Roxanne Hoffman
Roxanne Hoffman
http://roxanne.hoffman.home.att.net/
http://poetswearprada.blogspot.com/
pon - 30.03.2009
Anatoly Kudryavitsky
Anatoly Kudryavitsky
http://uk.geocities.com/akudryavitsky/
John Burroughs
John Burroughs
http://crisisblog.crisischronicles.com/
http://library.crisischronicles.com/
http://www.myspace.com/noodlecream
http://www.myspace.com/citybuddharox
ned - 29.03.2009
Don Coorough
Don Coorough
http://thecartierstreetreview.blogspot.com/2009/02/febr...
http://www.naymz.com/search/donald/coorough/1670932
http://www.imdb.com/name/nm2188321/
http://www.linkedin.com/in/doncoorough
http://shorelinedriftwood.blogspot.com/
http://www.eleventhtransmission.org/March2008/root_of_l.
http://www.bloodmoonrisingmagazine.com/shortstory3513.h.
http://www.bloodmoonrisingmagazine.com/shortstory3411.h...
One poem by Tatjana Debeljacki
One poem by Tatjana Debeljacki
Tatjana Debeljacki, born on 23.04.1967 in Užice. Member of Association of Writers of Serbia UKS since 2004 and Haiku Society of Serbia HDS Montenegro-HUSCG&HDPR,Croatia. Up to now three collections of poetry have been published: A HOUSE MADE OF GLASS, published by ART – Užice; YOURS, published by NARODNA KNJIGA Belgrade and VULCANO by Haiku Lotos, Valjevo.CD-BOOK, A HOUSE MADE OF GLASS. ART+ Uzice. "AH-EH-EEH-OH-OOH" published by Poeta Belgrade. 2008.
THE TIME OF BIRTH
I will conquer the fear of flying
I will jump with the parachute of kiss
While walking I’ll dance to the drum rhythm
Dream in the clothes of the penguin
Thumb through the book
Goodbye my sixteen years
with premises in the mind
that I will carry them
in my fifties
real and modest
and at least once a day
I will laugh out loud
Really enjoy
In intimately woven world
When the moon passes its seventh round
And Jupiter falls on Mars
Our world will be the leader
And love will be the path for the stars
That would be the time when
Aquarius is born
To my grandchildren, grand-grandchildren
I will tell stories about times
When people were people.
Darryl Salach TTQ2/3
THE TORONTO QUARTERLY
http://thetorontoquarterly.blogspot.com/
https://twitter.com/torontoquartrly
One poem by Dubblex
One poem by Dubblex
DubbleX currently resides in New York and has been writing his entire life and playing music. His artistry helps keep him sane. DubbleX teaches special education students in public schools.
Tribute to John Coltraine
Be-bop
Rip rocken
Sure shocken
Be boppen
Get things poppen
Drown in the avalanche of sound
Smooth riffs of saxophones
Drum and bass a cacophony of tones
Jazzy melodies and 20-minute solos
In the flow it goes
Listen to him blow up and down the scale
Climbing to the top the cat sure can wail
He's a musical genius, tremendous
The bass and sax make you tingle and relax
He's a legend of jazz
Pushing it to out of breath
His breath control circular breathing
Look close, you can see his chest heaving
Covering the night club with a musical flood
Sound so bold and bright playing deep into the night
Fingers quick in a split kicking off licks
He makes it look so easy and sound so ready
Accompanied by a throbbing bass and drumming pace
Like busting through darkness
His sound drips then gushes
He lived that lush life high as a kite, drinks or smack he could play that sax
Expressing emotions and feeling his be bop beat no one else could compete
so unique and complete be free style or off the sheet he captured the vibe of city streets
Back in the day that man could play
Fast or slow sweet and mellow
He played like the sound of a sunrise
He played like the sound of the dawn
Quiet like whispers of nightfall
The beat of heavy rainfall, deep in the jungle call
Notes squealing and squeaking like his instrument was speaking kept
peaking the next level seeking
Made you feel something playing music sounding like running so stunning
backed by drumming bass fingers strumming
He uncovered explored and opened sounds to his sax roar want more want
more how that melody did soar in score after score
The cymbal and the high hat the toe tap
Plays filling the empty spaces a colorful oasis with rhythm chases guides our
ears through a maze of amazing solos the way you blow
Like no other like no other
Saxophone smothered
There you go again blowing like a northeasterly wind
So free so easy so easy so free
Holding those high notes making music float playing in the haze of your
dope
Your music stands the test of time
It is everlasting forceful blasting
I like to listen to you in my different mind states help me escape
I want to ride that Blue Train
With My Favorite things
Making that soprano sax sing
Want to make my Ascension with Giant Steps
To the Afro Blue Impression
To Meditations
Got to hear that Love Supreme
From the Blue Note to The Village Vanguard
You were kicking it heavy and hard
Getting down with Monk and Miles
That free jazz invented your own style
http://violetwrites.googlepages.com/dubblex%26joyleftow
http://joyleftowsblog.blogspot.com/
Three poems by Charles Robert Hice
Three poems by Charles Robert Hice
Adult male seeks readers for free poetry by a JesusFreak (the flesh is dead eye am a). Check out my latest works from the CharlaXBio. Website: http://www.poetrypoem.com/charlax7
Absense of Snow
The way is clear and not encumbered.
