Poetry By Lynn White

Times Gone By

They were the best of times.

They were the worst of times.

Or so it is said.

And now the new times

look much like the old times.

And now we look much like the old

versions of ourselves

looking for love,

rejecting glory.

Living in our time.

Poetry By Malisa Anne

Pool day

We both said things we didn’t mean
You took me to the shallow end
I sank deep
Begging for your helping hand
Drowning in the regrets of time lost
The emptiness in your eyes
I sink deeper
Tell me now in these last seconds
The reasoning behind all your life lessons
Please just give me your hand
Watch as I pull you under
Exile you from land
Suffocate you like you did me
This game has no winner
Neither of us creatures of remorse
Lungs filling now
We finally lost our chance to speak
Isn’t it funny how
We’ll die to keep our promises incomplete

Poetry By Andrew Pettigrew

Broken Toys

The government issued a demand that every child should
return us immediately. Warnings that we were not safe. That we
could cause harm without adult supervision. Some protested and
hid us in their attics or basements alongside
the Christmas decorations. But most of us were seized
and brought back to the Factory. Full refunds
were guaranteed (see our return policy) while we
were placed on conveyor belts and
trundled through monstrous machines. They were like
gods, shaping us, tearing our clay apart. Some
died screaming, others apologising, most in utter silence.
We were toys whose impairments — sightless eyes,
broken ears, unmoving legs — were
no longer considered entertaining. A waste of funds.
We all ended up in junkyards, scattered
scraps of bone, non-recyclable flesh. They kept some of us —
my left leg got sold second-hand on eBay —
but that’s no consolation. And that’s what happens
when people keep pursuing perfection:
The broken toys get abandoned first …
And then they come for you.

Poetry By Ivan Pozzoni

Writing Will Come Like A Heart Attack On An Autumm Night

Writing will come again, countless times, in life,
sweeping away colonels like a revolution,
throwing every admiral overboard,
it will come again to brand the backs of hands
stamped by the ardor of embers,
to dust off mechanics sealed inside a coffin,
artists gripping, between dead fingers, wrench keys,
and it will come again, as punctual as the schedule of a hearse.

Writing will come, rinsing cassocks and babydolls
in the muddy tides of tsunamis,
submerging every reaction in the frenetic atony of waiting,
dragging away, in the undertow’s oscillation, somatic encrustations,
insatiable feelings, illness-induced stress, dreams / projects,
frustrations of labor flexibility, new loves,
irrigating the wreckage submerged in our pockets
as men of the city.

Writing will come like a heart attack on an autumn night,
it will come by vanishing, without granting us the daring to consent,
and it will vanish by arriving,
condemning us to remain empty-handed.

Poetry By Yongbo Ma

Poet in the Desert

This is a wooden tavern in the desert. Sand leaks in

between the cracks in the planks; wind and white light.

There is no road outside, only sand;

slightly hot sand, flowing silently.

In groups of two’s or three’s, in the tavern,

people chat about their dogs and the weather,

the driving forces of history, medical care and education.

From time to time they smoke, and the smoke

fills the space and silence in-between them.

The androgynous bar owner,

with unknown origins, never speaks;

just repeatedly wipes a few empty bottles all the time.

Railroad engineers, gold diggers, farm boys,

bounty hunters, fugitives, mounted police, prostitutes,

or fallen noblewomen of the city,

come and go, here, a brief connection occurs.

In the darkest corner, at a cracked wooden table,

a poet is always playing cards alone.

No one disturbs him, and he doesn’t know anyone.

The sharp edges of the cards make cutting sounds against each other.

If he is lucky, there will be a blue light on their dark edges,

flickering like lace. He is not fortune-telling.

Occasionally, he just glimpses himself

in the smoothness and sharpness of the cards; in the order and chaos.

On the dry cards, the patterns have long since blurred,

no one knows when he disappeared.

The ancient tavern, with more and more scattered sand,
exudes the aroma of driftwood and memories.

Poetry By Brenda Mox

Onward Rush Of Time

The air was thick

with the heat of June

as he stepped outside

into a slanting

blue-green world

of shadows and sunlight.

A gust of wind battered him

in a funnel of hot air.

But he stood like a rock

in water, watching

it all gush pass,

irreverently immune

to the onward

rush of time.

