Fire Opals - A Sonnet

| Filed under

Contributor: Shawn Chang

- -
Beneath the moonlight’s silver silken shine,
I see these eyes of yours, so mirror-clear;
Imagine I am yours and you are mine
For all our lives, our future - many a year.

These eyes of yours in many a flagrant flame
Do glow and gleam and glimmer on their own -
Brigades of brimming blazes fly to fame,
Through rainbow rays they flare by force unknown.

Beholding stones already honed with care,
I hold it twice a joy to hear you speak
Of love for me in lilt so fine, so fair -
For you’re the One, the only One I seek.

It counts not how the dice of fate are cast;
For us the truth is held - our love will last.

- - -
Shawn Chang is a 16-year-old writer. His poems have appeared in several anthologies. A horror story of his is set to be published on Hallowe'en.

Why Be It

| Filed under

Contributor: Ananya S Guha

- -
The blue of everything
summer torn hair
winter of the wind
hair pins falling
glut of rains
why be it
why be it
again its coming back
mannequins ( of past)
hoary syndrome
why be it
why be it
cymbals will clash
annual festival of Goddess
and her cohorts
slain devil
why be it
why be it
they will look at stars
immerse her bedecked body
weep, and from the streams
anklets and bracelets will be stolen
why be it
in autumnal lingering shadows
come Goddess give me shades
of your ten armed strength.

- - -

Waiting for Answers to Resumes Mailed Weeks Ago

| Filed under

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
A phone call from anywhere would be nice,
even a call from that clerk at Sears
with an apology for charging that dryer
to my last employer
or even a call from the company I phoned
for estimates on the fence we need
to run to the alley, take two lefts,
and dash back to the house,
the fence we hope will keep the kids
from threshing the neighbor's
lilacs and phlox
or even a call from my wife
about the fever Meg had this morning
and a third reminder to record
the check for the penicillin.
Yes, today or tomorrow,
a phone call from anywhere would be nice.

- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Side Swipe

| Filed under

Contributor: JD DeHart

- -
Don't tell me you are blinded
we both knew this day
would come

Bits of glass decorate
our personal night sky light
a blinking tablet broken

A fantastic twist of fate
or just restless redlight running
led us to this moment

A ceaseless but thoughtless gaze
or listening too loudly
to a static radio silence

When we should have prodding
reading and thinking
so we might have stepped aside.

- - -

Red Sweater December

| Filed under

Contributor: Lyla Sommersby

- -
I cannot cull the tide
the rise of Pine and Yule and Christ
the wash of wet weather
in red sweater December
and the sea of gifts
That shining, glittering breaks
and scatters glass, trash
rotten, sodden and sad
at the edge of abyss
as it has
so many times in the jagged past

for once, I pray;
for once, a joyous flight
for once, a warm surrender
no more broken nights riding
over the shards of shattered lives
no more cold descents to liminial light
to promises unfulfilled by futures foggy-white
when comes the cliff where presents part
where fever breaks and night descends
to softly snuff the last glass bauble
to deftly choke our final false cheer
in a heavy cloak of crisping ice
to die another temporary death
when wet December ends.

- - -
I am a student in Miami, Florida. Painting is my other love. My first book, Sketches of Someone, is available through Thunderune Publishing.

The Supplicant

| Filed under

Contributor: Andrew Hubbard

- -
I know what a house is.
It’s warmth and safety and food.
This house smelled kind.

I’d been lost so long
I couldn’t remember anything else
And hungry so long my legs shook.

Somewhere I cut my paw
And there was blood on every footprint.

I don’t remember how I climbed
Onto their porch, but I did.
I laid down and decided
I wasn’t leaving, even if I died.

I couldn’t go any farther anyway.

When they found me
They made surprised noises.
She smelled gentle,
Him, I wasn’t sure.

She brought me a big bowl of food
And held my head up.
I ate it lying down.

She brought me another bowl
And I ate that too.
They made more surprised noises.

I was very tired.
He picked me up and carried me inside,
Now he smelled just fine.

When I woke up
There was a big, warm cover over me
And she was putting sharp smells
On my paw. It hurt a little.
Then she wrapped it in soft cloths.

I was still very tired
But I smelled something without a name
And sensed it all the way through—
I was home.