No shoving with my feet and labored,
breath.
I walk and smell no roses.
I feel my life instead of death.
The sky is blues and sunny.
The clouds are white and far away.
The snow is absent around about me.
I sense the absence of the snow.
It must be what Heaven will be.
No snow or ice or death.
I will kiss you all someday.
When I am there.
Gone away.
To rest.
Flowers Fade
I saw the flowers on the roadside,
they were all so pretty to me;
they seemed permanent to me,
But snow will frown--
wind and rain and sun.
The flowers are all gone.
Forking Ill
John M went camping and took his friend Timmy. Off they went to the Forking River Dam. They went to the Forking Campground near the Forking Dam. They decided to visit the Forking City. They had to go to the Forking Market. It was near the Forking Gas Station closer to the furcating Forking River bending near the Forking swamp turning into the Forking Quicksanding place there where they turned off the Main Forking Road. They turned Forking right there. There is a Forking left turn as well but they had to get to the Forking Store. They bought some Forking Beer made in the Forking Brewery. They were still in Illinois. Forking, Ill. Ill is the abbreviation for Illinois, so we aer all Forking, Ill. For now. The men were Forking camping so they bought some Forking beans made at the Forking beanery. The Forking Meat CO. provided. The Olympic branch of the Mount Olympus Water CO. Donated the Forking Water. They went to the Forking River Motel to steal the soap and the towels. They paid for the room and took two Forking Dam showers. They kept the Forking Dam Ashtray. It has a picture of the Forking Dam River. The Forking Dam Police were searching for the Forking Dam Campground to arrest the Forking men. They were not from Forking at all but just out of townies they had come to Forking Dam to Fish for Forking Fish. They went to the Forking Boat Dok and rented a Forking Boat the Indian Man in charge of the Forking Boat Dock said you out of townies speak with Forking tongue. But money green in Forking Dam. Good to see you Forking men. The Men in Forking Dam City are Forking gay. The Forking City Future Club is Oddfellows Hall. Eye am Forking, Ill. From all that Forking Fish they gave to me the nibbles and the bites the love all tied up in Forking Ville. They said that visit day is FrYdaY at the Forking Prison Institution they have a Forking Fish fry for religion they want me to go to Forking, Ill. And visit.
One poem by David Cheezem
One poem by David Cheezem
David Cheezem owns Fireside Books and www.goodbooksbadcoffee.com, an independent bookstore in Palmer, Alaska. He earned his MFA in creative writing from the University of Alaska Anchorage in 1997.
A Conversation with Pol Pot
So what’s it like, Pol Pot?
Tell us what’s it like.
To be cheered on the streets of Phnom Penh
By the people you would kill?
Pol Pot scraped his toast.
It was very good bread. We baked it at home,
Sliced thick and toasted, perhaps too dark.
Pol Pot scraped his toast, scraped it with a knife.
Scratch, scratch, scratch, the knife on the bread.
