Some Postwoman Poems Today the post- woman brought me the riddle of the Sphinx. I walked out to get it; but on the way back tripped on the packing tape which had come unwrapped in transit & had to crawl like a baby the rest of the way. The ankle wasn't broken, just sprained; but I'm using a walking stick to get around for the next few days. Feeling fine otherwise. Now what was that question again? * Today the post- woman brought me a satellite navigation system with Bob Dylan doing the voice- overs. Worked fine until we hit Highway 61. Then it stopped giving directions & started asking me "where do I want the killings done?" * Today the post- woman brought me a sacrificial pig. Looks as if lamb, like most red meat these days, is too expen- sive to be used as anything more than metaphor. * Today the post- woman brought me the shade of Dylan Thomas who stood in the hallway & kept on farting. Now I know what was meant by that "when I was a windy boy" thing even though he got the tense wrong. * Today the post- woman brought me a bridge. I'm waiting for my ship to come in so I can open it.
Poetry from Dr. Prasana Kumar
VOICE OF SILENCE! Silence has a voice; listen to it Do go down the memory lane My time still stands erect there Silent are my awkward moments My silent words I face everyday So much pain and agony dominate The sea water keeps dead silent Million hidden silences beneath There is a silent rise in every fall Listen to utter silence sometimes. THINGS REMAIN UNREAD! You tread this way everyday I often meet you on your way In silence we speak together Feelings said but a few unsaid With a little shyness in your eyes And cherubic smile on your lips Some haughtiness in loving ire The butterfly and flower can't play You must have penned those thoughts Might have torn them apart many a time You're bashful in front of your friends Things of two hearts remain unread. WHEN I BREATHE! When I breathe none but you realize Every moment even if it is far away You're mine ; can't think otherwise I know not how the moments 'll pass Miserable me ; life sans you all void I've come to the world for you only I'm leaving the whole world for you Clouds in the sky connect the door There is you in the sunny shade rains In the recommendations of the Lord Crazy me, crave to live & EDGES OF MY MIND! How to tell you what you are to me We'll walk together to cross all hurdles I 've come to you and I find myself lost Edges of mind 've had penalty of love Me standing alone in the world though All my nights are restless to see you If I don't see you ever,I 'll be nowhere My destination finds myself at yours Many miles I 've covered to fetch you How to tell you what you mean to me. Dr. Prasana Kumar Dalai (DOB 07/06/1973) is a passionate Indian Author-cum-poet while a tremendous lecturer of English by profession in the Ganjam district of Odisha.He is an accomplished source of inspiration for young generation of India .His free verse on Romantic and melancholic poems appreciated by everyone. He belongs to a small typical village Nandiagada of Ganjam District,the state of Odisha.After schooling he studied intermediate and Graduated In Kabisurjya Baladev Vigyan Mahavidyalaya then M A in English from Berhampur University PhD in language and literature and D.Litt from Colombian poetic house from South America.He promotes his specific writings around the world literature and trades with multiple stems that are related to current issues based on his observation and experiences that needs urgent attention.He is an award winning writer who has achieved various laurels from the circle of writing worldwide.His free verse poems not only inspires young readers but also the ready of current time.His poetic symbol is right now inspiring others, some of which are appreciated by laurels of India and across the world. Many of his poems been translated in different Indian languages and got global appreciation. Lots of well wishes for his upcoming writings and success in future.He is an award winning poet author of many best seller books.Recently he is awarded Rabindra nath Tagore and Gujarat Sahitya Academy for the year 2022 from Motivational Strips . A gold medal from world union of poets France & winner of The Rahim Karim world literary prize 2023.The government of Odisha Higher Education Department appointed him as a president to Governing body of Padmashree Dr Ghanashyam Mishra Sanskrit Degree College, Kabisurjyanagar. Winner of " HYPERPOEM " GUNIESS WORLD RECORD 2023. Recently he was awarded from SABDA literary Festival at Assam.
Poetry from Stephen Jarrell Williams
"How Long Till..." How long do we hide ourselves? Do we ever come out in the open? Or are we just shades in our own prison light? I long for some truth in self, don't you? But with all my years learning to be more than I am, is there any way out? Do I become a boneless bore? Can I stretch a few rubber bands before they pop? Gads, this is ridiculous. I think I'll quit for now. See you tomorrow when I run for president. "The Dream Keeper" Today I step out to run the real race. I hate weasels with egos Why can't people live without telling lies? I loved the first girl I ever kissed. I know I was too young to think of the future. But are dreams really only dreams? "It's Me Again" One last song under the full moon... She was all I ever wanted. More than I deserved. But isn't that how it is? At least in the beginning?
