Sharing Wrinkles

featured in the poetry forum June 19, 2019  :: 0 comments

I once held your hand of enthralling silk
caressed by the early light of a newly born world.

You recall the tall blades of mysterious grass
the refuge of those days of tender innocence.

We shared what they call youth in novels
a fantasy written upon a tombstone to be carved soon.

I saw the whispering of trembling hours
scribing their harsh embrace with a blunt knife.

You remained still with majestic stoicism
under the chisel of the unproven sculptor.

We fell to flashes of stars blinding the nights
their gentle sparks burning our breasts with fear.

I held your soul into my palms to make it safe
while the agony of life shocked every fiber of you.

You opened your eyes with accepting despair
drowned in the sorrow of the upcoming storm.

We took another step under the leathery coat
ready to share our farewells beneath wrinkly flesh.

– Fabrice B. Poussin

editors note:

What we would spare for one happens to all. – mh clay

Life events

featured in the poetry forum June 18, 2019  :: 1 comment

The chiffon night is a marquee.
It’s well past seven and I look out of my hotel window to see a hilly town below, dotted with glowworm lights.
Time is like a blob of butter in my soup bowl, melting, and I see myself walking along the trails of our scar.
The flow chart of our life events are pages of different books we wish to read and then wish away.
The silence of the hills makes me crawl into myself, here it is quiet, here you are mine.
A person is only a few digits away.
A strange oscillation ~ should I or should I not?
My heart hears sounds of fluttering wings while my phone screen decides that I need to return.
A heaviness hangs over, once again I make a choice to depart leaving behind the hills and us.

– Mallika Bhaumik

editors note:

Live alone, or live it up; swipe right. – mh clay

Age Difference

featured in the poetry forum June 17, 2019  :: 0 comments

The agony of explaining about
to your current Lolita

you put cooled down lips upon painful and naive and bare feet
in attempts to stop the elements which
cause the pricks from the big hand of
the clock-face to

the dirty salacious
masochistic and misguided
torments deep in
the snow drifts in
the struggle with sleep
(because every single dream is a small death, right?)

In the silence of the winter the hands of the clock echo in every purest thought

Explain, explain, explain
your memories, her
explain only the poisonous truths

Remind her
let her
never forget that
the truths are cheerful stacking dolls
a black hole in a black hole in a black hole in a black hole

and among all countless truths there is not
even one reality, Lolita!

– Kristina Krumova

editors note:

So hard to dispel our illusions of pain. – mh clay

Passing As Life

featured in the poetry forum June 7, 2019  :: 0 comments

There were days, hours, minutes,
Then just moments, to hold onto,
As our boy’s tired body set
Its course upon death.

It was the only direction then,
As the mechanics of respiration,
Passing as life, lost interest,
Counting out their mere pretense of living.

Days before, he strode in from Kevin’s
So full of life, so full of anticipation,
Tomorrow another friend, Friday his elder brother
He greeted his mother and sister with that smile.

But his time here with us ran faster than we knew:
The ringing of the phone, the hospital, and all lost.

– Jeffrey Sinclair

editors note:

It’s so wrong, when their run times expire before ours… just… wrong. – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum June 5, 2019  :: 0 comments

Here in this morning’s morning
self-forgotten sullen twang
comes a star gilded and silver,
climbing still like the pine
branches tipped with needle-
frantic green, yes, caught
like a tiny chip on the great
waist of some spectre surface
emerging into the dissolving dark.