- - -
Born in Maine. Schooled at Dartmouth and Columbia. Educated in New York, Carolina, Nebraska, DC, and now Indiana.

We Walk the Streets

| Filed under

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
Whenever Lolly stops me
on my midnight rounds
just to chat about the night

I shine my flashlight in her eyes
and whisper low so the other
working girls can't hear me,

"Lolly, it's your intelligence
and taste I find so appealing.
I appreciate that upper lip

you've lit up in neon red
so artfully with lipstick."
We talk about mortgages and kids

whether hers are back in school,
whether mine are still in college,
whether my brother ever sends a check.

When finally I say I have to go,
she giggles like Monroe, gets all
blonde and bouncy, saucy to a fault,

waves good-bye with a grand sashay,
thrilled again to be on her way, pleased
that once again I won't take her in.

- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Upon the Dawn

| Filed under

Contributor: James Dennis Casey IV

- -
Ships that come not home
Perhaps you know
In the valley of forgotten dreams
There is a god

The apple tree
God's autograph
Nature his temple

The soul of music

Earth's supplications
Things I need not buy


In a dream
That lied like truth
The elders
Spoke of good omens

Only the wise have real eyes

Prepare your ships
For landfall
Upon the dawn

- - -
James D. Casey IV was born in Colorado, grew up in Louisiana, and currently resides in Mississippi. Mr. Casey has independently published two books so far, 'Metaphorically Esoteric' & 'Dark Days Inside the Light While Drunk on Wine,' that are available on Amazon. He is featured in the poet archives of Artvilla, Poetry Life & Times, and Realistic poetry International just to name a few.

Whatever Happened

| Filed under

Contributor: Daginne Aignend

- -
Whatever happened
to the little bird
I sawed out of wood
when I was a kid

Painted in bright colors
Red and blue
with little yellow dots
The perfect combination
in my child's eyes

Took me days
I wasn't so nifty
with a fretsaw
Perseverance made
me finish
my work of art

Proud of myself
Learned I can
achieve anything
as long as
I didn't quit the job

Whatever happened
to the spirit
of a child
Lost in some draw
of adulthood

- - -
Daginne Aignend is a pseudonym for the Dutch poetess Inge Wesdijk.
She likes hard rock music, photography and fantasy books.
She is a vegetarian and spends a lot of time with her animals.


| Filed under

Contributor: Stacy Maddox

- -
She tries to be brave, when speaking of him
But her voice cracks, swollen lips tremble
Looking wistful, as if in some faraway place
I watch the emotions passing over her face

Arms crossed for protection, her pulse quivers faster
It dances on her neck, she thinks I won't notice
Her shoulders stiffen slightly beneath a timeworn shirt
Shifting her position, she quickly wipes lucent tears.

- - -
Stacy Maddox lives, dreams and writes in the fast-paced city of Lawrence, KS. She loves to soak up the sun by the river and feel the rush of water over her feet while spending time with her family and pets. Stacy has been published in over 15 books, print magazines and online websites. She has been passionate about Art, in all forms, for over 30 years.

Blind Shepherd

| Filed under

Contributor: Shawn Chang

- -
Between horizons, skies and seas apart,
Is but a postern that hath long begun
To echo breaths of lungs and beats of heart
Of He whose eyes do shift but take in none.

A blind sole shepherd, cloak’d and hand with crook,
Doth lure and lead in namely happenstance,
With shadows the morose moon doth thus hook
In sad serenity and tranquil trance.

Imaginary immortality
Of He sans whom the Sun would never climb
No starlight, moonlight, nor gold sunlight be
Without th’ eternal ripping tide - Him, Time.

Away, do come, to hear the maiden’s sigh
As moments wane and phantom dreams do die.

- - -
I am 16 years old.

Briers and Brambles

| Filed under

Contributor: Ken Allan Dronsfield

- -
Rambling through

the brambles as

scrub and briers

grasp upon me as

honey bees buzz

all about the brush.

Blackberry wine

dreams, while an

intoxicated mind

forever schemes.

Another splash of

Jack from the flask

in a life of fails we

keep filling the pail

with those fine ripe

sweet blackberries.

