PPP Ezine Poetrypoeticspleasure Ezine Volume 2; Issue 7; August 2018
Poet of the Month: James G Piatt
Winter is Here
Winter is here,
Brisk chilly winds abound,
Dark clouds forming…
Bits of moisture
Search for parched earth.
Birds quiet…
A cold silence echoes
In hollows,
The season is changing,
And life…
Searching for a new beginning…
Haiku Sequence IV
Dark winds gust through our
Minds in sad contemplation
Of our fading years
Twisting in our souls
And coloring present hours
With melancholy
Dear John
As the quilted snow crunched under his
Army boots, he walked in cheerless silence,
With tearful eyes as a lonely paleness
Entered into his warrior’s battered mind:
The wrinkled writing paper by his side, in its
Bleak whiteness, unfolded words penned in
Bitter faded ink, written with inelegance
Of soul:
He read the note with a cold sadness, and
His brain strived to contradict the explicit note
That shattered compassion Into an incoherent
Profanity:
As he continued walking, with rifle in hand,
He pined for spring again, when the sounds of
Guns would diminish and green leaves would
Begin to cover the hurtful message of such letters,
And, the downy vapor expanding from the damp
Sand would hide the reality of the bitter ink.
James G. Piatt has published 4 novels, “The Ideal Society,” (2012), “The Monk,” (2013), “The Nostradamus Conspiracy,” (2015), and Archibald McDougle PI: An Archie McDougle Mystery (2017), 3 collections of poetry, “The Silent Pond,” (2012), “Ancient Rhythms,” (2014), and “Light” (2016), and over 1,000 poems, 35 short stories, and 7 essays. His poems have been nominated for pushcart and best of web awards, and many were published in The Top 100 Poems of 2016, 2015, & 2014 Anthologies, and the 2017 Poet’s Showcase and Yearbook.
Seaview by Ahmad Al-Khatat
Since the time
I built my first
sand castle
and the waves
damaged it
I knew that
temptation was
not fancy in
my small home
nor in the castle of my princess
The thieves
are well trained
to play with them
meanwhile, tears
are falling hopelessly
Different drugs
are no longer bad
as alcohol is dripping
above the thirst
to arise silent pain
I live once and
not twice with a
doctor coming to
me to say that
I will die within seconds
The sea view is
the only view
that reminds me
of times when we
were innocent and not miserable
Ahmad Al-Khatat was born in Baghdad on May 8th. From Iraq, he came to Canada at the age of 10, the same age when he wrote my very first poem back in the year 2000. He also Ahmad has been published in several press publications and anthologies all over the world. And he currently studies Political Sciences, at the Concordia University in Montreal. He recently have published his two chapbooks “The Bleeding Heart Poet” and “Love On The War’s Frontline” with Alien Buddha Press. It is available for sale on Amazon. Most of his new and old poems are also available on his official page Bleeding Heart Poet Copyright on Facebook.
Once I was lost (And then you came around) by Lynn Long
I was seeking
to be found…
But, no one was searching
And then you came around
Why did you do that?
Awaken my soul
Why did you do that?
To only let go…
I was content to
simply just be…
And then you came around
You set my heart free
Filling my world in hope
with your words
At last, someone got me
I was finally heard
Why did you do that?
Make me believe
Were you seeking too?
Were you searching
for me?
Perhaps, all a moment
A dream never true
Maybe real is the dream
As we now bid adieu
For finally I see
your truth at last
You awakened my soul
To find my path
Once I was lost
I prayed to be found
Once I was seeking
And then you came around
Thank you…
Do Not Piss off the Locals, that is How Human Sacrifice Happens by Ryan Quinn Flanagan
Our rental car
has California plates
even though we are Canadians
in Nevada
for the first time
and I tell her it is probably a tax thing
and to go with it
do not piss off the locals,
that is how human sacrifice
happens
and she asks me if the air
doesn’t feel different?
I tell her it does.
Like walking into the same old bathroom
and finding a pterodactyl pie
after 60 million years
of backrubs.
Waving my arms
like that makes anything
better.
I just meant it’s dry.
Doesn’t everything feel dry?,
she asks.
