Robin Ouzman Hislop

Any Available Exit. Poem by Ian Irvine (Hobson)

March 27, 2015July 15, 2014 by Robin Ouzman Hislop



I

In the quiet street an
       unacknowledged jettatore fixes upon
           a passing feline.

II

As the modern cars move
   parallel to grey pedestrians.
I take a strong dislike 
   to a malefic debauchee—he’s
   too shoulder-close at the newspaper stand.

III

Out and about after the airline trip
   I radiate ojas—apparently the women
of the city like treacle 
   (thankfully I do not smell 
    like the corpse of hatred).

IV

Though I have not met 
    the approaching academics, their
undulatory waves press me
    breathless against a concrete wall—
I almost drop the morning paper.

V

In the hotel lobby, whilst savouring 
    breakfast odours, a passing porter 
attempts to mesmerise me with potent od—
    I dodge the fluid emotion
make for the lift 
    and a workaday shower.

VI

Those aesthetic goldfish, multicoloured
    creatures of coral, frenzy up
as I pass—I experiment: my hands
    comfort or incite
at random, at toss of a dollar coin.

Seems 
    I am naturally beneficent—
    they will not need the fish-food
for six times seven days.

VII

Though diseased guests are
    locked in luxury suites
I am forced to brave the un-medicinal air
    of their corridor jaunts—right here:
the excrescent energy of a lover
    stifling to his beloved.
I’m exhausted as I reach the door
    of my own room.

VIII

Having showered I sleep
     to alleviate the tiredness, notice
     in the sprawling that
this hand 
     soothes the solar plexus
this other 
     draws living juice
from the liberated heart—the transfer 
           is intense
 a three hour dialysis.

IX

Over-looking
     dim-lit rectangles
solid with brick and concrete, 
     cold steel and mathematical, I feel 
a rush of love—this I direct,
     squeeze gently from the tea-bag
     (comes rich aroma)—then collapse
among conference paraphernalia, all
     strewn upon the double bed—
and know for the first time, with relief, 
    that your tumor will be benign
    (will heal itself).

X

It is the same day
     in a different city, and
the evening undresses, 
     opens the temporal gate
          wide enough ajar, that I
can place my foot in the door.

As I do, I clasp the relic
      you gave me—makes vivid
our charmed purpose.

You know that stone?
      I remember it
about your neck. 

As I imagine
     it positively glows
and I know 
     that you like me to think 
     about you, even
from a great distance.

Ian Irvine is an Australian-based poet/lyricist, fiction writer and non-fiction writer:

His work has featured in many Australian and international publications, including Fire (UK) ‘Anthology of 20^th Century and Contemporary Poets,’ (2008) which contained the work of poets from over 60 nations. His work has also appeared in a number of Australian national poetry anthologies, and he is the author of three books and co-editor of many more (including Scintillae 2012, an anthology of work by over 50 Victorian and international writers and poets). He currently teaches writing and literature at Bendigo TAFE and Victoria University (Melbourne) and lives with fellow writer Sue King-Smith and their children on a 5 acre block near Bendigo, Australia.

Links related to his work are as follows:

http://authorsden.com/ianirvine

http://www.scribd.com/IanHobson

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

Moving On. Haiku.Theme Loss & Grief. Nancy May

July 14, 2014 by Robin Ouzman Hislop

winter sunset
taking your last breath
I am with you

winter drizzle
our time has come
for us to part

winter night
I come back home
to an empty house

winter dawn
I am waking up early
since you left

spring dawn
the absence of your voice
I start to notice

spring rain
I understand now
we walk on new paths

spring sunset
in the passing of time
my heart opens

Nancy May has haiku published in Haiku Journal, Three Line Poetry, Poetry Quarterly, Inclement Poetry, Twisted Dreams Magazine, Vox Poetica, Eskimo Pie, Icebox, Dark Pens, Daily Love, Leaves of Ink, The Blue Hour Magazine, Kernels, Mused – The BellaOnline Literary Review, Dead Snakes, Danse Macabre – An online literary magazine, High Coupe, A Handful of Stones, Lyrical Passion Poetry E-Zine, UFO Gigolo, 50 Haikus, The Germ, Boston Literary Review, Be happy Zone, Every Day Poets, Cattails, Ppigpenn and Creatrix Journal. Haiku will soon appear in M58.

She is a monthly contributor at The Camel Saloon and Poems and Poetry. She has reached The Heron’s Nest consideration stage twice and the Chrysanthemum consideration stage once. She is working on her first haiku collection.

