A Poem by Dr. Smita Anand Sriwastav

she of the sun-kissed frangipani...

the summer's elastic daylight
finally wraps up its realms of gold,
as tall silhouettes of trees
blessed with lush verdure and avian chirps,
stretch themselves over
technicolor bosom of crepuscule,
etching a rippling chiaroscuro
over the visage of sapphire lake.

the mangoes wink 
at the sun that retreats on
footprints of glowing amaranths of red,
indifferent to forlorn droop of sunflowers;
and cicadas begin quaint threnodies
on reverberating strings of cellos,
while fireflies of aster-face 
twinkle as plucked constellations of wishes
on the stalks of slumbering bushels.

mascara-tinted clouds enshroud
the darkening face of the once azure sky,
pregnant with raindrops' emotion,
thunder's heart wrenching cries of endurance
and with lingering whim of a rainbow,
this is a prologue to summer's rain.

she of the sun-kissed frangipani
that hides a glowworm of fluorescence
within its petals of sublime,
paints with colors of twilight on
the sublime breast of sailing, soaring clouds
etching variegated characters,
that whisper their own tales to rising stars.

she of the sun-kissed frangipani,
gathers stardust on fingertips of intrigue
from the vacuum of infinite,
to sprinkle as dream-seeds on eyelids
closed with hope of sweet siesta,
filling moonlight in secret cisterns
to polish her gorgeous smiles.

she collected night jasmines 
of insomniac smiles from myriad octopus limbs,
in her skirt frills to scatter on threshold of tomorrow,
through her sparkling irises of amber
peeps her soul that tenderly caresses 
all my faults, mistakes, errors
erasing them from the window pane 
of bittersweet existence... 

Dr. Smita Anand Sriwastav is an M.B.B.S. doctor with a passion for poetry and literature, has always expressed my innermost thoughts and sentiments through the medium of poetry, uses nature as the most inspiring force in molding writings, has published two books and several poems in journals like the Rusty Nail and Contemporary Literary Review India and one of poem was published in a book called ‘Inspired by Tagore’published by Sampad and British Council.

A Poem by Diane Webster

ROCK LEANS

The flagstone rock leans
like a spread-eagle suspect
against the house
with a fluffed up sparrow
resting atop the crag
in full south side sunshine
while siding and granite bounce back warmth
toastier than cousins wing to wing
as insulation on telephone line
while the neighborhood cat
lazes on its lookout windowsill
just above and out of sight.

　

Diane Webster's biggest challenge as a poet is to remain open to idea opportunities whether that's by noticing a blooming pansy in a pavement crack or seeing a hawk scowling from its perch or a woman guided down the sidewalk by a man with his hand on her neck.  Her work has appeared in "Illya's Honey," "The Hurricane Review," "Philadelphia Poets" and other literary magazines.

A Poem by Diane Webster

FLIGHT SOUNDS

Red-winged blackbirds fright fly in formation
as scarlet-headed house finches
cock their heads to get a bird’s eye view
of the person standing in the window
as she stands everyday.
Nothing to fear
like juncos feeding on the ground
wary of the gray cat who occasionally stalks
with red tongue licking between
gleaming white fangs;
black eyes wide around the corner
charging like silly blackbirds
who heard a seed drop
like the click of a feline claw on gravel.



Diane Webster's challenge is to remain open to poetry opportunities and to write what she sees whether by walking across the parking lot or watching the hawk scowl from its tree. Her work has appeared in “Illya’s Honey,” “The Cape Rock” and other literary magazines.

A Poem by Marilyn "Misky" Braendeholm

THE LAST EDGE OF ROMANCE

Another frosty morning,
and my dreams are wading
through lofty mist. Awake
grey day, another iced
morn as you sleep beside me.
Birds’ song long flown
on thread-bare branches,
and perhaps, just maybe
I should have done the same.
And I stare with silver shivers
at Mother Nature’s New Clothes.

Marilyn 'Misky' Braendeholm lives in the UK surrounded by flowers, grapevines, bubbling pots of sourdough starter, bottles of fermenting vinegar, a Springer Spaniel, and a small camera that she keeps in her pocket. She never buys clothing without pockets.

Misky’s poetry and flash fiction are at http://miskmask.wordpress.com and Misky Cooks at http://miskcooks.com

Three Poems by Anthony Ward

The Browning
 

What mirth this melancholy brings

With melatonin augmenting tannins

Through verdant serotonin

Shed lachrymosely like upturned flames

Doused by a hibernal ash

Through drawn out darkness

To nourish those new spurts of life.

