If you are going to be in the Bay Area do stop by for this concert. Raphael’s poetry is beautiful as is David’s music, the two together is a real treat. You can pick up Raphael’s book as well; Stings Shining Silence: Earth-Love Poems.
Posts Tagged ‘Poetry’
This is an invitation to support Ashley Pinkerton and Poetic Matrix Press in publishing her new book Spiraling Forward. Check out her Indiegogo campaign page, see what she is about and contribute to help this project. Go to:
“Spiraling Forward will take the reader on a journey through the cycles of Life, as the dance of the sacred Spiral carries the reader to places of deep reflection, realization and discovery.”
Reluctant night after a brooding duty, slowly retreating
The earth in gray, some dim shades still hovering
Dawn strides out leisurely to wake every farm
The sleepy sun, in liquid light, making the sand warm
Morning nymph rising from the ocean of pearls
Wearing magic mist mantle if the wind swirls
Her gleaming bracelet borrowed from the sun rays
Swiftly up to the hilltop her glory sways
Her fragrance wakes up the slumbers of mortals
The crowing birds but break the silence acetals
I am eager to rise early than the bee,
Perhaps to feel the divine power if it be
Every home kindles its necessary fires
Sense morning incense, listen far sounding lyres
The soul feels fresh and rejuvenated
Healing light exhaled here, a divine incarnated
The bunches of roses, lily awaken
The wind hides in the trees, make them shaken
Shy maid advances with pitcher to fill in river
The peasants and herdsmen on their way as ever
All creatures must toilsome courses run hard
Because untrodden the path, bright is the reward
My city has dazzling appearance
Its days are sweating labours
The nights are stiffly precarious
Malls, palaces, shops, skyscrapers
All things are but only a granite museum
People came from unknown places
Growing day by day like a mushroom
Horns, siren, music, pollution, buzz, silence
It never stops but crawl like a worm
Ten to five, nonstop work culture
To live here to live on term
Race to stay alive, no stop for nature
Morning walker and evening walker
As late sleepers, late risers, all machine made
Sofa, carpet, TV, air conditioner
There is light but no relief or shade
High ways are death ride way
I strive for a peaceful lee
Has city ruined me in any way?
No, it has marred better men than me
I stand alone amid a millions crowd
God was silent when I was suffering fast
I am ready to die unnoticed, but
I will build a new city before I breathe last
My love! My dream girl! Come with me,
We will go over the lea, beyond the sea.
Let’s build a palace among the stars
Far away from earthly strife and wars,
Look our rainbow friends -white rivers,
Slaty mountains, red roses, brown sparrows,
Bright glow worms, golden eagles, black bees,
Yellow sunflowers, scarlet macaw, green trees.
Showers drench the morning, nights glow with dew
Posy noon to dose, then evening linnets in the view,
Winter with warm sun, summer of moonlit nights,
I admire thy grace, your touch diminish all my frights.
When your shiny raven hair shade my head,
I repose in your lap, Night comes, and day becomes fade.
Your smiling glance and hazel eyes keep me at ease,
We will love till there are the seas and the skies.
Sandeep Kumar Mishra, India
BIO- He is a stage artist, painter, writer and a lecturer in English with Masters in English Literature and Political Science. He is in creative field since 1992 and has published poems both in Hindi and English languages. His first article published in 1992, first poem in 2003.He also worked as Sub-editor for a collection of poems (Pearls) 2003,which have many reputed poets
Use This Day
Use this day
For love, for friendship, for rage,
For justice, for hope,
For worship, if your gods are worthy of it.
To build, to create,
To bring meaning,
To fight the void and navigate the flux.
Don’t shirk, don’t slouch.
It will never come again.
I love the smell of it
The black oozy thick of it
Wormy and rich
Harboring seeds and roots and bones
Graveyards and spores
In my next existence I will grow things
Coax them out of her hot muggy thighs
Into joy and exuberance
Into sustenance and life.
Of the other elements
I can’t relate to air
Too flimsy, too vague
And I’m scared of fire
That leaps and darts and scorches
Having seen whole buildings
Flame up in a blaze
And know that water wants to drown me
Learning to swim
I splashed and sputtered, hated it
And once saw the body of a woman
Washed up on the shore of a lake
So lost, so cold, so still.
Yes, I’ll stick with earth
You can wiggle out of the Old Girl’s embrace
She’s in your blood and bone
We came out of her
We’ll go back into her
The vast, messy, loving
Ruthless and inescapable
Big Mama of us all.
