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.

Let’s Cultivate

Let’s cultivate life,
Let it grow into a garden,
Let dreams, love, passions,
Emotions and feelings
Continue to be cultivated.

Love Means Nothing to You
 
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’.

Lyrical as a Shopping Cart

The truest madness is writing another poem, 

after selling three books in a year,

but the metaphors, similes, personifications

all pile up like groceries

in a cart after getting a new credit card,

and the melting chicken burgers

whisper the inspiration for sympathy cards,

ever as we hold hands,

believing our sweaty palms a love sonnet

while wrinkles and grey hairs rhyme poorly

among friends we haven’t seen in so long,

that they might as well be words

on crumpled paper.

Shorter Than You Think

We want to be a feature length film,

but most of us are snapshots- 

static moments we cherish,

until the names and dates scribbled

on the backs become less than ghosts, 

leaving a shoe box to wait

inside the bottom of a closet

for someone hoping to find forgotten jewellery

or money leftover from paranoia about banks,

only to dump the pictures on the floor,

as if a memory vomited from motion sickness,

while they fail to see

the edges of their own photograph.

i like to think of myself as two people

the day i spent lolling on the couch

wishing for a safety to peel every leg hair off my body

to become curls of rubies atop my head

instead of razor nicks decorating a bathtub

sharp edges picked apart with rusted safety scissors

melting into white tile with the shimmer of saliva

and

the day i chopped apart everything i could find

pant legs revealing scrawny stink bugs wearing cherry sneakers

pencils like baby hairs 

hair alway could be cut without blood

and a fascination with strands on the neck followed

like wisps of water reeds glowing orange in polluted waters

and i still seek home…

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)

Bug Bunny Never Went to War

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.