Flakes softly fell to the plate: soft and black
Scratch, scratch, scratch. Little flakes, overdone,
Softly buoyed in air until they settle on the plate,
Dead little flakes of dark bread.
Pol Pot smiles, nods for some butter:
“Death is whatever you don’t remember.”
One poem by Tiziano Fratus
One poem by Tiziano Fratus
Tiziano Fratus (1975) is poet, translator, editor, director of Festival and Edizioni Torino Press. He published nine books of poems in Italy; his poetry has been translated and published in Usa, Argentina, Portugal, France, Switzerland, Poland, Germany, Uk, Slovack Republic, Singapore, Hong Kong. Last books: A Room in Jerusalem (Brooklyn, 2008), Doubleskin (Singapore, 2009), 5PX2 (Edinburgh, 2009). It’s forthcoming the anthology of all of his poetry, La bottiglia di Klein (Klein’s Bottle, Lugano/Torino, 2009).
[unity]
(From A Room in Jerusalem)
the body is laid on the faded old yellow and blue towel the years blow on the breeze coming in off the sea accompanying the waves as they approach and break on the reversed edge of the beach I acclimatize myself to the breathing of the surf the shrill cries of boys and girls as they play in the water this raging war seems so far away where fathers and sons subsist with curtailed breath ready to bombard with technology’s help the egyptian army and the meager phalanges so arrogantly sent by damascus while the newspapers of the european capitals brandish yet again the terror of a resumption of the shoah right where it had been interrupted the generals from tel aviv write down in secreted notebooks the details of a proclaimed crushing victory they know the weight of the arab armies whose equipment and preparation is not unlike that of the fascist army which at one time had a certain amount of difficulty in conquering albania thus delaying the beginning of the german advance on moscow I read in the sand the word i s r a e l as it cancels itself every morning a dark girl wearing a white dress her hair bound by a pink sash walks barefoot to this protected beach she sheds a dose of tears and mixes it with the salt water in her palestinian blood circulates the memory of an israeli soldier who was killed in one of the wars that enflame the sand and the stones each morning she kisses the forehead of her newborn son lying in his crib and goes to the sacred place bound to a love that is now physically rent with her finger she writes a name that will be cancelled by this evening it is the destiny of a people
One poem by Don Stabler
One poem by Don Stabler
Donald Stabler has been writting seriously for about 13 years now and a member of The Ontario Poets Society. (TOPS) For about 4 years and published in their newsletters and anthologies. Don reads for different occasions and parties and likes to surf the you tube poetry videos.
Medicine
The generation voice
All souls grow dazed
As the brilliant sun
Drifts across the afternoon.
I heard you in a season
Where life was answered
By an excellent question.
On your door I place
Corners of mystery knocks.
The response boldly sings
A spirit chanted to a clear heaven.
Those hours where
The medicine cropped
A chance at continuing.
You who are far.
I bellow like the valley
Antlers cold in a dream.
Where the light comes
To sustain beauty.
And you are divine voice
Like the learning in a silence.
sub - 28.03.2009
Two poems by Yahia Lababidi
Two poems by Yahia Lababidi
Yahia Lababidi is the author of a critically-acclaimed book of aphorisms 'Signposts to Elsewhere' - selected for 'Books of the Year (The Independent, UK, 2008) as well as 'Year in Books' (Sun Sentinel, USA, 2007). Yahia Lababidi is also an internationally published poet and one of few contemporary writers to be featured in the encyclopedia of "The World's Great Aphorists" - a compendium of wit and wisdom- by former TIME magazine editor and author, James Geary (Bloomsbury, 2007). website:
Fanciful creators
What fanciful creators we are:
bestowing shock absorbers on cars
sprinkling tenderizer on meats
and stitching wrinkle-resistant shirts
Such wishful thinking, this
gifting what we desire.
I saw my face
I saw my face this morning
hovering at the base
of a coffee cup
eyes liquid black
and thirsting
lips parted as if
some great spoon
had stirred me to the depths
and left everything, swirling.
