A River Run… Poem by Sullivan the Poet.

Run River Mike Sullivan

 
 
Bubbling, taunting, time’s dark tide,
each eddy swirled,
in sagging flesh;
In days, in hours, speeds our slide,
our being hurled,
to tomb from crèche.
No sooner fecund than denied;
Disdain time’s breakneck, lethal ride.
 
Crack boned, withered, stooped and bent,
each moment run,
folds ‘pon its mate;
Life’s blood, creeping, near to spent,
each rising sun,
adds yet its weight.
And thus each second ‘thout relent;
In crushing, marketh man’s descent.
 
Weak’ning, feebled, sinews strain,
to beg their frame,
once more erect;
Wanting, trying, through the pain,
to brief reclaim,
lost self respect.
How vengeful gods make years our bane;
When potent youth’s spent wraiths remain.
 
Mirrored, frowning, lines portray,
each furrow ploughed,
without consent;
Scribing deep each steel edged day,
In veins stood proud and wrinkles lent.
Thus revelling in man’s decay;
Does time our swift’ning span display.
 
Knowledge, hard won, weights its worth,
‘gainst failing mind,
that scarce recalls;
Wisdom, harboured, from man’s birth,
To nought consigned,
wets where he falls.
A lake of tears, a cup of mirth;
To silent slake some acrid earth.
 
Hard life, hard passed, fades to grey,
consigned to dust,
all trials borne;
Each pain endured, cold away,
each love each lust,
cut down like corn.
No mem’ries triumph o’er decay;
None worthed above another’s fey.
 
Living’s harvest, loving stored,
lays doomed to soil,
to rank decay;
Each ear, each grain, scant reward,
all life’s cruel toil,
passed dark away.
No bellies filled with living’s hoard;
Its sum from nought, to nought restored.
 
Conq’ring, lacking, coined the same,
no winnings pays,
nor debt foregoes;
Dies cast, random, call the game,
Yet not one day’s,
their falling owes.
Sham spoils the cheated victors claim;
When whispers time the Reaper’s name.
 
Comes the darkness, comes the why,
we pain to live,
for naught but this;
To bear each blow, breathe each sigh,
our all to give,
for one cold kiss.
In death’s embrace from womb we lie;
Each moment lived to naught but die!
 
 
© Sullivan the Poet 2008
 
 
A River Run…’is an excerpt from:
In A Mirror Darkly..
 
Published by Sullivan Publishing
ISBN 978-0-9568876-3-4
Copyright: © Sullivan the Poet
Printed in the USA by Lulu.com
 
The Poet Sullivan

 

BIO:
Sullivan The Poet
Born a British subject of an English mother and Irish catholic father in the late January of ‟53; „Sullivan‟ spent his early years with his family in the Far East. Returning with his parents to England in the late fifties where he was subsequently educated.
 
Thereafter pursuing what could perhaps be best described as a broadly colourful career; with callings as diverse as gun dealer and consultant, freelance journalist, magazine editor, commercial photographer, publican, fleet limousine operator, lecturer and an unpaid „Special Needs‟ tutor: To name but a few – even a brief spell under the flag enjoying the Queen‟s shilling!
 
Throughout which the only truly common thread has been his writing, an enduring passion never completely abandoned; Fuelled by his lifelong fascination with not only the beauty of the English language and its literature in general, but the richness and diversity of its poetry in particular. A fascination well illustrated in the almost perverse multiplicity of styles and subject matter contained within this slim volume and others…
 
Widely published in mediums as eclectic as his work, from poetry anthologies to text books; wall hangings and mixed media fine art works: „Sullivan‟ is seemingly content to share, with anyone and everyone, and in whatever poetic medium takes his fancy; His works, his philosophies, his passions…
 
Dave ‘Hoppy’ Bennett
 
http://www.sullivanthepoet.co.uk
 
 
robin@artvilla.com
www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes

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Shiva’s death. Poem. Bhuwan Thapaliya.

 
Then the dream came back again.
It often comes these days.
 
Manjushree with a sword in his hand,
rushing toward Chobar.
 
Men, working in the farm,
complementing each other.
 
Colourful streets, women wearing bright red saris
dancing, bear a resemblance to the festival of Teej.
 
