Poets

Lord’s Player. Poem. Phillip Larrea

March 27, 2015January 17, 2014 by Robin Ouzman Hislop

(from the title “At Play in the Fields of the Lord”- Peter Mathiessen)

Often times, I am stuck sitting
For hours and hours on end
In between meetings
On which the day’s success depends.


Some odd spot, no amenities.
Maybe a coffee
In a parking lot
Descending to serenity.


This ridiculous pilgrimage
Not between temples dark.
More like an amusement park where
Madcap harlequins pillage plots.


She asks, “How did it go today?”
“Oh, fine… bad… okay.”
The best part, I can’t really say,
Was spent in the Lord’s field- at play.

***



***

Bio: Phillip Larrea was born and raised in Sacramento, CA., lived in N.Y.C. and Northern New Jersey most of his adult life, but has since moved back to Sacramento “where the New York City winters aren’t bleeding me.” (Paul Simon- The Boxer”). He studied poetry with Thom Gunn and Karl Shapiro at the University of California at Davis during the late seventies, and then all but abandoned writing until 2011. Since 2011, Phillip has had poetry published in over sixty journals and anthologies, is the author of Our Patch (Writing Knights Press), We the People (Cold River Press) and hundreds of non-fiction essays about the economic conditions of the average working household.

***

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Riding Dark Horse Nightmare(3).Poems.Joan McNerney

March 27, 2015January 10, 2014 by Robin Ouzman Hislop

(i.)

to prison library

where sewer

backs up flooding

cages of books

my brains are washed

by a short scientist

detectives trail me

arrested by police

giving up to

handcuffs ether

now on train

calendars peel

off cars

1942 1962 1982

2198 1892 1294

passengers screaming

screaming off track

burning 3rd rail

in swamp struggling

to reach green reeds

i am a

fixed target

paper duck

*pull trigger*fire pin*thru barrel*into muzzle*

b u l l e t s h o t

paper duck

mowed down.

***

(ii.)

an executive

showed me in

i, shy

as an orphan

her charming face

thru sewing room

viewing beige cabinets

bolts of silk

tactical prints

her life in threads

swatches impressive

floral

discerning glances

make me hurry

out the rear

but she invited

me only to see

her material things

& feel them

unattainable

all handsome houses

have well guarded gardens

lush chrysanthemums

smothering me

dog-faced.

***

(iii.)

–

“A” train

brassy blue

electric

close eyes

watch points

like stars

think now

how insignificant

compared to train

speaking for itself

stars known

in no language

burn shoot

thru

tiger’s eyes

brain in

constant action

reaction

to what we do not know

plans of distant stars

galaxies floating as

“A” train

silver worm

slides under

big belly

of city

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.

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My Cumbria.Poem.Lulu Gee

March 27, 2015January 5, 2014 by Robin Ouzman Hislop

Oh! My heart’s in Cumbria,
That for so long I’ve missed,
The blue grey hills and valleys
Of early Autumn’s kissed.
For not since young I’ve seen it
Beneath a northern sky,
When at dawn in soft grey mist
I watched the clouds race by.

The lakes ‘neath mountain summits
Are deepest peacock green,
With trees aflame in Autumn,
The like you’ve never seen!
For colours rich in texture
Are painting gold the hills
While heathers bathe in purples,
Ahead of winter chills.

All through this golden silence
By silver tarns aflow,
The low-land sheep are grazing
Where tangled breezes blow
And o’er beyond in Keswick,
You’ll see the ospreys there,
Among the blue of shadows
Where sights of them are rare.

Yet should you walk yet higher
To climb the tallest peak,
There’s snow as white as crystal
Where clouds will brush your cheek.
My heart so loves this landscape
That Autumn’s long desired,
The lakes and fells and mountains,
Where poets are inspired.

The bronze and gold this season
Will nestle on the brink,
Of shores beside pearl waters,
Where trout and salmon slink.
Oh! My heart’s in Cumbria,
That for so long I’ve missed
But hope prevails I may return
To keep an Autumn tryst.