My Wild, My Calm
There’s something wild in me
That wants to shake things up
A demonic spring that wants to pump
The green fire of his seed
Into multitudes of rapturous virgins
Who wants to break windows of snug little homes
To shout, to run, to fly
To leap over gaping chasms
And scale vertiginous cliffs
Who wants to slay dragons or better still become one
Who wants to eat rare earths, speak in tongues
And annex the secrets of the universe.
There’s something calm in me
That smiles at my demon
Like a loving mother
At the antics of her raucous little boy,
A seeker who needs no
Rare earths, strange tongues, gaping chasms
Who walks gently, looks and listens
Finds wisdom in silence
Strength in grasses
Truth in trees
Who relaxes into the rhythms
And daily ecstasies of life.
Love Better, Love Deeper
Love better, love deeper.
Cut the frills,
The gaudy promises, the tinsel.
The best love is simple, quiet, undemanding
Like a mountain or a seed.
Its beauty lies under the surface
Like a submarine reef of red coral
Jutting spires and candelabras
While blue fish drift and dart.
The best love grows silently
Like mushrooms in the woods,
Like ferns, like roots
And blooms mysteriously
Like white flowers opening in the night.
The best love thrives
Where least expected
Like green sprouts
In the rotten wood of piers
Or molds on ancient stumps.
Though it toughens with time, in the beginning
It is soft, not hard and jagged,
When you love,
Love with caution and quiet,
With wisdom, no razzmatazz.
Love with calm and care.
Is the adagios and mellow gray of twilight
A loving touch.
I have seen it
In smiles of resignation
In muted yearnings for the unattainable
In shattered loves, futile hopes, quiet defeats
It is the landscape of our living
The price of our awareness of transience.
Don’t fight it, accept it
Ease into it, I’d almost say
It is our essence, our aura
The mark of our humanity
The measure of our loss.
Bio: I am a writer living in New York City. I have published two biographies, a novel, and a selection of posts from my blog (see link below) that has won two awards. My poetry has appeared in numerous small reviews. firstname.lastname@example.org
Some of this is make believe.
Or at least, it starts that way,
as a faraway dream,
a dream of all that we can be.
So it is inside every me.
Life ain’t always easy.
In fact, it’s often quite stinky
Rhymes often fail at the line,
and the splendid sounds
often drift far out of bounds.
But, let this reality be—
win or lose,
now is now.
Let us feel the glory of purpose,
This is far more than just sport.
Or, so it can seem.
Maybe it strikes deep at our core,
underneath our seams.
Maybe it’s love of life.
Simple as life shared,
you and me.
I am speed.
as if all I could do
is make earth move,
and all of its breeze
be what I breathe
down the street
We see each other.
hard to hold,
hard to let go.
Me to him,
him to me,
again and again.
Again and again,
him to me,
me to him.
Hard to let go,
hard to hold
We see each other.
In the mirage,
in sun’s bending of street,
when the racing stripe
as clouds pass as do all images,
as all ephemeral messages,
as all invitations do to inspire us to
look through penetrable haze
on the way to the sun and beyond,
we shield our face,
see our way,
If only this.
If only that.
mount the cold fact.
Game never stays still.
Such is life.
It goes as it will.
And we react.
And we make.
And we make.
Joe Bisicchia writes of our shared spiritual dynamic. An Honorable Mention recipient for the Fernando Rielo XXXII World Prize for Mystical Poetry, his works have appeared in The Poet’s Haven, Sheepshead Review, Balloons Lit. Journal, The Inflectionist Review, Black Heart Magazine, Dark Matter Journal, Poets Collectives Anthologies, and others. The current public affairs professional in New Jersey is a former award winning television host who also taught high school English. His website is www.widewide.world and he is on Twitter @TheB_Line https://twitter.com/theb_line.
NOW THAT I’VE MADE IT HERE
Pink sheets of pleasure
open like petals,
float across bare knees.
My head adrift in pillow,
yours warming my naked chest,
serenity keeps us in mind
for moments like this.
I taste the wine of the results,
mouth the word “heaven”
to the lingering desire.
Can a moment be too iridescent?
Can it overtake, become the all-over mood?
I’ve heard that too much of a good thing
is as toxic as belladonna berries.
So if I grow too happy,
can sadness be my only cure?
If I have everything,
should I hold out for nothing?
They’d have me pray for an ache or two
to worry my smugness.