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

Smolder. A Poem by E. Darcy Trie

March 5, 2015July 13, 2014 by Robin Ouzman Hislop

found you

under a buttercup

this sun baby

that spoke in a lemonade language

about how our palms

line up like the

north star

*

we

slid like butter

against an iron night

flaked and crumbled

a swath of saffron

leaping in leprechaun steps

toward a brimstone morning

*

you

paused

like a catch

a hiccup

your indian summer voice

confessed

thread is too thin

breakable

and gently explained

that’s not ocher

see?

it’s just

yellow

*

here

it was agreed to leave

patches of sunlight

cut into sulfur strips

by your turning shadow

those golden bars

o

how they still

smolder

E. Darcy Trie, Nevada, United States of America

Darcy was born in Taipei, Taiwan in 1975, E. Darcy Trie is a Scorpio, Rabbit and matriculated in Little Rock, Arkansas at the age of two. She graduated at the University of Arkansas at Fayetteville with a B.A. in Psychology along with Minors in Drama and Asian Studies. Sensing that achieving her Masters would drive her to drink, she wisely opted to tour Asia in her early twenties (thanks to a grant provided by Bank Of Daddy), and in the year 2000, found herself in the heart of Beijing, China where she began writing due to the fact that crocheting was far too complicated and because the voices in her head would not shut up.

By 2004, she had completed two romances, one historical and one modern, and after viewing all nine seasons of the X-Files and three seasons of C.S.I, finished the first two series of the Snow novels and is currently writing the third installment. During this time, she has also had several pieces of her poetry published in various online poetry magazines.

Her passions and hobbies includes writing, reading (anything put out by Neil Gaiman), Disney movies, all divination tools such as Tarot, I-Ching, Runes and is an enthusiastic, although albeit amateur, astrologist/paranormal investigator. She is 5’10, weighs whatever she wrote on her driver’s license, owns a lot of black hoodies and is addicted to It’s A Grind’s Passion Fruit tea.

She is fluent in English, Mandarin Chinese, some French and once took a Zero Hour in Greek in high school. She hates mornings, coconuts, wire bras, and sincerely hopes that this is bio is long enough to fill up an entire page (doubled-space of course).

Ms. Trie currently lives in Las Vegas, NV because she adores $2.99 buffets, Paigow Poker, and that lovely 116 degree August weather. She dreams of writing best-selling novels that will delight and thrill her future fans and because she is tired of being a productive citizen and wants to go back to being a mooching hermit.

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

Pursued Poem by Joan McNearney

March 27, 2015July 8, 2014 by Robin Ouzman Hislop

My dark dreams scatter across asphalt streets. Rain splashes
ebony ink, winds snarling my damp hair. My mind in knots
and snags. Throat dry and raw as I step over cobblestones.

It follows me, this long shadow, waiting to cover me,to encompass me.

Now I am passing a field. My worn shoes sink into moist grounds.
The soil offers up scents of mild vegetation, promises of spring.
Gusts tangle trees and calls from lost trains resound through night.

It follows me, this long shadow, waiting to cover me,to encompass me.

I keep climbing a hill. My mind twisted into knots. How can
I breathe? There is no turning back. White walls meet me head-on.
I feel the rough concrete pressing my fingers as I push in.

It follows me, this long shadow, waiting to cover me,encompass me.

Finally swallowed whole by this black heart of night.

Joan McNerney’s poetry has been included in numerous literary magazines such as Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Blueline, Spectrum, three Bright Spring Press Anthologies and several Kind of A Hurricane Publications. She has been nominated three times for Best of the Net. Poet and Geek recognized her work as their best poem of 2013. Four of her books have been published by fine small literary presses and she has three e-book titles.

robin@artvilla.com

www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes

www.artvilla.com/plt

The Daddy Poem Series (i.-vii.) by Janet P. Caldwell.

February 11, 2019July 2, 2014 by Robin Ouzman Hislop

Janet P. Caldwell is currently the COO of Inner Child, ltd., Humanitarian, Reiki Master, Poet, Published Author, 5 degrees to separation, Passages and Dancing Toward the Light . . . The Journey Continues, many anthologies, magazines and more. To read more of Janet’s work please visit the links below.

www.janetcaldwell.com/

www.innerchildpress.com/janet-p-caldwell.php

www.facebook.com/JanetPCaldwell

(i.)

