everyday

Three Poems by KJP Garcia

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Three Poems

by

KJP Garcia

Stop By

Did you ring the doorbell?

This house is your house –

so to speak.

 

Open so long as you let yourself be heard.

But locks must be engaged, shutters closed

–there are some

that do harm –

 

Villains are not simply storylines, costumes, secret identities, powers

but will and win if not on guard

Feel free to come by, as (is) possible, you’ve come by before so unknown

So entrance was removed.

Time, this, as always will be different.

 

Afford

If on verge then do well to continue

Ceiling leaks, drops break in.

Mattress steals space from living.

 

And this teetering persists?

Make a go of it

– rest doesn’t go well

Fall, jump, get pushed

-expire-

afford a balance to repair’s value.

 

Which Side

Which side of the Hudson is for Verlaine

And which for Rimbaud after the break-up?

Not world enough / strong enough

to open petals

lay out

lyricism

illuminations

the way New York

can

with all the best pharmaceutical grade . . .

And two rivers and upstate to run to and Jersey

ready to back pocket

the written

on train out of here

to calm down.

 

So, Seine, which side is for Warhol and which for Basquiat

When done / decorated enough

to have back what is held close /

unwanted?

 

Poetic Statement: Experience is a plurality of convergences, interruptions, digressions, departures. These occurrences are the fragments which create larger memories and the narratives one attempts to convey to others. The closer one comes to examining the past, the more one notices how the present constantly interferes. The narratives one creates from the keepsakes of yesterday are shattered and forged again with new data – sensations, perceptions, insights, exemptions, the heard-words, the read-words, the thought-words, the dream-words, the images and ideas of having been inserted into a life of disturbances.

Bio: Kenyatta Jean-Paul Garcia is the author of This Sentimental Education, ROBOT and Yawning on the Sands.

The Metropolitan of Wallace Street by Arthur Turfa

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The Metropolitan of Wallace Street

by

Arthur Turfa

 A few Baltic households remained,

Interspersed throughout the barrio:

Bodegas and the Roberto Clemente Center

Between churches built by Russians,

Swedes, and Lithuanians two generations ago.

 

Re-gentrification rolled slowly from the west

Around the Art Museum, heading

Block by block toward North Broad,

Adding another ingredient to the mix.

 

In the 1600 block of Wallace Street

Gold-blazoned letters and Slavic cross

Announced the Holy Resurrection Cathedral

Inside the red-brick row house next to the

Vacant lot and music-blaring bodega.

 

From what once was a living room

The Divine Liturgy was served weekly to

Family and anyone who wandered in.

Metropolitan Trevor, Archbishop of Wallace Street

And renegade non-canonical Orthodox

Held forth with bargain-basement vestments,

A button-festooned miter and minimalistic icons

 

Late evening, humid or frigid, he walked

The nearby streets, consoling the

Derelict and drugged,

Pressing five dollar bills into hands,

Offering brief words of consolation,

A shooting star over a desperate earth.

 

During daylight standing with

Those who tried to temper abuse and

Ravages of urban living and

Herding the far-flung cats of

His nebulous jurisdiction.

 

On my last visit, again pleading with me to

Follow his course in any way I chose,

Standing with him at the altar for

The first and last time

Presiding over a dwindling flock on

A sweltering August morning.

 

When newsletters and notes no longer to

The Land of Enchantment came

I called to learn why, never expecting to

Hear how cancer short-circuited

Career and family to oblivion.

Halfway-reconciled to all he loved,

And to the God whose light nonetheless

Shone through the fully-human

Yet touched by the divine,

Metropolitan of Wallace Street

Asked for a cigar and soon

Passed from one life to the next.

 

Bio: Arthur Turfa lives in the South Carolina Midlands, but his poetry contains influences of his native Pennsylvania, California, Germany (where he has also lived), as well as other places. His first book of poetry. “Times and Places, Reflected”, will be released in the Spring of 2015 by eLectio Publishing.   Published in theMunyori Literary Journal and South Carolina English Teacher, he also maintains a personal blog, Some Poetry at aturfa.blogspot.com, and is an Owner at Words on Fire on Google+

Poetic Statement: Essentially I think Wordsworth had it right, although I do not always find long-lasting tranquility. Something or someone grabs a hold of me, and lingers until I recapture the moment, the glimpse, or the time from my life. My poetry attempts to include the reader into what I experienced, rather than telling the reader all about it or me. At times I strive for a sense of closure, at others I want to preserve something (more as a Symbolist than an Imagist). Whom do I read; Eliot, Auden, Rilke (in the original), Frost, Updike, Shakespeare, Bukowski, and others.Language that sings is more important that language that rhymes.

