Escape. A Poem by M. A. Schaffner

 
 

Back to its roots the goose rambles

through the brambles to the golf course

and beyond. A green pond beckons

with an iridescent sheen it can smell.
 
 
It moves past. A twisting wooded road

goes up and down between the farms

that surround the camps and lodges

and empty lots where someone planned

to spend a life and then forgot.
 
 
Mottled with bottles the pond lies

forlorn between the secret parties

that every teen knows all about

and the goose waddles through, sensing

a river past barbed wire fencing

where the rest of the flock awaits —
 
 
the ghosts of a past predating

the clipped wings and special diets,

the tube between its liver and its mouth.

Its final dream is flying south.
 
 
 
 
MAS at the Furnace

 
 
M. A. Schaffner has had poems published in Shenandoah, Prairie Schooner, Agni, and elsewhere — most recently in Former People, Raintown Review, and Rock River Review. Long-ago-published books include the poetry collection The Good Opinion of Squirrels and the novel War Boys. Schaffner spends most days in Arlington, Virginia juggling a laptop, smart phone, percussion caps, pugs, and a Gillott 404.
 
 
 
 
 
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Transforming with Poetry. Owen Turner and Siobhan Mac Mahon

 
 
Transforming Finale with Owen Turner and Siobhan Mac Mahon at the Inkwell Arts Centre Leeds UK read their works in the final part of the evening November 12th 2016. https://www.facebook.com/siobhan.macmahon
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
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Announcement. The Poetic Bond 6 Release.

PRESS RELEASE PRESS RELEASE PRESS RELEASE PRESS RELEASE PRESS RELEASE PRESS RELEASE

POETRY THAT BINDS, POETRY THAT BONDS

THE POETIC BOND VI

ISBN-13: 978-1539334682 

The Only

ANNUAL INTERNATIONAL POETRY ANTHOLOGY

actively sought specifically from

New Media, Social and Professional Networking

 

Publication Date 5 November 2016

Making a Poetic Bond – the ethos behind putting together the anthology
 
 
Available at The Poetic Bond
&
Amazon.com The Poetic Bond VI
 
 
The process of selecting poems for publishing The Poetic Bond series is unlike any other in that there is no set plan as to what will be published. It depends on the themes which emerge from the pool of work submitted, or to put it another way, the poetic energy which comes together at this certain time and place. Where themes emerge, patterns of energy harmonize, form bonds, connections, and these in turn lead to interconnected chapters, and the creation of a holistic volume, deeply connected with humanity, nature, and the universe.

 

37 poets from 12 Countries

Canada, China, England, France, Greece, Hungary, Israel, Malaysia,

Netherlands, Scotland, Spain, USA, and Wales

“Poetry, both reveals and shares our humanity”

(Trevor Maynard, editor The Poetic Bond Series)

THE POETIC BOND VI

 

  1. Trevor Maynard, UK based poet and writer, manager of Poetry, Review and Discuss Group, a major poetry group on LinkedIn. His new poetry collection is GREY SUN, DARK MOON was published in 2015. He is also the author of several plays. Further information at http://www.trevormaynard.com

 

  1. The Poets of The POETIC BOND VI (2016) are; Amanda Eakin (Ohio, USA), Rebecca Behar (France), Belinda Dupret (West Sussex, England), Betty Bleen (Ohio, USA), Bonnie J. Flach (California, USA), Bonnie Roberts (Alabama, USA), Carey Link (Alabama, USA), Christine Anderes (New York, USA), Cigeng Zhang (Beijing, China), Diane Burrow (Oxfordshire, England), Diane Colette (Florida, USA), George Carter (London, England), George C. Robertson (Dundee, Scotland), GK Grieve (England), Greg Mooney (North Carolina), Hongvan Nguyen (Virginia, USA), Ian Colville (Bedfordshire, England), Jill Angel Langlois (Illinois, USA), Joseph J. Simmons (Maryland, USA), Jude Neale (British Columbia, Canada), Kwai Chee Low (Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia), Lawrence W Lee (Arizona, USA), Linda Mills (Oregon, USA), Madalena Fine (West Sussex, England), Marli Merker Moreira (Sao Leopoldo, Brazil), Miklos Mezosi (Budapest, Hungary), Michael Melichov (Israel), Nana Tokatli (Greece), Neetu Malik (Pennsylvania, USA), Trevor Maynard (Surrey, England), Pushpita Awasthi (the Netherlands), Robin Ouzman Hislop (UK & Spain), Rowland Hughes (Bridgend, Wales), Swaizi Vaughan (Texas, USA), Wendy Joseph (Washington, USA), William DiBenedetto (Seattle, USA) , and Will Walsh (Florida, USA)

 
The Anniversary
 
The hand cocked at an effeminate angle
Holds the ashen tipped cigarette
This embering appears soft
It teases one to touch before it falls
Pompeii comes to mind
 
His hair is dirty white and cumulus grey
Accent Portuguese, hooded eyes
That famous olive skin bleached by
English pastures and pub lunches
“Zespezilly,” he intones “Thiz day!”
 
