http://www.aquillrelle.com/authorrobin.htm
In a bright lit night, he lays his bed
deep in hues of Lapis Lazuli.
In the corners sit the winds
dressed like musical chairs.
An olive ferments in a pastel saucer
into mossy green minutiae
where a painted flower swallows
against its form, liquid spaces
in lean reflections towards a bottomless well.
Veils swim on the verge the flower
defines drawn against
an olive splash of skin
in the glazed lacquer
gloss to the anonymous images.
A cock crows cockle doodle do
discrete, concrete, on the fronds
ruffles in the red sprocketed throat
a screech of feathers
stilled in the flower’s passion
in the pool’s hoard.
The gibbous mound
a crimson flash in the curtain
through which he passes
beneath the bridges.
A stairway in pastel hue
laps tranquilly cool
to a hole in a wall
a cavernous breach which retains
the scream of the arch
scrawled on a screen
defiant in the stance of plumages
hordes of epiphanies
buried in petrified pastel ripples.
Below the rift of its eye
the sealed beak that will open
gleams on the lee.
Throughout the entire circumference
can be seen the tilt giving rise
to both translucence, transparency
where the acid, oil separate
only to appear to coalesce
in the almost pure liquid sheen
containing its own light
even in the presence of the vegetative
silt at the bottom of the bowl.
At the moment of its brimming
at that line of definition
in a room that roams without corners
he must rise with a chalice of blood for lips of shades
where the vertigo edge of the flower distils the dish
together with the quantities of immeasurable throng
on watery groves billowing with ivy bowers
sprung over hidden lairs of concealed hoards.
Night begins and the dogs draw nigh
scavenging for scraps
yapping at the walker’s naked ankles
in the dust of unknown alleys.
The broken lights of the bazaar
spangle with glittering promises
the eyes of the dusky beggar
sunk in their sockets maze
in crooked cul de sacs embargo
amidst the furls of silk that foil
the flickering lantern niche
throttled in an olive tray
whilst the flower’s blur does not allow
the stroke that blurs its horizon
and all beneath to return.
It is helpless in its light
a camouflage to visitation
to the sigh of the rock’s flow
so few, so few, so few.
The olive saturates its wish
outlining monuments amidst the rubble
in momentary musical explosions
and the spell is cast.
Fireworks like a diaphanous lithograph
print an emblazoned sky
on the craggy mountains of the night
where comets play at kites
& glistening the eerie beak hisses.
Robin Ouzman Hislop is on line Editor at Poetry Life & Times at Artvilla.com. His numerous appearances include Cold Mountain Review (Appalachian University, N.Carolina), The Honest Ulsterman, Cratera No 3 and Aquillrelle’s Best. His publications are collected poems All the Babble of the Souk, Cartoon Molecules, Next Arrivals & Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems and translations from Spanish of poems by Guadalupe Grande Key of Mist and Carmen Crespo Tesserae (the award winning XIII Premio César Simón De Poesía). In November 2017 these works were presented in a live performance at The International Writer’s Conference hosted by the University of Leeds, UK. A forthcoming publication of collected poems Off the Menu is expected in 2020.
poetry
A Poetry Prose Story Poem An Epitaph For Charlie Phillips by Richard Lloyd Cederberg
Poetry-prose Story-Poem
AN EPITAPH FOR CHARLIE PHILLIPS
As good as talking is,
Silence is better
Now for me…
If you don’t mind,
I’ll just sit here quietly,
Thinking of an old man’s life,
And how, with his great loud eyes,
He would clatter frequently
Of being wrongly seen,
His lessening sentience, and
The joy he’d feel writing piecemeal
Poems for those few who cared…
.
Intercourse was tentative at first… And
.
With a certain regard
I’d listen (a bit) cautiously,
To Charlie’s weird ramblings about
How imperceptible he thought his life had started,
But how it had developed into something larger,
And more meaningfully oriented, despite
How hopelessly frayed he felt,
Drifting,
It seemed, from
One issue to another,
He speculated often why (so many)
Efforts of his had sunk (so often) into doom,
And sinking still were sunk despite his best attempts,
And the piety he displayed towards those who
Construed his life with contempt…
.
As I came to learn;
Something ate at Charlie always…
.
Possessed
Of vain conceit,
His shifting moods
Began to wear on me,
Particularly those times he
Would lash out, cussing bitterly,
Because of some notion he had that
I wasn’t listening properly…
And always then
I could hear the knot
In his throat quavering as
He yanked-on his old Army boots
And stomp away into the mud, blood,
And urine of another timeworn battle…
.