Poetry from Kristy Raines
Only Time Will Tell Time is nothing that can be touched It can only measure how long love lasts Love can not be measured by a watch on a chain For it is timeless and is a feeling that lives or dies My love for you was born in my heart like a child Painful at times but grew into something beautiful Your gentleness never fails under any circumstance And only you understand what this heart needed I will hold your hand through every turn in life from this moment in time to the next For as long as the watch on the chain keeps ticking Like the beats of our hearts, only time will tell how long you should wait for me… Things Two Hearts Left Unread We walk the same road every day You walking one way and I another We need rarely to ever speak when we pass because we can read each other’s looks What is never said speaks the loudest We know what is there, and what is not You poke at me and I play along I get silent and make you wonder if I am mad We play this wicked game but laugh under our breaths But we do complement each other like the butterfly and flower I have written these feelings down many times Although, many times have I had to rewrite them I need not brag to any friends but keep quiet about things that two hearts left unread. I Will Now Tell You I always want to be the blooming flower of the glittering touch within your dreams Like an illuminating fairy that enters the forest of your thoughts Do not be bothered by the poems that now vanish because beautiful thoughts of hope have now replaced your hopeless hopes of sadness which used to plague you Your river of love now flows in rhythm with mine as joyous waves become like a fierce storm of passion between us The hue of my form is like the blood that pumps through my veins which I now use to write our eternal story of love. The secretive story of two lovers forever tied together by fate. Kristy Raines was born in Oakland, CA, USA. She is a poet, writer, author and advocate. She has five books getting ready to publish soon, one with a prominent poet from India which will launch hopefully soon called, "I Cross my Heart from East to West", two fantasy books of her own called, "Rings, Things and Butterfly Wings" and "Princess and The Lion", an anthology of poems in English, "The Passion Within Me" and her autobiography called "My Very Anomalous Life." Kristy has received many literary awards for her unique style of writing.
Poetry from Alan Catlin
“Things Unintelligible but Understood”: lines from Wallace Stevens, a found poem Consider the odd morphology of regret Note the decline of music The grapes are here and now Starry voluptuary will be born At least the number of people may there be fixed There is no such thing as innocence in autumn Machine within machine within machine The cabinet of a man gone mad No man shall see the end Naturalized: Lines from Hala Alyan’s, The Moon Turns Back: a found poem He plays devil’s advocate. May father plays soccer. In dreams I am in Nevada. Half-life in exile. I’m not your side bitch. Those fucking K-Mart towels when did we give them away? I loved them. Pink as slaughter. You can’t put a corpse back together again. I type all the metaphors I can. I can’t keep pretending to love. Patti Smith Photo Album #1 Mundane objects imbued with deep, personal meaning: Bolano’s writing chair, Hesse’s decrepit writing machine, Virginia Woolf’s tarnished walking stick, Jim Carroll’s narrow, single bed, Fred Smith’s recovered childhood toy; all their owners gone. A woman with a camera remembers. 736- Spy of the First Person. Patti Smith and her day book. Sam’s Old KY home Adirondack chairs on the back lawn facing the hills. Empty now. 737- Patti Smith punk rock star or stay at home mom. Surrealistic pillow maker or Rimbaud re- incarnated. As a woman Collector of memories. Just Us Kids or a museum of dead things. On the M Train. Or off. Babel or Coral Beach. I. She. Contains multitudes. Patti Smith Polaroid Sequence Nov/Dec Pasolini Monument: two doves intertwined in stone Genet’s A Man Contemplating Death on Mapplethorpe’s Birthday: A Still Life Editing Sam Shepard’s last manuscript A white horse head in Wales Dylan Thomas’s grave with plain wooden cross Rimbaud’s elaborate headstone Sharing coffee with ghosts of Camus, Sartre, and Simone in the Gallimard garden A solitary bird sings of the death of Proust Jim Carroll’s well-thumbed Penguin paperback of Schulz’s Street of Crocodiles The bound twig broom used to sweep dying leaves from Mishima’s grave Sam Shepard’s Depression era Gibson Puccini’s composition piano Photo of Rosa Parks Dec 1, 1955 Joan Didion: pure writer The guardian angel near the grave of Bertolt Brecht Patti Smith at the interval contemplating Tosca: “ I have lived for art, for love.” A letter in the hand of Emily Dickinson Dante’s headstone Zappa’s ‘Hot Rats’ album cover Ralph Fiennes on the set of Coriolanus The ruins of Hadrian’s library After Reading Burchfield: December Moonrise, #8 Flat saucer shaped clouds in gray blue sky are pocked by puncture wounds shining bright as fallen stars or creatures like birds of another species. Irradiated seeds sprout plants that only bloom at night. Moonrise over distant hills make the landscape more unreal than it already seems to be. Blistered cones of light where the moon should be
Poetry from J.D. Nelson
the humans come out & so do a few loud crows after the snowstorm — tail end of winter pretty warm in the sunlight too cold in the shade — green buds have appeared on Mom’s lilac hedge out front first full day of spring — two deer & then three in someone’s yard on Iris missed the bus again — slept all day & night I wake up past eleven disoriented — bio/graf J. D. Nelson’s poems have appeared in many publications, worldwide, since 2002. He is the author of eleven print chapbooks and e-books of poetry, including *purgatorio* (wlovolw, 2024). Nelson’s first full-length collection is *in ghostly onehead* (Post-Asemic Press, 2022). Visit his website, MadVerse.com, for more information and links to his published work. His haiku blog is at JDNelson.net. Nelson lives in Boulder, Colorado, USA.