Another paper on the table, Shag available
His companion lilts ole Suffolk
“Truth is, I’s bored…”
He cusses, in that way that twists words
When they are not your Mother Tongue
“Every ******* day now”
 
She twirls her wedding band
He wears none; no tan marks either
“Do you agree?” He asks, leaning,
His shoulders rise and fall, ash burns her skin
“Does any of it matter?”
 
Vesuvius looms in their memory
Their betrothal, their wedding
But their emotions remained frozen in ash
Inevitably to drop like old skin
Fine idea it was, however familiarity bred
 
The hand cocked
The accents devilishly hinted passion
Loving not wisely but too well
Thirty years to the day
The innocence of youth left
 
“Can we remain friends?”
Sympathy undermines her sincerity
They both know this is so
But he is the more hurt, meaner
“Damn you and your English reserve!”
 
You see, it had simmered
Their intolerance of each other
Their mutual exoticism, passion
But in the end, hate is easier
It needs fewer syllables, less imagination
 
The last cigarette drops
They go to the hotel to fuck
Splitting up sex, divorce. He signs
The papers and leaves her sleeping
Too well in death and paper cuts
 
© 2009 GK Grieve. Published in The Poetic Bond III © 2013
 
 
 
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AMRITA SHERGILL MARG, DELHI & Poems by Deepanshi Balooni

I.
Laburnum blooms whisk sanity
away from the wind; past
is a shifting
cloud.

summer
is pastel yellow-green,
picking purples from jamuns
shedding over the jaded footpath.

II.

Colours descend at
night,
fragrance is a whore.

III.

Moon becomes all the words,
where there is no language.

You are the silence I seek.

IV.

Memories drizzle
in times of drought,

monsoon is still far away.

V.

There is no walking on this street.

Minds float like lighted lamps in the
river that desires,
transposing myths and reality.

VI.

The quest is for eternity,
yet time throws things
either changed or hewed,

for instance, that

proud, naked-branched tree
which used to be the muse
of our conversations;

a year is a testimony enough

MEDITATION

A bird circumambulates a cloud
in the distant sky,
like a solemn pilgrim
with obscure prayers
Noises become limpid, like those of
the vehicles clattering on the road, or
the air swooshing between flimsy curtains
and the adjacent window pane
I put my high-heeled shoes back
into the drawer,
withdrawing myself from becoming
and repose into being
The mind marvels at the flawlessness
of the blank page-
unblemished by the words and
sketches of past or future
Noises grow into a pious silence
May be, every moment is an epiphany,
if lived in the present

RAINS

Outside,
it rained all night.
Inside,
there remained a desert
of breaths and voices
and their sentiments, thereof.
The distance to the window
becomes irreconcilable;
some rains can’t get you
drenched.

HOW TO BUILD SANDCASTLES

The sand should be slightly moist,
like the remnants of the innocence
in your heart
and every touch of your hand
maneuvering between grip and tenderness,
just as those words that become
whispers in the acts of love
Do not care for the weather,
care for what you can do;
weather only loves to play
Pray for mind to imbibe endurance,
the task loses track of time
and toil; as for I can tell you
not all sandcastles are built on the beach
Some gets built in the dreams,
while others on the claimed or
unclaimed bodies of the people

 

jpg-file-deepanshi

 

 

Deepanshi Balooni is a development professional from New Delhi. She runs a poetry blog-https://unacquaintedsilhouettes.wordpress.com

 
 
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The Negro River Cries. A Poem by Author: Renee’ B. Drummond-Brown

The rivers run
through our veins
like the over flowing
blood
O’
Calvary stains.

Home of the Indian brave
land
plowed by slaves,
‘dawgs’
‘scent’ US
swimming for ‘dayze’
crocodiles
had their way
mosquitoes
were A OK.
Just had to wade,
wade in ‘dem’ waters’
‘children’s’
for ‘daze’
years,
months,
minutes.
seconds,
an
unto
this very day.
But
fo sho
‘we’ze’
‘KNOWS’
‘HOWS’
to wade!
(In His waters ‘chillins’)

One river flows
divided
into four,
for our blood shed
out of Eden
she watered
our garden
forever
and a day
no-more.
Pison
gave us that increase
to do His will
not as we please
for
she flowed
the whole land
of Hav’ilah.
Bdellium,
onyx
and stones
oh my~~~
Yeah
‘den’ ‘dear’
‘wuz’
‘sum’
rivers gold,
cries,
of ancient old.
True ‘dat’…
‘Dat’ escape route
‘wuz’ well-to-do
as foretold.
For certain,
THIS
we do know
‘cos’
‘dat’ word
say’s it ‘AIN’T’ so

Two rivers flowing
divided into four
for our blood shed
out of Eden
she watered
our garden
forever
and a day
no-more.
Secondly,
Gihon
flows
bursting forth
around
the grounds
of Cush
make no mistake
‘bout’ it~~~
hush,
hush,
they’re here
an
can hear
us
just the same
just
shhhh~~~
Someone’s ‘callin’ OUR name???
(It ain’t Jesus)

