Month: January 2013

There is only love.Poem. Bhuwan Thapaliya

by

Grasping her hands closely,
I halt my heart
at the edge of her lips
and stare deeper inside
the lava of passion
ejecting shimmering
volcanoes of love.
I let myself slide
through her hand,
easing myself
deeper into her core.
With each cuddle,
the air shakes with joy;
the clouds of passion
grow thicker
– waves of mountain air
rumble past my soul.
A whisper
from beneath her core
– a rumbling moan –
fills my ear
and rolls across
my soul and beyond.
And in the tender
air of love
– destiny, direction,
and time seems to
waft away.
There is only love,
– two tectonic lips
colliding as one.
The earth shakes,
She pulls a flower
from my heart
and lifts it to the sky.

 

 

Bhuwan Thapaliya works as an economist, and is the author of four poetry collections. Thapaliya’s books include the recently released Safa Tempo: Poems New and Selected (Nirala Publication, New Delhi), and Our Nepal, Our Pride (Cyberwit.net). Poetry by Thapaliya has been included in The New Pleiades Anthology of Poetry and Tonight: An Anthology of World Love Poetry, as well as in literary journals such as Urhalpool, MahMag, Kritya, FOLLY, The Vallance Review, Nuvein Magazine, Foundling Review, Poetry Life and Times, Poets Against the War, Voices in Wartime, Taj Mahal Review, and more.
 
 
Bhuwanthapaliya picture
Author
Our Nepal, Our Pride
http://www.amazon.com/Our-Nepal-Pride-Bhuwan-Thapaliya/dp/8182531152

 
 

robin@artvilla.com
www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes

 

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Folks Let’s Rock – Folk Rock That Is

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We are pleased to introduce something quite new and refreshing, the Folk Rock Index and Playlist Click here. This list plays videos from 900 Folk artists and takes you on a tour of our sites. With this technology we can play videos on many subjects including poets, poetry, art, art instruction. We are proud of these pages and realize the mainstream traffic can even bring people to poetry. I am proud to make this announcement at PLT.

The pages are fun, should be bookmarked and shared. This method can be used for all types of music.

Video shares and embeds are encouraged by You Tube. That is all this is. This is one old engineer putting a bunch of pieces together into a machine and producing something no one expected, not even the old engineer himself. Sometimes big things can come out as one click here link on one page.

 

David Michael Jackson

(Dave)

dave@artvilla.com……

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KwameWriteAido.Keep Moving On.Poem. Audio.

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http://www.hulkshare.com/kwamewrite/kwame-write-keep-moving-on

Further includes tracks by Kwame Write: when i was a child, this i put to you, Savanah love – Chief Mooment and Captivated.

 

kwamewrite 1

Kwame’s love for wordplay has earned him online publications, awards from the Scrabble Association of Ghana and a couple of nicknames including Write. He is a nominee for the International Best Amateur Poet by World Poetry Organisation, a biochemist working as a health & safety consultant who believes that freelance writing, spoken word and rap are not only rich arts but tools for educating and inspiring people. Kwame Write founded Inkfluent which produced Vocal Portraits; a spoken word compilation that brought together 15 artists from 3 continents: Africa, America and Europe. When he’s not with the pen, he’s most likely playing beach soccer or making new friends over a bowl of fufu and palm wine. You can visit him at http://kwamewrite.blogspot.com/ and https://soundcloud.com/kwame-write-1

LINKS:
Twitter: @kwamewrite
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/aidookwamecharles

***

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Keep Moving On. Poem. Kwame Write Aido.