Despite all sincerity,
There was seldom any clarity
(With him)
And the same
Behavior played-out
With exhausting regularity…
But always, after his huff, he would find
Me without fail, (no matter where)
And approach me nervously,
At first,
But after a few swigs
(From his tarnished old flask)
He would relax, and
Being more confident then,
I would see (deep in his eyes)
A nub of a thought
Rising up slightly
But it wouldn’t be clear until
The booze had had its effect and then
He would look me in the eyes, apologize, and
Petition Jesus earnestly for words to share…
.
And when the words came,
(Which they always seemed to do)
He would scribble them down
And speak them aloud,
As his eyes
Glistened with
Newfound joy, and
His heart burst with hope.
But then, always,
(As the effects
Of the whiskey lessened)
A dark gloom would fall upon him,
And he would ramble bitterly about the
Details of his life as if they were vanishing…
.
Out of the blue one evening
.
A police officer contacted me;
They’d found Charlie
Unconscious,
And, from all appearances,
Robbed by a thug, on the very
Bench he claimed his own.
So I threw on a coat
And rushed out to see,
If there was something I could do…
Maybe, I thought, he was distraught, or bruised,
Or somewhat confused, and just needed help from me…
.
But what I’d thought was for naught…
.
Because
What I was shown,
After being ushered in,
Was a man lying on a gurney–
Drawn and raddled– in a frigid room,
And ‘round his arm the plastic tag read
DOA…
Nodding nonchalantly,
The attendant handed me
A plastic bag with his personals
And a dog-eared notebook of poetry;
Uneasily, with a welling emotion,
I thumbed through
And was shocked to see
The last entry was written for me.
.
It read:
.
Our friendship never once decreed
A friend in need a friend indeed
An honest friend who sees a need
Will not impede a friendly deed
To pettiness we won’t accede
An honest friend will force no creed
And so it was for you and me
Your friendly deeds did all succeed.
Remember me.
Charlie…
.
So let the night sky cover you
Now that you’re gone Charlie, and let
Your poetry weave a bridge to heaven’s gate.
Take heart, old friend, because of what you believed, the
Higher mercies will take both your hands now and usher you
Into the happy life you were never given on this Earth…
.
richard lloyd cederberg
2019
__ ________________________________________
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY 2019
RICHARD was born in Chicago Illinois. He is the progeny of Swedish and Norwegian immigrants. Richard began his journey into the arts at age six. For twelve years he played classical trumpet. Then… the wonderful incursion of British music influenced him to put down the trumpet and take-up acoustic and electric guitar. Richard began writing songs and lyrics and poetic construct. He performed in 17 professional bands. He played clubs, halls, cabarets, and concerts in Europe, Canada, across the USA, Alaska, and even Whitehorse in the Yukon Territories. Richard’s band SECRETS was one of the top four Pop-Jazz bands in San Diego for 5 years. In 1995 Richard was privileged to design and build his own Midi-centered Recording Studio ~ TAYLOR & GRACE ~ where he worked until 2002. During that time, he composed, and multi-track recorded, over 500 compositions. Only two CD’s were compiled: WHAT LOVE HAS DONE and THE PATH. Richard retired from music in 2003…. RICHARD’S POETRY uses various inspirations: nature, history, relationships (past and present), parlance, alliteration, metaphor, characterization, spirituality, faith, eschatology, and art. He relishes the challenge of poetic stylization: Rhythmical, Poetic/Prose, Triolets, Syllable formats, Story-Poems, Freeform, Haiku, Tanka, Haibun, and Acrostic. Richard has been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize.
.
PUBLISHED BOOKS: The MONUMENTAL JOURNEY SERIES integrates adventure, mystery, and historical fiction. Journey on the schooner Heimdall with Dr. Gabriel Proudmore, John, Helga, Betsy, Garrett, Captain Olaf Amundsen, Rorek Amundsen, Anders (the Norse) Vildarsen, and Rolf the Wolfhound…
1. A MONUMENTAL JOURNEY…
2. IN SEARCH OF THE FIRST TRIBE…
3. THE UNDERGROUND RIVER…
4. BEYOND UNDERSTANDING…
5. BETWEEN THE CRACKS… a spinoff from the MJ Series…
.
NEW BOOKS being written or compiled:
A NEW RACE OF HuMAN’S… an eschatological drama. Follow the lives of Grant Callarman (the Christian), Peter Pegarian (the plagiarist/conman), Haddon Hathaway (the Humanist), and Professor Wilmington Jonah (the doubting intellect) as they experience the traumatizing global translation of the saints, Daniels 70th Week, and the Millennium, where they all are destined to meet once again.
UNDER SILENT BRIDGES… a diversified collection of Richard’s poetic invention, short-stories, and essays. MEC’s photography.