—

Lulu

Lulu Gee lives on the south east coast of England.
She’s had a varied working career starting at a theatrical shoemakers designing and making shoes for most of the west end shows in London, then as a hotelier and finally in finance for a corporate cryogenic company until she retired, and now is a proud published author of three poetry books.
She now writes full-time with her two dogs Teddy and Dolly never far from her side in her newly acquired cottage in the Kent countryside, known as the garden of England.
Her first book, ‘Dolly’s Wonderful New Life’ is a story in verse of the rescue and re-homing of her beloved border terrier, Dolly Daydream, while the second and third were both written in conjunction with the poet Dan Lake.
Her latest character Miss Twizzy is about to be published and hopefully be in the shops for Christmas 2013
At the moment she is working on a collection of fantasy poetry that will appeal the child in all of us.

Her diverse poetry can also be found at http://a.allpoetry.com/Lulu_Gee

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Season of Black. Poem. Sara L Russell

March 27, 2015December 23, 2013 by Robin Ouzman Hislop

For winter I wear black.
not one spark of colour
shall break my mourning for this
season of death.
It speaks of the way I feel inside;
the chill stab of sorrow,
the darkness of hurt long concealed.

There will be no yellow
until daffodils appear;
no blue until the bluebells,
no pink until the cherry blossoms
scatter their petals
over the long-thawed land
to make way for the coming of the goddess of spring.

Black is the opposite of white,
of the flat white snow;
black’s like a sheltered cave.
Let me hibernate in shadow
draw the curtains
close my eyes.
Wake me only when springtime finally arrives.

***

Sara Russell Thanks Robin, Rebekah, Rab & Val… this poem was originally written in 2011 because I never liked the season of winter and suffer from S.A.D., but since the tragic death of my sister this year (early December) it seemed to fit my mood, to post it again online. Trying my best to have a normal Christmas… of course you never know when things are really actually OK until suddenly they’re not, and someone special is gone forever.

***

AKA @pinkyandrexa Poet, Artist, Cartoonist, Goth, Time Traveller. Friend of cats everywhere. Former Editor of Poetry Life & Times. … See also http://creativethinkersintl.ning.com/profile/SaraLouiseRussell plus over a million poetry links online.

***

Sara Louise Russell , whose internet name is “PinkyAndrexa”, is a UK poet who has earned a well-deserved reputation as a highly respected twenty-first century poetry publisher and poet. She was the founder and Editor-in-Chief of Poetry Life & Times, one of the world’s premier poetry E-zines, which ran monthly from 1998-2006 under her tutelage. She has always been in on the scene with graphic design, animation, 3D art, web design, sign writing, photography, film and poetry recital videos. Sara is founder and current editor of Paper Li. Poetry Lifetimes. http://paper.li/pinkyandrexa/1321389290.

Her poetry has been published in Artvilla, AuthorsDen, Hello Poetry, The New Pleiades Anthology of Poetry (Describe Adonis Press, Ottawa, © 2005), Sonnetto Poesia, Word Machinist and more, as well as in several e-books by Kedco Studios Inc. (USA). Her skills as a sonneteer are particularly remarkable as featured in the recent publication of the anthology of sonnets Phoenix Rising from the Ashes. Friesnen Press Ottawa Canada Edited by Richard Vallance.

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World by the Arse (A Sermon).Poem.Karen Springer.

March 27, 2015December 21, 2013 by Robin Ouzman Hislop

Yepper,
–and they certainly do!
Now listen up,
I did not say “ass”
so this isn’t a vulgar poem
but we are talking
an ancestral home
(O.K., thirty-eight years
is close enough)
almost totally rehabbed,
hers and his caddies
with matching vanity plates
(Yes, there IS a doctor
in the house.
“What kind?” folks ask.
Who the hell cares
besides other insecure doctors?)

Moving along,
Social security is their pin money
And, you’re right,
their place at the shore
is in the cheap seats
but it’s on the water,
in the woods
and twenty years paid for.
The unintelligent and lazy
are wary of them.
Still, they are admired
by reasonable, hardworking individuals
because they are the validation
of what is fair and good.
2.

Indeed, they are
a fine and generous couple.
Her weaknesses
are his strengths
and, of course,
vice versa.