5 degrees to separation

I learned to count early
Read the bible too
Wrath, punishment
Seemed no absolution
Separate at five

In the morning
When I was defiled
Five screams a minute
Five shiny points from
The glass shards

Five fingers, to check off
As I calculate
In five minutes I’m clean
and new
Separated by five degrees

Five from what I don’t want
To remember, anything green
Black or brown
Make it easier
Five letters/numbers are my friends

The ceiling fan;
Wood, glass, white, brown, brass
Another set of quints
A quick escape
When I should need one

My rabbit hole with
Back-doors aplenty
Five senses all shut down
I’ve got good and can count
Before what might happen

Safe in numbers, hidden
When I separate from myself.

©2001-2014 Janet Caldwell

(ii.)

Weep for the Child that Never Was

Tears fall down my face
for a child with no name
A child filled with anguish
suffering disgrace.

How could they have lied
and treated her so
Why didn’t they love her
just let her go?

Buy her new clothes
fill her with song
Mess her up more
you can’t be wrong!

She grew up with walls
forever all around
The music you played
she couldn’t hear a sound.

You look at her now
with disgust in your eyes
You can’t see her though
she wears a disguise.

Hand-made by you
so carefully sewn
With coagulated drops
all her own.

You thought that you knew her
but there’s no way that you could
She’s not what you think
behind the mask stained with blood.

© Janet Caldwell 2001 – 2014

(iii.)

Daddy # 2

I Remember him

Glassy blue eyes
Fingertips brown
Black greasy hair
Forehead high
Child killer
Sick bastard

I Remember me
Scuttling like a rat
Running from a cat
Scattering across the tile

Like a roach on fire
When the lights came on
Better scatter, Daddy’s home!

I Remember (séances)
Straddling his head
The Shoulders so high
Calling up the dead
Peering in the sky
Let the dead arise
It’ll stop Daddy’s cries.

I Remember Abuse
Dancing to the belt
That beat me blue
Decorated with welts

Daddy, I Remember You

© Janet P. Caldwell 2003 -2014

(iv.)

Child’s Lament

I assume you’d say that I’m
As beautiful as I was when I was six.
I think … (I’m jinxed)
Mother Dear, what do you think of me now?

I really must know… I’m lost.
Did I say that I miss you?
I’m sorry if I haven’t.
I feel like Anne. Always have.

Did my beauty transpire when, I cooked your
Supper? Was I special when
Your sick fuck of a husband
Molested me? Made it easy for you,
well, answer me?

(If only in my mind, for my mind, I’m losing my mind . . . again)

Tell me, Mother, I want
To understand. (Significance?)
Myself, a wisp of value
I don’t have far to go.

It’s an indistinct trail, but
I try. Just explain it, please.
I forgive you.
Everyday.

And I will
I promise.
All the way to the grave.
Can you help me now???

©2002 – 2014 Janet Caldwell

(v.)

Sugar & Spice

Hey, Pom Pom girl, swingy
Red and blue, shake it
Shake it, cheer so loud
Until the acid bleeds your throat

Green eyes glaze and glisten
Smiling through the bile
You pretty little thing
For everyone to see, but
If they only knew, and could
See the scars beneath

The make-up, the crafted image
They wouldn’t be jealous
Now would they Blondie
Surely not of you?

You’re all grown now
If you believe a calendar
Hiding in a house, in plain
Sight, an icon for everything nice
And all that spice, so spice that nice

But tell me, what the
Hell happened to you?
A funny thing, frequent
Thoughts of suicide
A whispered middle-aged craze
Still hip, staying in style

You’re still pretty, my silly girl
Even with your head
Crammed in the toilet bowl

When did it stop being easy to cheer?
As you count the vomit chunks
Regurgitate love, empty
Your soiled soul.

Feeling better now?
No, I didn’t think you would
How about a pill? You know
That you can’t drink
Too many calories to consume
Remember? Pissing in the sink

I’ve been around, seen
Everything you’ve done
The things that you can’t handle
I saw you scrub and scrub.

Wipe at the dingy stains
From his dirty love, that stench
Perfume won’t hide.

You had to find a way
To survive the attentions
Of an unconvicted felon
That uncircumcised bastard
Who brought dinner home

You do it still you know
Those little tricks and games
Recount the vomit chunks
one-two-three-four-five

Hurry, hurry, hurry
That filthy secret’s visible
Flush, flush, flush!!!!!!

Tidily out of sight, out of mind
Your filth is in the sewer
A safe-deposit box
For unwanted truths

So you can facade the day

© Janet Caldwell 2002-2014

(vi.)

