Archive 6
December, 2013
VerseWrights Welcomes Poet Sharon Brogan
 Sharon Brogan
Let us examine the symbolism of dreams The falling dream. The flying dream. The dream in which you lose your teeth. The abandoned kittens, the lost dogs, the infant floating in its cradle on the lake. The woman weeping, alone, in the forest. The beast with an urgent message, a critical missive you don't understand. You fall, and someone offers his hand. You reach out, but your fingers slip through one another like light, like water. You walk through the rooms of your life. They are laid out, one by one, like a rail- road flat with no corridors, no hallways. You watch your own life pass as though in a mirror, somehow reversed, somehow not quite as it was. You arrive at now. You wake in the fog of morning, slanted bars of light on the ceiling. These dreams wrap the shoulders of your waking hours, a hooded shawl for your long, flat days. Sharon Brogan is a poet, digital artist, and art journaler who lives in western Montana, but who "feels an abiding connection to southeast Alaska." Her professional life was focused in the field of social services, where she she was everything from a social worker to program director for a number of organizations. She spends time now at home, a place she shares with abundant wildlife. "Montana," she states, "taught me roots; Alaska taught me light, and dark; rain, and breathlessness." She has been published in a variety of Web venues, including Postal Poetry, MatriFocus, MiPOesias Magazine, Masthead, The New Verse News, MiPoradio, and Abolone Moon. She maintains a delightful and eclectic website of her work at Watermark: a poet's notebook. Read. "The Woman," A New Poem From Louise Hastings
 Louise Hastings
The Woman I know there is grey in the sky at dawn for how otherwise could the mountain stream run so pure and the gardens of suburbia remain so green? I look up and see a woman looking out, lost, a lot like me, a girl clinging to the space between two breaths where flesh meets air, air with indigo, rainbows ending in the sea. Yet how the waters run so dark now, from the fracking stations and factories. They blame global warming for all this water but the clouds are angry; they throw their fists at mankind’s disregard. The woman must find comfort where she can and trembles, gazing up at the moon and stars. Read the poetry of Louise Hastings Read a profile of Louise Hastings Poet Shan Ellis' Latest Work, "Genesis"
 Shan Ellis
Genesis
Silence reverberated after the storm, a quiet acquiescence, particles of life itself trickling down an open palm through closed fingers of thought. Murmurs of past ghosts brushed Infant like, lost in the dark of vacuum as if searching for a symbiotic mother, some reason unknown for weary travel to cease. In the fireweed below long dead present tenses stirred shifted by the audacity of the visitor, an audience of one empowered with vision or delusion, Machiavellian ideals of justice It quietened after lightening passed the watcher blinked non-plussed with the beauty of the dawns gentle kiss. Ignorant of unfurling petals between her toes. Read the poetry of Shan Ellis Read a profile of Shan Ellis A "Psalm" from Poet Gary Maxwell
 Gary Maxwell
Psalm thou hast raised me up from my bed of misery: a nest of needles, every midnight nuisance known, no cellphone signal. free range like chicken, every bedpan overthrown, now set on side streets where the pigeons print my name on waiting windshields. sprung from the pokie, granted gifts of air and sun, I wait their winking - winsome Barbies bearing beer while I sit waiting. Read the poetry of Gary Maxwell Read a profile of Gary Maxwell Poet Dunstan Carter Is Now On VerseWrights
 Dunstan Carter
