Thank you to Editor John Page of Academy of the Heart and Mind for publishing my poem.

https://academyoftheheartandmind.wordpress.com/2019/02/25/do-i-stay-or-do-i-go/

Do I Stay Or Do I Go?

Fruit or dairy

which is your preferred?

Why can't I have both,

or better yet mix them together

for that sweet creamsicley goodness.

One or the other must show superiority?

Really? And what’s the prize?

Day and night come together

to create twilight and dawn,

allowing us to embrace these most romantic times of day,

these moments that express the greatest beauty of the sky

and express what most gratifies.

We go both in and out of doors.

The only difference is the side the knob is on.

Doors allow passage back and forth

so are meant for everybody.

There’s not one select knob for the left

nor one with higher prestige for the right.

Everybody.

Isn’t that who we are trying to include in the world?

Then why a boon for only this or that?

I prefer a winning creamsicley world,

thank you very much.

Share this:

Thank you to Editor Siddarth Sehgal of Indian Periodical for publishing my poem.

http://indianperiodical.com/2019/02/azathoth/

Azathoth

Ancient Azathoth,

who dreams the shape of secret things,

his elaborations,

created,

while in sleep he lies.

All magicians, mendicants, and emperors alike,

dreamt.

His mental ink

lays out all reality,

from midnight rituals

to morning routines,

timed and played out in his mind,

but he’s not aware.

Shhh, we must float along,

all of us must float through time,

actors played upon his stage,

each of us fearing that

at the trumpet blast, he’ll wake,

and all life will shut down.

Thus, the tangled drama of the world shall melt.

Thank you to Mark Antony Rossi for publishing my poem 
in Ariel Chart.


http://arielchart.blogspot.com/2019/02/trees-welcome-electronic-age.html

Trees Welcome the Electronic Age

For your consideration of our kind,

to the electronic architects of the e-book, 

we the trees, salute you,

for paper is not longer pulped

and no great bolus is being swallowed

down the gullets of huge crushing machines.

Today, my sons stand straight and strong.

My daughters are allowed to bend with the wind

by the agency of their subtle grace,

and our grandchildren drink the rain

and their roots grow deep.

To you, the kings and queens of circuits and wires,

we send out our heartfelt thanks

for now we are liberated

from page and spine.

Around us now the air is pure

and our greenery presents itself

like solar panels for the new age.

We are free to praise the sun

and no longer fear the grand machinery

which once invaded our assemblage.

We are unhindered to mingle and breath

and with our gratefulness

to once more, unimpeded, help your species survive.

Thank you to Editor Mark Antony Rossi of Ariel Chart for publishing my poem.

http://arielchart.blogspot.com/2019/02/cave-thinking-after-apocalypse.html

Cave Thinking After the Apocalypse

In a world

unfolding a caged and rotting dawn,

after the exodus of the calm ones,

for those left,

their fragile souls remaining,

deep within the caves.

They, clinging to stalactites,

deciding if miracles

will continue to inform their lives.

But all they see is the bruise on the cantaloupe.

And all they can do

is use what magic they have,

to stay alive

so, they no longer fear their own shadows,

while they wait for the exorcisms

and bullet holes to heal.

Nostalgia gives ecstatic dreams.

Is there anything left today that can help those come true?

Stalagmites,

their example to raise them up

and thereafter

let the echoes of beautiful voices 

within the cave speak for them.

TARTARUS-PERHAPS WE SHOULD NOT BE

Thank you to Editor Mark Antony Rossi for publishing "Tartarus" in Ariel Chart.

TARTARUS-PERHAPS WE SHOULD NOT BE 

SO QUICK TO JUDGE

Protection lies above the waters.
Where the rivers flow around,
Tartarus is found.
Deep,
with fallen angels
hanging like spiders from their web
above liquid repercussions.


Floating overhead,
Seraphs,
feeling some of the emotions
of human siblings.
They watch grievously as the ferryman,
lacking in joy,
conveys the sorrowful downstream on Acheron.


At Cocytus,
cold be her waters,
they linger above those icebound
as a result of wings and slender bodies.


Hovering over quick and streaming Lethe,
Celestial beings will sleep
until called forth to defend us in the Great War.


The whorling cauldron of Phlegethen
lies prone beside Styx
and the Thrones drift above
the river coiling
like smoky corkscrews rising.


Styx separates Hades and Earth,
where Charon does double duty,
and those with metal stamps upon their tongues
stream below the hovering Dominions.


The Powers, who are not within fire or ice,
once dishonored and shamed,
will one day rise to help us defend our very souls.
Our sacred brothers, come to redeem their own.

Thank you to Shahabat Hossain and Zafira Zaman for publishing my poem in Issue 4 of The Conclusion Magazine.





Furnished


Inside my heart and head, within each place,
there's not a room but a nook,
sheltering what I most cherish,
retaining that with which I am most loathe to part.

I need not cry aloud my need
to keep these treasured things held dear.
The eyes of the universe have already seen within
and knows what I desire to keep or to share.

It knows what I long to pull from the sweet, secret chambers,
once sheathed, enclosed where sleeps some dreams deep and with calm,
while others pace fitfully throughout all hours,
transport themselves along my halls,
and through the open door to be moved into the light of day.

Some of these things exist until a reconsideration of need
based on circumstances brings them forth.
These I am willing to set free for all time.

But always there is a firm, stanch, unchanging
placement of some items which I am determined to keep.
Furnishings rearranged, but never discarded,
my un-shaking, unwavering, resolute reverence
for pieces which reflect love, peace, and hope,
my ardent determination to listen for and respond to
a cry for the needs of others.
These are things with which I must always furnish myself.

Thank you to Editor Glory Sasikala for publishing my poem in GloMag.

https://view.joomag.com/glomag-glomagnovember2018/0767864001543066795?short

Where Chief Once Stood

He is Sioux.

He came from an old place

where they taught him

to honor the land.

After his last breath,

he was a ghost and lingered,

having no place to go,

his old burial grounds torn.

And he stayed still

so the winds would come for him. 

Let it blow.

Wait for early sun.

The elders had been delaying 

until it would be light

enough to see his face.

Now he's been found, 

and the ghost tribe will move on 

from where Chief once stood.