Poetry By Benjamin Kranz

Primal Science

Primal science,

the trial-and-error appliant

absorbed by growing waves

wherein the population

progresses pass past violence,

Flame of the First Fire

Took hold to free up the Conscience Pilot,

Bifurcating chance into illuminated paths

That would advance the species

To ensure an existence of much mileage

Once when food scarce,

Hunting and foraging bands roved

Savanna and all manner of landscape

Looking for hidden calorie troves

Uncertain until signs arrived

Learned colors to know die or survive

Patterns seemed to pop out

of a plane in the brain unknown,

This internal zone derives

Where dancing light-bulbs make home,

Unearthed secrets

That helped roaming tribes

Tend a patch and thrive

Allowing more time

For other wonders of the Mind,

No longer a hindrance,

Experimentation gained prominence,

Searching for other hidden benefits

Of which would help bands

Unite into a fabric strong in resilience

Over time, layers accrue

Spectacular absorbed by the milieu

Technology leads to density

Possibilities arise in closeness within cities

Spurred by myriad proximities

Complexity spreads in a dense bloom

Exhumed information laden

Revealed as only Change may do

Though past epiphanies

Lost luster in stretching duration

What was once external

Becomes innate information

Knowledge Foundation

What seems basic, the basis,

Was formerly the Peak

of Human Imagination

Mindlessly

Often we ambulate

Natural in gait

As Evolution

Demonstrates

Up layers of substrate

On the crest

Called the Present Day

We used to swing

Limb-on-limb

Through the leaves

Summing sweet wind

But then Mind was used to find

Circumconventions

That liberated wonderment

Revelations relevant

Progressed up the gradient

Towards thoughts radiant

Elevated to free upper limbs

For dexterous tool implements

Now none longer marvel over microwaves and hammers

But in their convenience simple genius becomes subtle in grammar

Gradually new becomes old, built into language parameters

Meaning grows in complexity showcased in such as iambic pentameter

We take gloss for granted of those who came before the hide met the tanner

There’s a primal science

Holding up higher pursuits

Through trees

Inside stars

Of particles

With Living

Ever seek the fresh crest

Wonder

Question

Ask…

Where should we climb to Next?

And How?

Because Why is set in the stone that gave us skin

Deep in the Mind

We order oblivion

We wield fire for the first time

We plant seed for the first time

We roll with the first revolution of the first wheel

We smash particles at past-99% light-speed

We cook food ancient-to-experimental recipes

We ride rockets like lighthouses into Infinity

For what is primal is still science

And science is consciousness wondering:

What else is there in this

Evolving

revolving

Exploding

rotating

Eternity?

Primal science

Holds up the Tower

Built for the sky & beyond

Balances trajectory

Harmonizing notes of the Song

Let’s walk

Without threat of violence

Ride the sine waves

Of a ringing gong

Upon the solid steps of

Primal Science

Where day breaks

Forever upon dawn

Light innate without flicker

This Fire ever

Shines on

Poetry By Timothy Horne

A Winter Revelation

The coming winter cold

With its grey darkening days

And frigid promise of ice

Descends

And with it

Blows

A chill north wind

To strip the trees

Of their colours

And inadvertently reveal

The heretofore

Unseen beauty

Of crystal lakes

With the cragged strength

Of rocky outcrops

Looming behind.

Poetry By David Tovey

Feeling a bit strange today

Feeling a bit strange today, like my body has a hole

I feel like a light has been switched off and stolen from my soul

My body feels heavy and cold

I’ve eaten three breakfast but still feel hollow

I can speak, but there seems to be no echo a silence a silence in stereo

So I’m feeling a bit weird as if last night something got cut from me and borrowed

And now I’m feeling even more hollow

I feel a bit lost and lonely and with this deep beating sorrow

As if something bigger is coming some sort of horror

I’m anxious I’m scared and I just wanna holler

Scream and cry out all that bother

there’s something building up like 100 piece choir

I feel the trembles the symbols and the kettledrums wobble

Feet stamping people chatting a Mozart ensemble

All this noise confusion supposedly makes you stronger

But today I feel weak, broken hollow and sombre

Affair like no other I’m gonna have to phone my mother because something isn’t right. Is there a loss, a disaster or is it my brother?

This uneasy feeling feels like my life‘s last thunder

Something is not right I’m treading water and slowly going under

Gasping for breath, Gasping for breath, it’s a panic attack panic attack, clap clap that last thunder

A slow beat no rhythm my time on Earth feels over

A wish I wish I’ve had As far as I can remember

But now I wish I had more time for one lastclap of thunder

As my breath fades and my heartbeat slows, I’m down on my knees with no place to go. I know it’s that time I can feel it inside as my Organ stop with That last clap of thunder.

Clap………..

Poetry By Wilma Fellman

Love me for what I am

I’m not the patient, quiet kind
Collecting facts, deciding odds
I can’t sit back and be the lamb
Please love me for what I am

Protect I will, share all I know
Make you aware of what I’ve learned
I’m not a fake, I give a damn
Please love me for what I am

I can’t live in your fantasy
I’m only what you see right now
I’ve grown a lot to where I am
I want the chance to show you how

I’ll teach you how to taste life’s fruit
To be so proud of who you are
To feel inside your own program
Please love me for what I am