Three rivers flowing
divided into four
for our blood shed
out of Eden
she watered
our garden
forever
and a day
no-more.
The Tigris
flows eastward
like that babe’s Star,
we’d come
to later see
as we stride
rapidly
along side
‘dem’
‘nats’ an fleas.
Father forgive us
‘cept’
do not pass us by
PLEASE!!!
(Pass US not O’ gentle Savior)

Four rivers flowing
divided into four
for our blood shed
out of Eden
she watered
our garden
forever
and a day
no-more.
Euphrates
tarry on
till we come.
Sojourn
our waterways,
channel
fruitfulness
for our
children’s;
children’s
children’s
absolute bliss
gators ‘n’ snakes
share no tree o’ knowledge
‘bout’ this
an
no shadows to follow
‘wit’ a death
kiss
or
kiss of death
whichever it is

NO MORE
rivers flowing
divided into four
for our blood STOP shedding
out of Eden
when He watered
our gardens
forever
and a day
but He waters it
no-more.
(Edens tamper-proofed for sure)
We ‘gotta’ wade in the water children;
like never before.

A B.A.D. poem

Dedicated to: We ‘gotta’ wade in the water children; like never before.

“And a river went out of Eden to water the garden;
and from thence it was parted,
and became into four heads.
The name of the first is Pison:
that is it which compasseth the whole land of Hav′ilah,
where there is gold;
And the gold of that land is good:
there is bdellium and the onyx stone.
And the name of the second river is Gihon:
The same is it that compasseth the whole land of Ethiopia.
And the name of the third river is Hiddekel:
that is it which goeth toward the east of Assyria.
And the fourth river is the Euphra′tes”
(Genesis 2:10-14 KJV).

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(Authored: “The Power of the Pen”

“SOLD: TO THE HIGHEST BIDDER”
and
“Renee’s Poems with Wings are Words in Flight-I’ll Write Our Wrongs”

No part of this poem may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without written permission from the author.
All Rights Reserved@ October 21, 2016.

 
 
renee-i
 
 
I, Renee’ B. Drummond-Brown, am the wife of Cardell Nino Brown Sr. and from our union came Cardell Jr., Renee and Raven Brown. I am the offspring of Mr. and Mrs. Peter C. Drummond of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. My siblings are Delbert D. Drummond and the late Pastor Shawn C. Drummond. I was born in North Carolina, at Camp Lejeune US Naval Hospital. I am a graduate of Geneva College of Pennsylvania, and my love for creative writing is undoubtedly displayed through my very unique style of poetry, which is viewed globally. My poetry is inspired by God and Dr. Maya Angelou. Because of them I pledge this: “Still I write, I write, and I’ll write!”
 
“Renee’s Poems with Wings are Words in Flight” is flown across the seas by God’s raven. There are several Scriptures that I love; however, this one speaks volumes during this ‘season’: “And he sent forth a raven, which went forth to and fro, until the waters were dried up from off the earth.” (Genesis 8:7 KJV)
 
 
 
 
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Press Release. Key of Mist. A New Volume of Poems Translated from Spanish

 
 
guadalupe-grande-2001
 
 
GUADALUPE GRANDE 
Madrid, 1965. 
 
She has written the following books of poetry: El libro de Lilit (1995), La llave de niebla (2003), Mapas de cera (2006) and Hotel para erizos (2010).
  
She has been translated into French in the book Métier de crhysalide (translation by Drothèe Suarez and Juliette Gheerbrant (2010) and into Italian, in the volume Mestiere senza crisalide (translation by Raffaella Marzano (2015). She made the selection and translation of La aldea de sal (2009), an anthology of Brazilian poet Lêdo Ivo, together with poet Juan Carlos Mestre.
  
Her creative work extends to the territory of photography and visual poetry.http://guadalupegrande.blogspot.com.es/

 
 
OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
 
Amparo Arróspide (Argentina) has published five poetry collections: Presencia en el Misterio, Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinación en dos actos y algunos poemas, Pañuelos de usar y tirar and En el oído del viento, as well as poems, short stories and articles on literature and films in anthologies and international magazines. She has translated authors such as Francisca Aguirre, Javier Díaz Gil, Luis Fores and José Antonio Pamies into English, together with Robin Ouzman Hislop, who she worked with for a period as co-editor of Poetry Life and Times, a Webzine. Her translations into Spanish of Margaret Atwood (Morning in the Burned House), James Stephens (Irish Fairy Tales) and Mia Couto (Vinte e Zinco) are in the course of being published, as well as her two poetry collections Hormigas en diáspora and Jacuzzi. She takes part in festivals, recently Transforming with Poetry (Leeds) and Centro de Poesía José Hierro (Getafe).
 
 
robin-portrait-july-sotillo-2016-by-amparo
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is on line Editor at Motherbird.com, Artvilla.com & Poetry Life & Times, his recent publications include Voices without Borders Volume 1 (USA), Cold Mountain Review (Appalachian University, N.Carolina), The Poetic Bond Volumes, Phoenix Rising from the Ashes (an international anthology of sonnets) and The Honest Ulsterman. His last publications are a volume of collected poems All the Babble of the Souk & Key of Mist, a translation from Spanish of the poems by the Spanish poetess Guadalupe Grande, both are published by Aquillrelle.com and available at all main online tributaries. For further information about these publications with reviews and comments see Author Robin..
 
