Wednesday, December 17, 2014

Two Poems by Ken L. Jones


Half Formed Lullaby

On this implosion of a morning
There’s something sour and aloof
Something lonely in the guitar notes
That give me chills in the cat lithe garden
That calls me across the fog
Weary February is gilded and serene like an angel
And on the lace of its fine bone china ice fields
I saw you kiss the hill’s melodies
Till I was yearning for the silver dreams
Wherein one hears the confessions of the leaves

Late At Night When No One Is There  

My silver bride bends low colored by the rainbow tint
Of the blackbird atop the old hotel
Who is the dark guardian of my wineskin full of salt wind
That turns my sleep to a snow most deep
Above which the moon unfurls
Where a pulsating starlight brings to fruition
The ripe, ripe seeds of the very long burning log fire
That in my beloved’s fireplace stirs and pops
Till long past daylight and first crowing of the cock
As it slowly awakens every village and farm
In the verdant valley far below
And sends to tasks more repetitious drones less free
Than any in any real beehive that I’ve ever seen

  

You Carry Them With You

Slumber dances just out of reach as my memories form
Harp strings to be plucked by finger’s decades worn
For music has always been my trade winds
Been the skin that carries the tattoos of my deepest stirrings
As they come on me in tidal waves in a manner almost blurring
And like a coral bed discovered for the first time in a cove I’ve never seen
Will lead me to undiscovered lands that are the essence of all dreams




For the past thirty-five years Ken L. Jones has been a professionally published author who has done everything from writing Donald Duck Comic books to creating things for Freddy Krueger to say in some of his movies.  In the last six years he has concentrated on his lifelong ambition of becoming a published poet and he has published widely in all genres of that discipline in books, online, in chapbooks and in several solo collections of poetry.  



 

Monday, December 15, 2014

Three Poems by Neil Ellman


Woods (2)
 
     after the painting by Gerhard Richter 
 
In the woods a lexicon’s
concentric rings
speak ancient dialects
 
of seasons come and gone
broken promises
civilizations’ rise and fall
 
liaisons in the shade
of twisted limbs
names carved in weathered bark
 
of the forgiven and unforgiving
confessions and lies
the birth and death of gods
 
straining to the light
trees endure, survive
to teach the earth its past.


Woods (5)
 
     after the painting by Gerhard Richter
 
Blue and yellow trees
with purple bark
Inhabit a world of black and grey
grow old
grow leaves that shift to red
as they escape this time
this place
along the speed of fall and light
with a reason to survive
the end of time
as blue and yellow trees
that will not die
when the woods grow dark
in the winter of the sun


Woods (10)
 
     after the painting by Gerhard Richter 
 
Who live among the trees
on hallowed ground
in the hollows of the earth
hold communion with            
the gods of wind and rain
who gather in the sediment
of falling leaves
to feed eternity
as if it were their child
who comes to know
that destiny is a tree
that sometimes dies
to live again and again
to command the forest floor.
 
 
 
 
Neil Ellman, a poet from New Jersey, has published more than 1,000 poems, many of which are ekphrastic and written in response to works of modern and contemporary art, in print and online journals, anthologies and chapbooks throughout the world.

Friday, November 28, 2014

A Poem by Sandra Rokoff-Lizut

My Spirit

To keep it safe for awhile,
I hide my spirit
in the crook of a sycamore tree
like my ancestors did.

Because, now that I'm 
fourteen, my spirit
is growing too wild and unwieldy
for me to carry around
in my back-pack anymore.



Sandra Rokoff-Lizut, retired educator and children's book author (published by Macmillan, Holt, Reinhary & Winston, and Hallmark Inc.), is currently both a printmaker and a poet.  She is a member of Oregon Poetry Association, Mary's Peak Poets, Poetic License, Gertrude's, and a weekly writing salon.  Rokoff-Lizut volunteers, by teaching poetry to middle-schoolers, at the Boys and Girls Club in Corvallis, Oregon.  She also studies poetry at Oregon State University.  Previous publications include Illya's Honey, The Bicycle Review, Wilderness House Review, The Tower Journal, The Penwood Review, and Wild Goose Poetry Review.




