christmas morning snowflakes gently fell. Inside my mind and emotions, I was feeling disoriented, which seemed to last for years. Nothing made sense. I wasn't sure if I had survived. I prayed to God to stay with me. I wanted my friend. I wanted Jesus. The night of the demons had passed. Salvation and Redemption came to me. A promise my promise to follow Jesus Christ. My life now has meaning and purpose unlike that Christmas Eve. It has taken forty-five years to understand what Dee always knew and I knew the Jesus Dee always talked about.
Dear Heavenly Father, you did not forsake me. My night of despair you loved me. My heart belongs in your sanctuary where there is peace. Amen.
Desire
Don't come near me, out of my mind
I will not reveal my heart to you.
You see, you come to my heart,
I still can't go to you.
A bird fell from the sky on my shoulder,
You are the dark nights that haunt me.
Just a dream in your mind,
One day you will hurt your heart.
The winds slap my face,
If you miss me, don't come near me.
Heartbreak is something that
I still remember the feelings!
Lola Hotamova is from the Samarkand region, Urgut district, Kenagas neighborhood. She is a 1st year student of Tashkent International University of Financial Management and Technologies
Faculty of Uzbek language and literature
Sohibjamol, leech, savlatim,
Dear Sadarayhon Sarvikomat,
Suluv, Sara, you are my happiness,
Share my happiness, mother!
Mohipaykar, mohi footless,
Mehridarya is also kind,
Without basil, mint, basil,
Share my happiness, mother!
Diloromu - cheerful, cheerful,
Dilbar, dilkash, teacher teacher,
You are a dealer, you are a dealer,
Share my happiness, mother!
Rahmiddinova Mushtariy, 7th grade student of the 10th general secondary school of Gulistan district, Syrdarya region.
i should
i take part in an online discussion
and know i should stay with it
as it could assist me with something
but i leave the chat and go outside
under the full moon
and watch bats flying high in the sky
my grape vine is spreading
across the neighbour’s fence
into all their trees
and i should do something about it
but i don’t as i like its rapid climb
and the visual chaos it delivers
i need a new car urgently
so on the way back from the city
i stop at a car yard i’m told is ok
and almost go in there
but instead i drive off in my old car
singing a song above all the rattles
my passport has expired
and lately i’ve been thinking of travel
so i look up renewing information
as i should get this sorted out
but i don’t read the renewal website
as there are way too many words
as i walk towards the water
a man tells me a shark was just seen
i thank him for the information
and know i should not swim here
but i wade into the ocean anyway
and swim out deeper than usual
a fabulous publisher contacts me
offering to publish my next poetry book
i am excited by the opportunity
and know i should go for it
but the idea of a book launch is daunting
so i refuse and suggest we do it later
i should answer text messages
pay unpaid bills
and respond to emails
but instead i sit under a friendly tree
and start writing a poem
about everything i should do
Stephen House has won many awards and nominations as a poet, playwright, and actor. He’s been commissioned often, and had 20 plays produced, with many published by Australian Plays Transform. He’s received several international literature residencies from The Australia Council for the Arts, and an Asialink India literature residency. He’s had two chapbooks published by ICOE Press Australia: ‘real and unreal’ poetry and ‘The Ajoona Guest House’ monologue. His poetry is published often. His next book drops soon. He has performed his acclaimed monologues widely. Stephen’s play, ‘Johnny Chico’ ran in Spain for four years.