Thundering moan of Kali Gandaki
and the concentration of dazzling mountain peaks.
 
Salubrious aroma of incense sticks
and the burning earthen lamps.
 
Snow roosters and the barking deer’s
walloping here and there.
 
Then, all of a sudden…..
Brutal wind meandered
through the serene forests of time.
 
Then someone, may be a priest,
showed a black shirt, belonging to the God himself.
But not a single drop of rain fell on it.
 
Someone then shouted,
“Machchendranath is angry, Nepal has lost her fertility.”
 
I saw Lord Shiva standing in front of me,
blood dripped like tears down his forehead.
 
I saw dead body of Lord Shiva floating on the
Lake Gosainkund. Saw Nagkunda, Bhairavkund,
 
Saraswati Kund and Suryakund clad in fabric white,
with shaven heads, mourning the Lord’s death.
 
 
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

 
 

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Graced. Poem. Scott Hastie (Audio Video Mathew Toffollo)

 
 

Graced with the chance to be here,

Even if only fleetingly,

Embrace whatever comes your way

And, in so doing,

However enchanting

Any treasures you uncover

Might be,

Their loss should never be your concern.
 
 
In this matter

Make your heart your queen

And follow her as faithfully

And bravely as you are able,

Just as swelling fruit

Hurries towards its own sweetness,

Shine whilst you can,

Without fear,

For nothing is as inevitable

As it seems here.

No, not even the fissures

Of loss and decay

We are oft led to expect

In this temporal world.
 
 
For whilst we fuss and fudge

The lines we are given,

Above, below and all around us,

Lingers the energy of countless others

Who already know for sure

That, just as it was long, long ago,

When they first found themselves

Enraptured,

So it is for them, again and again…

And now with only a dark empty hollow,

A feeble space of earth left in between.
 
 
Such is true joy’s absolute certainty,

Its slow lit fuse that burns holes

In the shabby shroud of death forever.
 
 

Scott Hastie Poet
 
Scott Hastie is a successful British born poet and writer, who has been has been commercially published in the UK for over twenty years now. He currently has seven titles in print, including a novel and three collections of poetry. In recent years, the spiritual tone in his maturing poetic voice is starting to draw increasing acclaim from a worldwide audience, especially in the U.S. India & the Middle East.
 
 
Scheduled for global release, in both e & print editions this September, Angel Voices which includes featured poem ‘Graced” is by far his most substantial collection of poetry to date, featuring over 40 brand new poems never before seen, either in print or on the net. This title builds much more on the mature poetic voice that first began to emerge in Scott’s previous title Meditations and also features ALL readers recent favourites, as showcased on his popular website. For much more info, some spectacular advance reviews for Angel Voices , , as well as pre-pub order options , also go to www.scotthastie.com
 
 
Other links:
 
Official twitter account: @scotthastiepoet
 
Facebook fan page: www.facebook.com/scotthastiespiritpoet 
Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scott_Hastie

 
 
robin@artvilla.com
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A Little Wisdom. Audio Video Poem by Robin Marchesi


Robin Marchesi, born in 1951, began writing in his teens, much to the consternation of his mother, the sister of Eric Hobsbawm, the historian.

In 1992 Cosmic Books published his first book entitled “A B C Quest”.

In 1996 March Hare Press published “Kyoto Garden” and in 1999 “My Heart is As…”

ClockTowerBooks published his Poetic Novella, “A Small Journal of Heroin Addiction”, digitally, in 2000.

Charta Books published his latest work entitled “Poet of the Building Site”, about his time working with Barry Flanagan the Sculptor of Hares, in association with the Irish Museum of Modern Art.

He is presently working on an upcoming novel entitled “A Story Made of Stone.”