- - -
Ken Allan Dronsfield is a published poet from Oklahoma. He loves thunderstorms! His published work can be found in reviews, journals, magazines and anthologies throughout the web and in print venues. His poetry has been nominated for Best of the Net for 2016.

What Purpose Does A Rabbit Have

| Filed under

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
The same nightmare woke my father
every night for years.
He had no idea what it meant
and so he wrote the story down
and saved the note and hoped
some day he'd understand it.
But a note like that
can be misplaced.

Decades later Father
found the note
in a drawer of socks
he hadn't worn in years.
He found it underneath
his old glass eye the night
Mother came back on the Harley
to "make their marriage work."

He reminded Mother they had
been divorced for years
and then, despite her tears,
he told her, "After all this time,
we both know now that you
were gone before you left.
But now you're back so
let me tell you all about

the nightmare I've had every night
since you took the bike and left.
I wrote the story down to tell the kids
when they grew up but they ran off
before I had a chance to ask them
if they knew what my dream might mean.
You'd like the kids. They're pretty smart.
Anyway my note says this:

'What purpose does a rabbit have
other than as prey?
What difference does a rainbow make
in a rabbit’s day?'
You tell me now you love me,
always have and always will.
But the kids are gone forever
so take the Harley now and go."

- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Black Hole

| Filed under

Contributor: Judy Moskowitz

- -
Her bedroom was on the top floor
A mystery lies cold
Down in the black hole
Dark as asphalt
Drowning out the murmur
She built a doll house
From a shoe box
And played for hours
Living inside its contents
Where she created a family
Straight out of central casting
Made from dreams and fantasies
Its card board roof
Couldn't stop the rain
Trapped inside

- - -
Judy Moskowitz, a professional jazz musician, has been published in Poetry Life And Times, Michael Lee Johnson's anthology, Indiana Voice Journal, Whispers Of The Wind


| Filed under

Contributor: M. Protacio-De Guzman

- -
In the standstill I looked for you.

The expressway was a tongue of light
That licked the dripping star-less night.

Your hands were clutching the wheel.

Cars purred and hissed like alley cats
While trucks grumbled in discontent.

My fingers traced circles on your thigh.

Raindrops fell and burst on hoods, roofs,
And human heads, tracing sporadic paths.

We crossed each other’s machineries.

Entangles behind the windshield fogged by
Our very breath, so reckless in this unleashing:

Our passion sliced the sordid night air.

Gasping for air finally, the journey home
Extended a most unwelcome invitation.

Traffic’s gone, traffic’s gone.

Memories of lips and skin flew past me
As the night peeled away layers of doubt--

For I found you in the thick of things.

- - -
M. Protacio-De Guzman is from Manila, Philippines. His poems have appeared and have been anthologized in local and international publications, most recently in Off the Rocks Anthology Volume 19.

Finding the Right Dimensions

| Filed under

Contributor: Scott Thomas Outlar

- -
There is a time for this
a time for that
and a time for the other
(loving and/or hating).

For all things
(be they large or small),
there is a proper place
(be it here or there).

We do what we can
(to the best of our ability),
and then we move on
(leaving the rest to God).

So it goes
(so it went),
and so it was
(so it shall ever be).

- - -
Scott Thomas Outlar spends the hours flowing and fluxing with the ever-changing currents of the Tao River while laughing at and/or weeping over life's existential nature. Singing and dancing are also involved in the process.

Walls Between Races

| Filed under

Contributor: Gary Thomas Hubbard

- -
Take away my color and the texture of my hair
Forget the way I dress, it’s only clothes I wear
I must stop doing the things that I know are wrong
Don’t hate anyone because of words in a song
Stand up for yourself and give others a hand
Think before you choose where to make a stand
Stay away from people that talk hate with every word
You must learn to love, to start to heal, that is what I heard
Keeping us separate, making sure we stay apart
Is the way they control us or at least that's how they start
If we ever join together we will be an unstoppable force
It will be difficult but possible if we stay the course
Teaching hate and mistrust because of how we look
Baiting us with lies, reeling us in like a fish on a hook
You are black and I am white just another part of life
They twist the truth behind our backs like an assassins knife
Governments that build walls between races need to be replaced
Deeds done to innocent by the guilty must be bravely faced

- - -
He was born and raised in Ohio, and now lives in Florida. He is married and has two children. Most important he is a Papa. He has over a dozen poems on this site and one printed in "Stormcloud Poets second anthology".