Two poems by John Yamrus
Two poems by John Yamrus
John Yamrus has been a fixture in American poetry for four decades. Since 1970 he has published 2 novels, 18 volumes of poetry and more than 900 poems in magazines around the world. Selections of his poetry have been translated into several languages including Spanish, Swedish, Italian, Japanese and (most recently) Romanian. His newest book is 'New and Selected Poems' and is now available online at
http://www.lummoxpress.com/yamrus.htm should you like to obtain a copy.
in dog obedience class…
for once,
my little Abby
did everything right.
for once,
she didn’t
bite, jump or pull.
this time
she paid attention
and sat and stayed
and came
and listened…
just like all the other dogs.
i can’t tell you how much
i hated that.
One poem by Stephanie Edwards
One poem by Stephanie Edwards
Stephanie Edwards was born in Lansing, MI and is a senior at Albion College, pursuing a double major in English with a Creative Writing Emphasis and Economics. At Albion College, she is president of English honorary Sigma Tau Delta and works as a Poetry & Fiction Editor on the Albion Review, a nationally circulated undergraduate literary magazine. At school, she also works as a writing consultant in the college's writing center. She spent the spring of 2008 semester interning with Member of European Parliament Peter Skinner in Brussels, Belgium, where she wrote political speeches and press releases. She spent the summer of 2008 as a research fellow at Albion College, researching the effects of place on the poetry of James Wright.
C-a-n-c-e-r
On nights like this, some kneel down to pray.
I kneel down in my garden under the stars, searching through crab grass for something holy.
The word sticks in my throat a little when I try to spit it out:
c-a-n-c-e-r—a six letter word, worth ten points in Scrabble.
Cancer is a crab, fourth sign of the zodiac. Its children are forced to walk
sideways through life, gifted with hard shells to protect their delicate centers.
Yahoo says Cancers should enjoy this July's "summer good times."
Hippocrates thought the cut surface
of a malignant tumor looked like a crab,
legs splayed out on all sides, invading healthy tissue.
I rip the crab grass out of the dirt, struggling not to leave any fugitive roots
to choke out my tomato plants. The small green bulbs rest peacefully,
wholly unaware that I nurtured (dare I say saved?) them tonight.
One poem by Joseph Goosey
One poem by Joseph Goosey
Joseph Goosey is hiding in the library. He recently lost his girlfriend due to a few poems he wrote about how sexy he finds the girls in the Canadian band, Pony Up! Also, he has a chapbook available via Poptritus Press and thanks you for reading.
SIDE ITEM
For too long
have I tap danced
on the edge
of a decent
artistry.
Yesterday,
I purchased a salad
simply because Lucy
with her large
red spectacles
was browsing
the salads.
It was only
a simple side item.
No bacon, of course.
It's possible
that Lucy
is a vegan,
not unlike,
so many
other traps.
Three poems by Sarah Cabrera
Three poems by Sarah Cabrera
Sarah Cabrera is ready to emerge from her private diaries and journals. Poetry is her meditation, therapy, art and weapon of choice. As a psychology major, law student, student organizer, social activist and feminist, she finds it necessary to strive for mastery over words and her own voice through poetry--not only for purposes of persuasion and strengthening debates, but also to stretch and test the boundaries of logic and her imagination. To her, writing poetry is its own reward--an exercise of personal freedom. For her, a lot of irreverence is necessary for creativity. A total opposite of the culture of conformity in most law schools. By and by, she writes to reclaim the precious space in her head and her own humanity from the intrusion of the cold clutter of legalese and repressive unwritten norms of society. She is set to publish more than 30 of her poems and some sketches in the art & poetry chapbook "When Hephaestus Fell & other poems," to be launched in the middle of March 2009, in Cebu City, Philippines. This project is in collaboration with the Jose Joya Awardee artist, Christian Galinato.
Bitch-speak: Several Condescending Ways to Say NO
Your hard
drive
is so incompatible with
my soft
ware.
We are so
alike
that we
repel.
You're so weak where
I am strong;
no, no honey we
just don't
belong.
Our compasses point
to different
Norths,
so abort your
mission,
just abort.
Oh go
away, don't
waste my time
'cause I really
hate to
have to rhyme.
It's really
tiring, being too
polite
so just for once
please
get it right:
...it's not me
it IS you,
don't act so
surprised.
