INVASION I cannot play outside today. My Mom’s afraid. Maybe we will go away, find someplace safe. My best friend lives across the street, but he got hurt. I’ll never play with him again. He went outside. And when we heard the BOOM-BOOM-BOOM, my Mommy cried. She asks which bear I want the most. My suitcase zips. But since we don’t dare go outside, we watch the street. Here comes an ugly monster thing. An army tank. The soldiers look like movie guys, all dressed alike. Hear that? Shooting! Loud and close. Our window breaks. And Mommy falls. Her head’s all red. She’s not okay. My Mom needs help. What can I do? It’s war outside.
Poetry from Mark Young
From the Pound Cantos: CENTO XXVIII Poor old Homer, blind, blind. A patron of the arts, of poetry, & of a fine discernment. All decked in green, with sleeves of yellow silk, saffron sand- al so petals the narrow foot. Eyes of Picasso. Eye-glitter out of black air. A titter of sound about him, always. Here stripped, here made to stand. "It’s a straight ship," I said. The blue-gray glass of the wave tents them. A black cock crows in the sea-foam. Some / comments on / the logistics of She decided to paddle there, to join a meeting of opposing currents engineered by a spiral laser beam. The brix levels were already good — cinnamon sticks & slices of apple. The local bikers are joining on Saturday. Even though the jokes weren't all that funny everybody laughed because it was The President telling them. Same old same old but with a significant difference. This time they were laughing with him, not at him like they did with the fuckwit who was the previous POTUS. to your scattered bodies go This place is a rip off, a real live example of campaign momentum in action, on the downward slide. A year ago it might have been a ukelele serenade, encouraging women to talk to their doctors for free about the ineffectiveness of retention programs or fad diets or maybe something about Jam- iroquai. Now the promises have no value, imagined or other- wise. The candidate is bundled up, the gifts have stopped giving.
Poetry from Michael Hough, Christina Chin – Haiku and Artwork
Dark of the moon... Walking last night with my young dog along a deserted road, the stars were so clear we could see by them and the air so still we could hear stirrings of night creatures in the woods to either side... abandoned cemetery... the wind sprites restless We could hear the crackle of a neighbor's bonfire and the laughter of a few rowdies... the skush sound of a can of beer and the snort of a joke. And off in another direction: the voices of a pair of Cranes speaking to each other in quiet tones less than a tenth of how loud a Crane can be. Jack the dog heard them too, and stopped with one paw lifted as he listened carefully to them. I feel that they were just talking softly to each other in the dark as couples do. reincarnation... as fate would have them meet again Jack was a city dog before being rescued, and all this is very new to him. He knows quite well that the world is a dangerous place, but these new sounds and smells unnerve him because he doesn’t know how dangerous they might be. pitch black... the hickory path a chuck-will's-widow Further along the road the weird call of the Screech Owl gave me shivers as it always does. We decided to turn back. The Screech Owl's calls, a high lonely wavering wail... continued until silenced by four gruff and peremptory woofs of a Great Horned Owl. Those birds are the top of the food chain in our area, and other Owls become very circumspect in their presence, for good reason. nervous expiration steam mists the glasses The Horned Owl sent us home with another four low tones: Hoot… Hoot... Hoot-Hoot. We walked back in companionable silence. under the crisp light of stars
Poetry from Heller Levinson
SAY. speak sundry. from
well-up. down under. swell.
storm.
in(still(stigate) . prick flame.
firmament. flare → →
say = prong = prow = ______.
plunge bellow. plumb breath blow ges tic u late .
gyre capacious. decibel stew. strew sonic.
slake. infiltrate. frond filigree
taut.
chamber
clamor
coruscate
PERCH
fend whip foil assuage go lively
prosperity muck street hyperbole
. position
. loft
. proprioception
contiguous babble courts fetches compliance
too many moons soil the siesta
by degrees, up slowly,
. . .
then hoist
CREVICE CURL
cloy to
abject
inadmissible
lull a by
frozen lute thaw
CROSSFELLING ENCOUNTER LADEN
with stone begins. unladen. ladling porous. punctuation free. curious come
nightly timely & unsubscribed. low numbers constitute incline. flies the
function. fiery fliers. over there then.
yonder.