Tuesday, November 25, 2014

A Poem by Inna Dulchevsky


Snowing

Snowing    snowing today . . .
Lots of thoughts are in my head . . .
Snowflakes run through the streets
They do not know where they'll land

Thoughts run somewhere
They do not know where they fly
Numb and beautiful snowflakes
They do not know   what is   to die

It is white in the city
All have been blessed
By tango of snowflakes
And waltz of spinning wind

It is cloudy and muffled
Inside of my world
Thoughts are brutal to me
Thoughts are broken
                            into millions
                                            of    thoughts

As painful shards of puzzle
They encircle my heart
Rip it into fragments
Coldest beauty of falling-snow charm
Burns what is left of red witch-hazel

Curse of whitest dance
Covers all with cold wing
Bends the branches of trees
With frost of snowflakes

Storm is deep in my world
Pulls the roots of my mind

It fails

Shelters frozen sprout of love
Thaws it with the heat of my tears



Inna Dulchevsky spent her early school years in Belarus.  She currently resides in Brooklyn, New York.  She was awarded First Prinse in the 2014 David B. Silver Poetry Competition.  Her poems have appeared in the both journals and books including Pyrokinection, Lavender, and Antheon.  Inna's literary influences include Pushkin, Lermontov, Yesenin, Akhmatova, Tsvetaeva, Block, Bunin, Turgenev, Chekhov, Gogol, Tolstoy, Bulgakov, Nabokov, and Dostoevsky.  Her interests include metaphysics, philosophy, literature, practice in meditation and yoga.  Inna's musical education in violin and classical singing, as well as her discovery of Vermeer's light and expansion of consciousness through the connection with inner-self and nature, are essential in the writing of her poetry.




Sunday, November 23, 2014

Three Poems by Susan Dale


September

A golden hush
Crimson and bronze days
And the earth willing
I am not
To relinquish summer
To smoke-silvered November

The crying song of geese
Curling clouds in the skies
And in the margins of my dreams
Autumn lingers long



November, 2014

November with its penitential air
It's faded shutters of sun

Melancholy lady
carrying a candle
flickering through the fog



Untitled

The Golden rope of September
tugs at summer's sleeve
Time to pull her over the hill



Susan Dale's poems and fiction are on Kind of a Hurricane Press, Ken*Again, Penman Review, Inner Art Journal, Feathered Flounder, Garbanzo, and Linden Avenue.  In 2007, she won the grand prize for poetry from Oneswan.  She has two published chapbooks on the internet:  Spaces Among Spaces by languageandculture.org and Bending the Spaces of Time as part of the Barometric Pressures Authors' Series (Kind of a Hurricane Press).




Friday, November 21, 2014

A Poem by Rick Hartwell


All Aquiver

Standing still to watch
various vibrant birds
tremble within the pines,
flirting their lives away,
fluttering branch to branch,
contesting each bough,
then breaking away, hesitant,
only pausing to feed on
bugs within the bark,
fueling up for mating.

Topping this frenzied activity,
growth tassels track the arcing
progress of the sun towards winter
as a low grazing hawk explodes the tree.



Rick Hartwell is a retired middle school (remember the hormonally-challenged?) English teacher living in Southern California.  He believes in the succinct, that the small becomes large; and, like the Transcendentalists and William Blake, that the instant contains eternity.  Given his druthers, if he's not writing, Rick would rather still be tailing plywood in a mill in Oregon.  He can be reached at rdhartwell@gmail.com



Tuesday, November 18, 2014

A Poem by Ken L. Jones


As Frail as a Snowflake

Winter sunset frozen to a deep blue
Above the high mountain meadows
Whose iced field trails
Are like yarn and needles
And have a most elegant fizz
And upon them reindeer
Skedaddle as their hooves tap out
Lullabies that sound
As if they are being played
On an Irish harp so butter tender
That only a fairy could pluck it that way
All upon this most perfect of December days.



For the past thirty-five years Ken L. Jones has been a professionally published author who has done everything from writing Donald Duck Comic books to creating things for Freddy Krueger to say in some of his movies.  In the last six years he has concentrated on his lifelong ambition of becoming a published poet and he has published widely in all genres of that discipline in books, online, in chapbooks and in several solo collections of poetry.