Robin Ouzman Hislop – Page 22

The Daddy Poem Series (i.-vii.) by Janet P. Caldwell.

February 12, 2019September 30, 2016 by Robin Ouzman Hislop

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 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.

February 12, 2019September 30, 2016 by Robin Ouzman Hislop

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 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.

for Inner Child . . .

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‘Desperate Seeker’ Collected Poems. Gary Beck. (i-v)

September 30, 2016September 19, 2016 by Robin Ouzman Hislop

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.

September 15, 2016 by Robin Ouzman Hislop

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 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

Twenty Four Seven. A Poem by Robin Ouzman Hislop

August 22, 2016 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 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

August 22, 2016 by Robin Ouzman Hislop

SWEET LITTLE SPERM

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 Mirabeau bridge. Video Poem to Music by Vishal Experimental Factory

August 22, 2016 by Robin Ouzman Hislop

” Lyrics are the poem “le pont Mirabeau”of Guillaume Apollinaire from the poetry book “Alcools”

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FUD. A Poem by Robin Ouzman Hislop

July 29, 2016 by Robin Ouzman Hislop

Fud helped temper attacks
trump a three-word promise longer than ever before
the up ones sleeve trump card
trump up trick, as Day of Judgement
raised the dead on intestinal gas through the anus
to expel hopping into an atom splitting fission
similar referendum wins multiple atoms to split
exponential increase in atoms splitting into right wing populism
the number of some which will awaken destruction
to take war to Europe
and based on history applaud the great victory
to win back control from now fractured EU.

The final trumpet that taps into a seething and of course many
but based on history
the Christening of them leads to nothing happening
but Utopia argumentum ad metum
– not ace in the hole card period of time –
compare trombone at dawn by several commentators
that Brexit, a trick with a trump is not caused by
split geyser of anti-immigrant sentiment suggestions
and ascent in part we are entering one moral due to another
according to the belief of thousands within an extremely short period
on a very broad scale.

Possible scenarios are infinite
to build a wall has many awful faults prevented
hit the economy with a strong force of natural selection trump
which might represent to trump up a convincing EU
as well as also one major wave of inward-facing
and they in turn causing all the indicators
that were in case against the last EU for all its UK causes
automatically honour targeting frail people
in their many moving parts
as their combined energy weakens.
Fear uncertainty doubt FUD call force in suppressing
in the face of won overnight
by those who due to the massive complexity
by the hundreds of splits causing multiple moral Utopia
argumentum ad impact
of the first atom of all ages and killing. Of all ages and killing.

Robin Ouzman Hislop, born UK, a reader in philosophy & religions, has traveled 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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