Blink There are words All over the floor, A dustpan and brush, Awkward, Swollen pauses, And a silent, Two person queue For the bathroom. We let each other talk Between the barrage of sighs, Confused monologues crackling Like refrigerated bonfires, Explanations rattling Like loose roofs on a train - Then nothing But the whistle Of the wild winds outside And the gentle rumble of stomachs. Your food is in my freezer, Your shoes are in my hallway And you’re getting up to go. The door closes, And I stare out at nothing Till there’s nothing left to fear, Till the something I felt In the blink of an eye Is forgotten Like most things Once cherished. Dunstan Carter is a writer and poet based in Manchester, England. Over the past 15 years he's had poetry published in a number of magazines across the UK but now publishes all of his work on his Wordpress blog. As well as writing poetry he also writes a modern culture blog called Slacker Shack, heads up business development for a social technology agency called Modern-English and helps manage a number of music acts as part of fledgling music management company, 1612 Management. He also writes and records music as part of The Abodes and Foilface .You can contact him on Twitter @dunstancarter. Read. Mark MacDonald Takes us to "The Fourth Step"
 Mark MacDonald
The Fourth Step It’s four a.m. on a Sunday once more and I am sitting here in my socks and my underwear, taking my own moral inventory and wondering how I’ll ever find redemption again. Maybe I’ll just run naked in the rain as I did when I was a child, do a few cartwheels on the lawn, or shoot a BB gun at my brother. Sitting up in a tree by myself used to work, as I remember, especially the broad leafy box wood in my father’s backyard. And hey, this whole pen and paper thing is getting a bit annoying—something akin to scoring a baseball game while all the time missing the action out there on the field. But I don’t take to heights like I used to; the BB gun’s gone with my bicycle; and I was never much good with those cartwheels. So maybe I’ll just dance a Tango for penance-- take one more elegant woman in my arms once more —and dare all the gods to do what I do. Read the poetry of Mark MacDonald Read a profile of Mark MacDonald New Haiku And Tanka From Poet Chen-ou Liu
 Chen-ou Liu
he slashes the shifting shadow on the wall below his attic room an alley dog barking ❧ the weight of her name... on a blade of plum grass morning frost ❧ a shooting star streaking across the sky loneliness sneaks into my room and mounts on my body ❧ flies buzzing... a one-man funeral in my head Read the poetry of Chen-ou Liu Read a profile of Chen-ou Liu Laura Madeline Wiseman's "The Twenty-First Century Lot"
 Laura Madeline Wiseman
The Twenty-First Century Lot 15th Street Apartments Des Moines, Iowa, April 2010 Some corporation designed this complex, the slab of concrete, the parking blocks, the rollaway dumpsters, the nondescript exterior, and all those numbered doors that open to the street and din of traffic, the upward plum of exhaust, of burning gas, as if the foundation held nothing of you, as if some things could remain hidden. The plat books tell, here, a crossroad, here stood your corner house, here your garden, and a mile away, the place where I grew up. Some wise man taught me any soil dug into and excavated to learn what happened. I need only the questions, a map, the tools. Read the poetry of Laura Madeline Wiseman Read a profile of Laura Madeline Wiseman VerseWrights Welcomes Poet Alegria Imperial
 Alegria Imperial
Bilingual Haiku English/Filipino moths-- our pregnant moons circling each other gamugamo… ang kagampan nating buwan nag-iikutan ❧ fallen words on my palm the shifting hues of midnights agtinnag a sao iti dakulap ko ti agbaliw-baliw a sennaag ti tengga’t rabii Alegria Imperial has had haiku and other Japanese short poems as well as free verse published in international journals such as LYNX, Notes from the Gean, The Heron's Nest, Bones, A Hundred Gourds, eucalypt, The Cortland Review, poetic diversity and qarrtsiluni. Her awards in poetry contests include honorable mentions from Passager and the Vancouver Cherry Blassoms Haiku Invitational, commended, Traditional Category, in the Haiku Foundation's 2012 Haiku Now Contest, and adjudged Excellent in the 7th International Tanka Festival Competition 2012. A few of her bilingual haiku and haibun appeared in LIJLA’s August 2013 Special Feature section edited by Alan Summers. A Filipino, she now lives in Vancouver, BC, Canada. Read. Gary Metras' Newest Poem, "The Heavy Trout"
 Gary Metras