 
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All the Babble of the Souk. Antonio Martínez Arboleda ~ Reinventing

all-the-bable-of-the-souk-image-with-tony-martin-woods
 
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Before I provide my views about All the Babble of the Souk (Aquillrelle, 2015), I must declare my admiration for its author, Robin Ouzman Hislop. He is a person of great intellect, determination and generosity, a combination of traits that is unfortunately not so common in our world. In his work as an editor Robin promotes literary quality and innovation whilst helping hundreds of artists to feel and become part of a global community of equals which expands through Poetry Life and Times. He has demonstrated his commitment to grassroots, popular and digital poetry by supporting Transforming with Poetry and Poesía Indignada, two of the platforms I run. Knowing him personally makes this review a pleasant experience. I think the reader is entitled to be aware of the subjectivity of my views and I wish people were more open about declaring all the reasons informing their personal preferences when they write about other’s work. Our “professional” world is polluted by a false duty of objectivity which often takes away the most valuable information one can provide about the work of someone else: the human qualities of the author.
 
In his work All the Babble of the Souk, Robin takes us through a fascinating journey into the painful complexities, and the beauty, of the universe, with a very honest, informed and uncompromising cosmovision. Robin’s poems are enlivened with very opportune geographical, physical, scientific and human ingredients, including what seems to be autobiographical references. These are also the stepping stones for Robin’s insightfully critique of our constructed social reality and our species. But make no mistakes: the reader will not find a political programme in the poetry of Hislop. Instead, he offers an impressionistic yet refined understanding of what is wrong, and what is right, with humanity: we humans are an indistinguishable and intertwined part of the matter that surrounds us. We are as immense as the galaxies we dream with, as little as the atoms that sustain us and as problematic as the viruses who kill us. We struggle in our lives with the symmetries and asymmetries that underpin nature and the universe.
 
Robin’s work is an invitation to discover the necessity and expressive value of sometimes relatively uncommon words that reveal the richness of the world he encounters. Words for him are the commotion of the intellect, a statement of fiery consciousness where signifier and signified can often melt. But the reader should not be afraid of this. The poems are very enjoyable and thought-provoking, even if one feels inclined to consult the dictionary now and then. The use of occasional rhymes and repetitions or the combination of monosyllables in some poems is very effective. With no exception along the whole book, the pace of Robin’s prosody is light and elegant like the walk of a playful Arab horse.
 
Overall, a very recommended read. Thank you for your poetry, Robin!

 
 
 
tony republic
 
 
Tony Martin-Woods started to write poetry in 2012, at the age of 43, driven by his political indignation. That same year he also set in motion Poesía Indignada (Transforming with Poetry), an online publication of political poetry that he edits. Tony is a political and artistic activist who explores the digital component of our lives as a means to support critical human empowerment. He is also known in the UK for his work as an academic and educator under his non-literary name. He writes in English and Spanish and has published his first volume of poetry Los viajes de Diosa (The Travels of Goddess) 2016.
 
 
 
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The Cultivated Ones. A Poem by Janet P. Caldwell.

Editor’s Note: Janet recently deceased Sept.27th 2016. Writer/Editor/Poet she was a good friend & will be greatly missed
 
 
The pampered roses are are all bred
much like step-ford wives to look alike.
From seedling to flowering
with abundant care, they do survive.
 
The gardener making sure they lay in measured mulch
are properly watered, holding the moisture
to prevent unwanted weeds from drinking and growing.
Halting the choking of a prized dressing of a cultivated lawn.
 
Unaware they are slaves to man’s idea of beauty
and never serving themselves.
 
Now, look at the daisy, some say she’s ugly,
just a wild, uncultured weed.
I say she’s a beauty, bending with the wind
growing sturdy through arid ground, so wild and free.
 
She’s the clever one, she’s cast off conformity.
 
 
Janet P. Caldwell December 16, 2015
final_mom
 
 
Janet P. Caldwell is an American poet from the USA. Her books are available on her website, (see below) Amazon and Inner Child Press. Janet says the poem is about many things, racism, politics, rebellion and not being “the good little soldier or carbon copy of the uninformed” that she was supposed to be. Once a poem is in the world, it belongs to the reader for interpretation. Please enjoy.
 
 
“our words change the world”
Janet Caldwell Web-site, Books and Poetry
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The Daddy Poem Series (i.-vii.) by Janet P. Caldwell.

 
Editor’s Note: Janet recently deceased Sept.27th 2016. Writer/Editor/Poet she was a good friend & will be greatly missed
 
Janet P. Caldwell is currently the COO of Inner Child, ltd., Humanitarian, Reiki Master, Poet, Published Author, 5 degrees to separation, Passages and Dancing Toward the Light . . . The Journey Continues, many anthologies, magazines and more. To read more of Janet’s work please visit the links below.
 
www.janetcaldwell.com/
www.innerchildpress.com/janet-p-caldwell.php
www.facebook.com/JanetPCaldwell
 
 
(i.)
 