Flawed Diamonds

| Filed under

Contributor: Richard Schnap

- -
The middle-aged debutante
Conned by her lover
Into giving him the funds
To the organization she ran

The housewife that brought up
An unstable daughter
In the same way her own
Mother had done

The author that composed
A biography of an artist
Trapped in a madness
Similar to her own

And in each of their eyes
Could be seen a skewed sparkle
Of a gem that was wrought
By a jeweler from hell

- - -
Richard Schnap is a poet, songwriter and collagist living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. A two-time Best of the Net nominee, his poems have most recently appeared locally, nationally and overseas in a variety of print and online publications. His debut chapbook, "A Wind From Nowhere", is available from Flutter Press.

Ode to a New Hell

| Filed under

Contributor: Ken Allan Dronsfield

- -
blame me not of heartless vengeance
spoken words nor intolerable pestilence
a keeper of life's incandescent tolerance
mocked by the icy queried inquisitions
smoky breath within pious incantations
that raucous mind of an incessant joy
home in purgatory, layered with evil
I'm not afraid to walk this world alone
in dungeons of darkish desperation
percolating a new hell from deep within
roaming the covenant on ancient paths
uncovering graves of the fallen saints
through battlements and gated horrors
into bunkers of suicidal choreography
saltpeter and brimstone explode in envy
seeing the stars within eternal darkness
the sky a dark hazy purple with red hues
I'm missing the blood moon in all her glory.

- - -
Ken Allan Dronsfield is a published poet from Oklahoma. He loves thunderstorms! His published work can be found in reviews, journals, magazines and anthologies throughout the web and in print venues. His poetry has been nominated for Best of the Net for 2016.

A Dream of Utopia

| Filed under

Contributor: Jason Constantine Ford

- -
The rulers in charge of pleasures sweet which never dry
Promise to provide an endless food supply
For citizens desiring wealth without the sweat.

As droids are gathering crops around a field,
Databases print records of healthy summer yield
Across the many zones secured within a safety net.

A system where the people have the choice to roam
Zones without restriction like another home
Cannot prepare for virus ready to attack.

As city’s key defenses sleep throughout the night,
Ignorance rapidly rises to a greater height
As fiends observe protective data they desire to crack.

- - -
Jason Constantine Ford is the assistant editor of the print edition of Thought Notebook and has over a hundred publications of poetry from around the world.


| Filed under

Contributor: Ben Riddle

- -
There are holes inside of me
in which I always assumed
someone would fit
so I tore more
it would call you to me
a little faster.

- - -
Founding member of the Said Poets Society and recipient of the Fred Simpson Prize for Poetry in 2014, Ben Riddle is a graduate of the University of Western Australia and is really just another twenty-something unsure of where he’s going in life.


| Filed under

Contributor: Theresa A. Cancro

- -
I have no blind, only
lace curtains gracing
my back, similar to clouds.

I release the walls
from their oppression,
loosening rigid structure.

No eyes necessary yet
plate glass is my skin,
solid and viscous at once.

Those within gaze through me
each day, laugh at squirrel antics,
murmur among birdsong.

They obsess over doors,
safety, fear in the lock
that keeps them in, ills away.

Wind ekes between layers,
soft shrill gives me voice,
they finally listen, sense my raw.

- - -
Theresa A. Cancro writes poetry, especially haiku and related short forms, as well as short fiction and nonfiction. Her work has appeared worldwide in dozens of publications.

A Dalliance with Dysfuction

| Filed under

Contributor: Shirley Jones

- -
I covet misfortune,
it's a black obelisk of damaged
psyches that tower over me
as I try to pick up the pieces
from the last emotional storm

I worship worry,
it's a barrier of bondage
tightening around my heart
as I try to break free from the malaise
that threatens to suffocate me

I bow, bereft of all feeling
watching it wither away
like leaves in autumn
and are blown away
and forgotten

- - -
Shirley Jones-Luke is a poet, writer and educator from Boston, Massachusetts. Ms. Luke has an MA in English and an MFA in Creative Writing. She has been published in The Voices Project, Raising Mothers, ENUF and the Creative Ezine.


Powered by Blogger.