Poem

Do colours get an elusive soul ? A Poem by Gabriella Garofalo

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Do colours get an elusive soul? They do.
But now please turn the light on:
Weekends zeroed in
When she misspelt his Name,
Lackadaisical times –
Is she ready? Not yet, not for his Name –
Oh, cut it out with your freaky babbles –
Where are the skinny pale girls
Who hung around in seedy cafes,
Who dated o so wonderfully poised
Older men –
Beware, your soul hasn’t learnt yet
To fend off the sky,
As ever she smiles, says ‘thanks’,
Lets in a thrusting dark
Along with harshness from flowers,
Yes, from meadows, yes,
And to top it all water’s just her mirror –
Had they said no to the slithering wise
You’d be living like a fixed star
In an undeserved sky –
Spot on, sweetie, but I only give
To the panhandler who longs
For smiles and nods –
I only give to infinite.
 
 
2015-07-10-0002
 
 

Born in Italy some decades ago, Gabriella Garofalo fell in love with the English language at six, started writing poems (in Italian) at six and is the author of “Lo sguardo di Orfeo”; “L’inverno di vetro”; “Di altre stelle polari”; “Blue branches”.

 
 
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Hidden Agenda. Poem(s) by J. “Ash” Gamble.

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The Pulp
 
Our young fingers used to dig
through the rough outer shell
and find the sweet inner flesh
and that’s how we must live now
even in these last days of breath.
 
Say Yes
 
She enjoyed the chase
but when he dropped the ring
in her lap, she had to look out
the window a while and think,
holding him up on wires.
 
Hidden Agenda
 
It lingers, a serpent, right below
the surface of their words, ready
always to strike out with venom.
 
The Day He Stopped
 
Damn it, I’m going to stop, he said
and she had heard it before. Watched
him at the sink. Knew his well-rehearsed
lines. She knew when she left it would
be the same old blinking story.
 
Rassle
 
We used to call it rassling
and pinned each other to the floor
never knowing we let each other
win every time.
 
Benjiman Zephania
 

J. “Ash” Gamble is what might be called a late in life poet. His work has appeared in Dead Snakes and The Poet Community. He is from Ft. Myers, Florida.

 
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The Other. A Poem by JD DeHart.

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Heidegger wrote about this Other,
the self that brings its being
to our work.
He (she) reads the words,
uses them, cuts them and mends
them as needed.
But we must allow that process,
we must allow play with our
sentences, must allow the reader
to recline on the pillow we make
with verbiage.
We must be open when we write
so that the reader came come
inside the word and take a peek.
 
 
jddehart
 
 
JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. His chapbook, The Truth About Snails, is available from RedDashboard. Please find one of his several blogs at http://spinrockreader.blogspot.com.
 
 
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SWEET LITTLE SPERM. A Poem by Tony Martin-Woods.

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Keep moving your tale,
sweet little sperm.
Show us what you are made of,
thrive to compete,
reach for the stars
in England’s global dream.
 
Keep moving your tale,
sweet little sperm.
Don’t worry if it’s just white tissue
where you have to navigate:
The world’s changing fast,
don’t refrain to adapt
to exciting new terrains.
 
Keep moving your tale,
sweet little sperm.
We don’t want any
foreign,
faster,
bastard
sperm
to get there,
to get anywhere,
in fact,
before you.
 
Keep moving your tale,
sweet little sperm,
if you’re idle, you’ll be dead.
I know there is no egg,
but who needs more of them
if technology will soon
allow to replicate,
even in their solitude,
individuals like you
who can’t find a mate?
 
Keep moving your tale,
sweet little sperm,
it’ll do you good.
You don’t want to be fat,
like me,
or have cholesterol.
 
Keep moving your tale,
sweet little sperm,
it’s in your DNA
(and in my IDS),
like our sporting traditions,
discipline, skill,
our culture of duty,
glorious league tables,
sacrifice, routine.
 
Keep moving your tale,
sweet little sperm,
but do not demonstrate!
Do not complain!
Do not affiliate!
Put a brave face
and get on with it!
Don’t believe what anyone says,
just believe in you.
 
Keep moving your tale,
sweet little sperm.
Your welfare depends
on the vibrancy of your motion,
your speed up the stream,
and so does my wage,
and my job,
and the profits of thousands
of savvy businessmen
who trade
with the energy
of the movement
of your tail,
sweet little sperm.
 
 
zalaca
 

Tony Martin-Woods started to write poetry in 2012, at the age of 43, driven by his political indignation. That same year he also set in motion Poesía Indignada (Transforming with Poetry), an online publication of political poetry that he edits. Tony is a political and artistic activist who explores the digital component of our lives as a means to support critical human empowerment. He is also known in the UK for his work as an academic and educator under his non-literary name. He writes in English and Spanish and is due to publish his first book of poems in 2016.
 