Janet Kuypers’ 9/21/17 “Seasons Change” Dripping Springs, TX “Thirsty Thursday” show

Chicago poet and Austin resident Janet Kuypers was honored to join poets and musicians at the Dripping Springs City Hall, where she was asked to do a feature for Thirsty Thursday on September st 2017 (9/2/21, or 20170921).
Included in her poetry show, she started with guitar from John while singing and performing her poem “True Happiness in the New Millennium (2017 Dripping Springs edit)”. In the remainder of her show, her poetry reading about all of the seasons as they change was accompanied by music recordings from the HA!Man of South Africa (including “big drops falling on my walk” and “the cold feeling of touch”, from his “Hotel Music”). The entire show was also accompanied by a random art generation on a computer screen of her images from around the world.
[tubepress mode=’playlist’ playlistValue=’PLYa-AZK78_hoQDsslIhPFa2uoETIBU3Ma’ ]
Before the show started she also released a chapbook of all of the short poems she read in this show, and this chapbook “Seasons Change” is still available online even during her reading, so anyone could (and can) download the chapbook titled “Seasons Change” as a PDF file for free any time.
Read the poems and songs from the from the “Seasons Change” show:
“True Happiness in the New Millennium (2017 Dripping Springs edit)”
“Knew I Had to be Ready”
“Original Snowbirds” (in her book “(pheromemes) 2015-2017 show poems”), “Autumn (2017 Dripping Springs / Bahá’í Faith Center edit)”
“Marry you in Autumn”
“Sepia Leaves”
“Quell the Vibrancy”
“Seasons 1998”, and “Death Takes Many Forms”
“Quiver with no Home”
“Viewing the Woman in a 19th Century Photograph”
Janet Kuypers’ 9/2/17 “Energy with poetry and Music” Austin Baha’i Center show
On September 2nd 2017 (9/2/17, or 20170902), Janet Kuypers (with accompanying electric guitar by John) performed in an Austin poetry feature through Expressions Poetry with Music! at Austin’s the Bahá’í Center that incorporated poetry into music, in a show titled “Energy with poetry and Music” (that is also available in the “Energy with poetry and Music chapbook”.
[tubepress mode=’playlist’ playlistValue=’PLYa-AZK78_hrW9JjlntDfjLTKt31pVAYO’ ]
https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list= PLYa-AZK78_hrW9JjlntDfjLTKt31pVAYO
Read the poems and songs from the from the “Energy with poetry and Music” show:
“Victim”
“There I Sit”
“Tight Top Affair”
“Knew I Had to be Ready”
“Writing Your Name”; and song
“What We Need In Life”
Download the chapbook:

Poetry, National Literature Prize 2018, Francisca Aguirre, Translated from Spanish by Amparo Arróspide & Robin Ouzman Hislop
Francisca Aguirre, Premio Nacional de las Letras 2018 El jurado la ha elegido “por estar su poesía (la más machadiana de la generación del medio siglo) entre la desolación y la clarividencia, la lucidez y el dolor" Francisca Aguirre, National Literature Prize 2018 The jury chose it "because its poetry is (the most Machadian* of the generation of the half century) between desolation and clairvoyance, lucidity and pain" * In the tradition of Antonio Machado https://elpais.com/cultura/2018/11/13 Francisca Aguirre was born in 1930 in Alicante, Spain, and fled with her family to France at the end of the Spanish Civil War, where they lived in political exile. When the Germans invaded Paris in 1942, her family was forced to return to Spain, where her father, painter Lorenzo Aguirre, was subsequently murdered by Francisco Franco's regime. Aguirre published Ítaca (1972), currently available in English (Ithaca [2004]), when she was 42 years old. Her work has garnered much critical success, winning the Leopoldo Panero, Premio Ciudad de Irún, and Premio Galliana, among other literary prizes. Aguirre is married to the poet Félix Grande and is the mother of poet Guadalupe Grande. From "NANAS PARA DORMIR DESPERDICIOS"
LULLABIES TO LULL THROWN AWAYS
by FRANCISCA AGUIRRE
Translated by Amparo Arrospíde & Robin Ouzman Hislop ***
NANA DE LAS SOBRAS A Esperanza y Manuel Rico Vaya
canción la de las sobras, eso sí que era una nana para dormir el hambre. Vaya canción aquella que cantaba mi abuela con aquella voz que era la voz de la misericordia disfrazada de voz angelical. Porque la voz de mi abuela nos cantaba la canción de las sobras. Y nosotras, que no conocíamos el pan, cantábamos con ella que las sobras de pan eran sagradas, las sobras de pan nunca se tiran. Siempre recordaré su hermosa voz cantando aquella nana mientras el hambre nos dormía.