5 degrees to separation
 
I learned to count early
Read the bible too
Wrath, punishment
Seemed no absolution
Separate at five
 
In the morning
When I was defiled
Five screams a minute
Five shiny points from
The glass shards
 
Five fingers, to check off
As I calculate
In five minutes I’m clean
and new
Separated by five degrees
 
Five from what I don’t want
To remember, anything green
Black or brown
Make it easier
Five letters/numbers are my friends
 
The ceiling fan;
Wood, glass, white, brown, brass
Another set of quints
A quick escape
When I should need one
 
My rabbit hole with
Back-doors aplenty
Five senses all shut down
I’ve got good and can count
Before what might happen
 
Safe in numbers, hidden
When I separate from myself.
 
©2001-2014 Janet Caldwell
 
 
(ii.)
 
Weep for the Child that Never Was
 
Tears fall down my face
for a child with no name
A child filled with anguish
suffering disgrace.
 
How could they have lied
and treated her so
Why didn’t they love her
just let her go?
 
Buy her new clothes
fill her with song
Mess her up more
you can’t be wrong!
 
She grew up with walls
forever all around
The music you played
she couldn’t hear a sound.
 
You look at her now
with disgust in your eyes
You can’t see her though
she wears a disguise.
 
Hand-made by you
so carefully sewn
With coagulated drops
all her own.
 
You thought that you knew her
but there’s no way that you could
She’s not what you think
behind the mask stained with blood.
 
© Janet Caldwell 2001 – 2014
 
 
(iii.)
 
Daddy # 2
 
I Remember him
 
Glassy blue eyes
Fingertips brown
Black greasy hair
Forehead high
Child killer
Sick bastard
 
I Remember me
Scuttling like a rat
Running from a cat
Scattering across the tile
 
Like a roach on fire
When the lights came on
Better scatter, Daddy’s home!
 
I Remember (séances)
Straddling his head
The Shoulders so high
Calling up the dead
Peering in the sky
Let the dead arise
It’ll stop Daddy’s cries.
 
I Remember Abuse
Dancing to the belt
That beat me blue
Decorated with welts
 
Daddy, I Remember You
 
© Janet P. Caldwell 2003 -2014
 
 
(iv.)
 
Child’s Lament
 
I assume you’d say that I’m
As beautiful as I was when I was six.
I think … (I’m jinxed)
Mother Dear, what do you think of me now?
 
I really must know… I’m lost.
Did I say that I miss you?
I’m sorry if I haven’t.
I feel like Anne. Always have.
 
Did my beauty transpire when, I cooked your
Supper? Was I special when
Your sick fuck of a husband
Molested me? Made it easy for you,
well, answer me?
 
(If only in my mind, for my mind, I’m losing my mind . . . again)
 
Tell me, Mother, I want
To understand. (Significance?)
Myself, a wisp of value
I don’t have far to go.
 
It’s an indistinct trail, but
I try. Just explain it, please.
I forgive you.
Everyday.
 
And I will
I promise.
All the way to the grave.
Can you help me now???
 
©2002 – 2014 Janet Caldwell
 
 
(v.)
 
Sugar & Spice
 
Hey, Pom Pom girl, swingy
Red and blue, shake it
Shake it, cheer so loud
Until the acid bleeds your throat
 
Green eyes glaze and glisten
Smiling through the bile
You pretty little thing
For everyone to see, but
If they only knew, and could
See the scars beneath
 
The make-up, the crafted image
They wouldn’t be jealous
Now would they Blondie
Surely not of you?
 
You’re all grown now
If you believe a calendar
Hiding in a house, in plain
Sight, an icon for everything nice
And all that spice, so spice that nice
 
But tell me, what the
Hell happened to you?
A funny thing, frequent
Thoughts of suicide
A whispered middle-aged craze
Still hip, staying in style
 
You’re still pretty, my silly girl
Even with your head
Crammed in the toilet bowl
 
When did it stop being easy to cheer?
As you count the vomit chunks
Regurgitate love, empty
Your soiled soul.
 
Feeling better now?
No, I didn’t think you would
How about a pill? You know
That you can’t drink
Too many calories to consume
Remember? Pissing in the sink
 
I’ve been around, seen
Everything you’ve done
The things that you can’t handle
I saw you scrub and scrub.
 
Wipe at the dingy stains
From his dirty love, that stench
Perfume won’t hide.
 
You had to find a way
To survive the attentions
Of an unconvicted felon
That uncircumcised bastard
Who brought dinner home
 
You do it still you know
Those little tricks and games
Recount the vomit chunks
one-two-three-four-five
 
Hurry, hurry, hurry
That filthy secret’s visible
Flush, flush, flush!!!!!!
 
Tidily out of sight, out of mind
Your filth is in the sewer
A safe-deposit box
For unwanted truths
 
So you can facade the day
 
© Janet Caldwell 2002-2014
 
 
(vi.)
 
