Poetry from Lauren Ainslie

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The Thoughts Behind My Name

Lauren.

Soft, smile.

Lauren. Exotic.

Strong Woman. New Woman. Ready Woman.

Grow to be happy, Strive to be unique, my daughter. Aim to

Strike

Fear in your enemies.

Use your crinkle-eye smile, to love your friends

Your button nose, to breathe the scent of life; Lavender-Roma Tomato.

Use your curious fingertips to trace the bark of a Manzanita bush, to stroke the kaleidoscope fur of a cat, to caress the iridescent fantasia of an abalone shell.

My Buddha Baby, grow.

Mischievous smile, slow glance.

Bedroom eyes.

Yes, you are a

Lauren.

 

Taste your childhood, too early to preserve, the details fading but the aurora still

sweet and warm in your mind.

A starchy Ube ice cream, dappled with laughter and briny tears.

This name is waiting, a roseate orchid blooming behind your heart.

 

Olde English.

Lauren Faye. You are a scripture in waiting, my darling.

Warmed honey rolling off a silver spoon.

The Crown of the celestial sky.

My Lauren Faye D. Ainslie, my fragrant Earl Grey tea.

There has never been a Lauren in the family before.

I give Lauren to my Buddha Baby, and she will go

Wherever there is sunlight.

Write your scripture in the sunlight, my darling,

Write your scripture, Lauren Faye.

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Elizabeth Hughes’ Book Periscope

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Eve Blohm’s Four Seasons
blohmfourseasons
Four Seasons is a collection of short stories, some that read like poetry and words of wisdom and encouragement. I love the advice she gives at the end of the first one, “The Bear and Wolf, the Owl has the Last 9/22/2016.’ They are definitely words of wisdom I wish I heard years ago, and will heed from this day forth. A couple of others I particularly liked very much are “Gray’s Life Drama” and “Bouquet of Love.” Although, all of them are very good. I highly recommend Four Seasons by Eve J. Blohm. This would be a great gift for someone who loves to read.
Lesley Graham’s Star Warrior
Star Warrior is a sci-fi novel that has plenty of action and adventure to keep your adrenaline going full speed until the very end. It will keep the reader on the edge of your seat and keep the pages turning throughout the whole book. Jack Quantum was a Star Warrior that would keep other Star vessels and space craft safe from pirates and any other unscrupulous criminals in the Star System. The Star Warriors would help the less wealthy people as the police force would mainly keep the wealthy safe and many of them had shady practices. Due to a horrific accident on a Star Warrior thunder turkey Jack Quantum becomes an employee on a Star Trader Ship. Just the mention of a Star Warrior on any vessel would be enough to keep most of the criminals away. This is a fast paced, action packed novel and must have for the sci-fi fan. I very highly recommend Star Warrior by J. Lesley Graham.
The Adventures Of Toby Bear by Kim Lake-Seibert
The Adventures of Toby Bear is a true story in the form of a children’s book. The illustrations are truly delightful as is the story. Toby Bear is the pet and loving companion of Little Kimmy. They were very close and Toby Bear knew when Little Kimmy was very happy and also comforted her when she was sad or ill. Toby Bear seemed to know just what Little Kimmy needed to make her happy. This being a true story makes this book an even more special children’s picture book. Small children delight at the story of the lovable Toby Bear and will love the wonderful illustrations. This would make an excellent give for any child and also a wonderful gift for a preschool or kindergarten or day care. Pick up a copy today and enjoy! I very highly recommend The Adventures of Toby Bear by Kim Lake-Seibert.

Poetry from J.J. Campbell

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just the right amount of alcohol

sometimes when i
have had just the
right amount of
alcohol

i can picture myself
on my grandmother’s
bathroom floor

my cousin putting
her nipple in my
mouth and telling
me to suck on it

fast forward a quarter
century plus a few
years and there’s a
knock on the door

there’s the same
cousin with two
magazines sent to
the wrong house

the same smile that
makes my skin crawl

as i lock the door back

i realize i was never
meant to be anything
more than a broken
soul

i trusted that the years
would change all this

time is the knife firmly
planted in my back

one of these days i’ll
stop enjoying the pain

cremated and flushed

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Poetry from Vijay Nair

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Whore Poets

 

Poets we had against war

Poised in voice a roared lion

Polecats they fumigated rulers

Poker- faced all in funeral parlour

Poets that genre left a vacuum

Whore poets a new genre,

her Vagina a maze into womb

in Rotten eggs of her publisher

His heavy stroke vying into

Her soft surface of vulva

Fame of odium wafting

the Heavy unpleasant odour

An emetic; a cause of vomiting

From printer her copies

all Waffles her vacuous !!!!

 

©-Vijay P Nair -2017

Short story by Sheryl Bize-Boutte

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MADELINE AND ME

“Stop it! Stop it!” Madeline screamed as the kids on the Whittier Elementary school playground hurled whatever they could find on the ground at her.  Sticks, rocks, dirt, even discarded remnants of lunches were launched toward Madeline as the evil chorus shouted, “Fat Mad!’ Mad, Fat!”  “Mad” was short for Madeline and “fat “was because, well, she was bigger than the rest of us and those kids were mean.