by

keep moving on
I say
keep moving on
I hear
these grooving songs,
rhythm of the earth playing tap-dance with your feet
keep moving on

tap-dance with your feet

tap
pataptapatap
tap

like a rolling pebble
flung off free fingers
tossing on the streets
bouncing off asphalt
bouncing off like a rebel
rolling under moving cars
rolling through bike spokes
and off through a motor policeman’s legs
swift slow swirl swift soul spell

tap
pataptapatap
tap

keep grooving on

like gazelles grazing
on shrub-lands
at dawn when the orange sun kisses greying grains
where lions dens are dense
keep moving on
like a lion’s dance
before pouncing on a prey
breeze aligning mane

keep
moving
on

like a slum kid waking up with heat rashes
all over a body battered by life’s hardships
bedroom a 6 by 6 packed with 12 siblings
searches for a candle to light his unpaved path
light too low, he sees clouded dreams
sagged low pants,
Dre Beats hanging from his ears
intersecting with a left eye tear
and ride slow jams
and dry cold hands
and mind so tensed

and tap-dance with his feet

tap
pataptapatap
tap

he’s singing
same time praying in his head
he’s singing
praying his music
would top the list
and be the hit this year
playing his music
moving

like a slum kid musician’s tear

keep moving on

like a beach side black boy
biceps like blown balloons
clinging to coconut trees, climbing
like a child on to full breasts
for some milk
slices off the stalk of a coco
a look like a kid gone nuts
balancing boldly
like a dance
breaking it open to take a looooong sip
throws the roughage off
and starts sliding back south
bare arms, chest
sliding like a dance
against the rough edges
one then the next,
brave-heart
grooving on
even when the mood is wrong
he sets sail with his heart
he’s down from the tree
he’s off to the sea
sets snail-step sways
on ocean floors of earth’s palate
under water
plop!
over water
surfing with a piece of plastic
like a dance
rhythm like the tap-dance

and tap-dance with his feet

tap
pataptapatap
tap

keep moving on
even when echoes become walls
and rebound efforts into nulls
even in a free fall
floored, flee all, fly find fortune,
do not fade into the future
like a tear
unattended to
live the present
with the past behind
and bad memories with folded rags
and mistakes with no carbon copies
and smiles within songs
and an open heart
with love as inner decor
bearing hope in hands
reaching for peace

keep
moving
on

***

kwame 1

Kwame’s love for wordplay has earned him online publications, awards from the Scrabble Association of Ghana and a couple of nicknames including Write. He is a nominee for the International Best Amateur Poet by World Poetry Organisation, a biochemist working as a health & safety consultant who believes that freelance writing, spoken word and rap are not only rich arts but tools for educating and inspiring people. Kwame Write founded Inkfluent which produced Vocal Portraits; a spoken word compilation that brought together 15 artists from 3 continents: Africa, America and Europe. When he’s not with the pen, he’s most likely playing beach soccer or making new friends over a bowl of fufu and palm wine. You can visit him at http://kwamewrite.blogspot.com/ and https://soundcloud.com/kwame-write-1

LINKS:
Twitter: @kwamewrite
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/aidookwamecharles

***

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www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes
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White Heat.Poem. Trevor Maynard.

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The mountain is there to be climbed

The weather its own

Maybe violent maybe calm

Funny like Cagney

“Ma, Top of the World!”

We are its guests

The soon to be honoured dead should it decide,

To object to our trespass

To growl and bite back

Conquerors in oxygen masks and with frost-bitten toes;

Are mere Yankee doodles in gangster shoes and clothes

Funny like Cagney

Heroes die as easily as unclean rats

Svengalis, deities, autocrats

The mountain does not forgive

It just is

White heat

 

© Trevor Maynard from his collection Keep On Keepin’ On ISBN 978-1480052499.

