Big thanks to Editor Glory Sasikala for publishing "Without Becoming Shattered" in the September Issue of GloMag.
https://joom.ag/hgne
Sunday, September 29, 2019
Monday, September 23, 2019
Taurus of Man
(An Ekphrastic Poem)
Neither lit lamp nor prayer replace this dark
exhibition of a graveyard.
Alas, Guernica, tongues as pointed pieces,
sharp shattered shards of broken blades.
An eye-shaped bulb does not the red reflect,
two-fisted grips of death-like hands.
Alas, Guernica, hands with monstrous bent,
razors caused by strafing fusillade.
Winds of war and arrows blown through windows.
Bull’s tail drawn as arm of the dead.
Long necks neighbor faces beyond salvation,
art - black, white, and gray shows what’s been slayed.
The Taurus of Man shown in pen and ink
depicting his need to conquer.
His stubborn belief that he’s meant to fight war.
Eyes askew - agony forever displayed.
Thursday, September 19, 2019
Thank you to Poetica Review for publishing "The Hunter of Words."
The Hunter of Words
I was never a predator
until I discovered the prey of books.
Like the last call at the bar,
I tell myself I must finish
the current chapter
before closing the cover’s door.
My reader’s attitude never grows jaded.
Every re-read of Pinter’s Betrayal
is more bitter than before.
Each revisit to Narnia,
a fresh slice of Heaven’s sweet pastry.
For too soon the pulse of life is stilled,
And while, many say that at worst,
death is a nothingness.
I disagree.
At worst, it’s a place without books.
Thank you to Poetica Review for publishing "Mondsüchtig:.
Mondsüchtig (Lunatic)
What is the sound
of starvation of words?
When the flames of expression
die in the grate
When your tangle of memory,
like twisted sheets,
strangle on a bed of thought
The weapon of your tongue
now dulled
If words come from thoughts
and thoughts make the world
will you now expose
the unexpected guise
of the lunatic
within your sphere?
your grand optimism to still the world
with your single word
“me”
lies dead on the ground
as millions of voices rise above yours,
all of them asking others
“what can I do to help?”
Sunday, September 8, 2019
Thank you to The Writer's Magazine for publishing two of my poems in the September Issue.
Here's one of them:
Here's one of them:
Dennys At Midnight
It seems now so long ago.
Hashing out problems,
and firming up philosophies
over priced right coffee and pancakes until 2:00 a.m.
Learning the art of conversation
from my tribe-
Long ago,
They still walk beside me.
I hear their voices ring and sing
in my memories.
Comfortable silences and smiles
or raucous conversation
disclosing mutual experiences.
Friends gathering in that nocturnal eatery,
lending support,
walking in while others walked out.
Today, I am alone in my thinking.
How I miss one of
America’s best therapy lounges.
How I long for the glue of firm friends
that kept me from falling apart.
How I long.
Monday, September 2, 2019
Thank you, Mark Antony Rossi, for publishing my poem in Ariel Chart.
http://arielchart.blogspot.com/2019/09/as-i-saw-boulder.html
As I Saw Boulder
Those retro hipster streets, crowded with bohemian images,
abutting the mountains grand, recollecting peace and hippie love.
One New Age store replete with Occult books and Tarot cards
intended to teach and to guide.
The street musicians’ chattering guitars play folk (Dylan, Baez, Mitchell)
or perhaps the acid rock (Hendrix, Cream, Doors) one era dug.
Another New Age store that sells incense, that spiritual return
to the time when the peace pipe filled the air with smells
of myrrh and burning grass.
Street dancers and magicians with magical movement
to keep the groove alive and remembered.
http://arielchart.blogspot.com/2019/09/as-i-saw-boulder.html
As I Saw Boulder
Those retro hipster streets, crowded with bohemian images,
abutting the mountains grand, recollecting peace and hippie love.
One New Age store replete with Occult books and Tarot cards
intended to teach and to guide.
The street musicians’ chattering guitars play folk (Dylan, Baez, Mitchell)
or perhaps the acid rock (Hendrix, Cream, Doors) one era dug.
Another New Age store that sells incense, that spiritual return
to the time when the peace pipe filled the air with smells
of myrrh and burning grass.
Street dancers and magicians with magical movement
to keep the groove alive and remembered.
Thank you, Mark Antony Rossi, of Ariel Chart for publishing my poem.
http://arielchart.blogspot.com/2019/09/tilting.html
Tilting
He carries oblique remarks
upon the canvas of his lips.
He paints them as disordered fact.
He paints them as distorted fact.
He slants the truth; as reckless
as concert crowds
after the last note is played.
To meet the artist as a truthful man
has long been my wish.
If art is meant to be beautiful,
let it dwell safely in his mouth.
http://arielchart.blogspot.com/2019/09/tilting.html
Tilting
He carries oblique remarks
upon the canvas of his lips.
He paints them as disordered fact.
He paints them as distorted fact.
He slants the truth; as reckless
as concert crowds
after the last note is played.
To meet the artist as a truthful man
has long been my wish.
If art is meant to be beautiful,
let it dwell safely in his mouth.
Thank you to Amanda Steel for including three of my poems in the Autumn Issue of Printed Words.
https://gallery.mailchimp.com/e2c7528f98e8fa3c893c6c12d/files/655c1e3c-6bc4-4f0c-b32c-1a1b87dca51d/Printed_Words_Autumn.pdf
Here is one of them:
https://gallery.mailchimp.com/e2c7528f98e8fa3c893c6c12d/files/655c1e3c-6bc4-4f0c-b32c-1a1b87dca51d/Printed_Words_Autumn.pdf
Here is one of them:
Dark Feelings about Daylight
By Linda Imbler
For those people never charmed by dawn-to-dark,
who pull the shutters closed.
These lines are written to channel a declaration.
It’s okay
if the taste of sunlight
is bitter for you
or if you can’t find acceptance among the tinny voices.
I’m equally perplexed
about those wildly dependent
on the communion of camaraderie.
Like you,I’m always leaning in the mirror
trying to comprehend why summer’s torch is always blinding.
But I think I never will.
By Linda Imbler
For those people never charmed by dawn-to-dark,
who pull the shutters closed.
These lines are written to channel a declaration.
It’s okay
if the taste of sunlight
is bitter for you
or if you can’t find acceptance among the tinny voices.
I’m equally perplexed
about those wildly dependent
on the communion of camaraderie.
Like you,I’m always leaning in the mirror
trying to comprehend why summer’s torch is always blinding.
But I think I never will.