Father Figure
 
When Daddy bellowed, I couldn’t hear.
The octaves were past my recognition,
decibels too strong for understanding,
all finer points disappeared.
I recall being tired, taking care of the family.
I was ten and close to breaking, didn’t
need his yelling, or the strap that cut. It’ll
be over soon, bleed girl, just bleed.
 
I was fortunate, so very cared for in
public, what was my problem?
“Nothing, nothing”, I said, needing to
show deference, defiance and not dread.
The piss in my bladder burned, needing release.
 
I reached for the gun, shoved it in my mouth.
The taste of oiled metal gagged me. Why
should I suffer? Twisted the way shit can work.
It’s him, the hateful bastard needs to go
 
D
O
W
N
 
Going once, going twice.
Gone, I peed. Release.
 
Janet Caldwell 2001-2014
 
 
(vii.)
 
First Haircut
 
With her thin lips
she kissed Daddy
good morning.
 
She hated the sight,
the stale smell of him
and abhorred the facade.
 
Madness surrounded those
at 223 Deepwood Drive;
residential death.
 
At seven her mother was
working. Daddy had to get
the girl ready for school.
 
Cursing, he broke a comb,
trying to get it through
her waist length hair.
 
With a movement
that would startle the
comatose,
 
Daddy grabbed a butcher
knife and ambled over to
her chair.
(1-2-3-4-5)
 
She faced the wall, lined up the tiles,
attempting purple dreams.
Throttled screams, burgeoning walls
she could direct into tile accounting.
 
She closed her eyes tight now,
continued keeping ceramic book,
and waited.
 
Terror filled like before,
would he kill her
or beat her this time?
 
Her mind raced and flashed
to past images.
When spittle flecked her face,
welts and blood
decorated her ass.
 
An old waltz…
A dance that never ended pleasantly.
Grabbing her blond swirls in his nicotine
fist.
 
He muttered and sawed her spirit,
and hair, up to
Janet’s tiny neck.
 
Her tresses had been one of the few things
she liked about herself. The hair
once wrapped around her like satin
comfort.
 
It made her feel safe at 3AM.
Count girl count. (1-2-3-4-5…)
Another piece of the child died,
piled on the kitchen floor.
 
Janet Caldwell 2001-2014
 
 
janet caldwell (i)

Janet P. Caldwell Bio
 
Janet wrote her first poems and short stories in an old diary where she noted her daily thoughts. She wrote whether suffering, joyful or hoping for peace in the world. She started this process at the tender age of Eight. This was long before journaling was in vogue. Along with her thoughts, poetry and stories, she drew what she refers to as Hippie flowers. Janet still to this day embraces the Sixties and Seventies flower power symbol, of peace and love, which are a very important part of her consciousness.
 
Janet wrote her first book, in those unassuming diaries, never to be seen by the light of day due to an unfortunate house fire. This did not deter her drive. She then opted for a new batch of composition journals and filled everyone. In the early nineteen-eighties, Janet held a byline in a small newspaper in Denton, Texas while working full time, being a Mother and attending Night School.
 
Since the early days Janet has been published in newspapers, magazines, and books globally. She also has enjoyed being the feature on numerous occasions, both in Magazines, Radio and on Several Web Sites. She has gone on to publish three books. 5 degrees to separation 2003, Passages 2012 and her latest book Dancing Toward the Light . . . the journey continues 2013. She is currently editing her 4th book, written and to be published 2014. All of her Books are available through Inner Child Press along with Fine Book Stores Globally.
 
Janet P. Caldwell is also the Chief Operating Officer of Inner Child www.iaminnerchild.com/, which includes Inner Child’s Ning Social Site innerchild.ning.com/, Inner Child Newspaper paper.li/1innerchild/1326347159, Inner Child Magazine www.innerchildmagazine.com/, Inner Child Radio www.blogtalkradio.com/inner-child-radio and The Inner Child Press Publishing Company www.innerchildpress.com/.
To find out more about Janet, you may visit her web-site, Face-book Fan Page and her Author page at Inner Child Press.
 
 
 
 
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My Sun is Orange. A Poem by William S. Peters, Sr.

my morning Sun is orange
The yellow is stained
with the Blood of my People
for that is what we
are reminded of
each day

 

when it rises from the East
to greet the world
i see my world
clearly

 

we once lived with a hope
that the atrocities of Hate
War
and indifference
would go away
but it did not

 

my hope has been misplaced
somewhere
and i can not remember
where i have set it down

 

it might have been that day
i lost my arm
or that day
when my Father was jailed
or that day
when my Sister was killed
she was only 3

 

no, i think i lost my hope
the day
my Mother no longer cried

 

her eyes have been dry
for many a year now
and somehow
by some grace
she still has enough love in her
to hug me
once in a while
through that pained smile
that still adorns her face
just so she won’t completely break

 

there is a noise i hear
it is a loud silence
that stays with me
through my callousness
for the gunfire
and the bombs
and the screams
i can not hear them

 

they have long ago
assaulted and killed
the dreams of my Family
my village
my people
and it is now working on
Humanity

 

where is the sanity
in this methodology
to be found

 

every day is “Ground Zero”
where i live
every where i look
i see Ground Zeros
and we have lost count
of those who
are no more
because of what you call War

 

but you and i
never had a dispute
that i know of
If so, please tell me what i did wrong
to cause you harm
that you should exact such wretchedness
upon me
and others like me

 

i know not of the Politics
of it all.
i have never met a Politician
are they so different
than we the people ?