Trevor Maynard is also editor of the anthologies The Poetic Bond

ISBN 978-1466498419 and The Poetic Bond II ISBN 978-1480209732

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“Kneeling Before Anubis, Lazarus Wept” Poem.Joseph Armstead

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(whisper)
Atop the Temple of the Sun,
bathed in radiant gold,
starlight blasts away our masks…

i.) Kissing the Eyes of the Dead

midnight oxygen flows to earth, littered
with dessicated pumpkin seeds
and the fading remnants
of communal nightmares,
haunting the City Primeval,
we dance a jingly-jangly foxtrot
across oil-stained, debris-strewn streets,
not daring to look one another
in the eyes,
never catch our taffy-pulled,
Francisco de Goya-esque
reflections
in the windows
to someone else’s soul —
it is a brittle kindness,
it is a neurotic’s etiquette
— wanting, lusting,
desiring, thirsting
to place our lips
in icy benediction
upon the closed lids
where old copper pennies
are destined to rest.  

ii.) This Pillow Of Cadavers

It’s hard to breathe
— pant? wheeze? gasp? choke? —
when you’re wrapped
so tightly around me,
constricting
and yet a comfort
against the maelstrom
abroad the screaming face
of this shrunken head world,
we lay our heads down
on a bed of broken yesterdays,
eyes happily shut
against the relentless
spinning
of our whirlygig minds,
seeking stillness,
wanting a suspension
of painful animation,
praying for sleep
atop an altar of flesh
decomposing…,
we inhale and the scent
of dissolution
lulls us into dreaming,
and, finally,
our lungs grow still.

(mutter)
The thing struggling in the mud
at the great temple’s base weeps,
frustrated and blind…

***

BIO
 
Joseph Armstead is a suspense-thriller and horror author living in the United States’ San Francisco Bay Area.   Author of a dozen short stories and ten novels, his poetry has been published in a wide range of online journals, webzines and print magazines.   A mathematician, Futurist and computer technologist, Mr. Armstead’s poetry often defies easy description, but frequently includes neo-classical imagery, surrealist viewpoints and post-modern themes.

http://redroom.com/member/joseph-armstead

http://www.amazon.com/Condemned-Of-Heaven-Joseph-Armstead/dp/0578013665

***

 

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Of Reddened Apples.Poem. Richard Lloyd Cederberg

by

 
Protecting the wellness, accuracy, and sanctity of creative individualism
____________________________________________
 
Being blessed
Abreast this advantage,
Perched upon a firm palisade
Within a sprawl of Malus laden,
Where, contemplating all
Comings and goings,
To some length,
Seemed a
Brawl
(Of sorts)
Of the movement
Of others in the often
Mundane blur of surviving
 
Dour dominion
Suffered acute eyes in
Wonderment, streets moiling  
With rapacious squawking hawkers,
And all the grousing animations of escapade
Vendors plying the needy with homemade  
Food, tomfoolery, and the bric-a-brac
Of some faraway place,
And being
Aware that
Very morning of a
Shadowy tramp steamer
Offloading some unavowed booty
Into the hands of indurate panhandlers,
Whose ultimate survival rested,
At all costs,
In the next sale or
Satisfactory scheme  
 
(To ensnare
Those fleeceable
With the unnecessary)
 
He felt
Relieved for
The scant distance
Between THERE and THIS
Pleasant vantage so effectively
Set apart in rolling woodland hills,
A place where within his nostrils
Redolence brooded subtly
Of reddened apples,
The sweet
Tart
Crisp
Whitish
Flesh
Beckoning him
Without peddler’s schemes or
An under-handed drama of strategies;
Smiling broadly he plucked one from where it dangled,
And, after consuming it, filled his haversack for
The continuing journey
 
richard lloyd cederberg

 

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Loch Ness Monster. Poem. Mitch Montagna

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In darkest lakes where spirits swim –
beneath the depth where starlight dims
 
a shadow deepens midnight’s tone –
and drifts through water cold as bone.
 
As morning breaks a mist holds still –
above the lake that sunlight fills
 
to find a serpent rearing high –
like a rainbow toward the sky.
 
The creature almost caught the breeze –
that cooled the mist and swayed the trees
                                                              
as its body shone in lovely light –
that made its ancient eyes go bright.
 
Alas, the spirits cut it down –
and morning went without a sound
 
but for the saddest cry you knew –
if you were underwater too.
 

 

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