The Heavy Trout Amid the thrashes and splashes of this heavy trout I kneel to in the low water to remove my fly, a fat hopper whose hook holds the trout's jaw like Zeus' thunderbolt would, sloppy but sure, the fish awaits no plea or promise of release, sheds not one tear, not a single moan, as it twists and bends toward freedom that doesn't come, yet, even when I heft him completely in air to turn him on its back across my knee, this simple fish will not submit, struggling all the while my fingers probe and grasp hook, balance trout and myself in this little world, this dance enacted, until the hook is free, the flesh free, and I right the fish, lift it a moment in the sun's caress to see the rainbow stripe glow on its own, then lower the trout to water, submerge it in currents and flows I only guess at, as it swishes and sways, disappears, becomes the river once more. Read the poetry of Gary Metras Read a profile of Gary Metras |
A "Requiem" from Poet E. Michael Desilets
 E. Michael Desilets
Boyd's Requiem, Cue the Incense ~For Ed Warro Sum me up, Mike, I hear him say. I can’t but I can offer a hint, a lament, a chant. He read Rimbaud, revered Berlioz, kept bags of ground coffee in the freezer, played “Ring My Bell” endlessly the year it was released. In Boston he booed Chloe Owen as she struggled to be Queen of the Night. He sent me countless Marlene Dietrich post cards and a few Louise Brooks. As far as Visconti goes it was Death in Venice and The Damned. In Garden Grove he bought a Hawaiian shirt at the Crystal Cathedral gift shop. Tell me about your kids, I hear him say, and I do, and I wrote a poem about his mother after he scattered her cremated remains among the cats’ ashes in the back yard. In Chicago I kiss him and leave him with his pain and flee with my devious grief. The sound is off at the hotel. From my window I can see the dark disdainful waters of Lake Michigan. Amen Read the poetry of E. Michael Desilets Read a profile of E. Michael Desilets Ready For Dan Shawn's Latest? It's "Metamorphic"
 Dan Shawn
Metamorphic she came into my bedroom holding a fishhook and a plastic glove and in her calmest voice explained that yes it would have to come out that mass of shrimp pulled from deep within my ear bloody left me barren and a little giddy but there are times when i still feel it blue veins tail flapping scent of algae salt my back sprouts a fin and the wound heals Read the poetry of Dan Shawn Read a profile of Dan Shawn Two Short Poems From jacob erin-cilberto
 jacob erin-cilberto
Records turntable soldiers at slow speed fall to the vinyl battlefield floor into the grooves of forgotten names and the spinning world plays its loathsome tune as turntable soldiers never reach life's top 40 because they die at 18 and 19 and 20 something with only their labels left to signify expiration dates and the BMI to imply their short span of play. Kiss leaning against the stone wall stoned on you dizzy me curled into your caress your scent like a soft arm within my sleeve your hair brushing lightly against my bewildered lips as i embrace the profusion of beloved confusion trying to keep my balance. Read the poetry of jacob erin-cilberto FRead a profile of jacob erin-cilberto "Bread," A Lyric From Poet Debbie Strange
 Debbie Strange
Bread ☊ the harvest beneath and between our lives is always sacred we fall then rise up the seed, the sprout and stalk the swath, the stook and staff the bowl is full though chipped and crazed with age still and ever we are kneading soft flesh punching down sorrow sprinkling salts of the earth resting in a warm place doubling joy we fall then rise up Hear this poem read by the poet Read the poetry of Debbie Strange Read a profile of Debbie Strange Kathleen Rogers' Thoughts On Christmas
 Kathleen Rogers
I love nOrman rOckwell a star in the east went super nova sepia-toned sparrows crow vultures dance with doves in cerulean sky every secret never shouted shakes a tree bloodless bodies count the days until christmas mourning beatitude babies, jet car jelly, everybody smile! Read the poetry of Kathleen Rogers Read a profile of Kathleen Rogers Poet Denise Janikowski-Krewal Joins VerseWrights' Pages
 Denise Janikowski-Krewal