Suddenly my lips are chapped
and I am aware that I am
in the desert.
Devoid of water
and surrounded by lights.
Humping bags
through underground
parking at 3 in the morning
like some idiot capitalist
army.
She is right.
It is dry.
And we are here
in the desert
for the next seven
days.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, PPP Ezine, In Between Hangovers, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.
ALLTHERAGE by Keli J. Gavin
ALLTHERAGE
FULLOFIT
ME
IAMFULLOFIT
ME
IAMFULLOFIT
RAGETHATIS
IDIDNOTKNOW
UNTILHESAID
YOUAREFULLOFIT
FROMHEADTOTOE
FULLOFFEAR
FULLOFFEAR
FULLOFREGRET
FULLOFJEALOUSY
FULLOFRAGE
FULLOFJEALOUSY
FULLOFRAGE
FULLOFIT
ME
NOTPOPULAR
NOTSOMETHINGCOOL
NOTSOMETHINGCOOL
NOTTHEINCROWD
JUSTTHEPOSSESSOR
JUSTTHEPOSSESSOR
IKEEPITALL
ALLTHERAGE
IAMFULLOFIT
ALLTHERAGE
IAMFULLOFIT
IAMGIVINGITBACK
IDONOTWANTIT
RAGEISNOTFORME
NOTNEEDED
DOESNOTHINGFORME
MAKESMESICK
ADDSLINESTOMYEYES
IDONOTWANTIT
RAGEISNOTFORME
NOTNEEDED
DOESNOTHINGFORME
MAKESMESICK
ADDSLINESTOMYEYES
ALLTHATRAGE
GIFTEDTOME
FORTHEASKING
ALLTHATRAGE
COULDHAVERUINEDME
RIDDINGMYSELFTODAY
GIFTEDTOME
FORTHEASKING
ALLTHATRAGE
COULDHAVERUINEDME
RIDDINGMYSELFTODAY
NOLONGERFULLOFIT
Kelli Gavin lives in Carver, Minnesota with Josh, her husband of an obscene amount of years and they have two crazy kids. She is a Writer, Professional Organizer and owns Home & Life Organization and a small Jewelry Company. She enjoys writing, reading, swimming, and spending time with family and friends. She abhors walks on the beach (sand in places no one wishes sand to be), candle lit dinners, (can’t see) and the idea of cooking two nights in a row (no thank you). Find Kelli on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram @KelliJGavin Blog found at kellijgavin@blogspot.com
Plastic by Janette Schafer
She pulls a wig cap
over my giant Irish head,
tells me that hair plugs
are more permanent,
will look more natural,
that the pain is worth it.
I make little horns
where my scalp and hairline meet.
She hooks the wig on my fingers,
pulls it like a sheathe
over my thinning red hair.
I feel like a Barbie doll,
a marionette, a ventriloquist’s
dummy. I grab a handful
of the fibrous synthetic locks,
pull it off my head,
run a hand over the
lamb’s wool of hair
that remains. I scrunch,
fuss, but it is mine
and I will wear it.
Janette Schafer is a freelance writer, photographer, and opera singer living in Pittsburgh. She is a 2017 Maenad Fellowship Awardee through Chatham University. Recent and upcoming publications include Eyedrum Periodically, PublicSource, Chatham University broadsides, The Woman Inc., and Nasty Women and Bad Hombres Anthology. A collection of her poems entitled “Other Names and Places” was published by LBF Books in 2004.
Invitation by Joan McNerney
Would you like to unwind
an afternoon at the lake?
Solar sparks spilling over us
in showers of golden sizzle.
Put on short shorts, skimpy tops,
stick our toes into oozy mud.
Breezes will shake treetops
while we listen to birdsongs.
Why not float on new grass
facing an Alice blue sky?
Read celestial comic strips
from mounds of clouds.
We can count sunbeams,
chase yellow butterflies.
Devour bowls of cherries
painting our lips crimson.
This noontime is perfumed
with illions of wild flowers.
Let’s go away all day…be
embraced by the goddess.
Joan McNerney’s poetry has been included in numerous literary zines such as Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze, Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Blueline, Halcyon Days and included in Bright Hills Press, Kind of A Hurricane Press and Poppy Road Review anthologies. She has been nominated four times for Best of the Net.
