Showing posts with label Poemas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poemas. Show all posts

Friday, May 31, 2024

The Rhyme Trilogy


 


1.


My Little River, Rhyme

 

-Have I ever told you about a river?

-Which river?

- The river flowing in a magical symphony, down the valley of my village. I call it Rhyme.

-Is that a part of your dream too?

-Yes, but more real than the rivers I came across in my another world what you call ‘real’.

-What do you do with that one?

-Kind of a place: serene, quiet and beautiful that I usually love to take resort to in a rough day. I can spend hours together just by sitting by the river while watching the flow of crystal clear water: blue like an ocean.

-When did you meet her?

-In one of my wayward wanderings deep down the wilderness. I was in search of a shade of ashen clouds in a hot summer noon and was following a gentle breeze with the smell of a faraway jasmine and an enchantingly beautiful song of the dancing water which seemed to be flowing on for a date with a nearby bay. The coastal part is yet to be undiscovered though.

-Haven’t you got that far yet? 

- Couldn’t make it. It always took me hours of trekking along a long mountainous way to get to my favorite tree by the bank of the river. Which is where I always get stuck by. And it always starts drizzling as soon as I get under the caring shelter of its branches. Couldn’t just resist the idea of dropping down my tired soul and giving it a break from weaving layers after layers of a delusional dream.

I’ll talk to you in another dream. Feeling terribly sleepy now after a week long sleepless night, without a nightingale to escape with …

 


2.


Raining on the Rhyme

 

I was talking to you

The other night

In another dream

In a delusional light

About my little river Rhyme,

Flowing down a broken valley

From a wuthering height.

 

On my way back home

From the melting colors of time

I caught sight of

A tiring twilight

From the falling Rome.

And that was when

I winged back

To my unfinished dream

Of the Rhyme in the rain

With the petals of my draining pain.

 

But the tree was not there anymore

And the branches were all gone.

The drizzling was a little heavier;

But the jasmine kept flowing on.

And it was time to move on

Along the dancing river

To weave the destined bay;

For we both needed a beach

And an infinite blue to reach.

 

But, I was not sure

If I could set the wings free,

Or the stream could make it to the sea;

For the dreams are not always

Flowing like a fluting autumn tree

To take you wherever you wanna be…

But, I kept walking along Rhyme,

My lovely little river in a rain

To set my floating dream free

And to let my fading soul

Fetch the blue from the sea…


3.


Rhyme Keeps Flowing on…

 

The road was narrow, hard and wild,

With upward and downward slopes

And I used to take that thoroughfare

With all my melting infant hopes.

And I used to sprint past

The hundred meter long dread

Piercing through a gray graveyard

 In the heart of the wayward woods,

For there was a long tree

With the smell of roasted beans;

For there was an untold tale

Of a pale-haired witch, as old as Tiresias

With the truths and its trail.

But, there was a river at the end...

 

With all those messed up visions

In the whirlwind

Of my frantic teenage dreams

I used to run past the woods,

The carefree graveyard in shades

Of the autumn yellow streams;

I used to chase down

The tempting scary thrills

To be in the flow of

The miles long corn fields

With the soothingly mysterious wind

Flowing in from somewhere unknown,

From a different time, untamed.

But the river was not Rhyme,

But the seed was so fervently sowed.

 

And now my little river Rhyme

Keeps showing up

In my many layered dreams;

For, now I can weave

All those silenced shrieking pains

Into the dreams of a summer rain,

For, now I can change

The smell of roasted beans

Into the drizzling of jasmine;

For now the river in my childish dream

Don’t get stuck in the charm of a terrain;

For, now the Rhyme keeps flowing on

All the way towards my blue ocean.

 


©Atique R.


Ekphrastic on Klimt’s Jungfrau


 


                                                By Nora Glass



Tangling sweet girls upon cold wooden floors

All tossed together and covered like hair

Purple like bruises, that blanket of yours.

 

Early delirium into bold roars

Lions soon yawned and retired to their lair

Tangling sweet girls upon cold wooden floors.

 

Standing above, putting weight on my sores

Feet are stone cold and I sweat, I must stare

Purple like bruises, that blanket of yours.

 

Frozen strawberries we ate on the shore

Iced into giggles and coughing up hair

Tangling sweet girls upon cold wooden floors.