Two Poems by Vimeesh Maniyur

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Two Poems

by

Vimeesh Maniyur

Lip

Long back

He was called for making Thajmahal

A good, dirty man with talents

He Went.

One day he saw the Emperor

Heard an unknown toungue

May be he was the first in kerala

Who heard that…

It is stone not a white sun

There were no friends

In work they spoke one

They were one lettered humans

kept stone  like his letters

That day he spoke to the king

In dream… in his stone realm..

The man of palaces didnt get his stone-lip

Beheaded that kingdom

Never cameback.

Saw his rustic speech in its silence

True, It is fear not whiteness

The white geometry

As always

I looked into my android

There came a white geometry

 

Here and there roads

Here and there malls

Here and there talkies,

Hospitals, banks, A T M,

Railway station, hotels, pubs,

Café, bars, bus stand…..

Nothing but a white – haunted piece

Of barren world.

Where is this one, the road?

Hospital? Schools? army camp? Small teashops?

Loitering goats and many more….

Are they too big to map?

 

I looked again

Where I am?

 

Bio:  is an established bi-lingual poet, novelist and translator from kerala, in India. He has two volumes of poetry and a children’s novel in his credit. He has also penned stories and dramas. He has bagged for many prestigious awards such as Culcutta Malayali Samajam Endownment, Madras Kerala Samajam, Muttathu Varkki Katha Puraskaram etc. for young writers in kerala.

Song Texts by Cécile Félix

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Song Texts

by

Cécile Félix

Numb

dive into my iris
arises the numb disease
let it fall in space
on time
words
shewed swords
only what she learned and not what she feels-
let her fall- let her fall-
in
love
in
what
where
when we came for/from
and now it arises

Eva

it is right it is wrong
it is black it is white
it is here, now it’s gone
it is right, it is right

it’s ugly and it shows
is it bad?
now it moves me!
it is all so close
it is melancholy for joy

and it’s fast
slow
down
to earth
up to the skies to the skies
Oh!Oh OhOh…

pinguin people

I wish I was pure
So I’m spoiled
I wish I was queen
wish I was, wish I was
I
am
co
rrupted
I am?

I wish I was lovely
and I only pretend
I wish I was lovely Oh Oh!
Here I am
I wish I had never cheated on you
If only in my dreams, If only in my dreams
I wish I had never cheated on you
If only, if only, Oh my! if only I!
Wish I was a child I could cry I could cry
I Wish I was a child

 

Bio: Name is Cécile Félix- I play and write my own songs under the Name BoB.
Was born in Bordeaux, France in 66.
Live in Hamburg, Germany since 1995.

I’ve been playing in a few bands before I started my solo project, with names like Spunge Paper, kill the Body and the head will die, les idiots.
I wrote my first poem at 11, my first song at 20.
I’ve always been drawing and started to paint a few years ago.

Poetic Statement: The point is to create,to find a way out of the blue and sometimes into the black..
I like to use accidents in creation, see myself as a tool versus a master.
I practice the same in my life if I can. Not trying to change the world, but my vision of it, when it hurts…because: 7milliards people = 7milliards different views about what peace should look like.

Three Poems by Jessica Chickering

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Three Poems

by

Jessica Chickering

Again & Again

I know your body like I my own, every muscle, tendon, freckle, atom, and before you are near
me I feel you everywhere like the wind, all encompassing.
I knew the sound of your voice before you spoke,
and in the moment our eyes met I knew that I loved you
and could not stop myself from being with you,
and could not stop my hand from reaching for yours,
and could not stop lips from finding yours,
and could not stop myself from knowing you,
as I have always and will always know you, because we are one in this moment.

The moonlight streams though exposing every ounce of your flesh like a gift.
You have been waiting and I have been waiting to find ourselves here, intertwined by a lust old
as time, animalistic and humble.
There are no words, only the beauty of the feeling of my tongue on your tongue as I explore
you again and again, (ever undiscovered and discovered and longing).
You are tuned to me, your hands make music on my body and every note that we discover
makes the birds cry out in jealousy,
And until the earth ceases to spin, and the tide ceases to rise, and the birds cease their cries, until that day we will not be apart.
For as long as I breathe, you must breathe, and as long as your heart beats, my heart must beat.