Me

http://www.amazon.com/A-Small-Journal-Heroin-Addiction/product-reviews/0743300521

http://www.illywords.com/2011/09/down-the-rabbit-hole-a-glimpse-into-the-wonderland-of-barry-flanagan/
 
 
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Black Dog. Poem. Richard Lloyd Cederberg

BLACK_DOG

This black dog follows me-
Relentlessly
Passing as a shadow
Amongst shadows
 
For when I am
Particularly vulnerable,
Incisors snap rhythmically;
Primal blood-hunger seeking
Satisfaction in its quest to
Find the easiest part of
Me to tear into
 
“Its cunning
Is wolf cunning,”
(London wrote) and
There is nothing I can do
To appease the brooding
 
As it lies in wait
For strength to falter,
Or for a cessation of defenses,
Or for weary eyes (fixed on surviving)
To lose their joyful glimmering
 
This black dog follows me-
Relentlessly
Passing as a shadow
Amongst shadows,
Watching doggedly
For an open window,
Or some doorway,
Unlatched,
To allow it ease of entry


 

AUTHOR PIC

SHORT BIO
August 2007 Richard was nominated for a 2008 PUSHCART PRIZE. Richard was awarded 2007 BEST NEW FICTION at CST for his first three novels and also 2006 WRITER OF THE YEAR @thewritingforum.net … Richard has been a featured Poet on Poetry Life and Times Aug/Sept 2008, Jan 2013, Aug 2013, and Oct 2013 and has been published in varied anthologies, compendiums, and e-zines. Richard’s literary work is currently in over 35,000 data bases and outlets. Richard’s novels include: A Monumental Journey… In Search of the First Tribe… The Underground River… Beyond Understanding. A new novel, Between the Cracks, was completed March 2014 and will be available summer 2014.
 

Richard has been privileged to travel extensively throughout the USA, the provinces of British Columbia, Manitoba, Alberta, and Saskatchewan in Canada, the Yukon Territories, Kodiak Island, Ketchikan, Juneau, Skagway, Sitka, Petersburg, Glacier Bay, in Alaska, the Azorean Archipelagoes, and throughout Germany, Switzerland, Spain, and Holland… Richard and his wife, Michele, have been avid adventurers and, when time permits, still enjoy exploring the Laguna Mountains, the Cuyamaca Mountains, the High Deserts in Southern California, the Eastern Sierra’s, the Dixie National Forest, the Northern California and Southern Oregon coastlines, and the “Four Corners” region of the United States.
 

Richard designed, constructed, and operated a MIDI Digital Recording Studio – TAYLOR and GRACE – from 1995 – 2002. For seven years he diligently fulfilled his own musical visions and those of others. Richard personally composed, and multi-track recorded, over 500 compositions during this time and has two completed CD’s to his personal credit: WHAT LOVE HAS DONE and THE PATH. Both albums were mixed and mastered by Steve Wetherbee, founder of Golden Track Studios in San Diego, California.
 

Richard retired from music after performing professionally for fifteen years and seven years of recording studio explorations. He works, now, at one of San Diego’s premier historical sites, as a Superintendent. Richard is also a carpenter and a collector of classic books, and books long out of print.


www.richardlloydcederberg.com
www.authorsden.com/richardlloydcederberg

 
 
robin@artvilla & http://www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes

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For My Son. Poem. Charles Bane, Jr. Spanish translation by Sacramento Roselló and Marcela Tietjen

 

I will not waiver or protest
that the wait is hard to bear;
The parent-to-be is patient
for the child he cannot see, knowing
that eternity is rounding unknown
seas to fishing nets. My
beloved, I wait. I stand upon
the beach, my arms are wide, you
must swim to the sound of me
and lights undreamed. We shall be
coins of sides alike and sleep together
in the shade. You are the growing
length of me that lays
upon a floor of leaves
and says, there is no end to light
or closing of the day. There are only
clarions that pierce the dark
with mirror songs like these.
 
 

Para mi hijo
 

No renunciaré ni me quejaré
de que la espera es difícil de soportar;
El futuro padre es paciente
ante el hijo que no puede ver, sabiendo
que la eternidad rodea de
mares desconocidos las redes. Querido
mío, yo espero. Estoy de pie
en la playa, mis brazos extendidos,
debes nadar hacia el sonido que emito
y hacia las luces inimaginadas. Seremos
como monedas de caras similares y dormiremos juntos
en la sombra. Tú eres una extensión creciente de mi
que yace
en una manta de hojas
y dice, no hay fin para la luz
ni se acaba el día. Hay solo clarines
que penetran la oscuridad
con canciones especulares.
 