Father Figure

When Daddy bellowed, I couldn’t hear.
The octaves were past my recognition,
decibels too strong for understanding,
all finer points disappeared.
I recall being tired, taking care of the family.
I was ten and close to breaking, didn’t
need his yelling, or the strap that cut. It’ll
be over soon, bleed girl, just bleed.

I was fortunate, so very cared for in
public, what was my problem?
“Nothing, nothing”, I said, needing to
show deference, defiance and not dread.
The piss in my bladder burned, needing release.

I reached for the gun, shoved it in my mouth.
The taste of oiled metal gagged me. Why
should I suffer? Twisted the way shit can work.
It’s him, the hateful bastard needs to go

D
O
W
N

Going once, going twice.
Gone, I peed. Release.

Janet Caldwell 2001-2014

(vii.)

First Haircut

With her thin lips
she kissed Daddy
good morning.

She hated the sight,
the stale smell of him
and abhorred the facade.

Madness surrounded those
at 223 Deepwood Drive;
residential death.

At seven her mother was
working. Daddy had to get
the girl ready for school.

Cursing, he broke a comb,
trying to get it through
her waist length hair.

With a movement
that would startle the
comatose,

Daddy grabbed a butcher
knife and ambled over to
her chair.
(1-2-3-4-5)

She faced the wall, lined up the tiles,
attempting purple dreams.
Throttled screams, burgeoning walls
she could direct into tile accounting.

She closed her eyes tight now,
continued keeping ceramic book,
and waited.

Terror filled like before,
would he kill her
or beat her this time?

Her mind raced and flashed
to past images.
When spittle flecked her face,
welts and blood
decorated her ass.

An old waltz…
A dance that never ended pleasantly.
Grabbing her blond swirls in his nicotine
fist.

He muttered and sawed her spirit,
and hair, up to
Janet’s tiny neck.

Her tresses had been one of the few things
she liked about herself. The hair
once wrapped around her like satin
comfort.

It made her feel safe at 3AM.
Count girl count. (1-2-3-4-5…)
Another piece of the child died,
piled on the kitchen floor.

Janet Caldwell 2001-2014

Janet P. Caldwell Bio

Janet wrote her first poems and short stories in an old diary where she noted her daily thoughts. She wrote whether suffering, joyful or hoping for peace in the world. She started this process at the tender age of Eight. This was long before journaling was in vogue. Along with her thoughts, poetry and stories, she drew what she refers to as Hippie flowers. Janet still to this day embraces the Sixties and Seventies flower power symbol, of peace and love, which are a very important part of her consciousness.

Janet wrote her first book, in those unassuming diaries, never to be seen by the light of day due to an unfortunate house fire. This did not deter her drive. She then opted for a new batch of composition journals and filled everyone. In the early nineteen-eighties, Janet held a byline in a small newspaper in Denton, Texas while working full time, being a Mother and attending Night School.

Since the early days Janet has been published in newspapers, magazines, and books globally. She also has enjoyed being the feature on numerous occasions, both in Magazines, Radio and on Several Web Sites. She has gone on to publish three books. 5 degrees to separation 2003, Passages 2012 and her latest book Dancing Toward the Light . . . the journey continues 2013. She is currently editing her 4th book, written and to be published 2014. All of her Books are available through Inner Child Press along with Fine Book Stores Globally.

Janet P. Caldwell is also the Chief Operating Officer of Inner Child www.iaminnerchild.com/, which includes Inner Child’s Ning Social Site innerchild.ning.com/, Inner Child Newspaper paper.li/1innerchild/1326347159, Inner Child Magazine www.innerchildmagazine.com/, Inner Child Radio www.blogtalkradio.com/inner-child-radio and The Inner Child Press Publishing Company www.innerchildpress.com/.
To find out more about Janet, you may visit her web-site, Face-book Fan Page and her Author page at Inner Child Press.

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

Alzheimer’s and the Soul of Man. Poem. Sara L Russell.

February 11, 2019June 30, 2014 by Robin Ouzman Hislop

Bright colours in a pool of crystal clarity
reflecting all the spectrum of our days
slip down into a quagmire of nonentity
with nothing left to sully or erase.

This cold disease that strips a man of human soul,
is worst of all the ravages of time;
behold those eyes, devoid of everything you stole,
yet blissfully unknowing of your crime.

This bright man, worn away to barest minimum,
this one-time writer and great raconteur,
this poet – will not travel to Byzantium;
his world is fading to a senseless blur.