Blue Raincoat Roadside

Lighthouse limelight shines,
Cedar chest lunchbox
and weathervane wine.

Knife chopping onions,
pink watermelon
shudders in the know.

The porch boards bend and
creak under the weight
of her unleaving.

My face is her face.

Hush – when I am old,
sideways and troubled
I will absorb home,

searching my memories
for a glimpse of that light.

Tasty

Cheiloproclitic at your feet
brush, touch, taste
Cheiloprocilitic at your feet
resuscitate, breath, heat
Cheiloproclitic at your feet
pucker, suck, bite
Cheiloproclitic at your feet
lick, swoon, punch
Cheiloproclitic at your feet

Brief bio: My name is Jessica Chickering. I live in Denver, Colorado. I am 34 years. Getting old is both awesome and terrible. I hate people who say cliché things about aging. I write, (say something self-effacing about my writing followed by something redeeming). I graduated from the University of Colorado – Denver with a BA in writing and an emphasis in poetry – I pay the bills doing something that utilizes little of the talents I crafted. I have cat named Girl Kitty, I call her GK for short. I am happy to be alive.

Poetic Statement: Poetry is amazing and undervalued. This is true for so many things I find important and worthy in the world as it stands at this moment. I long for a place where I feel more at home. I feel at home in poetry.

 

Three Poems by Tyler Dixon

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Three Poems

by

Tyler Dixon

 

Enough

One day when I’ve had enough
I’ll pack my bags and hit the road
hitchhike out past my life
and leave myself alone.

  Shouts Heralded in the Wind

Caustic moments left to rot
in trying times maybe we’re not
all that we say we’re meant to be
on burning ground from sea to see.

Shadows light the way today
in triumphant gazes that we make.
The heroes lie dead on the floor.
Nobody lives here anymore.

In the midst of all this hate
the drums, they beat a lying fate
to which we submit and bleed
and struggle for the ones in need.
To grasp at a moment’s peace
on our backs we salivate,
sweating in the noon-day sun
how much longer can this go on?

 

Caustic moments left to rot.
Silhouettes of what we’re not.
Crowded dreams shattered in
a broken down and beaten heap
of sun bleached bones and shiny crowns.
The jewels we fight for make us drown.

Weighed down and tied to stone.
No one suffers here alone.

 

Circles and Cycles


Faces scattered in the wind.
Some things seem to never end.

Unified in isolation
suffocating with shining sand
reaching for a helping hand.
Deep breaths void of oxygen
Disappearing into the ocean
One by One
Again and Again.

Some things seem to never end.

Random particles and chemicals.
Organisms composed of molecules.
Finite beings with infinite potential:
Owned and controlled by debt and capital.

Drowning in the deep end not knowing how to swim
Pulling each other down with the best intention.
Some things seem to never end.
Spirits scattered in the wind.

Game over… Start Again?

 

Bio: Hi, my name is Tyler Dixon. I’m from Vancouver, British Columbia. I’m 29 years old. I’ve been writing “poetry” for a long time, probably since I was seven or eight years old. I’ve self-published three books but have never sent anyone, anywhere, any poems to be considered for publication. If I had to classify this work I would call it Poetry Without Borders…

Poetic Statement: These poems, much like their author, are unpolished, uncensored, unabashed, and uncompromising. If you believe that poetry and politics don’t mix, or that abstraction and metaphor are the most efficient tools of the poet, these are not for you. These poems are as much a direct resistant action as they are a collection of literature. Our lives exist in a constant state of information warfare, and the poems you are about to read are weapons in this fight. This collection represents a battle fought for illumination, freedom, and love, against servitude and fear. Which side you choose is up to you..

Two Poems by Arthur Turfa

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Two Poems

by

Arthur Turfa

 

The Conversation

 

Several years after the break

we stood together near the house

early on a summer evening

as the sun slid into western skies.

There we reflected on past years,

expressed mutual remorse

(at first so tentatively)

because the wounds had been healed.

 

Searching the wreckage of it all,

we salvaged enough to move onward

along separate but often parallel paths.

 

Thousands of miles behind me,

tens of thousands awaiting me,

we started the process of becoming

the people we were intended to be

even though the horizon was hazy.

 

Times and places slip away

softly and inexorably from us.

At times several chords on an acoustic

bring back walking over hills

or a sprawling campus.

For fleeting moments we are again

as we were but did not remain.

Far better to be who we have become,

to realize that it was better because

we stood together near the house

early on a summer evening

as the sun slid into western skies.