 

Girls are strew out like the guts from a gore

Pulled like intestines, pale, band-aided, bare

Purple like bruises, that blanket of yours.

 

Gnawing and tired from beautiful wars

Sleeping together and caught in a snare

Tangling sweet girls upon cold wooden floors

Purple like bruises, that blanket of yours.


About the author: Nora Glass is a high-strung 17-year-old from Atlanta, Georgia. Passionate about the theatrical, poetic, and linguistic, she can be found reading, writing, and making unnecessarily complicated spreadsheets. Her poetry has appeared and will appear in the Weight Journal, Eunoia Review, Moonflake Press. More details about the poet can be found here:

The Owl


 


                               By George Kalandadze



The hooting owl ne’er scared me,

midst the blackness of sylvan night.

But so more she had prepared me,

veiled lore in sands of time foreseen.

-- Eyes of amber immured in light.

 

Wind -- her confidant, in hushed tone,

my notice happened to ensnare.

She resembled all, yet no one,

branches bending, beneath her lun.

Yet, misplaced, I wandered still, there.

 

Her head, a cosmic carousel,

an omnipotent balance wheel.

Each hoot, an echoed hoary bell.

Mistral’s replies through bluebells swell,

Night hummed, a beehive, -- surreal.

 

That instant, yonder on the limb,

sat other owl, ready to speak.

The wind, now sacred seraphim,

my equal in ancestral dream.

In silence, we beheld mystique.



About the author: George Kalandadze is an author of poetry and fiction. He has a degree in liberal arts from St. John's College and lives in Tbilisi, Georgia. George was published multiple times by St. John's College writing and art publications, "The Gadfly" and "Energeia". In his spare time, he pursues photography and mountaineering. More details can be found here: 


Tahawus (Cloud Splitter)


 

                                            By Dave Nash


Our separation spreads out,

our row sleeps over,

the threads of our argument tear off and turn up everywhere.

Pain won’t leave, it finds a room in me.

 

Rain drenches the mountain,

the cloud splitter, rainmaker mountain

inhabitable, inaccessible.

 

An offshoot blows across my face.

How something so felt could become an artifact

 

I won’t accept.

We lived in the space between lightning and thunder

that struck me     miles of infinity.

 

Our younger selves would be terrified blind.

Our knowing selves would let it pass detached.

 

But we were pulled by the updraft,

heat turned to fuel for the storm,

we rose a thunderhead.

Until we burst.

 

Oblivion,

this space that we fell into.

Apart,

 

moving towards the forest of

gusty moods on autumn nights.

The peak and fall.

 

I wanted resolution

to find it on the mountain

or absorb it like unrelenting rain,

but I had to go.



About the author: Dave Nash writes on Northeast Regional trains. Dave is the Nonfiction Editor at Five South Magazine. His work appears in places like South Florida Poetry Journal, Bulb Culture Collective, Jake, and The Hooghly Review. You can follow him @davenashlit1.


Tuesday, April 30, 2024

Please Mind the Gap between the Train and the Platform



                                                           By Charlie Dixon 


Cold concrete seeps through denim,

worms its way in, and settles in the centre of your chest.

It beats with the barbarous chit-chat of heinous daydreams

written across the walls of bathroom cubicles.

 

There’s a girl with a guitar on the corner.

She’s singing Nirvana in time with

the sound of an approaching train.

I wonder about other lifetimes.

 

Could we have been friends, once?

 

The music fades out as the doors close behind us.

 

Then, four more stops on the Northern line.

We’re in an entirely different world from the last.

 

It’s that easy.

 

The city doesn’t sleep with the sky,

but Embankment, notably quieter in the evening.

The air moves a little more freely

in the dusted glow of a streetlight.

 

London’s pretty when the sun sets right.

A showcase of its own artistry reflected

in the eyes of a stranger, or a storefront window.

The skyline paints the pavement red,

flows through the spaces between rusted metal bars

in ribbons of orange and pink.

 

The leaves are beginning to change...


About the Author: Charlie Dixon is a queer writer from the north of England. Having recently completed an MA in creative writing, she is branching out into the industry with the primary aim of understanding, and of being understood.



Us Two Poets


 

                                                        By Claudia Wysocky


I stand before you now. . .

We are two poets. . .

Will you let me be?

Will you accept my world as it is?

I've only just wished for a second chance. . .

Everything I want for myself. . .