 

The Robin

Perching upon the gatepost

Projecting its boastful breast

Appearing ensanguined against

The cold winter flesh

Staking its territory

With melodious triumph

A portrait in prominence

Instilled within your mind

Warming our familiarity

To the dormant chill.

 

Kingfisher
 

Upon the riparian verge

A stagnant stream settles into itself

Within a glade

Exhibiting nothing but

Silence-
 

Suddenly!

A sprite of colour

Splashes-

Causing enclosed conferences of precipitation

To disturb the serene harmony of natures psalm.

 

 

 

Anthony tends to fidget with his thoughts in the hope of laying them to rest. He has managed to lay them in a number of literary magazines including Enhance, Drunk Monkeys, Speech Therapy, Turbulence, Underground, The Autumn Sound, Torrid Literature Journal, Jellyfish Whispers, and The Rusty Nail, amongst others.

Three Poems by Amit Parmessur

Morning Dew

 

I know you stare at the pregnant

dewdrops mourning on the leaf

and feel like Atargatis, ready to

transform yourself into a mermaid

for unwillingly killing my love for you.

 

I know you wonder where

these dewdrops were born.

Yes, right from my heart.

 

A more careful look will

reveal they are not mourning.

They are half-bird femme fatales

whose enchanting voices

want to draw you to me again.

 

These dewdrops have stopped

and hope to avoid a dark plunge.

You must move before my legs

fuse together and I forget my name

one stormy night

invaded by guitar music.

 

Mistakes happen and

rainbows do break into dust.

In every dewdrop there is a Utopia.

In every man there is a woman.

 

I’ll forgive.

Run.

 

Or else, one day you might keep

asking “Is my King alive?” and count

the dewdrops on every blade of grass.

 

 

 

Pre-Christmas Colors

 

When I stop my bicycle in

the swirling dust and watch the

old woman’s lush garden I feel

like a roasted turkey on two wheels.

Once at the library the textures

and tastes of the books transform

me into a blue world map and

then flatten me into an ancient page.

The frantic bazaar decolorizes me

and I become invisible. I still

owe the egg seller a few coins.

Forgetfulness you see.

When I stop again and see the

sun stealing water from the

municipality fountain I feel eager

to serve others. I’m the type who

feels timeless when I hear the big

town clock. Yet, I fail to be proud

of my people as I see almost

everyone whizzing past with musical

corks in their ears nowadays.

I feel like pointing a gun at those

who throw cigarette butts on the

ground too. They have a head

of cauliflower instead of a brain!

I just hope Christ never quits me

and we ban selling unborn chicks

or else I shall keep buying eggs for free

and hatch them into life and

fill my street with merry cackling.

 

 

Horizon

 

The horizon seems complacent.

The sea is sending out fingers

to accuse her of deceit.

The sea is sending out tongues

to remind her of his voice.

 

The girl muses with pristine glee,

sure he will forgive her,

on the bench she destroyed him.

She gazes at the overlapping love

signs drawn by crazy teens

though much is awaiting her;

yeah, carefree she sits on,

smiling dreamily.

 

One minute sign strikes her

and her heart springs up,

as the green leaves around rustle.

 

On her way to him she sees him

in someone else’s arms.

She understands.

 

She comes back and

sleeps on the sand for some time

while the sea is sending out paws.

She stands

and goes to meet the horizon.

 

 

 

 

 

Born in 1983, Amit Parmessur has been published in over 100 literary magazines, like Ann Arbor Review, Salt, Hobo Camp Review, Misfits' Miscellany, Jellyfish Whispers, Kalkion and Red Fez. His book on blog Lord Shiva and other poems has also been published by The Camel Saloon. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Award and Best of the Web Anthology. He lives in Quatre-Bornes, in Mark Twain’s paradise island Mauritius, with his cat and three dogs.

Two Poems by Juliet Wilson

Evening Rain

A brief heavy downpour
-almost tropical-
stops
suddenly

dark clouds lift
a pale rainbow

chimney pots
glow with evening

distant thunder
forebodes a later storm


Autumn Evening

Geese gather in the fields
hidden by the evening mist.

Spider webs drape hedgerows
where robins sing.

Stone becomes gold
in magical light.

Deer rest, alert
under a yellow frost-moon.

The hedgehog's prickled ball
waits.



Juliet Wilson is an Edinburgh based writer, adult education tutor and conservation volunteer. Her second poetry chapbook Unthinkable Skies was published in 2010. She blogs at Crafty Green Poet (http://craftygreenpoet.blogspot.com) and edits the poetry journal Bolts of Silk (http://boltsofsilk.blogspot.com).