Procrastinator's Stew Paging through color photos Mysteriously coded instructions Appearing as gibberish To a clouded mind, Growling stomach Frustrated by epic long lists Of foreign ingredients Evading a sad larder Crying out For a farmer’s market fix, Spice market sit-in Butcher’s brawl, Baker’s punching bowl, Begging for an air-drop Into a cramped kitchen With a half-hour Til company arrives Time only for Speed-dial, A quick Ciao And a pick up Of Italian carry-out Denise Janikowski-Krewal is a Midwestern poet and writer of short fiction. She was born, raised and is currently living in the Milwaukee, Wisconsin area. After many years of writing technical correspondence, her wandering mind turned to storytelling. Her poetry can be found at “the lost beat” where she collaborates with her cousin and fiction writer, Tom Janikowski. Denise’s work has appeared in Annapurna Magazine, Centre for Imaging and Collection Care blog, Cowboy Poetry Press, Red Fez and Tuck Magazine. Her first book, Spotted Overcoat, Poetry on the Lam, gives glimpses into lives and challenges of jazz age, depression era and current era characters. It is available through Lulu.com as well as through other online retailers. Read. We Welcome J Matthew Waters to VerseWrights
 j Matthew Waters
Dances with leaves I stood looking out the window at a small pile of leaves I had raked and forgotten about Damn I thought I can’t believe I left behind this pile of leaves It was then as I had these thoughts the wind came out of nowhere hitting the pile of burnt colors and sending them high into the air Hey honey I yelled you’ve got to come see this the leaves are dancing Crosswinds continued lifting the leaves higher than eye level twisting them into a stream of irregular circular motion fully fluid yet shapely as if produced by a child playing spirograph on a table Hey honey I yelled you’ve got to come see this This time she leaned her head back and turned her neck my way What is it she asked – I’m reading The leaves are dancing I said you’ve got to come see this First there was a pause as the leaves continued to dance and then there was closure J Matthew Waters is a poet residing in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. After earning his liberal arts degree in English from the University of Iowa in 1984, he has since enjoyed a career in the financial services industry. His first collection of poetry entitled Five Hundred Pieces was self-published in 1997. His second collection entitled In the Middle of Somewhere was self-published as a Kindle ebook in 2011. He maintains a blog, jdubqca poetry, where his most recent work can be found. Read. Ellen Conserva's Latest Poem, "Protocol..."
 Ellen Conserva
Protocol When Trees Fall A tree falls in the woods. If no one is there to hear it, Does it make a sound? Elm is afraid that there was a disease Weeping Willow waves her limbs to flag down help. Oak reaches out with leave-like hands, to catch. Maple too busy being industrious under her bark. The Pine and the Evergreen are too proud to watch. Birches are terrified and turn even whiter. Saplings are often in the line of fire from the fall, so they cringe. The question is If a tree falls in the woods, Doesn't each ask Who is next? Read the poetry of Ellen Conserva Read a profile of Ellen Conserva Jacqueline Czel: "Not Willing to Draw Straws"
 Jacqueline Czel
Not Willing to Draw Straws I looked at her, she looked at me, he looked at us, we mute three, all shrugging shoulders and shaking our heads simultaneously in front of the big man, who clearly did not understand; conference or not, We, individually, do not go there; solidarity solidarity solidarity he can select another, each of us is staying right here, because the stories of the not too distant past, still manage to manacle our educated minds, so we don't easily venture down there, save for the dutiful call to a family reunion where there's safety in numbers, amid a swimming school of clan colored tee-Shirts, led by an ancient light by day, Hoo Doo by night, great, great aunt with a hard to understand Mound Bayou accent, not so long descended from dangling peaches, shackled to tales of horror and imprinted images of burned and lynched men, we forever, rope scarred are never free of that - so to stay far North of the edge of that red river, we, who do not trust that modern thought ever arrived safe there or settled into the silt next to the lingering spirit of Emmett Till all these years later, push back. Read the poetry of Jacqueline Czel Read a profile of Jacqueling Czel |
Two New Poems From Leslie Philibert
 Leslie Philibert