**
LULLABY FOR LEFTOVERS To Esperanza and Manuel Rico Well, a leftovers song, that truly was a lullaby to lull hunger to sleep. Wow, that song my grandmother sang with a voice that was the voice of mercy disguised as the voice of an angel. Because my grandmother´s voice sang for us the leftovers song. And we, who did not know bread, sang together with her that bread leftovers were holy, bread leftovers shall never be thrown away. I will always remember her beautiful voice singing that lullaby while hunger lulled us to sleep. ** NANA DE LAS HOJAS CAÍDAS A Marián Hierro Casi todo lo que se pierde tiene música, una música oculta, inolvidable. Pero las hojas, esas criaturas parlanchinas que son la voz de nuestros árboles, tienen, como la luz, el agua y las libélulas una nana secreta y soñadora. Lo que se pierde, siempre nos deja un rastro misterioso y cantarín. Las hojas verdes o doradas cantan su desamparo mientras juegan al corro. Cantan mientras los árboles las llaman como llaman las madres a sus hijos sabiendo que es inútil, que han crecido y que se han ido a recorrer el mundo. **** LULLABY FOR FALLEN LEAVES To Marián Hierro Almost everything which is lost has a music, a hidden, unforgettable music. But leaves, those chattering creatures who are the voices of our trees have -- like light, water and dragonflies -- a secret dreamy lullaby. That which is lost to us, always leaves the mysterious trace of its song. Green or golden leaves sing of their neglect as they dance their ring a ring of roses. They sing while trees call to them as mothers do calling their children knowing it is futile, as they have grown up and left to travel the world over. ** NANA DE LAS CARTAS VIEJAS Tienen el olor desvalido del abandono y el tono macilento del silencio. Son desperdicios de la memoria, residuos de dolor, y hay que cantarles muy bajito para que no despierten de su letargo. En ocasiones las manos se tropiezan con ellas y el pulso se acelera porque notamos que las palabras como si fueran mariposas quieren bailar delante de nosotros y volver a contarnos el secreto que duerme entre sus páginas. Son las abandonadas, los residuos de un tiempo de desdicha, relatan pormenores de un combate y al rozarlas oímos el tristísimo andar de los presos en los penales. ** LULLABY FOR OLD LETTERS They give off the helpless smell of neglectfulness and the emaciated tone of silence. They are memory´s cast offs, residues of pain and should be sung to in a low croon so as not to awaken them from their lethargy. Sometimes your hands chance upon them and your pulse races because we realize that words wish to dance before us as if they were butterflies and tell us again the secret sleeping inside their pages. They are the neglected, the remnants of unhappy times, recounting the details of a struggle and as we brush them we hear the saddest steps of prisoners in jails. ** NANA DEL HUMO La nana del humo tiene muchos detractores, casi nadie quiere cantarla. Muchos dicen que el humo los ahoga, otros piensan que eso de dormir al humo no les da buena espina, que tiene algo de gafe. El humo no resulta de fiar: en cuanto asoma su perfil oscuro todo son malas conjeturas: se nos está quemando el bosque, aquella casa debe de estar ardiendo. El humo es un extraño desperdicio, tiene muy mala prensa. Es un abandonado, es un incomprendido; casi nadie recuerda que el humo es un vocero, un triste avisador de lo que se nos avecina. Y por eso, cuando lo escucho vocear con impotencia yo le canto la nana del silencio para que no se sienta solo. ** LULLABY FOR SMOKE The lullaby for smoke doesn´t get many supporters, almost nobody wants to sing its song. Many say smoke stifles them, others think to lull smoke to sleep makes them queasy, that it´s a bit of a jinx. Smoke is not trustworthy: as soon as it rears its dark head it conjures up conjectures -- a forest fire, a house burning down. Smoke is a weird remain, it´s got bad reports. It´s a reject, it´s a misunderstood thing; almost nobody remembers smoke is a herald, a sad forwarner of what looms over us. That´s why, when I hear it calling out helplessly, I sing to it the lullaby for silence so that it doesn´t feel so lonely. *** Translators: Amparo Arrospide (Argentina) is a Spanish poet and translator. She has published seven poetry collections, Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinación en dos actos y algunos poemas, Pañuelos de usar y tirar, Presencia en el Misterio, En el Oido del Viento, Hormigas en Diáspora and Jaccuzzi, as well as poems, short stories and articles on literary and film criticism in anthologies and in both national and foreign magazines. She has received numerous awards. Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times his publications include All the Babble of the Souk and Cartoon Molecules collected poems and Key of Mist the recently published Tesserae translations from Spanish poets Guadalupe Grande and Carmen Crespo visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds) and his latest Collected Poems Volume at Next-Arrivals