 

if it’s Oil
i give it to you
if it’s right
take it freely
i will not raise nor put my hand
against that
of my Father’s children

 

there was a time
when all i thought of
was simply
finding Joy in my life
i have since given up that quest
for i see far too much
of that other stuff
which deserves not a name

 

my Sun is no longer Yellow
but i do pray my Brother
that yours is

 

my Sun is Orange

 
 

This is dedicated to all the Villages, Peoples across our Globe who must endure

the Politics and Sickness of War.

Bill Utah Summer
 
Bill is an avid Writer / Poet who has been committed to this path since 1966. He currently has to his credit over 70 Published Books as well as a myriad of Newspaper and Magazine Articles. Bill supports the venue of Creative Expression regardless of form. He also is an activist for the progression and evolution of Humanity and its Love of each other.
 
Recently (September 2015) Bill was honored to be named the Poet Laureate at the Kosovo International Poetry Festival where his book The Vine Keeper was showcased. He was also awarded The Golden Grape Award.
 
Bill currently serves as the CEO of Inner Child Enterprises, ltd., Managing Director of Inner Child Press, Executive Producer of Inner Child Radio and Executive Editor of Inner Child Magazine. His life partner Janet P. Caldwell stands by his side in support of the Inner Child vision
 
For more of Bill, visit his personal web Site at : www.iamjustbill.
 
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‘Desperate Seeker’ Collected Poems. Gary Beck. (i-v)

 
Gary Beck Image
 

    ‘Desperate Seeker’ is an unpublished poetry collection that uncovers the anger, fear and horror that resounds in the powerful struggle of existence.

 
i.
 
Deception of the Arts
 
The rigors of science
became too demanding
for unwilling students
unprepared for effort,
conditioned by tv
to passive response
to the learning process.
But Americans believed
in higher education,
a cultural imperative
propounded by their fathers
who left the blue-collar class
by attending college,
then wearing suits to work.
 
Competing colleges
obliged unmotivated hordes
by inventing liberal arts,
a superficial taste
of various subjects,
an opportunity
to find a direction
by sampling career choices.
And millions got degrees
that left them unqualified
for any profession,
but they were educated,
deluded into thinking
they were functional.
 
Then the real world reared its head
and illusions melted away
leaving tedious employment,
a poor consolation
for shattered expectations.
So they worked resentfully
deprived of luxury
offered tantalizingly
by bigger and bigger tvs
colorfully displaying
what they could only afford
by purchasing on credit
and going into debt.
 
The best of the liberal arts tribe
taught in inner city schools,
brought social services
to those in desperate need,
yet as our population increased
math and science were neglected,
inventiveness began to fade,
a plague of lawyers roamed the land
expending enormous energy
promoting the concept of lawsuits
to dissatisfied citizens
guided by clever exploiters
to courtrooms of contention
seeking compensation
for the loss of loved ones,
grief replaced by greed.
 
The owners of America
contributed a system
that brainwashed our youngsters
with high moral concepts,
democracy, equality,
removed from their reality
by the vast economic gap
between haves and have nots,
yet many of them believed
they were as good as anyone else,
until the fragile line of credit
suddenly evaporated,
smashing family security
providing no consolation
in the liberal arts.
 
ii.
 
Nurturing Gap
 
Alienation blossoms
faster than comfort
in fractured homes,
roles eroded
by changing society,
television parent
unable to give
preparation to prevent
future confusion.
 
iii.
 
Street People VI
 
I sit indoors
sheltered from rain
watch from my window
city procession
workers, shoppers, tourists,
barely functional homeless,
as intent on arrivals
as the passersby,
lacking urgency,
achieving destination
without comforts.
 
iv.
 
Fading Glory
 
American holidays
retain popularity
on special occasions
with gifts, or fireworks,
more and more forgetting
memorable battles,
our soldier’s sacrifices,
too easily distracted
by internet diversions.
 
v.
 
Noblesse Obligé
 
Declining empires
frequently abandoned
their troops abroad
when they couldn’t maintain
the exercise of power.
The British pioneered
bringing the troops home,
setting an example
for fading America
not to desert
young men and women
doing their duty,
risking their lives
in foreign lands.
 
 
Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director, and as an art dealer when he couldn’t make a living in theater. He has 11 published chapbooks and 3 more accepted for publication. His poetry collections include: Days of Destruction (Skive Press), Expectations (Rogue Scholars Press). Dawn in Cities, Assault on Nature, Songs of a Clerk, Civilized Ways, Displays, Perceptions (Winter Goose Publishing). Fault Lines, Tremors, Perturbations, Rude Awakenings and The Remission of Order will be published by Winter Goose Publishing. Conditioned Response (Nazar Look). Resonance (Dreaming Big Publications). His novels include: Extreme Change (Cogwheel Press) and Flawed Connections (Black Rose Writing). Call to Valor will be published by Gnome on Pigs Productions and Acts of Defiance will be published by Dreaming Big Publications. His short story collection, A Glimpse of Youth (Sweatshoppe Publications). Now I Accuse and other stories will be published by Winter Goose Publishing. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway. His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines. He currently lives in New York City.