Persons by William C. Blome
My raucous neighbor asks me why
I never carry an ocean-green tambourine
or a long-handled hoe on my person,
and I tell him his wife prefers I come and go
like mute September wind
shoving its way through bowed-down willow branches.
He scowls broadly and bids me come and look
at the side of a tree I’ve never touched,
the side up against the house.
There he’s notched the trunk each time
I came to see you; there he’s run up a lofty count,
and he starts to shout out our jumbo numbers.
But a lie from me not to forget
a tambourine and hoe from here on out
brings calm over his foaming person,
and then I promise him his wife and I
won’t be so very careful anymore.
William C. Blome writes poetry and short fiction. He lives in the ‘States, wedged between Baltimore and Washington, DC, and he is a master’s degree graduate of the Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars. His work has previously seen the light of day in such fine little mags as Poetry London, PRISM International, Phenomenal Literature, Fiction Southeast, and The California Quarterly.
You Take Me Somewhere by Joanne Olivieri
Where trees shimmer
In the morning mist
And my body shivers
Beneath your touch.
Where the sun rises
Slowly, sensually
Coveting the Eastern sky
With warm kisses.
Where dewdrops
Caress my skin
And take me where
I’ve never been.
Where the wind howls
A rock n roll ballad
And our bodies dance
A frenzied climax.
Joanne Olivieri is a published author and poet who is the editor of Stanzaic Stylings ezine. She has been writing for 50 years and has been published in numerous online and hard copy magazines to include Jerry Jazz Musician, Parnassus Literary Journal, Black Poppy Review and many more. Her poem “Symphony Of Lights” was chosen as one of the 300 Short Listed Entries in the initial round of the Cathay Pacific Airways – 100 Reasons We Love Hong Kong contest for July 2007. As a result, Joanne was awarded a round trip ticket to Hong Kong for her winning entry. You can find out more about Joanne on her website at http://joanneolivieri.weebly.com
Somewhere in Kitale by Wafula p’Khisa
Everyone thinks fortune lies quietly herein, completely untouched
by the hands that tear our basket, and stick their nails down our throats
for something to quench the fire of appetite roasting their insides;
whoever dines and drinks from the spring herein thus, must grow fat and tall
for a man, bathing in abundance, needs not be sad.
But I’m yet to feel the gentle touch of blessings, rolling off saintly tongues
like water on leaves of grass
I shelved dreams, strained muscles, and bled to my last drop of blood
only to grow thin and weak instead
Isn’t man supposed to fatten on his sweat?
I’ve watched wild, tidal waves come — in the open eye of a storm
to drift some into the troubled sea of oblivion
who came dreaming, but leave holding their hearts, bleeding.
I’ve watched green ideas stumble and fall, because embracing them we refuse
Giants of dismissal threaten to devour us, verily
but we refuse to leave, for our clouded eyes fail to trace moonlit paths out of this jungle.
Wafula p’Khisa is a poet, writer and teacher from Kenya. He studiedEnglish, Literature & Education at Moi University. His work has been published in The Seattle Star, The Legendary (issue 48), The Beacon, Scarlet Leaf Review, Antarctica Journal, PoemHunter.com, Aubade Magazine (issue 1), NYSAI Press, AfricanWriter.com, Best ‘New’ African Poets 2015 Anthology, VoicesNet.com, The Pendulum, Mgv2 Magazine and the Best ‘New’ African Poets 2016 Anthology.
Buy a Ticket by Glory Sasikala
at the doorway
you will have to leave
your control issues
and possessiveness
your idiosyncrasies
and mood swings
your petty games
of yes and no
your see-saws
of love and hate
and mainly,
those three-petalled clovers
of ‘i love you’
‘i love you not’
along with your shoes
to enter my world
Glory Sasikala is a poet and writer currently residing in Chennai, Tamilnadu, India. She is the Editor and Publisher of the Monthly Online Prose and Poetry magazine, ‘GloMag’ and is the administrator of the group of the same name on Facebook. She is a language editor and quality analyst by profession.
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