Spanish translation by Sacramento Roselló and Marcela Tietjen
 

Photo: Charles Bane Jr. with his son. Credit: Capehart Studio
Charles Bane & Son

Charles Bane, Jr. is the author of The Chapbook ( Curbside Splendor, 2011) and Love Poems ( Aldrich Press, 2014). The Huffington Post described his work as “not only standing on the shoulders of giants, but shrinking them.” A contributor to The Gutenberg Project, he is a current nominee as Poet Laureate of Florida.

 

robin@artvilla & http://www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes

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They Smile With Stiletto Eyes Poem by Joseph Armstead

 

something twisted and brittle
grows imperiously
under the burning glare
from a distant dying sun
 
crippled souls swimming
orange panoramic skies, open and vast,
the high frontier
streaked with thin purple scars
and elongated, julienned cuts
of flashing metallic azure,
 
the bloom reaches towards
the ruins of Heaven
 
in the perfume of its rosy musk, the voices of ghosts…
 
They smile with stiletto eyes at tomorrow.
 
Dialogue:
 
Her — “It’s the sound of the telephone,
don’t you see, that electronic bleating,
that sudden, startling interruption
of your thoughts, its the absence
of THAT
which is the thing that makes me saddest…”
 
Him — “Black coffee fills my leaden limbs
with the acid from my numbed mind,
I’m just tired sometimes, weary,
lethargic,
and it helps me summon the energy
to face the dragons beckoning me
from the wasteland at the edges of the map…”
 
Narrator — “They converse in an alien tongue,
their out-of-synch voices pitched
just beyond the range of human hearing,
but they speak volumes to one another
through the staring bleakness of their eyes.
A disjointed exchange of discontent,
it is a gift of unwanted predestination.”
 
The audience is confounded.
Their ennui is as solid
as the bars to a prison.
 
Her — “I can’t stop crying,
knowing I’ll never
feel that way again.”
 
Him — “They won’t break me.
I won’t let them. I owe it
to all the wounds that mark me.”
 
The audience blinks and remains unmoved.
Vision is defined as hypercompetence
in
discernment
or
perception.
And if they see anything, they see dissonance.
 
They smile with stiletto eyes at the image of a strangled eternity.
 
in ashes, the gnarled flora hungers,
seeking nourishment
in the crumbs left
from a banquet of the dead,
and an entrepot of melody
releasing its goods,
an unfinished symphony
from an alienated, tone-deaf
orchestra pouring in
through the colorful, ragged tears
in the fabric of unstable Reality,
washes like the ocean tide
across a celestial Sahara
 
starlight feeds the thirteenth rose of hell
 
and the velvety carmine blossom
unfurls its bloody petals to catch
tainted brilliance
cascading
onto the specters
of a concrete and steel
anthill,
staring
 
They smile with stiletto eyes at weeping nothingness.

 

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

 
Uroborus Mike Collins
 

robin@artvilla.com

www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes

 

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Wave Function. Poem. Amparo Arrospide

 

 
A chair
a carbon copy of a chair
in this instant void of presence
a mirroring echo
your solitude
 
you gaze on persons absent, not things
you listen for a whisper in the dark
a moon sits on a chair
you are watching that reflection
 
in an instant suspended in no time
like a Schrodinger´s cat
you are vanishing
 
**
 
Your vanishing might be an act of faith
what then is your awakening to this side
where things recover their temperatures
molecules, particles and atoms
their specific weight,
you are petrified in time
no wonder you prefer the other side
 
**
 
No musician has come to awake you
no unspoken words of a charm
silence knows how to weave the cobweb
of your slumber
if you would only let me breathe gently
on that side of the whisper
 
to tenderly lie by your side

 

 
OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
 
Amparo Arrospide (Argentina) is a Spanish writer 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, such as Cuadernos del Matemático, Cuadernos Hispanoamericanos, Linden Lane Magazine, Espéculo, Piedra del Molino, Nayagua. She has received awards. Together with Robin Ouzman Hislop, she worked as co-editor of Poetry Life and Times, a webzine, and coordinated the Spanish sonnets section for the international anthology The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes (ed. Richard Vallance, 2014).
 

robin@artvilla & http://www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes

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