 

Precession of the Equinox: Polaris Shifts

 

Slightly tending westward, gradually

the lodestar  yields to its successor

as a new Astrological Age begins.

A residual memory, following me

from the Planetarium in Junior High.

Polaris’ replacement will then

give direction to new future stargazers.

 

One of the last young people to escape

from Kensington’s web of snarling streets

and elevated train lines, you seized your chance.

You became our Polaris, colorful in action

and attire, caring and cajoling, steadying

us to be the people you knew we could become.

 

Across the county or continent, we returned

and you greeted us, gloried in those returns.

As colleagues we spoke when storms neared,

and I kept your counsel in sight toward calm waters.

 

Now I know you began your precession,

stepping aside, though not then out of view.

Some of us search for you, exchanging pieces

that do not always fit together.

Second-hand accounts, some leading closer,

others in contradiction, point to a lodestar

that no longer shines in our heavens.

 

Every so often I scan the spreading stars

for our Polaris, until comes the realization

we are now lodestars for ourselves,

for stargazers we need to steady, for those

who receive the light as we did once

while scanning skies for our Polaris.

Three Poems by Arthur Turfa

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Three Poems

by

Arthur Turfa

 

Late Afternoon: the Pilgrimage Church

You asked me to explain to you a past

the always-correct Party had chosen

to hide from you. Yet in a new place now

you wondered about the saints and angels

within and without of Maria im Sand.

Willing I went with you over the

hills on that grey day, October fading,

winds bringing in clouds into the valley.

I pointed out the Virgin’s deep blueness,

the smooth apostolic face at the cross,

the font, pulpit, altar, sunless stained glass,

the mixture of styles, depending on time.

In the cemetery an old man spoke

about previous warfare’s heavy toll;

we exchanged a glance thinking of new deaths

and walked the streets of the closing-down town.

Interest does not always lead to belief.

But each November you light a candle

for your mother. You are a pilgrim

pursuing an uncertain goal as you

seek for answers to your unvoiced questions.

I think back to this day, and wish you peace.

 

Sunday Morning at Beech Island

Sunny morning on the crest of the hill,

Slightly-cold wind in this January

Blowing down the slope toward the Savannah.

Red-doored neo-classic chapel readied

For weekly glimpse of transcendent grandeur.

Uncertainties hover here over us,

Somber occasions, enduring concerns.

During flow of familiar devotions

Light transfixes heavenward-pointed Host

Suffusing unveiled glory over all.

Some linger later outside on the porch

Viewing the landscape with improved vision,

Savoring the moments they wish would endure.

 

A View Backward from the Bend

Every now and then, my path will bend.

If no mists fill the valley, if cloudless

Skies permit, I can gaze where once I went.

On ribbons of path straddling the ridge

Were elusive apparent destinies

Downward sloping toward sunset beaches,

That so thinly disguised a cul-de-sac.

Stretching to the sky, several towers,

Some unfinished, others now collapsing,

Their classrooms with closed windows preventing

Fragrant air to alleviate the staleness,

Not knowing the land where lemon trees bloom,

Scholars scour the text repeatedly

For some non-existing enlightenment,

Refusing to look at the external.

Occasionally a face that I see,

Or a song wafting melody to me

Reminds me of my travels on that path,

Reconnecting me to what I had loved

Even if no longer can be found

Even if it no longer can be loved.

As quickly as it comes, it disappears

And I follow the bend to straighter paths.

 

Bio: Arthur Turfa lives in the South Carolina Midlands, but his poetry contains influences of his native Pennsylvania, California, Germany (where he has also lived), as well as other places. He is working on an e-book of his poetry, scheduled for release later in 2014. Published in the Munyori Literary Journal and South Carolina English Teacher, he also maintains a personal blog, Some Poetry at aturfa.blogspot.com

Poetic Statement: Essentially I think Wordsworth had it right, although I do not always find long-lasting tranquility. Something or someone grabs a hold of me, and lingers until I recapture the moment, the glimpse, or the time from my life. My poetry attempts to include the reader into what I experienced, rather than telling the reader all about it or me. At times I strive for a sense of closure, at others I want to preserve something (more as a Symbolist than an Imagist). Whom do I read; Eliot, Auden, Rilke (in the original), Frost, Updike, Shakespeare, Bukowski, and others.Language that sings is more important that language that rhymes.

A History of Floods by Hanz Olson

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A History of Floods

by

Hanz OlsonAltpoetics verse submission (1)_Page_1

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