– Askold Skalsky

editors note:

Such a star to pluck… plucky star! – mh clay

A view with a poplar

featured in the poetry forum June 4, 2019  :: 0 comments

The autumn colored the ruined city
The broken walls opened the view to some forsaken poplars
Barren of their leaves, tall in their sad dignity
They are scratching the high sky with their prayers

Far behind a tall building is raising her brick walls
A church promising forgiveness to this people
A church ignoring the debris and the ruin around her
Deaf to all sufferings out of its yards

We are left with the slim poplars only
and the autumn’s prayers to a ravishing blue sky

– Iulia Gherghei

editors note:

A snapshot; shelter or sanctuary. Fence for the faithful. – mh clay

Lost turning points

featured in the poetry forum June 3, 2019  :: 0 comments

I wouldn’t call it blue,
But this sun always tinges
a tad melodramatic
towards animals
sitting in matching cubicles
At dusk it spits dust
over their tarnished tweed jackets
They shake off,
like burnt timber,
the explosions of all the faces that
came near for a day,
all the evenings they pushed away
the epilogues,
end up with nothing but emptied checkbooks,
knowing they would gladly
call in that Band-aid friend

Instead we abandon the bridal aisle
with slippery eyes
Pieces of heart
left on corroded lips
play like dewdrops on sitar
Our bodies descending
from sweetness
into the pit of a great swallow
Isn’t it a tiny moon knocking on

Because home cannot save us,
Two strangers,
or lovers only through seven side looks
on a busy Monday,
wanting to haunt each other
from the hollows of turned doorknobs
of some ideal family
to the Armageddon
lying beyond
one imagined touch.

I pay the cab driver
and get off at the nearest
time zone to earth-
Narrow streets,
Poverty as graffiti on walls,
And nothing more to remind me
of proclaimed blue skies
but the caged smell of
another lost persona.

– Monosija Banerjee

editors note:

Imagining the end of the world in the end of a day. Enjoy your existential angst. Happy Monday! – mh clay

Falling Apart

featured in the poetry forum May 29, 2019  :: 0 comments

Now, finally, I’ve come
to declare a ceasefire
against my own body
with whom I’ve fought
all these years.

Now my body
looks like a war-ravaged
skinscape; a fallen city
torn asunder by strife
my two hands are at war
with each other. Feet are
vagabonds of the worst order
always ready to drift apart
they even threaten to secede.

My dreamless, liquid eyes
have hardened
into a slippery stone.

My tongue is actually
an unleashed dog
barking endlessly at its own shadow
my fingers carry nothing
but scorn on their tips.

This ruined, desolate heart
pumps only blood of betrayal
from within the despair
of my battered soul
rise long sighs
like dark columns of smoke.

Sitting across the sad,
white corridor of my bones
I go on kneading the dough
of my pain
trying hard to bake
some soft bread of hope.

– Durga Prasad Panda

editors note:

The ultimate rebellion; overthrow of self. – mh clay

Bloody Mary

featured in the poetry forum May 28, 2019  :: 0 comments

She has an SRO in North Beach
and she’s a poet
who taught writing at the arts school
until the white wine
caught up with her
“My hotel room could be nice,” she says,
“but when I’m there
all I want to do is leave!”
The room is 9×10
and the one window
looks into an airshaft
If you open the window
you smell hamburger grease,
fish sauce and durian
but if you close it
all you smell
is mold
which is why
she’s always at the bar
“But hey,” she says,
“isn’t poetry great?!”
I look into her bleary eyes
and we both
raise a glass.

– Jon Bennett

editors note:

Pay by the glass, by the room, or by the poem. Ain’t no “Free!” – mh clay

1000 Ghosts

featured in the poetry forum May 24, 2019  :: 0 comments

1000 ghosts haunting
every corner
every gas station

1000 ghosts behind
every locked door

each one of them is me
I know
but it’s nice to be reminded
for distraction’s sake

past lives
walk the streets
with their hands
buried deep
in the pockets of puffy jackets

my eyes wander

my eyes don’t water
they have been wide for days
fearful of the instant
lost to a blink

and the present
from which there is no harbor
found me
past the pharmacy
where Dani works
where I pretended
to buy rigs
for someone else
like I needed
to read from my phone
instead of reciting from memory

29 gauge
half inch
one CC

six months
if the scars will fade
if the ghosts
will ever live again

– Luke Kuzmish

editors note:

A little distance ‘tween you and the thing; in time those ghosts will fade. – mh clay