Poets

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

by

(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

***

 

editor@artvilla.com
robin@artvilla.com

www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes
www.facebook.com/Artvilla.com

 

 

Share and Enjoy !

Shares

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

 

Share and Enjoy !

Shares

Loch Ness Monster. Poem. Mitch Montagna

by

 

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.
 

 

Share and Enjoy !

Shares

The Julianic Manifest.Sonnets Nos. 1,2,3,4. Poem. Frederick L Light.

by
Notes on the EmperorJulian:

About the year 310 the Emperor Constantine established Christianity as the state religion of the Roman Empire. Julian, who reigned from 361-363, reestablished paganism as the observed faith. He wrote a number of philosophic works in defense of the old religion and also confutations of certain Christian doctrines. After he perished in a battle in 363, the new religion was restored in state. During his reign large groups of monks attempted to ravage some pagan temples.

 

The Julianic Manifest No. 1

The Julianic Choir
“The best revival for the heart of Rome
Began with Julian, the most unbeguiled
Believer in the gods, fit to become
The world’s hieratic emperor, who smiled
With philolympian felicity
Before Homeric sculpture, fain to laud
Ideals. The strongest heart of justice he
Exerted in his cardiac urge for god,
From Christian hubris godly Hellas glad
To save. His orderly demeanor, mild
In dominance, with torrid monks, as mad
As dragons in the sun, irreconciled
Remained. Monastic ravagers he met,
Firmly repugning at this dismal threat.”
                                       
                                          
                                         The Julianic Manifest No. 2
The Julianic Choir
“Julian’s rejuvenated vision, near
In light to Zeus, relit devotion to
The gods and furthered (in propitious fear
Of them) Homeric guidance as the true
Religion. Reverence for sublimity
This tutelary monarch never lost.
His laws, as awesome as propriety,
Restored Olympian stature uppermost
In schools. This victor’s mandates, vanquishing
Fanatics, actuated tolerance
For mythic creeds of mickle gods. To bring
Minacious priests away and miscreants
Deter he practised the serene pursuits
Of restoration, who’d replant his roots.”
                                         
                                          The Julianic Manifest  No. 3
The Julianic Choir
“Lest over hellenismos hubris come
With aggravated ravages in kirks
Of Zeus, permitting bishops murdersome
To prove in sanctimonious riots and works
Of Christian breakage, Julian shall prevail,
Who as our raiment of defense remains,
Invested rigorously with the mail
Of God. More prowess rises from his brains
Than from the breast of Ares. He’d preserve
The gentlest heritage of happiness
In metre. Mythic precepts he’d observe
In statues, not Olympian stones suppress
Obtusely nor let master paradigms
Of mental peace be subject to these times.”
                                         
                                           The Julianic Manifest  No. 4
The Julianic Choir
“Not breaking heartfuls of regard, resolved
With Julianos on solicitude
For Rome, in renovation we’re involved,
As far as hellenismos is endued
With Zeus’s favor. If the heartiest care
Be not too careful, we’d assert his reign.
If cardiac approbation may declare
It, men resourcefully exploit again
Hellenic lore. A lucid war he’s waged,
Lest Galilean ignorance more toxic grow.
Against monastic criminals engaged,
Julian, the aptest guardian, shall outgo
Their prevalence. These Christians, prone to craze
Propriety, would right proportion raze.”
Frederick Light. 2013

Share and Enjoy !

Shares

Shards.Poem.Gillian Stokes.

by

Hard words like bullets hit me

searing comments tear my skin

mute me , take away my power

your anger flails me.

With one word your scorn burns me

knocks me to the ground

wounds me deeply

searing my soul

killing me

slowly

 

and it never heals

 

I am wound upon wound

scar upon scar, building up

layer upon hurting layer

 

somewhere  inside deep inside

in a tiny dark little corner

my soul lies curled , furled

amoeba like

 

you say you know me , do you know me ?

how?

I don’t know me,  I know  a thousand me’s

I act

every day I act out a thousand personas

trying to find the one that fits the moment

trying to find the one that pleases the world,

you, myself, friends

 

sometimes I reflect back what is shown to me, thrown at me

good or bad

aggressive or loud

weak, soft ,emotional

maybe it works better being …

if I reflect you then

maybe you will like it better

if I am more you than me

 

but these people aren’t me

 

they are all just shards of the mirror of me

that’s fracturing with the pain of my life

my hurt , my sorrows, my tears

my wastes, my losses, my losing

my cheating myself

 

she’s crying out that child, that soul

that me…

she’s not gone forever

 

I see glimpses of her all the time

when I push aside the debris

 

most times though I leave her be

maybe to protect  her 

maybe because she is so long gone

such a distant memory

that I am losing the reality of her

maybe

 

maybe cos I still don’t know who

I want to be when I grow up

 

maybe cos it’s easier to blitz out,

avoid, compartmentalize, be the me

I am in the given moment, just exist

respond / react, just do what is expected

damp down the little sparks, one moment, over-react the next

anesthetize, avoid , procrastinate,

be mundane

just exist

just be an amoeba

 

so who is the amoeba now, her or me

 

but she won’t leave me alone this soul

of mine

she has a siren’s  call, this Pandora soul of

mine.

She cries to me for release

 

do I let her out ?

do I dare

 

who will  love her, hate her the most

you or me?

 

will we

can we

 

accept her

allow her?

 

do you care?

 

Copyright  © Gillian Stokes  31 May 2009

 

Share and Enjoy !

Shares

Haiku & Poetry. Poem. Joseph Randell Sherman

by

end of day
waves caressing shore
master artist painting sky
~ ocean sunset song

nightfall
birds retire wings
fall asleep with setting sun
~ shadows disappear

child of autumn
an imaginer
contemplating vivid dreams
~turning painted leaves

until the sunset
i am but a shadow
dancing briefly
across the meadow
until the sunset
takes my hand

 Copyright Joseph Randell Sherman 2013

Share and Enjoy !

Shares

Griefs Home. Poem. Amparo Arrospide

by

 

Perhaps grief is a home
with a haughty ceiling and a bolted door
where you feel so comfortable, sometimes,
that you do not hear the steel s edge
slashing the tapestries,
suspended on the scented air:
it is heliotrope blended with brimstone,
seeking to settle in the corners;

only the window stands
between the limit and you.

Arduous walk, in silence you listen to the ancient voices,
firewood for this grief
always starved of you,
as demanding as a newborn child
whom you already love.

The door opens ajar and you close it:
There is nothing to be afraid of.

***

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

***

Amparo Arrospide (Argentina) is a Spanish poet and translator. She has published four poetry collections, Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinación en dos actos y algunos poemas, Pañuelos de usar y tirar and Presencia en el Misterio as well as poems, short stories and articles on literary and film criticism in anthologies and both national and foreign magazines. She has received numerous awards. Together with Robin Ouzman Hislop, she worked as co-editor of Poetry Life and Times, an E-zine.

Share and Enjoy !

Shares

Calligraphy. Poem. Martin Collins

by

 

In another life I was mute,

written words were my voice.

So I lay awake

sculpting them

into a script 

that could stain your mind.

I inked my history across my body

presenting myself as artefact

and all the stares, scorn

and petty human hatred

did not feel like trauma any more,

they felt like value.

 

******

 

http://errantwords.bigcartel.com/

http://www.facebook.com/UroborusJournal

http://errantwords.blogspot.co.uk/

 

Share and Enjoy !

Shares

Share