Renee’ B. Drummond-Brown

The would-be sculptor of muses. A Poem by Fabrice B. Poussin

by 
The would-be sculptor of muses

Ether comes to be in the bright light
it makes auras like so many living hosts
to chase the others as if to mate.

In awe of the unknown phenomenon
the maker of miracles seeks a solution
to make a wonder from such soft chaos.

A silent symphony emerges in a waltz
particles of a curious matter embrace
swirling in a gentle cyclone.

Pondering the unexpected spectacle
magician in his dreams he is still
waiting for the only moment in time. 

Perhaps then he will be the great master
holder of the secret he has been seeking
when at last the creation becomes his muse.

 
 

 
 
Fabrice B. Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and many other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications. Most recently, his collection “In Absentia,” was published in August 2021 with Silver Bow Publishing.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author & https://poetrylifeandtimes.com See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

LIKE THE BIRDS ON THE WIRES. 3 Poems from Bradford Middleton

by 
LIKE THE BIRDS ON THE WIRES

 
As I walked I would occasionally

Look up, up at the sky, up where

The birds ruled, home there to the

Lucky, those who can move in the

Blink of one eye. 

 
This time though the view was kind

Of different; the birds had all

Congregated, like musical notes on

A line, along the telephone wire that

Keeps us in touch with the outside world.

 
It was then I thought is that how

Leonard Cohen came up with the

Wonderful lyrics to 'Bird on a Wire'

By looking up, up at the sky, drawing

Inspiration from a natural phenomenon.

 
FALLING DOWN THE STAIRS

 
There were times when I would live

A life, a wild time, and would often

Find myself falling down those stairs

At the last resort out of my mind,

Always always out of my mind and

Late at night as that was when this

Beautiful gift always got me best

And sometimes it would be 3-15

In the morning and I’d be falling

Down those damn stairs out of

My damn mind feeling like a cat

At the end of his ninth life.

 
LIKE THOSE OLD DAYS (with my radio on)

 
I sit here tonight and it

Almost feels like the old-times as

My radio builds up to one of the games of the year

As old footballers talk of teenagers

Turning up to training in brand new

Shiny Mercedes-Benz as I sit here

Writing a life so far removed from

Their gilded existence it just goes to

Show you how capitalism has gone so

Terribly wrong…

 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
BIOGRAPHY
 
 
Bradford Middleton was born in south-east London during the summer of 1971 and won his first poetry prize at the age of nine. He then gave up writing poems for nearly twenty-five years and it wasn’t until he landed in Brighton, knowing no one and having no money, that he began again. Ten years later and he’s been lucky enough to have had a few chapbooks published including a new one from Analog Submission Press entitled ‘Flying through this Life like a Bottle Battling Gravity’, his debut from Crisis Chronicles Press (Ohio, USA) and his second effort for Holy & Intoxicated Press (Hastings, UK). He has read around the UK at various bars, venues and festivals and is always keen to get out and read to new crowds. His poetry has also been or will be published shortly in the Chiron Review, Zygote in my Coffee, Section 8, Razur Cuts, Paper & Ink, Grandma Moses ‘Poet to Notice’, Empty Mirror, Midnight Lane Gallery, Bareback Lit and is a Contributing Poet over at the wonderful Mad Swirl. If you like what you’ve read go send a friend request on facebook to bradfordmiddleton1.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author & https://poetrylifeandtimes.com See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

My Voice. A Poem & Artwork by Kelly Sargent

by 
My Voice



I am Deaf. 

My fingers speak. 


A coiffed paintbrush in my grasp, 

my voice streaks turquoise and magenta 

across a parched canvas. 

Vowels coo through thirsty linen.


Click-clacking keys with my mother tongue, 

I chew hard consonants

and spit them out. 

Sour, a scathing sonnet can be at dusk.


Fingertips pave slick exclamations, 

punctuated by nails sinking low into clamminess.  

I sculpt hyperboles.

Kelly Sargent is an author and artist whose works, including a Best of the Net nominee, have appeared in more than forty literary publications. A poetry chapbook entitled Seeing Voices: Poetry in Motion is forthcoming (Kelsay Books, 2022). A book of modern haiku entitled Lilacs & Teacups is also forthcoming, and a haiku recently recognized in the international Golden Haiku contest is on display in Washington, D.C. She serves as the creative nonfiction and an assistant nonfiction editor for two literary journals. She also reviews for an organization whose mission is to make visible the artistic expression of sexual violence survivors.
You can find her at https://www.kellysargent.com/

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author & https://poetrylifeandtimes.com See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

Three Poems Telos, Tabula Rasa & Algor by Carl Scharwath

by 
Telos

Two evening lovers’ echoes
In you forgotten dreams and
memories of essence.