For so many years
they struggled
through the vagaries
of her semi-profitable career,
hung in there
when the stock market
went ever so way down
took, and are taking, care of their
senile old moms,
(and ten stray cats)
as they
secularly humanistically
hug trees
and subscribe to
Mother Earth.

You bet,
those sweet bastards
have a tight hold on
the glutei maximi
of our great planet
and they deserve
that firm, unrelenting grip.
Amen, my friends.

Karen R. Springer

BRIEF BIOGRAPHY OF KAREN R. SPRINGER

Karen has been writing poetry since the age of ten. She has three, as to date, unpublished anthologies:
101 Speakings of the Giddy Gypsy, High Noon and My Pistol’s Smoking, and Getting There.
Much of her energy for the past forty years has been devoted to her career as an administrator in
several southern New Jersey school districts where she served as superintendent and/ or principal.
Her degrees include a BA and MAT in Music; as well as an MA and Ed.D in Public School Administration.

After her formal “retirement” from public education, Dr. Springer served as Senior Director of Academic Affairs at thecollege level, an award winning after school/summer administrator in an urban setting; as well as Head Master of a private school. She is currently an education consultant who lives happily with her husband of 41 years. They both enjoy their rustic summer home in the woods at the Jersey shore. She also loves going to the opera; as well as singing it. Karen has recorded a CD of her original song entitled, “Bipolar, Brite, and Blue”.

This feisty lady summarizes herself in the opening quatrain of her poem, “The Good Ol’ Girl”:

I’m just a simple good ol’ girl
who drinks her coffee black
Sips scotch as strong as iodine
and drives a Cadillac.

Email:docsterpoet@comast.net

webpage: www.docsterpoet.com

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Categories Karen Springer, Poets Tags Poem, poet, poetry

Killing the Tigers. Poem. RC de Winter

March 27, 2015December 16, 2013 by Robin Ouzman Hislop

there are not many like me left in the world fierce loners wishing only to be free to live the life we are meant for not long ago we roamed unmolested scorned by some ignored by most but free - free! wandering at will on the periphery of homogenization able to live by our talents and our wits then quietly the roundup began the truthtellers first followed by the crazy the poor the sick the old and all the others who could not be cogged into the great machine built by the worldwide worshipers of mammon my glorious fur matted and dull from being confined in this small space (prescripted by bureaucratic souls in bespoke costumes paid for in blood sucked from slaves) with ragged claws i tear at invisible bars that separate me from my natural terrain if i were free to find the empire poachers who boxed me up it would be a fierce quick end for those abductors

but dawn comes
and with it
great gray tumbrels
to carry us

useless scribblers and daubers
dangerous malcontents
prophets and nonbelievers
away

© 2013 RC deWinter ~ All Rights Reserved

RC deWinter is a photographer, digital artist, poet, essayist and singer-songwriter currently living and working in Haddam, Connecticut. She has been shooting photos for over 25 years, using both traditional and digital SLR equipment. Her digital work is created using a variety of software and includes oil paintings, watercolor sketches and drawings.

Her work has appeared in print, notably in Uno: A Poetry Anthology, Pink Panther Magazine, Arts Creation Magazine, The Sun Magazine,2River View, Poetry Nook, Garden Tripod and The American Muse as well as in many online publications.

In additionto her personal online portfolios, Ms. deWinter’s art is exhibited on of several internet-based showcases, including The Trillium Gallery, Saatchi Online, ARTbracket, The Art for Cancer Gallery, Copperflame Gallery, b-uncut and Artists, Writers and Photographers in the Raw. ABC has licensed several of her paintings to be used as set decor on the television series Desperate Housewives.

Ms. deWinter is honored to be the first digital artist invited to exhibit her work at an October 2011 solo show the Arts of Tolland Gallery in Tolland, Connecticut.

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Transitus Veneris. Poem. Audio. Howard D Moore.