 
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Ansatz für lieben | Geek love. A Poem by Prabhu Iyer

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1. Mystery girl, let me make an ansatz about you:
You are like an anti-gravity wave –
The farther I go, the more I pine for you.
Some kind of growing exponent:
Yes, you are the solution I ignore in my
Quotidian root-finding mission;
The annihilation – those killer eyes!
Now I see, we inhabit orthogonal planes;
 
2. Wonder-woman, let me make an ansatz about you:
You are elegance. Ripple-play
at pebbles, those dimpled cheeks,
deliciously symmetric – not Cartesian;
Guess it’s subterranean, Artesian,
in the k-space, transform domain,
my mind-space, where, girl,
you are a wonder of beauty and grace.
 
3. Magicienne, let me make an ansatz about you:
You are the particle for Love waves:
a lovelet; you tread shadow and space;
Dressed in that kaftan
when you walk in, I will sublimate.
Ether-maker, you solve the Hamiltonian,
I see now, how matter’s made.
 
 
Educated in India and England, Prabhu Iyer writes contemporary rhythm poetry. He counts the classical Romantics and Mystics among his influences. Among modern poets Neruda and Tagore are his favourites for their haunting and inspirational lyrical verse. Prabhu has also explored the meaning of modern art movements such as surrealism and cubism and their role in anchoring the society through his art-poetry. Currently he is based out of Chennai, India, where he has a day job as an academic scientist.
 
In 2012 Prabhu collected over 50 of his poems and self-published them on Amazon Kindle: Ten Years of Moons and Mists More recently, his 2014 entry made it to the long list from among over 5000 entrants to the annual international poetry contest conducted by the UK-based publishing house, Erbacce Press. His major current projects include a further volume of poetry, his first fictional novella and a planned series of translations of lyrics from Indian film music.
 
 
Editor’s Note: for further information see Interview with Prabhu Iyer at this site
 
 
 
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YOUR SHOULDER. A Poem by John Tustin

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I woke up
In the complete darkness
Reaching out for you
Like I always do
But this time
You were there.
I touched your shoulder
And you grunted.
I don’t know if the grunt
Was anger or assent
But you were there,
Beside me,
Asleep.
Where you belong.
I kissed your shoulder,
You sighed,
Then began to breathe deeply
Again.
I fell asleep
Completely
Satisfied.
 
 
 
P82A1454

 
John Tustin graduated from nowhere, edits nothing and has no awards. His poetry is forthcoming in Poetry Pacific, Leannan, Your One Phone Call, Bare Back Magazine and Newtown Literary Review. http://www.fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry/ is a link to his poetry online
 
 
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“The love of one woman” A poem by Franchot Ballinger

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      “The love of one woman
            W.S. Merwin


         
        How can there be such singularity?
        All around us are multiplications,
        Exponential effusions of professions,
        Of declaration, of protestation, of procreation.
        All the lavish universe refuses a center,
        Denies a focus—galaxy, nebula, black hole,
        All teeming and sucking and wildly flung,
        All’s akimbo, flailing, flying,
        Even the million seeds of the white pine
        Like stars carried promiscuously afar.
         
        But look—she who is a wealth of caresses,
        Well-spring of kisses, creates with me a center,
        A holdfast root to flower…as if
        We were the only and last of our kind:
        Precious and prayerful, all stem and stalk,
        Leaf and flavor, bloom and blossom;
        Seed and husk, juice of fruit and pulp.
        Sunk in guttering light and
        Darkening sweep of cosmos,
        Of our days, our lives, there is only
        This one love–avant-garde acceptance,
        Cool conspicuousness (if puzzling principle),
        Remarkable reaping.
         
         
        In retirement after nearly 40 years teaching English at the University of Cincinnati, Franchot Ballinger has continued volunteering with the Cincinnati Nature Center in various capacities and is also a spiritual care volunteer with Hospice of Cincinnati. His poems have appeared in numerous poetry journals in print and on-line.
         
         
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Parkinson’s Lament. A Poem by Leland Jamieson

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For G.K.J. (In her voice.)
 
What is this thing called Parkinson’s Disease?
The sickness robs me of my body’s grace,
and worse, it robs me of my mind’s trapeze
for agile thought. No longer do I ace
the mental tests I used to love to face.
Double vision’s dogged the play of my eyes —
so long, so much, I cry, “Is this life’s Prize?”
 
Reading — strong prizing bar to deeper thought
lifting the eyes above the self to see
what lies beyond the daily diddly-squat
of eating, sleeping, bathing, poops and pee —
is gone. Slow living death my apogee?
Can’t draw. Can’t paint. P.D.’s a heart-deep thorn.
I think it better were I never born.
 
 

Leland Jamieson
 
Leland Jamieson lives and writes in Monroe Township, New Jersey, USA. He has three collections of poetry — 21ST CENTURY BREAD (2007), IN VITRO (2009), — plus a handbook for self-taught poets-to-be and teachers-to-be, HOW TO RHYME YOUR WAY TO ‘METAPHOR POEMS’ (2012) also check out his latest book Sooner: A Crown of Sonnets & New Post-9/11 Poems.
 
 
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