Sara Louise Russell, aka PinkyAndrexa, is a UK poet and poetry ezine editor, specialising particularly in sonnets, lyric-style poetry and occasionally writing in more modern styles. She founded Poetry Life & Times and edited it from 1998 to 2006, when she handed it over to Robin Ouzman Hislop and Amparo Arrospide; Robin now runs it as Editor from Poetry Life & Times. She is currently founder and Editor of the daily paper.li journal Poetry Lifetimes, Poetry Lifetimes ; which is a sister publication to Poetry Life & Times. Her poems and sonnets have been published in many paper and online publications including Sonnetto Poesia, Mindful of Poetry and Autumn Leaves a monthly Poetry ezine from the late Sondra Ball. Her sonnets also currently appear in the recently published anthology of sonnets Phoenix Rising from the Ashes. She is also one of the first poets ever to be published on multimedia CD ROMs, published by Kedco Studios Inc.; the first one being “Pinky’s Little Book of Shadows”, which was featured by the UK’s national newspaper The Daily Mirror, in October 1999. (Picture link for Mirror article)Angel Fire

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

Paris Haiku by Virginie Colline.

August 5, 2015June 28, 2014 by Robin Ouzman Hislop

after the rat race
chasing clouds and field mouses
on the Butte Montmartre

the Leica clicks
the right scene at the right time
no doubt in his mind

caress and murmur
the cat is asking for more
like the rest of us

Jacques Prévert by Izis

Originally published in Dagda Publishing.

Virginie Colline lives and writes in Paris. Her poems have appeared in The Scrambler, Prune Juice, The Mainichi, Frostwriting, Prick of the Spindle, Mouse Tales Press, StepAway Magazine, BRICKrhetoric, Seltzer, Overpass Books, Poethead, Silver Birch Press, The Bangalore Review, Creative Thresholds, Storyacious and Yes, Poetry, among others

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

“How Dali Painted Us” Poem by Ty Drescher

June 27, 2014 by Robin Ouzman Hislop

I turned my back, defeated,
destroyed, cold-shouldered
and colder-hearted.

In solace my broken pieces returned
to a “puzzled” whole, locking itself
inside the safe of my chest (its code
lost in translation between sciences
of language and mathematics)

— like a thought, understood
but impossible to articulate
(maybe for a good reason).

You crack the combination;
a virus changes DNA,
slithering up spiral ladders
where clarity confronts obscurity.
Should I self-diagnose cancer?
Or is your etching into my identity
the continuum, the upgrade?
Your wit has taken over me.

So far I’m the best game you’ve played
but I’m getting brave, I took you out;
it’s my turn to swing (pitch it fast)
— lips to lips, make this moment last,
fire’s ablaze, blasting frozen past.

I melt like my soul’s the most
persistent of time,
my mind’s liquefied over the wishing
that someday your heart will be mine —
knees on concrete to propose,
could anyone really want me
for eternity?
And how did you feather hope
from ashes?
My Imagination takes flight
with that very phoenix.

Thoughts spin-spin
like a fast-ticking clock,
zooms through space,
then it brakes, halts,
stopped at the wall:
I’m studying your face,
mesmerized by those eyes
as we stand in line
for a haunted house
— yet the true fear is you
reeling me into your arms
and I smile, as bubbly
as wielded glass lava.

(But I like how you shape
without changing me.)

Bio:

Tyler Drescher (commonly known as “Ty”) is an aspiring entrepreneur, full-time co-manager of a local pizzeria and part-time student at Daytona State College, residing in the eastern suburbs of Orlando. Despite busyness, Ty finds time to write, his style a mix of “slice of life” and metaphor with a surreal touch. Although he writes mostly poetry, at heart he hopes to compose a novel for publication someday, exploring themes such as action-adventure, science-fiction and dystopian future. Along with writing, he enjoys playing and watching soccer and going to the gym after work. Born February 27th in 1992, he is 22 years young, still learning the ropes of adulthood, identity a work in progress. Ty hopes to be a great leader of his own business (likely in the food industry) and, at the same time, hopes to inspire others through his writing.

If you would like to get in touch with Ty Drescher:

E-mail: tydrescher@gmail.com
Facebook https://www.facebook.com/ty.drescher
Poetry: http://allpoetry.com/mica

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

Share and Enjoy !

Share and Enjoy !

Share and Enjoy !

Share and Enjoy !

Share and Enjoy !

Share and Enjoy !

Share and Enjoy !

Share and Enjoy !

Share

Copy short link