Poetry By Drew Martin
And the February Rain
The depth of your perception
And the February rain
Both will lead to chaos
Fractured by the pain
A cold wind’s a blowin’
But the frost don’t come to freeze
Thinkin’ of a snow globe
Shattered glass with ease.
© Drew Martin
Poetry By Isaac Sweeney
Four Disorders
1-Personality
Put me on the spot, I’ll
rock like Woodstock Hendrix,
stars all spangling, releasing
pain and pleasure in a performance.
You can see it in my face as
I adorn these riffs with all
expressions of myself.
Put me in a crowd, I
fold into the corners,
quiet as a cloud drifting by,
looking down on the ground’s
good times from the sky, wondering if
I should be writing and why I’m
even here in the first place.
Put me in the well-
lit corner of a dark room with
my mind and mettle, maybe
WiFi and keys.
Scratch that. Don’t
need tech, just
pad and pen please, like the
good old days when all
I had was imagination and play.
Put me among sheep, I
eventually become the black one.
Even among the black sheep, my
dark wool swelters and melts in the sun.
2-Emotional
Sadness festers like a sore
and then runs,
until Anger comes, stinking
like rotten meat. Pain
sags – such a heavy load.
Either it all dries, like
sweltering raisins outside,
or it all explodes.
3-Mental
You take whatever progress I get and
roll it between your palms like you’re
molding a meatball.
Swelter it in simmering oil until it’s
crisp and black.
But peel back the layers and
it’s all pink-red wet within – a cold,
mushy mess of
saint and of sin.
4-Physical
I was at the stove, jarred
Italian steam humidifying the range-back.
Your arms enveloped me from behind,
your face pressed dead
center between my
shoulders, at my neck base, the
force of the lean-in
pushing my waist into the range,
sliding and splattering scorching
spaghetti sauce on my hand.
It would be hours before cool compresses
would ease the sweltering burn there.
I didn’t wipe the sauce away, or
move much at all, really. The
only heat I was feeling at the
time was how your lean-in rippled chemical
waves within my very bones – the kind of
heat that causes chills.
© Isaac Sweeney
Poetry By Andreea
Illusions of change (environmental poem)
Yesterday I wanted to save the planet,
Today I think it’s us humans who need saving.
Trapped in the illusion of our grandeur and our values,
It’s easy to forget that Earth has been long-standing.
Humanity evolved in time through learning,
And inspiration came from all the shapes and sounds around us.
Our earthly teachers taught us how to live and how to build,
But we were open then, and we could hear their guidance.
Nature has done its thing and thrived, without our intervention.
How could I be so vain and think that I’m its salvation?
Some say we are connected, and that we need each other,
My truth: nature can live without us, but we would die without it.
It makes me sad to see how much it gives us, not asking a lot back,
Except that we respect it, but we’re too self-absorbed for that.
Stuck in the land of old habits, how can we find some meaning?
Maybe by looking at our issues as wounds that need healing?
What if things are not changing because we’re pointing fingers?
Because we focus on the problems, and not on fixing things.
I felt a lack of power when I looked up to our leaders,
Demanding justice for the planet in a childish demeanour.
Though I might feel small, I’m also clever and I’m strong,
I think the giants have grown tall because we fed them,
Consuming with our pain and void, and not with our soul.
I’m hanging on to the belief that in my hands I hold the power,
To make them shrink the moment I’m awake or when I’m whole.
Bucky’s wise words invite us all to hope and dream.
He said: create new, better ways, then watch the old ways fall.
So, how will I choose to live my life while I am here?
Will I stay small and scream, and hope someone will hear?
Or will I choose to dream and find in me the power,
To heal myself, and maybe help another feel empowered?
I choose the latter, and won’t rest until I find a way,
To play my part, even if small; to build another step.
We’re all in this together, trying our best to stay alive,
But I dream of a world where we’re all whole; and maybe even thrive.
(Inspired by R. Buckminster Fuller quote: “You never change things by fighting the existing reality.
To change something, build a new model that makes the existing model obsolete.”)
© Andreea
Poetry By Stavros Makridis
Silent poem
Some day, I will write a poem that will talk about silence.
© Stavros Makridis
Poetry By Alexander Lothian Wilson
You Miss Her Too
In our garden
under a cool
October sun,
I watch as
you crumble,
fall slowly
in your grief.
Crushing plants,
Dislodging petals
I slide my hands
beneath you,
Between the cool
leaves and
your warmth
I gently lift you.
Cry into
your limp body,
Weep soft tears.
I carry you
to your bed,
Cover your grief
with her gown
A shroud of scent
to remind you
of her.
You miss her too,
You faithful friend.
© Alexander Lothian Wilson
Poetry By Ivan Pozzoni
COMMONPLACES
It is true, fate changes,
sooner or later love will arrive, friendship is a fine thing,
and, dulcis in fundo, one swallow does not make Spring.
Tell it to those who died without ever loving,
without caresses;
ask those who,
having gone out, cannot get back in,
those who live in the street without knocking.
Shout it to the seven winds, in the illusion of cradling
those abandoned to the betrayal of friends and acquaintances;
whisper it to the swallows shot down in flight, no sound,
by the dark shot, without reason, of a hunter.
I will not let them bring down our houses,
steal our cars,
let them give us work.
Thieves of the future,
what use were
our cries of pain?
© Ivan Pozzoni
Poetry By Yongbo Ma
Self-Portrait of a Female Artist in Green
Moss-green vortices overlap each other,
contracting toward the whiteness at the center.
In the sky of flamingos—
(the birds alone attest to the beauty of detail)
hands folded in the camaraderie of knees.
Beneath which lies snow in a descending key
(why comment on knees first,
as if someone had forgotten to dress?)
half a shoulder, a flickering incandescent bulb—
(no, no, camaraderie is also a fluster)
Trust the self you do not understand,
and the dizziness of removing your glasses.
(who are you, to dare answer everything?)
Your waist hidden in an overly loose summer,
a shimmering miniature garden.
(then what of the face, the neck, and—)
ah, those red-and-white patterns of an Indian female warrior,
or is it a mask? how would I know?
and your stubbornness of a flat chest—
I mean, you ought to keep a
green parrot, and name it Henry.
© Yongbo Ma
Poetry By Julie Brinson
Peter’s Voyage
For Captain Peter Frank
it all began in the leaves, crushed
under the weight and violence of heavy metal
a living testament to salvation, grace, and mercy
a Divinely blessed destiny leading him to water
this faithful mariner, this grateful disciple
navigating a mission of worship and appreciation
offering his survival story of quest and conquer
to encourage and inspire all who find him
and giving hope to all who seek his faith
and strength for adventurous exploration
daunting quests following farsighted horizons
infinitely dividing sky and sea
on a treacherous journey of self discovery
this true Captain, courageously traversing sacred waters
inspiring so very many who only dream of braving
this wild territory of spiritual communion with the natural Creation
© Julie Brinson
Poetry By Wilma Fellman
Trust Again
A lifeless rose once tall and firm
Was threatened by a storm
It waited for another term
Still hoping to get warm
And warmth did come one day in May
It covered all the land
A gentle touch, a loving touch
It took the rose in hand
It taught the rose to trust again
To let its leaves unfold
Allowed the flower to feel again
And let its heart take hold
And now the rose stands firm and tall
And grows more every day
A gentle love, a special love
Has made it feel that way
© Wilma Fellman
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Love the poem “You Miss Her Too”
Mr Wilson has written about loss and reveals his own feelings in a gentle sensitive manner. Much appreciated.