Poetry from Loretta Siegel
WHERE RABBITS RUN By Loretta Siegel Come walk with me where the air is clean, Come walk with me through hills of green. Come walk with me where white deer graze, Come walk with me through autumn's haze. Come walk with me where fields of wheat Shimmer and shine in summer's heat. Come walk with me through snowy drifts, We'll leave our footprints on the cliffs. Come walk with me where rabbits run, Come walk with me… The best is yet to come.
Poetry from Gabriel T. Saah
A love story cut short Wandering upon the sandy shores of the ocean, Deeply in thoughts and anticipating a bright horizon, I think of my love. She molds my heart with peace, She adorns my face with smiles, That I can only glide, The waves tossed and turn, On my skin the sun burns, But all I feel is her love. Her love is a magic carpet, Whose ride takes me beyond the moon, Gently as she holds my hand, My heart throbs beneath my ribs like an antelope that's running to a brook for a drink, My Endocrine system becomes more active, releasing oxytocin, Our hearts are locked in the dawn of real love, Tender and kinder, Purer and brighter. The sand can't write our stories, The moon can't capture our moment, No camera man can either, For our love goes deeper in the inner most part of our bones, From the enamel in our mouths, To the villi in our intestines, To the marrows in our bones, Our love goes down. Forever and ever and always. A Love story cut short. © Gabriel T. Saah (The Marvelous Inker)
Poetry from Sarika Jaswani
Home Here an era e c h o e s An old song on slopes of silver and crimson descending hills Where days rush blitz and hours ride turtle back, conversing Erstwhile memories The eyes that have cached my spring, my blooming, and colors of my dreams The place I call home Memories Wakeful night Underpins weight of unfallen tears Silence shoulders Gravity of emptiness on pinions of fleeting years Away from flocking dust on shelves Books, save your memories in smudges, highlights dog-eared text and pages Places that speak of your presence— your absences Solitude Walk with me on a lane most forestalled Lonely place where solitude caterwauls I hide from me, my fear Normalizes in buzz, fuss and throng For once, I brave the librettos Silence always sings These ascetic hills and monastic trees, listen and grow astute and still Singularity Emptiness Has a character In your absence The chasm Has crushing gravity Vacuity-a black hole Floating in my universe Its voracious appetite Eats my suns Your memories-an event horizon Where days stretch in length And tug with singularity of your reminiscences Cityscape A scalded cat- my City (mile a minute) changes Semblance on her face Dumbfound child in me Looks for familiar curves and flecks Measure for measure Its once comforting scape Mutates in the name of headway (I think) she’s still bitter For when I had once voiced a rescript- I have outgrown its crossroads, potholes and bends Her urban facet stretches with lighted bridges And well kempt suburban alleys Gone are the similar faces That had known with heart The items on my grocery list by Today when I come to her with wistful longing- She hands me strangers on construction cones Festering remorse on forking roads Souring distances and divider lanes Sorrow Cadent, astronomic vastness of aging Cedar Cannot call a halt, on zeal of a carpenter bee Like sorrow – solitary, shortsighted Blindly burrows where shame has softened the grove Slowly hollowing out the years Thickening stories written in the stars
Doctor by profession. Sarika Jaswani is a Crochet Artist, Art Tutor Writer of Children's Stories. Philanthropist. Poet. Published. Passionately reads & writes poetry. Art Lover. Bird lover. Dreamer and blogger.
Published on
-'Tide Rises Tide Falls'
--On Medium with A Cornered Gurl @ACG @Scrittura @MoveMePoetry
-Fever Of Mind Poetry
-Silver Birch Press
-The Organic Poet
-SpillWords
-The Women Inc
-Trouvaille Review
-Antonym
-HeronClanPoems
--a frequent vss prompt writer on twitter.
Her poems run on theme of love, reflection and philosophy of life.