A Bavarian Winter The Alps make me embryonic the King of sleep, the wind a sea inside my ears each insignificant leaf sugar bleached, hard as a saint`s foot, each drop of water pearled and perfectly dead under a dim sky, underlighted over the white sheet that you draw over the passed. Let the crows pick out the eyes of Winter. Clinic Fogs of ghosts carry souls in buckets. With steps in dance and many hands they polish your armour and hammer you back together. They throw you out of glass rooms, back to your old door, you fruitcake, you mad hatter, you looney, back to the grey street, you have long enough babbled at an empty ring of chairs, You spin too slowly not to tip over, your cranium scrubbed, your bones trepanned, your new smile fixed with wire. Read the poetry of Leslie Philibert Read a profile of Leslie Philibert Poet Simon Kindt Now On The Pages Of VerseWrights
 Simon Kindt
Flinders #3 From the mesa the town below was just another map of itself, peeled back skin pinned by eucalypts and leaning fence posts, the river dry a spine dissected, edges fraying into ghosts of Elysian Fields. From the east the thunderheads rolled in heavy and crackling, magnesium flares sparking, lighting up the sky’s belly and drums, drums and drums. We were golden jokes, strange shapes in stranger places, mermaids high and dry. You, proof of a lower case god, a driftwood cathedral bell tower rung, singing for the slick and honey wet. Me, opening my copper throat with flints, to drink the sky from red and flashing gills. We sat, sails flapping and jaws reaching as the sky broke open overhead, the storm clouds, waves following each other in, throats popping and gushing, the rain, molasses thick and wine dark, falling over itself to get to us before we drowned in air. Daylighting in education, moonlighting in poetry, Simon Kindt is a relative newcomer to writing and the Australian spoken word scene. Seeing himself primarily as a ‘stage poet,' he has recently performed at the Brisbane Emerging Arts Festival, Poets Dressed as Men, and is one of the esteemed, monthly call-back poets for Speedpoets, one of the best-loved and longest-running of Brisbane’s poetry events. He is currently working on his first chapbook collection and building a youth slam community in Brisbane. His work explores the sublime and the ordinary in the colliding territories of landscape, the body, and "the whole human mess." He has an open, gentle performance style, a generous grasp of human emotion, and a willingness to carefully peel back the seemingly ordinary to reveal what lies underneath. Read. Mike Jewett's Newest Poem, "Blue Moon Over 7-11"
 Mike Jewett
Blue Moon Over 7-11 ☊ A full moon glows high over 7-11 Pork rinds, candy bars, and wrinkled hot dogs Wait inside, and craters wait above White Lines by Grandmaster Melle Mel stuck in my head (Get higher baby) I drop two Milky Way Midnights into my gullet And rush home, recalling how I used to take my son Out at night, before bed, nestled in my arms, and have him say Goodnight to the moon, to luna. We peer at her through binoculars On dewy grass. (Get higher baby) Selenic orb peeking back, Awaiting its goodnights, We bid adieu Then we read Shel Silverstein, and Morpheus and Hypnos pulls him Into the world of sleep. (Get higher baby) (Rang dang diggedy dang di-dang) Catching the moon’s reflection Off of a silvered window, I’m reminded of the simple pleasures Awash in reigniting tradition- This only happens once in a blue moon. Hear this poem performed by Foster Cameron Hunter Read the poetry of Mike Jewett Read a profile of Mike Jewett Samantha Reynolds' Shares Her Newest Poem
 Samantha Reynolds
I think of them often I think of them often hadn’t seen him much since high school never met his wife but we all heard the news the punch of grief wanting to bury the words far away I hold my daughter tight born at the same time and she feels suddenly like something that could blow away but later I forget and I wonder how dare I let someone so small make me feel so safe I think of them often and I realize I don’t know how to love a stranger and I don’t know how to ask do you count the days you had him or the hours. Read the poetry of Samantha Reynolds Read a profile of Samantha Reynolds Maryann Maglangit Gives Us Her Latest Poem, "Here."