čet - 26.03.2009
One poem by Kush Arora
One poem by Kush Arora
Kush Arora is a 22 yr old Indian national and a student of engineering in India. Writing is his passion, Tagore and Gibran are some of hia favourite writers.
I shut them out, those memories
‘Gilded tombs do worms infold’
-- William Shakespeare
I worded them out, those memories—
When they came to me
To ask of their rightful place
In a corner of my heart
Instead of honouring their needs
And listening to their voice
And giving them permanent abode in my heart
I promptly shut them out:—
Didn’t listen to them; instead ‘taped’ on them my voice
As I ceremoniously put on them the coruscant crowns of poetry
Which became their yoke and their cage
With time, they were so flattered with their riches
They turned themselves in their image:
Their shrieking were numbed so
It sounded like a bird’s sweet call
And my heart it no longer battered
And so it no longer mattered
So, instead of preserving them in my heart
I preserved gilded tombs of them in poetry
Poetry speaks for them now and they are mute
Mute; perhaps shied away because of the wiles and ways of Poetry
They lack charm and sophistication
And decent, social ways
They rather let Poetry speak in their turn
As she knows its way around
The hearts of others and mine better, you see
Well, the Bard said it true,
‘Gilded tombs do worms infold.’ In poetries
I worded them out, those memories—
I shut them out.
sre - 25.03.2009
One poem by Demetrius Daniel
One poem by Demetrius Daniel
Demetrius Daniel is a spoken word artist and musician residing in Washington Heights. He has read throughout New York City in venues such as the Nuyorican Poet’s Café & the Knitting Factory. Demetrius has read at the Monkey Room & the Archway. He has also hosted a reading series at the formerly known Bahamas Restaurant back in 2003 & the “WORD” series at the OSA church from 2004 to 2005. In 2006, Demetrius was a featured guest on Rockland world radio as well as the local TV show, “The New Yorkers.” He has performed at the Uptown Artstroll since 2005. Demetrius also plays trombone with the Latin jazz bands Masacote and IC Express. He has a CD entitled “Words Speak” on cdbaby.com. He has also been published in the “Silent Journey.” Demetrius teaches English and poetry to middle school students at Eleanor Roosevelt Intermediate School. He has also featured at STAINS lounge in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. He has been a featured reader at STARK’s and Nightingale Lounge’s Saturn series. Demetrius currently plays in the band DEEP INTENT. He currently features at various open mics around New York City.
I Want My Cuchifrito
I want my cuchifrito
While my bed’s still warm
Sun’s golden rays gleaming
I want my cuchifrito
After hitting the snooze button
Alarm clock still screaming
I want my cuchifrito
Afternoon, during lunch break
On top of long mahogany desk
Between sheets of paper
I want my cuchifrito
Before the supervisor finds out
And like Biz Markie says
Catches the vapors
I want my cuchifrito
In the evening
Just after tedious talk shows
Before nightly news has begun
I want my cuchifrito
Right after Letterman, Jay, and Conan’s
Final joke or pun
I want my cuchifrito
Uptown, downtown
Spring, winter, summer, or fall
I want my cuchifrito
Walking down the block
For no good reason at all
I want my cuchifrito
Tender, a little oily, and caliente hot
I want my cuchifrito
MMMMMMMMM,
Always hits a righteous spot
I want my cuchifrito
With that African-Caribbean…
Pinch of European flavor
Tasty titillating juices
Exploding, I must savor
But lately, my doctor says
You simply have had cuchifrito one way
It’s way too much
Why don't you try it differently?
Cuchi grilled, cuchi baked, or cuchi raw
Not too spicy and such
I guess cuchi-Frito
A little variety
Will have to do
Just remember though
Cuchifrito
Like the song says
I will always
Love
You!