I've been too scared to dream. . .

—My world has been too tame.

I will open my eyes and feel you here. . .

—I will learn to love what I see.

I can no longer see

'cept in your mirror.

You're my darkness and my light

—and I don't mind.

Your hands are cold—your voice is tempered steel

—But these things I don't mind.

I can no longer feel

'cept in your arms,

You are my life and my death

—as I slowly die,

I will believe in what you see.

So speak words into the earth…

With the light of a kiss between us.



Claudia Wysocky, a Polish writer and poet based in New York, is known for her diverse literary creations, including fiction and poetry. Her poems, such as "Stargazing Love" and "Heaven and Hell," reflect her ability to capture the beauty of life through rich descriptions. Besides poetry, she authored "All Up in Smoke," published by "Anxiety Press." With over five years of writing experience, Claudia's work has been featured in local newspapers, magazines, and even literary journals like WordCityLit and Lothlorien Poetry Journal.


Finishing Touches


 

                                                            By Susan Shea


You gifted me with a fragrance

called Wild Rose, stirring me

to find I can fully inhale myself

wanting more and more…

 

After years of standing

alone at a perfume counter

trying so many drops

of mismatch up and down

my arms

ran out of extensions

until finding you.

 

Now

I have become a rejoicing

balm in your private garden

finding full sun with

vines entwined.



About the author: Susan Shea is a retired school psychologist, who was raised in New York City and now lives in a forest in Pennsylvania. She has had a little over 100 poems accepted by publications including, Across the Margin, Ekstasis, Feminine Collective, Triggerfish Critical Review, Amethyst Review, Litbreak Magazine, A Time of Singing, Invisible City and others. 


Ritual


 

                                                          By Ali Ashhar


It’s the month of October and the transition

is up for the day, the chirping birds witness

desolate leaves at the onset of fall season. Beyond

the aloof horizon belies a vibrant ray of hope;

the caretaker's metaphors get busy in bridging

the gap between the inner voice and the outer discord,

the syllables get heavy in the contemporary weather

for they carry the onus of vacant melodies

from erstwhile summer. The breeze of conscience around

the garden leads to a boulevard where fellow caretakers

vie for utopia; they follow a ritual in the toughest of times

they profess what comes easiest to them—enlighten the dark ambience.



About the author: Ali Ashhar is a poet, short story writer and columnist from Jaunpur, India. He is the author of two poetry collections: Mirror of Emotions (Notion Press, 2021) and Across the Shore (Zorba Books, 2024). He was chosen as the Best Debut Author for the year 2021 by The Indian Awaz and was the recipient of an India Prime 100 Authors Award. His works appear in Indian Review, The Raven Review, Wild Court International Poetry Journal and The Bosphorus Review of Books, among others.


Harmony


 

                                                    By Fabrice Poussin


It is a mysterious language hovering above the two

still as if at a loss for words, they read sounds

written upon the ether of the world they see.

 

A sign of a small pleasure like a tsunami

changes him in all his fibers to make him new

the scents of her breath dance before his eyes.

 

Caressing his brow with a delicate kiss

he lets her into the tale of his hours

her insides share in the passion of the day.

 

In the vacuum of eternal seconds they plunge

into the oceans of serene blues and greens

swimming to the recollection of a first contact.


They know not to speak, no sound exists

but for the symphony of a perpetual waltz

as two souls fuse in delightful harmony.



About the author: Poussin is a professor of French and World Literature. His work in poetry and photography has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and hundreds of other publications worldwide. Most recently, his collections In Absentia, and If I Had a Gun, Half Past Life were published in 2021, 2022, and 2023 by Silver Bow Publishing.


Sunday, March 31, 2024

What Else Could I Be...


 


What else could I be,

When the life I knew

Seemingly failed to recognise me?

 

I chose to be an unnoticed face,

Silently staying out of the race,

Where peace is compromised

Without ever allowing a pause

In keeping up with the pace.

 

Scared away off the dazzling beauty

In the bottled up love and fidelity,

I sought to find solace and serenity

In solving the perplexed math of

Adjusting half-fed stomach with cut-off coffee.

 

What else could I be

When there is no life left

Between you and me…

 

 

© Atique R.


The Rhyme Trilogy

  1. My Little River, Rhyme   -Have I ever told you about a river? -Which river? - The river flowing in a magical symphony, down t...