Poetry from John Sweet
and we all know whose fault it was
ask her if she fools around, if you
can get her number, and
she laughs, and you ask if she has any x,
if she has a friend who puts out and
get it where you can, right? and it sure as shit
wasn’t creeley who told me that,
wasn’t cirino or eliot, cuz all the fucking
poets ever did was lie
all that asshole tony ever did was
keep the acid for himself, and it was your father
who taught you how to pull the trigger,
sure,
but he would never let you
take the blindfold off
would never tell you who you’d hit
and he had that guitar autographed
by pettibon, had that girlfriend your mother
never found out about, and did you
cry when he died?
did you go through his pockets
of his sunday jeans
looking for cash or a credit card?
and i remember you kept telling me he
owed you something, but you were
always a pussy, always thought you were
missing out
always thought the future was
just around the corner
said you wanted to be ready for the
moment that would change everything,
but the moment had already
come and gone
no religion
my whole life spent waiting for
everything to go wrong, and i end in this
house, on this day, setting fire to the
past while the roof collapses
i end up too old to die young,
and with mixed emotions about it
i end up terrified of the fact
that i might not live forever
that i might end up nothing more
than the person i’ve become
defacer’s blues
and all the pretty girls dead of
accidental overdoses, and all the
parties you were supposed to
meet them at
the ones where you show up alone
already drunk and stoned,
where you fade into the darkest corner,
and it’s a gift, always being the
ugliest person in the room
it’s a thankless job traveling everywhere
with a shovel and a holy book,
with a can of gasoline and a book of matches,
but none of these corpses are
going to take care of themselves
none of your freedoms are going to
last forever, and it always feels strange
pretending to give a shit
about the state of the world because,
seriously,
what the fuck are you possibly
going to do to stop war,
to put an end to starvation
or genocide?
who are you going to kill to
assure the rest of us a
lifetime of peace?
seems like you should’ve
thought of something
by now
in the garden of dying stars
or junkie truth,
which is not the truth
a victim’s idea of power
grey sun in a grey sky
and this old man sleeping in his
hospital bed looks like me,
like my father,
like the spaces that grow between us,
and hope matters,
of course,
but let’s not fuck around here
the false king is a dead man
the poet without a gun
really has nothing to offer
and i remember telling you this on
the day before your lover’s suicide,
and i remember all of the reasons
you gave for hating me
i remember silence
young boy crying in the middle of
main street, and
then the scream of brakes
only a small loss,
right?
gotta look at the bigger picture
gotta build better bombs
the poor can take care of themselves,
and tough shit if they can’t
no one starves in
a nation of corpses
no one needs god
when a holy man can
fuck them just as good
understand this, and you might
just turn out okay
[we danced to save them all]
this boy with the knife in his throat thinks he
has something to say,
but he is beyond words
he is a prince and a king and a corpse,
and we are all trying to
forget his name here in the kingdom of nil
we are tell his sister
we love her
we are telling her she belongs in movies,
but she won’t take her clothes off for us
she won’t get in the back seat
and the blood is on our hands,
is in our smiles and our dreams, and
none of the bibles we’re given ever
have anything intelligent to say
none of the children
playing out in the streets
have parents
none of them have homes
and the soldiers laugh as they hand out candy,
and they laugh as they open fire because
no one can ever get revenge if
no one is left alive
no one sings as sweetly
as the hangman’s latest lover
no one’s life ever ends up
being worth very much at all
John Sweet sends greetings from the rural wastelands of upstate NY. He is a firm believer in writing as catharsis, and in compassionate nihilism which, as luck would have it, has all the best bands. His published collections include NO ONE STARVES IN A NATION OF CORPSES (2020 Analog Submission Press) and THERE’S ONLY ONE WAY THIS IS GOING TO END (Cyberwit, 2023).