Three poems by Heller Levinson
Three poems by Heller Levinson
Heller Levinson lives in NYC where he studies animal behavior. He has published in over a hundred journals and magazines including Sulfur, Hunger, Talisman, First Intensity, Laurel Review, The Wandering Hermit, Ampersand, etc. His most recent publication, SMELLING MARY (Howling Dog Press), has been nominated for both the Pulitzer Prize and the Griffin Prize. Please visit www.hellerlevinson for more information.
with
hilarity, ... remorse
calumny adjutancy alembic
the calculus unremitting & curly
cantankerous
landfills purring fortifying credit
stoppage on a par with demonstration the King is dead
distribute wake-up calls democratically
arousal is intersection spiced with anticipation
the time to repea(n)t is when graciousness steals bases umpires storm the fields in holy
garb rant for conclusivity
interference the penalty box diameter insufficient
the road to no road aptly
with
electronics, ... horseless
ness age of
geographical erasure current upbraid
conducting ion wattage cathode ampere chariot amber nunnery mummeries bloated in
inundatory mimetic mnemonic coat pow-er ...
the here of the here is here not
which is to say that the is of the here is is not
which is
what?
where do we go from here
transmissions in exchange for abolishment? the history of electronics is ever greater diminution
to have a beer at a deep rich mahogany bar in Brooklyn thinking of Walt Whitman is
electrical but is not electronics ... history will define Homo sapiens sapiens as that species
which ushered artificial intelligence onto planet earth ...
mud and pigs are not electronics, are they a form of counter-conductivity?
instantaneity closets the withdrawn
screens replace mirrors
incantatory coventries belie
smelling Mary is electrical but not electronic
as we mounted the horse, electronics mounts us
spurs us, reins our lives
ruling the visible we are ruled by the invisible
sensorial reset
subterranean jollities
annihilation javelins
savage the way we surrender
from loquacious this easel
westward drill
intent with summons
counterfeiting larkspur melodies
numinous geographies
deploring
the low ground
canvas misfirings
pigments mistressing
ignorant of station
(containerships necklace the seas
-- bleed matriculates
banking pneumatic corollas
hilariate
windspray vineyards
the trump magnificence of sunsledding overlords
brushstrokes
defiant
hemotrophic
fat
with color
uto - 24.03.2009
One poem by Janice Brabaw
One poem by Janice Brabaw
Janice Brabaw is an established production coordinator and production accountant in the television field. She currently lives in Brooklyn, New York with her menagerie of cats and fish and plants. She is the author of two books that detail her struggle with depression, borderline personality disorder, and binge eating disorder - And Again: A Memoir of a Life Disordered and a collection of poetry called Universe, Disturbed.
website: http://www.janicebrabaw.com/
Anxiety.
It starts in my shoulders
I find myself stooping, slumped
Blades retracted, too close
Cramped, I am withered and hiding.
Then my jaw, clenched, tight
I try to release and relax
opening and closing my mouth
like a silent little gold fish
It manifests through my arms
down to my finger nails
This buzzing, anxiety in my veins
I feel like I am shaking when I'm still
Rarely does it reach my stomach
Somehow it skips to my bladder
Sends me trembling through the house
I don't close the door anymore
My biceps are conductors
and the electricity prickles and pulses
I am fizzy, tortured soda pop
Threatening to erupt, to explode
I'm not always sure
why lightning strikes
or why I can't shake
the thunder
One poem by Joy Leftow
One poem by Joy Leftow
“Poet Laureate” of Washington Heights, Joy Leftow is a double alumna at Columbia University and has her second Masters from CCNY in Creative Writing. Joy’s style is - in your face reality. When Joy is not busy doing people & cat rescues, she meets her muse & reflects on relationships with more sarcasm than you’d get in an entire season of Seinfeld.
Spreading Wildcat Fire
Caught on fire ~ sizzle with desire
Cause havoc when I prance cross city streets
Barely escape slaughter as I
suddenly appear out of nowhere,
the sun gleaming in my hair
You barely miss me as I spin past your fender
You smile and wave goodbye
And are glad for I
Suspend the silver gloom around you
Momentarily the
Sunshine of my heart beats
Scarlet on top purple beneath
My true colors
For you I throw in some sunset red
I tattoo myself on you
Winged fairy of time
Imprinted on your soul & memory
I raise your energy
The twitter stops
Nervous laughter
I speak my first line
Only fool falls asunder
Lightening strikes twice
And Jill came tumbling after
Jack fell down
It's beyond the fruits of my labor
She probably meant to save him
Either that or she wanted his crown
I surrender…
I learn to connect to unconnected to survive to live
In ways I couldn’t see how to before this