 Maryann Maglangit
Here Here, the moon is sluggish and dull where stars cover the face of the earth and the wind sings us peaceful lullaby with every tone that it makes soft bubbles of unsuspecting dreams escape of selfless affection, of dedication from the isolated restful minds Here, the roads breathe for the first time giving way for the vagabonds of love, of careful whisperers, of blissful moments looking for a faithful witness from the trees, from wishful thoughts and silent walls hoping that they never speak And here, I touch you... And this pitch black night is smeared by the sporadic beating of our hearts. Read the poetry of Maryann Maglangit Read a profile of Maryann Maglangit Ana Caballero's Newest Poem Is About "Life Things"
 Ana Caballero
Life Things The writing has left it rests far away when it was close it was closer but not as close as far when far away There is still life yes a baby still new a father still sick a master unhere I watch these life things gather height the in held breath of avalanche snow and dragon green of hurricane sea I tend the wait so the baby may speak the father stand the master glow I try at times to name the wait but it is too clear like a good death So I wait with the writing of my son's first word my father's straight back my master's raised hand for the life things to come close and tell me their name Read the poetry of Ana Caballero Read a profile of Ana Caballero Harriet Shenkman "Revisits" Our Recent Holiday
 Harriet Shenkman
Thanksgiving Revisited Not one of us was seated at the table on time, sons dueling over the turkey leg, daughter insisting both wings hers, grandpa declaring, “The best you can get in America,” all lingering over the apple pies. We went from frozen bird to fresh, canned cranberry to orange chutney. The young off to find lux et veritas, babies blessed, American Girl dolls at the table, the best giblet gravy yet. Our dinner this year wedged between their friend’s Dim Sum, the au pair’s city tour, and their party in town. They and the girls arriving just in time, toting four quarts of sweet and sour soup. Read the poetry of Harriet Shenkman Read a profile of Harriet Shenkman Paul Sands Writes Of The Night Time...
 Paul Sands
night time is the fight time listen, all you ragged dolls, let the midnight chimes run and rifled spirits slake a claim to the rattling lights of your basal vein plugged and filled to boiling brim. vinegar, piss and burning vim unquiver ten fingers, hammer wound, yet eagerly redeemed for one look in most market towns, where too many pretty girls litter the borough awaiting the charms of a low knuckled clown Read the poetry of Paul Sands Read a profile of Paul Sands Dan Shawn On Mistakes And Regret
 Dan Shawn
Mistakes my mother always said consume only the most digestible of oils and not the ones that congeal or cake up in the back of the throat or go clump clump as they descend but old habits die hard kinda like that thick pulvinus at the base of the oak leaf indeed one must be careful not to gag on its cellulosic rigor and yet foolishly i still deposit my leftover coffee grinds in the kitchen sink a bad move but apparently not an uncommon one said the plumber who tried to console me “people are forever doing things they later come to regret” Read the poetry of Dan Shawn Read a profile of Dan Shawn "Shades," A New Poem From Mark Windham
 Mark Windham
Shades Sometimes I remember before the world became shades of grey. I remember she wore yellow when days were warm, the sun worshiping her glow. Sometimes I remember the sight of her smile behind the veil in the moment before we wed I remember every time she wore red high heels – beautiful already, with no need for adornment, seeking attention she rightfully deserved. I remember the last time I was able to look into the crystal depths of those eyes, glistening, as she searched for reasons to stay. Sometimes I remember before the world became shades of grey. Read the poetry of Mark Windham Read a profile of Mark Windham |