Madeline ducked and dodged as best she could, screaming all the while. “My hair is clean!” she cried, as she covered her head with her hands in an attempt to protect her gleaming blond hair from the onslaught of garbage landing on her from head to shoes. That blond hair of hers was her crowning glory. For her, it neutralized her large body type and gave her a modicum of self-esteem.  And for Madeline, the big white girl, and me, the skinny high yellow bookworm, self-esteem was often hard to find.

Madeline was not just a white girl standing in the middle of the 1960’s white flight, she was the only white girl left at my school.  All of the other white kids and their families who were in the neighborhood when my family and I arrived in 1960 had moved away. On the schoolyard, as in the world, we had become acutely aware of our differences, and the torture that could sometimes result. We had also arrived at an age where how we chose to handle differences would be revealed. As fifth graders we did not process much beyond influences from parents, teachers, friends and television. When those influences combined with where we were at the time, we often just fell into the actions that made us fit in with the others.  It felt so good to fit in and so lonely to be an outlier, we were all vulnerable to meanness at one point or another. And those of us who were different, in varying ways, tended to cling to each other, just to get through the times we were forced to leave our sometimes viewed as odd comfort zones and step foot on the scary asphalt yard with the others.

United in the third grade by our differences to the accepted norms, Madeline and I were solid best friends. We were the only friends we had, and on that day, on that schoolyard, it was my duty to come to her defense. Even though I was thinking this, I still waited a tick for the adult yard monitors to intervene, but when I looked over at them, they were pointing and laughing at the attack along with the others. As I scanned the crowd it became clear that the adults who were supposed to protect us were having a good time watching Madeline’s anguish. As more joined the sideshow, those who had already used their physical weapons, added their voices to the verbal insults, while others began to gather just to join in the “fun.” After all, nothing bad could be happening since the adults were participating.  No nothing bad.  Just the torturing of Madeline.

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Travelogues from Sanjay Bheenuck

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My host slammed his bottle of Guinness export down on the table. Its viscous body swayed. He took a long drag from a cigarette and directed the exhale at a ceiling fan. The opium damaged Indian tapped his fingers on the table thinking. His eyes shot upward, observing the smoke being churned by the fan. I looked at him as if expecting a response, but he continued to gaze at the fan and none came.  I peered through the thin layer of smoke and made my move on the chessboard in front of me. A broad yet friendly looking American took in my move, resting his hands on the table to consider its consequences. Our host spoke.

‘I can’t get weed, but maybe Opium?’ I shook my head. The American made his move on the chessboard. I considered my options. The host responded to a hum on his phone, then a buzz from the front door. The door creaked and opened, a broad, tattooed, Chinese man entered the room, and casually began counting out large wads of money on the table I was seated at. He discussed recovering gambling winnings in English to our Indian host, who then made a hand gesture, the two of them promptly switched to a quiet conversation in Chinese.

I got up, walked to the fridge, and took out a beer. I gestured to the American who nodded, I took out a second for him. I sat back down at the table and opened the two beers. I took a sip, the beer was cool and satisfying in the pulsing midday heat.

The daytime activity of Melaka could be heard washing in through the glassless windows. A complex mix of languages engaging in a variety of trade and business.  A cacophony of vehicles, new, old and very old, and of course the occasional tourist.

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Short story from Vandini Sharma

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Him and Her

With the sunrise and call for azan each morning, Alia set out with her milk pail. She didn’t walk four miles to the shepherd anymore.

Nobody knew her secret.

Maybe Iqbal did. He squabbled that she didn’t do his Maths homework anymore.

She went townwards, where a crystal river threaded beside her path, down the darkened mountainside. Orbs of faint light would begin to tear patches and glow through the dark of her hometown’s heavens.

She came on his street.

A knock on her teacher’s shuttered door let her slip inside, and her pail was poured to brink with the milk can kept inside.

Thus, she was free of her whereabouts for another hour.

Then he smiled or made a pun, if she looked too frightened.

As Alia hurtled from home, each morning, she felt like her pulse was threatening to burst through her chest. Her relief thawed the icy fear, only once she was inside. Once Alia saw his good humoured face, she could do it. Breathe out the danger.

Nobody knew about the studying either.

The books.

In this valley, it wouldn’t be allowed.

There was an outhouse in his backyard. A closet sized room, that smelled of books. One kerosene lamp hung down a wire. He would reach into his closet, fingers grasping through the stacks of books, and pull out her copy.

 

There was a rug too.

A rectangular table with peeling paint and an underside with scrawled curse words and symbols, from the boys he taught in evening. But for Alia, it was the closet that held the magic.

You see, it made candied almonds and nuts appear, whenever she was particularly good.

So they’d sit down and begin. When the sums got too hard, the laughter and jokes at each other’s expense helped.

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