March 27, 2015December 12, 2013 by Robin Ouzman Hislop

Author Notes

Hear it read by the author- Soundcloud

http://snd.sc/L3SJFQ

***

the calculus of certainty

upon a rotational spin,

a speck in space and time

such vast circumstances

reduced to the precision of man-made clocks;

we see beyond sight

reckon beyond our reach, measure

vague ponderables–

reason is a lever, long enough

to heft the weight of time

and Venus

so few days apart after so many years in wait

love and loss, heart filled, heart empty

when life is a day glowing like the Sun

from rise to setting , to the spike of light

wisped away, last hiss of a candle

pinched to blackness by the sea.

When you sit near stars that love us from afar

when you are Love, when I want you near

yet you are distant and the end of day

comes to clear the slate I have been given.

When you travel across the space of my heart

and life lifts away, into the space of

mysteries without solution

when you are yet Love, and I

am soon gone;

and Vee-nus!

a name so old, it brings the face

of forgotten Gods, when

ruins were young, when an ancient word

finds new dark-skinned divinity, those curved stone

statues blush envy.

On pavement filled by busy feet in day,

quicker steps in neon red night and

Latin beats, rappin’- booty shakin’

blue jean seams stretched to the point

of sheeeeer delight!

When a smile is a deep invitation, ohhh so fine

in the haze of wine and smoky laughter

She is Love in store-bought hair, half a skirt

deep mascara stares and flirts, a stroll

that melts the Saint within man

and waist moves that mans-up the boy

Muse-ic makes the hips roll, waist

revolve- an orbit of bends and side- to- side slides

a blouse that wears only part of her…

She is a certain kind of Love for few who dare

for every wish of tropical air without cares

oblivion becomes a thing far, far beyond

some hours, some sweet sweat, heavy breaths,

and wanting…“Venus…Baby…”

“come cross the flo’ with me…”

***

***

Bio

Howard D.Moore resides in Detroit, MI., USA. He is a writer and government relations consultant. His professional, educational background is in law and public policy. He writes poetry, political and social commentary blogs, literary styles in fiction, poetry, prose,and Eastern forms . He has published two books of prose, and several magazine articles and anthologies. His current projects include a novel, and a book of poetry expected in January, 2014.

—

Nothing moves so fast as your future becoming your past

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Categories Audio, Howard D Moore, Poets Tags audio, performance, Poem, poet, poetry, Venus

An ideal of absent beat. Poem.Sonnet.Laura Lamarca

March 27, 2015December 9, 2013 by Robin Ouzman Hislop

When once would I conform to such a state
as to confine such audible mistakes
than whence I came admiring this fine art,
no more a whim–thy splendor to impart.
And though thou preach in education’s name
do I become less potent or more sane,
to pander to thy utmost vantage point…
nay…I attempt thy scorn to then disjoint.
For credibility has drawn an air–
a feel as fine as grandeur, such a flare!
Shalt thou surpass this passion for defeat
and shall I sew thy weakness to up-seat.
Do not, say I, feign worth in tower’s gait
till thou hast chewed the bile that doth thee sate.

***

About The Author

Laura Lamarca is a 39 year old widowed mother of three teenagers originally hailing from the northern county of Lancashire, but now residing on the South coast of England.

Laura is a professional poet and author of three books of poetry and one Chapbook to date, the latest book was released in December 2011 by GJBPublishing.co.uk titled “Donec Alius Diei”.

Laura is also the creator of 18 globally recognized forms of formal poetry, these include “The Licentia Rhyme Form”, the “La`Tuin” and the L`Arora” forms. She has also recently created 3 more forms…these are the “Jordec Verse”, “La Dan Form” and a collaborated and highly technical form with Poet Jem Farmer titled the “LaJemme”.

In her spare time, she teaches the art of expression through the written word to pupils all over the world at no cost to them. She also writes hugely for charity and actively supports charities that raise awareness for cancer, third world plight, dolphins and gun and knife crime.

She has the belief that there is a brighter day for all, given the compassion and commitment of others…one voice can raise a thousand voices, a thousand voices can raise the whole world. She is of the belief that ultimate truth does not exist, that everything is personal perspective and probable outcome.

***

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Categories Laura Larmaca, Poets, Sonnet Tags Poem, poetry, sonnet

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