Or a lightning strike, an earthquake,
anything to singe or rumble
So have I need of disappointment, upset,
unwanted intrusion, disaster, grief, bitterness,
sickness, anger, disgrace, dementia or dread?
Quite frankly, no.
But thanks for never asking.
Her apartment doesn’t pull rank.
It’s on the ground floor
hut, from what I’ve seen of it,
it’s no bigger, no smaller,
than mine at the top of the stairs.
She always complains
that she has no one to help her
and the handymen she hires
to fix a leaking tap.
to patch dry wall,
charge prices near to extortion.
I’m always cleaning, she says.
And when I’m done,
it’s time to start over.
She’s always up when I come home,
no matter the time of night.
And she leaves her door open.
The doings of her tenants
are her only joy.
Her couch is where she collapses
at the end of another tiring day.
Her favorite programs
keep watch over her
as she eats whatever’s handy
from crackers and cheese
to frosting straight from the can.
on my way downstairs
I catch a glimpse of her
in the parlor, munching on potato chips.
the crumbs sticking to her robe like lint.
She sees me, says “this is the first chance
I’ve had to sit down all day.”
Her eyes are red, her moustache brown.
The blue glow of the television
unmasks her double chin.
You’re comfortable in those jeans,
faded blue, coffee stained,
ragged at the knees,
frayed at the ankles.
You figure you can get
another year out of them at least.
It’s different with men.
When the shininess wears off,
there’s nothing keeping you
from tossing them in the garbage.
Not that you’re delusional.
You follow the abrading, tattering,
of your face, your body,
in the mirror.
You wear the inevitable well
but how many more years
do you give it?
And those men,
picking themselves up out
of the breakfast scraps
and stumbling for the door…
how long before you whisper
that dreaded word, “Stay.”
But, for now, those jeans
make for a body-hugging denim comfort zone.
They slip over your knees, your hips.
And they don’t give you away.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, South Carolina Review, Gargoyle and Silkworm work upcoming in Big Muddy Review, Cape Rock and Spoon River Poetry Review.
In memory of Francisco X. Alarcón
From the East to the West
From the snow to the hills
where life becomes
a fairy tale
Your gentle eyes gave me peace
Your light kindled my voice
on a night when fatigue
rained down on me shamelessly
A scientist and a poet
laughing across the table
The wine is friendship,
Time, a burning sip
A few hours frozen in a marbled snapshot
Hoy descubro que has muerto
and I create images of dialogues that will never exist
I look closely at the desert behind your picture
and the arch of your subtle smile
the same smile you gave me on the night
when I felt most vulnerable
You and I,
You would never have imagined
that you could tear a poem
from the heart of someone
who used to love them
No clogged spaces
Death has no wings
But love whispers
in all unimaginable languages
Silvia Marijuan is an applied linguist and an Assistant Professor at Cal Poly State University, San Luis Obispo, who enjoys connecting to language through both science and poetry.
Here are two poems that have similar subjects enough to be connected.
Speak it into being
I didn’t believe but
…….I spoke it into being
and ever infinitesimal
…….I became what I am
and that is what I was meant
all this journeying time
and something will undo your certainty
the spectacular places
Some are big-boned, some are egret-thin.
For every tall one, there’s another squat and dumpy.
Most are brunettes, a few blondes, now and then, a red-head.
Many noses are up, many chins are down.
Some chatter constantly. Others remain silent.
Morose, happy, solitary, cringing to the crowd,
there’s many kinds, and then the subtle variances,
the loud one in a quiet moment,
the cold one who suddenly warms.
There’s a flood, then a trickle, then a flood again.
Sometimes there’s even none, but not for long.
What starts it? Who knows? But, from time to time,
I hear my voice cry out of nowhere, “Come, lie beside me. Stay.”
EMMA GOING BLIND
The dark wants your eyes.
Your pupils don’t know what’s coming.
The faces are about to go unrecognizable.
Better hone up your touch
because, soon enough, the light won’t do.
Sounds are taking on importance.
The TV is killing off your favorite characters.
The newspaper is telling you it’s all a blur.
Color schemes are the enemy now.
Your children are whispering behind your back.
The words “nursing home” pierce your still keen ears,
draw your blood, not theirs.
So what if you bump into the furniture.
If your eyes desert you,
then you’ll learn to see with your knees.
It’s getting late.
Your children need to get back to their lives,
to the plotting of their own offspring.
You look forward to sleep,
your life on equal terms.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Perceptions and Sanskrit with work upcoming in South Carolina Review, Gargoyle, Owen Wister Review and Louisiana Literature.