Touch wordlessly in a greater optimism.

Waves of summer morn
Under a cloudless sky with
flickering lights of desire.

Turning like a dancer alone on the stage of life

The evening leaves turn after 
Their first death and sleep
In the place of forgotten Gods.

Does it break you apart to see the expectation so muddled?

Tabula Rasa

I saw the ethos of a
generation destroyed-
mourning the philosophers
In their artful vision.

The sense datum clouds
with cries of the 
nymphs welcoming 
new world dawns.

Mentality is, in its way forming,
a sign of hopeful intelligence.
Knavish roadblocks obstruct
triumphant returns to Arcadia.

A sterism fills my sight
As the false memories
Of a partial Utopia
Flood my soul.

Algor

Like a winter landscape fearful
Of revealing what lies underneath
And I-one minute
Adrift from myself.

Opening up to you
Is as easy as breathing
In the quest for completion
Of a new threshold.

Poetry is a constructed conversation
On the frontier of dreaming.
I cannot help but freeze-and
Scrutinize the ideology doctrine.

Carl Scharwath, has appeared globally with 170+ journals selecting his poetry, short stories, interviews, essays, plays or art. Two poetry books Journey to Become Forgotten (Kind of a Hurricane Press) and Abandoned (Scars Tv) have been published. His new book “The Playground of Destiny” (Impspired Press 8/21) features prose, poems and photography. His first photography book was published by Praxis in Africa. His photography was also exhibited in the Mount Dora Center for The Arts and Leesburg Center for The Arts galleries. Carl is the art editor for Minute Magazine (USA,) has a monthly interview column with ILA Magazine, a competitive runner, and a 2nd degree black- belt in Taekwondo.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author & https://poetrylifeandtimes.com See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

LAKE TITICACA. A Poem by Lorraine Caputo

by 
 LAKE TITICACA

I.
The fuchsia-orange sun
  is cresting the Eastern cordillera
Its colors seep through muslin clouds
  & sheen upon the icy lake


II.
Across the altiplano between
  maroon worn-ribbed mountains
    & bright turquoise waters

Shaggy-roofed adobe homes
  land parceled by stone walls
In swampy pastures graze
  sheep & llama, cows &
    long-haired donkeys

The weekly market at
  Benemerita Zepita
Pollera-skirted women sit upon
  dwarf grass, surrounded by
    their herds of livestock

Beyond the distant shores
  of Titicaca the snowy
    Andes horizon


III.
On this bank of the deep
  cerulean lake edged with marshland
A woman, child to back
  tends her sheep

Totora boats anchor
  amidst golden-green reeds
A small boy beats
  fresh-plowed earth
    with a hoe

On the far side
  dark copses speckle
    parch hills
Ghostly into the clouds rises
  that snow-capped range

Wandering troubadour Lorraine Caputo is a documentary poet, translator and travel writer. Her works appear in over 250 journals on six continents; and 18 collections of poetry – including On Galápagos Shores (dancing girl press, 2019) and Escape to the Sea (Origami Poems Project, 2021). She also authors travel narratives, articles and guidebooks. In 2011, the Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada honored her verse. Caputo has done literary readings from Alaska to the Patagonia. She journeys through Latin America with her faithful travel companion, Rocinante (that is, her knapsack), listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth. Follow her travels at: www.facebook.com/lorrainecaputo.wanderer or https://latinamericawanderer.wordpress.com.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author & https://poetrylifeandtimes.com See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

Go Forward & Elephant Riding. Poems by Maki Starfield

by 

Go Forward


The book I got for the first time was the Bible
"In the beginning was the word..."
I was attracted to this word

Adam and Eve met in this world and the human world began
Even if the stories of those two people are over, our life will not end

From yesterday to today
Connected like a horizon
I will move from today to tomorrow

Upon this heaviness…
O wind, go forward!

In the heart,
Let's change the darkness of the Bible
Into sparkling stars

Endlessly flowing, spreading
My words before it


Elephant Riding


I experienced elephant riding in Thailand for the first time
Raising his nose, the elephant opened the sweaty nose widely
Just before I was about to leave
I put the money in the nostrils at once.
The elephant took it and handed it to his master.

Obeying him, the elephant just carried the next customer
and started walking out
Held by the reins by his master
The elephant doesn’t think about running away from him

Goodbye
This is the first time I met him, and I should think I will not meet him again
But I don’t need any kiss from him

Goodbye

Maki Starfield

Poet, painter and translator.Born in Ehime, Japan, 1972. MA from Sophia University, studying International business management and TESOL in Canada. She recently has published in the second poetry collection, In Love A Sound. https://immaginepoesia.jimdofree.com
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author & https://poetrylifeandtimes.com See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

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

by

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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