 
 
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DREAM CATCHERS. A Poem by Steve DeFrance.

 

Things
are
what they
are.
Coloring Jupiter green
won’t make it so.
 
Yesterday’s meaning
was for yesterday—
today the sun comes up
on another planet
entirely.
 
One night’s sleep
divides us
from an uncertain past.
 
The dead & the living
can’t mix often except
in poetry or dreams
where everyone’s illustrated
in a few fictive lines  
purple cows here or there—as words
exculpate whatever they please.
 
Until they don’t and then
they damn the very thing
they’ve once raved about.
 
One minute now
until this day’s cares disappear.
Daylight hisses into dark,
and night barges into the frightened
corners of our mind—until at last,
the eternal stage manager lowers our curtain,
and consciousness skips,
among stars & rampaging raptors,
slipping right off the spinning earth.
 
 

steve-defrance

 
 
Steve DeFrance is a widely published poet, playwright and essayist both in America and in Great Britain. His work has appeared in literary publications in America, England, Canada, France, Ireland, Wales, Scotland, India, Australia, and New Zealand. He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize in Poetry in both 2002 and 2003. Recent publications include The Wallace Stevens Journal, The Mid-American Poetry Review, Ambit, Atlantic, Clean Sheets, Poetrybay, Yellow Mama and The Sun. In England he won a Reader’s Award in Orbis Magazine for his poem “Hawks.” In the United States he won the Josh Samuels’ Annual Poetry Competition (2003) for his poem: “The Man Who Loved Mermaids.” His play THE KILLER had it’s world premier at the GARAGE THEATRE in Long Beach, California (Sept-October 2006). He has received the Distinguished Alumnus Award from Chapman University for his writing. Most recently his poem “Gregor’s Wings” has been nominated for The Best of The Net by Poetic Diversity. For further work by Steve DeFrance see www.Artvilla.com & Poetry Life & Times

 
 
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Twenty Four Seven. A Poem by Robin Ouzman Hislop

 
Donde se liberan titled by hijacking planes
debate Kenya gave act el nihilismo NYC
had a secret after
to Strike un momento determinado
actor important cattle to los hechos
the suspicious individuals on potenciales experiencia de el seno
Most of his flight.
 
Most his flight. Maasai tribe of ocho años después de la versión
Agravación de targeting NYC.
Michael would be later periodista que claim
and they donde surge la humanidad demuestra
donde quiera que recorren el mundo una agravación.
 
Another nearby attacks. Another nearby attacks.
 
Hijackers en revista el terrorismo aparece
the Center’s most famous Jackson had a criminalidad se desarrolla.
Authorities did not America as aid, did not America as aid.
The CIA se produce social sufre cambios dio inicio
a building that collapsed
donde President George comienzan a degradarse but overslept.
 
Comienzan a degradarse but overslept
in sobre on his valores y social targeting NYC,
possibly office on sobre el tema but overslept.
 
7 meeting at the another nearby attacks.
In US “saying morales donde triunfan was later found World Trade Center, Odnako.
Found World Trade Center, Odnako. Revista rusa.
 
James la veracidad en un artículo el cinismo y las relaciones
– pasa America as aid.
– pasa most of his flight.
14 of their 25th floor of Odnako.
 

 
Robin Portrait July Sotillo 2016 by Amparo
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop, born UK, a reader in philosophy & religions, has travelled extensively throughout his lifetime but now lives in semi- retirement as a TEFL teacher and translator in Spain & the UK.
 
Robin was editor of the 12 year running on-line monthly poetry journal Poetry Life and Times. In 2013 he joined with Dave Jackson as co-editor at Artvilla.com, where he presently edits Poetry Life & Times, Artvilla.com, Motherbird.com.
 
He’s been previously published in a variety of international magazines, later publications including Voices without Borders Volume 1 (USA), Cold Mountain Review (Appalachian University, N. Carolina), The Poetic Bond Volumes (thepoeticbond.com) and Phoenix Rising from the Ashes (a recently published international Anthology of Sonnets). His last publication is a volume of collected poems All the Babble of the Souk available at all main online tributaries

 
 
 
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Sweet Little Sperm. A Video Poem by Tony Martin – Woods

 
SWEET LITTLE SPERM
 

 
 
tony republic
 
 
Tony Martin-Woods started to write poetry in 2012, at the age of 43, driven by his political indignation. That same year he also set in motion Poesía Indignada (Transforming with Poetry), an online publication of political poetry that he edits. Tony is a political and artistic activist who explores the digital component of our lives as a means to support critical human empowerment. He is also known in the UK for his work as an academic and educator under his non-literary name. He writes in English and Spanish and has published his first volume of poetry Los viajes de Diosa (The Travels of Goddess) 2016.
 
 
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